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Still fighting with my English 123 classes. It's not the classes; it's me. Research paper -- not my strength. No help from the lousy textbook I picked out and am now stuck with for the semester. This just means that I'm spending a great deal of time on lesson planning. I'll probably go through this every semester that I have a new class to teach. If being a prof doesn't teach me some work ethic and time management skills, nothing will.

Nagasaki students arrive in two weeks. I've barely given any thought to them, altho I do have more ideas that direction than I do for 123. My section of 113 feels like a reward: it's at the end of the day and I mostly know what I'm doing from day to day.

Writing these DVD commentaries is the real reward because it's something distinctly not-school to think about. Reading other peoples' is even better. Go, people, and write more.

I do plan to finish GL. The story's not that long. This is just an interlude because the beginning is really short.




When the Music Stops
Bathory: Story 1
A Sliders Story
by Wendy Kelley


*sighs We're not even into the story yet and there's already so much to say.

The story was written in the summer of '97. I had just graduated college and didn't have any desire to find a job before Fall, so I spent the summer hanging out in a coffee shop writing. I figured it would be my last chance to have that luxury.

The third season of Sliders, which had just ended, is infamous for being the absolute worst season of the show. There were a number of reasons for this, but the largest is that the FOX execs decided to make virtually every episode a parody/remake of some semi-famous movie. One such movie parodied (badly) was The Lost Boys, a movie that happens to be on my list of favorites. I was so angry at their botching of this movie that I set out to "do it right."

As it happened, Kyrie (the SLFIC list owner) had a birthday at the end of summer. So, for her birthday present, I decided to write my correction. It was written in that coffee shop, largely long hand, and holds the record for the story of mine that took the least amount of time to write: 3 months.

The title of the episode in question was "Stoker." The Stoker of the episode was the name of a musical group comprised of vampires. Since I was working from that, the original title of my story was "Bathory." Bram Stoker, of course, is the author of the most famous vampire novel. Bathory, as in Elizabeth Bathory, is a famous real-life vampire. Plus, I thought the name sounded like the name of a band.

The story was called Bathory for the longest time. Then, one day, it developed the subtitle "When the Music Stops." Eventually I dropped Bathory, tho later it got re-added as the name of the series. This series, btw, never happened. I'm better at planning trilogies than writing them.


Prologue


The other award this story holds in my mind is that it was actually written from start to end, in that order. "Atropos" was also written from start to end, mostly because I was posting it as I wrote it, but it took almost a year to do, in fits and starts. This one got written in marathon sessions, so it really felt like the story came together in order.

This prologue is my baby. It probably fits right up there in the "kill your babies" category, but I love this prologue too much to ever excise it from the story.

I dreamed the beginning, as I often dream beginnings of stories. Unlike normal, I managed to remember enough upon waking up to be able to reconstruct it.

Night falls, crystal clear with a bright full moon. Just the temperature for standing outside with your head tilted to the sky. Ursa Major stands before you now and seems to offer the sea-breeze as your personal gift. You smell sand and salt water and hot-buttered popcorn, and you know you'll remember this one night for as long as you live.

Into the silence comes the faintest strain of music. You don't notice it at first, and when you do, you wonder how you ever could have missed it.

It is timed to the beat of your heart and the pace of your breath. It's the warmth of your lips, and the kiss is just as soft. It surrounds you, seduces you.

~ desire ~

For those who think this prologue is too unbelievably weird, the goal is to portray a victim of the band Bathory, and what makes people become their victims. The bits in tildes are the feelings the music invokes.

It makes promises and tells lies, and it doesn't matter which is which. If indeed there is a difference.

~ loneliness ~

The music feels as though it belongs to the night. To this night.

~ longing ~

It should belong to you.

~ desire ~

You throw your arms wide and invite it into your soul.

~ loneliness ~

It was the right choice. All of nature agrees. The moon becomes that much more full. The stars shine that much brighter.

~ longing ~

The music is that much more personal.

~ desire ~

All that's missing are the lyrics, an absence that demands to be filled. You wait for them to start, wait for them to tell you your name, to answer your prayers.

~ loneliness ~

You wait for the words that will add depth to the promises . . .

~ longing ~

. . . truth to the lies.

~ desire ~

You wait.

~hunger ~

And then the music stops.

And this is where the final title came from.


~ longing ~

You call out for it to return. You notice too that the moon has disappeared and the stars have fallen from the sky. There is nothing.

~ desire ~

Nothing but darkness and the rushing of air, as though someone were racing towards you. Or you towards them. An offer is made, a chance to experience the music again. You accept. There really was no choice.

~hunger~

The feelings change.

There's an implicit question here: Does a choice really count as a choice if there was no choice to be made?


You feel the embrace. It crushes you, takes your heat for itself and offers nothing in return. Your blood sings, but not for you.

~ hunger ~

You taste fear and wonder why. There is nothing to fear. Can't you hear the music? It silences your heartbeat and stills your breathing, and is worth every second.

~ hunger ~

Then you're falling to the ground for what will be the last time. The breeze steals what remains of your heat; the sea steals what remains of your blood. You stare with unblinking eyes as one darkness lifts and is replaced with another. Ursa Major stands before you again. You smell sand and salt water and hot-buttered popcorn.

And it occurs to you that this really was a beautiful night.

Because, the thing is, the death the vampires provide is happy. The reason victims are so easy to find is that the whole experience (tho utterly a sham) is wonderful.