Overthinking: When Your House Falls on a Witch

 

I live in Oklahoma. It is the state due south of Kansas and a fellow sufferer of Tornado Season. Like most people in the Midwest, I have several childhood traumas involving thunder storms, rumbling sheet metals roofs, and praying that my family's trailer house didn't get tossed across the meadow.

Currently, I live in a lovely brick house with large interior wall closets. It has done wonders for my anxiety. I now spend milder storms chatting with my reader friends on Discord.

Naturally, most of them are familiar with the Wizard of Oz. Most of my generation has seen the movie even if they haven't read the novels. During the last storm, someone made the comment “Don't squash any witches.”

My response, “If that happened, I am not looting the corpse in front of that witch's older and nastier big sister.”

That led to a very long ramble about funeral practices and related ehtics, and later this blog.

Illustraion by W.W. Denslow

A little context into my family tree is needed. I was raised by a geologist and a journalist. However, my parents are not the most interesting career combinations. There's a branch on my paternal side that has worked, run, and owned funeral parlors out in California. Great Uncle Ray and his son David demystified a lot of the icky around the subject.

Needless to say, I grew up with an odd understanding of “what happened after someone dies.” While I didn't have any insights on the metaphysical issues and worries, I knew what people on this side of existence had to handle.

A funeral director has an odd professional function. It's been this way since the Egyptians started mummifying the dead. In the U.S.A., they act socially as an event coordinator for the bereaved. This is a position of great emotional and ethical responsibility. Their job is to give the community a safe and orderly way to grieve the loss.

The other element, the icky one, is safe and orderly cadaver disposal. It's not just about hiding away reminders of our morality. Sources of decay quickly become dangerous to the living.

Most of Ray and David's stories were not about clients, living or deceased, but about people 'backstage.' You get all types in the business, and learning experiences range from awkward to ridiculous chains of events. (For example, if a living person lays down in a coffin, that coffin can't be legally resold for burial. A prankster quickly found himself with a very expensive price tag after a failed jump-scare.) I learned a lot by proxy.

Illustration by W.W. Denslow

Circling back around to Oz, I'm not Dorothy Gale. She is a child who lost her parents at an early age and grew up on a farm during the Great Depression. We have extremely different sensibilities and life experiences.

After accidental manslaughter, Dorothy quickly hones in on her goals, getting back to Kansas. She sets out on the Yellow Brick Road to the cheers of the Munchkins and the gifts from the Good Witch (named Glinda in the movie).

I, on the other hand, would not be going anywhere without addressing the issue of the dead body.

Picture this:

The Munchkins are celebrating liberation. The dictator is dead. People are singing and dancing in the street.

Meanwhile the Good Witch watches a shaken Okie piecing together bio-hazard protection. Horrible person or not, the deceased can't stay under my house. I'm having flash-backs to the time Dad had to dig out a burrow under the trailer house because a critter died in there.

Things become yet more complicated when the witch turns to dust. In the movie, this is the scene where the striped socks roll back up under the house, leaving behind the Ruby Slippers. In the book, the Good Witch literally shakes witch dust out of the Sliver Slippers before handing them to Dorothy.

This handily solves the issue of decay. However, my inherited sensibilities will not settled for leaving the rest of the deceased's clothes under my house. The dust itself would be handled with the same care as human ash. I'm going to need a large jar with a lid, and my painter's mask.

By this point, the Good Witch of the North should have serious concerns about my sanity and about handing magic slippers of any color to me. However, magic and fairylands have rules about this type of thing. To the victor go the spoils.

I also have concerns about those slippers. By my reckoning, Glinda has no business giving them to me. This feels scummy. And no, not because she's asking me to wear shoes that someone died in.

You see, funeral parlors and shoes have a long a sordid history. In the old days when shoes were leather and expensive, more than a few undertakers would remove the shoes after the viewing but before the internment. While up-cycling is good, this was often done without the permission of the people paying for the funeral. The shoes and other valuable items would be sold on the side and the undertaker quietly pockets the money. Grave-robbery before the grave is even filled.

This is disrespectful and dishonest on multiple levels. Modern societies have complex laws about it, and grave clothes are not 'up for grabs.'

So, I ask if the deceased had any surviving next-of-kin.

Now, in the slower paced book, the two Wicked Witches hated and avoided each other. However, in the movie, this is the point where the Wicked Witch of the West, shows up.

Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz 1939

“Who killed my sister?! Who killed the Witch of the East?!”

Margaret Hamilton's performance terrified me as a small child. Now however, I'm a 5-foot 5-inch woman who has a younger sister who has nearly died in a car accident. I can recognize anger masking grief.

So, I have a jar of remains, a pile of neatly folded clothes, and magical shoes. Logically, all those items belong to the living witch. If Glinda magics the slippers onto my feet, I'm not going to be happy. That's receiving stolen goods. No thanks.

Luckily for Oz, I really dislike being screamed at or threatened. I would like to think myself mature enough to deescalate even when faced with a ranting witch. However, there is a reason I did not enter the family business. The minute she snarks 'I can cause accidents too' the sympathy bouquet goes away and the pepper-spray comes out.

