(Range 0) “Sake is the drink of the celebrant and the bitter, old, and alone.”

August 31, 2007 by Deightine.

“The view from Hashida Tower is spectacular. Perfectly regimented streets were lined up using GPS, and buildings were sized specifically to allow maximum viewing of the Tower from every possible angle. In fact, all of Hashida Prefecture was designed with the tower as it’s most premium tourist attraction. It stands 112 stories, beating out the Taipei 101 destroyed in 2017 along with Taipei itself. The Hashida Tower is now in the lead for the Emporis award, this year, 2028.”

The stewardess-like woman in the short Truman-era cap with veil lead a blue streak through the outer edge of Hashida Tower’s lowest tier, the Hashida archology. She would occasionally stop to point over a balcony or out of a tall standing tinted window, making gestures that made Range want to buy a vowel. He would say something, but beyond being impolite, he was afraid to set his age so well before the rest of the tourists in his company. Many of them probably wouldn’t get the joke anyway, it was nearly 30 years old. Coming to a turn in the hall, in fact a sharp corner that overlooked much of the city’s newly rebuilt shopping district. The neon signs were understated per city ordnance, the streetwalkers were few and well dressed, blending into the business crowd just leaving work for lunch. Range was impressed, but despite his focus on the town, he would still hear the guide’s works hollowly echoing throughout his ears.

“Next, on our right you will see at street level the new shopping district. With it’s grand opening this past week, all of the property values in the city went up 6%, thanks to Mr. Hashida’s suggestion it be placed outside the archology to aid in local revenue building! Mr. Hashida is very generous.” And the woman moved on, Range still chewing on the totally contrived words she had spit at him.

The tour passed by, nobody noticing the absence of one more tourist from the group. Especially an old, sake-scented retiree office worker on a joy-tour. Range straightened up a little from the stoop he had affected for the walk up here to the 4th floor and turned to examine the industrial elevator behind him. In the distance he could hear the guide discussing with her tour the benefits of the Endangré Leeching Process used to get all of the radioactivity from the soil of Old Hiroshima. Without it, Hashida Prefecture could not have been settled as a far extension of Tokyo proper. From how deep into the rattling dialogue the woman was getting, Range decided she must not have noted his absence. With any luck, she would have no idea where in the building he was lost.

With a shake of his head and a scrubbing motion at his day old shadow of whiskers, Range produced a matte black prong-like key from his sleeve. With the pressure of his whole weight, he managed to insert it into a plate next to the elevator. Normally a gun-like machine was used for this, but it would have been much more expensive than the key alone on the black market. With some effort and a good bit of backbone he had not used in years, Range heard the elevator make a bell tone to signal it would be coming down. Stepping aside and looking out the window, he picked up the role of tourist once more. A dull look came over his eyes and the doors opened behind him, and making no human noises. Range took this as a good sign and stepped in, quickly reaching for the up button only to discover a smooth plate in its place. The doors closed and a hollow voice whispered in his ear, “Floor?”. Range nearly jumped from his skin and muttered, “All the way to the top?”. The elevator answered with another bell tone and began heading up.

Range sighed in relief, not sure how to react to it simply obeying him. He surveyed the walls, pulling his ancient-looking trenchcoat in tight around him to feel a little more secure. No cameras? He looked at the corners with a sense of awe, and noticed that the elevator had another key entry like the one in the hall. He nodded sagely to himself, some of the floors must require a key to get out on. Restraining the urge to tap his foot, he listened as the elevator announced every tenth floor, speeding upwards in a way he could barely feel. Range remembered a time when he was younger where it would have taken a whole two minutes to reach the top of a fifty story building. The office building he worked in until the times of the great upheaval and war was at most fifty stories, but he was never sure. The elevator claimed to go to the fiftieth floor, but he only ever counted 49 floors from the outside on his 15 minute lunch breaks. The disparity always bothered him. But it wouldn’t much longer, Range had decided to take up religion in his old age. One of the tenets of his new faith was not to question the things that bother you, but simply to let them be as it is God’s will that not all things be understood. This tenet made sense to Range, more sense than the actions he was about to undertake.

