“You know, Obadiah, you’re really too much of a gadget freak to work security.”
“And you’re a Luddite, Bill. What’s your point?” Obadiah did not bother to look up from his laptop to answer the older security guard on duty with him tonight. A complicated array of cords, boxes, and connectors ran across the table between the monitors and Obadiah’s laptop.
“I just don’t see the point of all this. You can simply watch the screens.” Bill grumbled.
“You can watch the screens, Bill. I’m working on my final project for my computer science class,” Obadiah explained patiently, silently thinking that his project was far more interesting than one for any class.
Bill grunted, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Want anything from the snack machine?”
“No,” Obadiah paused before adding, “Thanks, though.” With everything connected, he settled back in his seat to watch the monitors. “Excellent timing,” he muttered to the empty room, “But the guts of this pair!”
He wasted only a moment shaking his head at the figures that appeared on the screen showing the interior of the capital dome. A few clicks and several keystrokes later, the monitor showed footage of the capital dome Obadiah had captured earlier in the week. The current scene was transferred instead to a video file on his laptop.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Obadiah's Journey (chapter 1)
This story began as a very "innocent" scene between two nameless individuals. But when Jada gave me multiple suggestions for character names...well, you'll see how Obadiah hijacked my innocent storyline. And I hope you'll follow along to see where he takes us.
The door clicked shut behind Violet, blocking out the light from the stairwell and leaving her in darkness. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. She walked forward carefully, one hand gently tracing the bookshelf beside her.
At the end of the row, she turned and paused again. Here, a dim light filtered through sheer curtains that covered a rare floor-to-ceiling window. The pale light revealed rank upon rank of library shelving that she knew to be basic metal shelves capped with wood to add elegance. She reached for one, tracing the metal fixture with its paper inset describing the books stored in the row.
This side of the library was rarely visited. A researcher could find any of the millions of published cases far easier on Westlaw or Lexis. These books, each differently colored series representing a section of the country, were a memorial to a time long past. In daylight, she would think these books better stored, if at all, in the stacks, for all the floor-space they took up in the high ceilinged, formal library. But at night, they had a certain magic, each row filled with a uniform series in a slightly different color.
She walked forward, her pace still measured and slow. She passed another window, pausing only a moment to consider this new array of books before continuing on.
A flash of the gold-foil on the Atlantic Reporter caught her eye, revealed by the light from the window just ahead. Her step stuttered. He had promised to meet her here, where an internal column interrupted the shelving. For some inexplicable reason, the space had been filled with a round table and chairs on one side of the column and a stuffed chair on the other. No one used this little study spot, hidden away in never accessed books, even during the day.
The door clicked shut behind Violet, blocking out the light from the stairwell and leaving her in darkness. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. She walked forward carefully, one hand gently tracing the bookshelf beside her.
At the end of the row, she turned and paused again. Here, a dim light filtered through sheer curtains that covered a rare floor-to-ceiling window. The pale light revealed rank upon rank of library shelving that she knew to be basic metal shelves capped with wood to add elegance. She reached for one, tracing the metal fixture with its paper inset describing the books stored in the row.
This side of the library was rarely visited. A researcher could find any of the millions of published cases far easier on Westlaw or Lexis. These books, each differently colored series representing a section of the country, were a memorial to a time long past. In daylight, she would think these books better stored, if at all, in the stacks, for all the floor-space they took up in the high ceilinged, formal library. But at night, they had a certain magic, each row filled with a uniform series in a slightly different color.
She walked forward, her pace still measured and slow. She passed another window, pausing only a moment to consider this new array of books before continuing on.
A flash of the gold-foil on the Atlantic Reporter caught her eye, revealed by the light from the window just ahead. Her step stuttered. He had promised to meet her here, where an internal column interrupted the shelving. For some inexplicable reason, the space had been filled with a round table and chairs on one side of the column and a stuffed chair on the other. No one used this little study spot, hidden away in never accessed books, even during the day.
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