A/N: Just doing some world-building. Then I got really into it.

(In the voice of Theylin, rider of Flax and wingleader in the Nightwing Sea Division)

Vill

The best summers I’ve ever had were spent on Vill. The island, south of Karioth, is home to the largest of the Nightwing sea division bases. Flax and I spent our first year with the Nightwing training out of Vill, basking in the warm sunlight on the sandstone cliffs on the southern edge of the island and exploring the lush rainforest and the deep surrounding waters while Kiersta and Balian were training in brutal snowstorms over the mountains in Gathia. We quite enjoyed ourselves, though the training flights were longer and harder than anything we’d ever dreamed of at Dragonfeyll—but landing at Vill made it all worth it.

From above, Vill resembles a sleeping dragon, head curled round in a small ridge in the southern waters and tail extending due east toward Cilm. The back and tail of Vill slope gently down into a shallow bay, protected from storms by the rest of the island and the buffer of the mainland. Flax prefers to land in the deep blue waters just beyond the bay, depositing me in the water to swim for the shore while he languidly floats, belly up, into shallower waters using his wings as rudders. The deep green of his scales ripples in the blue of the ocean, like schools of fish shimmering through the water. Real fish know better than to venture into the bay, for the scores of dragons on the beach and in the water would love to make easy prey of any fish that wanders so close.

Besides the bay of Vill, the southern cliffs served as another favorite place for Flax. He spent hours sprawled out on the sandstone, dozing to the sound of waves crashing on the rocks far below. The cliffs are too steep and gritty for anyone but a dragon to navigate easily—even so, I once saw Flax roll off his ledge mid-nap, forcing him to scrabble around and throw out his wings before he was even truly awake. Nonetheless, the dragons love these cliffs, and in fair weather they dot the landscape with their sleeping forms, bright jewels glimmering on the pale sandstone.

Vill is no stranger to storms. The island is completely unshielded from the open expanse of ocean on its west and south sides. Harsh weather rushes in fast from the open sea, bringing sudden hot, humid rainstorms in the summer and stinging wind and rain in the winter. The bay stays sheltered throughout the winter storms, but the waters around the southwest side of the island foam and froth, exploding high along the cliffs in powerful sprays of sea brine that add to the pounding rain. During these storms, no dragons can be seen on the battered sandstone cliffs.

Whenever Flax and I weren’t lazing on the beach or flying on assignment, we explored the rainforest. The riders and dragons in the Operations Division take care of most of the food supplies on Vill, but approximately a quarter come from combat duty pairs foraging and hunting for food in their down time on the island. Vill is the most bountiful of the four Karioth islands and manages to support many of the surrounding bases with surplus provisions. With the exception of the southern cliffs, which are too steep and sandy for vegetation, the entire island is lush with rainforest and wildlife. Flax enjoys hunting the large boars that roam the forest, whereas I’ve gotten handy with a sling, hunting the pesky blue-tailed birds that roost around the lookouts. The paths in some areas are wide enough for rider and dragon on foot, but many meld into the landscape and barely accommodate a rider alone. I saved these explorations for the times when Flax was sunbathing on the cliffs, and befriended many of my fellow riders whose dragons had also left them behind. It was during that first summer on Vill that I became fast friends with Malvern, a rider from my unit who would later ride wingsecond with me. It took us most of the summer to familiarize ourselves with the main paths enough that we no longer got so lost that our dragons had to pluck us from the middle of the rainforest. We encountered small pockets of dragon-free activity deep in the wilderness—small pools under waterfalls where we roughhoused in the water, places where a single dragon would crowd the clearing. Other times we found hammocks slung up in the fruit trees with riders dozing in the cool, crisp rainforest air and whiling away the time until their next assignment.

The weyrs on Vill are large, spacious caves that formed naturally under the main ridge of the island. Each is far larger than the weyrs we had as students at Dragonfeyll, and the weyrs for wingseconds and wingleaders are more spacious than those at the main Nightwing base. As new recruits, Flax and I had a cave with a high, vaulted ceiling and a ledge overhead that Flax slept on. Underneath there was plenty of space for my personal quarters and workspace, and a previous rider had taken the time to carve out a deep shelf in the cavern wall for storing map scrolls. Flax’s only complaint about Vill is that dragons cannot launch themselves from their weyrs as they can at Dragonfeyll or at the main base. Here on Vill, they must traverse the long tunnels that join each other in larger and larger caverns until they eventually open out on the north side of the main ridge. From this high ledge you can just glimpse the Karioth mainland across the water, and on a clear day in the winter you can see the coastal ridge capped with snow.

