Author Archives: Kevin McFadyen

About Kevin McFadyen

Kevin McFadyen is a world traveller, a poor eater, a happy napper and occasional writer. When not typing frivolously on a keyboard, he is forcing Kait to jump endlessly on her bum knees or attempting to sabotage Derek in the latest boardgame. He prefers Earl Gray to English Breakfast but has been considering whether or not he should adopt a crippling addiction to coffee instead. Happy now, Derek?

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 7

Kait got sick again which delayed my workout schedule which makes me forget what day it is. That is my excuse for the late Bannock post.

I thought hanging would be suitable until I saw a bunch of real life photos. Aaaaand that was a bad idea.

Detail of Saint George and the Princess of Trebizond by Pisanello (1436-1438)

They made quite the parade as the followed the voices. Felicity gripped the pistol in her hand, the deputy had his nose buried in his sleeve trying to staunch its flow, Laure juggled the heavy metal chains and Schroeder was left trying to put as much distance between his suit and the man’s fluids.

As they went, the speaking grew louder and louder. They rounded the general store to see a raised wood platform. A noose dangled ominously in the centre, the long bar capable of stringing nearly seven bodies at a time. It spoke to the town’s need to prosecute thieves and hinted at just how profitable their mining was.

Sheriff Plummer took the centre, addressing the gathered crowd. Behind him stood the accused. Felicity expected him to be screaming his innocence profusely but he had some distant look in his eyes as if he’d long accepted his fate. Ranger Hayes stood steely by his side, holding the rope bounding the outlaw’s hands and slowly twisting it in his gloves.

But the most dissatisfied individual on the stage was Nicolai himself. His fine suit of extravagant silk was beginning to darken along his pits and Felicity guessed it wasn’t just due to the heat. The magnate seemed to regard all the men on the stage with equal suspicion and disgust. Felicity slipped Schroeder’s pistol into the waist of her pants and took the manacles from Schroeder’s hand. She motioned for the sharpshooter to take a position before handing the restraints to Laure.

And that is when they heard the sheriff speak.

“My fine folk of Bannock, too long have we toiled beneath the fear and savagery of bandits and murderers. For too long have our children and businesses been ravaged by evils of lesser men. The crimes of this Mr. Hopkins are too numerous to mention. They extend far beyond a simple bridge or missing crate. They’re the monthly losses of good ole Malcolm trying to keep enough together to provide us with our simple basins and hoes. They’re the nights little Annie has to go hungry because Mr. Truestone can’t afford a simple loaf of bread with his wages snatched from impenetrable safes!

“But my people of Bannock, I – Sheriff Henry Plummer – have strove to end this suffering. I have cast far and wide in search of these outlaws. Endless hours and nights we’ve spent in our hunt. We would not let the fathomless expanses hide this villain. No dark hole was dark enough to keep him from justice. It was my duty, nay, my pleasure to serve you fine folk who toil daily to keep this the finest town on the frontier!

“Throughout the entire trial, this despicable Mr. Hopkins refused to speak a word against the heinous charges laid against him. He refused to acknowledge the terrible price he’d extracted from your hard labour. He didn’t defend his actions after the news of the destruction of the Glorious Belt Bridge. He would make a mockery of our systems and our justice. For that, only the heaviest punishment can be afforded. Only the graces of the Lord and his divines can judge the true weight of his sin. All we can do is hasten him to those white walls and golden gates. Let those of nobler spirit than ours see fit if he holds a place in the Kingdom or if he’s to be turned out to the Wilds amongst the untamed that he so embraces.

“If there be any man who finds our process unjust, then let him speak. Else bring the outlaw forward so that he may face divine retribution for the suffering he has wrought!”

Sheriff Plummer turned, motioning at the man and the noose. As Ranger Hayes forced him forward, the outlaw’s boots echoed against the wood boards. But another sound broke over the solemn silence. A great applause thundered through the proceeding, causing heads to turn and voices to whisper. Felicity stepped forward, the crowd parting to let her applause and clanking prisoner through.

At first the sheriff turned, a look of confused amusement on his face. But when he saw his deputy barely dressed with hands shackled and split shirt stained from his bloody nose down turned in embarrassment, the fat man’s smile waned.

“Remarkable speech, sheriff. I reckon, perhaps, you misjudge your place as humble lawman. You be better suited for the high halls of coastal magistracy with their double talk and betraying smiles.”

“What’s the meaning of this!” he huffed, his whiskers bristling. “You best have a good explanation for this depravity towards my fellow!”

Felicity ignored him, fetching the letters from her pocket and holding them proudly as she turned to address the crowd.

“I ask you, fine folk of Bannock, with your marauding bandit captured where is your stolen goods? Where are these riches that would drag your distant and uncaring magnate to your door?”

Nicolai seemed to stir at the barb but curiosity simmered his anger. However, as she approached the stage, two of Plummer’s men moved to intercept. She paused as they drew their weapons but when they made to take the letters, she pulled away.

“Let her pass.”

Nicolai’s voice broke the momentary tension. The goons turned to the sheriff who cast a quick glance at the Ranger. Felicity’s fingers unconsciously drifted towards the borrowed pistol.

At last, the sheriff nodded and Felicity began to climb the platform. The wood clattered beneath her boots as she took the steps two at a time. Sheriff Plummer looked absolutely fuming but raised not a word as she drew defiantly before him.

“Now what this about?” Nicolai demanded. Felicity held up the letters but didn’t turn from the sheriff.

“I hazard that, despite the cajoling of our good sheriff, he was unable to procure the location of your missing ore. And should Dirty Hopkins have elected to speak, I reckon he’d profess ignorance for any robbery of your line. But why would he when clearly the court arraigned against him ain’t no greater than a pony show with little interest in either truth or justice?”

A murmur rose from the gathered townsfolk. The sheriff eyed them warily before turning upon Felicity.

“Are you saying this man is no outlaw? You who brought him back to us, wounded by your own rough handling?”

“I make no claim towards his character,” Felicity spat. “He is both craven and merciless. If those be your charges then you can hand me the rope and I will string him myself for all those that have perished by his hand. But if my people are to die, it won’t be in vain.”

“This is a farce,” the sheriff said. “Remove her!”

Felicity turned to Nicolai but he didn’t immediately object as the sheriff’s boys came to her side. The two men that had intercepted her earlier flanked Laure, taking the deputy’s chains from her hands. Felicity pulled her coat free, turning to the Ranger as they snatched for the papers.

“The only farce is putting a scheming ne’er-do-well in charge of doling out justice! Your deputy has already confessed your sins, sheriff. Your plot’s been revealed.”

The sheriff turned to his manacled man, and his heavy gaze caused the sniffling deputy to cower further. But a shift was certainly affecting the crowd. No doubt the deputy had worn his fearsome mask in his dealings with them. This half undressed, soiled and simpering fool was a shade of the scarred lawman.

“I know not what tortures you’ve enacted upon him nor even what purpose you insinuate of my nature.”

“Murder and theft as well as an untamed scheme to bring ruin to the very folk you preach and preen before. In my hands I have correspondences with your buyer for the ores you stole and seek to pin on this man! These fetched from your desk beneath the direction of that blubbering caitiff.”

“I-I’m sorry, boss!” the deputy pleaded. “She… she is an untamed. Near slit my throat…!”

Laure kicked him unceremoniously to the ground, strangling his voice in a great cloud of dirt. He snivelled at the people’s feet as her guards pulled her roughly away. The sheriff rounded on Felicity.

“Salacious lies! Who are you to challenge my authority? You’re just some honour less bounty hunter preying on the weak and needy for your coin. Hand me those papers!”

“I think I look first,” Nicolai finally said.

“Sir, we should not entertain these deluded claims. No doubt she is in league with Hopkins himself and this is some scam to discredit our efforts and play you the fool!”

The sheriff snatched at the papers but Felicity dodged his hands. However, the sheriff’s men were many on the platform and were fast upon her: pinning her arms behind her back and claiming the documents for their leader.

“See here!” Nicolai cried.

But as he stepped forward, hands fell to weapons. The magnate’s look was as hard and steely as his office’s facade. But in that moment, it was clear he was outnumbered. His hired lawmen turned not to him but the sheriff. And their posturing was clear.

“Come now, sir Nicolai. Your gracious patronage has brought peace and order to this town. Let us do our duty and deal with these outlaws.”

“Sheriff Plummer…!”

But Nicolai held his reply as the sheriff’s men drew their guns.

“This will all be over soon,” Plummer cried. “Order will be restored to Bannock. Even if we must string up Hopkin’s conspirators as well!”

“Truly?” Felicty laughed. “And do you expect these people to forget that a Ranger has gone missing? Or you reckoned his murder would be forgotten once you had some necks to twist in your ropes?”

The sheriff spat as his men handed him the letters.

“You should have made your way from town once you had your pay,” the sheriff sneered, stepping close. His great stomach pressed against Felicity as he leaned in so his round face was inches from hers. “But perhaps you have some feelings for this degenerate. Seems you leave me little recourse than to string you up with him for your impetuousness.”

“Or maybe we’ll look at those documents before we make any hasty decisions.”

A click of the hammer caused the sheriff to straighten. Ranger Hayes had his rifle raised and leveraged at the fat man’s chest.

“You still have failed to explain my brother’s disappearance.”

The sheriff shrugged.

“How am I suppose to know where your kind go, Ranger? They prowl the endless plains. He could have run afoul of hostile savages. Or maybe he stumbled upon this villainous pair and they got the better of him. Perhaps they tossed his body unceremoniously into them canyons.”

“Then it won’t be an issue if we take a look at the little lady’s evidence,” Ranger Hayes replied, his gun unmoving.

The sheriff gave only the briefest of glances at the papers in his hand to confirm their identity. Then he shook his head and gave a hearty laugh.

“Likely forgeries, anyway. Why would I keep such incriminating documents if I were so devious?”

“Perhaps to blackmail your correspondent if he reneged on his end? Or maybe you ain’t so untamedly bright. But I reckon I’d rather peruse them then have a word with your deputy myself before we continue.”

The sheriff’s smile melted away as his thick lips churned his predicament. He looked at the deputy still lying face down in the dirt.

“You fool,” he sneered. “You lowly, heat stricken fool. Don’t think I won’t deal with you later for this.”

The sheriff reached quickly for his coat pocket but a sudden thunder clap broke the air. All attending flinched at the sound. Felicity regarded the Ranger’s rifle but it still laid cocked in his hands.