Ironically, despite all my life experience and 'adult sensibilities' I don't see myself changing the story too much. Like Dorothy, I would want to get back home to my family. Like Dorothy, I have issues with setting out to destroy another witch, this time on purpose, but I would still try.

No, the main difference between me and Dorothy is that when faced with a brown, shapeless mess of melted witch goo, I would be looking for another jar. Dorothy literally throws more water on the remains and sweeps them out the door.

Illustration by W.W. Denslow

My Second Draft and Internet Search History

 

As an chronic overthinker turned writer, I walk a delicate balance between attention to detail and spending too much time nit-picking things that the readers won't care about.

My brain is such, I need a degree of confidence to add anything into the narrative. This has led to long researchers sessions for my WIP (possible title changed to “The Odd-Job Wizard”). As I wrap up the second draft, my internet serach history had gotten very werid. Here are some of the highlights and an explaination for them.

Historical Building Design

The most notable example in the story are three 'sets' the water channel for the mill, assessors offices, smokehouses. Swindlers Bounty is a frontier colony. I needed a technology level that fit. Also, I had to see if it was possible for the characters to up-cycle the building. Leon's smokehouse was based of one from a Ante-Bellum plantation. They could cure multiple carcasses as once.

An invaluable resource were the illustrated 'If you lived in a __' books that were popular with Usborne and Scholastic in the 90's. The cutaways made it easier to get a sense of scale for the character. This helped with the water mill scenes. It also gave me the technical name for breakable-yet-could-be plausibly-repaired pieces.

How Big Is It?

Animals also required a bit of legwork. Mostly to check size and weight. My problem once again was getting a sense of scale. I ended up writing down numbers and pacing out the size with a tape measure.

The first draft had Celabramar's politically fraught snacks being cows and the ranchers more like old Western beef barons. This was changed to sheep as they were smaller and easier for a dragon of his size to lift off the ground.

I also fact checked the size of a moose head trophy through a taxidermist website. They are big, but surprisingly light. (Makes sense in hindsight.)

Unit Conversion and Geometry

The biggest time sink was converting units of measurement. I cracked open the old geometry book to figure out the size of Celabramar's horde. I used the length of the dragon as the diameter of a cylinder and figure out the average height of the treasure pile.

From there I made a guesstimate of the value, by creating three equations for treasure piles made of mostly gold coins, mostly silver coins, and most copper coins. For fun, I also looked up the market value of beef cows and calculated how many cows each would buy.

All this work was to figure out how much Celabramar was willing to spend on moving his lair. It also lead to the plot device of his horde having more value as an coin collection than raw metal.

There were also other equations. However, they were before I settled on the idea of hot air balloon travel.

Red Meat or White Meat?

One of the last, and perhaps silliest, bits of research was about meat.

Throughout the story, Celabramar hunts several different prey animals for trade or food. I felt confident writing about deer, goat, sheep, crab – I've eaten them. The two I have not are rabbit, which is expensive if you don't raise or hunt it yourself, and swan.
Swan used to be a commercial meat. However, the bird was granted protected status in the U.S.A. Unlike with rabbit, I had trouble finding repeatable and ethically sources descriptions swan meat.

In my first draft, Celabramar declares that swan is “Good red meat, lots of fats for the brain.”

My editor Meg Dendler was very confused by this. She replaced the the line as white and lean, more in line with a traditional poultry. I can safely say she had never eaten swan either.

However, I have eaten duck. Duck is dark meat, darker than turkey. It's also lean muscle fiber but the skin has a protective layer of fat that keeps it moist when cooked. I assumed, correctly, that swan was as to duck as turkey is to chicken – bigger with darker meat. My researched backed it up.

Nevertheless, the goal of a editor is to help the story make sense to readers. Duck is not a common dish in the U.S.A. However, turkey is a holiday tradition. With this common ground, I reworked the description to

“Nice dark meat, good bit of fat too. Excellent for the brain.”

This one line took about an hour of fact checking and world building. There are more detailed descriptions of swan like 'rich,' 'moist,' 'gamey,' 'fishy mutton,' etc. However, it's mostly for cooked swan and varies by dish. The dragon is describing raw, uncooked swan. He'd cares more about its nutritious value than its optimal wine pairing.

This is why it takes me so long to write anything! My brain overthinks everything.

INTJ, Yes. Slightly Evil D&D Game Master, Yes.

My Detailed Driven Brain

According to the Myers-Briggs model, I have an INTJ personality type. This supposedly means I'm a tactical planner on par with Michelle Obama, Vadilmar Putin, and Friedrick Nietzsche.

I wish.

My brain is an intertwined mess of overly-formal rhetorical, gut instinct, and a sense of curiosity that would put my cat to shame.

The one INTJ trait that is so stereotypical me is my habit of getting caught up in finicky details. There's no such thing as overprepared or over-researched. (Little things are Murphy's favorite way to wreck my day.)

This does interesting things to my creative projects. On the one hand, I'll never run out of 'Overthinking' topics for my blog. On the other, I can't switch off that level of mental intensity. It's my base state.