While life on Vill was like living in paradise, it wasn’t all relaxation. As recruits, Flax and I had six days of training flights in a row followed by two days of rest in a continuous cycle for our first three months with the Nightwing before we were allowed to join the wing for assignments. (In contrast, Kiersta and Balian had one month of Nightwing training before flying assignments—but keep in mind that we’re talking about Kiersta and Balian.) We usually started the day knowing the time of takeoff, but occasionally we would get a few minutes’ notice and be expected in the air—no matter if your dragon was across the island sunning himself into a stupor.

There are four favored launch sites off the island, though in emergencies I’ve seen dragons take off from the beach and even from the water. For the lazier dragons, two overlooks in the sandstone cliffs are broad enough for an entire wing to launch at once, allowing the riders to meet their warm, sunbathed dragons at the overlook instead of on the other side of the ridge. One of the guard lookouts over the bay also has a clearing large enough for a wing to take off five at a time. But by far the best takeoff on the island of Vill lies on the crest of the rocky ridge, where the rest of the island drops away from you, waves crashing far below. From here the surrounding waters reflect back the sunlight and Karioth shimmers through the sea spray off to the northeast. Thurn can be seen off to the north as well, blocking Flet from view, and Cilm rises lonely off to the east. The waters stretch out to the south, and even knowing the southern continents lie far across the sea cannot shatter the feeling that Vill stands as the last sentinel before this endless ocean.

Cilm

I don’t have much to say about Cilm. The small island played host to a handful of Intelligence Flight riders and dragons whenever they had a stopover with the Sea Division, but in recent years the weyrs were set aside for the solitary Phariel riders. It is composed of rocky terrain with minimal vegetation, although the large, spacious caves make for ideal convalescence following particularly difficult and taxing flights over the ocean. The weyrs on Cilm cannot support themselves; food and supplies are flown over from Vill or, in rare cases, from the mainland. Things are quiet on Cilm, and though I can’t imagine enjoying myself there, I can see the draw for those in need of solitude.

Thurn

Although the Nightwing base on Thurn is smaller than Vill’s, the island itself is nearly twice as large. However, Thurn was inhabited well before the Nightwing was established, and approximately half the island still supports a civilian population. In the past, Thurn was used primarily as a launching point for assignments on the coast of Karioth, but the base has expanded in recent years as the Nightwing’s sea operations have broadened, causing considerable tension with the civilians as we bargain for space and resources. Flax and I have been stationed at Thurn since the Treaty of Abrey, and spent two winters here in our early years before I became a wingsecond.

Thurn lies north of Vill, across a deep underwater canyon that runs from the Karioth coast to the edge of the continental shelf that drops into the ocean. Like Vill, the side of Thurn facing the open sea is battered by storms; it remained sparsely inhabited until the Nightwing looked to establish a base on the island. The landscape is largely composed of sharp drop-offs and exposed rocky cliffs, making them difficult to build and settle on. However, the Nightwing found tunnels in the exposed surface that lead into natural caves under the mountains, and many similar tunnels were discovered beneath overhanging waterfalls elsewhere on the island. Though less spacious than the cave weyrs on Vill or even Cilm and Flet, the expansive network of caves under the surface of Thurn have supported the Nightwing riders and dragons, even through the recent expansion of the base. Then again, I could be blind to crowding, considering Flax and I haven’t had a non-wingleader’s weyr on Thurn since before the expansion.

The island supports a thick rainforest and much of the same flora and fauna as Vill and Flet. From above, Thurn appears round and featureless, but upon closer inspection, the rainforest is precariously perched over an island cut by small inlets and high-walled canyons. The sharp drop-offs make it easy for dragons to take off anywhere along the island’s coast, and a number of open clearings in the rainforest along the rivers also serve the dragons well for a rapid takeoff.

The civilian heritage on the island wraps all of Thurn in a rich history. Much of the eastern side of the island is carved out for towns and harbors or cultivated for growing crops, but long ago colonization extended over more of the island. I cannot recall how often Flax and I encountered abandoned settlements scattered across the island: old houses built directly into the canyon walls, whole villages right along the water at the base of the sheer cliffs, and wide trails that were once roads, now leading to nowhere. Plink is Thurn’s large harbor town on the eastern side of the island, its docks crowded in a small sheltered bay while the rest of the village is built into the slopes that rise above it. Plink makes steady trade with the mainland, selling a small amount of iron ore and lumber from the Karioth islands, but largely serving as a resting point for ships on a longer voyage.