The wood at the sheriff’s feet was cracked from where the bullet struck. Still standing with hand in his coat and letters shaking slightly in his fingers, the fat man turned. A mass shifted upon the roof of the General Store as Schroeder made a show of adjusting his aim.

Felicity quickly disentangled herself from her captors’ hands, rushing the sheriff before he could wage his chances against the Ranger and the sharpshooter. She snatched into his pockets and fetched the gun from its holster. With him disarmed, Ranger Hayes approached and grabbed the letters from the sheriff’s hand. He then turned his rifle towards the sheriff’s lawmen ordering them to drop their weapons. Ever so slowly, they obliged, the guns clattering against the floor.

As the Ranger turned to the documents, Nicolai stepped boldly forward.

“What do they read?”

“It’s as the lady inferred,” Ranger Hayes said. “Appears the sheriff was stealing supplies all across town and selling them off for his own. Even makes mention of hiring an outlaw to blame the whole business upon.”

The magnate ripped them from the Ranger’s hands, looking them over as well. His face grew even redder as he read, his fingers shaking with rage and embarrassment.

“To think I listen to you all morning striding smug before me,” Nicolai growled. “And the destruction of the bridge, you blithely destroyed years of work and preparation! I want these men punished, Ranger! Punished! This… this is unacceptable!”

The governor spat on the sheriff’s fine suit.

“As if you’re any better,” Sheriff Plummer sneered. “You growing fat and wealthy with nary a consideration for the folk that do all the digging for you. You rail lords ain’t nothing but thieves in better dress. You twist the law to your bidding, ruling worse than the nobles back across the waters! You thought you the only one that could manipulate these people. You’re just as stupid as the rest of them.”

“Hang them! And squeeze this fat lout into the cage!” Nicolai’s brow twitched as he stood but inches from the sheriff, quivering with fury. “Your soul goes nowhere. Let vultures pick you clean like you picked me.”

The magnate turned, heading for the stairs. Ranger Hayes regarded the other lawmen, beginning to follow the magnate’s words. In that brief respite, the sheriff grew desperate. Laure called out, slipping her arms free and knocking over one of her guards with a swift strike of her wrench to his gut. Her hands fell upon the gun of the other and the weapon seemed to fall apart in her fast fingers. But the sheriff struck lightning quick, bringing his fist heavily upon Felicity’s hand. The sheriff’s pistol fell from her fingers and in that moment the sheriff snatched at the weapon tucked into her hip. He grabbed her roughly, angling her body between him and the sharpshooter as he raised the gun to her head.

“Die, whore!”

He pulled the trigger.

And he pulled it again.

And he pulled it a third time.

He blinked at this seemingly divine providence right before Felicity drove her elbow hard into his gut. Pain wretched him forward and she slammed her fist into his face, crunching his nose beneath her knuckles. A spatter of blood shot out as she grabbed the collar of his vest, pulling his retreating head into her forehead. The already softened cartilage crunched again as he howled in pain before she drove her leg hard into his groin, keeling him onto his knees.

She scooped up the guns on the ground and without a word, let loose a single shot right into his fat rump.

He squealed like a pig, collapsing on the ground and rolling in pain. His hands knew not where to go between the bloody mess of his face, his throbbing groin or the shot in his ass.

The Ranger regarded her.

“That really necessary?”

“Perhaps not,” Felicity shrugged. “But it’s satisfying. Ain’t nothing that’ll finish him and it’s the least Pacal deserves. Make sure justice is seen, lawman.”

She emptied the sheriff’s pistol over the edge of the stage before tossing it in the pile at the Ranger’s feet. Before anyone could say otherwise, she moved to the steps, walking quickly from the platform and through the crowd. Schroeder was already clamouring down from the store when Laure and Felicity reached his side.

“Well, that was thrilling!” Laure said.

Felicity paused, turning to Schroeder.

“Appreciated.”

She held out the pistol raised against her moments ago. Schroeder reached for it with a smile.

“So, what was that about me needing proper care? You could say I saved your life right there.”

She pulled it back, twirling the gun into her hand and raised it to his head before clicking the trigger.

“There, now it’s square,” she tossed the gun into his chest. “Don’t let it happen again else you might be able to do more than shoot up some wood.”

He fumbled his catch and as he picked it up, she gave one last glance back at the stage. With the sheriff incapacitated the rest of the lawmen easily bowed before the Ranger. Many of the townsfolk assisted with the arrests, almost a little too eager to bring the gang that once held order to heel.

Then Schroeder looked back at Felicity, calling out as they made their way towards the train, “Wait, that doesn’t makes us even at all!”

Not A Superman Review

Not my image. I took it from Nathan Marchand because I'm too lazy to make my own. Accessed from: http://www.nathanjsmarchand.com/?p=1356.

Just to make things clear.

This is not a Superman: Man of Steel review. For that, kindly see my sister’s post last week on sufficient thoughts about that production. I am not going to write today my feelings on the movie because, as I’ve mentioned, this is not a Superman review.

But just to be clear, I’m not reviewing Superman today.

That out of the way, Man of Steel was boring. Partly because of the reasons my sister mentioned and partly because I’m not a fan of comic book movies. Woe befall me for this is clearly not my generation to dislike comic book entertainment. We’re inundated with the material. There’s a practical deluge of comic bookiness pouring from every orifice of society. Trilogies upon trilogies of the silly stuff cram our summer theatres.  Television is trying their own hand with the Avenger’s spin-off starring a remarkably unimportant member of the film. Arguably, we can thank comic books for Intelligence as well as it has quite a few tropes typically reserved for the graphic novel genre.

Oh, and let’s not forget the video games.

It may be a little incongruous for someone who writes fantasy and science fiction to dislike comic books. Even more bordering hypocrisy, I read quite a few when I was a child. I collected, almost religiously, the Power Pack series and I shudder to think how awful those stories are now that I’m much older and capable of actual taste. But, to be fair to my younger self, youths have terrible quality control and if there is ever a market for gluttonous devouring of the power fantasy, children would be that market.

I mean, to throw some psychology at the topic, the Theory of Mind is the ability to attribute mental states to oneself and others as well as understand that people have different beliefs, intentions and desires from our own. It takes around four to five years of development for us to realize others can have thoughts that are wrong (see the pencils in a Smarties box experiment) and it can take up to seven years for children to understand points of view (see Piaget and the three mountains task). This gave rise to the egocentrism concept – a characterization of preoccupation with an individual world that regards the self’s opinions and views as being the most important and most valid. Though most theories of development basically stick with children and that’s it (the pedophiles), David Elkind found that adolescents exhibit many characteristics of egocentrism up to fifteen and sixteen years of age. This is evident in the obsessive pre-occupation with one’s own self-image and the idea that everyone else is as obsessed with that individual’s appearance and behaviour as the teenager is herself*. If you don’t trust Elkind, you can kind broach the topic of acne with any teenager and learn the trials, tribulations and world devastating effects a simple pimple can have on the poor adolescent.

Image from Man of Steel which obviously does not belong to me. I wouldn't make such a silly movie.

I’m fairly certain Superman’s true power is in maintaining an immaculate coif no matter how brutal a fight gets.

Given the pre-eminence of their own feelings and experiences, I’m willing to make the leap that children (youths to teens) are quite happy to read comic books which feature heroes of such astounding power, perfection and coif hairedness as to be little more than  caricatures  than actual characters so they can live vicariously through those experiences as if they were their own. They love the power fantasy because it makes them feel powerful. Given that youths typically have low self determination as they still live at home and beneath their parents rule, the idea of being able to fly around the world, fight aliens and be universally celebrated I propose would be highly appealing.

So, yes, I loved reading the Power Pack because it was about four siblings who inherited super powers from aliens and saved the world. As they were also children, it was far easier for me to imagine being a Power Pack member and enjoy their exploits in fighting the monster of the week. Course, as I grew older, wiser, more educated and mentally developed, these stories failed to grow with me. Comic books rarely exhibit complex characterization. Watch Man of Steel if you don’t believe me. The worst thing that happened to Clark Kent was that his adoptive father got sucked up in a tornado so that Old Yeller could live long enough to be quietly replaced by some other pooch later in the film when the director assumed everyone stopped caring about the mongrel.

That’s your standard fare for comic books. Few demonstrate as much complexity as The Watchmen. And rightfully so as I’m not convinced that a pre-pubescent should really be reading the Watchmen with its gratuitous violence and attempted rape. I mean, I suppose they could read that but they’re going to need some adult explanation to understand what’s going on, especially given the complexity of the situations involved (the attempted rape eventually developed into a relationship between the two characters… so… yeah…). But that was the point of The Watchmen, to add a level of realism and gravity to the otherwise fluffy and irrelevant comic book genre. When all your characters are paragons of virtue or wickedness, it’s really easy to run dry of novel or interesting plot lines. Of course, comic books aren’t really milling the literary genre for depth or profundity. Most of the time, the story arcs are the filler between splashy panels where your super powered heroes can punch various wickedness through walls and other obstructions.

You can see that clearly in the movies. Man of Steel was essentially two acts with the first mostly faffing about with Supes as he struggled to get through the modern economy holding a handful of unrelated jobs. The second half was just an all out brawl between Clark and his extended family when all that prior fancy camerawork was turned towards such thrilling moments involving Russel Crowe opening doors and a bunch of CGI buildings doing their best Tohoku 2011 shuffle. Things happened but never for any real purpose. Amy Adams presence was demanded at a bunch of locations presumably so we would have some perky bosom to see us through since Diane Lane’s getting a little worn for that duty.

Not mine. Belongs to Marvel and the like. I also wouldn't make a movie this silly. But I'd love to lay claim to Iron Man 3.

Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.

But no greater example of this fluff over substance is there than The Avengers. Josh Whedon’s magnum opus, if box office sales are any measure, features a thrilling two and a half hours of computer generated laser showing with a total of zero minutes to any character development. This is made grossly apparently since every Marvel movie following The Avengers has had to cover the character development – from Tony Stark’s post-traumatic stress disorder in Iron Man 3 and Chris Hemsworth presumably having to pout for a good twenty or thirty seconds before beating up some snerfnerblerm.

