I felt like writing a poem. It did not turn out the way I wanted, but when do they? I feel like showing the progression, so here's how it developed.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
rooms silent in the calm of a new day.
I tiptoe across the wooden floors
and imagine the person who lives here.
Tracing my fingertips along empty shelves
I wish I knew what books belonged.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
I trace my fingers along empty shelves
and try to imagine the person
who lives here, the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.
There is no clue to this stranger's mind,
no hint to their heart,
and I wonder if I'll know her when we meet.
Will she know me?
***
Stranger
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.
***
It is about the future, and how your future self can feel like a stranger. I think. Too much like prose-with-line-breaks, probably, but practice nonetheless~
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
E·EXCHANGE
It's five months into 2012, so it's probably about time I posted something, eh?
Rough idea I came up with way too late at night. Maybe a story, maybe not. It's something~
***
The building sat on the corner of Powers and 21st. It was a small, squat thing, one storey with tinted windows. The sign above the door proclaimed E·EXCHANGE in bold red. The X was missing a half—it looked like a "less than" sign from math class.
Matt ducked through the doorway, the door's bell jangling as it snapped shut behind him. A woman in a grey suit sat behind a desk in the front; behind her stretched a hallway with curtained booths on either side.
"Buying or selling?" she asked.
He stepped closer and coughed. "Uh, selling."
She started typing into her computer. "Name?"
"Matt Johnson."
The keys clattered. She paused and looked up at him, somehow peering down her nose through rimless glasses. He figured she was about 23, maybe just out of college, working here before she found something better. She studied what he knew were rings under his eyes before turning back to the computer screen. "One unit."
"Wait!"
She looked up sharply, and Matt winced at how loudly that had come out. Her finger hovered over the number pad.
"Two, please." One would barely cover food, and there was the rent—
She hit a key. "Two units. Booth four, please."
A red number hung above each booth, swinging on wires from the dirty ceiling. He pushed open the grey curtain and sat in one of the chairs.
He waited.
The first buyer was a girl in her late teens. Choppy haircut, brown with pink tips. Heavy backpack that thudded when she slung it onto the floor next to her seat. A student, probably come from an all-nighter. Tonight would be another one, no doubt.
She slumped into the chair and without glancing at him started hooking up her fingertips to the machine Matt had been avoiding acknowledging for the past ten minutes. A metal box with only one button, it stood on spindly legs bolted to the floor. Cables with tiny electrodes, or sensors, or something, streamed out of a hole. Five red wires for him, five blue wires for her.
The girl was finally looking at him. No, staring, impatient. He started and grabbed the red wires, sticking their ends onto the fingers of his right hand.
He'd only just attached the last one when she smacked the button with the palm of her hand. Matt's head fell back as the energy drained from him. It was over in seconds, but by the time he'd managed to raise his head again the chair across from him was empty.
Matt didn't bother removing the wires. He told himself it was because it was faster to just leave them on for the next buyer, but really he wasn't sure if he could move his arm.
The Energy Exchange Guidelines always said to eat something between units and never sell when you're tired, but the exchanges stopped giving out free snacks years ago. And if he'd had food—Matt smiled, a twitch of his mouth—well, he wouldn't be here.
He drifted a while, not bothering to check his watch.
Rough idea I came up with way too late at night. Maybe a story, maybe not. It's something~
***
The building sat on the corner of Powers and 21st. It was a small, squat thing, one storey with tinted windows. The sign above the door proclaimed E·EXCHANGE in bold red. The X was missing a half—it looked like a "less than" sign from math class.
Matt ducked through the doorway, the door's bell jangling as it snapped shut behind him. A woman in a grey suit sat behind a desk in the front; behind her stretched a hallway with curtained booths on either side.
"Buying or selling?" she asked.
He stepped closer and coughed. "Uh, selling."
She started typing into her computer. "Name?"
"Matt Johnson."
The keys clattered. She paused and looked up at him, somehow peering down her nose through rimless glasses. He figured she was about 23, maybe just out of college, working here before she found something better. She studied what he knew were rings under his eyes before turning back to the computer screen. "One unit."
"Wait!"
She looked up sharply, and Matt winced at how loudly that had come out. Her finger hovered over the number pad.
"Two, please." One would barely cover food, and there was the rent—
She hit a key. "Two units. Booth four, please."
A red number hung above each booth, swinging on wires from the dirty ceiling. He pushed open the grey curtain and sat in one of the chairs.
He waited.
The first buyer was a girl in her late teens. Choppy haircut, brown with pink tips. Heavy backpack that thudded when she slung it onto the floor next to her seat. A student, probably come from an all-nighter. Tonight would be another one, no doubt.
