“What type?” I asked.

“The vigilante type.”  She stretched and yawned.  “But hell, what do I know.  I’m no judge of character.”

“What are you talking about?” I pressed, suspicious at the voice’s silence.

“What are you talking about?” she countered.  “You wanna beat up Scott because of the rumors, don’t you?  A lot of guys do.”

The voice was still mute, but there was a flavor of satisfaction and anticipation to its silence.

“Jinx?” she prompted, concerned again.  “I mean, they’re just rumors … did you talk to some one … ?  Did he really rape somebody?”

The voice’s scream of triumph made me wince.  Told you so, it shrieked.  You knew it too – why argue with me?

“No, I …”

Yes!  Tell her!

“I don’t know,” I managed.  The voice seethed; Chloe was clearly unconvinced.  But I refused to hear any more on it from either of them that night.

The next night I broke into the campus Crisis Center office and logged onto the computer.  The passwords the voice gave me all worked, and when I did a keyword search for Rory Scott I got a score of result hits.

Over three years, twenty girls had accused Scott of date rape.  Not a single incident had been reported to campus security.  I printed out a list and made my exit.

During the course of the next day I learned that every one of the girls that had accused him had left school.  At least half had been tormented by supporters of Scott until they fled; girls of some of the victims had plenty to say about it.

I was scared, but also exhilarated.  The voice was right, and finally peaceful in its victory.

Rory Scott had to be destroyed.

And from the first glimpse, not even fully registered by me, the voices – or rather, one particular voice – was filled with rage and loathing on the subject of Rory Scott.

The voice wanted Scott dead, and not just gone but ravaged.  It muttered and screamed, cackled and cajoled.  It insisted his sins were too great to be ignored and his destruction too imperative to be dismissed.

It was my own voice, and, more frightening, for some reason I agreed with it.

I knew nothing about him, so I learned all I could in an effort to straighten myself out.  Everything I learned about him belied the judgment of the voice.  He volunteered with seniors and at-risk kids.  He organized fundraisers for the library and the student services departments.  Good student, good team player, all around good guy.  He even mailed a letter to his mother every Saturday.

The more I learned, the more I hated him, and the more frightened I became.

I had no answer from the voice on why I needed to destroy him.  My arguments were ineffective.  I started having trouble sleeping, my grades went to hell, and I got kicked out of the dorm.

I met Chloe then.  She shared a place off-campus with some friends, and we crammed a futon into her room for me to sleep on.  Not that I slept there either, but I needed a place to leave my things as my life unraveled around me.

There was a lot of alcohol and drugs there.  I wanted to fit in, needed to dull the voices.  Some of the stuff I got there helped; most didn’t.  I tried speed once at a party they took me to, and I don’t remember what happened but Chloe told me I beat up a bunch of people, then disappeared for two days.

One night I woke Chloe as I argued with myself.  An amazing girl, she never batted an eye at my peculiarities, nor seemed the least bit frightened by my admittedly unpredictable behaviors.

She sat up, rubbed an eye – smearing the heavy make-up she never took off before bed – and regarded me curiously.

 “What are you yelling about?”

 “Sorry,” I said.  “I didn’t realize I was yelling.”

I saw curiosity become concern on her face.  “Jinx, what’s wrong?”

 “Nothing,” I said.  But that wasn’t what came out of my mouth.  What came out were the words of the Rory Scott-hating voice.

 “I’m gonna pulp his balls to jelly and strangle him,” the voice told Chloe.  “I’m gonna shred him with a short knife while he’s weak, but I’m gonna have my hands around his neck when he dies.  I want him looking at me when he goes.”

Amazing girl, she didn’t bat an eye.  “Is this about Rory Scott again?”

Again?  Indeed – she’d heard much more of my fights than I’d known.

“I got it, Nancy,” Ditch says to Grinder as he slams the back doors shut.  Then he gets back beside Zed and we are off again.