Course, presumably, this is exactly what the audience wants. They want mindless explosions. They want joyless quips between boring, tired ubermenschen that have fifty years of existence with no character growth or change. They want to see the bad guys lose and the good guys win. I guess it’s fun to see the struggle of good and evil play over and over again since that’s about as much thematic depth as these flicks ever come close to exploring. I guess it’s entertaining to see what few interesting ideas the comics barely explore in their tangentic rambling on such topics like exclusion, discrimination and racism before having the heroes solve all their problems with a fist to the face reduced to even simpler terms to fit into chunk sized hour morsels.

I wouldn’t know, I find comic book movies boring.

*For those who care:  Elkind D (December 1967). “Egocentrism in adolescence”. Child Dev 38 (4): 1025–34. http://www.psychlotron.org.uk/newResources/cogdev/A2_AQB_cogDev_egocentrismTests.pdf

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 6

It’s Friday so you know what that means. Actually, it doesn’t mean anything but I still have this short story kicking around incomplete on the site. So have some more Bannock!

Jails aren't really the sort of thing that survive through the ages, oddly enough.

Eaves Western Set Jail. Photo courtesy of nmfo and accessed from http://rs.locationshub.com/Slideshow.aspx?lid=013-10003765&id=35838.

“I’m confused. Don’t we hate, Hopkins.”

“I ain’t seeing the relevance.” Felicity stood on a crate, watching the deputy sitting in the office. He was an unsavoury sort with dark, shifting eyes and a large scar running down his cheek indicating he was no stranger to confrontations. But there was an edginess to his character highlighted by the dark leather vest that he wore. He busied himself with a small collection of woodblock prints of questionable content. They appeared most salacious: a variety of paintings of men and women in various compromising positions captured in the base painting style of the western colonies. Felicity had glimpsed a few more bloodier in nature. Those appeared as gratuitous depictions of violence and bloodshed and she wasn’t sure which the deputy found more entertaining.

“Well,” Schroeder said. “I don’t see why we’ve got to ruin a good thing. We’ve been paid. A criminal is going to hang. There’s nothing stopping us from just hopping on and going our merry way.”

“It’s the principal.”

“See, that’s the part where I struggle,” Schroeder said. “We’ve got nothing to prove. We did our job and were paid. I’m pretty ambivalent towards the Bian Chong. If you want to work with him, that’s fine. Coin is coin no matter what Empire it’s from.

“But I don’t see why we should be placing ourselves at unnecessary risk. Hopkins is an outlaw. A despicable man. Lots died in the explosion at the bridge and he didn’t so much as blink an eye.”

“He deserves to hang for what he’s done,” Laure said.

“I ain’t being played a fool.” Felicity’s eyes narrowed. “Pacal wouldn’t want a man to hang for the wrong reasons no matter how much he deserved it. I won’t see Hopkins punished just for gunning Pacal down. Though he ain’t stop the charges from going off he did stop Hopkins from getting away. If Sheriff Plummer had a hand in Pacal’s death – well I’ll see to it he gets the same that Hopkins does.”

“So this is about petty revenge and looking foolish,” Schroeder said.

“It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Right thing. An awfully quaint conceit from us, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Of course not. When we rob and steal it’s wholly different.”

“Precisely.”

“So long as a line’s been drawn then.”

“Look, even a scoundrel can know the difference between wrong and necessity. What’s important ain’t each individual action but the net worth of our lives. We help those that need it and we avoid stealing from those that ain’t deserving.”

“Didn’t take you for the golden scales kind of gal,” Schroeder said. “Weight of one’s own sins and what not.”

“What else you propose?”

Schroeder shrugged.

“Wu wei. Be like the river and just float along.”

Felicity shook her head.

“Should have guessed. Think we can blow it?”

Laure rapped her knuckles against the stone wall and slowly shook her head. “They build them jails tighter than a hex nut on a vault front for that very reason.”

“It’s true,” Schroeder continued. “A criminal will commit crime. It is his nature. To fight against that nature is to enact your will on the greater cosmic harmony.”

“I ain’t reckoning that’s the priests’ preaching.”

“What would you know? Doesn’t the Lord say something about not killing?”

“I’m fairly certain, given the frame of the discourse, they ain’t agree to turn away from what’s just because the nature of a criminal is cowardice.”

“That’s because you aren’t aligning yourself with the pure force of the universe,” Schroeder said, closing his eyes. He began to weave his hands in stoic mimicry of the priests’ meditations, each limb moving about Felicity in languid, undulating motions as if he were little more than a leaf upon a river rushing to its end.

“I worry what you gather during our trips.”

“Do not fear the unknown,” he continued, his voice slow and peaceful. “Embrace the primordial state. Refuse the desire to assert your will and bend others to your authority.”

Felicity frowned and Schroeder felt the bare of her palm upside his head.

“You see, you disturb the natural balance!”

“Can’t help it – it’s my nature. Now come, your blathering inspired me to our proper course.”

“We’re returning to the train?” Laure asked.

“We should act like the outlaws we are.”

Felicity lifted the pistol in her hands and wove around the jail with the engineer in pursuit. She didn’t wait for the tardy Schroeder, rounding upon the wood front door and casting the briefest glance for watchers.

With a shatter, the latch broke from its hold beneath Felicity’s boot and the startled deputy fell back in his chair. His prints fluttered into the air, falling like thick white leaves about his head. He struggled to address this sudden assault, but as he disentangled from his chair his legs caught about his trousers still wrapped around his ankles. With a shout he tumbled, face cracking against the corner of the desk before he planted upon the floor.

Felicity walked over, pressing the cold tip of the pistol against his cheek.

“How about we not paint this floor today, hm?”

Twisting his lips to the side, the deputy protested.

“The mag already came by to take your money to your ship!”

Felicity heard Schroeder struggling to set the door back in place and motioned urgently for him. As Laure began searching for some restraints, Felicity directed Schroeder to the lawman’s lowered belt and the fop rescued the gun. Felicity took it for a second before pitching it in the dirt outside the jail.

“I’ll tell you how we’re proceeding,” Felicity said. “First thing: my man is going to lift your long johns…”

“Come on!”

“… and then you’re going to tell me which of these desks is the sheriff’s. While we bound your hands, you’ll co-operate yourself peacefully into one of these cells while we get the information we need.”

“We don’t got anything more, I swear!”

The deputy choked back further cries as Felicity pressed the gun harder against his cheek.

“We ain’t looking to steal. Least nothing legal.”

“This about the shipments? Plummer said you ain’t going to collect until the end of the month.”

Laure paused from searching the nearby hooks and even Schroeder turn to the captain at the deputy’s confession. Felicity wasn’t sure she had heard the deputy correctly either.

“You know about that then?”

“Do I?” the deputy asked in faked surprise.

Felicity released one of her two bullets into the floorboards by the deputy’s head. He flinched, giving a great deluge of apologies as his face turned away and his body quivered.

Felicity returned the smoking barrel to his other cheek.

“Must I explain the alternative? Because I reckon I can find what I need before that sham trial ends and still replicate at least one of these.”

She flipped through the wood prints with her boot until she found one particularly torturous one.

“I… what do you wa-want to know…”

Tears started to stream down his face in an unseemly manner. They mixed with the blood oozing from his nose to patter against the smooth floor. Laure located the sheriff’s manacles. The thick iron weighed more than she anticipated and she grunted as she lifted them over. She clasped the bracers around the deputy’s waiting wrists. With the manacles securely fastened, Felicity grabbed roughly at the chain binding them, pulling the deputy from the ground and pressing him up against a post. A quick flick of the chain and she had it wrapped securely about one of the hooks. A final tug confirmed they were solid before she extracted her new knife from her boot.

“What was on that print? Nose to navel?”

She ran the blade sharply down his front, splitting the buttons on his vest and cutting the whole cloth through. The deputy simpered, his entire body shaking violently against the chains.

“I’ll tell! I’ll tell! Please!”

Felicity stepped back. The deputy took four slow breaths, sniffling his bloodied nose as he steadied his heart. When he opened his eyes, he visibly squirmed at the knife tapping impatiently against her neck.

“Ain’t nobody suppose to know. Sheriff Plummer got it right in his head that we could start skimming some off the miners’ shipments. You know, a few crates here and there. Ain’t nobody going to miss a bit of ore. Given the bloody price they go for after awhile we’d have a nice, cozy profit.”

“I ain’t seeing where Hopkins comes in to this.”

“Well… the sheriff, see, he’s getting a little fat on the hog. He’s liking this scheme but reckons there’s more to squeeze. So he gets a couple of the boys together and we wrestle up some bandanas and big hats. Make ourselves like fancy brigands and what-have-you. Ain’t nobody going to question and we can just knock a few ships when they come for their loads.

“But the mag’ ain’t liking this. The bigger our take the more it cuts his profits, see? So he tells Plummer this needs proper concluding. Plummer says he’s doing all he can but the mag’ won’t be satisfied without a neck in the noose. So, Plummer convinces the fool that a few more men is needed for tracking these bandits. The suit agrees and now Plummer’s sitting on a big group of hooligans. More hands means more hauling from the ships when we come knocking.

“But the suit’s getting real angry now. That’s when the Rangers come. Start poking around, see? Guessing he got full of Plummer’s hamstringing and sought the lawmen on his own.”

“Ranger Hayes?” Schroeder asked.

“Naw, not him. First bloke came alone and discovered the sales deeds. Obviously, he gets right suspicious. Plummer gets him taken care of and sends him packing in a five foot hole. But that makes the suit even more irate. So then Plummer gets the brilliant idea to start laying the blame on some actual thieves. Offers some foolish sap way more than its worth to knock over a pointless post then catches him and strings him up.”

“So why was Hopkins sent to blow the Glorious Belt Bridge?” Felicity asked.

“I’m getting to that!” the deputy growled. “See, while the mag’ is happy to see some sap dangling from the cage he’s still right riffed there ain’t no sign of his ore. And the sheriff is prancing around in his fancies and the suit is all dusting for Plummer’s white powdered face. He’s saying that the sheriff best find his ore or heads will roll. sheriff decides it’s best to make it seem they ran the rocks over to the Jaders so the suit will rattle off his back. And what best way to do it than to have an outlaw attempt a daring escape while blowing the route to cover his trails!”

“And the bounty was just to legitimize the scam?” Schroeder asked.

“Naw, that was the Ranger’s idea. Guess offing one don’t get rid of the pack. This one’s even more ornery. At least the first would join us in the saloon from time to time. This Hayes fellow just scowls and heads off into the wilds on his own. Don’t seem none trustful.”

