Time to write!
I'm writing in orange because IT IS HALLOWEEN!!!! YAY!
I want to inform you that I actually wrote for almost a whole hour today. However, to read any of what I wrote, you'll have to check out the newest chapter of Protector.
https://www.fanfiction.net/story/story_preview.php?storyid=6763798&chapter=1
The link is right there, see, so you have no excuse not to read it. You also can't accuse me of not writing tonight because chapter 32 is the longest one yet, at actually over double the length of any other chapter so far. And I love it.
So if the idea of Lucius Malfoy carving pumpkins intrigues you, go read it. Right now. Just click on the link.
Have a safe and happy Halloween!!
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The Snatchifaun
Time to write!
Disclaimer: I did not want to write this. I was extremely disturbed by it. But my roommate said I should do it. And I realized that sometimes stories just need to be disturbing. So here we are.
It seems like every culture has some sort of monster that children hear about and learn to fear at a young age, only to learn it was all nothing but a story. In Russia Babushka Babayaga haunted the dreams of the young, and in Norway children believed that trolls were real. In the town of Whit Send, there were legends about a terrible creature called the Snatchifaun. The Snatchifaun was part witch, part goat, and part ogre. She was unreasonably large, had the legs of a goat, the arms of a man, a nose like a rotting banana, and a large sack in which she put the children she found on her nighttime walks. Once you were caught by the Snatchifaun, that was that. You were taken home to her hut in the forest where you were eaten, live, on a bed of leafy greens.
Trilda, Randy, Gibson, and Hobb were all afraid of the Snatchifaun, Trilda and Hobb most of all.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, Hobb would die of fright afore he ever got sprinkled on her ter'ble salad!" Gibson declared Thursday afternoon.
Even though Miss Reelis, their teacher, didn't approve, many of the children talked about the Snatchifaun during their lunch break. They'd take their aluminum pails outside and sit on the steps. Then they'd trade apples and sandwiches for homemade cookies and wedges of cheese and they would tell one another stories of the Snatchifaun.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, they'd eat Randy first!" Hobb replied, poking Randy in the tummy.Randy was the plumpest of the children, but with his head of white-blonde hair his weight merely made him seem cherubic, especially at only seven years of age.
"If the Snatchifaun ever comes," Trilda said with great deliberation, "She won't catch me. I won't let her eat me."
Trilda spent a great deal of time thinking about the Snatchifaun. Her older brothers, Horris, Dorran, and Reggie, had told her many stories of the Snatchifaun, so many that Trilda knew she would never let that dreaded beast get her. She was afraid, all right, but her fear motivated her to planning.
Disclaimer: I did not want to write this. I was extremely disturbed by it. But my roommate said I should do it. And I realized that sometimes stories just need to be disturbing. So here we are.
It seems like every culture has some sort of monster that children hear about and learn to fear at a young age, only to learn it was all nothing but a story. In Russia Babushka Babayaga haunted the dreams of the young, and in Norway children believed that trolls were real. In the town of Whit Send, there were legends about a terrible creature called the Snatchifaun. The Snatchifaun was part witch, part goat, and part ogre. She was unreasonably large, had the legs of a goat, the arms of a man, a nose like a rotting banana, and a large sack in which she put the children she found on her nighttime walks. Once you were caught by the Snatchifaun, that was that. You were taken home to her hut in the forest where you were eaten, live, on a bed of leafy greens.
Trilda, Randy, Gibson, and Hobb were all afraid of the Snatchifaun, Trilda and Hobb most of all.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, Hobb would die of fright afore he ever got sprinkled on her ter'ble salad!" Gibson declared Thursday afternoon.
Even though Miss Reelis, their teacher, didn't approve, many of the children talked about the Snatchifaun during their lunch break. They'd take their aluminum pails outside and sit on the steps. Then they'd trade apples and sandwiches for homemade cookies and wedges of cheese and they would tell one another stories of the Snatchifaun.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, they'd eat Randy first!" Hobb replied, poking Randy in the tummy.Randy was the plumpest of the children, but with his head of white-blonde hair his weight merely made him seem cherubic, especially at only seven years of age.
"If the Snatchifaun ever comes," Trilda said with great deliberation, "She won't catch me. I won't let her eat me."
Trilda spent a great deal of time thinking about the Snatchifaun. Her older brothers, Horris, Dorran, and Reggie, had told her many stories of the Snatchifaun, so many that Trilda knew she would never let that dreaded beast get her. She was afraid, all right, but her fear motivated her to planning.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Mati and Rory
Time to write!
Matilda and Gregory were best friends, and were, as most boy-girl best friends turn out to be, at least slightly in love with one another. Of course, nothing could be so simple as to allow them to merely court and then have an eventual happy marriage. For, as is so often the case, Gregory was not of the same social class as Matilda. And, in keeping with the cliche, Matilda was in fact the daughter of an important town official who would never dream of giving up his only daughter to a cobbler's apprentice of unknown origin.
Matilda had become Gregory's friend partly because they were of such different social statuses. As a Counselman's daughter, she found herself attending many different parties, conventions, and other social events. At each of these events it was the expectation that she would be dressed fabulously and shoes were no exception. Her father's wealth meant that Matilda rarely had to leave the manor where she lived, so when she was to have new shoes made, or old shoes mended, or a certain pair of shoes slightly changed and dyed another color to match a new dress, the cobbler and his apprentice would pay her a call at home.
Gregory and Matilda had been nine and eight years old, respectively, the first time they'd met. At this time, Gregory, an orphan who had already spent many years learning his place, had an acute awareness of the class difference between them, but Matilda was ignorant of any such differentiation between them. After being greeted by the cobbler, Max Stuffins, she'd dropped him a quick curtsy then said, "My name's Matilda, but I like Mati. Who are you?"
"Gregory, Miss Matilda," Gregory had murmured shyly.
"No, I don't like Gregory at all." Matilda had stated, shaking her head. "That sounds like a butler's name."
"Is there another name that would please you, Miss Matilda?" Gregory asked, a little taken aback.
"Rory. It's like Gregory, but much nicer." The way Matilda said it was very matter of fact. She continued, "And I think we shall be great friends."
When Matilda Merriworth declared something, it almost always was so. And so Mati and Rory were great friends. It was that way, because she thought it should be.
oh the suspense...?
Matilda and Gregory were best friends, and were, as most boy-girl best friends turn out to be, at least slightly in love with one another. Of course, nothing could be so simple as to allow them to merely court and then have an eventual happy marriage. For, as is so often the case, Gregory was not of the same social class as Matilda. And, in keeping with the cliche, Matilda was in fact the daughter of an important town official who would never dream of giving up his only daughter to a cobbler's apprentice of unknown origin.
Matilda had become Gregory's friend partly because they were of such different social statuses. As a Counselman's daughter, she found herself attending many different parties, conventions, and other social events. At each of these events it was the expectation that she would be dressed fabulously and shoes were no exception. Her father's wealth meant that Matilda rarely had to leave the manor where she lived, so when she was to have new shoes made, or old shoes mended, or a certain pair of shoes slightly changed and dyed another color to match a new dress, the cobbler and his apprentice would pay her a call at home.
Gregory and Matilda had been nine and eight years old, respectively, the first time they'd met. At this time, Gregory, an orphan who had already spent many years learning his place, had an acute awareness of the class difference between them, but Matilda was ignorant of any such differentiation between them. After being greeted by the cobbler, Max Stuffins, she'd dropped him a quick curtsy then said, "My name's Matilda, but I like Mati. Who are you?"
"Gregory, Miss Matilda," Gregory had murmured shyly.
"No, I don't like Gregory at all." Matilda had stated, shaking her head. "That sounds like a butler's name."
"Is there another name that would please you, Miss Matilda?" Gregory asked, a little taken aback.
"Rory. It's like Gregory, but much nicer." The way Matilda said it was very matter of fact. She continued, "And I think we shall be great friends."
When Matilda Merriworth declared something, it almost always was so. And so Mati and Rory were great friends. It was that way, because she thought it should be.
oh the suspense...?
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Some Quick Thoughts
Time to write!
So...I promised. I did promise that I'd continue my story about being Branded. And I thought about that story today while I was in my English 201 class, therefor missing part of the class discussion about the Romans in preparation for the Aeneid. Joy. But then I watched Return of the King tonight and now it's late and I have so many thoughts about what makes writing so beautiful. It's this amazing mix of characters and plot. A truly spectacular author must master the balance between emotion and action, believability and fantasticality. I did just make those words up. And you know what? I'm not sure if I will ever really be that great of a writer. I don't doubt to tear myself down, I just realize that the minds which created Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings are minds which are few and far between. Lord of the Rings and Pride and Prejudice, in my opinion, are two of the most influential books ever written. They provide such templates for story telling, that patterns from one of them can be found just about anywhere you look. Writing is amazing, because the authors we love create worlds which we wish we could live in and characters whom we deeply care for. I was sobbing tonight over Sam and Merry and Pippin. I sob over Batman. I sob over Doctor Who. Characters and emotions which transcend the world the author places them in and comes into yours...that's what writing is about.
Pretend this is part of the Branded stuff. It's gonna be cool and I'm gonna continue.
So...I promised. I did promise that I'd continue my story about being Branded. And I thought about that story today while I was in my English 201 class, therefor missing part of the class discussion about the Romans in preparation for the Aeneid. Joy. But then I watched Return of the King tonight and now it's late and I have so many thoughts about what makes writing so beautiful. It's this amazing mix of characters and plot. A truly spectacular author must master the balance between emotion and action, believability and fantasticality. I did just make those words up. And you know what? I'm not sure if I will ever really be that great of a writer. I don't doubt to tear myself down, I just realize that the minds which created Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings are minds which are few and far between. Lord of the Rings and Pride and Prejudice, in my opinion, are two of the most influential books ever written. They provide such templates for story telling, that patterns from one of them can be found just about anywhere you look. Writing is amazing, because the authors we love create worlds which we wish we could live in and characters whom we deeply care for. I was sobbing tonight over Sam and Merry and Pippin. I sob over Batman. I sob over Doctor Who. Characters and emotions which transcend the world the author places them in and comes into yours...that's what writing is about.
Pretend this is part of the Branded stuff. It's gonna be cool and I'm gonna continue.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Branded
Time to write!
Many children had nightmares the last few nights before the branding. The older kids all said it was extremely painful, and the adults affirmed that the branding completely determined the rest of your life. You couldn't marry someone who wasn't of the same Brand. You couldn't even talk to them, unless they were a lower Brand than you, and most didn't. Brands didn't mix. This was the rule, and there were people to enforce it.
I was struck with this idea. loved it. then remembered I still have to read 5 scenes of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Joy. On the real, writing this tomorrow.
Many children had nightmares the last few nights before the branding. The older kids all said it was extremely painful, and the adults affirmed that the branding completely determined the rest of your life. You couldn't marry someone who wasn't of the same Brand. You couldn't even talk to them, unless they were a lower Brand than you, and most didn't. Brands didn't mix. This was the rule, and there were people to enforce it.
I was struck with this idea. loved it. then remembered I still have to read 5 scenes of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Joy. On the real, writing this tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Jupitress
Time to write!
Your main character must be from another planet.
Citizens from Earth are funny creatures. They have these far-fetched concepts of what constitutes a "person" and what elements are necessary to sustain a living being. Furthermore, the idea of beings on other planets completely terrifies them. Where I come from, we are more than aware of those inhabiting the other planets in our solar system, and generally we do not fear them.
Where you come from I trust you would believe life in Jupiter to be impossible. The construction of the planet is undoubtedly not what scientists from Earth would call "solid" or "livable". To you, the idea of anyone living on a planet made of gas might seem ridiculous.
Keep in mind though that everything which you call solid is still mostly empty space. "Gas" is just even more excited molecules, with even more empty space. That's what we're made of on Jupiter. I can stand on what to Earth dwellers deem merely "air" and I can walk straight through what they would swear is impenetrable.
Despite the advantages of the Jupitrans over Earthlets, we are by no means the most powerful creatures in the universe. We have our own kinds of terrors and monsters, the likes of which dwell only in your science-fiction, or in the dreams you are glad you cannot remember when you wake up. Living in this galaxy with an absolute awareness of everything that is out there is no easy burden to bear, but it gives us so much the advantage to defending the peace-loving species here from those of a more malignant strand. This is why in the year 921 the elders from all of the Aeralien Ginorms - what human astronomers would commonly call the Gas Giants - met in counsel and formed the Aeralien Alliance and Task Force, a sector of which is the InterSpecies Militia.
My father served in the InterSpecies Militia from the time he was eligible until the time of his death, for almost 356 years. This may seem like a very long time to some species, but my father was only 45 when he was killed in conflict, leaving me an orphan, alone on the military base.
I really want to continue this, but it's late. I want feedback. :) This is my first ever attempt at anything even vaguely science-fiction, so be understanding.