She slumped into the chair and without glancing at him started hooking up her fingertips to the machine Matt had been avoiding acknowledging for the past ten minutes. A metal box with only one button, it stood on spindly legs bolted to the floor. Cables with tiny electrodes, or sensors, or something, streamed out of a hole. Five red wires for him, five blue wires for her.
The girl was finally looking at him. No, staring, impatient. He started and grabbed the red wires, sticking their ends onto the fingers of his right hand.
He'd only just attached the last one when she smacked the button with the palm of her hand. Matt's head fell back as the energy drained from him. It was over in seconds, but by the time he'd managed to raise his head again the chair across from him was empty.
Matt didn't bother removing the wires. He told himself it was because it was faster to just leave them on for the next buyer, but really he wasn't sure if he could move his arm.
The Energy Exchange Guidelines always said to eat something between units and never sell when you're tired, but the exchanges stopped giving out free snacks years ago. And if he'd had food—Matt smiled, a twitch of his mouth—well, he wouldn't be here.
He drifted a while, not bothering to check his watch.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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."
***
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."
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
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!"
***
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:
***
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.
"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!"
***
ginThe gallant knight strides into the glade
glade
gorgeous
gallant
slide
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:
***
kismetI bob in a kayak
fuck
chary
gimcrack
ululate
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.
Monday, June 20, 2011
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."
***
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.
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.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
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.
***
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.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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~
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~
Monday, June 6, 2011
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...
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...
Friday, June 3, 2011
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
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.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Gosh, I have a blog!
I really should come by here more often. ;)
Life's going well--my summer classes will be coming to an end soonish, and I have a job prospect, provided things work out. Exciting stuff!
I've been really enjoying my literature class. The book we're using is very interesting, and I keep dipping into it and reading little sections. (It's easier than starting and finishing a book, unfortunately.) My favorite thing lately was a comparison of two versions of the same story. It was fascinating to see what the author changed, and I had fun trying to figure figure out why he edited the things he did.
Interactive Fiction has also been taking up a lot of my time lately. I'm slowly working my way through the manual for Inform 7, which is a language for writing IF. At some point I'd like to start writing my own stories; I have an idea for one, but I'll probably try some simpler things first. There are so many things to consider, it honestly seems more complicated than writing a novel!
I haven't been writing much, but in the past few days I've written some very rough poems on the Locution forums. 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! Anyway, here are my contributions so far~
***
between the closet and our bed.
Somewhere underneath the floor
words collected, letters pushing
serifs tangling corners grinding
until the pressure was too much.
Lexical shrapnel.
When the steam dissipates
there are no words left.
(You have left as well.)
I pick at the carpet around the crater,
pull up strips and dig into our lives.
Follow the filament of thought
inward and down,
past the strata studded with artifacts.
Chopsticks from dinner last Wednesday,
six of hearts from poker two weeks ago,
the napkin you scrawled 836 3098.
I scrape the dirt, dust off the fragments,
peer at oblique angles,
but cannot see when the schist fractured,
when two planes separated and fell apart
***
behind its glass doors, chilling
and you ask what I'd like for dinner
I tell you I wish I was an origami crane
fold me a thousand times
and I would soar
escape the bondage of gravity
the weight of these limbs
the fog in my mind
You smooth my creases
sharp as they are
and blow breath into me
Nevertheless, you say
we need to eat tonight
I grab a squat jar of cinnamon
a bag of rice, a box of raisins
we will have something
that tastes of farawayland
and later dream of flying
Life's going well--my summer classes will be coming to an end soonish, and I have a job prospect, provided things work out. Exciting stuff!
I've been really enjoying my literature class. The book we're using is very interesting, and I keep dipping into it and reading little sections. (It's easier than starting and finishing a book, unfortunately.) My favorite thing lately was a comparison of two versions of the same story. It was fascinating to see what the author changed, and I had fun trying to figure figure out why he edited the things he did.
Interactive Fiction has also been taking up a lot of my time lately. I'm slowly working my way through the manual for Inform 7, which is a language for writing IF. At some point I'd like to start writing my own stories; I have an idea for one, but I'll probably try some simpler things first. There are so many things to consider, it honestly seems more complicated than writing a novel!
I haven't been writing much, but in the past few days I've written some very rough poems on the Locution forums. 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! Anyway, here are my contributions so far~
***
geyserThe geyser erupts
filament
schist
strata
oblique
between the closet and our bed.
Somewhere underneath the floor
words collected, letters pushing
serifs tangling corners grinding
until the pressure was too much.
Lexical shrapnel.
When the steam dissipates
there are no words left.
(You have left as well.)
I pick at the carpet around the crater,
pull up strips and dig into our lives.
Follow the filament of thought
inward and down,
past the strata studded with artifacts.