Trade with the Nightwing base bolstered the growth of Plink, but as the Nightwing sought to expand in the past few years, we met resistance to the increased presence of dragons and riders depleting the island’s resources. Eventually we reached a tense agreement with the people of Thurn, and the Nightwing limited the planned expansion of our base here as a result. I suspect that my wing and I have been stationed on Thurn because I’ve had favorable dealings with many of the town leaders; I’m not a controversial wingleader to have here, compared to those who participated in the expansion negotiations. It annoys me that politics must come into consideration, and at times I wonder if Flax and I could be better serving the Nightwing from one of the other bases. But at the same time I have come to appreciate and enjoy the balance between the Nightwing and the outside world that we have here on Thurn.

Flet

Flet holds a special place in memory. Compared to Vill or Thurn, Flet itself is a small, unremarkable island. Most of its terrain is similar to the other Karioth islands, but its main distinguishing features are the waterfall caves on the north side of the island. The entrances are right down at sea level, with the ocean running through most of these caves and covering the entrances to some at high tide. Large openings punctuate the volcanic rock of the ceiling and let in sunlight and streams of clear water. Deep inside these caves, all the way in where even at the highest tide of the year the water does not reach, the weyrs of Flet are carved into the rock. Some have other entrances that open up to clear skies, but most can only be accessed by navigating the waterfall caves.

Flax and I were stationed on Flet during the Eathe Conflict, while I was still a wingsecond under Reyna. We learned to love these damp, dark caves, and over time we could navigate the outer labyrinth even in the pitch black of night. The entrances of the weyrs are marked by galflares, vials of sea water and the tiny galae creatures that glow when fed. No other place on Kethadros is so wet yet inhabited to require the use of galflares, and the gentle light they emit became a comforting symbol of home after the terrible battles over Eathe.

But I remember Flet for a different reason. I met Lelia one early morning on the highest peak on Flet, both of us watching our dragons stretch their wings in the fog. Flax quickly showed that he could easily outstrip Lelia’s golden dragon Rhann in sheer speed, but true to her training with the Intelligence Flight, Rhann could disappear in the blink of an eye. I can still see that incredible sight—the two dragons chasing and spiraling around each other over the endless expanse of clear blue water as the rising sun burnt away the fog. For our part, Lelia and I bonded over our respective experiences training under Millin at Dragonfeyll, eventually walking and wandering the narrow trails through the rainforest until we found our way back to the outer entrance of the caves. The following days and months of exploring and flying brought the four of us close together despite the ongoing war, and as a result, I know Flet far better than any other place on Kethadros.

When the peace negotiations finally resolved the fighting in Eathe, my wing was moved back to Vill while Lelia and Rhann returned to the main Nightwing base on the mainland. Yet our paths have crossed often, and even if just for a fleeting moment, we share a smile remembering our time on Flet.

Reference photos:

• Vila Franca do Campo
• West Maui (or possibly Molokai)
• Neist Point
• Trunk Bay
• Hanauma Bay (inspiration for the bay of Vill)
• Downpatrick Head (inspiration for Cilm, except I envision Cilm as larger, rounder, and more cave-y)
• Dervish House on Buna River (inspiration for abandoned settlements on Thurn)
• Tropea Beach (inspiration for Thurn)
• Santorini (inspiration for Plink on Thurn)
• Na Pali Coast Waterfall Cave (inspiration for caves on Flet)

[cross-blogged on Kethadros with photos!]

2/13/12 2:30pm
Scanning people at SJC. Sweaty faces. Hurried footsteps. The man ahead of me in the security line is frantically taking off his belt. There is no security line–and that’s messing us up. No time to extract the one quart ziplocks of three ounce liquids from the rest of the luggage. No time to down that last gulp of water in the bottle. I’m stumbling over my shoes with one hand still trying to shove my ID back into my wallet–thankful, really, that belt-man is holding up the line.

I don’t scan for AEDs at SJC anymore. I already know where they are–a kind of learned instinct, I suppose. Instead I scan faces, make judgements. I’ll bet your cholesterol is high, man in the business suit whose tie is feeling a little too snug. You’re looking a little red in the face and I’m sure you’re a very important international businessman running late for your international business meeting, but don’t you worry, sir, I’m an EMT and I’ll be there in a flash if you start feeling weak and clutch at your chest and just so you know there’s an AED not 200 feet behind me and another coming up ahead. Don’t you worry, sir.