Your main character must be from another planet.
Citizens from Earth are funny creatures. They have these far-fetched concepts of what constitutes a "person" and what elements are necessary to sustain a living being. Furthermore, the idea of beings on other planets completely terrifies them. Where I come from, we are more than aware of those inhabiting the other planets in our solar system, and generally we do not fear them.
Where you come from I trust you would believe life in Jupiter to be impossible. The construction of the planet is undoubtedly not what scientists from Earth would call "solid" or "livable". To you, the idea of anyone living on a planet made of gas might seem ridiculous.
Keep in mind though that everything which you call solid is still mostly empty space. "Gas" is just even more excited molecules, with even more empty space. That's what we're made of on Jupiter. I can stand on what to Earth dwellers deem merely "air" and I can walk straight through what they would swear is impenetrable.
Despite the advantages of the Jupitrans over Earthlets, we are by no means the most powerful creatures in the universe. We have our own kinds of terrors and monsters, the likes of which dwell only in your science-fiction, or in the dreams you are glad you cannot remember when you wake up. Living in this galaxy with an absolute awareness of everything that is out there is no easy burden to bear, but it gives us so much the advantage to defending the peace-loving species here from those of a more malignant strand. This is why in the year 921 the elders from all of the Aeralien Ginorms - what human astronomers would commonly call the Gas Giants - met in counsel and formed the Aeralien Alliance and Task Force, a sector of which is the InterSpecies Militia.
My father served in the InterSpecies Militia from the time he was eligible until the time of his death, for almost 356 years. This may seem like a very long time to some species, but my father was only 45 when he was killed in conflict, leaving me an orphan, alone on the military base.
I really want to continue this, but it's late. I want feedback. :) This is my first ever attempt at anything even vaguely science-fiction, so be understanding.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Time to write!
This isn't your typical story, where the girl somehow gets transported back in time, feels helpless for awhile, makes a whole bunch of social mistakes, makes a friend with a high class lady, and falls in love with the nineteenth century hunk. Those girls go back in time and immediately start worrying about how they're going to get home again. Those girls try to blend in, to be a part of the system until they can somehow return. Those girls meet some Mr. Darcy or a knight in shining armor and realize they never want to leave. Then those girls are inevitably just as swiftly transported back into their own time, where they meet a modern day parallel of their man. This aspect even more than time travel disproves these stories entirely.
But you see, this is my story. This isn't one of those teeny-bopper feel good stories that makes you laugh and makes you cry and wish that YOU TOO could go back in time so that next week the love of your life will approach you in high school, complete with Mr. Rochester mannerisms, and an innate tendency to wear boots without looking gay.
This is my story, and I'm not one of those girls. Because when I went back in time, I realized I had so much the advantage. I had history and the developments of the future on my side, and I realized I didn't have to blend in. I could change the world. Heck. Forget changing the world. I could rule it.
***
Before you go off and label me as inherently evil, I guess I should pin the blame on someone else, and say this all boils down to my love for old Marvel comics. In the comic books you have two kinds of characters. You have those who try to blend in despite having incredible powers, and therefore cover their faces whenever they're fighting. They're big into secret identities and have weird rules about only ever putting the villains in jail, or allowing the villains to do something dumb that leads to their ultimate demise. Then there are the characters who are like "Yo. I'm here. Deal with it." Ironman definitely falls into this category, but my favorite example here is Loki.
When Thor falls to earth he finds normal clothes and learns how to function in society. Then Loki comes down. Bam. Completely unapologetic, green cape, random gold horned helmet, the works. And I say good for you, man.
If there's one thing Junior year taught me, it's that being ashamed of who you are or trying to be someone else isn't going to make you any more popular or suddenly help you have friends.
If there are two things Junior year taught me, the other would be that justice in this world really is only a mere concept, an ideal we can aspire to, but something we'll never fully reach. Bad things happen to good people and nothing actually fixes it. Sure, in stories it happens. In movies. In the heads of all delusional girls.
Many people, too many people, go home from school and tell themselves that tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow is the day for making friends. Tomorrow is when that guy will finally notice that those other girls aren't as nice or as smart.
It's a pretty idea, really it is, but its naive.
So after Junior year I decided it was over. I'm not going to be Peter Parker anymore. I'm going to be Tony Stark. I'm going to reveal my face and say "What the heck. Yep. I'm Ironman." Except I'm not really Ironman, but the imagery remains. I'm going to march in wearing that awkward Loki helmet like it's the coolest piece of armory ever conceived and I'm going to own it.
This was my philosophy going into Senior year, but when I suddenly found myself in nineteenth century London, the same concept applied.
There I was, wearing black skinny jeans and black leather boots, a yellow and red t shirt and a black leather jacket and instead of darting off to the nearest clothing shop where I could trade my foreign garments for a petticoat and bloomers, I put on my sunglasses and smiled.
Because this was my Loki moment.
I was Tyra Rizmont, and I was going to take over the world.
This isn't your typical story, where the girl somehow gets transported back in time, feels helpless for awhile, makes a whole bunch of social mistakes, makes a friend with a high class lady, and falls in love with the nineteenth century hunk. Those girls go back in time and immediately start worrying about how they're going to get home again. Those girls try to blend in, to be a part of the system until they can somehow return. Those girls meet some Mr. Darcy or a knight in shining armor and realize they never want to leave. Then those girls are inevitably just as swiftly transported back into their own time, where they meet a modern day parallel of their man. This aspect even more than time travel disproves these stories entirely.
But you see, this is my story. This isn't one of those teeny-bopper feel good stories that makes you laugh and makes you cry and wish that YOU TOO could go back in time so that next week the love of your life will approach you in high school, complete with Mr. Rochester mannerisms, and an innate tendency to wear boots without looking gay.
This is my story, and I'm not one of those girls. Because when I went back in time, I realized I had so much the advantage. I had history and the developments of the future on my side, and I realized I didn't have to blend in. I could change the world. Heck. Forget changing the world. I could rule it.
***
Before you go off and label me as inherently evil, I guess I should pin the blame on someone else, and say this all boils down to my love for old Marvel comics. In the comic books you have two kinds of characters. You have those who try to blend in despite having incredible powers, and therefore cover their faces whenever they're fighting. They're big into secret identities and have weird rules about only ever putting the villains in jail, or allowing the villains to do something dumb that leads to their ultimate demise. Then there are the characters who are like "Yo. I'm here. Deal with it." Ironman definitely falls into this category, but my favorite example here is Loki.
When Thor falls to earth he finds normal clothes and learns how to function in society. Then Loki comes down. Bam. Completely unapologetic, green cape, random gold horned helmet, the works. And I say good for you, man.
If there's one thing Junior year taught me, it's that being ashamed of who you are or trying to be someone else isn't going to make you any more popular or suddenly help you have friends.
If there are two things Junior year taught me, the other would be that justice in this world really is only a mere concept, an ideal we can aspire to, but something we'll never fully reach. Bad things happen to good people and nothing actually fixes it. Sure, in stories it happens. In movies. In the heads of all delusional girls.
Many people, too many people, go home from school and tell themselves that tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow is the day for making friends. Tomorrow is when that guy will finally notice that those other girls aren't as nice or as smart.
It's a pretty idea, really it is, but its naive.
So after Junior year I decided it was over. I'm not going to be Peter Parker anymore. I'm going to be Tony Stark. I'm going to reveal my face and say "What the heck. Yep. I'm Ironman." Except I'm not really Ironman, but the imagery remains. I'm going to march in wearing that awkward Loki helmet like it's the coolest piece of armory ever conceived and I'm going to own it.
This was my philosophy going into Senior year, but when I suddenly found myself in nineteenth century London, the same concept applied.
There I was, wearing black skinny jeans and black leather boots, a yellow and red t shirt and a black leather jacket and instead of darting off to the nearest clothing shop where I could trade my foreign garments for a petticoat and bloomers, I put on my sunglasses and smiled.
Because this was my Loki moment.
I was Tyra Rizmont, and I was going to take over the world.
Captain Sparky Pants
Time to write!
Well. If you insist....
Captain Sparky Pants missed the glory days. Truly he did. Used to be that whenever he'd don his suit, children would run up wanting his autograph and the citizens would cheer, for he was their hero. He was the magnificent Captain Sparky Pants.
Of course, it also used to be that his suit was a brilliant shade of blue, and fit him fantastically, his muscles bulging beneath the extra-durable fabric.
But those were the fifties.
Now his suit was a faded, stormy blue, veering on gray, and didn't fit him nearly so well. The only thing bulging beneath the now thinning suit was his belly, and it wasn't something Captain Sparky Pants was proud of.
His only consolation was that once when he'd pull his mask up over his eyes, an effective method of concealing his secret identity- mild-mannered Jim Betrowski- he did so a the peril of covering up his exquisite head of dark, wavy hair. Now his cap covered his bald scalp. That at least was an improvement.
Captain Sparky Pants missed the old days so much that every Wednesday afternoon he'd put on his super suit, even though no one cheered anymore, and the only kids who ran up to him told him he looked ridiculous or kicked him in the shins. He'd put on his suit and he would walk down to Velma's Diner. Velma was gone now, she'd passed away back in 1977, but her daughter ran the place and she always smiled at Captain Sparky pants and passed him a bowl of oranges.
And so there he'd sit, in his super suit, peeling oranges and eating the segments. Feeling the juice squish onto his fingers and the softness of the fruit's flesh between his teeth, he would sit and reminisce, becoming nostalgic in the way that only truly old men who were once truly great can.
He missed the glory days, that was for sure, and he missed Velma, and he missed Barb, and he missed his old sidekick, Nick Thunder Drum, who had grown up and become a cartoonist and a lawyer on the weekends. He'd give anything to have those times and those people back.
Well. If you insist....
Captain Sparky Pants missed the glory days. Truly he did. Used to be that whenever he'd don his suit, children would run up wanting his autograph and the citizens would cheer, for he was their hero. He was the magnificent Captain Sparky Pants.
Of course, it also used to be that his suit was a brilliant shade of blue, and fit him fantastically, his muscles bulging beneath the extra-durable fabric.
But those were the fifties.
Now his suit was a faded, stormy blue, veering on gray, and didn't fit him nearly so well. The only thing bulging beneath the now thinning suit was his belly, and it wasn't something Captain Sparky Pants was proud of.
His only consolation was that once when he'd pull his mask up over his eyes, an effective method of concealing his secret identity- mild-mannered Jim Betrowski- he did so a the peril of covering up his exquisite head of dark, wavy hair. Now his cap covered his bald scalp. That at least was an improvement.
Captain Sparky Pants missed the old days so much that every Wednesday afternoon he'd put on his super suit, even though no one cheered anymore, and the only kids who ran up to him told him he looked ridiculous or kicked him in the shins. He'd put on his suit and he would walk down to Velma's Diner. Velma was gone now, she'd passed away back in 1977, but her daughter ran the place and she always smiled at Captain Sparky pants and passed him a bowl of oranges.
And so there he'd sit, in his super suit, peeling oranges and eating the segments. Feeling the juice squish onto his fingers and the softness of the fruit's flesh between his teeth, he would sit and reminisce, becoming nostalgic in the way that only truly old men who were once truly great can.
He missed the glory days, that was for sure, and he missed Velma, and he missed Barb, and he missed his old sidekick, Nick Thunder Drum, who had grown up and become a cartoonist and a lawyer on the weekends. He'd give anything to have those times and those people back.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Don't Stop Writing
Time to write!
Sunday means another "authentic" day, and I don't know what to write so I'm challenging myself to just do it and just write with no previous sense of direction! Ready! Go!
I knew I didn't have much time. I couldn't stop writing. There was no time to reread what I'd already put down on paper to ascertain that it made sense. All I could do was write and pray that my instructions would make sense, because soon my time would be up.
I could hear footsteps coming down the hall. I heard the jingling of keys, and the guard's gruff voice.
"On your feet!" he barked.
I recognized the voice. It was Stenson, one of the cruelest of our jailers. He tormented the prisoners for the fun of it, he must have liked the feeling of power it gave him, watching men, women, and children squirm and cry under his influence. I hated the man, but his propensity for vicious behavior meant I'd probably have a few more minutes than I'd anticipated.
I kept on writing. I couldn't stop now, each moment was precious. I could hear Crimmel moaning and Stenson laughing. I pushed down the anger I felt at Stenson's exploitation of Crimmel who was upwards of eighty years old and had only one leg and kept writing, ignoring my cramping hand, reminding myself that only through finishing this could I ever hope to help Crimmel, or any of the others.
I was almost done. Crimmel's door was slammed shut and I could hear the footsteps again and the sound of keys in a lock. Stenson had reached the cell next to mine. That's where Grea lived. Normally when the guards reached Grea I had to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears because the thought of them hurting my Grea hurt me more than anything they did to me ever could, but today I knew I was going to need to hear every sound. I couldn't stop writing. I needed to finish, and I didn't have much time.
