Name: Clara Noir
Occupation: Professional Mime
Height: 5’6″
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Black
Skin: Death metal pale
Outfit: Black and white striped trench coat, black fedora, black leggings, white boots
Description:
Mimetown is a rough-and-tumble neighborhood of the city, with a vibrant culture and cuisine that hides a seedy underbelly. Clara Noir plies her trade in the roughest part of town as she mimes glass boxes and ropes for tips.

Some say that she is involved in other, darker business with Mr. Quiet, the unspoken crime boss of Mimetown. Trouble never seems to be far behind her, and if she knows anything, she ain’t talking.

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“Surely you must, at some level, know that you were wrong,” said Paul. “Seeing what you’ve seen ever since your death.”

“You don’t understand.” The apparition seemed to roil in on itself like a cloud of steam, the faded grey of its corporeal form running and mixing before reforming into the visage of a Confederate officer in ramshackle uniform. “Learning stops with death. All that I am, all that I ever can be, was set before the moment of my demise. No matter what I see–and see I have–I cannot change my beliefs.”

“So you’d just sit here, a rot, like a fungus growing in the damp,” said Paul. “As foul in death as you were in life.”

“What choice do I have?”

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A jawbreaker lies
Uncjewed on the ground, shattered
By the jaws of life

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In the palm of Nä Ti, the Dead Hand
Lies Rait Tirat, the Tomb of the Rebel
He who rebelled against It
Nyir Rvi, murderer of the Creator
Xon Vty, father of the Goblins
The father awaits his children
To give to them purpose anew
And to anoint them with right
And free them of their sins

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Once the transmission ended, Yekaterina made no further log entries. Based on biometric data, it appears that she systematically depressurized all the units of the station except for three: her quarters, the central corridor, and the arboretum.

The cherry trees in the arboretum were in full bloom, and Yekaterina apparently clipped all of their blossoms one by one over the course of the next 36 hours, stopping only to eat food stored in her quarters and to use the bathroom there. Once she was done, she laid out her EVA suit on the bed and filled it with flowers before closing and locking the faceplate.

What telemetry is available suggests that Yekaterina’s next action was to move through the station, pressurizing rooms ahead of her and depressurizing them behind. When she reached the main airlock, she overrode the safety mechanisms with a screwdriver and opened it.

To this day, no trace of her body ahs ever been found, and the reasons for her final actions remain a mystery.

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The Orcs practiced a syncretic religion that was related to the worship of the Creator, as in the Sepulcher of the Creator, but also Muolih the Spreading Darkness, as in the Goblin and Dwarven faiths. Furthermore, many minor spirits were recognized, from ancestors to those posessing trees and streams, though the primary surviving codices note that they all emphasized the paramountcy of the gods of good and evil.

In Orcish, Muolih was called Tirat, the Rebel, while the Creator was called Nyir, which literally means “that which has created.” Their faith was, as a result, sometimes called Nyirtirat, literally “creator-rebel” but more accurately “the rebel and the rebelled against.” It’s important to note, though, that despite commonalities each Orc community and band had its own extremely local interpretation of faith and disagreements up to and including violence were all too common.

Naturally, this changed with the introduction of the Hamurabash by Hamur, which replaced the former religion with a set of ethical and atheistic strictures and emphasizing the memory of departed kin. The bashamalurs who succeeded Hamur were generally successful in eradicating all traces of the former Orcish religion with only a few isolated (and well-fortified) communities harboring so-called taiwa or apostates.

Even as Hamur’s successors agressively spread his message of atheism, equality, ancestral memory, and the militarization of society, there remain significant Orcish ruins in the high desert of the Lrira, predating the Hamurabash, and in many cases even the Sepulcher, deeply carved and embossed with the memory of the old faith.

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Think of the most lauded person you can who isn’t actively a deity. Someone who is pretty unanimously thought of as a moral person and who left a major mark on our world and on Western civilization–but as a ruler, not a philosopher or a religious leader.

You’d be hard-pressed to find someone like that with a better reputation after 1900 years than Trajan, the lucky 13th emperor of Rome.