The elevator spoke out “One hundred, ten. One hundred, twelve.” in it’s patronizing robotic monotone. The doors opened into sunlight and greenery. An arbory rose around him, the final story of the tower walled in thick glass and filled with trees native to the one lush Hiroshima. They were not very tall yet, but had at least another fourty feet to grow before they would touch the ceiling. Range spent enough time gawking at the room that the doors almost closed before he exited the elevator. In an effort not to press his luck, the old man padded out warily into the open. The trees spread out to either side, but a wide golden sand path lead from the elevator to a sitting area full of benches at the edge of the tower. Range disturbed patterns drawn in the sand with each step, noting they must have taken ours to form by men careful not to disturb the underbrush while in a state of Zen. Reaching the glass wall, he looked back to see what damage he had done and he saw the most remarkable thing. The sand rolled over itself, the tiny pieces of quartz returning to the places they last remember without any prompting. In less than a minute, the path looked untread.

Range was disgusted. He reached into his coat, pulling out the two things that meant the most to him in life. One was a flask he quickly opened and pulled a swig from, looking down from the tower to admire the new city. He followed the streets with his eyes, “I’ll be damned, she was right… It’s a perfect grid down there. Like God reached down and drew lines in the sand and they used them for roads.” On that thought he glanced back at the path again and shook his head, “Man trying to recreate his great work. Hashida must be a monster to think he could do such things so idly.”

In his right hand, Range examined a cylinder the size of a small thermos, with a red push button on the top of it. It looked very low tech, but Range held it delicately and sat it on the edge next to the glass. He looked down at the city, through the clowds and took in man’s misguided work. He was bothered that such effort was put into perfection when the world was already perfect, it was man’s bombs that made it imperfect. Hiroshima, Taiwan, all in the world had felt the effects of these weapons in one way or another. He pulled a pamphlet from his pocket, examining the front of it. His mouth opened and he spoke out in time with reading the words, and old habit he hadn’t lost since his children had grown up. He used to read to them before they thought him useless and stodgy.

“The Revisitationist Church, established 2009. You seek answers stolen from you, you seek solutions you do not understand and you want nothing but benefit for anyone else.” The pamphlet had been given to him when he went to speak with the leaders of his new church. They had given him the standard cylinder, not one tenth the size of the one he now carried and entrusted it to him as they passed on to speak to the next Visitor in line. When he followed the speaker, he was told to go away and that many others had come to pay their respects and find solitude. But Range was not tame in his need, and told the speaker of his wish to do something. One day before Range entered the tour, he gained the church’s trust and was asked to carry a great burden. A burden he had no trouble baring.

Range nodded with the sentiment and continued, “But it has been taken from us, taken from you, from everyone by those that would revel in their god-like creations. A vast grid of energy spans across the world, shooting through the lower Heavens and cutting a stark pattern against God’s stars. Stars put there for us to look at them, to marvel at and understand how small and unimportant we are in his great Machination, but the times have come for that to end.”

Taking a step back from the ledge, Range looked around to make sure he was alone. He licked at his lips and guzzled the sake with abandon. Looking down at the empty flask, the old man marveled at how many times in his life he spent nursing a sake or holding it in toast. “Sake is the drink of the celebrant and the bitter, old, and alone. Yes. That is one truth of my life… It is good to see these truths so close to the end. I will miss my daughters, but I will not miss my sons. They are selfish and learned it from a life of selfishness I lead. That is my burden to carry. That is my only regret… Well, beyond the regret of letting my wife run off with a fishmonger. I do still regret that. But there are some things a man just cannot do, and putting my lips-… Well, enough of that.”

With another look around the garden, Range approached the metal cylinder he sat down only to rest a finger on it’s top. “But there is one thing I will not regret… I will not regret opening a hole to Heaven so that my children will make it Home.”

Range pushed down the button, and the top of Hashida Tower lit up a shade of orange so bright that it looked to all below as if the sun rose. To ignite at the height of 112 stories, the explosive had been made hot enough to incinerate the five floors below it as well. Mr. Hashida did not even have time to react to the burning sensation on the floor below before becoming a newly falling layer of ash and hot metal sailing toward the ground. Glass filled the high winds around the tower, glittering like shining pixie dusted comet trails, carrying the light of the blast for miles. At the top of the glass room, a smaller room the size of a closet incinerated holding the primary node for the Grid in the Hashida Prefecture region and Range Ogura’s children noticed a minute five second lapse in service. Forced back into their prospective Aeos units to await a relink, they cursed the efforts of tyrants and religious fanatics.