Chopsticks from dinner last Wednesday,
six of hearts from poker two weeks ago,
the napkin you scrawled 836 3098.
I scrape the dirt, dust off the fragments,
peer at oblique angles,
but cannot see when the schist fractured,
when two planes separated and fell apart
***
beerWe linger by the beer
origami
nevertheless
bondage
cinnamon
behind its glass doors, chilling
and you ask what I'd like for dinner
I tell you I wish I was an origami crane
fold me a thousand times
and I would soar
escape the bondage of gravity
the weight of these limbs
the fog in my mind
You smooth my creases
sharp as they are
and blow breath into me
Nevertheless, you say
we need to eat tonight
I grab a squat jar of cinnamon
a bag of rice, a box of raisins
we will have something
that tastes of farawayland
and later dream of flying
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Still alive~
The 750 words experiment was interesting while it lasted. Which wasn't very long, but who cares~
I found it actually wasn't very good for creative writing. For some reason I got stuck writing journal entries. That was different, since I've never been one to write in journals, but it got boring fairly quickly.
While I may have been neglecting this blog, I have been writing some posts for Locution's Blog. We've got a pretty snazzy schedule going, where people post every two weeks. I'm enjoying rambling about things, although I need to stop being so silly and perfectionist~ (What's new, eh?)
Otherwise I haven't been writing much, although I'm currently trying to edit some poems I've got knocking around. It's fun and frustrating at the same time, if that makes sense. ^_^
I wrote this quick thing last Friday night at one in the morning. It was partly prompted by the Locution blog post I wrote that day.
***
I carve the sand with cupped fingers and wait for balls of tar to fill the moat. Not too far away a pelican cannot fly, its feathers heavy while I build the tower higher. I squeeze a wet clump into a spire, a beak pointing at the sky. It crumples under the weight.
Damn sand.
***
I'm not sure what it is. A prose poem, a piece of micro fiction? It's certainly odd, but I kinda like it.
I found it actually wasn't very good for creative writing. For some reason I got stuck writing journal entries. That was different, since I've never been one to write in journals, but it got boring fairly quickly.
While I may have been neglecting this blog, I have been writing some posts for Locution's Blog. We've got a pretty snazzy schedule going, where people post every two weeks. I'm enjoying rambling about things, although I need to stop being so silly and perfectionist~ (What's new, eh?)
Otherwise I haven't been writing much, although I'm currently trying to edit some poems I've got knocking around. It's fun and frustrating at the same time, if that makes sense. ^_^
I wrote this quick thing last Friday night at one in the morning. It was partly prompted by the Locution blog post I wrote that day.
***
I carve the sand with cupped fingers and wait for balls of tar to fill the moat. Not too far away a pelican cannot fly, its feathers heavy while I build the tower higher. I squeeze a wet clump into a spire, a beak pointing at the sky. It crumples under the weight.
Damn sand.
***
I'm not sure what it is. A prose poem, a piece of micro fiction? It's certainly odd, but I kinda like it.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Haizea Inon
More 750 Words. Very rough.
***
That bitch stole my name. Haizea Inon. I can tell you've heard of her. Of course you have. Everyone in this gods-forsaken country has heard of Haizea Inon, the girl mage, scourge of Duke Ochoa, fighter for the people.
Bitch.
When it was my name it was just Haizea Inon. No pretentious titles, no fame, no ballads or stories, no whispered, hopeful rumors. That suited me just fine.
I met the bitch three years ago in a pub called The Marksman. It's far away from here, in the capital. Have you been? Good-- don't bother, Arriol isn't worth the journey. The Marksman was like the rest of that hole, filthy and dank and depressing.
She was sitting at my table. Our table. I told her to move. Ander Bakar, my partner, told me I was being mean to the "poor lass." She did look poor, hair falling out of her braid, dirt on her clothes and smudging her cheeks. She looked lost. I noticed, since my job means I have to notice things, but I didn't like the way Ander said "poor lass," and so we bickered.
At some point I said his name, and he said mine, and there was a gasp. We'd nearly forgotten about her. She looked from me to him and back to me again. "You're Haizea Inon?" she asked.
No one knew my full name. Not even Ander. My family name was my secret, and I hid it to hide my past. My given name I kept close to me as well. In my line of work it doesn't do to be well-known. A famous thief is a thief hanging with a noose around her neck.
If I had been the murdering type I'd have lured her to a back alley and slit her throat. Don't look at me like that. I said "if." I didn't murder. It made things messy, and I'd seen how it complicated jobs.
'Course, the girl didn't know that. So I pulled out my knife, and in that dim corner of The Marksman I held its sharp edge to where her heartbeat fluttered at her throat. Oh, I've wished many nights since then that I'd cut it.
