"A Tale of Fire and Panic": Prologue

If you are new to Project:  Spiral, then click here to read the teaser, or click here to read from the Prologue.  Otherwise, welcome back!

Content Warning!

This story contains instances, descriptions, and frank discussions of:  depression, personality disorders, and other mental health issues; suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts; child abuse and neglect; graphic violence, war crimes, and institutional/systemic violence; gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, and transphobia.  Reader discretion is advised.

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Genesis II:  God Takes a Mulligan

Outside.  August, 2019.

Em frowns in consternation.  Choosing her words carefully, she says, “The thing is, if I wasn’t your girlfriend, I’d be getting really frustrated.  It’s all so confusing, and I’d be wondering when it’s gonna just get to the point, already.”

Dee takes a deep breath and nods, saying, “Yeah, but going on cool adventures with my best friend kind of is the point.”

“And that’s fine, Babe.  But you have to work that in somewhere.”

Dee twists up her mouth in thought, then says, “I can do that.  I’ll have to re-tool the beginning, though. But that’s not a big deal - I had an alternate beginning in mind, anyway.  It’s more streamlined, and it sets up some good bookends.”

Em sighs and pulls up the covers.  “All right. I still don’t know how you’re gonna get there, though.  I’m just worried that too many people are going to say, ‘Fuck it,’ and give up.”

Dee nods again as she idly runs her tongue over her teeth.  “I think it’s like the Edric thing,” she says at last, leaning against the doorjamb.  “Y’know, where it was too subtle at first, and I just had to be a little more explicit and direct.  I can do that without giving too much away.”

“OK,” Em says with a yawn.  “Good luck. I’m going to sleep now.”

“Get some good rest, Love.”

After exchanging some kissy noises back and forth, Dee walks downstairs and sighs heavily.  “OK,” she says with a nod to herself. “This is doable. You just have to do it. You got this.”  She pours some vodka into what’s left of her cola and settles in on the couch with her tablet. After staring at a blank document for several seconds, she thinks to herself, It’s fine.  Every author’s technically the god of their own world - nothing happens without their say-so, everything works the way they say it does, they speak the world into existence and are its Prime Mover.  I just have to keep that in mind, and stay on the right side of it. Easy-peasy.  She starts typing.

The words come quickly, at first.  It slows down as the world shifts and rearranges itself in her head.  Timelines blink in and out of existence as she considers this and that possibility.  Step by step, potentialities coalesce into a singular actuality. The most difficult part, as always, is how much to spell out explicitly against how much to leave to the reader:  it is very easy to say that a writer should not assume the reader knows anything, but one simply must assume a basic grasp of language, like vocabulary and grammar.  And between pop culture touchstones, world events, meta-knowledge of storytelling mechanics, and a million other things, it’s all on a sliding scale from there.

Deirdre shakes her head and takes the Alexandrian Solution:  jump in, and let the internet do the rest. After all, if anyone doesn’t know what a “d20 tabletop game” is, they can just look it up on simple.wikipedia.org or something.  Her mind races, the effort causing a dull ache behind her brow. After taking a deep breath, she does a brief meditation exercise to bring the waxing mania back under control - not to completely tamp it down, just enough to make it coherent.  A sudden realization causes her to frown as she stares off into the middle distance.

Dammit - without that ‘jungle babes’ line, I’m gonna have to cut the bikini leopards.

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