Below in Hashida proper, it took a total of ten seconds before the backup nodes realigned close to the ground and the Grid was back online in the Prefecture.

Range’s ashes blew around in the lower atmosphere, his soul well on its way for wherever they go, and his work was already undone.

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(Andresh 1) “Please… Just let me explain.”

August 14, 2007 by Deightine.

Her pumps were whiter than the softest cloud but lacked all of the subtlety while strutting down a golded paved iron cage. It was a runway, not unlike the ones at the airport in that it had lights running down either side; glowing cigarette tips stuck out like hot pokers from the darkness. From the darkest corner the room had to offer, Andresh imagined the dancer could smell the occasional cherry Krests or the rare clove still scented with it’s port of origin’s original flavor. The crowd was encapsulated in the smoke, hazed in it, held up and possibly even kept down beneath the weight. Nobody stirred and this wasn’t the type of peeler bar where people moved around much anyway. All of the action was up on stage. All of it. A blonde girl that couldn’t be a day over 30 danced within the body of a 13 year old pedophilic wet dream, fulfilling dreams for many of the men that had to come miles to the playground to see one. Orphans don’t get into town much, the local security aren’t too fond of the subculture they carry in their wake.

This girl carried herself like a diva, strutting back and forth and lip-syncing with the music that played harshly from resonating tone-deaf speakers. At times, she would splay herself out, fingers running down her body and bent back with the ease of a contortionist. Fingertips would come in contact with bikini bottom, and if the audience around the stage was offering enough chit to her, it would be peeled back ever so slightly to offer a view of her Nirvana. It was a retro tattoo done in twinkling glitter and showing off the faded face of a long dead rock star. This was most often a distraction for all but her most avid customers, whom knew to look beneath it and into the darkly shadowed folds of her skin to see the prize they coveted and would have ravaged if not for the steel bars in their path.

Andresh was amused despite his nerves, watching the newer customers tapping violently on their Aeos while still trying to watch the dancer. Their fingers touched screens, made offers and with the aid of a nearly microscopic earpieces that she wore, she would entertain them. If it was enough, she might even venture toward their edge of the runway long enough to offer them a peek or a sultry soprano lyric while grinding against the bars. Andresh found the most of his amusement during those moments where a customer became entirely too enamored, too engorged on the show, adrenaline risen through the roof and all sense of self preservation absent for the equation. It was at those times when a fan, possibly even a potential stalker, would reach out to try to grab at her and discover why it is that she never took off her heels. A spark of electricity would arc from her skin to their fingertips, her whole body in union with the electrified cage and grounded on the metallic stage. She felt nothing, but the grabby patron would need to see someone wearing a red cross before morning. Yet still, they kept tapping over and over, trying to get her attention and continuing to be shocked.

Only the rare and most brazen of the girls ever ventured into the audience, braving the sea of bristled militia bodyguards and pawing blue collar rebuilders. One of those most jaded beauties made her way toward the pit of self-loathing that was Andresh’s table, she even managed to walk a straight line despite the strong drugs her eyes danced to. Her widely dilated pupils even managed to hold his attention for a full ten seconds before he took in the rest of her, smoke blowing from overbit lips and down his chin onto his chest. It would be rude to blow smoke at her, even if she wouldn’t be able to tell it from the cloud she called work. He glanced down at his Aeos, suddenly calming and resolved himself to action. A few taps and a flick of his eyes to direct the transfer and the girl’s head whipped toward him suddenly, their eyes almost meeting if not for a curtain of raggedly cut (in the new style) black hair. She regarded him with a wariness, eyes squinting from behind the ebony curtain but relaxing to approach his table.

She had accepted his offer.

