National Novel Writing Month

Did I mention that I attempted NaNoWriMo this November?

Trapped in a Flash

It's been a while. I haven't been writing much in terms of stories or poems, but I started another blog, so I'm still writing on and off—just different sorts of things.

I'm starting to feel like I need an outlet for creativity again, though, so I thought it might be time to poke around here a bit. Nothing new to post yet, but I thought I might as well add something I wrote back in March/April for a forum contest:

***

I’m still waiting.

Every morning I wake up with the sun and I think that to myself. Or I think it to you, really. It’s a stupid ritual; it’s not like I believe you can actually hear me. My brain waves don’t telepathically transmit the message to wherever you are, or however that mystical bullshit is supposed to work.

Whatever. It passes the time, and it’s true—I’m still waiting.

I haven’t been lazy, though. I don’t just sit around all day at our rendezvous point, looking down each street for the shape of a human figure. (At least, I don’t any more.) Nah, I've been keeping plenty busy.

In fact, the first thing I’ll do is give you the grand tour. (Well, after the hugging and crying, obviously.) I’m pretty proud of my place. It was slow at first, but I think I might have enough food for next winter. I mean, I haven’t run out of canned stuff yet, but it’s good practice for when I do. And wait ‘til you see the solar panels I scavenged!

So yeah. There’s the garden over here. I got a whole bunch of seeds from a Home Depot the first week or so. I had no fucking clue what to do with them, but that’s what libraries are for, right? That building across the street is a library; I chose this house because of it. Knowledge is power, and all that.

Still, books aren’t everything, so I screwed up my first crop of beans and tomatoes. Some disease, or something. I dunno, it wasn’t very clear, and books aren’t great for diagnosing stuff. No idea what I’ll do if I get sick or injured; I doubt some aspirin and medical textbooks will save me, and you're the one who was studying to be a doctor, not me. But hey, I’ll deal with that if it happens. One step at a time.

Anyway, libraries. Totally the shit, despite my failings. I hope you’ve come across some good ones on your journey here. I’ve learned so much useful stuff. How to hotwire cars, how to collect rainwater, how to shoot.

I’m still not very good at shooting things, though. Sometimes I flinch right before I pull the trigger. But there are plenty of guns in the houses around here, so I’ve got a lot of practice. This rifle is my favorite; I carry it everywhere, just in case. Sounds crazy, since I always hated guns, but I like it ‘cause it saved my life. (I know you love dogs, but I swear it was either him or me. I’m hoping you like me more than a feral dog.)

The bastard was going after my chickens. I could show them to you next—there they are. I made the hutch and the wire cage myself. Easy peasy, once I’d stopped hitting my thumb with the hammer.

But the chickens, man, I was lucky to find them. Some hippie was raising them in a backyard. (Well, I dunno if they were a hippie, but I pretend.) I was out looking for things to use, and I heard this faint whimpering. They don’t always cluck, you know. Sometimes it sounds like whimpering. Anyway, I found them, just scratching around in this backyard. Major jackpot. You should’ve seen me chasing them around; took me what felt like hours to catch them. Bet I looked pretty silly.

So I eat a lot of eggs these days. Fried, boiled, scrambled—I haven’t got the hang of poached yet. My kitchen’s on the porch. Yeah, I know it’s just a fire pit and some pots and pans, but I’m still working on the solar oven. Can’t go post in a web forum asking people what I’m doing wrong anymore. I’ve only got a few diagrams and my vague idea of how it should work to go on.

Still, fire’s good. It’s my heat, my stove, my light. I’ve got these solar panels rigged up now, though, so at night I usually use electric light. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times, when I stare out the windows into the dark street at the dead houses, it’s not.

Night time is the worst, really. It's when the fears and doubts creep in. I wonder if you're really coming. I wonder if I imagined that brief conversation we had as the internet was slowly dying around us, websites disappearing as servers shut down. Everything contracting down to nothing.

Of course, the stars are really beautiful. You know that from wherever you are. When I look at them I wish my sister were here. She wanted to be an astronomer, so my parents bought her all these books and charts and even a telescope. But we lived in the city, so she couldn’t see many stars.

Then I'm glad she isn't here, not because I don’t love her, but because I do.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. The solar panels. I use them for more than just lights. Maybe you’ll think it’s stupid. Here I am, the power grid gone, running out of fuel for things like generators and stoves, and I use the solar panels to listen to music.

It’s amazing, though.

Maybe the first thing I’ll do is put on a CD. You like Led Zeppelin, right? What am I saying, everyone likes them.