"Never say that name again," I said. Very threatening it was. Her face was pale and she shook on her seat. And Ander took her side, eyes wide.
She was half his age! Ander and I had a past, and yet he sided with this little chit. I left her cowering in the corner and walked out. He was slow to follow, which should have warned me. The bitch already had him.
The day earlier we'd acquired an amulet. Magic, of course. Powerful, too. I wasn't interested in what it could do, though, only how much gold it could get me in the next fiefdom over. Ander wanted to stay longer in Arriol. He said we could use the amulet ourselves, do something about that silly Duke of theirs. It was his home fiefdom, and he had a sentimentality about it.
I'd been considering it. Sooner or later he would get bored, I thought. We could move on to new jobs, and things would stay like they had always been. But now. Now someone knew my name. I didn't know how, but I wanted the hell out of town.
She followed us. I was walking briskly, Ander trailing behind. "We're leaving," I said. He asked what about the Duke, and then she appeared at his elbow.
"You can't leave! You have to fight the Duke!" she said.
Who was she to tell me what I should do? Bitch. Anyway, long story short, I left that night, and Ander stayed with her. It was doomed to failure, and I figured he'd get what he deserved. Figured they both would.
You going to drink that? Thanks. God, this stuff tastes like shit. Barkeep! Where the hell is he...
Anyway, I left. Good riddance, right? But then I heard rumors. People were talking about me. Haizea Inon. There were wanted posters with my name on it. Not my face, though. Her face.
Do you know what it feels like to have your name stolen? I could have been her. I would have stayed.
***
I'm not really sure about this piece. It started off well, or at least different, which I like. Different is good. It loses something in the middle. Ah well.
It's a weird experiment based on a time travel fantasy I wrote a while back. A girl named Maia goes back in time only to find she has to fulfill the role of her hero, Haizea Inon. In the short story there was no original Haizea Inon, but here I started playing around with an idea--that Haizea Inon is a thief who would never have done the things Maia knew her hero to do, and Maia is forced to take her place in history.
So, yeah. Messed around with second person a bit, and trying to inject bitterness into things, as well as unreliable narrator (Haizea would never have stayed.) It didn't go in the same direction as it did when I was writing it in my head, but oh well~
***
That bitch stole my name. Haizea Inon. I can tell you've heard of her. Of course you have. Everyone in this gods-forsaken country has heard of Haizea Inon, the girl mage, scourge of Duke Ochoa, fighter for the people.
Bitch.
When it was my name it was just Haizea Inon. No pretentious titles, no fame, no ballads or stories, no whispered, hopeful rumors. That suited me just fine.
I met the bitch three years ago in a pub called The Marksman. It's far away from here, in the capital. Have you been? Good-- don't bother, Arriol isn't worth the journey. The Marksman was like the rest of that hole, filthy and dank and depressing.
She was sitting at my table. Our table. I told her to move. Ander Bakar, my partner, told me I was being mean to the "poor lass." She did look poor, hair falling out of her braid, dirt on her clothes and smudging her cheeks. She looked lost. I noticed, since my job means I have to notice things, but I didn't like the way Ander said "poor lass," and so we bickered.
At some point I said his name, and he said mine, and there was a gasp. We'd nearly forgotten about her. She looked from me to him and back to me again. "You're Haizea Inon?" she asked.
No one knew my full name. Not even Ander. My family name was my secret, and I hid it to hide my past. My given name I kept close to me as well. In my line of work it doesn't do to be well-known. A famous thief is a thief hanging with a noose around her neck.
If I had been the murdering type I'd have lured her to a back alley and slit her throat. Don't look at me like that. I said "if." I didn't murder. It made things messy, and I'd seen how it complicated jobs.
'Course, the girl didn't know that. So I pulled out my knife, and in that dim corner of The Marksman I held its sharp edge to where her heartbeat fluttered at her throat. Oh, I've wished many nights since then that I'd cut it.
"Never say that name again," I said. Very threatening it was. Her face was pale and she shook on her seat. And Ander took her side, eyes wide.
She was half his age! Ander and I had a past, and yet he sided with this little chit. I left her cowering in the corner and walked out. He was slow to follow, which should have warned me. The bitch already had him.
The day earlier we'd acquired an amulet. Magic, of course. Powerful, too. I wasn't interested in what it could do, though, only how much gold it could get me in the next fiefdom over. Ander wanted to stay longer in Arriol. He said we could use the amulet ourselves, do something about that silly Duke of theirs. It was his home fiefdom, and he had a sentimentality about it.
I'd been considering it. Sooner or later he would get bored, I thought. We could move on to new jobs, and things would stay like they had always been. But now. Now someone knew my name. I didn't know how, but I wanted the hell out of town.