The girl walked up to his table not a day over nineteen and showing the poise of what would someday be a full blown woman. Andresh couldn’t help but think that she must make a poor living here on The Playground, even at a place as dive-like as 2 Inches. Her body was clothed in dark red PVC and her belt wasn’t meant to conceal the tazer tucked behind it. In some ways, despite her breasts almost bursting the vinyl-like material, she didn’t look entirely up to entertaining… But behind dilated eyes, Andresh could see her curiosity. A man had just offered her enough chits to eat for months, a once in a lifetime offer that comes with dangers. After all, he might want her to take him in back so he can have his way with her, or even want her to leave with him to some dark room where when she comes out, much of that chit would be traded away for surgery to repair the damage. For a moment, he entertains the idea, the image of this young woman under him in the backseat of his economy car all tied down and grinding beneath his weight. The image is all at once cramped but alluring enough to cause sweat to form on the back of his neck, and he taps the seat next to him in the round booth. She accepts it skiddishly, preparing to bolt even though he makes no threatening move. She hesitates, but does not slip back away, their transaction not yet finalized.

Green eyes. Yes, green, Andresh thinks to himself. They relaxed just enough to show their color, and he finds himself offering a timidly tired smile. She relaxes, and he thinks to himself that she probably feels she has him pegged. Locked on like a target, she moves closer and leans against him. Her body curved and gifted with ripeness presses against his, and he has to keep from smirking. “That’s a big transfer… What are you looking for?” she asks, her lips peeled back from bleached white teeth. He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and sits back, letting her get as close as she can before turning his head.

“It’s my birthday-” he gets out before she cuts him off with “I don’t do free dance-” only for him to cut her off with a quiet but bitter laugh. “Not asking for free, girl, just bear with me. Please… Just let me explain.” Smoke curled from Andresh’s lips with his words and he leaned toward her, lips coming up close to her ear. He knew that someone in the control room would be monitoring everything she heard, feeding her the data pulses relayed from the Aeos payments, providing feedback on the offers and whether they could be backed up or not. He knew that, but he talked anyway. “I want you to sit in my lap, all night, and drink with me.”

The girl cocked her head to one side as if to ask if that was all. He pursed his lips and breathed deeply, a ragged breathe wrought with anxiety. “And I want you to listen. Someone has to listen… you might as well get payed big. I won’t keep you past closing, and if you listen close enough, I might even give you a tip.” Her eyes squinted, not really familiar with the idea of tipping as peeling has become a more direct and less friendly business since the old days.

“My name is Gabriele… and thats all you need to know. I’ll take your offer, but if you do anything funny, I’m not afraid to stick you with both leads.” she said, looking at him warily while tapping the tazer under her belt. Andresh got the impression she had done it before, and might have been more comfortable with the request that she come out to his car with him.

Andresh slid his hand around her middle and helped her into his lip, looking her in the eyes up close while his fingers teased down the inside of her thigh. Through the thick material, he was pretty sure she couldn’t feel it, but he loved the idea. It was rare that he got to act out, to let any form of emotion take hold of him and he was sure she realized that by how she shifted her weight to press down more on the raging and confined aspect of his sexuality.

“Well, Gabriele… Do you play the horn by chance? No, nevermind, you wouldn’t get that joke, would you? You don’t really want to know all of this, but I really need to tell someone. I work for the government, well, what’s left of the government. I sit in a cubicle all day, never guaranteed the same one from one day to another. They’re sort of determined by who gets to work first and rotate around a giant hollow warehouse like a ferris wheel. That look tells me you do recognize that bit of history… Well, today is my birthday and to celebrate my birthday I did something monumentally stupid. Mind you, it wasn’t really my idea… When God talked, I decided to listen.”

She blinked at him, ignoring the bulge in his pants below her all of a sudden. It didn’t make her a fiftieth as uncomfortable as the words he had just spoken to her and she turned, putting her back to his chest to wave down one of the heavily protected waitresses, “How about those drinks, huh?”

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My Thoughts Are Free (graphic novel scriptlet)

August 8, 2007 by Deightine.

Scriptlet (In this case a comic format, not lasting more than 8-10 pages, barely skimming the barrel of intention. It is in a plotted art style with dialogue and rough description of what should occur on each page. Paneling, art style, literal interpretation, etc would be left up to the artist. NOTE: This piece is never meant to be published and is a work unfinished for all intents and purposes. Should someone want to do the art, the lines would need to be rewritten or allowance for use would be required for the copywritten German translations.)