I run D&D for Kid Brother and his friends. My original quests and content are every bit as overthought and off the wall as my blog topics. (Sewer monsters are actually protected by city ordinance. Kill too many, and the drains don't work.)

The obvious downside is that I've only got so much brainpower to go around. Currently, I need it for rewriting “Don't Fireball the Neighbors”  and dealing with the non-writer bits of my life. Something had to give.

Give The Brain a Break

Loathed to cancel game night due to lack of prep time, I bought a D&D module off RPGDriveThru. The monsters, loot, and math were already handled. I just have to weave the plot hooks into my main campaign.

Unfortunately, in addition to being short on brainpower, I'm short on funds. I settled for a 99 cent module with decent reviews. On the surface, Burning Plague was a decent set up. The player would fight kobolds in a mine, deal with three traps, fight the Kobold mid-boss, and fight the boss and his zombies. It had a classic Big Bad Evil Guy, an orc shaman, cursing the water supply as revenge for his people being driven from their ancestral homes.

I speed-read the module, then divided the material into playable chunks. I planned to do an in-depth read before each session. This way, my brain would have less to fuss and obsess over.

The first session went great, my players' blundered right into the kobold first-trap – a noisemaker/alarm system. That meant the Kobolds were warned, and next session would bring them to either the Kobold boss or another trap in the storeroom.

The doorway was rigged with a bag of flour with a ripcord. The warned kobolds would fall back until they entered, spill the flour and then pile into the half-blinded players. It was rated level-one, designed to be a just nuisance, not dangerous.

My Brain Thinks Otherwise

Sadly for my players, I'm an overthinker with a well-integrated memory web. I don't do random trivia. I group facts by their relationship to other facts. One detail - flour - prompts several adjacent topics - eating, kitchen activities, farming, chemistry.

During prep for that next session, the details 'clicked.' This nuisance trap could actually be lethal.

Flour is flammable. Flour dust is very flammable. My party used multiple light sources, one of them an open flame torch. A cloud of flour falling onto an exposed flame? Fwoomph

I don't think the game designers had meant for that level of realism. They actually put a switch plate on a pit-trap in a mine tunnel.  However, once I'd thought it, I couldn't un-think it. But... could I really risk a total-party-kill? My players still had their 'training-wheels.' (House-rule is if you're under level three, no death.)

No permanent death, my rules shark grinned. You made that loophole for a reason. Besides, everyone loves a 'Big Boom' a la Mythbusters. Remember the non-dairy creamer?

That sold it for me. Flour was flammable. Kobolds were stupid. The life of an adventurer was unfair, dangerous, and often brutally short.

What Happen In-Game

Next session, the heroes found their way to the storage room. However, my players weren't so gun-ho to step into a dark room. Maybe the noisemaker trap has made them cautious. Maybe they sensed their beloved GM had embraced the dark side. Maybe they were just worried about more kobolds hiding in the shadows.

So they crowded around the door, opened it... and threw the torch into the room!

I'm awe-struck by this point. I double-check the room's description... “ Heavy burlap sacks are piled atop one another in the corners of the chamber. A few have been torn open, leaving spills of oats and flour along the floor.” (Emphasized added.)

Long-story short, the floor caught fire. The kobolds panicked. The players shot the kobold with the ripcord... Fwoomph!

I used the smallest 'fireball' dice possible, and it rolled maximum damage. I made a DM call. Everything in that room was dead; The loot not in heavy barrels was gone; the party all crowded around the door could make reflex saves for half-damage.

Everyone got scorched, and the druid and her badger missed the cutoff. The druid went down to 3 health, and the badger was a crispy critter.

The players at the table were howling in laughter, right until they opened the barrels. Jerky, weak ale, melted cheese, fine wine, and highly flammable lantern oil.

“I put the lid back and start stamping out cinders!” One player yelled.

My players are now paranoid about an open flame. The crafter developed went as far as to develop a recipe for sunrods (basically a magic-glowstick) and is stocking up.

No Apologies

Most people don't overthink things to the extremes I do. However, details do matter. Trivia isn't trivial. I have personally screwed with several DMs with basic grade-school science.

What's baffling to me that I keep catching people off guard. Things like Mythbusters, McGuvyer, and BillNye aren't hidden. There are YouTube channels where people do dumb things with household objects. Yet this stuff this treated like lore from a forgotten outer plane.

I'm an INTJ dungeons master. I'm the demon in the finicky details.

Overthinking: Fairy Godparents

 

Rough Drafts and Rough Truths

As I work through rewriting 'Tales of Mundus,' I keep stumbling over my younger self's thought patterns and prejudices. Some of it is pretty random. However, there's several ideas that just need a little polish.

Recently, I rediscovered one of my characters - Maman Josephine, retired fairy godmother. This pint-size fearless woman embodies the best in all the 'Old Southern Gals' I've met. She homesteads, keeps goats, and is more than willing to smack a snooping dragon away from the gumbo pot with her ladle.

Maman Josephine doesn't do tiny wings, bubble travel, or sing Bibbty-Bobbity-Boo. There's actually some question to if there's anything 'fairy' about her. However, she is definitely a right, proper godmother for my world of Mundus. (She's more likely to shame the evil-step family in public than turn vegetables into carriages.)