She followed us. I was walking briskly, Ander trailing behind. "We're leaving," I said. He asked what about the Duke, and then she appeared at his elbow.
"You can't leave! You have to fight the Duke!" she said.
Who was she to tell me what I should do? Bitch. Anyway, long story short, I left that night, and Ander stayed with her. It was doomed to failure, and I figured he'd get what he deserved. Figured they both would.
You going to drink that? Thanks. God, this stuff tastes like shit. Barkeep! Where the hell is he...
Anyway, I left. Good riddance, right? But then I heard rumors. People were talking about me. Haizea Inon. There were wanted posters with my name on it. Not my face, though. Her face.
Do you know what it feels like to have your name stolen? I could have been her. I would have stayed.
***
I'm not really sure about this piece. It started off well, or at least different, which I like. Different is good. It loses something in the middle. Ah well.
It's a weird experiment based on a time travel fantasy I wrote a while back. A girl named Maia goes back in time only to find she has to fulfill the role of her hero, Haizea Inon. In the short story there was no original Haizea Inon, but here I started playing around with an idea--that Haizea Inon is a thief who would never have done the things Maia knew her hero to do, and Maia is forced to take her place in history.
So, yeah. Messed around with second person a bit, and trying to inject bitterness into things, as well as unreliable narrator (Haizea would never have stayed.) It didn't go in the same direction as it did when I was writing it in my head, but oh well~
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
750 Words, and Talking Trees
I've been remiss in my New Years Resolution, but for the past 5 days I've been taking part in 750 Words. I've been mostly treating it like a journal, so it doesn't produce much creative writing, but the statistics aspect is pretty interesting, even if it is a bit unsophisticated.
I was going the writing on my hard drive today and found this. I don't know where I was going with it, but I'm going to see where it takes me now.
***
"Come on, Mandy!" Elise tugged at Mandy's hand as she led her down the path towards the woods. Mandy followed behind obediently, wondering what her little sister's imagination had conjured up this time.
"What are you taking me to see? Are the fairies back?" she asked. Last summer Elise had invented a fairy community in the woods near their village. They had visited it almost every day, trying to catch a glimpse of a delicate wing tip or an acorn hat or a tiny footprint.
"No, silly; those weren't real." Elise stopped and turned around to look up at Mandy. She was frowning, obviously put out that Mandy had not realized this earlier.
"Oh," said Mandy, at a loss. At fourteen she knew there were no such things as fairies, but Elise had believed in them so she had always played along. When had Elise shed that illusion?
"Well, what have you found now?"
Elise grinned, pulling her hand free. She ran to the trees, shouting back, "You'll see!"
Mandy caught up with her just as the path became littered with leaves. She took her cue from Elise, and they both proceeded cautiously into the cool shade. Their tip-toeing feet made little noise on the tamped down earth, and the birds were quiet. The stillness struck her as odd and unease prickled up Mandy's spine, but she shook it off.
The path wound between the trees, taking them further into the dimness. A breeze began to blow through the canopy, and the rustling of the leaves reminded Mandy of people whispering. She was startled when Elise spoke, echoing her thoughts.
"The trees are talking," she said, her voice hushed.
"What are they saying?"
Elise paused, then stepped off the path. She strode up to the nearest tree, a beech, and stopped before it. She reached around the trunk as if she were hugging it, and Mandy had to stifle a laugh; Elise's arms didn't even make it halfway around its girth. Elise glanced back reproachfully and put her finger up to her lips before resuming her position, one ear against the smooth bark.
At first, nothing happened. Mandy stood watching, and Elise stood listening, and the branches swept back and forth above them. After a minute or so, however, there was a change, and the gentle swishing of the tree tops became louder as the wind grew stronger. The roar swelled not unlike the sound of waves crashing on the beach; it rose then fell, only to rise again. Unnerved, Mandy picked her way through the scrub to Elise’s side. The young girl's face was scrunched up in concentration, eyes screwed shut.
"Elise. I think we should go," Mandy said, raising her voice over the roar.
Elise opened her eyes. "But they're talking!" She went to put her head back against the trunk, but Mandy grabbed her arm.
"Not now, Elise! There must be a storm coming; we have to get home!"
"But—"
"Not now!" Her heart thumping in her chest, Mandy pulled Elise away from the tree and back to the path. Twigs reached for their clothes and Mandy stumbled on a root.
Elise twisted in her grip, digging her heels into the earth. "Mandy, no!" Above them tree limbs whipped into a fury, and a branch crashed to the ground a few feet from them. Trees groaned as they leaned in the wind, and it felt as if Mandy's breath was being stolen from her lungs.
Pushing and pulling, Mandy dragged Elise along the path a few feet at a time, her sister flailing, yelling. Tears ran down the girl's face, and Mandy looked away, fear clawing at her throat. Leaves rained down on them, so thick Mandy couldn't see the sky. She batted at them with her hand, nearly at the edge of the wood—
And Elise yanked her arm free.