"You're looking smug, rebel trash," I heard Stenson drawl.
Grea didn't answer and Stenson continued speaking. "You smug because you got a plan? You feeling any hope today, pale boy?"
Grea didn't come from Lurea, but to a land far to the north, and his skin was much whiter than ours. His being a foreigner was something that even the "kindest" of the guards couldn't help but mock. I wished they'd just leave him alone.
"I have no plan," Grea answered quietly.
"Oh? So you're stupid? You gonna count on your other white friends to come and save you? You gonna wait for your white mama to come bring her baby home?"
I was so close to being finished. I knew Stenson was waiting for Grea to give him a reaction, so he'd have an excuse to hit him. I prayed that Grea wouldn't answer, wouldn't give in.
"Is that it, pale boy? You waiting for your snow people to get you out of this jail? Not very inspiring for the leader of a rebellion."
It was done. Now I just needed to seal it with something. I grabbed the sealant wax I'd found, my only chance at saving us all, and held it up close to the candle which was ensconced in a bunch of crossing bars. This way we prisoners could have some light and extremely limited warmth, but couldn't get the candles out or move them. This was a fairly new installation, since Troi had tried attacking a guard with a burning candle. Slowly the sealant began to soften. I was running out of time.
"You just gonna sit there quietly like a coward?" Stenson drawled. "Would you keep sitting there quietly if I pay a special visit to your little girlfriend?"
My heart began to pound, and I felt bile rise in my throat. The sealant was almost soft enough to spread over the parchment, which would it protect it from the water.
"Don't touch her," Grea said, his voice quiet but almost a growl.
"Don't? I touch her all the time." Stenson answered. "That girl's bruised and black and blue and there isn't a thing you can do about it." He laughed, a scratchy, grating sound.
Chains rattled, and I knew that Grea was getting angry.
"You gonna attack me?" Stenson asked, clearly enjoying the moment. "That's what your mama tried to do. Your little white mama, just before we killed her."
Grea strained against his chains again.
"You wanna fight, pale boy?"
The sickening sound of fist meeting jaw came, and Grea's chains chinked again. I knew he was trying to defend himself, but his arms were chained to the wall at the wrists, the only one of us who was chained that way.
I couldn't let what was happening right next to me affect me. The wax was malleable, but not runny. I used my hands to crust it over the entire piece of parchment, then folded it while the sealant was still soft so it wouldn't crack. I spread another layer over the folded document, sealing it tightly, doing my best to ignore Grea's grunts and the sound of his chains as he tried to pull his limbs from the wall.
I stood on tiptoe and pushed the parchment through the window where it fell to the waves below me. Now it was done, and all I could do was hope that it would work.
Sunday means another "authentic" day, and I don't know what to write so I'm challenging myself to just do it and just write with no previous sense of direction! Ready! Go!
I knew I didn't have much time. I couldn't stop writing. There was no time to reread what I'd already put down on paper to ascertain that it made sense. All I could do was write and pray that my instructions would make sense, because soon my time would be up.
I could hear footsteps coming down the hall. I heard the jingling of keys, and the guard's gruff voice.
"On your feet!" he barked.
I recognized the voice. It was Stenson, one of the cruelest of our jailers. He tormented the prisoners for the fun of it, he must have liked the feeling of power it gave him, watching men, women, and children squirm and cry under his influence. I hated the man, but his propensity for vicious behavior meant I'd probably have a few more minutes than I'd anticipated.
I kept on writing. I couldn't stop now, each moment was precious. I could hear Crimmel moaning and Stenson laughing. I pushed down the anger I felt at Stenson's exploitation of Crimmel who was upwards of eighty years old and had only one leg and kept writing, ignoring my cramping hand, reminding myself that only through finishing this could I ever hope to help Crimmel, or any of the others.
I was almost done. Crimmel's door was slammed shut and I could hear the footsteps again and the sound of keys in a lock. Stenson had reached the cell next to mine. That's where Grea lived. Normally when the guards reached Grea I had to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears because the thought of them hurting my Grea hurt me more than anything they did to me ever could, but today I knew I was going to need to hear every sound. I couldn't stop writing. I needed to finish, and I didn't have much time.
"You're looking smug, rebel trash," I heard Stenson drawl.
Grea didn't answer and Stenson continued speaking. "You smug because you got a plan? You feeling any hope today, pale boy?"
Grea didn't come from Lurea, but to a land far to the north, and his skin was much whiter than ours. His being a foreigner was something that even the "kindest" of the guards couldn't help but mock. I wished they'd just leave him alone.
"I have no plan," Grea answered quietly.
"Oh? So you're stupid? You gonna count on your other white friends to come and save you? You gonna wait for your white mama to come bring her baby home?"
I was so close to being finished. I knew Stenson was waiting for Grea to give him a reaction, so he'd have an excuse to hit him. I prayed that Grea wouldn't answer, wouldn't give in.
"Is that it, pale boy? You waiting for your snow people to get you out of this jail? Not very inspiring for the leader of a rebellion."
It was done. Now I just needed to seal it with something. I grabbed the sealant wax I'd found, my only chance at saving us all, and held it up close to the candle which was ensconced in a bunch of crossing bars. This way we prisoners could have some light and extremely limited warmth, but couldn't get the candles out or move them. This was a fairly new installation, since Troi had tried attacking a guard with a burning candle. Slowly the sealant began to soften. I was running out of time.
"You just gonna sit there quietly like a coward?" Stenson drawled. "Would you keep sitting there quietly if I pay a special visit to your little girlfriend?"
My heart began to pound, and I felt bile rise in my throat. The sealant was almost soft enough to spread over the parchment, which would it protect it from the water.
"Don't touch her," Grea said, his voice quiet but almost a growl.
"Don't? I touch her all the time." Stenson answered. "That girl's bruised and black and blue and there isn't a thing you can do about it." He laughed, a scratchy, grating sound.
Chains rattled, and I knew that Grea was getting angry.
"You gonna attack me?" Stenson asked, clearly enjoying the moment. "That's what your mama tried to do. Your little white mama, just before we killed her."
Grea strained against his chains again.
"You wanna fight, pale boy?"
The sickening sound of fist meeting jaw came, and Grea's chains chinked again. I knew he was trying to defend himself, but his arms were chained to the wall at the wrists, the only one of us who was chained that way.
I couldn't let what was happening right next to me affect me. The wax was malleable, but not runny. I used my hands to crust it over the entire piece of parchment, then folded it while the sealant was still soft so it wouldn't crack. I spread another layer over the folded document, sealing it tightly, doing my best to ignore Grea's grunts and the sound of his chains as he tried to pull his limbs from the wall.
I stood on tiptoe and pushed the parchment through the window where it fell to the waves below me. Now it was done, and all I could do was hope that it would work.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Authentic A Day Early
Time to write!
Sick of vampire and werewolf romances. Let's get crazy!
"It would be best for everyone if we didn't talk anymore."
"Best for everyone?" I asked. "Truly best? Or easiest?"
He shook his head, his dark eyes betraying both frustration and amusement. "You don't need to make this so dramatic Akara, it isn't going to be the end of the world."
My blood was beginning to boil. "I know!" I responded. His arrogance really was sickening, which made it confusing that I cared so much that he wanted to go, to completely leave my life.
"Listen," he said, placing his hot hands on my shoulders, leaving me feeling as though my skin was frying. "It won't work. It can't work. So we aren't going to try to make it work. It's called being smart."
I pulled back, partly because he was burning me and partly because the bluntness of his words hurt me in a deeper way than his hands did.
"Why did you even let me live, then?" I asked. Tears choked in my throat, but I was so angry that they stayed lodged there instead of finding their way up to my eyes where they would have been able to spill out and relieve the pressure.
Drakyn's eyes changed again, this time looking sad, but his characteristic smirk remained ever in place. "I don't always have a reason for everything. You know that. It was a whim."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Drakyn laughed as I bit back the scream of frustration. "You understand, though, right?" he said. His question lacked even the slightest bit of sincerity, and didn't expect an answer.
I gave one anyway. "I totally understand," I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. I could feel my nose doing that awful angry, sad wrinkle and my jaw couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench or merely go on some sort of hyper-vibrate mode. And then I turned around, because there was no way on this dark and desperate earth that I was going to stand there and cry while I watched Drakyn walk away from me.
No. His last sight of me would not be my tears. It wouldn't be my on my knees, or with my face in his hands. His last memory of me would have to be my back, and so I walked with my head held high, my arms down by my sides, and he would never have to know what my face looked like, or that my tears had finally surfaced.
Stupid dragon.
So....I don't really care what you say. This story is one of my favorites and I'm a keeping it and taking it places. All that aside...you like?
Sick of vampire and werewolf romances. Let's get crazy!
"It would be best for everyone if we didn't talk anymore."
"Best for everyone?" I asked. "Truly best? Or easiest?"
He shook his head, his dark eyes betraying both frustration and amusement. "You don't need to make this so dramatic Akara, it isn't going to be the end of the world."
My blood was beginning to boil. "I know!" I responded. His arrogance really was sickening, which made it confusing that I cared so much that he wanted to go, to completely leave my life.
"Listen," he said, placing his hot hands on my shoulders, leaving me feeling as though my skin was frying. "It won't work. It can't work. So we aren't going to try to make it work. It's called being smart."
I pulled back, partly because he was burning me and partly because the bluntness of his words hurt me in a deeper way than his hands did.
"Why did you even let me live, then?" I asked. Tears choked in my throat, but I was so angry that they stayed lodged there instead of finding their way up to my eyes where they would have been able to spill out and relieve the pressure.
Drakyn's eyes changed again, this time looking sad, but his characteristic smirk remained ever in place. "I don't always have a reason for everything. You know that. It was a whim."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Drakyn laughed as I bit back the scream of frustration. "You understand, though, right?" he said. His question lacked even the slightest bit of sincerity, and didn't expect an answer.
I gave one anyway. "I totally understand," I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. I could feel my nose doing that awful angry, sad wrinkle and my jaw couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench or merely go on some sort of hyper-vibrate mode. And then I turned around, because there was no way on this dark and desperate earth that I was going to stand there and cry while I watched Drakyn walk away from me.
No. His last sight of me would not be my tears. It wouldn't be my on my knees, or with my face in his hands. His last memory of me would have to be my back, and so I walked with my head held high, my arms down by my sides, and he would never have to know what my face looked like, or that my tears had finally surfaced.
Stupid dragon.
So....I don't really care what you say. This story is one of my favorites and I'm a keeping it and taking it places. All that aside...you like?
Saturday, October 20, 2012
True Fear
Time to write!
Inspired by an actual experience!
I've done a lot of scary things in life, I've been to a lot of scary places, and I've seen a lot of scary things. I've seen things that would make any normal sixteen year old girl refuse to leave home ever again, with the possible exception of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I have been places more gruesome than the Forbidden Forest, and you know, real, at that. I've fought monsters to rival those found in Middle Earth and have somehow lived to tell the tale.
But there is nothing that scares the freak out of me more than going to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I swear, there is no experience more frightening than using what is basically a public restroom at two in the morning.
Maybe it's just because you're stuck sitting there with your pants down that makes it so scary. Like if something were suddenly to show up, what would you do?
"Um? Excuse me? Could you wait for me to finish this? It's kind of important?"
In my more than limited experience monsters don't normally show that kind of consideration and creeps don't usually have that sort of patience.
Inspired by an actual experience!
I've done a lot of scary things in life, I've been to a lot of scary places, and I've seen a lot of scary things. I've seen things that would make any normal sixteen year old girl refuse to leave home ever again, with the possible exception of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I have been places more gruesome than the Forbidden Forest, and you know, real, at that. I've fought monsters to rival those found in Middle Earth and have somehow lived to tell the tale.
But there is nothing that scares the freak out of me more than going to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I swear, there is no experience more frightening than using what is basically a public restroom at two in the morning.
Maybe it's just because you're stuck sitting there with your pants down that makes it so scary. Like if something were suddenly to show up, what would you do?
"Um? Excuse me? Could you wait for me to finish this? It's kind of important?"
In my more than limited experience monsters don't normally show that kind of consideration and creeps don't usually have that sort of patience.
Friday, October 19, 2012
The OMOPB Club
Time to write!
Dude. Who actually made this up? Because....it's weird.
Reginald, Harry, Jasper, and Collin had all grown up in different places, were married to different women, and had different opinions on politics, movies, and what constituted as "good literature". They shared one very important trait in common however, in that they were all members of the Old Men on Park Benches Club.