Cast

Jacob Schmitt - Burned out beat detective, early fourties, square jaw, black hair, five o’clock shadow, tan trenchcoat and ruffled business suit underneath (minus the jacket). Kind of guy you imagine faintly smelling of Glenfiddich. All close up views of his face should show a haunted, but determined demeanor.
Andy Schmitt - Teenage boy, age indeterminately between 13 and 17, mostly in the background. Corduroy pants and t-shirts type. Slight similarities in appearance to Jacob.
Series of police officers - Clean cut military look to each one, aged between 20 and 35 (except for the rare 40), all in standard North American civil officer uniforms but in gunmetal gray instead of black. Each should have a nearly brainwashed look to them, eyes dilated and staring through people.

Scene Progression

The scenes should pass back and forth from a dingey but not disgusting apartment, to the police department and back, as indicated. The first two pages will be in the apartment, Jacob talking to Andy and then Jacob will start to sing. The singing will continue on the next page, as the action sequences at the police station begin.

Beginning, “My Thoughts Are Free” potentially Issue #1 of a comic book entitled “Hindsight”.

PAGE 1: One large panel, Jacob having a glass of scotch in the new and barely furnished apartment while Andy goes about unpacking in the kitchen beyond. “Dad, why did we have to move all of a sudden?” Andy asks, with his head turned to look toward his father whom is staring into space. “Dad?.. Dad, are you listening?” There should be a brown paper wrapped box on the table next to the bottle of scotch, but don’t make it terribly obvious. It’s scenery.

PAGE 2: Several panels, just need to fit the dialog. Scene remains in the apartment, conversation between Jacob and Andy.

Andy: Dad, are you ok? You haven’t said a thing since we got here. And where’s your gun? I haven’t seen you without it since mom…

Jacob: Andy… Andy. [shakes his head, downs the last of his scotch] I’m just tired is all. Don’t mind me, and don’t worry about the gun. I had to put it somewhere safe. This building’s clean, nobody is going to kick in our front door here. It’s an entirely different kind of neighborhood, ok?

Andy: Alright. So what are we going to do? There isn’t a computer. There is no radio, tv, or good views from the windows. We’re going to go nuts in here. Why couldn’t we bring all of our stuff? Why did we have to pack so quickly?

Jacob: I told you when we were packing, I got cited for a violation. You know what happens when you get cited for a violation. We have to move, is what happens.

Jacob: But don’t worry about all of that. Do you remember when you were little? Your mom and I used to teach you songs when you wouldn’t settle down. We taught you The Itsy Bitsy Spider, and all that good stuff. Well, when I was a kid, I would sit at my grandfather’s knee and he would tell me about the wars he had seen back in the old days, being in the desert and fighting in the middle east. He once also taught me a song that he said his grandfather — your great-great-great-grandfather — had taught him.

Jacob: Now humor me Andy, and listen close. Don’t know when I’ll be in a mood like this again… It was called ‘Die Gedanken Sind Frei’.

Andy moves closer to listen, looking conflicted by a sense of childishness.

PAGE 3: Series of panels, first opening with a widespread view of a police station with small tank-like vehicles parked around it. All of it is near-future technology, nothing terribly high-tech, but still very shiny. The kind of vehicles that make you recoil in fear if you’ve even -thought- about doing something wrong. Sort of thing you don’t want coming in through your living-room wall. The following dialog is a German song from the 1800s, and should be worked in as punctuation to the actions presented by Jacob. The dashed bullet points note what action should be happening in line with which words.

“Die Gedanken sind frei
My thoughts freely flower.,”

- Jacob standing before the police station, a piece of paper clutched in his left hand and a gun clutched in his right along with a black gymbag. Probably best viewed from behind.

“Die Gedanken sind frei
My thoughts give me power.”

- Jacob using the hand with the paper in it to throw open one of the front double doors of the police precinct.

“No scholar can map them,
No hunter can trap them,”

- Jacob passes by some startled (but passive-aggressive) young officers that do not actually react to his presence. They obviously don’t think him a threat, and fail to notice the gun at first.