Finding chickens was good for my stomach, but finding the solar panels was like a fucking epiphany. I just turned the corner one day and there they were on someone’s roof. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I mean, I knew they existed. But I guess I was still thinking inside the box then. Gardening came to me because of my aunt; I had some experience with it, even if I'm shit at it. But my brain was still stuck in old patterns. Expecting electricity to come to me from distant power plants, seemingly by magic.

Expecting someone to parachute in and rescue me.

But yeah. Something about those solar panels flipped a switch, and suddenly I was all gung-ho about this survival shit. Human race might be doomed, but I'm going out in style.

'Course, I don't actually know that the human race is doomed. Maybe the quarantines worked, the ones they set up just as they realized things were getting bad. About a year ago I thought I heard a helicopter going overhead; could've been imagining it, but maybe some foreigners in bio-suits were taking a look-see.

What would they do with us, I wonder? Kill us to stop its spread, or stick us in labs to see why we didn't die? Either way, I decided after the ghost helicopter that I'd hide inside next time, if there is a next time. Y'know, just in case.

Sorry, I'm probably being depressing and shit. Not a great welcome, is it? “Hi, welcome to hell. But at least we're here together!”

It'll be better once you get here, though. I promise.

Ruth Parsons

I made a Steampunk character a while back for an RPG campaign. I thought I'd take her for a spin.

***

The airship floated into Her Majesty's Naval Base Portsmouth at a quarter past two in the afternoon. Ruth Parsons was summoned to the bridge, and she stepped into the controlled chaos with her carpet bag in one hand and her satchel over her shoulder. The Admiral stood with his back to the bridge and his hands clasped behind him. He stared out past the tarnished brass instruments, surveying the docks and the streets beyond. It was raining, a fine drizzle.

"I wanted to thank you, Miss Parsons. You know how difficult a time my wife and I had finding help on previous expeditions."

"Yes, Admiral Robinson," she replied. "I had heard of such difficulties."

The reason for those very difficulties sidled up to Ruth and tried to slip a gecko into her baggage. She grabbed young Mr. Robinson's wrist and gave him a stern look. He stuck his tongue out at her before dashing away with his little captive.

"And yet you applied for the position of nanny, a position that would take you away from your home an family for over a year." He turned towards her, and Ruth ducked her head.

"I wished to see the world, and my mother felt I would be safer on a Navy expedition. She worries about pirates."

"As well she should." His white eyebrows bristled. "So did you find your adventure?"

Ruth smiled at the slight jesting in his tone. "I believe so, Admiral Robinson."

"Well, then. I wish you luck in whatever adventures you find back here in England, Miss Parsons." He stepped away and Ruth breathed in. "Billy! Say goodbye to Miss Parsons."

One dead tarantula on her shoulder and a quickly-stamped-out firecracker later, and Ruth stepped out into the misty rain. She picked her way down the gangplank gingerly, only breathing again when she was finally on solid ground. The damp was beginning to reach her skin, and she sighed.

"Welcome home, I suppose."

Five Words Poetry

Thought I'd try my hand at another chain poem. In case you don't know, here's the explanation I gave for my previous chain poem blog post:

"There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat!"

***

gin
glade
gorgeous
gallant
slide

The gallant knight strides into the glade
and a snake slides through the green grass
to escape his heavy boots.

In his hand he holds a bottle of something strange,
gin given to him by a gorgeous stranger
who emerged from the light of heaven.

She was clothed in livery not fit for a lady,
but in her beauty he could not mistake her
for a man, and when she spoke he listened.

Odd words, for an odd woman—
time unravelling like a spool of thread
and war in a distant world.

Her smile was weary, her laugh sad,
and she took a swig for her "Dutch courage."
He said he did not understand

And she said it did not matter.

"Come to the glade tomorrow,
come help me win my war."
And so he came.

***

Hm. Interesting.

I hosted a contest on Locution with the same idea a while back, too. My entry:

***

kismet
fuck
chary
gimcrack
ululate

I bob in a kayak
and think about fate.

I don't believe in it.

No karma, no kismet.
No destiny defined by some deity.
We are gimcracks of the universe,
tucked away on a shelf labeled Gaia.
If I were to turn up my head,
ululate at smears of white on blue,
no one would hear
but an alligator at the bank.

I slide by, chary,
the waves from my vessel
lapping at his feet.
Stretched out on a fallen trunk,
he flicks his tail
as if to say,
“Fuck that shit.”

The trill of a woodpecker
echoes over the lake
and a dragonfly lands on my paddle.

Yeah, fuck that shit.

Playing in a Sci Fi Sandbox

For a while I've had this idea for a sci fi story or novel. I'm not ready to work on the specific plot, but I thought I'd explore one of the concepts involved.