“So where are you keeping the goods?”

The deputy paused, licking dry lips.

“I… don’t rightly know.”

“That’s a shame. And you were doing so well.”

Felicity raised the knife again and the deputy howled before the blade even drew close.

“Check the desk!”

She slapped the deputy hard across the check.

“Which is his?”

Blubbering, the man pointed with his chin. Schroeder hurried over, rifling through the papers on top. But most were notices from townsfolk about petty disturbances or Nicolai frustrated with the lack of progress. Once he’d made a proper mess, Schroeder turned to the drawers, ripping them open and scattering the contents about the floor. But nothing looked like a proper bill of sale. However, as he went to rip the bottom drawer, it caught against the lock and no matter how hard he pulled he couldn’t work it free.

“The key?”

“Do-don’t know. The safe?”

“I ain’t got time for this,” Felicity sighed.

She whistled for Schroeder’s attention then tossed the pistol to him. Schroeder fumbled to catch the weapon, gritting his teeth worried it would discharge in his hands. Once he realized he hadn’t put a bullet through himself he looked back at his captain.

“Just get this done.”

Stepping back, Schroeder closed his eyes and leaned away from the weapon. The crack filled the entire room and a puff curled from the barrel. The bullet splintered wood and he sneaked a peep of his work.

“Not bad,” he smiled.

“What’s inside?”

He pulled the drawer right out from the desk and frowned at his prize.

“Nothing.”

Felicity turned back to the deputy, raising the knife high over her head. The man howled as she thrust it forward. Laure gave a sharp scream. The blade crunched as it bit into the wood. It took a few seconds for the deputy to process what happened and Felicity noted the stain growing along the leg of his long johns. She walked over, looking at the fruits of their labour.

She also frowned at the bare bottom of the drawer.

“That ain’t right. Who locks a naked drawer?”

Schroeder shrugged, leaning over the container and running a slow hand over the surface.

“Could be some sorcerer’s trickery. It’s not unheard of for a magnate to commission a ward or glamour to protect his most important documents. Doubtful the sheriff would be able or inclined, though.”

Felicity saw Schroeder pause, his brow raising curiously.

“You got something?”

“Not a reactant for an incantation. It’s smaller though, like a hole…”

The was a soft crack as he pried the entire bottom loose.

Beneath was a stuffed secret compartment.

A whole pile of paper was kept inside. Felicity snatched them up and as she scanned them she passed them to Schroeder. Stacks of letters and correspondences were jumbled together and as she scanned the spidery, flowing script she noticed they were an exchange between Sheriff Plummer and some cautious individual who only signed as Mr. Qv in a soft, flowing hand.

But the contents were clear enough. The fool went so far to even explain that it was pinched from the magnate’s shipments. Unfortunately, it lacked the location where the sheriff had it stashed and the only mention seemed to be for an exchange in a few days time.

“What do you make of it?”

“Certainly not a bill,” Schroeder said, “but I’d think damning enough. The correspondent is incredibly cautious but we got Plummer’s own confession in writing. Should weigh heavily in a court, I’d wager.”

Felicity stuffed them in her pocket.

“This will have to do,” she said. She motioned at the deputy. “Best bring him along too.”

She pulled the knife from the post, leaving the snivelling man to Schroeder and Laure.

Schroeder struggled to loosen the manacles from the nail and, when he finally did, he gave the man a sharp kick in the rump to get him moving. The deputy stumbled and tripped over his trousers still dragging on the ground but Schroeder refused to lift them. Laure gathered up some of the loose chain, trying to keep it from dragging. Felicity stepped into the street and searched for the town hall. But as the others emerged with the deputy, she could hear the echo of voices ringing through the abandoned town.

The trial had concluded.

Let There Be Cake!

Cake.

Birthday Cake by Augusta Ludwig (1834-1901)

Augusta Ludwig painting about the important things of life.

Did you know the origin of the word cake comes from the Viking word kaka? I certainly didn’t until I looked it up. Nor was I aware of the tricky distinction between cake and bread. I mean, when the topic is broached it’s clear that classifying the two isn’t as clear cut as previously held. It seems immediately evident the difference – cake is sweet and bread is not – until we have some troubling examples presented. For instance, is banana bread a cake or a bread? By its name you would consider it a bread but it does share many cake properties. It’s sweeter than most and its culinary function is typically as a desert. You don’t see people making ham sandwiches between thick slices of banana bread. Though now that I’ve mentioned it, surely someone, somewhere is going to try it.

This ramble on one of the western world’s most common sweets is prompted by a rather vicious confrontation between my sister and myself. I had returned home for a long sojourn to the north, weary from the trials of the road, only to discover that my sister had been baking in my absence. She is want to do so as the kitchen is her playground and she was idle from lack of gainful employ for the week. Pressing need to do something inevitably leads to baking especially if it means she can avoid doing any cleaning. Thus, she created the current entity which sits to the right of me. I’m not particularly adept at describing food – sprung from my general disdain for the biological function of eating and, consequently, cooking – and as a general rule I avoid discourse on meals in general. My writing rarely deals with what people eat. Partly because I don’t know what people eat especially since I can hardly recall my own meals and mostly because I don’t care.

However, my reluctance to explore food and cuisine is a bit of a weakness. One great way to express culture is in the food that a people eat. Inevitably, diets reflect the world as most societies have produced their unique and characterful recipes based on the ingredients at hand. Only the modern world spends so much on money and resources to import exotic, foreign foods and these typically take a special place at the dinner table rather than feature as a weekly staple.

You can see the flavour that a well conceived meal can add in many a fantasy novel. How many writers have waxed for many pages about the qualities and selling features of their protagonist’s meals? I know Tolkien, the grandfather of the genre, was particularly keen in explaining the foods which his characters consumed. If my memory serves, he has five pages devoted to a rabbit stew. I know this because in my youth I bothered to count. But ignoring that specific example, I do not think it is a coincidence that both the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings begins with feasts. It is worn into our collective consciousness the joy and affinity the Hobbits as a race have towards their food. Which is remarkably curious as they are often seen as a parallel to English culture who, by the rest of the world’s standards, are remarkable in the kitchen only by how bland and awful their traditional cuisine is.

Seriously, outside of deep fried potatoes and fish, for what is Britain known? Haggis, which is delicious, is a Scottish meal. Pestering my sister, she offers up bangers and mash as another famous British dish. And if sausage and potatoes is suppose to be inspiring, then I feel justified in my apathy towards the topic.

Not that Tolkien is alone in his propensity to discuss meals. I don’t remember much of The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan, but if I’m not mistaken there are a few discussions over the merits of cheese and bread. A Game of Thrones always seems to be holding some sort of feast and George R.R. Martin seems to disclose his character’s eating habits as frequently as he indulges in them himself.

But here I go again, ignoring the task of discussing the food in front of me.

One issue I have with writing about food is I am grossly ill-equipped for the conversation. I don’t possess the proper knowledge to properly communicate these substances. What is there to say of this cake? It’s not particularly sweet which means it is  palatable  to my palate. It’s brown and made in a shall bunt pan. There are pieces of pecans spotting its bottom and a sprinkling of brown sugar along its exterior. It’s overall a round, brown affair that’s not particularly dense but neither would I consider it fluffy. It’s also a few days old so it lacks the “moist” quality often bandied about in tantalizing fashion when people describe sumptuous first bites. I suppose its interior is a far light hue than its crusty outer layer, formed of a light porous tan than the cooked brown skin. The task before me was nearly a foot long as well though I have reduced it to a crumbling few inches in girth at this junction.

There, I discussed my cake. Kait was disappointed that I didn’t like it so I wrote a whole damn post about the thing. Are you happy now?!

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 5

Tired from travel. Late in posting. Have some Bannock.

Lost the page it was accessed from but can be found by Google search for Kinman Bar.

Frontier Bar. I’m told it’s the Kinman Bar from 1889 so pretty safe from copyright.

The interior of Mitchell Wood’s Swinging Hatchet was as modest as its exterior. The bar dominated the far side, manned by a squat keeper busy cleaning glasses for the anticipated customers once the trial and its sentencing were concluded. He had the look of a man who originally came to prospect the depths of the Mound but found that serving drinks was far less dangerous.

Savage relics of almost every imaginable type hung against the wood walls. Fractured mesquite and chert headed clubs dangled by their ends like drying bouquets of stone flowers. Tattered drums with stretched animal hides over cracked bones were dotted with bullet or knife holes and nailed to posts. Collars of beads, netted circles with adornments, torn pieces of their colourful clothes and even a massive headdress with a great plume of twisted and broken feathers had all been accumulated and used for decoration. It was like a new world museum to the savage man, seemingly extracted from his bloodied fingers.

There was even what appeared to be a knot of hair pinned above the door which Schroeder didn’t want to consider further.

At their entrance the barkeep stirred, setting down his glass and offering Felicity and Schroeder his service. But Felicity ignored him, stepping carefully into the room. As the barkeep watched her curiously, Schroeder made to his side.

“What’s the finest you’ve got on the shelf?”

“Whatever I can from both east and west,” the barkeep smiled while watching the captain step to the raised back of the saloon as she searched the darkened corners.

“The west? Truly? What have you from their fine fare?”

“Mostly some yellow wine,” the barkeep said, turning to the shelf. “Got some of their more local stuff, course. Cactus whiskey and Taos Lightning. Not much trickles down this way, you understand.”

“I say Yuanhongjiu. Not sweet but keeps healthy than others.”

Felicity drew the pistol though her finger stayed the trigger.

The intruder wore the simple garb of a frontiersman though even in the dim lighting of the saloon Felicity couldn’t help but feel it didn’t quite fit his frame. The man stood in the doorway to the back room, his bowler cap tilted slightly on his dark black hair. A simple vest clasped about a slightly stained linen shirt. Long pants were dusty from the trails and the buttons were simple and unassuming. There was nothing extraordinary about the attire and only noteworthy by how incredibly forgettable it was.

The most peculiar thing about the man was his origins. While he may dress in typical colonial garb, there was no easy way to hide the natural difference of his eyes. The upper eyelid was larger, covering the inner corner near the small bridge of his nose. It made the pair look smaller than they really were, a trait that often made foreigners uncomfortable around them.

But it wasn’t his eyes or yellowed skin that set Felicity and Schroeder on edge.