The screaming wind stopped at once. Mandy stood gasping as the final leaves fluttered to the ground around her. Her ears rang in the silence. "Elise? Elise, where are you?" She stumbled in a circle, the tree trunks a blur.
"Elise!"
Mandy ran back into the trees, her shuddering breaths loud in her ears. She reached the beech in less than a minute, but no one was there. "Elise?"
A great sigh rustled the boughs of the trees, and Mandy froze. In between the roots of the tree, where Elise had been standing with her ear to the bark, was a sapling. Its leaves waved in the breeze before falling still.
***
Bleh. I hate it when I have an ending in mind, but I don't manage to do it justice. Guess that's what editing is for, right?
I was going the writing on my hard drive today and found this. I don't know where I was going with it, but I'm going to see where it takes me now.
***
"Come on, Mandy!" Elise tugged at Mandy's hand as she led her down the path towards the woods. Mandy followed behind obediently, wondering what her little sister's imagination had conjured up this time.
"What are you taking me to see? Are the fairies back?" she asked. Last summer Elise had invented a fairy community in the woods near their village. They had visited it almost every day, trying to catch a glimpse of a delicate wing tip or an acorn hat or a tiny footprint.
"No, silly; those weren't real." Elise stopped and turned around to look up at Mandy. She was frowning, obviously put out that Mandy had not realized this earlier.
"Oh," said Mandy, at a loss. At fourteen she knew there were no such things as fairies, but Elise had believed in them so she had always played along. When had Elise shed that illusion?
"Well, what have you found now?"
Elise grinned, pulling her hand free. She ran to the trees, shouting back, "You'll see!"
Mandy caught up with her just as the path became littered with leaves. She took her cue from Elise, and they both proceeded cautiously into the cool shade. Their tip-toeing feet made little noise on the tamped down earth, and the birds were quiet. The stillness struck her as odd and unease prickled up Mandy's spine, but she shook it off.
The path wound between the trees, taking them further into the dimness. A breeze began to blow through the canopy, and the rustling of the leaves reminded Mandy of people whispering. She was startled when Elise spoke, echoing her thoughts.
"The trees are talking," she said, her voice hushed.
"What are they saying?"
Elise paused, then stepped off the path. She strode up to the nearest tree, a beech, and stopped before it. She reached around the trunk as if she were hugging it, and Mandy had to stifle a laugh; Elise's arms didn't even make it halfway around its girth. Elise glanced back reproachfully and put her finger up to her lips before resuming her position, one ear against the smooth bark.
At first, nothing happened. Mandy stood watching, and Elise stood listening, and the branches swept back and forth above them. After a minute or so, however, there was a change, and the gentle swishing of the tree tops became louder as the wind grew stronger. The roar swelled not unlike the sound of waves crashing on the beach; it rose then fell, only to rise again. Unnerved, Mandy picked her way through the scrub to Elise’s side. The young girl's face was scrunched up in concentration, eyes screwed shut.
"Elise. I think we should go," Mandy said, raising her voice over the roar.
Elise opened her eyes. "But they're talking!" She went to put her head back against the trunk, but Mandy grabbed her arm.
"Not now, Elise! There must be a storm coming; we have to get home!"
"But—"
"Not now!" Her heart thumping in her chest, Mandy pulled Elise away from the tree and back to the path. Twigs reached for their clothes and Mandy stumbled on a root.
Elise twisted in her grip, digging her heels into the earth. "Mandy, no!" Above them tree limbs whipped into a fury, and a branch crashed to the ground a few feet from them. Trees groaned as they leaned in the wind, and it felt as if Mandy's breath was being stolen from her lungs.
Pushing and pulling, Mandy dragged Elise along the path a few feet at a time, her sister flailing, yelling. Tears ran down the girl's face, and Mandy looked away, fear clawing at her throat. Leaves rained down on them, so thick Mandy couldn't see the sky. She batted at them with her hand, nearly at the edge of the wood—
And Elise yanked her arm free.
The screaming wind stopped at once. Mandy stood gasping as the final leaves fluttered to the ground around her. Her ears rang in the silence. "Elise? Elise, where are you?" She stumbled in a circle, the tree trunks a blur.
"Elise!"
Mandy ran back into the trees, her shuddering breaths loud in her ears. She reached the beech in less than a minute, but no one was there. "Elise?"
A great sigh rustled the boughs of the trees, and Mandy froze. In between the roots of the tree, where Elise had been standing with her ear to the bark, was a sapling. Its leaves waved in the breeze before falling still.
