Yesterday I wrote some non-dialogue fiction, so today I'm doing only dialogue. But first, here are a couple of links you might like (I'll try to give them more attention in the future).

• The unexpected article Ancient Phallus Unearthed in Cave
• The related Ivory Bird Displays Ancient Skill
• And my favorite, the unrelated, eccentric Telephone EXchange Name Project

But now, on with the writing. This is just a short conversation between two people. It's inspired by a real conversation I had with a fellow a few months back.

"I like Bushmills"

"Hmm. Bushmills is the fighting whiskey. Jameson's is the contemplative whiskey."

"Huh. I never really thought of it--"

"I was here with a bunch of guys two weeks ago, and they were out of Jameson's. Hell, we wanted an Irish whiskey toast, and so we bought Bushmills. Bad idea. A half hour later, our asses are being hauled out of the place by a blonde bouncer who looks like a cross between Bluto and Pete Frampton. The 70s Frampton, not the guy playing in Vegas."

"Uh huh."

"And you know what we were arguing about? This is ludicrous. Someone said that Mark Hamill was just as good as Harrison Ford in Star Wars."

"He was."

"You're an idiot, and that's beside the point. Wait, no it isn't! If we were drinking Bushmills right now, you'd be ready to shove me into one of those pool table pockets. But, we're drinking Jameson's, so you're just mildly disgusted that I'm right and you're wrong."

"In fact, I'm drinking Bushmills, if Mark Hamill hadn't screwed his face up in a racing accident he'd be just as famous as Harrison Ford, and I couldn't fit your fat ass into that pool pocket if Einstein and Bohr came back and warped space like Play Doh. But you were saying something about whiskey?"

"Well. Yeah. Sorry, the image of Niels and Albert in a bar has got me befuddled. How long do you think it would take them to call a shot, I wonder? I mean, would Bohr be like 'Albert, the bank shot or the corner, you're taking a chance either way', and then Einstein says 'There's no chance involved, except maybe the chance you'll shut up and let me shoot.'"

"Except Al' would have said it much cooler than that."

"Yeah. Yeah, he would have."

"Well, I say, to each his own. I'll take my Bush Black. And I've never gotten into a fight over it."

"But admit it, you feel a little riled. And me, I'm just wondering why that guy's been staring at you for the last five minutes like you've developed rainbow colored cancer."

"Who?"

"Uh, the other guy in this bar drinking Bushmills. He looks a little pissed."

Instead of spouting off, it might be nice to indulge my creative writing side. I'm less likely to offend (except, perhaps, your sense of aesthetics), and my blood pressure stays low.

Let's try just a few paragraphs, nothing complete, some doodling that sets a scene. For good measure, I'll try it with no dialogue.

The next day, Tuesday, brought rain and snow. If it had been in that order, fine, but she'd found there was nothing so disquieting as slow, white snow in the morning, then rain heavy as baby slugs in the afternoon. It wasn't natural, and she needed things to be natural about now.

She'd kept the door locked, but didn't have much confidence in its strength, neither the lock nor the door. But she'd used the last of the nails on the fence, and there wasn't anything heavy enough in the cabin to make a difference. If they wanted to get in, they would, no use having false hopes. Might as well ask the angels for harp lessons. But her shotgun was loaded, and she'd placed obstacles where she hoped they'd do the most good. In a few days, if they didn't come, she would take a look around the field for tracks, or signs they'd broken through the fence.

She checked the thermometer, and sighed to see it dropping. That would mean, not more snow, but hail. She started to pray for a hot north wind, then stopped herself. There'd be no appeals tonight. She had to focus on what would do some good. Eating, listening, sleeping ten minutes every two hours.

A sound like braying hit the windows. She jumped, brought the shotgun to her shoulder, her finger taking the trigger just short of firing. But it had been thunder. She lowered the gun.

Idly, she wondered how they'd reacted just then. Did they freeze, listening, turning slowly toward the sky? Did they hear an enemy, or might they mistake it for one of their own, calling? Did they imagine? Did they reason, or merely think?

Her jeans were fraying at the bottom. Useless as it seemed right now, she'd been brought up to plan for tomorrow. A few stitches from a needle and thread would mend them for another month, so she went into the bedroom and pulled her sewing kit from the medicine cabinet.

This is my first entry of a week long project. For some, it wouldn't be much of a challenge. Simply, I'm going to update my web log each night.

I always loved the idea of a journal, or diary, but have a problem with consistency (a little ironic, considering my profession is software development and I'm typically complimented on that very trait). Flattland.com is my browser home page (not for my ego, but to be sure the server is running!), and frankly I've been getting annoyed seeing the same entry in front of my face for a month.

So, whether I have anything to say or not, I'm bringing it on.

In my browser bookmarks, I have a folder of pages I thought I might write about. Looking at those entries, I found this little gem from the World Wide School. It is The Feats of the Magnetic Girl Explained, an article from 1895, debunking some fakery that would no doubt be just as mystifying now as it was then.

The article confirmed my beliefs that a) people want to believe in the supernatural, and b) people are frequently not critical thinkers.

Oh, and c) people who do stage magic and pretend otherwise are slimy.

Magicians--legitimate ones--tell the audience up front "this isn't supernatural, it's natural, and was accomplished through hard work. It's an illusion." I find this wonderous, because we're being shown how easy it is to be fooled, and we love it! Without delving too much into the depths of the subject, it's the difference between viewing the world through science and religion. The scientist sees an unexplained phenomena and says "how was that done?" The mystic says "I can't explain it, therefore it must be beyond natural explanation and is the result of a divine force."

This isn't to say that religious people are irrational, or have no grasp of, and respect for, science. Or vice versa. The great religious figures and the great scientists share a trait: they understand that science and religion are different fields. One is concerned with the nature of existence, the other with the mechanism of nature.

Yet for centuries, fakers have profited by turning sleight of hand into divine example. Rather than appealing to human integrity, as the magician does ("You're paying me to fool you, and to tell you it's not real."), they take disadvantage of human trust ("I'll show you something you can't explain, and tell you it's not a trick. So give me money.").

The moral, if I can be so arrogant, is that there are enough unexplained things to ponder on and feel wonder at. Don't be fooled by magicians posing as angels.