《Making a Living: A Necromancer's Journal》Having a Meltdown
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Dear Diary,
I had to cancel drinks with Kate. Jose, the maintenance guy came and got me about an hour before I was to head out and said there was someone on the lawn looking for me. He seemed pretty shook so I grabbed my protection salts before following.
I don't think I've ever seen Jose so bothered. He didn't even flinch when he had to unclog my toilet when I stupidly flushed my failed fish resurrection project. The goo I had the fish in became stickier when in contact with the building's old pipes...The fish was alive when he pulled it and the gob of now brown sludge out of my toilet.
There, at the entrance to the apartment complex, was Frosty. The snowman didn't have his scarf or his carrot nose. He did have 2 branch-like arms that were too perfect to be from trees and as I got closer I realized they were wire and clay. He fidgeted with them as Jose pushed me forward.
I wasn't really sure what to do so I just asked what he wanted. Impolite, maybe, but it wasn't like I was comfortable inviting him in. Besides, standing near him was like standing next to a blasting air conditioner. I was shivering while Jose sweated behind me in the summer sun.
The snowman told me he didn't want to be alive anymore. This statement is a little unnerving in general but even worse when it's coming from a throat that makes words by vibrating and running ice against itself. It was jarring and caused shivers down my already quaking spine.
Kill me, please. I'll be hearing those words in my dreams.
I told Jose that I had this situation under control and thankfully he got my meaning and left us alone. I won't lie, I was a little afraid. The last thing I needed was the Snow Queen breathing down my neck for destroying her creation. But he looked so miserable even if he couldn't make any actual expressions with his coal eyes.
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Hoping to get out of it, I told him I don't work for free. I figured Hoffman wasn't paying Frosty and this was a good way to end the conversation and send the thing packing. I was wrong. I was so wrong.
The snowman nodded and reached with his spindly hands into his central sphere and pulled out a chunk of snow. He then offered it to me.
I thought I was going to be sick. The creature was offering me his own flesh, as sparkly and white and cold as snow from a Hallmark movie. Part of himself was a high price to pay for death.
I relented. Damn Frosty and damn me and damn Hoffman for getting me into this.
I called Kate and told her I had to cancel, that a client came up last minute. She squealed happily and went on about how great it was that I was doing so well freelancing. "Crane Renovations is going to regret not hiring a catch like you, Bernie!"
A catch. I certainly felt caught, as snowman and I went down the road to the campus. While I'm not technically a student anymore, I don't really see a problem with me using one of the empty ritual spaces...so long as I don't get caught. Besides, what was I going to do? Murder a snowman on my apartment lawn? Coral would just love that!
I ended the snowman's misery with a basic banishment and destruction circle. The kind we use to obliterate objects with minor curses and the like. It was quick. I hope it was painless.
When he was gone, the ball of snow he left me was still intact and cold. Back here, I used the pendulum to make sure that none of his spirit, or essence, or whatever it was that made him animated and conscious was attached to it. Then I stuffed it in a jar. I might try to sell never-melting snow on ebay later.
...
My fortune cookie says:
"Success is being at peace with yourself."
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Old Riding Author Lunatic Asylum
Just off the A19, in the dark, incomprehensible lands known as Yorkshire, there lies a town. A town where shadow-silent alleys glint with the secret hunger of knives. Where blood soaks the chipboard window shutters of forsaken terraces stretching off into the night. Where the smog-choked air rattles with the depraved laughter echoing out from clubs that can only generously be described as post-apocalyptic. Well, that’s Middlesbrough. But down the A19 a bit (an impossibly long way down, actually) there lies another town: Raughnen, in the ancient, forgotten Old Riding. It is an equal match in muggery and thuggery alike. It also has magic spells and pointy wizard hats. And now, across the miles and across all sensibilities, a pretty nasty power (a magic one) calls out for its pretty nasty counterpart (a decidedly unmagic one): a proper sound Boro lad. Nothing good can come of it. This is a collection of one novella and four connected short stories: I. A Yorkshire Summoning II. Old Riding Day Trip (the novella) III. Heaven is a Parmo IV. Death on the 66 V. Death on the 257 In total, this comprises 34 chapters totalling around 35,000 words, so try not to worry. It will be over relatively quickly. There are three more short stories with more tenuous links to the core collection: Rush, Paper Round and Scenario 79: Sausage Fingers, all of which can be found in my collection Short Records of Misadventure. Reading these may allow you to make more sense of certain parts of the story, if any sense is to be made at all. NOTE: There are instances of prejudice and discrimination within these stories, including elements of sexism and ageism, which are purely the thoughts and actions of the characters involved and which certainly do not reflect my own views on these matters. ANOTHER NOTE; A WARNING, PERHAPS: This can get a bit weird. In less than 150 pages, we have four viewpoints, first and third person narratives, and a completely disjointed plot with lots of gaps, dead ends and no real resolution. Also ZERO lunatic asylums. It's all a bit odd. If that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea, which it most likely isn't, it might be best to move on now.
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