5:40pm
Rattling down highway 405 in a Flyaway shuttle. The scenery bounces past for this mile or so stretch without traffic. I can barely focus my eyes on my iPhone screen, much less hit the right keys as I text my parents that I’ve arrived. Thank God for autocorrect. The shuttle rattles so much that the emergency exit window beside me is almost falling off, a thin sliver of cement highway pulsating between the black rubber linings with each bump in the road.

The hapless driver charges forth, spearing the tank of airport shuttle through openings in traffic. I would trust his experience except he already left the shuttle doors open while trundling around the terminals, oblivious until another Flyaway driver yelled, “DOOR!” as we drove past. He’s listening to something unintelligible on the radio, quietly buzzing beside him as we rattle on down the highway. The rattling sporadically connects the audio to the rest of the shuttle and blasts R&B in neurotic spurts, long enough for me to feel the soul of the singer pouring out but too short to even make out the words.

11:05pm
Lying on my friend’s futon in the dark. The interview’s still nine hours away and I can’t think about anything else, much less sleep. I tell myself to breathe, slow it down, feel the calm creep into my bones. But it’s too early, too early for sleep to set in, even if I do need to be up at seven. I lie there and listen to the sounds of others moving around. Showering. Brushing teeth. Switching off lights. Rolling over in bed. To them it’s another night at home, another night before work or class, another night to fall asleep in.

There’s a strangeness in sleeping in someone else’s home, no matter how wonderfully gracious the host. It’s their home, not yours. I stare at the lighted porch outside, trying to summon parallels to make this place feel familiar. That light is the glow of the street lamp outside my senior year dorm room, I tell myself. It’s that soft glow on the ceiling.

When that doesn’t work, I lie there with my eyes closed, imagining best friends and calming presences in the rooms next door. What makes places feel like home? You carry the voices of the people you trust inside yourself. Let them permeate this unfamiliar space until the strangeness is gone.

2/14/12 7:40am
Making snap judgements of fellow candidates in the admissions office. Not so much judging as seeking guidance and comfort from our similarities. Girls with purses. I need a purse like that. Leather-bound portfolios. Just like mine. Mismatched pinstripe blazer and plain black slacks. I guess you pulled that off. Minimal makeup. Good, I didn’t under do it.

Chit chat fills our time as we wait for the bus to take us elsewhere. I’m not the quietest one like I would have been a few years ago. But I’m not the loudest one either, crowding the conversation with my voice out of nerves or affable personality. I’m calm. I leave the free coffee untouched.

12:15pm
Touring the campus behind three first year students. One guide in skinny jeans and sweatshirt branded with school pride. One guide in scrubs. One guide in his white coat and slacks, Skullcandy backpack, a pink collared shirt, and sunglasses settled jauntily on the top of his head. It’s this last one that amuses me–he wasn’t assigned to lead the tour, just hopped on like he owned the thing. He smacks on his gum while dispensing advice in his SoCal rhythm–so extroverted, so confident, so likable. One of the others reveals he was an English major who wrote for MTV before matriculating. And glancing at him again, this makes perfect sense.

He went out and purposely bought that pink shirt this morning, he tells us. Just for Valentine’s Day.

3:55pm
Sitting in a French bakery-café, watching all the dutiful boys go by with bouquets from the flower shop next door. They’re sweet arrangements, pink and white and red. Roses interspersed with baby’s breath, all wrapped up in tissue and cellophane.

You can tell which ones are headed for the flower shop by their walk. Head down, purposeful. Checking the street signs to make sure they’re going the right way. Even from across the street, watching them waiting at the crosswalk, I can spot these dutiful boyfriends and husbands fidgeting. Some worried–they forgot to order ahead. They remembered everything else–dry-cleaned the suit, made dinner reservations, bought her the perfect necklace. But some, they forgot it was Valentine’s Day until they got to work and every woman in the office was cooing over bouquets or chocolates or balloons or neon pink pieces of construction paper cut into hearts. These guys would never admit their fault–what man would? Besides, it’s the thought that counts and less is more and all those other clichées that are overused but so, so true.

I watch them parade past, calmed by the bouquet in hand, and for the first time in a while, I don’t loathe Valentine’s Day. It’s adorable, watching them file past this café window. Call it over-marketed, call it a corporate construct, call it a day to make us single people feel inadequate. But damn it’s cute to see so many romantic gestures synchronized to the same sunny afternoon in Westwood.