***

At first she thought it was strange that she could still feel her body. Why wasn't she simply a drifting cloud of consciousness? But the more she pondered this, the more it made sense. Amputees had phantom limbs after all, the odd sensation of having a limb when it wasn't actually there anymore. Your brain stores a map of your body somewhere, and since her brain patterns had been copied exactly, that map was still there.

It was comforting. Her mind could expand in all directions, view feeds from systems all over the city and all over the world, but she still felt centered in her self. There was no fear of losing who she was.

Of course, there was other strangeness to deal with. Mainly, that she was dead but still conscious. Older citizens were counseled with how to deal with their deaths, but she was only 25. Had only been 25.

The sudden grief made her access a CTV camera at her mother's workplace before she knew what she was doing. It hadn't taken her long to rationalize her perceived corporeality, so her mother hadn't been told yet. There she was sitting at her desk, like the day was completely normal, and she couldn't watch, couldn't see the moment when she got the news—

She cut the feed. The sudden lack of visual input made her head spin, so she let the default simulation run.

A field of poppies. She wondered distantly if the programmer had been a fan of The Wizard of Oz. What could be more calming than a flower that lulls people to sleep?

She reached out a finger to touch one of the deep red petals.

"Like it? Made it myself."

Ekphrasis (continued)

Night Descends on the Mountain with Cyanotype by Hannah Skoonberg

Figured I might as well see where this was going, if anywhere~

***

Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.

Can you hear the crackling of the leaves
as they slink through the brush?
Knife eyes piercing the dim
to find you where you catch your breath—
but now it belongs to the night, doesn't it?—
and vines twine around your arms and legs

Pinned.

Like a butterfly in a case
(but not yet dead and faded)
wings flutter at the glass
as the eyes watch her final spasms.
She cries out into the dark,
but the trees pretend they cannot hear.

***

I think it's hard to continue a poem when you don't know where it was going; the mind leaps in unexpected places. As a result, I don't think this is quite ekphrasis anymore. The print is very peaceful, but this... poem, or whatever it is, isn't.

Ekphrasis

Night Descends on the Mountain with Cyanotype by Hannah Skoonberg

***

Clara slumped against the trunk of a tree and looked up into the darkening sky. The bare branches were black against deep blue, reaching for the first few stars with gnarled and clawed hands

***

Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.

***

I didn't mean to turn that into half a poem, but the alliteration sorta made me do it. It's late, so maybe I'll see where it is going tomorrow.

Apotheosis

I was reading a piece of narrative nonfiction, and came across the word "apotheosis." Not a bad title for something, perhaps?

We'll see:

***

Julie flexed her hands, the leather restraints rubbing her wrists. The light above her was bright, and she squinted at the figure to her right.

"How long is this going to take?"

The needle entered her leg before she realized he held a syringe, and she jerked despite herself. Luckily her legs stayed in place, the straps still tight.

"A while."

Her calf throbbed where she'd been injected, in time with the heartbeat in her ears. A strange heat began to spread from it, like an infection creeping from a cut. As soon as she made the comparison she tried to rid her mind of it. What you thought was important, they said. It could affect the process, thoughts becoming real once you were at the threshold.

Of course, once she'd thought that, Julie remembered the horror stories. People reaching the peak and losing sight of reality, their arms turning to palm fronds or their voices fleeing their bodies.

She heard him move away. "Wait! What if it goes wrong—what do I do?" The door closed behind him with a click.

It felt like an elephant had sat down on her chest. It was too soon for something like that to be actually true, though, so Julie closed her eyes and focused on the way her body pressed into the mattress, the way the cuffs still chafed against her skin, the way the light bled into her closed eyes to make her eyelids red.

Reality would anchor her, and then reality would obey her. She would taste the sweat on her lips and listen to the creaking of floorboards outside the door, and let the burning heat spread through her limbs. The sound of her breath gushing in and out of her lungs roared like a wind, and the faint smell of vanilla candles filled her nose.

Every part of her was full of fire, and she saw herself on the mattress, her face contorted in ecstasy—or was it pain? Her mouth opened in a gasp, her brow furrowed, her body thrashed against the leather straps, and she decided pain made more sense. Julie leaned over herself and put her hand on her cheek, tracing the tears.

She wondered how mortals dealt with such pain. How could something so solid be so fragile and easily broken?

Her hand drifted to her mouth, the mouth. It was pitiful to see herself like this, just the same as always. Julie had never realized how weak she had been.

The body tried to breathe, chest moving in vain, but her hand was too strong. Its hands scrabbled at the sheets, frantic spiders. The body shuddered, then fell still.