He was renowned as a builder and a leader, who made more civic improvements to Rome and the empire as a whole than anyone before or since. Trajan was also a military leader who expanded the empire to its greatest extent in history, from the Persian Gulf to Britain. The list goes on; the Senate usually gave emperors titles to comemorate their rule, and for Trajan they simply awarded him Optimus, best. Every subsequent emperor was wished to be felicior Augusto, melior Traiano–as lucky as Augustus and as good as Trajan.

It’s a strange thing, then, that there are almost no surviving sources from his reign: all the relevent books are lost, and all that remains is people writing years or centuries later. Stranger still is the fact that Trajan was also an arch conservative when push came to shove; asked about Christians, he mercifully said that they should be given every opportunity and benefit of the doubt to reclaim paganism. If they still demurred, well, to the lions with them. That little detail bothered medieval and Renaissance theologians so much that they came up with outlandish ways for the centuries-dead emperor to be resurrected, forgiven, and baptized.

But the most interesting detail to me is this: Trajan was never related to any of the emperors that came before him. He was of comparatively humble stock, working his way up from the bottom. His predecessor basically had his arm twisted to adopt Trajan as his heir to retain the support of the army, after all.

It kind of makes one wonder–what sort of man was the “best emperor,” really? The sort of man you’d have a beer with? A standard politician with an unusually astute mind for appearing humble? Or a Pope Francis-like figure who really was humble and able, but whose talents happened to lie in war and the apex of political power rather than religion?

We’ll never know. But Trajan is a fascinating guy all the same.

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I’ve never read or seen The Quiet Earth or On the Beach, both of which have been books and movies.

But their message is nevertheless compelling: the last people on Earth, the last survivors of a physics experiment and a nuclear war respectively, living out their final days in ANZAC. Australia and New Zealand are in many ways an admirable locale for such: isolated yet temperate, distant yet with all the comforts of the First World.

They would be excellent places to live out an apocalypse, if apocalypse come.

So even though I’ve never been there, even though their cost of living is astronomical, even though, even though, even though…I am attracted to the romantic notion all the same. Places distant and safe, civilized and alien.

They seem like places I could live.

New Zealand especially. An isolated microcontinent, diverse in flora and fauna, as far away from Europe as one can get without booster rockets. If ever I fear an apocalypse, I feel like it’s as good a destination as any.

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I think I am mildly allergic to curry powder. It irritates my mucus membranes and makes me feel like I’ve been maced.

I lost a dime-sized chunk of skin on the back of my leg to a necrotic spider or tick bite.

I’m ambidextrous, can write with my left hand, and am right eye dominant. This explains the failure of my archery career.

When I taught college English for a few years, I was younger at 21 than some of my students.

I love movie and video game soundtracks and music with no lyrics or unintelligible lyrics. It lets me plaster my own story over the song.

I once sold a story for a tidy sum to people so secretive they tracked down a Livejournal about it and made me change it.

Finding good bargains at thrift stores gives me a similar high to that most drug users get.

I hope to visit every continent someday. Three left: South America, Australia, Antarctica.

I flunked out of the spelling bee two years in a row for the same word: allegiance. I still can’t get it right and in fact misspelled it while tying this entry (as “allegience”).

I’m a compulsive punner. If I were a superhero, it would be the Pun-isher.

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The first love
Which one? There are
Many firsts
Holding hands in grade four?
Maybe I was just imitating
The girl in seventh grade
The first I noticed
An eighth grader
She was the first
I even considered asking
Or the freshman? I’d known
Her since we were three
I think she’d have said yes
If I ever asked. When she
Asked years later I said
Yes but my mind wasn’t there
At the time, a junior
I only cared for the most
Volcanic crush, the first
To break my heart, the first
To say no

The first kiss
Unconscionably late
Classmates had children
Before I took even that step
Twenty-two and two degrees in
She was from my hometown
Her parents knew mine, though
We never met before
I waited too long, gave an
Awkward hug trying to screw
Up the courage
I kicked me heels in the lot
Afterwards, scarce aware of
The Dear John email a month
Away and the journal, online,
I’d only see years later
Chiding herself for accepting
A kiss from someone she wasn’t
Interested in, critiquing my
Goofy look of satisfaction
Wishing she’d kept her
Lips to herself

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