5:25pm
One last photo of a muggy LA sunset snapped through the window of the Flyaway heading back to LAX. Goodbye LA. Perhaps I’ll see you again soon.

(A/N: when did I write this!? Like seriously? This version still doesn’t work the way I want it to for this story, but it’s something, I suppose.)

I suppose Vicky has always been my favorite child. A father never really lets go of the love for his firstborn, even if she does end up being the black sheep in the family. She just reminds me so much of her mother, always thinking with her heart first. And like her mother, she never quite took to photography like the other two did. As a child, she suffered through many lessons on camera mechanics and composition and lighting before I finally let it go and moved on to Lewis. But she’s still my favorite child.

I’ve never seen her so at home as she is in the kitchen. I realize this as I watch her calmly flaming a crème brulée behind the counter at her restaurant. This is the first time I’ve made it out to San Francisco since she finished culinary school, but not the first time she’s cooked for me. We had a prime rib roast this past Christmas dinner that was so delicious that Melanie literally started drooling when I mentioned it at New Year’s. Even in our kitchen at home, Vicky looks so at ease—calm, precise, measured. No hint of the sorority girl I worried about while she was in college. I’m not sure what changed, but I suspect it was meeting Nick, then a first year medical student, now her husband. He’s a sensible fellow, just the kind of man you’d like your favorite daughter to marry.

Vicky deftly wipes a drop of raspberry sauce from the clean white border of the dessert plate and slides it onto the counter in front of me. “For your sweet tooth,” she tells me, winking with a hint of sass. I think back to countless midnight ice cream dates in the kitchen at home—plenty of bad grades and secret boyfriends were confessed over a pint of Cherry Garcia. She switched me to sugar-free sorbet when the doctor started worrying about my weight (he tells me to stay off my bad knee then worries when I gain weight, go figure), but we still have our secret meetings in the kitchen at night. There’s less confessing now and more worrying. She worries about the restaurant, about starting a family, and occasionally about Melanie. Watching her move through these stages of life, to see her become the capable adult I knew she would be, sends me back through my own experiences and my own worries when I was her age. It will always be this way, but how much more wisdom do I have left to impart?

I pick up my spoon and crack the caramel top. It looks exactly as delectable as the framed review in the front window—the near cylinder of custard sitting on a crisscross of raspberry and chocolate drizzle with a mint leaf and a raspberry settled artistically in the corner. Maybe those lessons on composition did leave an impression after all. And Nick tells me that Vicky started taking photos of the food for the restaurant’s website. They could have hired someone, but apparently she shrugged, picked up a camera, and poof—just like that, they had excellent photos for the website. What can I say, it’s in her genes. It might’ve taken her a little longer than the other two, but she came around. Even so, I know as I watch her add a dash of seasoning to a pan of mussels that she’d never leave the kitchen. Photography will always be just a hobby for her, never the life it was for me.

The night is cold without you here
The frost has covered the porch
My neighbors ask
Why stand out there?
But I don’t feel the chill
Wrapped up in fleece, plus a hat
Numb toes nestled in the grass

If I had been the howling type
I’d have raised my head and bayed
Baying and singing till the moon fell down
Here in my arms to light your way

That must be why you haven’t been back
I’m not the howling type
(Though if I were, I highly doubt
You’d have liked me much like that)

I searched for you
You know
My dear
I solved the riddles you left behind
And I cleaned the clutter in the attic
Slew the demons that hid our smiles

They’re saying that our rent is due
They’re saying I should go
Perhaps they’re right, I can’t go on living
In this lonely too large for one home

But one day
Some day
I’ll wake up to bacon
And you standing on a kitchen stool
Flailing a dish towel at the smoke detector
And chasing bacon fumes

Or maybe I’ll come home from work
To your keys already on the counter
You whacking the DVD player
Again and again
Until it relinquishes Firefly, disc two

I haven’t moved your things quite yet
(Except those attic ghouls)
Your shoes still where you left them
Your yesterday’s pants crumpled on the floor
I think perhaps you embarked stark naked
Just headed out into the dark

You must be cold
Out there and bare
I hung your coat just by the door
A kettle on the stove each night
Some tea to keep you warm

So come back soon
My sweet
My prayer
The rent’s been paid through March
Come burrow deep inside the bed
So I may find you there

(A/N: Trying to get the dragons out of my head, but I just keep spinning more complexities. And I wasn’t kidding about this dragon world, there’s etiquette and everything. Two scenes, minimal background information — you’ll figure it out.)