Old Men on Park Benches, affectionately referred to by it's members as the OMOPB, was not your average old person organization. It left things like Bingo Night, No Dentures Dinners, and even the Red Hat Organization in the dust in terms of ingenuity, spunk, and downright danger. But sitting here rambling about it won't prove anything about that to you. You see, that's the problem with young folks these days. All they ever do is talk. And that's why the OMOPB is so important. Because if you ever need to find someone to get something done, you can rely on the the Old Men on Park Benches.
***
Jasper and Collin, who were next door neighbors, came up with the idea one Friday afternoon as they sat on their favorite bench in Central Park, reading their newspapers, for Jasper it was the New York Times, for Collin a tabloid similar to Parade but more...liberal. For a time the air between them was still, the only sound resonating around them being the chirping of birds and the calls of children playing on the playground further towards the center of the rambling Park, and the fluttering sound of newspaper pages turning. Just as Collin's arms were beginning to tire from holding up his paper, and he was considering walking back home where he could read the remainder of his tabloid at his dining room table, Jasper brought his own paper down swiftly to his lap and cried out, "I just can't take it! My wife has been kidnapped and simply sticking to routine is not comforting me at all!"
Oh the randomness of me. Who wants to see this continue? I'm sure it'd have a HUGE following... ;)
Dude. Who actually made this up? Because....it's weird.
Reginald, Harry, Jasper, and Collin had all grown up in different places, were married to different women, and had different opinions on politics, movies, and what constituted as "good literature". They shared one very important trait in common however, in that they were all members of the Old Men on Park Benches Club.
Old Men on Park Benches, affectionately referred to by it's members as the OMOPB, was not your average old person organization. It left things like Bingo Night, No Dentures Dinners, and even the Red Hat Organization in the dust in terms of ingenuity, spunk, and downright danger. But sitting here rambling about it won't prove anything about that to you. You see, that's the problem with young folks these days. All they ever do is talk. And that's why the OMOPB is so important. Because if you ever need to find someone to get something done, you can rely on the the Old Men on Park Benches.
***
Jasper and Collin, who were next door neighbors, came up with the idea one Friday afternoon as they sat on their favorite bench in Central Park, reading their newspapers, for Jasper it was the New York Times, for Collin a tabloid similar to Parade but more...liberal. For a time the air between them was still, the only sound resonating around them being the chirping of birds and the calls of children playing on the playground further towards the center of the rambling Park, and the fluttering sound of newspaper pages turning. Just as Collin's arms were beginning to tire from holding up his paper, and he was considering walking back home where he could read the remainder of his tabloid at his dining room table, Jasper brought his own paper down swiftly to his lap and cried out, "I just can't take it! My wife has been kidnapped and simply sticking to routine is not comforting me at all!"
Oh the randomness of me. Who wants to see this continue? I'm sure it'd have a HUGE following... ;)
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Sharks
Time to write
One day I found out that sharks only kill five people annually. I was shocked. What a surprisingly low statistic. I thought to myself, But sharks are scary. They have all those sharp teeth and fast swimming skills and go all crazy when they smell blood, at least according to Finding Nemo. I wondered if there might not be some flaw in the research, especially when contrasted to the rest of the statistics provided. Let's rearrange the data and see what it tells us.
Least dangerous to most dangerous:
Sharks (5 people)
High School Football (20 people)
Hot dogs (70 people)
Deer (130 people)
Falling out of bed (450 American people. 'Murica.)
Hippos (2,900 people)
This alone could present an awful lot of writing prompts. For example, how embarrassing is it to die by falling out of bed?? How high up are these people's beds? I mean, for real!? And how would you react to finding someone dead who died just by falling out? Creeptastic? I think so.
And do hot dogs in particular kill more kids than other foods? Is this just a choking statistic? Are we giving hot dogs an unnecessarily bad rep? Like there isn't enough negative publicity towards hot dogs anyway.
But the main thing I'd like to know, is why the heck do hippos want to kill so many people!? I feel terribly about that, and feel a hippo story needs to be written soon. Real soon. You know. Along with the other twenty million prompts I still need to address.
I'd be interested to see the other statistics here. How many people does Voldemort kill a year? Less than 70. I mean, we freak out everytime he lets loose a wayward "Avada Kedavra", but is he any more guilty than the hot dog industry? No. I don't think so. And he's nothing compared to a hippo. In fact, if we take his average, he's probably no more harmful than something like a shark. No wonder Snape's patronus is a deer. That way he can be protected from Voldemort, because deer kill way more people annually. So, clearly, even in a fictional world, Harry's fear of Voldemort is completely unfounded. I rest my case.
And here's a cute baby hippo. Just to prove they aren't all born killers.
P.s. who's up for a new "Jaws" movie, but instead of being a shark, is a crazed hippopotamus. I think that's what the film industry needs right now.
One day I found out that sharks only kill five people annually. I was shocked. What a surprisingly low statistic. I thought to myself, But sharks are scary. They have all those sharp teeth and fast swimming skills and go all crazy when they smell blood, at least according to Finding Nemo. I wondered if there might not be some flaw in the research, especially when contrasted to the rest of the statistics provided. Let's rearrange the data and see what it tells us.
Least dangerous to most dangerous:
Sharks (5 people)
High School Football (20 people)
Hot dogs (70 people)
Deer (130 people)
Falling out of bed (450 American people. 'Murica.)
Hippos (2,900 people)
This alone could present an awful lot of writing prompts. For example, how embarrassing is it to die by falling out of bed?? How high up are these people's beds? I mean, for real!? And how would you react to finding someone dead who died just by falling out? Creeptastic? I think so.
And do hot dogs in particular kill more kids than other foods? Is this just a choking statistic? Are we giving hot dogs an unnecessarily bad rep? Like there isn't enough negative publicity towards hot dogs anyway.
But the main thing I'd like to know, is why the heck do hippos want to kill so many people!? I feel terribly about that, and feel a hippo story needs to be written soon. Real soon. You know. Along with the other twenty million prompts I still need to address.
I'd be interested to see the other statistics here. How many people does Voldemort kill a year? Less than 70. I mean, we freak out everytime he lets loose a wayward "Avada Kedavra", but is he any more guilty than the hot dog industry? No. I don't think so. And he's nothing compared to a hippo. In fact, if we take his average, he's probably no more harmful than something like a shark. No wonder Snape's patronus is a deer. That way he can be protected from Voldemort, because deer kill way more people annually. So, clearly, even in a fictional world, Harry's fear of Voldemort is completely unfounded. I rest my case.
And here's a cute baby hippo. Just to prove they aren't all born killers.
P.s. who's up for a new "Jaws" movie, but instead of being a shark, is a crazed hippopotamus. I think that's what the film industry needs right now.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Suspense
Time to write!
The past couple nights I have listened to an old radio show called "Suspense" with some of my friends, and I got to thinking I should write my own Suspense radio program. Unfortunately I'm really sleepy so it might turn out, but we will give it our best shot, and by we I of course mean I. Because this is in the style of Suspense, there will be no commentary, merely dialogue, so it's basically just a script, and is also set in not modern day.
Jenna: "Do you think we'll be able to reach the hotel by eleven, Harold?"
Harold: "Oh I don't know Jenna, we'll get there sometime tonight."
Jenna: "I just hate trying to find places we've never been to in the dark. Everything looks so different."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Always so sure of everything, that's you. Never mind all the times we've actually gotten lost."
Harold: "Jenna, I said we'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now stop your worrying. Turn on the radio why don't you."
*Radio static*
Radio broadcaster: ...which concludes our weather for the week. In sports the Braves have beaten the Cardinals, leaving them undefeated and over halfway through the season. Jerry, do you have more on that?"
Jenna: "Who really cares about a baseball game? I wish we could just--"
Harold: "Could you not complain about this right now, I'd like to hear the story."
Jenna: "What more do you need to know? You know who won. Now can't we just --"
Harold: "Jenna, please!"
Radio broadcaster: ...scoring another home run in the bottom of the fifth inning, with the Braves trailing badly.
Jenna: "You don't need to lose your patience with me, you know. It was your idea to come on this trip. All the way out to the city, so you can see your old college friends. The least you could do is talk to me."
Harold: "I'm sorry, dear. We can turn the radio off. Just after we hear the end of this segment."
Radio broadcaster: "...It certainly was a great game, thanks Jerry."
Jenna: "Can we turn it off now?"
Radio broadcaster: "...Thanks for tuning in. Now, listeners, it's come to our attention that I-25 is going to be under some pretty heavy construction tonight. It you're trying to head into the city, it's suggested that you find an alternate route or delay your commute to tomorrow afternoon, by which time the road should again be clear."
Jenna: "Did you hear that, Harold? Did you hear that?"
Harold: "Yes."
Jenna: "Well what are we going to do?"
Harold: "We're going to do like the broadcaster said, Jenna. We'll find an alternate route. We'll be fine."
*tires screech*
Jenna: "Mercy! Be careful! We don't have to exit the freeway that quickly!"
Harold: "If we're going to find another way into the city tonight, we better be quick about it."
Jenna: "Harold, please slow down. It's starting to rain. I don't want to crash."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Slow down! Please. Please slow down."
Harold: "Now you've done it, Jenna. Your fussing has gotten me distracted."
Jenna: "You mean you don't know where we are?"
Harold: "Well I know where we are. I just don't know how to get to the city from this road."
Jenna: "We're lost. I knew this would happen."
Harold: "We'll be find. Your worrying isn't going to help anything."
Jenna: "We should ask someone for directions."
Harold: "We're on an old road. Who are we gonna ask?"
Jenna: "We can ask him. We can ask that man."
Harold: "What man?"
Jenna: "That man, on the side of the road. Why, his car must have broken down. His headlights are flashing. It's starting to rain awfully hard. We ought to stop and help him."
Harold: "I'd rather not, Jenna. You never know what kind of crazy people hang out on the streets at night."
Jenna: "We're out in the country, Harold, and his car is broken down. If our car was broken down and we were out here in the country, in the rain, wouldn't you hope someone would stop to help us?"
Harold: "Jenna...."
Jenna: "Wouldn't you?"
Harold: "Oh alright, alright...."
*car stopping*
Harold: "Uh, excuse me sir! Car troubles?"
Man: "Yes! Yes. Oh, prayers are answered. Oh, thank you sir, thank you. It seems my car's engine has given up and died, and in the dark and in the rain, there's no way I can fix it just now. Do you think you could give me a lift into the city?"
Harold: "Well I don't know..."
Jenna: "Harold!"
Harold: *sighs* "We're actually headed there, but are a little hazy on the directions. You wouldn't happen to know the way would you?"
Man: "Sure do! I can be your guide."
Harold: "Well, alright. Hop in the back I guess."
*car unlocks, door opens, then shuts. Engine starts back up*
Jenna: "What about your car?"
Man: "Oh I'll just have my wife drive me back tomorrow and I'll see what went wrong."
Harold: "Do you know where we turn off?"
Man: "Just keep going straight for awhile."
Harold: "Alright. So what do you do for a living?"
Man: "I, uh, I'm a salesman. I sell jewelry mostly."
Harold: "I see." *clearly not very interested*
Man: "It takes me traveling a lot."
Harold: "Hmm."
Jenna: "And your wife lives in the city?"
Man: "Sure does. Wife and four kids. Hard to keep all those mouths fed in today's economy."
Harold: "But selling jewelry does the trick?"
Man: "It's all in finding the right buyers and supplying the right jewels. It's...it's stressful work, but a man does what he has to do."
Radio broadcaster: "...The Gingham County Sheriff's department has requested that we ask you all to be on the lookout for a few individuals. There have been a string of robberies in the area, and several homes have been broken into. Most houses robbed have been from the Clivington area. If you live in this neighborhood please keep your doors and windows locked and be on the watch for any suspicious activity.'
Harold: "That's a real shame."
Jenna: "Doesn't Elaine Hughes live in Clivington?"
Harold: "Yes, that's right,"
Man: "Uh, follow the road here where it turns left,"
Harold: "You sure we don't keep going straight?"
Man: "I'm sure. Turn left."
Radio broadcaster: "...There have also been reported robberies in the Grover Hills community. Residents have spotted a male in his late thirties, wearing a black overcoat wandering around the neighborhood. Once again, please be wary of suspicious activity, and report any at once to the Gingham County Police Department."
Jenna: "Grover Hills, huh? Strange to think of anything bad happening to those people."
Harold: "Spoiled bunch, in big houses."
Man: "Serves them right, don't you think, for flaunting their wealth that way?'
Jenna: "Well, I don't know about that."
Man: "Don't you now?"
Harold: "Do I keep going straight on this road?"
Man: "No, turn right, just up ahead."
Harold: "By the corn field?"
Man: "That's right."
Harold: "Here?"
Man: "Here."
Jenna: "Are you sure this is the right way?"
Man: "Certain. You mind if I remove my coat? I'm dripping wet."
Jenna: "Of course not."
Harold: "Set it on the floor though, I'd rather it didn't drip on the seats."
Man: "Sure thing."