In hindsight, I can see that my over-complicated childhood left deep marks on the idea of 'how godparents should behave.' Unlike many children, I KNEW the original purpose of godparents. It's not just a religious tradition, or  two of your parents friends that give you extra presents.

Godparents are the people who protect you if something happens to your parents.

Some Perspective

I remember serious talks with Mom and Dad about, “what do I do if you die?” Yes, four is a bit young to want to know about those things. However, thirty-three is a bit young for a daddy to develop colon cancer. I actually remember the paper signing that would give 'Uncle Art and Aunt Susie' custody of me and my baby siblings. We would not be orphans or street rats trying to outsmart evil adults (like half the protagonists in the Disney movies).

God-parenting wasn't something in a fairytale. I had real life people making real life plans. Those plans did not include leaving children to struggle. Art and Susie would fight tooth and nail for me.

In comparison, Ms. Bitty-Boppity-Boo, and even Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather were all flash and no follow through. Yes, they fixed the crisis with magic, but they broke the first rule. Don't leave the kid to flounder - not just physically, emotionally counts too.

Changed her name. Shattered her worldview. Left her crying in a dressing room
Not how you do a sixteenth birthday, ladies.

Good Drama vs. Good Parenting

As I grew, the media portrayal of godparents didn't get any better. There was Nickelodeon's Wanda and Cosmos, the magic vending machines. Sirius Black, from the Harry Potter series, also gives gifts, and then dies. The adults weren't doing their jobs.

The one gem I found was Mandy from Gail Carson Levine's Ella Enchanted. She helps Ella find the loopholes in her 'gift' of obedience, negotiates with the step-family, and comforts Ella when things fall apart. She's a bulwark and advisor to a growing woman.

I've thumbed through the old stories, and Mandy is actually the closest to the original archetype. God-parents and helpful 'old folk' do not typical show up in the middle of the quest. They advise the hero at the beginning of the journey. They even the odds when the villain asks impossible riddles or sets impossible tasks.

Godparents are protectors. Mundus isn't as perilous as some stories, but competent adults are always scare. As a veteran, Maman Josephine has dealt with everything - from christening curses to the everyday nastiness of other people. A dragon trying sneak a taste won't make her blink.

At the rewrites continue, I don't know how Maman Josephine's powers and backstory will change. However, her character is here to stay.

After all, to a child in need, a loud woman with a lock-cutter and lawyer can be more powerful than a wandering mage with a knack for creating formal-wear.

No Birthday Cake? Have a Slice of Life Story

My Overly Eventful Birthdays

On July 15, 2020, I turned 30. Honestly, it's not much different that 29. I have a few more gray hairs... and a few more stories to share.

Now, this is not a ramble about morality and getting older. (That's actually standard stuff for an introvert.) This post is several slice-of-life stories, about birthdays.

I've had thirty birthdays. Some were perfect, some unremarkable, and even a few heartbreaking ones. However, this post is about what I call the 'Overly Eventful Birthdays.'

True Stories

My first Overly Eventful Birthday happen when I was a wee child. I don't remember my exact age. I was at that age were you basically invite your whole class over, or in my case the Sunday School.

It was summer backyard party. The parents put out a waddling pool, some water pistols, and then let us run around until we were tired.  We'd eat watermelon, rinse off, and open gifts.

On a hot, Oklahoma summer, chilled watermelon is better than cake and a nearby farm grew vine-ripe melons. It was definitely the highlight of the event.

So imagine, the party is at its peak. All the children whooping and bouncing around. One of the other mom's comes up to me. I snap to attention. (Birthday girl gets first slice you know.)

However, this lady is not bringing snacks. “I'm taking your mom to the doctor.”

...WHAT?! I dart to the house and scramble to find Mom. She's in the kitchen with a bloody towel around one thumb!

Now because I was a young lass, I don't have clear memories on what all was said and done. Just panic and confusion. Apparently, Mom had been struggling to cut through the watermelon. A heavy chop through the rind had also chopped through the pad of her thumb. It required stitches.

Needless to say, the party wound down quickly. Mom had not bled on the melon, but the situation was an appetite killer. This was my first Overly Eventful Birthday.

And a Crappy Birthday to You

Life continued. The milestone birthdays - 13, 16, 18, 21 – happened with various level of excitement. (I was a settled introvert by then. Big crowds and noisy events weren't my idea of fun.) After 21, I prepared for the long stretch of 'Boring Birthdays.'

Twenty-two through twenty-four were nice and quiet. The new pattern was diner with family and friends Unfortunately, January of 2015 rolled around, and the year went to hell.

2015 holds the record for 'Worse Year of My Life.' Dad died suddenly in the spring. That's was one of five deaths. My life was a stressful mess of funerals, moving, and, to top it off, medical referrals.

At twenty-four, I was past overdue for my first colonoscopy. Yes, at twenty-four not forty. Dad developed his first round of stage four colon cancer in his early thirties. (Oddly, enough it wasn't cancer or chemo that got him in the end.) Early screening is a must for me and my two siblings. 