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(A/N: based on the story seed “bison stampede” from Seth. I have only the vaguest idea of where this is going.)

“HOLY FUCK.”

I’m on the phone with Tyler, and to say he’s flipping a shit is the understatement of the century.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK HOLY FUCKING SHIT GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

Nothing I say at this point is particularly important. In fact, I’m not entirely sure why Tyler’s still on the line during this freak out unless it’s just to demonstrate his creative use of the word “fuck” in various grammatical contexts.

I should explain. I should explain, but honestly, I can’t. I don’t have a clue what’s going on at the other end of this phone call. Last I’d heard, Tyler had for some godforsaken reason hopped on a plane to Wyoming, of all places, and no one had any idea why. I understand that Tyler has to get creative with his job title of “Senior Palaverous Correspondent” for that blog conglomerate he writes for these days, but really? Wyoming? What the hell kind of story was he looking for in Wyoming?

But I guess when you think about it, his “get me the fuck out of here” revelation may not be specific to the situation unfolding on his side of this phone conversation; it could just be the fact that he’s in Wyoming came up and slapped him in the face. What’s in Wyoming anyway?

“Elk,” my brother informs me from across the living room when I pose this question out loud.

“Elk?”

“Elk. The Boy Scouts make arches out of the antlers.”

Somehow I don’t think Tyler’s steady stream of “fuck”s has to do with elk antler arches, but I suggest this into the phone anyway. Tyler doesn’t seem to hear.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD THE FUCKERS ARE FUCKING—OH FUCK!”

My best guess now is that the “fuckers” he speaks of are either the elk antler arches or the Wyomingites in his immediate vicinity, but it’s kind of hard to tell. There is some kind of vague pounding noise in the background, which logically should be attributed to Wyomingites as opposed to the likely static and silent elk antler arches—but if the arches were falling apart in a tumble of elk antlers, I could see them making whatever that noise is. In fact, considering Wyomingites have historically been described to me as pleasantly quaint, this certainly throws more weight behind the deteriorating elk antler arch theory.

“OH FUCK FUCK FUCK I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE.”

“He’s quite liberal with the word, isn’t he?” observes my brother. He’s bending over the back of the couch to listen in on the call, in hopes of helping me identify the background noise. He is, after all, the leading expert on elk and elk antler arches in the room.

“Liberal, creative, same thing,” I say, scratching around a mosquito bite behind my ear.

My brother pulls a sorrowfully contemplative face as he scrutinizes the sound under Tyler’s monologue. “He’s really polluting the soundscape,” says my brother disapprovingly. “But if it is one of those elk antler arches falling over, you should tell him to stand back so he doesn’t get impaled.”

I suggest this to Tyler, who of course ignores me.

“You know, those could be hooves,” my brother says. “Maybe he’s betting on a horse race and he’s losing.”

I remind Tyler of the dangers of gambling, rattling off the names of some people who got in too deep betting on ponies. Admittedly, we wouldn’t even have Lucky Number Slevin if it hadn’t been for unlucky betting, but take the subsequent bloodbath as a cautionary tale.

None of this advice seems to have any effect on Tyler or the running of his mouth, so I glance at my brother, shrug, and hang up. If it’s really that important, I’m sure he’ll call back.

Tonight, before I go to sleep, I will be thinking of dragons. I am twenty-two years old, graduated with a bachelor’s degree (with honors) from an excellent university this past June, spent the bulk of my day working on structural biology research on the protein dynamics of the beta1-adrenergic receptor, and for the last week I’ve been going to bed with visions of dragons.

There’s nothing strictly wrong with this. I’m entitled to draconine thoughts — although admittedly it’s more than thoughts, it’s something more closely resembling “worldweaving,” if you will. Dragons, dragon riders, dragon wars, dragon training, dragon etiquette, dragon politics… I’ve made up a lot of words along the way, too. This is what I used to do all the time — this is what got me into writing. I build worlds out of nothing. I make things up, borrowing shamelessly from the world I know. I turn experiences into story lines; I turn wishful thinking into alternate reality. I stretch my imagination, and sometimes people read what I’ve come up with and say hey, I really like that.

So what is it about growing up that makes me feel like this dragon-filled creation of mine doesn’t belong in my world? Because it’s high fantasy*. It’s something no one ever tells us we’re supposed to have outgrown, but one day I woke up and realized I couldn’t take myself seriously when writing a fantasy (or even science fiction) story. As Seth said the other day when we were discussing this, “I don’t get how Tolkein explained his books before everyone had read them. ‘Okay, so there’s this thing called Sauron, and he hates everything. And makes little mud elves to fight humans. All the humans don’t trust each other. So it’s up to these fat midgets to destroy evil.’” Whose first instinct is to take that seriously?

