The passengers of flight DAL649, direct from Atlanta to Boston sat quietly amid the low thundering sound of the plane. Alfred Toram was flying alone for the first time in his life. It was an achievement he thought ridiculous at age thirty two. He was an accountant for a large firm, and would be attending a conference in Montreal over the weekend.

Storytelling is a fantastic medium of expression. It allows one to create whatever they want about whomever they want, without limitation or exception. When I approach a story, there are three aspects of it that I keep in mind: Character, Plot and Story. These are three very separate and distinct concepts, each as important as the others.

Across the street from where Chris and Sam stood, the pedestrian crossing signal turned white. Bundled up against the crisp early winter air, they crossed the street, leaving the dance studio behind and making for the house of pizza that they frequently visited after classes.

Throughout the history of Not So Random, I have done a lot of storytelling. I've also had a lot of ideas regarding how to tell stories correctly. I would like to share some of these ideas.

"I just don't want to get caught with car payments and no job," Jarin explained to his dad, who had wasted no time bringing his son out to look at cars. "A nice car is... nice and everything, but I don't like the idea of having payments that rely on a job that's not real stable, you know?" Jarin was hunched over the window of a Volkswagen bug.

Not So Random has been around publically now for a number of years, passing through numerous iterations of attempts at building a community. Each of these attempts was a learning experience both in code and in culture. Only recently, however, has there been a vaguely cohesive idea about what Not So Random is.

Jarin blearily disembarked the bus the next morning. He was either always more tired whenever he took the bus, or more awake when he drove. Either way, he found himself too tired to consider which it was and instead walked toward the school.

Inside, he immediately knew that the day would be a very interesting Friday. The first thing he noticed was the typical groupings of like-minded students gathered in the lobby during the time before the halls opened for the day. Upon closer examination, he spotted Borad facing Chris and Sam across the lobby, in some form of heated conversation.

The quiet thud of feet on pavement was all but lost beneath the din of rainfall, save for the occasional splash of Mia's shoe in the various puddles collected on the beaten sidewalk. She had a destination, of course, and it was a long walk even without the rain, but the thoughts racing through her mind kept her going. Sarnrei's house, big and warm as himself, was the happiest place on earth as far as she was concerned, and certainly a welcome change from her own home life.

The TV in Mia's living room flickered quietly. It was late, and Mia's mother would be sleeping in the next room.

"Reports continue of unexplained behavior in the residents of the area surrounding the crash site of the international space station earlier this evening," the reporter droned. "While there is no official word on the cause of these phenomenon, current speculation pins post-traumatic stress disorder as the culprit. However, triage centers set up around the area have been overwhelmed with victims of unexplained injuries, some victims claiming to have been nowhere near the site of the accident."

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All things considered, Jarin's parents took the news of the accident quite well.

"Are you ok?" asked his mom, who often said that there were no stupid questions.

"Yes, mom, I'm fine," he said. "I walked home."

I like Tuesdays, don't you?

Well, maybe you don't really, but now you can!

I felt like releasing some more, behind the scenes, work relating to projects I have done in the past, this time it's my world-famous Papyrus animation, depicting the construction of the typeface Papyrus in the setting of ancient...black and white Egypt.

It was two and a half hours of walking before the setting sun saw Jarin to his front door. His parents, glued to the television, had hardly noticed his absence, so he simply walked upstairs to his computer. If he bothered them with the troubles of his accident now, he'd never get away with any time left to examine the file he'd so cleverly copied. He made it, finally. There, at his computer, he knew the answer to his questions was only a few clicks of the mouse away.

Jarin glanced in his rear-view mirror. He did that every time he passed a car on the side of the road, for there was little doubt that he was speeding, and he was well aware of this fact. The speed limit, excruciatingly slow, was thirty five miles per hour, and he was pushing fifty, his mind torn between watching for police cars and thinking about what could possibly be in the file awaiting his return home. His car, a pale blue Toyota Corolla hatchback, flew down the road, speeding past a white car, lights on, sitting motionless in the parking lot of a convenience store. Jarin's stomach lurched and his eyes drifted again to his rear view mirror, but he saw no flashing lights.