Entries Tagged 'Game Fiction' ↓

This week, we feature another vignette from Lila’s life, written by our own Ted Ludzik!

Lila drew.

Her father tried to support her creativity. It felt like a good parenting thing to do. But Lila was always so far away when there was a pencil in her small hand.

“Hey, that’s the cottage,” he noticed one time.

“Kinda.” Her eyes were half-lidded. All the energy was in her hand. It skittered from the lollipop-grains of cedar shingles to the ridges of walk-way stepping stones.

“It’s… really good,” he offered.

“Thanks.”

“That’s not the lake though, is it?” His finger motioned to what looked like two giant rivers that crossed in a swirling X at the base of the rough-hewn cottage.

“No.”

Distantly, Lila thought she might make her father and other people feel excluded, lonely even, when she fell into her doodling. But she couldn’t help it. Dad would go back to his model train magazine. Her friends would give her a big “Coleslawyalater!” She always forgot to thank everybody for letting her go.

The crossed rivers on her page had gouged giant chasms in front of the cottage. They both started at their own huge springs of light that frothed like volcanoes, adding to the flow in the rivers. The rivers that created these Chross Chasms, she realized, were her fanciful take on the diagram from her Health and Activity Class. She hadn’t known that the optic nerves actually crossed over one another somewhere between her eyes and brain.

But who sat in the cottage at the crux of these rivers and watched everything that eddied by?

She flipped to a new page. Lila drew a family of three inside the cottage.

Oliver, the father, was bent backed and wizened. He sits on the porch all day long. The porch juts over the convergence of the rivers, precariously supported by randomly nailed struts and planks and even by stray roots of the nearby Family Trees.

Oliver has a pin-cushion’s worth of fishing poles hanging out off the porch: carbon fiber, bamboo, graphite, fiberglass, straightish tree-twigs. They all dangle one or more fishing lines into the rivers below. They jitter and shudder, reacting to every vision that flows over their lures. Oliver watches them all over his walrus-stache, though he never grabs for a single rod, no matter how hard the sights below are nibbling.

His hands are busy, she drew, whittling at cartoon-like speed. Lila’s hands buzzed as she drew the blur of his hands and knife. Sawdust and curly shavings bury his feet.

He whittles what his poles detect in the rivers below, what the rivers carry directly from Lila’s eyes: perfect replicas of iPods and truck tires, or shirt wrinkles and sitcoms on plasma TVs. Oliver could whittle anything: Godzilla breath or the sparkle from a sun showered raindrop. Like everyone, he made mistakes. But he can’t stop to check his work, because the next sight is already bumping against his lures and has to be recorded.

So, he tosses every whittled vision (or Whision) over his shoulder and in through the front door of the cottage…

…to his graceful three-armed wife, Arthura, who weighs and interprets each Whision to help her write her three massive books.

The Book of Nothings: using ink squeezed from the barely visible cobwebs of the silkwurms of southern Lucidon, Arthura records Lila’s failures in life.

The Book of Wishes holds Lila’s wants and desires as penned with a gossamer quill that was once the wing of a Halogenetic Bug.

And Arthura’s most muscular arm records in the largest book of all, The Book of Days. Only the hide of the Crunkled Megasaur is strong enough to bind together the results of all of Lila’s reality.

Of course, the confines of the cottage would soon be stuffed full of Whisions, if Arthura and Oliver’s adopted son Hermacles did not spend his days rapidly corralling huge arm-loads and whizzing them all about the Wurld. Most of his deliveries make it to the vast Libraries to be sorted and filed.

But so great are their number, it’s inevitable that many Whisions are accidentally dropped to become part of the cerebrostratum or given as tokens by Hermacles to his many tavern friends and lady-loves. Some are misunderstood by the Librarians, and flushed through the sewers into the abysses of the Underwurld, where they could merge and mutate or split and shatter, some even gaining a semblance of life.

Lila tired thinking about the activity of the three, momentarily guilt-ridden for seeing so much and making them work so hard every day. Fortunately, she realized, every night when she closed her eyes to sleep, the gushing rivers of vision must dry up completely. The family could rest. The canyons would be empty and dark.

Her hand cramping around her pencil, Lila decided to give the trio a little break and closed her eyes.

