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.

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~

***

geyser
filament
schist
strata
oblique

The geyser erupts
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

***

beer
origami
nevertheless
bondage
cinnamon

We linger by the beer
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

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.

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~