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.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
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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