 However, there are only a handful of doctors in Oklahoma and the waiting lists are insane. There are no options, you take what Scheduling gives you.

They booked me for July 15, mid morning. The day I turned twenty-five.

Colonoscopy prep is every bit as awful as you've heard. After a horrible night, I spent the morning dehydrated, with a pounding migraine. I remember griping about the illogical of the hospital expecting me to have enough urine to take pregnancy test, being rolled onto my side... and then I woke up.

That was my twenty-fifth. I left the hospital a foul taste in my mouth, a sore butt, a gap in my memory, and my left hand swollen like a balloon from the nurses digging for a vein. What a party. (However, the screening came back clean.)

After this 'Crappy Birthday,' I was ready to resume the 'Boring Birthdays.' Unfortunately, it was not to be.

Scheduling Department Strikes Again

What can top a colonoscopy on your twenty-fifth birthday? A major surgery on your twenty-sixth.

I spent my birthday in the same hospital as the last one, just a in different ward. Those four days are a blur of pain, drugs... and running for my life.

July isn't just a hot month. It's storm season, tornado season. One touched down near the hospital. I was beginning to think I wouldn't make it to twenty-seven.

I and the rest of the maternity ward took shelter in the operating rooms. However, since I was nether pregnant nor elderly, there was no wheelchair for me. Apparently a gal with a six inch, freshly sealed wound is left to fend for herself.

By some miracle, the forced march didn't make me spring a leak. It hurt though. I spend the rest of the drill on a metal folding chair, hugging my werewolf plushy to my stomach. I was done. Done with crazy birthdays. Done with stupid scheduling departments. Just done.

To date, 2016 hold the record for Most Eventful Birthday.

This Year

Finally, 2020 rolled around. There's been plague, shuts downs, riots, and a whole lot of uncertainty. Lots of kids can complain about 'Worse Birthday EVER.' I sympathize; even though it's not my Worst Birthday.

Life happens. It doesn't care about a mark on the calendar or how many laps you make around the sun. Life isn't 'tidy.' I'm just glad to still be living.

On my media, I mentioned this year wouldn't make the Overly Eventful Birthday list. I was geared up for a boring quarantine meal of take-out pizza with my family. However, once again, life happened.

I spent the morning of my birthday digging a grave for my Kid Brother's dying cat. 

I still got my pizza. However, then I had to drive to the vet with my brother and said cat. On the way back, I stopped in the two gas-station town of Haskell, and sent Kid Brother into the grocery store for ice-cream. I stayed in the car... and tried to stay causal about what was in the box on my backseat.

That was my thirtieth birthday.

DnD Night: Players Push. I Push Back. It Ends in Laughter.

In the last few months, the frustration and stress of COVID-19 lock-down infected every part of life. Not even my bi-weekly 'Dungeons and Dragons' session escaped. We are a group of five, crammed around my kitchen table. That's not CDC approved distancing.

To complicate matters, three of my four players live with person who has a compromised immune system. So it was with a heavy heart I called hiatus in March.

Now, we didn't just pack up our dice and sulk home. We TRIED to keep the game running. I mean, we live in the age of Discord and roll20, right? Well, most people don't live in rural Oklahoma with spotty cell services and even worse internet.

We ran a test session. It was awful; the lagging voice-chat and microphone feedback gave me a log-splitter headache. “Okay, next time, players use the text chat,” I growled, “I'll narrate and run flavor dialogue.”

Draconian move? Yes. However, the party was in danger of  “Rocks fall, everyone dies” via frustrated Game Master.

Running text was a good plan. However, I overlooked one important fact. Normal people (ones who aren't INTJ authors) are self-taught typists. Words-per-minute? Touch-typing? Try Hunt-and- Peck.

Also, without face-to-face interaction, it was too easy for one person to crowd out the others. Poor dialogue, interruptions, and using the wrong chat log. Now the players were frustrated. 

Those frustrated players turned a Scooby-Doo flavored mystery into “let's just torture the NPC for information.” Stunned, I wrapped up the session and declared “We'll need the battle-map for the finale. I can't run this online.”

Inside I was panicking. I hadn't designed this quest with a combat feature. (A rookie mistake, but, unlike Luke Hart, I've been a GM since January 2020.) It was supposed to be investigation driven quest. NOT a casting call for Murder Hobos.

The Plot that was Derailed and Blown Up

This was the setup. A brewery suffers unexplained crop circles on the night of the New Moon. Nothing is damaged, but the workers go to sleep and wake up to a property wide mandala of wheat, hops, and even the apple trees. There's undoubtedly magic at work. Setting watch doesn't help. The owners want answers.

Unfortunately, my players flubbed their charisma dice roles when dealing with the workers. They also only investigated one of the three farm buildings and missed several clues. I all but threw a key NPC witness at them. Two satyr 'frat-boys' with bottles of the brewery's missing cider. One ran off. They other, named Pete, they caught. However, things just spin further off script.

Pete was intimated into admitting that he knew the people behind the circles. Another failed roll and he clammed up, too loyal to sell out his friends. Apparently, that was the last straw for my impatient players.