Ringing clearly through my head, louder than real sounds: Just stick to the plan.

Good advice, and I’m thankful for the reminder.

Still, I can’t help but be terribly aware of the laws we are breaking as the tally rises.  Mac and the others ridicule me for it, but I don’t care.  They’ve each done some minor jail time, but none of them are as painfully aware of the iron grip of the law as I am.

Before I met them, there had been trouble.  I caused it.  I paid for it.  And I’m still paying.

It was the voices.

While I was locked up, they asked me a lot of questions about why, and when I told them about the voices, they put me in a different part of the jail and I didn’t have to go to court.  People came in to ask about the voices.  A doctor came and gave me pills to make the voices go away, but the pills didn’t work.  They asked how long they’d been plaguing me, and I didn’t know how to answer.

I guess they’ve always been with me, sometimes whispers, sometimes far more urgent.  But they didn’t really bother me until the trouble.  Before that, I knew they were in my head, and sometimes they said horrible things, but I could get away from the people they talked about and take away their inspiration.

Things were okay because I never agreed with them.  They were noisy neighbors I was stuck with, near but separate.

Then there was Rory Scott.

Now it’s very real.  Armed robbery and illegal discharge of a firearm within city limits.  I’d been hoping we could keep our pending charges to a minimum, but now I can only hope things don’t get any further out of control.

“All the way down, ladies and gentlemen,” Ditch says, bringing the shotgun level at his hip again.  How many hours had he practiced before the mirror, swinging that gun around and imagining the cameras, the infamy, the glory?  More than I can count.

I tensely remind myself to just do as I’m supposed to: watch the left side of the bank, keep my pistol aimed away from the other guys, and stay calm and follow orders with everyone else.

“Very good,” Grinder says as the teller hands over the last bag of money.  “Now join your friends on the floor and we’ll be out of your way in thirty seconds.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your cooperation,” Ditch announces, gesturing for Mac and I to withdraw.  I mimic Mac’s exit, backing toward the door and keeping the pistol aimed forward at the customers on the floor.

“Go ahead,” Mac tells me as we near one another.  With relief, I turn and run through the doors, then jump into the waiting van.

Mac is right behind me.  When he gestures for the pistol I relinquish it gladly.  Zed revs the engine as the others emerge, and I marvel that the day is still quiet, without sirens.

Then I see the woman between Ditch and Grinder.

“Mac,” I hiss.  “What the hell – a hostage?  Kidnapping, unlawful restraint –”

“Shut up, pre-law,” Mac snaps back.

I shut.  Ditch lifts a hand as if to shove the woman into the van, but his hand stops short as if his intent had been to gesture, to invite her into the vehicle.  I catch a glimpse of her profile as she steps up off the curb; her face is composed, without fear, but there is a hint of something, almost a flavor, of irritation.

As she slides onto the bench behind Zed, Grinder follows her and Ditch swings into the passenger seat as the van starts rolling.  Grinder wrestles with the door against inertia, and as I’m watching her, she’s watching him.

One corner of her mouth lifts just a little, and it seems something sharp and hot sparks through the air around her.

Grinder yelps as the door obeys with a vengeance and catches his fingers between its edge and the frame.

Ditch snaps at him to be quiet while Mac snickers.  I say nothing, and our hostage turns her attention to her hands, examining the well-kept nails as if more concerned about her manicure than her safety.

I also know that I should buckle down and write whether or not I feel like it, whether or not the story is willing to unfold.  But, I don’t.  If I don’t feel it, I just can’t bring myself to thump the keys simply for the sake of word count.  It comes down to a sense that I can’t abuse the trust of the characters that are willing to share their stories with me.  If they aren’t helping me, whatever I write is a lie, and if I lie about them or their adventures, then they have every right to cut me off and leave me uninspired and frustrated.

