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jakebe
Hey there, all...
Mr. Charmander wins the prize: a free wooden chicken!
I actually got a new pocketwatch today. :D I'm very proud of it, it's gold and mechanical and oh-so-shiny. It is my precious. :D I've missed having a pocketwatch so much; I'm going to see if the folks at WalMart can fix the 'door' on my other watch. It's a really spiffy one, and I liked wearing it with the right pants.
Got the first assignment for Mustsy done. I'm not very happy with it; it doesn't really do much in the way of interaction, and I think the way the setting is expressed the ideas I wanted to display are handed to you. I'd like to fool around with it a bit more, maybe try to tell the story with dialogue, see what I can bring out of the characters with that.
Dickinson's Funeral Home was a monument to sterile
serenity, and nowhere was that more obvious than the
main viewing room. From the moment you walked through
the oversized doorway your eyes saw nothing but the
most carefully maintained order of perfection. Three
rows of polished oak benches pointed to a platform at
the center of the far wall, on which there was often a
painfully precise floral arrangement, usually
surrounding a casket. To the right, grand windows
opened to a lush, carpeted lawn, a green wall of
shubbery blinding the potential of chaos and traffic
beyond. To the left, a dark brown table holding a
vase of white flowers, a mirror above it making the
vase look more full than it is, and a soft green
curtain that his a smaller room from the casual eye
but was no less elegantly arranged. This is where
they took the hysterical and unrepentant grieving who
threatened the quiet too much with messy sobs and loud
voices.
This is where Joseph Haller, Donald and Van Dickinson
worked every day. They cleaned and fussed and groomed
and plucked to make sure there were no flaws in the
smallest of details. They prepared this room for the
invasion of bodies that came with funerals and
viewings. They changed the flowers, polished and
buffed the benches, washed the windows, dusted the
curtains, pruned dead leaves and flowers and filled
their days with chores and worries that furiously
worked the stillness of the room beyond reproach.
Donald was the unofficial leader of the trio, if only
because he was the most ardent about the work. The
stillness was something that had infected him at a
very young age, and it reflected in his careful, clear
speech and starched clothes. Nothing was too much to
make sure things were just so, and he earned the
half-serious reputation of a slightly bent fanatic
among his peers early on in their respective careers.
He didn't mind this charge; the others were almost as
caring, but they lacked the motivation to express it.
Van must have been adopted. There was no other way to
explain his squat, fat appearance (the other
Dickinsons were tall and thin, like spindle storks,
more appropriately shaped for their line of work), his
jolly, boisterous attitude and the fact that he was as
relaxed about the business as Donald was passionate.
He worked well with people; he knew the right thing at
the right time to make one feel at east with making
arrangements, and he worked out the finances with all
of the delicacy of an international diplomat. He left
the physical image to his other two partners; he was
concerned about the business' soul.
It was unclear whether Joseph, on the other hand, had
any concerns at all. He came at nine, did what he was
told to do for eight hours, and disappeared before the
bells of town square had finished ringing five
o'clock. All conversation was kept to the business,
and he somehow managed to avoid divulging any
information at all about his personal life. The
Dickinson brothers never even knew if he drove a car
or walked to work, but the quiet suited them just
fine. He was a very hard worker, a machine almost,
and it didn't take much to keep his machinery running.
A few months was all it took to get the dynamic
working, but between them they kept the viewing room
as timeless as it needed to be, with enormous effort.
Month after month, year after year, time stalked them
steadily enough to add pounds here, and a wrinkle
there, but the room was held immune from their
imperfection, and as long as there were eyes to see
it, the viewing room's flowers never wilted.
Mr. Charmander wins the prize: a free wooden chicken!
I actually got a new pocketwatch today. :D I'm very proud of it, it's gold and mechanical and oh-so-shiny. It is my precious. :D I've missed having a pocketwatch so much; I'm going to see if the folks at WalMart can fix the 'door' on my other watch. It's a really spiffy one, and I liked wearing it with the right pants.
Got the first assignment for Mustsy done. I'm not very happy with it; it doesn't really do much in the way of interaction, and I think the way the setting is expressed the ideas I wanted to display are handed to you. I'd like to fool around with it a bit more, maybe try to tell the story with dialogue, see what I can bring out of the characters with that.
Dickinson's Funeral Home was a monument to sterile
serenity, and nowhere was that more obvious than the
main viewing room. From the moment you walked through
the oversized doorway your eyes saw nothing but the
most carefully maintained order of perfection. Three
rows of polished oak benches pointed to a platform at
the center of the far wall, on which there was often a
painfully precise floral arrangement, usually
surrounding a casket. To the right, grand windows
opened to a lush, carpeted lawn, a green wall of
shubbery blinding the potential of chaos and traffic
beyond. To the left, a dark brown table holding a
vase of white flowers, a mirror above it making the
vase look more full than it is, and a soft green
curtain that his a smaller room from the casual eye
but was no less elegantly arranged. This is where
they took the hysterical and unrepentant grieving who
threatened the quiet too much with messy sobs and loud
voices.
This is where Joseph Haller, Donald and Van Dickinson
worked every day. They cleaned and fussed and groomed
and plucked to make sure there were no flaws in the
smallest of details. They prepared this room for the
invasion of bodies that came with funerals and
viewings. They changed the flowers, polished and
buffed the benches, washed the windows, dusted the
curtains, pruned dead leaves and flowers and filled
their days with chores and worries that furiously
worked the stillness of the room beyond reproach.
Donald was the unofficial leader of the trio, if only
because he was the most ardent about the work. The
stillness was something that had infected him at a
very young age, and it reflected in his careful, clear
speech and starched clothes. Nothing was too much to
make sure things were just so, and he earned the
half-serious reputation of a slightly bent fanatic
among his peers early on in their respective careers.
He didn't mind this charge; the others were almost as
caring, but they lacked the motivation to express it.
Van must have been adopted. There was no other way to
explain his squat, fat appearance (the other
Dickinsons were tall and thin, like spindle storks,
more appropriately shaped for their line of work), his
jolly, boisterous attitude and the fact that he was as
relaxed about the business as Donald was passionate.
He worked well with people; he knew the right thing at
the right time to make one feel at east with making
arrangements, and he worked out the finances with all
of the delicacy of an international diplomat. He left
the physical image to his other two partners; he was
concerned about the business' soul.
It was unclear whether Joseph, on the other hand, had
any concerns at all. He came at nine, did what he was
told to do for eight hours, and disappeared before the
bells of town square had finished ringing five
o'clock. All conversation was kept to the business,
and he somehow managed to avoid divulging any
information at all about his personal life. The
Dickinson brothers never even knew if he drove a car
or walked to work, but the quiet suited them just
fine. He was a very hard worker, a machine almost,
and it didn't take much to keep his machinery running.
A few months was all it took to get the dynamic
working, but between them they kept the viewing room
as timeless as it needed to be, with enormous effort.
Month after month, year after year, time stalked them
steadily enough to add pounds here, and a wrinkle
there, but the room was held immune from their
imperfection, and as long as there were eyes to see
it, the viewing room's flowers never wilted.