As the cleric's player laboriously tried to type out his next line of questioning, the two chaotic-characters set their own messages. In character, they announced how they would kill Pete, very graphically. The moderate players freaked out, cut Pete lose, and shouted for him to run for it.

On one hand, I was glad not to narrate a torture session. On the other, the table was turning toxic in and out-of-game.

I ended the session and tried to figure out how to run the next session. With two sentences, the character were in danger of a Total Party Kill. On a simple investigation quest! Pete was running scared, to his friends - the friends who could rearrange several acres of plant life.

I pointed this out to Kid Brother. His face fell, “So we've gone from Scooby-Doo to the first thirty minutes of FernGully? I'm gonna kill those two idiots.”

“Yeah,” I nodded sadly.

Fixing the Problem and Getting Payback

You see, I'm not a master DM. I make mistakes. (There's a reason I have a no perma-death until PC level three.) I'd picked the 'landscapers' based on the cool factor, not the challenge rating. My little band of murder hobos was rated level one. Their opponents, a total combat rating of eight.

Ant, meet boot.

...however, part of me wanted to let this play out. Honestly, I didn't feel like retooling this quest. I'd told the players, “No Murder Hobos. No Evil Characters.” Burying someone alive or drowning them is evil. It would be just desserts that cruelty gets negative attention. (Ironically, those 'landscapers' are based on one of the most recognizable tricksters in English lore. They are KNOWN for nasty paybacks.)

So I compromised. I simplified their combat roles and took away some of the tricksters' higher powered spells. The encounter went from 'impossible' to 'hope for good dice.' I also added bait for my players.

“If you survive, you get a level” I said. “If nobody dies, everyone levels and gets a bonus. If you piss these guys off, it's on your head.”

Weeks later, we gathered in my kitchen. I was ready – stats blocks, art clips, even a playlist. Spurred on, my murderous players once again surprised me. They actually investigated! They figured out that the land was being saturated by natural magic. They found traces of memory-modification on the night guards. They transplanted some bushes to pots to see if the magic would still work.

...then they dug lethal pit traps around the property. (I stopped feeling guilty.)

Murder Hobos Versus.....!

Picture it. A moonless night. Two fighters, a cleric, a druid, and the badger familiar hiding near the center of the circle. Listen. Check your blind spots. Roll your dice.

From the tall grass steps a satyr, not Pete, his friend who got away. Watch the token on the board move turn by turn towards the trap. Roll the dice. The half-orc hears a buzz like a humming bird swooping past. Hold position. One more turn and the satyr will be on the trap.

“The goatman walks into the center of the trap... and nothing happens.”

WHAT?! Everyone turns to the druid's player. “What's wrong with your trap?”

“Nothing,” I interrupt. “She used a straw blanket, covered with leaves and grass to mask it. Anything heavy than a badger would fall right through.”

“So why didn't he fall?”

I smile, “Why indeed. Roll a listen check.” Dice clatter.

The grasses behind you rustle as the figure of that same satyr steps into the open. In the dim light you see something small ridding on his left shoulder.

“Hey, assholes,” he bleats, “This one is for Pete!”

Smugly, I tap play on my music app. Lindsey Stirling's violin sings "Roundtable Rival' and I finish, “Everyone, roll will-power saves.”

The Fae were on the move.

 

The satyr over the pit melted away into wisps of magic. The real satyr smirked, his ears blocked with cotton and wax, as the grig, a tiny cricket fairy, on his shoulder played a song of irresistible dance. Finally, a pixie archer dropped her glamour. She carried magic arrows of sleep, and was the distraction for two more pixies to circle in close.

Lady Luck had abandoned the party. Three fairies with bee-sting arrows and a fiddler brought them to their knees.

Meanwhile the players laughed and groaned. One actually danced along with the music as his character missed turn after turn. Kid Brother grumbled, realizing just how on-the-nose his 'FernGully' comment was.

Combat ended with one lucky character and the badger familiar snoozing in the grass, the rest in thrall to the music. The pixies then took to the air over the useless trap for one final bit of magic. They began to dance, and the land came alive.

Come morning, three exhausted characters collapsed in the middle of now lush farmland. I explained that a fae promise carries down the generations. If they had investigated the brewery building, they might have found a tiny hospital bed. If they had talked with the farmer's annoying child, they might have learned the land's history. (If the fairies hadn't watched them dig that pit and sent the real satyr instead of an illusion, blisters and wounded pride would be the least of the party's troubles. Fae blood feuds carry down the generations.)

Ending Thoughts

In hindsight, there were things I should have done differently. Kid Brother has a wealth of advice, solicited and unsolicited. Nevertheless, the night was a roaring success.

The players and I are still learning how to play together. I have three RPG rookies and one hyper-intelligent geek. That's a very different learning curve.

When I write a quest line, the goal isn't to do something YouTube worthy. The goal is for everyone to have fun.

Our outside lives are full of frustrations, setbacks, and even tragedies. I can't fix lock-down. I can't fix their housemate's immune system. I can barely keep everyone civil when they play.

However, that night ended in laughter and excitement; our previous frustration left behind. This is why I play DnD.

They say laughter is the best medicine. Regardless of your health, I hope my readers receive a full dose from this tale.