A distinct inking had been dyed on his flesh. It began at his right ear and wound down his jaw, unfurling about the nape of his neck. The design was simple but severe. By varying the density of the ink, the image carried tonality and shading creating an austere yet beautiful stylized image of a slowly thickening coil. To the uninformed, it may have appeared to be a detailed but elegant whip.

To Felicity and her crew, it meant something far sinister.

“Ni hao, rifle-lady,” he whispered. “I wonder how long it take you to visit.”

He waved his hand and the barkeep turned to fetch the Jader marked bottle and pour two glasses. The west coaster moved to the nearby table, waving an invitation to the others. Felicity held the pistol leveraged directly at the Jader’s chest and she wondered if the two shots would be enough. She never lowered it as they took to their chairs.

“Awful far from the porcelain streets of Zheng He Ho,” Felicity said. “What brings you here, wormer?”

She twisted the last word accusingly and Schroeder twitched at its abruptness.

The Jader, however, smiled.

“Business, captain. Of course.”

“Bannock don’t strike me as a great opportunity.”

“Glorious Bian desire speech with you again.”

“And how does Mr. Bian know where I am?”

The barkeep arrived with the glasses, setting them before Schroeder and Felicity. Schroeder reached immediately for his, but Felicity simply pushed her glass away.

“Glorious Bian have many friend. We good at finding thing. Especially good at finding you. You make impression and I happen have friend in Bannock myself.”

His eyes only briefly darted to the barkeep who quietly made his way to the front door, opening it to retrieve his sign before turning the latch and closing the shutters on the windows. In moments the room was bathed in darkness and the three sat in still silence before a flame was struck and the evening lanterns gently dimmed.

“Is he one of them?” Felicity asked, her voice heavy with suspicion. “One of them poor souls you press those disgusting things into so they can eat them from the inside out?”

“If only he so blessed.”

In the wavering light, it felt like they had been transported from the quaint mining town to some deep nothingness where only the Jader, their table and the glasses existed. The wormer leaned forward, drawing the nape of his shirt lower so the light clutched at the dark stain upon his skin.

“I wait for time I receive Glorious Bian’s favour. Flesh cheap for muo li. Flesh cheap for devotion. Pretty bird get cage. Bloody bird get sky. One day, I have sky. Perhaps you see when skin crawl and you no look away.”

Schroeder took another sip.

“So what does Bian want with me?”

“Glorious Bian impressed, very impressed with action concerning shattered crane.”

“Glorious Bian,” Felicity spat the title, “was just happy I got him the sacred relics before the Bodhtan seekers tracked them. No doubt he sold them right back to the monks for a tidy sum while pretending he was as clueless as a summer gosling about the affair.”

“Politic from homeland so difficult, very difficult. Hard to say who own what in all matter. Especially lost, ancient treasure. What important is you impress Glorious Bian so much he have further proposition.”

“What if I ain’t got an aim to work with Mr. Bian again? Seems like an awful waste of both our time.”

The Jademan shrugged.

“You say no, you say no. I not change mind. Though very poor business decision. Very poor. You run ship and ship expensive. Glorious Bian run many ship because he have many friend. You should have many friend too. Even if you not like.”

“Working with Mr. Bian more apt to garner me enemies than not. I don’t see any reason I should meet with him.”

The Jademan nodded.

“He say you say that.”

He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a bright pouch that he tossed across the table. The sound of heavy Jader coin rang in their ears. Felicity looked at it with disdain before picking it up. It felt luxurious in her fingers; likely imported silk as its embroidered design was a beautiful, hand sewn pattern of great white and pink lilies in a sapphire pond. The bottom had a golden carp – a symbol of wealth and prosperity – swimming about its edges. She tossed it to Schroeder.

The fop drew the strings apart, unrolling the long line of coins inside. The Jader custom was to carry money tied together through the square holes in their currency. Even something as simple as storing coins was seen as an art with the various colours and shapes forming a pleasing, if not expensive, line of shimmering shades and textures. It also made counting easier and Schroeder called out half Hopkin’s bounty when he was done.

“I ain’t agreed to work for him.”

“Li wu,” the man replied. “Gift.”

“A gift? Mr. Bian ain’t so easily parted from his money.”

“Apology, then. Show of goodwill.”

“My trust ain’t so easily bought. And I ain’t trust a gift from Bian comes without strings attached.”

Felicity plucked the line from Schroeder’s reticent fingers and tossed the heap before the Jader.

“No string, no string!” the Jademan exclaimed. He picked the coins from the table, separating two large, green twins and snapping the line between them. He let the train tumble against the wood top, each strike of a coin’s landing drawing Schroeder’s eager eyes.

“Only pouch,” he said, pushing the pile towards the two. “You take and if you not see Glorious Bian, you never see Glorious Bian.”

Felicity didn’t make a move nor did she say anything as Schroeder opened the pouch and began shuffling the coins inside.

“Captain, I’m not one to question your choices but coin gets us further than scrip and promissory notes.”

“Your man, he see,” the Jademan said. “Much better, much better. And coin not… what you say… dirty from unclean hand?”

Felicity narrowed her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

The Jademan shrugged, taking Felicity’s untouched glass and sipped as he leaned back against his chair.

“Small town offer big reward. Seem queer.”

“Not particularly,” Felicity said. “Bannock’s been struggling for some time from coordinated strikes against its shipments. Been cutting into their profits and supplies. Hopkins is more than a vandal and thief. He nearly ruined the town.”

“If you say, then said,” the Jademan said. “But if bandit stole rock where are rock?”

“Not my concern,” Felicity said. “My work in Bannock is concluded. I ain’t got nothing more to do with them.”

Felicity stood, her chair scrapping against the wood as she lowered the pistol and slid it into her pocket. Schroeder looked between her and the Jader, still holding the pouch clearly wondering if this meant they were keeping the money.

But before he could ask, the Jader laughed.

“Wise, very wise. Not blind man who see business done behind wall of stone.”

Felicity was already stepping down into the darkened saloon when his words reached her. She paused before turning and giving the Jademan a glaring look.

“What do you know of their business?”

The Jademan shrugged again, affecting an air of detached interest.

“You hunt small man with small crime. Yet Mu gift you far more than in stone house safe. Far more than Mu write on wall. Seem queer.”

“You seem mighty informed of a small town’s dealings.”

“My job to know. My job to find. I find how much you paid and offer you more. Only small string in pouch. Glorious Bian pay two string if you speak. And you not hang innocent man for it, either.”

“Dirty Hopkins ain’t innocent. He’s a murderer.”

“Life cheap. We all not innocent. And yet, you not watch trial and see crime. See little man not hang for selling death. Mu angry about fall of Glorious Belt. But is best. No one like see lie naked before eye. Sad town think missing rock will end.”

“If Hopkins was planning on fleeing across the Belt, shouldn’t he have had the stolen ore with him?” Schroeder asked Felicity.

She looked at him as if he were part of some greater conspiracy. Schroeder turned quickly to his glass, finding distraction in the wine.

The Jader shrugged.

“Perhaps he put rock back in ground. Or perhaps rock hidden on ship. But still missing, Glorious Belt still broken and star still fancy.”

It was the Jader’s turn to stand, tipping his hat as he turned and left the two with more questions than answers in the dark.

“But what I know of business? I only work for Glorious Bian. And he not send you to hunt man. Only thing,” the Jader’s voice echoed back. They could hear his footsteps retreat down the hall before the shutters over the windows were banged open and Felicity and Schroeder winced at the sudden flood of light.

The barkeep unlocked the front door, set out his sign and walked over to blow out their lantern. He then wordlessly scooped up their glasses and carried them back to the bar where he resumed his cleaning as if the meeting had never happened.

Schroeder turned to Felicity, the pouch held aloft in his hand.

“So… this means we’re keeping it, right?”

“Come on,” Felicity grumbled as she stomped towards the door. She didn’t even return the barkeep’s farewell as she burst outside. Schroeder hurried after her.

But as they emerged blinking into the morning’s sun, they found Laure waiting anxiously on the porch.

“Thought you were heading to the trial,” Felicity said.

The woman looked at her hands as if she were a child caught with pie stains down her shirt.

“Saw you two step in, reckon I’d wait for your return. But then the place got locked up tighter than a gauge change from a garrison’s visit and… well… this was all I got on me.”

She turned a heavy wrench slowly in her fingers.

“Didn’t know what I should do.”

Felicity laughed and beckoned for Laure to follow.

“You aren’t actually considering it, are you!” Schroeder called.

“Thought crossed my mind.”

“I thought you said we weren’t ever to deal with the wormers again.”

“There were wormers inside?”

Felicity scrunched her lips as she looked at Schroeder and Laure.

“I ain’t reckon we’d seen the last of him. Best meet on congenial terms than otherwise.”

“What if he tries to kill you and steal Laure! Or me!”

“He won’t.”

“Didn’t Bian lie to you?” Laure asked.

“Not lied: misled. Men like him keep to their word. Problem is you got to watch that word as it’s as slippery as a milksnake in morning grass. Apt to slither right on by if you ain’t paying attention.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Felicity looked to the sun hanging high in the sky before the Mound.

“Would be bad for business.”

Schroeder turned to follow her gaze, trying to read where her thoughts were wandering among the clouds. Laure looked between the outlaws, still trying to comprehend what she missed. But Felicity simply marched on without another word and her crew were left to catch up. It took them a few moments to realize they weren’t headed towards the town hall, however, but the constabulary. 

I Don’t Know Parks and Rec – Lego Movie Review

Plague in Rome by Jules Delauney 1869.

An accurate portrayal of the agents of death coming for me perfectly captured by Jules Delaunay.

First, I must address the uncharacteristic absence of myself upon the prior Friday. For those rife with worry and concern, I can confirm that I had most grievously been stricken by that most deadly of contagions – the flu. It had been of my utmost concern to do my daily work but between preparations for the arrival of the dear kin to our home and my own flight from the plague ridden halls my sister haunted, I had not succeeded in preparing some words in advance. Consequently, when the day of postage arrived, I was struck down mercilessly beneath my malady and spent most of the sun’s hours unconscious and in a fitful state. My recovery, however, is arrived and thus I am able to scribble towards you now.

Course, my goal isn’t to spend the entire day discussing with you sickness and suffering. Instead, I want to talk about the Lego Movie.

Yes, the Lego Movie.