This week, I present another concept drawing of one of the game’s locations: Elevon. It is a manifestation of Lila’s ingenuity and logic, populated by gentlemen scientists and their quixotic experimentations. They even have a rocket.

This is a city of science, but a strange mix of it. Retro and bionetic (living machinery) mingle amid the step pyramids upon which buildings are constructed. Exposed gears and pipes peek out of the pyramids and suggest mysterious goings-on. You can never tell with inventors.

Surrounding Elevon’s pyramids is a vast stretch of desert, where only thorny plants and hardy iguanas thrive. Well, there might be more out there, but don’t go exploring unprepared.

Better late than never, they say. It might not be Tuesday, but here’s a little something I wanted to share anyway. (I didn’t mean for that to rhyme, but sometimes… you’ve just got it.)

Behold, the icy shores of Northlook Island!

Ta-ta! Now I must get back to doing secret game design things.

This week, I want to offer another bit of prose by Ted and demonstrate one way that the things in Lila’s outer and inner worlds connect.

In the game, there is a small village where nomads of a certain sort gather. It’s called Jalopy, and although it is a village, it has no true citizens because it’s a common stopping point for a group of nomads that travel with their houses, churches, and shops mounted onto their vehicles. While there, everyone enjoys entertainment by nomadic puppeteers and their giant puppets.

* * *

Dad only calls him by his first name, Jerry. Mom says he’s a modern day hobo. Lila figures “hobo” must be a couch-surfing shower user, because on the rare occurrences he pops up, that’s all Jerry seems to require.

The door bell would ring — this is the era when mom and dad were still together — and dad would usher him into the living room. Mom’s back would stiffen, she’d crisply acknowledge him with a “Hello Jerome”, and then she’d disappear up to the bedroom, returning only once Jerry had disappeared for another 7 or 16 months.

Lila would watch dad and Jerry talk. Man-talk, adult-talk, in low tones. Lila would cast herself far enough away to give them privacy, but still see their faces. Dad’s large, dark eyebrows rising and falling, arching and pressing together; it looked like a woolly bear ballet. Jerry’s face reminded Lila of the neighbor’s basset hound, skinny and saggy. His jowls would wobble with agreement, swing and ripple.

Jerry’s visits perplexed Lila. She sensed that Dad was tickled and glum, all at the same time. When she asked where Jerry came from, Dad would only respond, “Oh he’s a friend from Wayback.” Lila looked in a school room atlas once: Wayback didn’t exist.

Mom was only too unhappy to talk about Jerry. “He’s homeless” “He’s a mooch.” “He’s a smoker.” “Your dad and Jerome went to college together. Jerome was too lazy to get his degree.” “Finish everything you start. Or you’ll be a Jerome too.”

Mom never said anything about Jerry talking to himself, but Lila noticed. He would go outside when he had his cigarettes. Their skin was so bright and clean compared to Jerry’s stubbly tan. The pumpkin-orange tip reflected in his eyes.

He’d gab with a mouth-shaped wrinkle of his trench coat. Or he’d move his toes in his boot and chat with the unglued sole as it flapped up and down. He’d laugh as his gloves danced — the two middle fingers making very convincing legs. He could animate the lips of his poor-boy hat, throw his voice into his breast pocket and make it squelch to a stop when he slid his pack of smokes back in.

He’d mediate arguments between paper bags when they accused their plastic cousins of ruining the environment. Effortlessly, he would create snaggle-toothed ghosts with Styrofoam cups and twigs of wood.

Watching and listening to him, the seams of her skull stretched to bursting with fascination. Lila so wanted to talk to him or his menagerie! But it always felt like she’d be interrupting. Something grandma said gave her the idea: “Never go to a full house empty-handed.”

Lila drew a picture of Jerry and all his friends clustered about him. Wriggling ghosts rose out of the smoke of his cigarette. Smiles and winks hid in the folds of his clothing. Weeds and porch knotholes angled their new-formed ears at him.

She held on to the picture through a Christmas, an Easter, the end of one school year and into the beginning of another. Finally the door-bell rang.

Later that evening, Jerry and a Kleenex-and-plastic-straw creature stopped their discourse about the silliness of baseball when Lila opened the screechy screen door. The Kleenex instantly lost its life and Jerry stubbed out his smoke. He smiled.