I’ve learned a lot over the years from fantasy and science fiction. I probably wouldn’t have kept reading after my plateau in reading level around 6th grade if it hadn’t been for A Wrinkle in Time and The Golden Compass. There’s a basic allure to fantasy and scifi, that escape from the world we’re stuck in, which readers like my adolescent self gravitate to. Maybe it stems from a lack of maturity, an inability to see the thrills and struggles of normal life and fiction compared to the epic conflicts that arise in fantasy. And those epic conflicts can (and do) tie themselves into the real world.  I’m not entirely sure which came first, but the life history of Bean in Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Shadow played some part in stoking my love of genetics. Philip Pullman explored some really interesting tensions and fallacies in religious text through His Dark Materials, Roger Zelazny dances around concepts of metaphysics (and relates technology and computer hacking to magic) in The Chronicles of Amber, and Orson Scott Card eloquently lays out some key bioethical issues in Speaker for the Dead and the Bean quartet (just to name some of the many topics these authors prodded with their writing). But who’s going to take you seriously if you write a dissertation on any of these themes?

My best guess as to why this stigma exists is this: in fantasy fiction, there is a fundamental disconnect with reality. That’s practically the definition. And yes, there are plenty of cases of people losing touch with what’s real and taking things too far. (I risk offending some people right now, but hear me out, I have redemption for you.) Cosplayers, fanfiction writers, Harry Potter unofficial online trading card game players, the people who contribute to and update the extremely detailed entries on Wookieepedia — I could go on. However, there’s a difference between productive hobby and unhealthy obsession. Some of the cosplay costumes I’ve seen are really impressive costume-making that perfectly normal people made in their spare time, and plenty of fanfiction writers have spun incredibly inventive, moving stories based on characters that someone else started. The difference is knowing your limits — knowing that okay, there’s a world separate from this fantasy. This goes for anything, really — plenty of us are wrapped up in completely fictional story lines (I’m looking at you, Grey’s Anatomy fans who had serious meltdowns after whatever season finale it was) or waste our time on the strangest things (watching endless animated gifs of cats?). The point is there are plenty of things we do to entertain ourselves that no one else — or at least, a select few — quite understands. But it doesn’t hurt anyone, so why the hell not?

In light of this, I have decided to take this tack: I spent the bulk of my day working on structural biology research on the protein dynamics of the beta1-adrenergic receptor. I’m a high functioning and contributing member of society. So you know what? It’s okay that right now I’m obsessed with dragons.

* It says something about me that I know the distinction between “high” and “low” fantasy. For those who don’t, think of fantasy as a spectrum from our world to a completely made up world:

**LotR is weird because Tolkien has stated that Middle Earth existed sometime in our past, so it falls a little closer to the middle than other high fantasy

Yes, I made you an explanatory diagram. There are nerdier things I could have done.

(A/N: A middle(?) segment to a new short story? See also: Ravenlight)

The last chord of the song faded into applause, the crowd whooping and cheering. Dan glanced back at the band—they really should have put together a set list, but they’d never made a set list before. Why would they start now? Logan caught his eye with a slight jerk of his head in Esther’s direction. Dan raised his eyebrows, as if to ask, Now? Logan nodded.

Dan turned back to the audience, feeling how the whole room had settled after that last song. Not in a bad way—settling was a good sign. It wasn’t the awkward bustle of boredom; it was the lull of contemplation, the aftermath of a good song. He let his guitar swing loose in front of him and flipped the pick over the fingers of his right hand.

“So,” he began, stepping back up to the microphone, “some of you might not know this, but Esther and I go to boarding school together.” He turned to look at her, his mouth still against the microphone—he wanted to watch her expression. “And something I learned about her, that I did not know before, is that this girl can sing.”

He grinned half at her, half at the audience. Esther looked ready to kill. A wide smile was trapped on her face, but her eyes threw daggers at him.

“So we’re going to get Esther up here to sing a little something for you…”

The audience broke into applause as he stepped back from the microphone. A small pocket in the back corner by the counter started cheering her name, but Esther stood still by the bass amplifier, staring at him and laughing softly in disbelief. He nodded his encouragement to her, even unslinging his guitar and holding out his hand for the bass. She shook her head slightly and mouthed, “I’m going to kill you,” before giving up and handing him the bass guitar.