*slight clinking sound*
Jenna: "What was--Harold look out! There's a deer in the road!"
*tires screech, man and Jenna exclaim, clinking*
Man: *cusses mildly*
Jenna: *breathing heavy* "We didn't hit it."
Man: "Could you slow down a little? When we swerved my merchandise fell out of my pockets, it's awfully dark back here, and I'd really rather none of it got damaged."
Jenna: "Oh let me help you."
Man: "That's not necessary."
*seatbelt unbuckling, sound of hands running over carpet*
Jenna: "I insist."
Man: "No, it's--"
Jenna: "My, what lovely necklaces. Mind if I take a look at them for just a moment?"
Man: "Those necklaces aren't for sale! That is, they've already been purchased, I'm just, uh, on my way to deliver them, so --"
Jenna: "That's quite alright. No harm in looking. Oh this one's lovely. Look at how nicely the stone is cut, Harold."
Harold: "I'm driving, Jenna."
Jenna: "Oh, and this one. The chain is exquisite! And...my. My this looks just like Elaine Hughes necklace. Yes, it looks just like it. It looks just like the one her brother made for her when we graduated, he made one for Elaine and for Alice and for me. Doesn't this look like the necklace?"
Man: "That's quite enough, now, I think."
Jenna: "Don't you think Harold?"
Harold: "It does look a lot like your necklace dear."
Jenna: "It does. It looks just like my necklace! It is my necklace! It's Elaine's necklace! You're the robber!"
Man: "Aw c'mon now lady, just because it looks similar does not mean--"
Jenna: "It looks more than similar! It's Elaine's necklace! Our necklaces were all just the same except the little charm by the clasp with our initials on it, and there the initials are EH!"
Harold: "Jenna..."
Man: "Alright lady. You caught me. Looks like this isn't going to be easy after all."
Harold: "Now look here, mister"
Jenna: "Harold. He's got a knife."
I think I'll finish this tomorrow. :) Yes yes. Or I'll just leave it for a bit. Because I wrote a lot tonight and now I'm exhausted. See? It's in true Suspense fashion. This is the break in the middle where they advertise. Normally about car batteries. :)
The past couple nights I have listened to an old radio show called "Suspense" with some of my friends, and I got to thinking I should write my own Suspense radio program. Unfortunately I'm really sleepy so it might turn out, but we will give it our best shot, and by we I of course mean I. Because this is in the style of Suspense, there will be no commentary, merely dialogue, so it's basically just a script, and is also set in not modern day.
Jenna: "Do you think we'll be able to reach the hotel by eleven, Harold?"
Harold: "Oh I don't know Jenna, we'll get there sometime tonight."
Jenna: "I just hate trying to find places we've never been to in the dark. Everything looks so different."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Always so sure of everything, that's you. Never mind all the times we've actually gotten lost."
Harold: "Jenna, I said we'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now stop your worrying. Turn on the radio why don't you."
*Radio static*
Radio broadcaster: ...which concludes our weather for the week. In sports the Braves have beaten the Cardinals, leaving them undefeated and over halfway through the season. Jerry, do you have more on that?"
Jenna: "Who really cares about a baseball game? I wish we could just--"
Harold: "Could you not complain about this right now, I'd like to hear the story."
Jenna: "What more do you need to know? You know who won. Now can't we just --"
Harold: "Jenna, please!"
Radio broadcaster: ...scoring another home run in the bottom of the fifth inning, with the Braves trailing badly.
Jenna: "You don't need to lose your patience with me, you know. It was your idea to come on this trip. All the way out to the city, so you can see your old college friends. The least you could do is talk to me."
Harold: "I'm sorry, dear. We can turn the radio off. Just after we hear the end of this segment."
Radio broadcaster: "...It certainly was a great game, thanks Jerry."
Jenna: "Can we turn it off now?"
Radio broadcaster: "...Thanks for tuning in. Now, listeners, it's come to our attention that I-25 is going to be under some pretty heavy construction tonight. It you're trying to head into the city, it's suggested that you find an alternate route or delay your commute to tomorrow afternoon, by which time the road should again be clear."
Jenna: "Did you hear that, Harold? Did you hear that?"
Harold: "Yes."
Jenna: "Well what are we going to do?"
Harold: "We're going to do like the broadcaster said, Jenna. We'll find an alternate route. We'll be fine."
*tires screech*
Jenna: "Mercy! Be careful! We don't have to exit the freeway that quickly!"
Harold: "If we're going to find another way into the city tonight, we better be quick about it."
Jenna: "Harold, please slow down. It's starting to rain. I don't want to crash."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Slow down! Please. Please slow down."
Harold: "Now you've done it, Jenna. Your fussing has gotten me distracted."
Jenna: "You mean you don't know where we are?"
Harold: "Well I know where we are. I just don't know how to get to the city from this road."
Jenna: "We're lost. I knew this would happen."
Harold: "We'll be find. Your worrying isn't going to help anything."
Jenna: "We should ask someone for directions."
Harold: "We're on an old road. Who are we gonna ask?"
Jenna: "We can ask him. We can ask that man."
Harold: "What man?"
Jenna: "That man, on the side of the road. Why, his car must have broken down. His headlights are flashing. It's starting to rain awfully hard. We ought to stop and help him."
Harold: "I'd rather not, Jenna. You never know what kind of crazy people hang out on the streets at night."
Jenna: "We're out in the country, Harold, and his car is broken down. If our car was broken down and we were out here in the country, in the rain, wouldn't you hope someone would stop to help us?"
Harold: "Jenna...."
Jenna: "Wouldn't you?"
Harold: "Oh alright, alright...."
*car stopping*
Harold: "Uh, excuse me sir! Car troubles?"
Man: "Yes! Yes. Oh, prayers are answered. Oh, thank you sir, thank you. It seems my car's engine has given up and died, and in the dark and in the rain, there's no way I can fix it just now. Do you think you could give me a lift into the city?"
Harold: "Well I don't know..."
Jenna: "Harold!"
Harold: *sighs* "We're actually headed there, but are a little hazy on the directions. You wouldn't happen to know the way would you?"
Man: "Sure do! I can be your guide."
Harold: "Well, alright. Hop in the back I guess."
*car unlocks, door opens, then shuts. Engine starts back up*
Jenna: "What about your car?"
Man: "Oh I'll just have my wife drive me back tomorrow and I'll see what went wrong."
Harold: "Do you know where we turn off?"
Man: "Just keep going straight for awhile."
Harold: "Alright. So what do you do for a living?"
Man: "I, uh, I'm a salesman. I sell jewelry mostly."
Harold: "I see." *clearly not very interested*
Man: "It takes me traveling a lot."
Harold: "Hmm."
Jenna: "And your wife lives in the city?"
Man: "Sure does. Wife and four kids. Hard to keep all those mouths fed in today's economy."
Harold: "But selling jewelry does the trick?"
Man: "It's all in finding the right buyers and supplying the right jewels. It's...it's stressful work, but a man does what he has to do."
Radio broadcaster: "...The Gingham County Sheriff's department has requested that we ask you all to be on the lookout for a few individuals. There have been a string of robberies in the area, and several homes have been broken into. Most houses robbed have been from the Clivington area. If you live in this neighborhood please keep your doors and windows locked and be on the watch for any suspicious activity.'
Harold: "That's a real shame."
Jenna: "Doesn't Elaine Hughes live in Clivington?"
Harold: "Yes, that's right,"
Man: "Uh, follow the road here where it turns left,"
Harold: "You sure we don't keep going straight?"
Man: "I'm sure. Turn left."
Radio broadcaster: "...There have also been reported robberies in the Grover Hills community. Residents have spotted a male in his late thirties, wearing a black overcoat wandering around the neighborhood. Once again, please be wary of suspicious activity, and report any at once to the Gingham County Police Department."
Jenna: "Grover Hills, huh? Strange to think of anything bad happening to those people."
Harold: "Spoiled bunch, in big houses."
Man: "Serves them right, don't you think, for flaunting their wealth that way?'
Jenna: "Well, I don't know about that."
Man: "Don't you now?"
Harold: "Do I keep going straight on this road?"
Man: "No, turn right, just up ahead."
Harold: "By the corn field?"
Man: "That's right."
Harold: "Here?"
Man: "Here."
Jenna: "Are you sure this is the right way?"
Man: "Certain. You mind if I remove my coat? I'm dripping wet."
Jenna: "Of course not."
Harold: "Set it on the floor though, I'd rather it didn't drip on the seats."
Man: "Sure thing."
*slight clinking sound*
Jenna: "What was--Harold look out! There's a deer in the road!"
*tires screech, man and Jenna exclaim, clinking*
Man: *cusses mildly*
Jenna: *breathing heavy* "We didn't hit it."
Man: "Could you slow down a little? When we swerved my merchandise fell out of my pockets, it's awfully dark back here, and I'd really rather none of it got damaged."
Jenna: "Oh let me help you."
Man: "That's not necessary."
*seatbelt unbuckling, sound of hands running over carpet*
Jenna: "I insist."
Man: "No, it's--"
Jenna: "My, what lovely necklaces. Mind if I take a look at them for just a moment?"
Man: "Those necklaces aren't for sale! That is, they've already been purchased, I'm just, uh, on my way to deliver them, so --"
Jenna: "That's quite alright. No harm in looking. Oh this one's lovely. Look at how nicely the stone is cut, Harold."
Harold: "I'm driving, Jenna."
Jenna: "Oh, and this one. The chain is exquisite! And...my. My this looks just like Elaine Hughes necklace. Yes, it looks just like it. It looks just like the one her brother made for her when we graduated, he made one for Elaine and for Alice and for me. Doesn't this look like the necklace?"
Man: "That's quite enough, now, I think."
Jenna: "Don't you think Harold?"
Harold: "It does look a lot like your necklace dear."
Jenna: "It does. It looks just like my necklace! It is my necklace! It's Elaine's necklace! You're the robber!"
Man: "Aw c'mon now lady, just because it looks similar does not mean--"
Jenna: "It looks more than similar! It's Elaine's necklace! Our necklaces were all just the same except the little charm by the clasp with our initials on it, and there the initials are EH!"
Harold: "Jenna..."
Man: "Alright lady. You caught me. Looks like this isn't going to be easy after all."
Harold: "Now look here, mister"
Jenna: "Harold. He's got a knife."
I think I'll finish this tomorrow. :) Yes yes. Or I'll just leave it for a bit. Because I wrote a lot tonight and now I'm exhausted. See? It's in true Suspense fashion. This is the break in the middle where they advertise. Normally about car batteries. :)
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Pierre the Pirate Duck
Time to write!
I promised I'd finish that weird execution story...buttttttttt.....I'm not going to right now. :) CHEESE. AUTHENTIC TIME. "Are you ready for this?" *basketball pump up music*. Obviously I'm way tired. Allons-y!
Pierre the Pirate Duck was only but a wee duckling when he first became a pirate. He'd been swimming along in the Weatherly Park Pond when suddenly he saw a shiny glint down at the bottom. Pierre was very intrigued by the shiny object and began to approach when seven ducks came charging at him.
These were ducks he'd never seen before. They wore bandannas and eye patches and one even had a peg-leg which made him swim in a very lopsided fashion.
Pierre's ducky little heart began to pound. These were Pirate Ducks. Pierre had heard of Pirate Ducks, but he never thought he would see any of them, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
"Where ya think you be headed?" growled one of the ducks towards the front of what could be construed as a fleet.
"I just saw something shiny," Pierre managed weakly, trying to be brave, but so excited and frightened that his quack quavered.
"Arrr! You be after the treasure!" exclaimed the duck closest to the front, undoubtedly the captain judging by his large hat.
"Treasure?" Pierre asked. "You mean that glinty stuff at the bottom of the pond?"
The Captain Duck laughed. Menacingly. "Glinty stuff? You tell him, Stumpy,"
The peg-legged duck removed a rolled up scroll from his back with his beak and showed it to Pierre. It was a treasure map.
"The shiny object to which you have made reference is in fact 14 carat gold doubloons," Stumpy said in a voice which was surprisingly British.
"Real doubloons?" gasped Pierre. Pierre had heard of doubloons, but he never thought he would see any, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
This is the beginning of the epic tale of Pierre's Piratey adventures. Props to Rian for naming Pierre.
I promised I'd finish that weird execution story...buttttttttt.....I'm not going to right now. :) CHEESE. AUTHENTIC TIME. "Are you ready for this?" *basketball pump up music*. Obviously I'm way tired. Allons-y!
Pierre the Pirate Duck was only but a wee duckling when he first became a pirate. He'd been swimming along in the Weatherly Park Pond when suddenly he saw a shiny glint down at the bottom. Pierre was very intrigued by the shiny object and began to approach when seven ducks came charging at him.
These were ducks he'd never seen before. They wore bandannas and eye patches and one even had a peg-leg which made him swim in a very lopsided fashion.