Obviously, this junk all belongs to Warner Bros.

Promotional material for The Lego Movie.

This film, by all promotional material, was quite obviously a Derek movie. I mean, it even featured Will Arnett (of Arrested Development fame) as Batman and if that doesn’t have Derek written all over it than I don’t know what does. I hadn’t seen any trailers or really anything about the film, mostly because when I go to the theatre it isn’t to see children’s entertainment. In fact, it’s been awhile since I have seen anything directed at a child. Even Disney, that great malicious blackhole that pulls in infants and adults alike, had failed to pull me or my family to one of its awful attempts to milking older creative works for every copyrightable ounce they could.

Needless to say, I didn’t have high hopes for the feature but, because I’m such a wonderful friend, I was willing to see it for Derek’s sake anyway. Surely, you all are on the edge of your seats awaiting my verdict. Well, I shan’t keep you in the dark for long.

The Lego Movie is weird.

There is truly no other way to describe the film. It’s bizarre. It’s non-standard. It’s off kilter. It’s a peculiar little creation that left me thinking about it long after the ending credits rolled and the audience was reminded one last time that “Everything is Awesome!”

But why this confusion? Well, I’m not entirely convinced that the Lego Movie is a children’s film. That isn’t to say that it wasn’t designed with children in mind. It was targeted, almost locked on and homing in on the youngest generation capable of producing speech and willing to put forth any amount of effort to getting their bum in a seat before it. All of its components are simple and digestible for the little ones. It’s bright and colourful. The pace is frenetic as it careens between showy extravagance and goofy exploits. The dialogue is digestible  and much care is taken to scrub it clean of any possible offense from its initial presentation. The characters are simple with direct arcs and uncomplicated personalities… for the most part. For a good half of the film, you could be lulled into gentle repose by the mind numbing banality of its narrative, kept awake by the sheer creativity of its visual effects as the animators explore a building block world with far more exuberance and ingeniousness than any child will ever display.

And then suddenly the movie plunges off the edge of the map. Gleefully, I should add.

Copyright to Warner Bros.

As it turns out, The Lego Movie is my favourite kind of media. It is thematic and every character and theme is purposeful in exploring those themes. Consequently, there are some unexpected narrative twists that will most certainly turn some audiences off of the whole spectacle. There is risk, of all things, in a god damn Lego Movie. I can not stress how utterly bewildering this is in this day and age. And it is with regret that I have to draw attention to how rare this is.

You see, there’s a funny thing about children’s movies – and children’s entertainment in general – that the Lego Movie highlights in grand fashion. I have no idea who this stuff is directed at. At the end of the day, the Lego Movie is most certainly not targeted at children. Its messages and themes are wrapped up in irony: a concept infants under five or six years of age are going to struggle with simply due to developments of their cognitive functions. The grandest theme the movie itself is exploring is wrapped in tradition and rigid adherence to classical methods versus creative freedom, a conversation skirting quite close to copyright and the discourse surrounding those laws – themes that I can’t imagine are pinging on prepubescent radars. And it’s a Lego Movie. There’s no way that teenagers are going to be the primary market for a children’s toy line.

No, the narrative focus seems most assuredly directed at adults though with about the surface complexity as your typical children’s fare. There’s clearly been placed a lot of work and effort in communicating the writers’ themes in this piece, something that is most unusual for the genre it’s in. Let’s face it, people don’t hold much expectations for children’s movies. Check Rotten Tomatoes and the vast majority of the time, the highest rated movies in theatres are typically children’s shows. Does this mean that children’s shows are our best products?

Well, of course not. Had we not a separate category for them at the Oscars and they would almost never receive any recognition. Instead, there’s a general consensus that we don’t need to be harsh or critical in our assessment of a children’s movie because it’s “just for children.” However, this is a sentiment I vehemently oppose. And the Lego Movie is the perfect example why.

Accessed from google image search. Don't know how memes are referenced.

Good luck finding a mate though, Mr. Blacksheep.

Watch the first section of the Lego Movie as Emmet goes through Builder’s World (or whatever the hell the construction setting is called). It is a fascinating if not poignant example of just why we should be equally critical of children’s movies if not more critical than an average film. This media is, essentially, propaganda for the most impressionable members of our society. Emmet’s world is very much the epitome of a collectivist totalitarian society. It is run by the villain President Business who enforces a strict code of conduct on his people through a Rulesbook they all read and follow every morning that details the exact business of their lives which the citizens are expected to adhere and maintain with a smile and song. This regime is worked into every aspect of their lives, even their music and entertainment is dictated by the Rulebook and everyone watches the same show and listens to the same song day in and out with a smile. Obviously, despite the facade of cheerfulness, we’re presented with the extreme of a socialist dystopia which is immediately countered with the introduction of “master builders” – individuals capable of bending the fabric of their very world through their individual creative genius. It’s the age old collectivism vs individualism dynamic with such a sickeningly severe condemnation of collectivism ideals and socialist stances.

Let me take a moment to highlight this. The opening act of the Lego Movie focuses most of its time communicating to children that co-operation and community are terrible things and should be abandoned instead in the name of personal glory and fame.

While this is certainly trumpeting the typical “American Dream” I have to wonder if this is the moral that we want to express to our kids. And it’s not like you can really shake your head and just say “Well, it’s a children’s movie.” The studios are expending a lot of time and money to communicate these lessons to the children whether we ignore it or not. This isn’t to say other movies don’t try to convey messages and ideals but there’s a difference between Fight Club pushing for anarchist revolution on an audience capable of evaluating Tyler Durden’s message and a group of children who aren’t likely to question whether the overall theme of a colourful, singing ensemble should be followed or not. Had the Lego Movie continued in its generic hero’s journey direction, would we as an audience be comfortable with children taking home the lesson that working in a team and co-operating others is bad and we should really abandon our friends in pursuit of a dream that doesn’t exist?

Thankfully, the Lego Movie is far more nuanced and spends quite a bit of time subverting the traditional morals that are usually bandied about in these pictures. It’s more to the movie’s credit that it manages to strike a balance between the collectivist and individualist ideals. And it’s a shame that such an effort will not stand out compared to other children’s entertainment which will be rated the same because “it’s just for children.” And it is foolish for us to think that these movies are heavily laden with ideals. Even the decision to not use swear words is promoting a certain ideal – despite it being a common one shared. So, in my incoherent, rambling way, this is my argument for why we need to be more critical of children’s entertainment.

Accesed from www.wemakehistory.com.

Hoop and stick. As effective at entertaining children as a multi-million dollar production since 2000 B.C.

Anyway, there’s lots more words I could write on the Lego Movie. Unfortunately, I lost my train of thought after taking an extended break to make Derek’s apartment smell like orange and apple peels before the girl could return so I don’t remember where I wanted to take this. Suffice to say, I enjoyed the Lego Movie. It’s something more than “a children’s movie.” It’s a proper movie, much like the Incredibles and Wall-E. Which is how I feel children’s movies should be. At the end of the day, targeting solely children is a pointless endeavour. Kids are dumb, there’s no two ways about it, and they like simple things. Hell, halfway through the Lego Movie, the row in front of me seemed to get more interested with the popping of the lid on their M&M container than the millions of dollars in front of them. Parents will always laugh about purchasing a big toy for their child only for the kid to be more intrigued by its big box. Children will find entertainment in anything, so making them the primary target is a waste of effort. Instead, we should focus on making movies like the Lego Movie. Yes, they’re accessible at a low level so children can enjoy them. But there’s more to that picture than a bunch of animated building blocks. It attempts to pierce into something fundamental. It tries to comment on our lives and experiences. It diverges from being just mindless fun and approaches something, perhaps, a little closer to art.

Family Day

So if you own it, I'm still citing you! Sort of...

Don’t know if this is clipart or not. Accessed from http://clubrunner.helpserve.com/News/NewsItem/View/95/monday-february-17-2014—family-day

For those that don’t live in Canadaland, today is our collective Family Day. What does that mean if you aren’t in Canadaland? Well, we were sad we didn’t have an appropriate holiday around this time like the rest of the world so we made an excuse to spend time with our families which we all consequently then spend trying to avoid the families we didn’t want to spend time with in the first place.

The long and the short of it is today is a holiday and, as such, I shall not be posting today.

I’m curious what excuse my co-contributors will use for missing their obligation.

Sad State of Grammar, Spelling and Punctuation

Another week, yet another series of silent entries from my co-contributors. But never fear, I’m not going to throw up the next portion of Bannock. Because, if someone out there was actually enjoying it, there is nothing more delightful than having to wait a full month for the short to get posted in its entirety.

There may be a reason no one reads my stuff.

At any rate, I wanted to discuss something. It is something that doesn’t enter modern parlance often but for the select elite it is a topic of heated opinions and ferocious debate. I am, of course, leading into discourse on English grammar. It’s the most wonderful of all issues that I can already hear the sounds of the two people who read my stuff closing their browsers. But bear with me, this isn’t going to be some long condemnation about the laziness of modern individuals and their complete detestations for the structure and composition of modern English.

Taken from wikipedia so it's creative commons baby!

The School of Athens by Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino

Honestly, if I were to blame anyone for the “sorry state” it is in, that would be our government. Course, to hold this discussion properly I would first need to demonstrate that English is in a sorry state. I won’t because I’m not entirely sure it is. It’s not considered one of the most difficult languages to learn without reason and part of English’s difficulties arise from its state of being an evolving language. We have no rigid bodies that enforce all English must be conducted and spoken in one specific way. In fact, multiple branches of English are in the process of evolving. You have the older, traditional British English and its multitude of dialects (and no I’m not going to get into a discussion between the difference between a language proper and a dialect). Then you have American English with its determination to distinguish itself from its founder tongue by introducing even more contradictions and irregularities than the former all in the name of “standardization” (it’s even less standard than before).

Anyway, back to blaming the government because someone needs to take a fall for when things go bad, I and my colleagues all grew up in little, quaint Canada. We were educated through the curious period where our education overlords got it in their silly heads that language didn’t need to be taught in school. Forget every other language and country out there who fiddled and fretted their time stuffing their children’s heads full of nonsense like how to properly construct a sentence, we were Canadian and we were going to do things differently! The idea, misguided as it was, followed that language was accrued in a child’s brain naturally through use and exposure. They just missed the giant part where exposure also included formal study in school. Thus, what little grammar I learned was from rebellious English teachers determined to stop the coming apostrapocalypse (they’re churning in their graves already except none of them are dead to my knowledge). Now, I won’t claim to have the perfect grasp of our grammar. My lessons were sporadic at best and it is in a child’s nature to abhor and rebel against the learning of such dry topics as grammar. I did, however, emerge knowing the difference between active and passive voice which would turn out to be something even some of my university professors fail to grasp.