***
Bleh. I hate it when I have an ending in mind, but I don't manage to do it justice. Guess that's what editing is for, right?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Taking a Stab at Poetry
First up is the prose-with-line-breaks-masquerading-as-poetry I wrote for a contest on Locution to do with clichés.
***
Love is Blind
Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.
His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.
I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,
how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.
I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!
No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.
Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.
It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.
***
I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:
***
Climbing up the Walls
You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.
I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.
***
I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.
***
Love is Blind
Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.
His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.
I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,
how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.
I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!
No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.
Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.
It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.
***
I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:
***
Climbing up the Walls
You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.
I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.
***
I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
DMV
Prompt: write about something boring.
The something boring: standing in line.
***
Derek was glad his phone had Tetris, because otherwise he might have killed a few people out of boredom already. He briefly imagined a game of Tetris played with contorted human corpses as he slotted a square into place before realizing the thought was probably morbid. His roommate Brian was a a psych major, and he was always going on about Derek's supposedly morbid outlook on life. Said it wasn't healthy, or whatever.
He felt a bit justified at the moment, though. Standing in line at the DMV had the atmosphere of a funeral combined with a shipwreck. Desperation and the consuming urge to get the fuck out while there were still lifeboats left tempered with the heavy, paralyzing weight of inevitability you feel when faced with the cruel fact of mortality.
Yeah... better to focus on the Tetris game. Derek mashed the buttons, trying to find a place for an L-shaped block. Damn thing was the wrong type of L. He ran out of time and swore as it plopped down ungracefully, leaving several spaces empty but inaccessible.
Many, many people into the distance, someone called, "Next!" The murmur of the crowd rose slightly as a wave of shuffling moved from the front to the back of the line. A space opened up in front of Derek in his peripheral vision, and he moved forward without taking his eyes off the little screen. He was never going to fix those empty spaces now; the higher the pile got, the harder it was to maneuver.
GAME OVER. Derek sighed and glanced at his watch before starting a new game. Twelve twenty--he had class in an hour, and this line was taking forever. Maybe he could grab a sandwich on the way back to campus. Which was more likely to get him in trouble with Professor Miles, he wondered. Falling asleep from hunger, or trying to eat a sandwich sneakily. Sounded like a no-win situation, really.
Why didn't they have more people at the desks, anyway? It was lunchtime, the time when people ran out of their cubicles and classrooms to do all the things they couldn't do while working. If the DMV people had any sense, they'd have more people working during lunch hours. Which, come to think of it, explained why they didn't.
Derek frowned at his cell phone and wished that all the people there were gone. Then at least he could grab something to eat before trying to wrap his head around derivatives that afternoon.
Another space opened up in front, and Derek stepped forward, still preoccupied with Tetris. No back appeared in his vision, so he kept going. Finally, people were actually moving--about time.
He didn't realize how far he'd walked until he bumped right into the counter. Letting out a grunt of surprise, he finally looked up from his game. Turning around, he took in the cramped office space. There was no one there. No old man arguing with a harried worker about the results of his eye test, no spotty teenager getting his pictures taken, no woman talking loudly into her bluetooth headset.
"What the fuck?"
***
Bad ending. Well, it doesn't have an ending. Hm...
Apparently strange things occur to me when I'm really tired and should be falling asleep. (contorted corpse Tetris game? O.o)
The something boring: standing in line.
***
Derek was glad his phone had Tetris, because otherwise he might have killed a few people out of boredom already. He briefly imagined a game of Tetris played with contorted human corpses as he slotted a square into place before realizing the thought was probably morbid. His roommate Brian was a a psych major, and he was always going on about Derek's supposedly morbid outlook on life. Said it wasn't healthy, or whatever.
He felt a bit justified at the moment, though. Standing in line at the DMV had the atmosphere of a funeral combined with a shipwreck. Desperation and the consuming urge to get the fuck out while there were still lifeboats left tempered with the heavy, paralyzing weight of inevitability you feel when faced with the cruel fact of mortality.
Yeah... better to focus on the Tetris game. Derek mashed the buttons, trying to find a place for an L-shaped block. Damn thing was the wrong type of L. He ran out of time and swore as it plopped down ungracefully, leaving several spaces empty but inaccessible.
Many, many people into the distance, someone called, "Next!" The murmur of the crowd rose slightly as a wave of shuffling moved from the front to the back of the line. A space opened up in front of Derek in his peripheral vision, and he moved forward without taking his eyes off the little screen. He was never going to fix those empty spaces now; the higher the pile got, the harder it was to maneuver.
GAME OVER. Derek sighed and glanced at his watch before starting a new game. Twelve twenty--he had class in an hour, and this line was taking forever. Maybe he could grab a sandwich on the way back to campus. Which was more likely to get him in trouble with Professor Miles, he wondered. Falling asleep from hunger, or trying to eat a sandwich sneakily. Sounded like a no-win situation, really.