Pierre's ducky little heart began to pound. These were Pirate Ducks. Pierre had heard of Pirate Ducks, but he never thought he would see any of them, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
"Where ya think you be headed?" growled one of the ducks towards the front of what could be construed as a fleet.
"I just saw something shiny," Pierre managed weakly, trying to be brave, but so excited and frightened that his quack quavered.
"Arrr! You be after the treasure!" exclaimed the duck closest to the front, undoubtedly the captain judging by his large hat.
"Treasure?" Pierre asked. "You mean that glinty stuff at the bottom of the pond?"
The Captain Duck laughed. Menacingly. "Glinty stuff? You tell him, Stumpy,"
The peg-legged duck removed a rolled up scroll from his back with his beak and showed it to Pierre. It was a treasure map.
"The shiny object to which you have made reference is in fact 14 carat gold doubloons," Stumpy said in a voice which was surprisingly British.
"Real doubloons?" gasped Pierre. Pierre had heard of doubloons, but he never thought he would see any, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
This is the beginning of the epic tale of Pierre's Piratey adventures. Props to Rian for naming Pierre.
Friendly Execution
Time to write!
You’re in an unfamiliar situation. People you know are there, though they are all acting strange. As the scene moves on, it becomes clear that you’re about to be executed by friends and you have no idea why. Find out why and attempt to save yourself.
I feel as though this prompt is EXCEEDINGLY creepy.
It was certainly a very odd Halloween party. Betty had invited me, and assured me that "everyone" would be there. Rian had backed her up on that, claiming that if I didn't go I'd "regret it for the rest of the century."
So I went. I'd dressed as Batman, according to plan. I'd matched my Batman hoodie, complete with mask and utility belt, with some black skinny jeans, buckled boots, and a black cape I'd originally worn when dressing up as a witch in my freshman year of High School.
The first thing I noticed upon entering the party was a giant gallows in the corner. It seemed a bit morbid. I mean, sure, it was Halloween, but what was next? A guillotine? The second thing I noticed was that all of my friends were dressed as one of three things. There were the pirates- Rian, Kaitlin, Aubrey, Alison, and about half of the guys there. Then there were the fairies- Sarah, Betty, Whitney, Lauren, Alyssa and surprisingly all the rest of the boys. My brothers, I noticed, were even in attendance and were, all three, dressed as fairies. Complete with wings. Perplexing as all this was, even stranger still was the last costume. It was a dalek costume. Almost cylindrical, bronze, and shiny. There were variations, of course, from costume to costume, but I felt like I'd missed out on the part of the invitation where they mentioned the theme.
Sarah came fluttering- fairy as she was- over to me, waving her arms to make the fabric attached to her wrists fly out behind her.
"I'm so glad you could make it!" she exclaimed.
"Me too," I answered, although at this point it wasn't quite the truthful answer. I was more confused than anything else.
Suddenly I was pricked by the plastic tips of four cheaply constructed swords. The Pirates were greeting me, which was now apparently done by sword tip.
Honestly...much as I'd like to finish out this BIZARRE prompt....I got only about three hours of sleep last night and it's late and I'm dying a little so...I'll finish it tomorrow and do my authentic thang. Deal? Ok. Goodnight. Loves.
You’re in an unfamiliar situation. People you know are there, though they are all acting strange. As the scene moves on, it becomes clear that you’re about to be executed by friends and you have no idea why. Find out why and attempt to save yourself.
I feel as though this prompt is EXCEEDINGLY creepy.
It was certainly a very odd Halloween party. Betty had invited me, and assured me that "everyone" would be there. Rian had backed her up on that, claiming that if I didn't go I'd "regret it for the rest of the century."
So I went. I'd dressed as Batman, according to plan. I'd matched my Batman hoodie, complete with mask and utility belt, with some black skinny jeans, buckled boots, and a black cape I'd originally worn when dressing up as a witch in my freshman year of High School.
The first thing I noticed upon entering the party was a giant gallows in the corner. It seemed a bit morbid. I mean, sure, it was Halloween, but what was next? A guillotine? The second thing I noticed was that all of my friends were dressed as one of three things. There were the pirates- Rian, Kaitlin, Aubrey, Alison, and about half of the guys there. Then there were the fairies- Sarah, Betty, Whitney, Lauren, Alyssa and surprisingly all the rest of the boys. My brothers, I noticed, were even in attendance and were, all three, dressed as fairies. Complete with wings. Perplexing as all this was, even stranger still was the last costume. It was a dalek costume. Almost cylindrical, bronze, and shiny. There were variations, of course, from costume to costume, but I felt like I'd missed out on the part of the invitation where they mentioned the theme.
Sarah came fluttering- fairy as she was- over to me, waving her arms to make the fabric attached to her wrists fly out behind her.
"I'm so glad you could make it!" she exclaimed.
"Me too," I answered, although at this point it wasn't quite the truthful answer. I was more confused than anything else.
Suddenly I was pricked by the plastic tips of four cheaply constructed swords. The Pirates were greeting me, which was now apparently done by sword tip.
Honestly...much as I'd like to finish out this BIZARRE prompt....I got only about three hours of sleep last night and it's late and I'm dying a little so...I'll finish it tomorrow and do my authentic thang. Deal? Ok. Goodnight. Loves.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Steampunk
Time to write!
The room was dimly lit, and rather quiet, an unusual state of things for the West End Tavern. Felicia Mont-Lorrison and Shelia Wisclam warily strode past the coat hooks into the tavern's main room, where the tables were filled. Neither removed their coat at this time- Shelia because she wasn't wearing one at all, despite the unpredictable weather, and Felicia because taking off her brown leather jacket would reveal the pistol she had concealed at her waist. While guns were not by any means prohibited in the West End Tavern, such an item was not often viewed on the person of such a lady as Felicia Mont-Lorrison.
Shelia felt more at home in the tavern than Felicia and took the lead, striding up to the bar where she greeted the bar tender's wife in friendly terms, then asked the bartender for a drink. Felicia stood quietly behind her companion, straightening her long, brown, silken skirts and hoping nothing went wrong. Both women waited in silence for their drinks to be mixed, then took their glasses to the side of the room where they sat and surveyed the scene.
"Do you see him yet?" Felicia asked, looking straight ahead and taking a sip of her frothy, creamy beverage.
Shelia removed the slice of lime, perching precariously on the edge of her glass, and squeezed it, releasing more of it's sour juice into her cup and shook her head. "Not yet, but he's here," she answered.
Shelia finished her drink and assessed the tavern with wary eyes. Sometime in the last few minutes the band in the corner had begun to play and the tavern was becoming increasingly animated.
"I see him," Shelia murmured, fingering the revolver at her hip, her eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Well..." Felicia said, rising to her feet. "Shall we do this?"
Shelia smiled and began walking across the floor, Felicia following, head high in her normal posture of confidence and assurance, but her eyes darting to each face as she passed.
They made an odd pair, Shelia Wisclam the only female assassin to be found in London and Felicia Mont-Lorrison, social butterfly and heiress, but tonight they were united in a common goal. They both had a bone to pick with Grant Featherly, and it wasn't going to be pretty.
The room was dimly lit, and rather quiet, an unusual state of things for the West End Tavern. Felicia Mont-Lorrison and Shelia Wisclam warily strode past the coat hooks into the tavern's main room, where the tables were filled. Neither removed their coat at this time- Shelia because she wasn't wearing one at all, despite the unpredictable weather, and Felicia because taking off her brown leather jacket would reveal the pistol she had concealed at her waist. While guns were not by any means prohibited in the West End Tavern, such an item was not often viewed on the person of such a lady as Felicia Mont-Lorrison.
Shelia felt more at home in the tavern than Felicia and took the lead, striding up to the bar where she greeted the bar tender's wife in friendly terms, then asked the bartender for a drink. Felicia stood quietly behind her companion, straightening her long, brown, silken skirts and hoping nothing went wrong. Both women waited in silence for their drinks to be mixed, then took their glasses to the side of the room where they sat and surveyed the scene.
"Do you see him yet?" Felicia asked, looking straight ahead and taking a sip of her frothy, creamy beverage.
Shelia removed the slice of lime, perching precariously on the edge of her glass, and squeezed it, releasing more of it's sour juice into her cup and shook her head. "Not yet, but he's here," she answered.
Shelia finished her drink and assessed the tavern with wary eyes. Sometime in the last few minutes the band in the corner had begun to play and the tavern was becoming increasingly animated.
"I see him," Shelia murmured, fingering the revolver at her hip, her eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Well..." Felicia said, rising to her feet. "Shall we do this?"
Shelia smiled and began walking across the floor, Felicia following, head high in her normal posture of confidence and assurance, but her eyes darting to each face as she passed.
They made an odd pair, Shelia Wisclam the only female assassin to be found in London and Felicia Mont-Lorrison, social butterfly and heiress, but tonight they were united in a common goal. They both had a bone to pick with Grant Featherly, and it wasn't going to be pretty.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Heavy
Time to write!
Is anything quite so heavy as drooping eyelids or a broken heart? Which is heavier? Can a broken heart be lifted by laughter? Can drooping lids be forced open?
In both cases the answer is one and the same. Yes. But only for so long.
For at some point the body must exact it's demands. The eyes must shut, or they must cry. Light cannot always be entering the body through the eyes, and light cannot always be leaving the body through the joyful heart. There, sometimes, has to be darkness.
The darkness can be literal or symbolic, just as the weight can either require physical or emotional strength. Strength, however, and pliability must be balanced together. We must, to borrow a common phrase, learn to bend before we break.
"Never give up" is certainly a worthy and inspiring mantra, but so is "know when to take a rest".
Is anything quite so heavy as drooping eyelids or a broken heart? Which is heavier? Can a broken heart be lifted by laughter? Can drooping lids be forced open?
In both cases the answer is one and the same. Yes. But only for so long.
For at some point the body must exact it's demands. The eyes must shut, or they must cry. Light cannot always be entering the body through the eyes, and light cannot always be leaving the body through the joyful heart. There, sometimes, has to be darkness.
The darkness can be literal or symbolic, just as the weight can either require physical or emotional strength. Strength, however, and pliability must be balanced together. We must, to borrow a common phrase, learn to bend before we break.
"Never give up" is certainly a worthy and inspiring mantra, but so is "know when to take a rest".
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Wishes and Fishes, But Really Just Wishes
Time to write!
Begin with "I wish someone told me..."
I wish someone told me that eating tar was bad for you.
The end. Bahahahaha
Jk. But for real now.
I wish someone told me that boys were bad news. Like really bad news. Like really really bad news. Well, maybe not all boys. Maybe not even boys in general. Maybe just boys named Loren, especially if that particular Loren has an excellent nose and perfect eyebrows. Seriously. Perfect. They're the right amount of thickness to look manly without looking Groucho Marx-esque and they're shaped in such a way that they're pretty without being feminine. They are truly two beautiful twin marks of sublimity which grace his face.
But they're bad news. And I wish someone had told me that. Because if I'd known that earlier, I could've saved myself this whole big mess. Not like a mess when your mom calls upstairs and tells you to clean your room because "it's a mess" but really all that's even on the floor is two days worth of clothes and your backpack and maybe some folders and pens. No, the kind of mess like you had a giant flour fight, followed by a run through the sprinklers and then laid down on the kitchen floor. A real mess. The kind it takes forever to clean up, even though it was kind of fun to make. Maybe even really fun to make.
But just because making the mess was fun, that doesn't always mean that it was worth it. Sometimes the mess is just too...well, messy.
And I wish someone had told me that.
Begin with "I wish someone told me..."
I wish someone told me that eating tar was bad for you.
The end. Bahahahaha
Jk. But for real now.
I wish someone told me that boys were bad news. Like really bad news. Like really really bad news. Well, maybe not all boys. Maybe not even boys in general. Maybe just boys named Loren, especially if that particular Loren has an excellent nose and perfect eyebrows. Seriously. Perfect. They're the right amount of thickness to look manly without looking Groucho Marx-esque and they're shaped in such a way that they're pretty without being feminine. They are truly two beautiful twin marks of sublimity which grace his face.
But they're bad news. And I wish someone had told me that. Because if I'd known that earlier, I could've saved myself this whole big mess. Not like a mess when your mom calls upstairs and tells you to clean your room because "it's a mess" but really all that's even on the floor is two days worth of clothes and your backpack and maybe some folders and pens. No, the kind of mess like you had a giant flour fight, followed by a run through the sprinklers and then laid down on the kitchen floor. A real mess. The kind it takes forever to clean up, even though it was kind of fun to make. Maybe even really fun to make.
But just because making the mess was fun, that doesn't always mean that it was worth it. Sometimes the mess is just too...well, messy.
And I wish someone had told me that.
Ten Reasons
Time to write!
Come up with ten reasons you should never record your life story.