“No man can deny:
Die Gedanken sind frei!”

- Jacob does a police leap (one hand down, full weight across) the front desk and past another startled officer.

PAGE 4: Jacob heads across the middle of the precinct, and many of the officers now begin clearing some space away from him. Some pull their guns but keep them low, reacting to training without even thinking.

“I think as I please,
And this gives me pleasure.,”

- Jacob drops the bag he was carrying and punches a young officer in the gut with his gun barrel. The ‘kid’ was trying to get in his way, and Jacob drops him without slowing down for a second. The man balls up as he falls over, not used to physical violence being directed at him.

“My conscience decrees,
This right I must treasure;”

- Jacob knocks aside another young man that tries to step into his way, an office door now visible beyond the falling young man. The window is marked ‘Police Commissioner Charleston’.

“My thoughts will not cater
To duke or dictator,
No man can deny:–
Die Gedanken sind frei! ”

- Jacob kicks in the man’s door, busting it nearly from the hinges in the process and revealing a very surprised Police Commissioner on the other side of his desk. The man is old, overweight, pockmarked, etc. ‘An ugly sun-of-a-gun.’ … Reminiscent of Baron Harkonen, only squeezed into an outfit 4 sizes too small.

PAGE 5: Page opens with first panel kind of big, from the commissioner’s perspective with the gun barrel pressed against his forehead and Jacob looming over the desk at him. Jacob’s face should look determined edging on raging, but still collected. Controlled insanity after years of practice, playing the bad cop. Subsequent panels will be him leaving the police station and making his exit.

“And if tyrants take me
And throw me in prison,”

- Jacob backs slowly through the gathered crowd, a gun at the Commissioner’s head, whispering in his ear but his mouth obscured by the gun while the fat bastard tries to keep from stepping on his captor’s foot.

“My thoughts will burst free,
Like blossoms in season.”

- Jacob spins the Commissioner around as he backs through the front door, and stuffs the paper in the man’s mouth, gun pressed against his forehead.

- Jacob kicks the man backwards (the man’s eyes widening) into the room full of officers who all drop their guns in an effort to grab him. This -should- look unnatural, like they’re programmed to go for the grab, like the commissioner is more important than his captor.

- Jacob slams the doors closed, tipping his gun between the handles in such a way as to at least delay anyone following. It isn’t supposed to look like it will hold them long, but at most they’ll be able to bring the doors open to a sort of a peek before the gun stops it… and one or two shoves and the gun would fall. They don’t get the chance, however.

“Foundations will crumble,
The structure will tumble
And free men will cry:
Die Gedanken sind frei!”

- Jacob is walking away from the station (maybe 100 yards away) and the doors thrusting open behind him in the background to unload fire rather than officers. The back half of the precinct produces fire from the roof and particles of building materials. If able to be done artistically, bits of people too. In the foreground, Jacob has dropped a hand-detonator shaped like a roll of breath mints with a glowing button pushed in on the end. The detonator is falling to the ground as the image finishes up.

PAGE 6: First two panels are in a restaurant/bar type place. Third is in the apartment again.

“Neither trouble or pain
Will ever touch me again.”

- Jacob is having a drink, sitting at the bar of a restaurant. A man walks in, clothed in a fashion to suggest some sort of street life to him and sits down next to Jacob. He then pulls out a small package and lays it on the bar in front of him. Jacob slides the man an envelope in return. A bottle of scotch is visible in the background (on the bar) as this happens.

“No good comes of fretting.,
My hope’s in forgetting.”

- Jacob is walking out the door of the restaurant, seen from behind. The package is gone from the bar, the glass of scotch is empty and the bottle there previously is missing now.

“Within myself still
I can think as I will,
But I laugh, do not cry:
Die Gedanken sind frei!”

- Panel is of Jacob sitting at the table again, a tear rolling down one cheek but his expression unchanged. Andy is turning away into the kitchen, uncomfortable by it according to his expression. His father now appears quiet.

- Final panel is the door of the apartment closing as Andy turns, Jacob now missing and the package looming more on the table than it had before. Drawn more distinctly, more richly, than it had been.