Why didn't they have more people at the desks, anyway? It was lunchtime, the time when people ran out of their cubicles and classrooms to do all the things they couldn't do while working. If the DMV people had any sense, they'd have more people working during lunch hours. Which, come to think of it, explained why they didn't.
Derek frowned at his cell phone and wished that all the people there were gone. Then at least he could grab something to eat before trying to wrap his head around derivatives that afternoon.
Another space opened up in front, and Derek stepped forward, still preoccupied with Tetris. No back appeared in his vision, so he kept going. Finally, people were actually moving--about time.
He didn't realize how far he'd walked until he bumped right into the counter. Letting out a grunt of surprise, he finally looked up from his game. Turning around, he took in the cramped office space. There was no one there. No old man arguing with a harried worker about the results of his eye test, no spotty teenager getting his pictures taken, no woman talking loudly into her bluetooth headset.
"What the fuck?"
***
Bad ending. Well, it doesn't have an ending. Hm...
Apparently strange things occur to me when I'm really tired and should be falling asleep. (contorted corpse Tetris game? O.o)
Monday, January 11, 2010
Tycos
Harriet's calves burned as she plodded up the dune. Why the hell was she here? Even on paper Tycos looked inhospitable. Absolutely freezing at the poles, made of nothing but rock and sand in the so-called temperate zones--it was a wonder anything at all could live on this god-forsaken planet. But no, she just had to jump at the first extraterrestrial opportunity that came along.
A momentary lapse of concentration and Harriet's foot slipped out from underneath her. She swore. Damn dunes. They got increasingly unstable the more tired you were just to spite you. Jerome might laugh, but she knew they did.
Reaching the top, she at last caught sight of the base. Harriet half-ran, half-skidded down the slope, an avalanche of sand following her. At the bottom she looked back at the trail she'd carved in the dune, knowing she'd get teased for her inelegance if anyone had been watching. Oh well. At least she no longer somersaulted down the things.
The base sat in an ancient, dried-up lake bed, its small metal pods connected by enclosed walkways clustering around their ship. As she trekked closer, Harriet could see that sanddrifts were already forming on the wind-ward sides of the pods. Someone would have to clear that soon, or they'd be completely buried during the next storm.
Harriet sighed. Just another perk of being stationed on Tycos.
A momentary lapse of concentration and Harriet's foot slipped out from underneath her. She swore. Damn dunes. They got increasingly unstable the more tired you were just to spite you. Jerome might laugh, but she knew they did.
Reaching the top, she at last caught sight of the base. Harriet half-ran, half-skidded down the slope, an avalanche of sand following her. At the bottom she looked back at the trail she'd carved in the dune, knowing she'd get teased for her inelegance if anyone had been watching. Oh well. At least she no longer somersaulted down the things.
The base sat in an ancient, dried-up lake bed, its small metal pods connected by enclosed walkways clustering around their ship. As she trekked closer, Harriet could see that sanddrifts were already forming on the wind-ward sides of the pods. Someone would have to clear that soon, or they'd be completely buried during the next storm.
Harriet sighed. Just another perk of being stationed on Tycos.
Friday, January 8, 2010
What She Missed the Most
She missed waking up next to him the most. Cocooned in a warm pocket under the duvet, limbs tangled, drool on the pillow. They'd occupied that in-between place, where you're left with only fleeting images of dreams but have yet to remember the plates in the sink or the report due at work. It was that small space of time she missed, the moments before he had rolled over and whispered, "Fancy a quick one?" in her ear, or rolled the other way and got out of bed to slip on his jeans, or she threw back the covers to let the shock of cold air wake her.
It wasn't that she hadn't enjoyed the quickies, the way she felt hurrying into the office a little late, a smile tugging at her lips. The comfortable silence as she watched him dress, shooting a smile over his shoulder as he walked out the door, well, she had liked that, too. Even his protests on those mornings she had shucked the duvet were familiar, and therefore missed.
She didn't know why she missed the waking up the most, although she imagined it had something to do with that pang she felt each morning when she moved her arm and found the other side of the bed was empty.
***
Sometimes you just have to write something clichéd.
It wasn't that she hadn't enjoyed the quickies, the way she felt hurrying into the office a little late, a smile tugging at her lips. The comfortable silence as she watched him dress, shooting a smile over his shoulder as he walked out the door, well, she had liked that, too. Even his protests on those mornings she had shucked the duvet were familiar, and therefore missed.
She didn't know why she missed the waking up the most, although she imagined it had something to do with that pang she felt each morning when she moved her arm and found the other side of the bed was empty.
***
Sometimes you just have to write something clichéd.
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