1. Hi. Embarrassing?
2. I would never be able to finish it. But maybe that's a good thing.
3. Not everyone WANTS to know all the things that have happened
4. I don't remember everything that's ever happened to me.
5. It might put the people I love in danger...because I'm Batman
6. Then I'd have to write about people I'd rather forget - although those people formed the experiences that let me do some of my best writing
7. Because if I'm always writing about my own life I won't be able to write about the lives of all the people who live in my head and want to get out.
8. Fantasy story lines are much more entertaining
9. I did really dumb stuff when I was little. And when I was in Jr. High. And high school... and now... So I guess this is basically the same as #1, but I'm leaving it.
10. I'd tell you....but then I'd have to kill you.
Nothing like the cliche of all cliches to end a really lame blog entry. In my defense I started and finished not one, not two, but three essays this very evening.
Come up with ten reasons you should never record your life story.
1. Hi. Embarrassing?
2. I would never be able to finish it. But maybe that's a good thing.
3. Not everyone WANTS to know all the things that have happened
4. I don't remember everything that's ever happened to me.
5. It might put the people I love in danger...because I'm Batman
6. Then I'd have to write about people I'd rather forget - although those people formed the experiences that let me do some of my best writing
7. Because if I'm always writing about my own life I won't be able to write about the lives of all the people who live in my head and want to get out.
8. Fantasy story lines are much more entertaining
9. I did really dumb stuff when I was little. And when I was in Jr. High. And high school... and now... So I guess this is basically the same as #1, but I'm leaving it.
10. I'd tell you....but then I'd have to kill you.
Nothing like the cliche of all cliches to end a really lame blog entry. In my defense I started and finished not one, not two, but three essays this very evening.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Letters From?
Time to write!
A character finds letters written to them from someone they've never met, which bear dates from the future.
Sounds very Lake House, but could be fun.
The first letter was on the breakfast table. I'd gotten my cup out, filled it with water, and set it in the microwave to heat for my hot chocolate and had sat down at the table to wait for the timer, my forehead resting in my hands and my fingers in my hair. I was exhausted. I rarely slept well. It wasn't until the timer went off and I pushed back from the table to retrieve my mug that I noticed the envelope on the table.
"Weird," I muttered, picking it up and turning it over.
It was addressed to me, Shauna Winderly, but there was no return address.
The beeping of the microwave, even more irritating than normal given the early hour, made me pause in my contemplation of where the letter could have come from, but once my hot chocolate had been made I broke the seal of the envelope, pulled out the letter and began reading as I sipped my beverage.
Dear Shauna,
It's been nearly a year now, and my feelings haven't changed. I was delighted to receive your letter last month, and I'm sorry I did not respond sooner. I simply did not know what to say. This is really no excuse though. I should have written straightaway.
First, I want you to know I truly am sorry about Eric. Despite my feelings for you, I wanted you to be happy, even if that meant picking Eric over me. I did not leave, as you thought, to make you feel guilty or to prove to you that you couldn't keep us both in your life. I left because I didn't want to mess things up by staying and saying something to you that would jeopardize our friendship. Of course, this was still a selfish choice, and if I could go back, I'd do it differently. I'm sorry you felt alone. That is never what I intended.
Second, it would be wonderful to see you again sometime, but I'm afraid I'm a little booked at the moment. Perhaps we could meet for a weekend in New York? I'm sure we can arrange something, my funds are just a little low right now and I need to finish this project before there's an option of me catching a plane anywhere.
Shauna. There's so much I want to say in this letter and so much I cannot say. I'm sorry I can't write more now, for lack of the right words. I'll do my best however in saying, I hope you're smiling. Right now, because the world needs your smile.
All my best,
Jayce
Despite Jayce's fond wish for me to smiling, that was not what I was doing. Instead I stared at the paper, completely confused. Who was this Jayce individual? Maybe even more to the point, who was Eric and why was Jayce sorry about him? Did Eric die, or did he just leave me?
I set the letter down. This is probably all just some big joke. How someone had managed to get the letter into my house, I had not the faintest, but I dismissed the odd letter as a prank, refolding it and sticking it into the torn envelope, then went upstairs to get ready for work.
***
"Thank you, sir, for your patience. Mr. Grayson is ready to see you now," I said, addressing the heavy set gentleman who was waiting to make a proposal about a merger to Mr. Todd Grayson, founder and CEO of Grayson Electronics Co., one of the largest electronic companies in the United States. I knew that the gentleman, Lloyd Harris, one of Sony's bigmen, would have to deliver a solid pitch to earn himself any more than five minutes of Mr. Grayson's time. The man was over scheduled overworked, and overwrought with the responsibilities the quickly expanding company presented to him. Unfortunately, as his secretary I was automatically over scheduled, overworked, and overwrought as well. I wondered what his three personal assistants did to keep themselves sane.
As Mr. Harris walked through the door leading to Mr. Grayson's office I suppressed a sigh and shut my eyes, rubbing my temples, feeling a headache beginning to press in on either side of my head. A sharp ping of the tiny bell snapped my eyes open and my attention to the man standing in front of my desk.
He was tall, perhaps even very tall. My initial guess would place him at 6' 2'' or 3''. He had sandy hair combed carefully back from his face, leaving him looking very polished, but not slicked back in a way that looked greasy or overdone.
"How can I help you?" I asked, trying to keep my appraisal of his appearance purely professional.
"I'm here to speak with Mr. Grayson," he told me, smiling in a way that revealed teeth which must have spent time in braces.
"Do you have an appointment?" I asked, looking at the Excel document on my computer screen listing Mr. Grayson's appointments for the day.
"Yes, eleven o' clock," he replied confidently.
Mr. Grayson still had another two people to talk to before eleven, but you had to give the man credit for being prompt. A strange sensation took me though as I looked at the name written in the eleven o' clock time slot, a ping which sent me questioning. The man's name was Eric Riley.
A character finds letters written to them from someone they've never met, which bear dates from the future.
Sounds very Lake House, but could be fun.
The first letter was on the breakfast table. I'd gotten my cup out, filled it with water, and set it in the microwave to heat for my hot chocolate and had sat down at the table to wait for the timer, my forehead resting in my hands and my fingers in my hair. I was exhausted. I rarely slept well. It wasn't until the timer went off and I pushed back from the table to retrieve my mug that I noticed the envelope on the table.
"Weird," I muttered, picking it up and turning it over.
It was addressed to me, Shauna Winderly, but there was no return address.
The beeping of the microwave, even more irritating than normal given the early hour, made me pause in my contemplation of where the letter could have come from, but once my hot chocolate had been made I broke the seal of the envelope, pulled out the letter and began reading as I sipped my beverage.
Dear Shauna,
It's been nearly a year now, and my feelings haven't changed. I was delighted to receive your letter last month, and I'm sorry I did not respond sooner. I simply did not know what to say. This is really no excuse though. I should have written straightaway.
First, I want you to know I truly am sorry about Eric. Despite my feelings for you, I wanted you to be happy, even if that meant picking Eric over me. I did not leave, as you thought, to make you feel guilty or to prove to you that you couldn't keep us both in your life. I left because I didn't want to mess things up by staying and saying something to you that would jeopardize our friendship. Of course, this was still a selfish choice, and if I could go back, I'd do it differently. I'm sorry you felt alone. That is never what I intended.
Second, it would be wonderful to see you again sometime, but I'm afraid I'm a little booked at the moment. Perhaps we could meet for a weekend in New York? I'm sure we can arrange something, my funds are just a little low right now and I need to finish this project before there's an option of me catching a plane anywhere.
Shauna. There's so much I want to say in this letter and so much I cannot say. I'm sorry I can't write more now, for lack of the right words. I'll do my best however in saying, I hope you're smiling. Right now, because the world needs your smile.
All my best,
Jayce
Despite Jayce's fond wish for me to smiling, that was not what I was doing. Instead I stared at the paper, completely confused. Who was this Jayce individual? Maybe even more to the point, who was Eric and why was Jayce sorry about him? Did Eric die, or did he just leave me?
I set the letter down. This is probably all just some big joke. How someone had managed to get the letter into my house, I had not the faintest, but I dismissed the odd letter as a prank, refolding it and sticking it into the torn envelope, then went upstairs to get ready for work.
***
"Thank you, sir, for your patience. Mr. Grayson is ready to see you now," I said, addressing the heavy set gentleman who was waiting to make a proposal about a merger to Mr. Todd Grayson, founder and CEO of Grayson Electronics Co., one of the largest electronic companies in the United States. I knew that the gentleman, Lloyd Harris, one of Sony's bigmen, would have to deliver a solid pitch to earn himself any more than five minutes of Mr. Grayson's time. The man was over scheduled overworked, and overwrought with the responsibilities the quickly expanding company presented to him. Unfortunately, as his secretary I was automatically over scheduled, overworked, and overwrought as well. I wondered what his three personal assistants did to keep themselves sane.
As Mr. Harris walked through the door leading to Mr. Grayson's office I suppressed a sigh and shut my eyes, rubbing my temples, feeling a headache beginning to press in on either side of my head. A sharp ping of the tiny bell snapped my eyes open and my attention to the man standing in front of my desk.
He was tall, perhaps even very tall. My initial guess would place him at 6' 2'' or 3''. He had sandy hair combed carefully back from his face, leaving him looking very polished, but not slicked back in a way that looked greasy or overdone.
"How can I help you?" I asked, trying to keep my appraisal of his appearance purely professional.
"I'm here to speak with Mr. Grayson," he told me, smiling in a way that revealed teeth which must have spent time in braces.
"Do you have an appointment?" I asked, looking at the Excel document on my computer screen listing Mr. Grayson's appointments for the day.
"Yes, eleven o' clock," he replied confidently.
Mr. Grayson still had another two people to talk to before eleven, but you had to give the man credit for being prompt. A strange sensation took me though as I looked at the name written in the eleven o' clock time slot, a ping which sent me questioning. The man's name was Eric Riley.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
DAILY DOUBLE
Time to write!
Here's the thing friends. I was home for conference. Hence, up till 3 talking to the bro and without wi-fi on my laptop. And honestly, it didn't even OCCUR to me that I was forgetting to write. SO. You're getting two things today. One Sunday authentic thing and one poem challenge. So enjoy. I hope you will forgive my laxness in not writing either Friday or Saturday. :( It won't happen again (I hope...).
Write a poem where each word starts with the letter which makes up a phrase. (bad way to word it but you'll figure it out when you see the poem).
Badly read epithets and not nice answers,
Idly sobbing,
Dead rain aimlessly meanders and traverses in cloud.
Did you figure it out?? I love it.
NOW FOR SOMETHING AUUUUTHENTIC. That's hard though....
I don't want you to stop reading this just because it might look, at first, like just another teenage vampire romance novel. Because it isn't one. I mean...there are teenagers and vampires, and ok, there might be a tiny bit of romance somewhere. But that doesn't make this traditional.
Brian and I met on the first day of third grade. He showed me his fangs the first time in eighth grade. We were best friends from that day forward. I never thought he hated me. He didn't brood, not anymore than a normally teenage guy might. Most importantly, he never was tempted to drink my blood. Brian is a third generation domestic vampire. Let me shatter that perception right now. Here's where a bunch of die-hard vampire literature critics will tell me that vampires cannot have children and that they cannot be domesticated.
Sweet people. That's literature. I know it goes against what you think you know, but I'm pretty sure first hand experience counts for something.
Essentially, what I'm trying to say is Brian has never had to drink human blood. His family hunts- Twilight style, I guess- and has stores of blood. Sounds gross, but it's better than killing people all the time.
But even though Brian is a vampire and we go to high school, it doesn't make this your typical story. But rather than sit here and reason with you, let me just tell you what happened and you can see for yourself.
May I just say, I adore this intro? I want to write this story but fo real I am so tired. SOOO. I might continue it....tomorrow. :)
Here's the thing friends. I was home for conference. Hence, up till 3 talking to the bro and without wi-fi on my laptop. And honestly, it didn't even OCCUR to me that I was forgetting to write. SO. You're getting two things today. One Sunday authentic thing and one poem challenge. So enjoy. I hope you will forgive my laxness in not writing either Friday or Saturday. :( It won't happen again (I hope...).
Write a poem where each word starts with the letter which makes up a phrase. (bad way to word it but you'll figure it out when you see the poem).
Badly read epithets and not nice answers,
Idly sobbing,
Dead rain aimlessly meanders and traverses in cloud.
Did you figure it out?? I love it.
NOW FOR SOMETHING AUUUUTHENTIC. That's hard though....
I don't want you to stop reading this just because it might look, at first, like just another teenage vampire romance novel. Because it isn't one. I mean...there are teenagers and vampires, and ok, there might be a tiny bit of romance somewhere. But that doesn't make this traditional.