Lila gave him the picture. His eyes widened and spread. Grinning.

And from then on, Jerry’s traveling menagerie was eager to include her in their chin-wags. And every time Jerry left — apparently he had many friends with many couches — Lila would draw him more pictures, usually of the stories and descriptions relayed to her by his improvised puppet-friends.

The last time she saw Jerry, her dad hadn’t been home. Mom had Lila’s new “uncle” met Jerry at the door. The tone was terse, low. The sounds Ernest made when he saw another cat through the window. Jerry went away and a month later Mom and Dad split up.

Dad had to move out, so if Jerry had ever came back, well, Lila was sure her mom wouldn’t bother to tell him where Dad had gone. But Lila’s latest pictures, all 24 of them, were waiting.

* * *

You can find the concept art for Jalopy in the gallery.

Today we introduce the official writer of Lila’s fiction: Ted Ludzik.

Writer, actor, and all around really smart guy, Ted has been a tremendous asset to the project since he began collaborating with us about a month ago. Bringing his own style to the game’s world, he’ll weave the words to chronicle Lila’s ups and downs.

So, here we present a short vignette from some of the experimental stories being created to help us define Lila’s life in all its dimensions. In this brief excerpt, Lila is at her grandmother’s funeral reception, which is taking place at her grandmother’s house.

(Disclaimer: the events herein may or may not be in the final canon of Lila’s story. We’re still exploring possibilities.)

Lila hadn’t realized the turmoil that had been roiling under her skin. Like a greasy-backed sea serpent three inches below the surface of an algae choked Sargasso, she had been alone with her frustrated sadness upstairs. In the midst of her “closest” family, she had flailed with a hydra of simmering anger and was befuddled by how she was supposed to act in a never-before-experienced situation. Nobody told her how to do this yet!

But her jaw released and what her dad described as “the only pouting smile on the face of the planet” and “Lila’s lip mushroom!” began to billow up.

With her dad’s butt sticking out of the dishwasher, she couldn’t help but smile.

In his best suit (which was half a decade out of style), he was scooping out small wads of tomato chunks, bloated spaghetti strands and amorphous dollops of dishwasher-digested globs.

“Izzat dinner, dads?”

Startled, Lila’s dad spasmed a little further into the gloom of the washer. Bravely, he clambered back out, his caterpillar thick brows rose in greeting, “Naw, just some maintenance.” He looked almost fondly at the dead food gathered in his hand. He stuck it up towards her, “Unless you’re hungry?”

“Ewgh! I’m all good, thanks.”

He kneeled to standing and shook his hand into the garbage can, then washed the remainder out in Grandma’s white porcelain sink.

Lila talked over the gush of water. “I thought she never used that thing. She was a hand washer, wasn’t she?”

Dad dried his paws on the tattered rag that hung off the oven’s wood-patterned handle. “Yeah. But she was feeling pretty dragged out those last few weeks. Amazed she even had enough mustard to get up and dirty a few dishes.

“How are you doing, pod?”

Pod. His first ever nickname for her. Born before Lila was born; it came from her dad’s favourite veggie from Grandma’s garden and the furious cell-division that was carbonating in his wife’s pregnant tummy. His little pea-pod.

His work as mechanical engineer changed things up occasionally; she was also his “favorite little cog;” when she misbehaved, it was “Spanner;” when she was acting all goofy, she transformed into his “wankle rotary engine.” But now, even as she started to wrangle teenhood by its grade five horns, she retained the “Pod” moniker.

How was she? “Um, I dunno, kinda… empty?”

“I think you did a lot of your, mm, accepting while she was sick,” he said to her, but his eyes were looking through the yellowing lace curtains hanging off the kitchen sink window.

“Is that what it was? I thought I had turned into a drippy snot-machine.” At her dad’s subtle smirk, she asked gently, “Whaddaboutyou? I didn’t see you cry at all.”

The smirk flattened and his pupils suddenly seemed miles deep. Kneeling back to the dishwasher he stated quietly, “Well, like your mom says, ‘We all grieve in our own way.’”

His torso crawled back into the maw of the dishwasher and his elbows began to produce more grease.

And, here’s your weekly concept art: buildings from a city called Experius.