Mary Poppins is a...

Prologue

Creativity and stress don't mixed well. My thoughts speed up, darting from topic to topic like a panicked bumblebee. It's all I can do to handle the non-writer bits of my life.  My productivity plummets.

This month has be plenty stressful. There's family and friend drama, paperwork/tax season, and my regular spring migraines - plus the cold damp is making my everything ache. I've done some proofreading on my WIP and a smidgen of networking. That's it.

However, even though I can't harness it, my brain is still running.  

Mary Poppins to the Rescue

On a particular wet and windy day, Kid Brother and I were making a marathon of doctor's appointments in Tulsa. It was an umbrella day. ...and Kid brother was doing his level best to keep me and the brolly from lifting off.

Naturally, that led to Marry Poppins jokes and then a bit of reflection.

(The following conversation has been summarized. Perfect recall isn't one of my gifts)

“You know,” I mused opening the car, “When I was young, I read those. I felt she came off a bit cruel, denying that anything magical happened. She holds the children at arms length.”

Kid Brother, who has wonderful recall for trivia, quoted, “'Can you imagine what would become of me if I gave my heart to every child?' She's trying not to get attached.”

“That's the Disney version?” I asked. In our house Disney is called 'The Mouse that Ate Everything.' Yes, they still produce some good stories, but the brand doesn't always adapt well. Mrs. Travers practically had to babysit the script. (Can you tell this is one of my pet peeves?)
As Kid Brother and I drove to the next stop, our conversation bounced around from Disney to Star Wars. ...then my mix-and-match brain made a connection.

“Mary Poppins is a Jedi!” I exclaimed. “She comes in, fixes things, the leaves for the next mission. She avoids attachment, has hidden powers, and can talk her way into anything!”

Kid Brother snickered, and I continued.

“She'd be a better Jedi than the Jedi Council! Think about how they raise younglings. Mary Poppins would have sorted Anakin out long before he fell.”

That had the both off us chuckling all the way home. Mary Poppins could fix anything. 
Mary Poppins vs. JarJar. Mary Poppins vs. C3P-O. Mary Poppins vs. the Emperor.

“This will be be your next update?” Kid Brother asked.

My poor scrambled brain latched on to this lifeline. Stress puts a block on my words. However, the muse was more than willing to grab a drafting pencil. Something was better than nothing at this point.

And so there's the Something.

Mary Poppins, with her parrot handled lightsaber

Done in various pencils on Card Stock.
Many thanks to my Gran and Pops for that first pencil set those many years ago

NOT Overthinking: Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is about food. Full stop.

….yes, it's actually that simple. When you peel back all those cutesie pilgrim myths, ignore decades of aggressive add campaigns from the turkey farmers, and put the 'Invading Colonizer Vs. Protestant Refugees' argument on hold, Thanksgiving is about food.

Food is a simple, trivial word. It's not a trivial matter.

Growing up, I never had to skip a meal. Unfortunately, I've still had experience with hunger. Did you know that if don't eat the right things, you can starve on a full stomach? No, I'm kidding. It's not a 'fat rich people problem.' There's more than one way to go hungry.

On my mother's side of the family, there's the maddening battle with blood-sugar. My late father dealt with chronic malabsorption issues after his colon was removed. I personally have lovely gene mutation that stunts my Vitamin B conversion (my food allergies are just the f-you cherry on this mess). Having something to eat isn't the same as having food.

Creating a meal that feeds your needs takes mindfulness. Feeding other people... that's a tall order.

My first big holiday after a peanut-triggered-ambulance ride was eye-opening. In middle-class America, feeding people is a dying art. Thanksgiving is a time to show off that family recipe or order a luxury cut of meat. My newly restricted diet made waves.

Out of a six dish spread, plus desserts, there wasn't much to eat. I think I had something from the relish tray and meat, no gravy. It was awkward for me and the cooks. Thanksgiving is a feast. What does it say when one person is sighing wistfully at everybody else's plates?

I realized 'sharing a meal' isn't just eating in the same building. Food is social bonding. Hunger is divisive. Getting left out of the group while you're hungry.... well, fights have started for less.

Luckily, my family cares about each other more than having a postcard perfect meal. We shuffled the menu a bit. I still can't eat every dish, but I have options. I have food – I'm not left behind.

Does my aunt still get frustrated with me triple checking her recipes cards? Yes. Do my crazy cousins still talk about football and that trophy buck they hope to bag this year? Yes. Do I still get nosy questions about my life choices? Yes. Thanksgiving is not stress free.

However, I just take a deep breath and remember the true core of any harvest celebration. It's taking a moment to stop and say, “Thank God! Nobody has to starve to death this year!”

Thanksgiving is about the food.

Edited 2020 - Cause I later read Smithsonian: Myths of Thanksgiving and I don't want my Cherokee 'Cousin' giving me that look for not double checking my prose.

Shut up and Dance

The Selby family traditions don't include a 'coming of age' ceremony - mostly because none of us kids liked being the center of a big fuss. We DO celebrate the yearly birthdays and some of the citizenship milestones. However, was typically low key. My 'sweet-sixteen' was a small lunch with friends/family. (Then the rest of the day to myself reading the books they'd gifted me.)