It is at times a very fragile relationship, but one I am willing to do my best to keep healthy, vital, and productive.  And so far, when I have been true to them, they have been true to me: the proof is in the appreciative comments I get about the work when it is shared.

So, let’s roll …

The story has really taken off, and I found myself surprised at a couple of incidents I totally did not see coming.

My friend SD questioned how I could be surprised by something I am writing.  I didn’t try to explain … but the simple fact is, I never feel like I am inventing.  I *see* the characters, follow their actions, very much like watching a show or reading some one else’s work.  I don’t know what’s going to happen.  I realized earlier I don’t even know the characters as well as I thought I did – not if they can surprise me!

I didn’t get the stuff done here that I wanted to, but I will definitely have it done by (or maybe on…) the weekend … And tomorrow, I am happy to say, I will start posting “A Jinx in the Ecosystem.”

Today, though, I told myself I was going to start fresh and bang out 3000 words no matter how long it took.  After three hours I had more than 3600 words, and looking back over it, I am pleased with what I have.

Soon I’ll have more pages about the Quasiverse and its denizens up here, and will start getting the first Jinx story serial-ed (one of the minor annoyances of being a wordsmith is that the words I smith are not accepted by spell-check; hence, hyphens where no hyphen really belongs).

It’s a very fine feeling when things click merrily along …

And to quote Beetlejuice: “It just keeps getting funnier, every time I see it!”

Many times, a location is not specified in these works; other times, hints are given.  In some cases, the creator does give a region, or an invented town in a real State.  So, being from the Midwest myself, I am particularly fond of those that are set or predominately feature Midwestern locales.

The cradle of the Quasiverse, its heart, is Hooper County, located (of course) in the great American Midwest, named for Tobe Hooper, director of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

In the past there have been counties in the united States named “Hooper,” and there may well be some named so in the future, but at present the only one is the one that is home to that one unlucky place in the Midwest that seems designed to have bad things happen to people … but no matter what the town might call itself, or what state you think you’re in, something in the air – maybe the tone of the screams – lets you know that you are in fact in Hooper County.

Now why, do you suppose, he would be wearing gloves?

Many people might dismiss this with the most obvious answer. Perhaps, like yours truly, he has low blood pressure and relatively poor circulation to his extremities, making a brisk autumn day feel chill enough to warrant gloves to protect his hands.

Or maybe, my writing mind posed, he has no intention of leaving fingerprints behind on his visit to the courthouse. He might even be planning some ruckus or mayhem, possibly even planning to slip some dire weapon into those guarded confines, to commit some crime most foul against another person and against the sanctity of the court itself.

There was no mention in the news later of some glove-wearing assassin wreaking havoc in the courthouse, of course. But that is of no matter to the writing mind: any assassin worth his salt would get in and out unnoticed, and his crime might take days to discover.

And so it goes … most often I am presented with a character, and as I get to know hir the story s/he winds becomes clear, as well as what transpired in hir past to bring hir to this point at present, and the possibilities of hir future.

Often, these characters live in the shadowy fringes, living lives somewhat apart from the rest of us with our normal, sane worries and concerns. They cross our paths now and then, and most of us have little attention to spare for them as they face their challenges and pursue their adventures.

But the writing mind notes them, and in that hazy half-world where fact and fiction meet, they are real – and upon the pages that chronicle their battles, their loves and losses, their determination, and sometimes their deaths, they are more real than those that read of them, and perhaps their lives go on when the writing is done …

In the next few days there is so much work ahead, setting up this new online home for the Quasiverse – but like the writing itself, it is a labor of something very much like love.

I hope to be able to provide a strong point of connection between the Quasiverse fiction and those who enjoy it.  Because, while the writing will go on with or without an audience, the publication of the stories is all about those who seek out what the tales reveal.

In addition to sharing the stories – edited to be appropriate for all audiences – I will also venture into my inspirations for writing.  In addition, I will be adding pages that will give further information about the Quasiverse and those that inhabit it.

Let the adventure begin!