But that’s a different story. What I want to focus on is the lessons on the serial comma – otherwise known as the Oxford Comma. Now, before some grammar pundit comes along and tries to dismiss my entire discussion because I misappropriate the use of a hyphen or semi-colon somewhere in this passage, I will put forth the disclaimer that I am no punctuation maven and it is only through use (whether it be misuse or not) that I hope to gain proficiency. So, if you wish to criticize my grammar because I dared to discuss grammar than to you I say, “Pffffffft.”

Now with that out of the way, back to the serial comma. Everyone is aware of The Rule. When listing a series of items, you must separate them all with a comma. Thus, if I wished to tell you about my friends Derek, Jeremy, and Heather I would separate them each as I have done. Except, that was not the lesson I was taught. My grammar teacher, an old and rather opinionated man originally from Britain, was adamant on the old method of serializing. One separates all the items except for the last. Thus, my friends would be Derek, Jeremy and Heather. I took a liking to this because there was something abrasive about the sight of that trailing comma before the conjunction. I mean, the comma is meant to separate items grammatically and the conjunction does that of its own accord. It was like the ever obnoxious “Now that that is done” structure. I’ve never liked unnecessary repetition and the serial comma was just that to me: unnecessary.

Of course, there are others that see things differently.

Accessed from http://thefutureislikepie.com/if-you-use-one-piece-of-punctuation-in-2013-let-it-be-the-oxford-comma/oxford-comma-cartoon/

Oxford Comma cartoon by Lisa Maria (I believe). All rights reserved to her.

It’s a compelling argument for the Oxford comma, I will admit. Unless you are a fan of JFK and Stalin as strippers. Unfortunately, this is not nearly as hard and fast a rule as the United States Government Printing Office would like you to assume. Though it can offer clarity in an ambiguous sentence, the true mistake is thinking that this grammatical construct can remove ambiguity altogether. For example, had Ms. Maria offered the sentence as We invited the striper, JFK, and Stalin then we would have the lovely bottom example except poor Stalin would be sans pasties and pink bikini bottom. And no one would want to be missing that.

But we need not reserve ourselves to rather niche sentence structures for this common comma issue to arise. The Times once published this unintentionally entertaining sentence about a Peter Usinov documentary, “highlights of his global tour include encounters with Nelson Mandela, an 800 year old demigod and a dildo collector.”

Poor Mandela, there is really no way to construe this construct without it leaving some question about his character. Of course, the non Oxford reading would suggest three individuals or that Nelson Mandela is both an ancient being of legend and rabid collector of sexual  paraphernalia. The Oxford comma, while clarifying that he wouldn’t have walls of phallic symbols still suggests that he’s a being of cosmic proportions from antiquity.

This is best highlighted with the sentence: She traveled to Toronto with Kathie, a driver, and a cleaner.

Is it possible to parse this sentence with 100 percent certainty on how many people went to Toronto? Would removing a comma solve this? No, for both. We can’t tell if Kathie is a driver or if there was a separate person driving. Removing the last comma leaves the question whether a cleaner and driver tagged along or whether Kathie is capable of keeping an orderly house and navigating the highways.

Ultimately, all these examples aren’t resolved with finicky rules over punctuation use. The only way to clarify your intent is that tried and age old method of rewriting the sentence. For example:

She went to Toronto with Kathie, who was a driver and a cleaner.

She went to Toronto with Kathie, a driver, and with a cleaner.

She went with Kathie to Toronto with a driver and a cleaner.

Writing is more than just slapping a few words in proper grammatical structure and being done with the deal. It’s a matter of communication and insuring that your intent is conveyed as well as are able through the use of the structure and grammar of your language. Especially for English which embraces the ever shifting and evolving nature of communication between peoples. We haven’t institutionalized Shakespearean English and I think we’re all better for it. But we should be aware of what we’re trying to say and how we’re saying it to insure the message we wish to convey is the one being received. Sometimes this requires learning and following the traditional rules and structures. Other times, it necessitates a certain leniency and willingness to break tradition. Because sometimes we need a genderless third person singular pronoun and by God it is my right and heritage to use they even if it is “technically” incorrect. And until the grammar Nazis recognize and reinstate thy and thee they’ll just have to deal with it.

Over the Broken Banks of Bannock Part 4

Working late or late working, eh?

Here’s more Bannock for the evening.

Taken from wikipedia. So it's creative commons!

Pioneertown, California. Specifically the saloon and bath house. Photo by Matthew Field

Felicity regarded herself in the mirror. After sorting the details with the manager, and passing Nicolai’s promissory along, she had purchased one night’s stay for her and her crew in a modest hotel. The first thing she did was run a bath. Even after soaking in the tin basin for hours, she was still finding smudges of filth. She spent most the morning hunting down the persistent marks of the rails. Dipping the cloth in the small water basin, she pressed against a dark stain, but it took a few wipes for her to realize it was a bruise and not dried blood or dirt.

“Looking awfully fine this morning, captain.”

“Stow it, Schroeder, else I’ll see you scrubbing the bilge tubes till the first snows fall over Huo Hanh.”

She could see him in the reflection of the mirror. The fop drew erect in the door frame, raising his hand in mock salute.

“Sir, yes sir! Just trying to compliment my captain on the benefits of a decent bath and some fresh clothes, sir!”

“Fresh water and a scum’s hanging ain’t luxuries we often enjoy. Might as well make the most of the day.”

“Really looking forward to Hopkin’s five foot shuffle?”

“Ain’t nothing unrighteous in enjoying a bit of justice,” Felicity shrugged.

“Considering our appetites, I don’t know if hungering for justice is a healthy craving.”

“Sure, the frontier ain’t the clearest on the right and the wrong but he ain’t done right by my people and for that I’m aiming to see him pay.”

“Awww,” Schroeder softened his features, “I’m touched captain. But it was only a sprain at best.”

“Get off it,” Felicity frowned. “You know very well I mean Pacal. Ain’t a fitting end for such a noble man. He deserved better.”

Schroeder’s grin vanished. He shifted on his feet, the weight of the unspoken words too much for him to bear. Twice he opened his mouth to respond but nothing came forth. At last he loosened his cravat and the adjustment seemed to free his tongue.

“Forgive me, captain. I didn’t mean anything disrespectful. Just wanted to say I’ve never seen you quite so fancy. If it weren’t for that hat, I may not recognize you at all.”

“I ain’t looking for a celebration. Just to do right by my own. He’d want to see a proper trial and that these folk got the justice they deserved.”

Schroeder nodded. “Well, it’s a good look. Quite the elegant frock and even I don’t have as nice of a twelve button bib. I’m sure even the giant would approve.”

Felicity dropped the cloth in the water and pushed into the hall.

“You coming?”

Laure was waiting outside the hotel, standing as still as a boulder waiting patiently for whatever mountain had dropped her in the dirt. She still wore her boy’s clothes and kept a sharp eye on those that passed by.

“Shiny day, captain,” she greeted.

“Sleep well?” Felicity asked.

“Best rest in months but it don’t beat the gentle thrum of an engine or the churn of a boiler at your side. Nights get awful cold no matter how many blankets you got.”

“Leave it to you to find a decent bed and not be able to use it,” Schroeder teased.

“I ain’t use to laying in one all day, unlike others.”

“We’ll be sure to depart shortly, once our business is concluded,” Felicity said, interrupting the exchange. “Meanwhile, tend to the ship. We still got our shipment and it could use some help getting on board.”

The engineer nodded but didn’t move to carry out her orders. Felicity looked at her expecting.

“There anything else?”

She didn’t respond right away, her eyes following the slow passage of the sun for a moment before she shook her head.

“Begging your pardon, captain, but I think S.J. is fully capable of handling the goods.”

“Who’s lazy now?” Schroeder accused.

“I would just like to join you is all.”

Felicity regarded her engineer closely. She had been awfully quiet since Pacal’s passing. At least, quieter than usual. Felicity rested her hand on the other woman’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“If you think it best.”

Schroeder yawned.

“I could use a saloon.”

“We don’t have time.”

“I hardly think a hanging on an empty stomach is going to be enjoyable.”

“Ain’t enough liquor on the continent to fill you,” Felicity said.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!”

Felicity shook her head and turned to Laure.

“Get her running hot then come on down to the hall. We’ll put this town behind us soon enough.”

Laure nodded and made her way toward the train.

“Didn’t take her for the hanging type.”

“Let’s just get this done,” Felicity said. “I can’t rightly guess it but I’m reckoning there’s something rotten in Bannock.”

“You think it involves us?”

“I aim to keep it otherwise. Just make sure you keep that rifle close.”

She gave his gun’s shoulder strap a pat and stepped down from the hotel’s steps.

As they walked through the town, Schroeder gazed up at the Mound. His eyes traced the bare rock that burst through the loose soil like the bones of a giant torn open to bleach beneath the baking sun.

“It’s a curious landmark,” he said. “Quite the rise in an otherwise flat and unremarkable land. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I can see why the tribals would revere it. Something as grand as that doesn’t deserve to be so tarnished by those snaking mine carts and rails boring into its side. But leave it to the magnates to disregard beauty in their hunt for quick profits.”

Felicity turned to him.

“What do you know of Bernhard Nicolai?”

Schroeder blinked.

“Has a horrendous two-step.”

“I’m serious, Schroeder.”

“So am I. Heard he trod on poor Katherine Hampton’s toes. She likened it to being pitched beneath one of his great engines. Nicolai didn’t take kindly to the words and Mr. Hampton neither liked the reply. To this day both men keep trying to strangle the other out of business and peace. Why?”

“I appreciate knowing my allegiances. Thought maybe with your connections you’d have some insight.”

“My connections? You mean that ungrateful patrician who claims kinship?”

“Your father? Yes.”

“Well, I told you I don’t care for his business,” Schroeder said. “Doesn’t matter one wit to me if he’s managed to become the fourth biggest rail magnate or whatever title those doddering old men wrestle over. Petty game for petty men who have in their heads if they run the colonies like some hard nosed aristocrat they’ll earn themselves the fancy title to prove it.”