Dan watched as she stepped up to the microphone. She was being the quiet, indie, a little bit fragile girl in the rock cover band, not the girl she’d become at boarding school. He’d forgotten how vulnerable she could be, how soft and gentle compared to the strong, capable girl she was growing into. So what was this, an act? Or just slipping into habit? He watched her shake back the bracelets on her left wrist and lay her delicate fingers on the microphone for a moment.

“Well,” she said to the settled room. “I’m going to kill Dan later.” Rob and Logan chuckled a bit at that, and she glanced back at them. “I know you guys were behind this too, but Rob, I’m about to get my revenge.” He smiled and shrugged while some people whooped. She turned back to the audience.

“So I know we usually play alternative rock stuff, but I’m going to switch it up a little bit here. Rob’s going to go play keys on this song—” She looked at him pointedly here, waiting as he theatrically shuffled over to the keyboard. “And Rob, I know you know this song because your mom says you sing it in the shower.” The audience laughed. “This is a beautiful song by Sara Bareilles, and I really hope I can do it justice. This is ‘Gravity.’”

Rob started off with the first few notes, and Dan sat back on the amplifier as Esther began to sing. God, he loved the sound of her voice. Even after a year with Ravenlight, she never so much as hummed a backup vocal, so that late night in the Academy’s piano lounge with their friend Meg had been a revelation. The first thing he ever heard her sing was an old Simon and Garfunkel song, her voice strong and perfect as it rose and fell over the notes rising out of the grand piano. He thought of that moment now, remembering the way she smiled while her voice harmonized over Meg’s. He watched her rest her hands on the microphone, eyes closed as she pushed the rise and fall of the chorus. She had a light, effortless control over her voice that Dan had never quite learned, and her voice had just enough quaver to sound a little less than polished, making it sound and feel so real.

He caught Logan watching him stare at Esther, so he looked down at his guitar and dedicated himself to adjusting a knob. Logan knew, he was pretty sure, about him and Esther. Well, maybe he wasn’t that sure, but there was no sense in helping Logan along by staring at her if he only suspected it. He chanced a look back at Logan, and found him raising his eyebrows, impressed, as Esther nailed the bridge—a long, drawn out high note that wandered up higher without a breath. Dan smiled. Yeah, try not staring at that amazing girl.

She sang the last few lines of the song and stepped back from the microphone to tumultuous applause. She was smiling, her shy, hesitant smile that meant she was embarrassed and a little pleased. Dan straightened and met her near center stage, handing the bass to her as he pulled her into a quick hug.

“I’m proud of you,” he said into her ear.

“I’m still going to kill you,” she said softly.

He held her at arm’s length for a moment. “If I kissed you, would that make it better?” he asked, hoping the audience was loud enough that Logan and Rob wouldn’t overhear.

“Right now? I’d beat you to the ground—and you know I can.”

He laughed and wrinkled his nose at her. She wrinkled hers back and retreated to her corner of the stage while Dan took his place again at the microphone.

“Let’s hear it,” he called, and threw in some flourish, “for the lovely Esther Lynde.” The crowd roared back. Dan glanced back at the rest of the band and mouthed, “Ramp up?” They nodded. He turned back to the microphone, riding Logan’s drumbeat into the next song.

She’s a girl used to her hair being longer than it is. You can see it in how she gathers it over one shoulder, flipping it, like there should be more. I’m watching her from across the coffee shop — watching her type for a bit, then frown and stare out in my general direction before gathering her hair over her right shoulder again and typing studiously. The papers I’m supposed to be grading are nursing a coffee mug stain in the upper left corner, but I can’t stop watching this girl, wondering what exactly it is she’s missing.

(A/N: Nothing like procrastination to get me writing/posting regularly again. This was originally written as a note on my phone, might continue it later.)

(A/N: forgot to post this when I finished rewriting/reworking it from this in English190. According to Lucas, it’s still very much a snapshot, more like the setup to something more.)

Jay stood on his driveway, hands akimbo, staring at his car. Under normal circumstances, this summer afternoon would have disappeared into a haze of video games and internet poker, but his mom had kicked him out of the house with a sharp reminder to clean the car. Easier said than done—he’d been putting it off for the last three years, as long as he’d had it. Most previous attempts had ended with a trip through the car wash, where Jay skipped his chance at clean, lemon-scented carpets out of fear that he’d clog the place’s vacuums.

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