Julie moved away and stopped. She looked back at the shell, a collection of matter in an untidy heap. She turned, and stepped into everywhere.

***

So apparently this is what comes out of my brain when it is late at night and I should be sleeping. Pretty rough, but interesting~

Cracking the Code

I clicked in the title box for this post, and as often happens Chrome supplied a list of things I've typed before. It seemed pretty random, pulling in previous blog post titles and search queries. One of them was "Cracking the Code," so I decided to keep it and write something that fit it.

I don't think I've ever chosen a title before I've written something; usually it's one of the last things I think up. Not sure how it'll work, but here goes...

***

Her computer recognized a few of the sequences—mostly cuttlefish genes to do with pigmentation and camouflage. Cyen knew that already, though. It was the other sequences, the ones spliced and diced so many times the computer couldn't match them to anything in the genetic database, that interested her. Those were what made the gen mod work. Those were what would make her the money she needed.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. And yet every buyer she'd talked to hadn't been interested. The patch was useless without the specimen, they said. Never mind that there was enough information here to fuel years of research, or that its mere existence was proof of the Chameleon project.

A rat skittered by her foot, and Cyen yelped. Fucking things. It disappeared into the darkness of the abandoned warehouse, and she pulled up her knees to her chest. Rain dripped through the ceiling somewhere, a steady rhythm, and she closed her eyes against her temporary home.

Those clandestine meetings with company and crime syndicate representatives who told her a specimen was "essential" rose up to the surface. It wasn't the failure that bothered her, or the fact she'd had one in her grasp and let it slip away. It was simply that word. Specimen.

Every time she heard them speak in such clinical terms, she remembered the man she'd left behind in her gen tat parlour, trapped in the DNA resequencer as the government stormed the building. Telling herself there had been no way to help him, that he would have died if she'd tried to take him out before the process was complete, didn't help any more.

She could have done something.

***

Hm, so it has turned into a brief continuation of a very old story. Makes me wonder if I should go back and edit it...

Ah, to once again return...

I'm still alive~ If someone is actually reading this, you probably talked to me fairly recently and already know that I am alive, but it bears repeating. One day it won't be true.

Wow, that's a fucking depressing start. Guess that's what I get for neglecting my blog for so long~

I've been writing a bit on and off. A few poems, a short story or two, mostly for the few contests we've had at the Locution forums. Still going to college, still working. Did I mention I was working? Wow, it's been that long. Recap: I got a part time job. Money is good. Working can be fun. Oh, and I went to England for the first time in 6 years in May.

Busy busy.

Anyway, I've been feeling the need to write lately, so I've decided to start updating this blog more regularly again. We'll see how long it lasts. :D

Bit too tired to churn out something new, so I think I'll post some clichéd snippets I've written the past week. Maybe if I get it out of my system, something original will turn up~

***

The lights in the sky came on a Tuesday night. I remember that bit well. On Tuesdays my daughter had soccer practice, and her muddy cleats were sitting by the door when I stepped out onto the porch.

I talk about the lights, but actually it was the humming that was first. A low sound, resonating inside my head. When it started I thought it was my damn ears again—they do strange things when the weather changes. Ringing, dizziness, that sort of thing. But my dog Sassy heard it too. Her ears pricked up and she looked all around the room.

So I opened the door and walked outside. And there they were. Pale blue, bright red, lime green. Strange dots hovering and darting around the sky above our neighborhood.

Now I know what you're thinking. I've thought it too, lots of times. But I've seen meteors before. Got up early to watch the Leonids with my parents when I was twelve. I know what meteors look like, and these weren't them. I don't live by an airbase, either. No experimental aircraft about. Not many normal aircraft either, come to think of it.

I suppose I could have imagined it. But whenever I think that, I remember how Sassy reacted. Shot straight past me to the middle of the yard, then barked at the sky until they left. I don't think she'd humor a hallucination of mine like that, do you?

***

Never use credit cards. That was an important rule. A credit card could be traced, and even if you used it only once it could betray you, become a small piece of the map that leads them to you. Always steal cash or food or clothes. Leave the plastic.

Never threaten violence, either. She didn't want to hurt anyone, of course, but even just a threat was bad. Threats got noticed. Better to slip a wallet from a banker's jacket pocket without him feeling a thing.

That was another rule. She only took from people who could afford it. Not quite Robin Hood, but even he probably kept a bit for himself on the side. He was hunted by the Sheriff, after all, living the life of a fugitive in the forest, like her.

Well, not like her. The analogy fell down there, too. She was hiding under bridges, in sewers, in alleys, not amongst the leaves. And as for the Sheriff—a shadowy government agency was also a bit different from the Robin Hood stories her mum had told her.