A quinceañera is about as opposite from a small lunch as you can get. There's a church service, dancing, a 'shoeing' ceremony, more dancing, and a dress code. It's a production on par with a wedding.

Productions and I have never mixed well - too many migraine triggers. Yet, through a weird series of twists, October I found myself waltzing to "El Mundo Ideal" in front of a whole lot of people. 

I wasn't just a wallflower guest. I was part of a quinceañera court.

It started innocently enough. The young lady, Ansleymarie, needed another chamberlain and asked if my younger brother Daniel would help. He accepted.

Cue first twist. While Kid Brother is a friendly, if snarky, guy, he is not a licensed driver or a dancer. That was simple enough to fix. The birthday girl's mother would provide dance lessons and I'd drive him. (I didn't mind. I could scout the church and gym for a place to hide in case of migraines.)

The second twist happened on the day before the first dance lesson. The birthday girl's best friend had been pulled out by her parents. My phone buzzed with a heartfelt plea from Ansleymarie's mother. I was already coming up, would I please join the court?

I blame what happened next on emotional transfer. When I got the text, I was musing about a quinceañera gift. I wanted it to be meaningful, special. I wanted to do something she would like.

I said yes.

In all fairness, the original text suggested that I would just have to dance one short song, as my brother's partner. I'd be another face in the crowd. I could do my wallflower thing, right?

It only took one dance lesson to burst that bubble.

The reason there was only one waltz was that there wasn't enough dancers for anything else. Half the court had backed out. There would be three couples in this. I'd be to the right of the birthday girl, wearing a high-lo lavender dress, in front of a lot of strangers , with no trilby for protection

Actually learning to box-step was the easy part. Once Kid Brother and I stopped moved like we were in a Tae-Kwan-Do demo, we had a pretty good sense of rhythm. We were starting to relax.

Unfortunately, the birthday girl and her snarky brother partner didn't have a good sense of rhythm. They also seemed to be trying to maim each other. Half-way through the lesson, I suggested we switch partners. The strong dancers could help the weaker ones.

It worked. However, the switch made permanent. My comfort zone was fading fast. Naively, I hoped that the third couple would add some buffer to this ordeal.

No, just no. If anything the classes got more stressful. We added another snarky male to the mix.

I'm not a thick-skinned person. I also have very good hearing (I could hear one of the dancer's artificial heart valve) When the people around me gripe and pick at each other, I can't ignore it as background noise.

This group spend as much time griping about the music, each other, and the mother's teaching ability as they did actually practicing. That third couple's lady actually got into a ten minute debate about wanting to restructure the whole routine because she 'couldn't do if if I don't lead.' You could almost see the steam coming out of the mother's ears.

All the bickering wore on me. I was sick of all this yammering. I was sick of the snarky bros going after each other. I was also thoroughly fed up with the smell of tobacco and my new partner's spittoon. (While half the class took smoke breaks, I was spending quality time with the gym's punching bag.)

Finally, practice was done. It was time for the real event.

My plan was for the setup was simple - treat the coordinating mother like 'Queen of the Universe.' It didn't matter if she contradicted herself. Her word was law. Kid Brother wholeheartedly agreed with this.

We put on our formal clothes and formal manners... then the penultimate twist to this story hit.

Despite behind middle-class, my family's cultural magpie horde includes the classic 'Yes sir, No sir, Right away sir,” Jeeves playbook. It's not a snob thing. The older etiquette shifts attention from you as a person to the guests and the honoree.

This worked wonderfully for me. My brother... not so much.

As I was running around the building, fetching things for the other ladies, the snark war went nuclear.

Every time I went by the entrance, the men were either on smoke break, out of sight of the guests or threatening to start a actually fight. While Kid Brother could give as good as he got, my big sister instincts were screaming. Finally, as I was hunting down an AWOL petticoat, I overheard one nasty comment too many, “I'll snap your neck.”

One of the worst elements of being a autistic adult is memory cascade. Those words and that tone sent me hurling down memory-lane. A dozen unpleasant leftovers bit me in the feelings.

I was stressed, fighting a migraine, and had no chance of holding all that inside. I was a sniffling, watered-eyed mess in the dressing area. The dance was about to start! There was no hiding my state. The whole quinceañera court knew something was wrong.

As I frantically tried to pull myself together, my wonderful kid brother, Daniel, pulled off a brilliant bit of social engineering, “We made my sister cry. Get it together or I will punch you so hard that {censored}.”

I was done with this. I faked a smiled, gripped my partner by the elbow, and stepped onto the gym floor. I was going to dance and nothing short of the building catching fire would stop me.

...the rest of the night went off without a hitch. Everyone waltzed in sync, the guys did this amazing routine with scarfs, and the quinceañera girl looked like a Disney princess. My embarrassment/ panic attack waited until I was at home in my own room.

The long twisty ordeal was done. I could go hide, sleep off the migraine, and then redon my hat.

In hindsight, I should have remembered on of my family's  proverbs.

“Big events are like sausage. Everyone enjoys them, but only if you don't know exactly what went into them.”