PAGE 7: These panels have no dialog. Only the following situations…

- Andy moves toward the table, grabs for the package and begins untying the string wrapped around it. The box has sort of a butcher’s package look to it and this although not necessary, is part of the feel and eludes to a coming scene.

- Jacob sits in his car, in a busy parkinglot across from a train station or other busy public place. Police are patrolling somewhere in the background, and he has another gun in his hand. He’s staring straight forward, and there is no warning for what is about to come.

- Andy holds a wallet in his hands, the opened box on the table below him in the background. Inside the wallet is his picture on an ID card with the name ‘Eric Wallace’ and the age listed as ‘18′ with his approximate description next to it. The ID should be somewhat futuristic and feature an RFID-looking chip imbedded on it and a future-ish USA logo at the top. Below it is the slogon ‘Keeping track of YOUR interests.’. Money pokes out of the wallet, largish bills but more colorful than the traditional greenbacks. More in the style of European currency.

- Jacob puts the gun to the side of his head, below his right ear.

- Panel shows the car in the parking lot. The windows are sprayed red, and the cops are running toward the vehicle while pigeons are startled from their roosts on buildings around it.

- Andy collapses into the chair next to the table, staring into the wallet and although he doesn’t yet know what has happened… He looks worried beyond anything seen so far.

End

– Necessary attribution goes to Arthur Kevess, the song’s English translation (Die Gedanken Sind Frei / “My Thoughts Are Free”) was copyrighted in 1950 and is used without any commercial gain at this point. I’m trying to find a means to contact him and see if he would allow it’s use. Sadly, it’s not that easy tracking a person down 57 years later.

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My kingdom for an inter-page bookmarking module for Mozilla browsers.

August 1, 2007 by Deightine.

I have over the years become pretty well acquainted with programming and design structures, design of all sorts is a hobby of mine. Lately I’ve spent a lot of time up to my eyes in fairly dense evolutionary psychology treatises and a lot of readings around cognitive, behavioural and affective neurosciences. Yes, I know for a lot of people that sounds like more headache than hobby… But I assure you, for me, this is the bread and butter of reading. I love this stuff. One might hazard that there was an evolutionary shift a million years ago that created a proclivity for wanting to know why people do things… And I’m one of the latest in a long line of individuals trying to figure out what the hell people were thinking when they did something stupid.

But while in the midst of my readings, I realized something… I have the worst time remembering where I am in a given text after reading halfway or so, unless I have clear chapter headings to work off of. If I were reading a traditional book, I would simply slide in my bookmark and make up for half of a page I’d have to re-read later… But instead, when a page on the web is halfway finished it can be equivalent of being half way through a 200 page novel. And yes, I can bookmark the page… All 200 novel-pages of it. But I cannot save where I am within the document itself.

What I would like, and I’m adding this to my wishlist, is a Firefox extension that lets me right-click and drop an in-line bookmark that attaches to the page’s bookmark in my list. In essense, I want to put down an anchor to automatically go to the next time I want to read the page. One that I can move down, physically, through the document as I go and refer to later when I need to read some more. It wouldn’t have to be pretty (I’m not going to be picky), but it would definitely need to be more than a one shot use type of extension. In effect, storing my “current” bookmark on the page in a list of bookmarks attached within the programs -actual- bookmark.

Not sure how that would effect the current program when it comes to programs that collect and share your bookmarks, etc, but I know it would help me out a lot at this end.

In effect, it would be like when you’re reading a Shakespearian work of fiction, a play or something, and you can refer to “Act 1, line 365″ or something of that sort. Instead, the bookmark would catalog it for you an store it for later. And maybe when you display your bookmarks, it would slightly change the color of the font or the background behind the bookmark’s title to reflect that you’re not finished reading it yet in case you forget something important. And then you could go into the bookmark’s properties and clear all of the bookmarks or perhaps right-click the floating bookmark layer and click ‘Remove Bookmark Anchor’ or something to remove it.

Who knows, someone might wander across this at some point and point out an extension I don’t know about or decide they could use it too and being not -too- much work… pony one up. I just don’t have the time myself right now to sit and try to make that happen. Maybe if I have time later… but I doubt it.

Example:

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