“Is that what it’s about?”

“More often than not. Some lay claim to the old lines that held names in jolly Thyre before King Horitius and his Star Chamber Trials sent most fleeing to spare their necks. They make it sound as if a stained name will ever be cleansed. But even with the Queen and her congratulations, it isn’t anything but appeasement and placation. Those nobles only care about the coin the magnates earn and if they think they’ll be seen as true blood then they’ve spent too long in a Jader’s fog.”

“Is Nicolai one of them?”

Schroeder turned to her and shrugged.

“Yes? Maybe? I don’t rightly know. My father and I never really talked business and the way he discussed his competitors makes them all blend together. You want to know about the business, best speak with one of my brothers. They are snapping at the collar to inherit the kingdom. But I could care less who lays the most track or gains the largest stake of the market. It’ll matter just as much as those that cornered the lumber and shipbuilding hundred’s of years prior.”

“And you don’t got a feeling of him from when you met?”

“Don’t know if I did. Not my interest and if my father did one thing right it was cutting me from business affairs. Anything else?”

“Very well.”

He sighed, thinking back on that life. Though Felicity knew most of the crew would always see him as the spoiled child of his namesake, he would pleasantly forget that world of deceitful sycophants and ambitious traitors if he could.

“He’s got guile,” Schroeder said after a moment. “More so than you’d expect from a magnate who typically wears his desires on his sleeve. I believe he connived my father into an unfavourable deal that stained his governorship. My father believed he was after his position and wouldn’t stop raving about it afterwards. Can’t say what the deal was and my father swore he’d never trust him again but that he garnered my father’s trust in the first place was a mark of a true manipulator.”

“So ain’t someone to trifle -”

Felicity stopped abruptly and Schroeder nearly tripped into her. He followed her gaze, his eyes immediately alighting upon a simple, squat building. The large sign bore the faded letters “Mitchell Wood’s.” It had the appearance of an old general store but beneath the sign hung a large savage’s weapon, swinging on a thick, rusted chain. The thin blade was chipped and stained as if it had been salvaged from a recent slaughter and pinned to the building immediately afterwards. A simple wooden barrel was propped near the door with an enticing sign reading “Free Lunch” set on top.

It was a saloon but Felicity wouldn’t stop for that.

Instead, there was a simple piece of paper nailed to the porch post and fluttering in the gentle breeze. It was long and thin and Felicity stepped forward to hold it stiff in her fingers. Two symbols were written in a thick, tapering black ink and stacked one above the other. They were a complex series of lines, crosses and squares that appeared more like some sort of arcane script than a written language.

But both recognized the Jader symbol immediately.

“Give me your gun.”

“My rifle? And where’s yours?” Schroeder cried.

“The pistol. Laure’s still working on mine. Your gun!”

Schroeder grumbled, reaching beneath his jacket and fetching the weapon from the holster strapped to his lower left shoulder. Felicity took it and flicked open the chamber, looking inside.

“Two shots?”

“It was a rough night.”

“What of the rifle?”

“Less.”

Felicity gave him a glowering look. Schroeder shrugged.

“The hotel had a bar!”

She snapped the chamber closed and tucked the weapon into the waist of her pants. She then tore the paper from the nail.

“We’re not actually thinking of looking for him.”

“This was left for us,” she said.

“How can you be sure!” Schroeder cried as she took to the steps.

“I thought you wanted a saloon!”

She pushed her way inside.

Choking Creativity – Copyright Laws

Disney is awful.

http://logoblink.com/monopoly-mickey-mouse-logo/

Ironically, I don’t know who the artist for this apropos image is. Accessed from logoblink.com.

I don’t mean awful in the sense that their products have been of grossly questionable quality for a number of years. Which isn’t to say things like UP aren’t awful in the descriptive sense and people are willing to overlook it’s short comings to an astonishing degree because of nostalgia for a time when Disney’s work wasn’t so creatively bankrupt. But that’s another rant.

No, Disney is awful in a very real and more important sense. They are killing our culture. It is the slow, spiteful squeezing of our society’s windpipe until we are unable to breath anymore. And they do this while gleefully sucking in as much air as they possible want.

So what on earth am I talking about? Copyright law.

Now, as a creative person it might seem a little odd or even counter intuitive that I would have an issue with copyright. It is, after all, ostensibly designed to protect my interests so that I may receive due recompense for some theoretical body of work that gets published one day and released to the market. It’s designed so that someone won’t just swoop into this very site, pluck my silly stories about heroic adventurers in ludicrous fantasy settings and sell them on their own without giving me proper value for my work. Which is a noble goal seeing that copyright’s first incarnation appears to be Charles II of England’s rather misguided attempt to try and control what media was being released with the invention of the printing press.

Now, as a creative person, I wholly encourage the protection of an artist’s work so that they may profit off their  endeavors. Creating art isn’t really the same as creating a table as we’re discussing ideas and ideas don’t truly exist in a corporeal fashion. This becomes more and more apparent the further we get from actual physical art. A statue is hardly going to be stolen and it’s  craftsmanship  isn’t something easily replicated. A novel, on the other hand, is quite easy to replicate as you merely have to copy the words and order the original artist made. This isn’t to say that sculpture should be exempt from copyright but I think it demonstrates my point rather effectively. Here are some famous sculptures of our past.

 

Creative commons from wikipedia

Perseus by Benvenuto Cellini (1500-1571)

Creative Commons from wikipedia

Perseus with Medusa’s Head by Antonio Canova (1757-1822)

Taken from the Internets.

Perseus and the Gorgon by Laurent Marqueste (1890)

What do all three of these works share? Despite being a hundred years apart from each other, they were developed in a time before The Walt Disney Company would prevent them from ever being formed. You see, culture isn’t created in a vacuum. Ideas are shared, expanded, re-explored, re-imagined or often just outright copied but with the creator’s own personal touch. All of these statues are based on the Ancient Greek Perseus myth. Their sculptors did not create the characters depicted in them. Perseus himself was not recompensed for his likeness. Marqueste, Canova and Cellini did not have to fill out a bunch of legal documents, forge specific contracts to licence the image or postures or even need to seek the Greek’s approval in order to make these. They were inspired, perhaps even by each other, and they just created. Two of them after the first copyright laws were coming into form.

And we are all enriched because of it.

The Disney Company, however, would like to see this changed.

First, a quick little sojourn through copyright’s history. When it was first fashioned to protect creative works for artists’ benefit, the length of the copyright lasted 14 years with the possibility to apply for a second 14 year extension. No artist in their right mind would pass up on 14 more years of pay, so it was effectively a 28 year hold on an idea so that the original creator could reap what financial benefits they could before their idea was thrown back into the public domain to be played with as others saw fit. This is fine. It allows the Canova’s and Marquestes’ of the world their own opportunities to fashion statues of naked men holding severed or soon to be severed women’s heads.

But, as Tom W. Bell from techliberation.com so well demonstrated, this time frame is entirely arbitrary and subject to change through his predictive Mickey Mouse Curve.

I don't actually know if this is creative commons but I will not miss the irony if he sends us a cease and desist for this.

Copyright Duration and the Mickey Mouse Curve by Tom W. Bell

So what are we looking at here? This is a graph charting the course of the expiration date of Steamboat Willie as it nears its entry point into the public domain only for new copyright law to extend its duration. To be clear, one can not copyright a character but they can copyright a movie that features the first appearance of said character. That would be the  eponymous Steamboat Willie featuring the world’s most recognizable rodent. Technically, I can use Mickey’s likeness so long as its part of a commentary on a related issue – say if I were to show Mickey Mouse in a satirical cartoon of stomping North American culture. The important thing to note is the length that copyright now protects a work. From something that was originally 28 years has become 50 years then the death of the creator then the death of the creator plus 50 years until our current copyright of the death of the creator plus 75 years.

Let’s take a moment to ponder this.

Current copyright protects a work for 75 years AFTER the death of the person who created it. It’s not even sensitive to the time that the work was made. Let’s jump up to our statuary example above. According to modern copyright, the Canova estate would be eligible for suing poor Mr. Marqueste for his clearly derivative work of his statue Perseus with Medusa’s Head. Had Mr. Marqueste gotten the copyright on the butchering of Medusa, I would not have been able to include an image of his work in a rant on copyright until 1995. Nineteen years ago, I would have been unable to picture a work of art made in a time before colour photography was invented to allow me the opportunity to even photograph it!

We have now created for ourselves a point in cultural development where works can not be touched by the public sphere for an entire generation after it was made. And this is working off the assumption that copyright doesn’t get extended beyond its current term which, I’m sure before 2023 rolls around will be changed again. Just to reiterate, no culture is made in a vacuum. Everything builds upon itself. Shakespeare wouldn’t exist without the prior poems and legends which he fashioned his stories from. Romeo and Juliet was based on an Italian tale translated in Arthur Brookes’ The Tragic Tale of Romeus and Juliet in 1562. As a reminder, the play was first published in 1597. The only copyright law we have which would historically allow arguably the most famous Shakespearian work to exist is the original copyright of 28 years. Seeing that Shakespeare died in 1616, according to Disney’s will, the play shouldn’t even exist at all even if we assume Arthur Brookes keeled over the moment his Tragic Tale hit the printing press.

The ultimate irony is that Disney has and continues to profit off the public domain. Their most recent work, Frozen, is based off Hans Christian Anderson’s highly acclaimed The Snow Queen (1845). Disney has over 100 movies based on others creative works with their most famous and celebrated ripped directly from the same public domain they refused to let their rat enter. Cinderella, Alice in Wonderland, Sleeping Beauty, The Sword in the Stone, Robin Hood, The Jungle Book, The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and The Hunchback of Notre Dame all owe their thanks to free access to their original work. Which, as I said, is just the tip of the iceberg. 

Finally, let’s remember that the song Happy Birthday to You is actually a copyright work. The owner of this cute little cultural artifact is Birch Tree Group Limited which was acquired by Warner/Chappell Music who to this day enforce their copyright claim and collect about $5,000 a day in royalties for the song. That’s over $1,800,000 a year for a song they had zero hand in creating. That’s right. Every time you sing this song on a relative’s birthday, you are breaking copyright law for a tune attributed to an 1893 kindergarten teacher and technically owe Warner/Chappell Music royalties.  So it’s time you paid up.