Brian and I met on the first day of third grade. He showed me his fangs the first time in eighth grade. We were best friends from that day forward. I never thought he hated me. He didn't brood, not anymore than a normally teenage guy might. Most importantly, he never was tempted to drink my blood. Brian is a third generation domestic vampire. Let me shatter that perception right now. Here's where a bunch of die-hard vampire literature critics will tell me that vampires cannot have children and that they cannot be domesticated.
Sweet people. That's literature. I know it goes against what you think you know, but I'm pretty sure first hand experience counts for something.
Essentially, what I'm trying to say is Brian has never had to drink human blood. His family hunts- Twilight style, I guess- and has stores of blood. Sounds gross, but it's better than killing people all the time.
But even though Brian is a vampire and we go to high school, it doesn't make this your typical story. But rather than sit here and reason with you, let me just tell you what happened and you can see for yourself.
May I just say, I adore this intro? I want to write this story but fo real I am so tired. SOOO. I might continue it....tomorrow. :)
Friday, October 5, 2012
In My Pocket
Time to write!
"I found the strangest thing in my pocket"
I found the very most strangest thing in my pocket. I cannot even believe how strange it was. It was large and square and seemed a lot like a book full of literary theory, which is strange enough. It gets even weirder though, for when I opened up the book, expecting to see pages full of text from confusing men like Derrida and Eagleton, all of whom are so sure they're correct it is almost enough to make a body sick, there weren't any such words. Instead it was my diary. But instead of being written by me, it was written by me if I had lived my life as a cow.
For example, there was an entry from the day I got my first kiss. But instead of being the real story of my first kiss- which is one worth telling, but which doesn't truly fit into this schematic. Is schematic the right word here? Context? Narrative?- it was the story of a cow's first kiss. It was hardly romantic. As I read the words on the page which said, "Today while mooing and grazing and chewing on my cud all at once I looked up and who should I lay my large brown eyes upon, figuratively of course, but the bull in the next paddock. He is a fine piece of meat, or will be someday. In fact, I think in a couple years he might be butchered and enjoyed by families around America. Such a realization made me question his attractive qualities, for why bother getting attached when such complication will undoubtedly occur. However, my interests were piqued and I could not resist at least going over to moo hello. I trotted on over, in the way a cow trots when excited, and mooed as flirtatious a moo as I could muster. It is a technique we practice whenever possible, for it isn't an easy thing to accomplish. In response to my moo the bull nudged my head with mine. I'm convinced however, that his grass-covered lips touched mine for just a moment. Too bad there's no future for us, for I doth believe I am smitten." I felt extremely concerned and confused and conniving. What is it that I connived? I connived something completely unrelated to the rest of this tale, and so it can be shared another time, just as with the first kiss adventure, which I'm sure you've not forgotten about since it was last brought up.
And so I'm sure you're convinced that this is all pretty strange. I mean, who wouldn't think it odd? But I haven't even told you the weirdest part yet. The weirdest part, is that when I found this book, I hadn't put on my pants yet. I had no pockets.
Wow....did that just come out of me? Please no one read this. Whate'er. Getting published anyway. Clicking the button in three....two....one....
"I found the strangest thing in my pocket"
I found the very most strangest thing in my pocket. I cannot even believe how strange it was. It was large and square and seemed a lot like a book full of literary theory, which is strange enough. It gets even weirder though, for when I opened up the book, expecting to see pages full of text from confusing men like Derrida and Eagleton, all of whom are so sure they're correct it is almost enough to make a body sick, there weren't any such words. Instead it was my diary. But instead of being written by me, it was written by me if I had lived my life as a cow.
For example, there was an entry from the day I got my first kiss. But instead of being the real story of my first kiss- which is one worth telling, but which doesn't truly fit into this schematic. Is schematic the right word here? Context? Narrative?- it was the story of a cow's first kiss. It was hardly romantic. As I read the words on the page which said, "Today while mooing and grazing and chewing on my cud all at once I looked up and who should I lay my large brown eyes upon, figuratively of course, but the bull in the next paddock. He is a fine piece of meat, or will be someday. In fact, I think in a couple years he might be butchered and enjoyed by families around America. Such a realization made me question his attractive qualities, for why bother getting attached when such complication will undoubtedly occur. However, my interests were piqued and I could not resist at least going over to moo hello. I trotted on over, in the way a cow trots when excited, and mooed as flirtatious a moo as I could muster. It is a technique we practice whenever possible, for it isn't an easy thing to accomplish. In response to my moo the bull nudged my head with mine. I'm convinced however, that his grass-covered lips touched mine for just a moment. Too bad there's no future for us, for I doth believe I am smitten." I felt extremely concerned and confused and conniving. What is it that I connived? I connived something completely unrelated to the rest of this tale, and so it can be shared another time, just as with the first kiss adventure, which I'm sure you've not forgotten about since it was last brought up.
And so I'm sure you're convinced that this is all pretty strange. I mean, who wouldn't think it odd? But I haven't even told you the weirdest part yet. The weirdest part, is that when I found this book, I hadn't put on my pants yet. I had no pockets.
Wow....did that just come out of me? Please no one read this. Whate'er. Getting published anyway. Clicking the button in three....two....one....
Thursday, October 4, 2012
TMI
Time to write!
Write about someone with a super power.
The first thing you need to know before we go any further is that being able to read minds is not as cool as you would imagine. Sure, it has it's perks. I mean, who wouldn't like being able to read the teacher's mind to come up with the right answer when they try to call you out for daydreaming during class? And the idea of being able to know what your friends, let alone guys, really think about you seems like this great phenomenon. But really? I hear a lot of crap I really could have gone without knowing. And aside from that, being able to read minds causes seriously killer headaches.
Before we really jump into what my English teacher would call "the meat and potatoes of this storyline" let's skim over the FAQs. Origin story? Gosh. Well I wasn't bit by anything, didn't have anything dumped on me, wasn't caught in some type of freak weather accident. If they made a movie of my origin story, it'd be a pretty dang boring one. It would go like this:
A girl with medium long chestnut brown hair sits up in her bed. She can read minds. She couldn't the night before. She knows, because her mom just stuck her head in to see if she was really getting up and even though her mom smiled and her mouth said, "Please get up now, sweetheart," the words which sounded in the girl's head, in her mother's voice, were, "Get out of bed! How are you going to function in college? And did Dan leave the stove on last night? Something smells funny."
I mean, I'm no film critic, but I can recognize that as a pretty lame story. Hardly any dynamic. The mom character's pretty fun though.
Essentially, I have no idea what happened. I feel like something must have happened. People don't just wake up, suddenly able to read minds. Except for when they do. Those are strange times. The best answer I can get you though is: working on figuring out. Will get back to you.
How long have I been able to read minds? A whole week now, and it just keeps getting even more fun friends. Each day I get to see more and more how sad the human race really is. Know what they say about everyone having a secret that if you knew it, it would break your heart? Well that's true. And that would make me feel really bad for a lot of people, except another truth is that everyone has a little jerk inside them, and the judgments people pass and the lies they feed to each other...it's sickening, folks.
Does anyone know I can read minds? Not yet. I feel like I should tell my mom though. I'm scared though, that if I tell her she'll want to get my tested, or that she'll think I'm just trying to get attention. As for friends...well after hearing what goes on in their heads, I don't really want to tell them anything, let alone something this big.
The truth is, reading minds makes me somehow feel responsible for every bad thought I hear. And there's a lot of bad things. And it's honestly just too much information.
Write about someone with a super power.
The first thing you need to know before we go any further is that being able to read minds is not as cool as you would imagine. Sure, it has it's perks. I mean, who wouldn't like being able to read the teacher's mind to come up with the right answer when they try to call you out for daydreaming during class? And the idea of being able to know what your friends, let alone guys, really think about you seems like this great phenomenon. But really? I hear a lot of crap I really could have gone without knowing. And aside from that, being able to read minds causes seriously killer headaches.
Before we really jump into what my English teacher would call "the meat and potatoes of this storyline" let's skim over the FAQs. Origin story? Gosh. Well I wasn't bit by anything, didn't have anything dumped on me, wasn't caught in some type of freak weather accident. If they made a movie of my origin story, it'd be a pretty dang boring one. It would go like this:
A girl with medium long chestnut brown hair sits up in her bed. She can read minds. She couldn't the night before. She knows, because her mom just stuck her head in to see if she was really getting up and even though her mom smiled and her mouth said, "Please get up now, sweetheart," the words which sounded in the girl's head, in her mother's voice, were, "Get out of bed! How are you going to function in college? And did Dan leave the stove on last night? Something smells funny."
I mean, I'm no film critic, but I can recognize that as a pretty lame story. Hardly any dynamic. The mom character's pretty fun though.
Essentially, I have no idea what happened. I feel like something must have happened. People don't just wake up, suddenly able to read minds. Except for when they do. Those are strange times. The best answer I can get you though is: working on figuring out. Will get back to you.
How long have I been able to read minds? A whole week now, and it just keeps getting even more fun friends. Each day I get to see more and more how sad the human race really is. Know what they say about everyone having a secret that if you knew it, it would break your heart? Well that's true. And that would make me feel really bad for a lot of people, except another truth is that everyone has a little jerk inside them, and the judgments people pass and the lies they feed to each other...it's sickening, folks.
Does anyone know I can read minds? Not yet. I feel like I should tell my mom though. I'm scared though, that if I tell her she'll want to get my tested, or that she'll think I'm just trying to get attention. As for friends...well after hearing what goes on in their heads, I don't really want to tell them anything, let alone something this big.
The truth is, reading minds makes me somehow feel responsible for every bad thought I hear. And there's a lot of bad things. And it's honestly just too much information.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Fantasy
Time to write!
Why do people love to read so much? The answer can and does vary from person to person, but one reply I know will come up often in a survey of such a question is that reading takes people away, transports them to another world, gives them an adventure.
Yippee! Adventure! Dragons! Trolls! Dungeons! Witches! Princes! Curses! It's all very exciting, being whisked off into some fantasy, a make believe world where the fantastic is the norm and where somehow men are charming and handsome and intelligent all at once. Such a combination on earth is rare, believe me, I'm still looking for one that isn't already taken.
Where the concept of finding enjoyment in a book because it "takes you away" falls apart is that it really rarely does take us someplace altogether pleasant.
Oh sure, we may find ourselves in a beautiful meadow for a time, but sooner or later we're going to find ourselves in a rather nasty scrape. Even those dreamboat men have to seem unattainable or interested in someone else in order to keep the story interesting. To really keep the reader invested we might as well kill off a character or two. Adventure! Yippee!
We escape the real world from our real live stresses to fantasize about a world just as troubled as our own. We struggle to free ourselves of the heartbreak of that spellbinding young male who things just aren't working out with by allowing ourselves to drool over the men of fiction. These men caused their fair share of mischief and heartbreak too, however. After all, what's a good story without a little romantic tension?
It is when this is realized that it all becomes very clear. All the stories we love so much are just life, twisted into another shape, allowing us to deal with it in a less painful way.
If you really had to choose between taking an upper level English midterm or attempt to slay a dragon, which would you pick? Sure, slaying the dragon sounds more glamorous, but it also sounds a lot more, well, death inducing. If such an option were truly placed before me, I must admit, I'd take the test and be glad that test was there for the taking.
So you see? Dragons are just trials. Trolls are just those people we thought we were rid of, but cannot seem to escape. Curses are bad days. Dungeons are boring classes. But in all stories those things pass. So too, in life. That green meadow we escaped to in the story? That's tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe next month. That's when we meet a real man who can make our hearts pound without scripted dialogue. That's when we graduate, when we make a new friend, when we make the team.
Life is a book. Just remember, maybe you're in the chapter that makes everybody cry, but the next one is very funny. Stick it out, and you'll be laughing sometime. And even if you aren't ready to laugh yet, or feel like you'll never laugh, you're learning and you're growing. If you were standing there, sword in hand, and the dragon was drawing its breath and preparing to breath fire, and you were already tired, would you just drop your sword and shrug? No. You'd take your shot. You'd charge the dragon. You'd swing your sword, and most likely let out a battle cry which would seem totally appropriate in the moment, but will sound dumb when played back later. And that's how it is supposed to sound! That's how it's supposed to be! That's life! Your story is only hard because no one likes a character, and no one wants to read a novel with no plot. Not even you. Not even me.
Why do people love to read so much? The answer can and does vary from person to person, but one reply I know will come up often in a survey of such a question is that reading takes people away, transports them to another world, gives them an adventure.
Yippee! Adventure! Dragons! Trolls! Dungeons! Witches! Princes! Curses! It's all very exciting, being whisked off into some fantasy, a make believe world where the fantastic is the norm and where somehow men are charming and handsome and intelligent all at once. Such a combination on earth is rare, believe me, I'm still looking for one that isn't already taken.
Where the concept of finding enjoyment in a book because it "takes you away" falls apart is that it really rarely does take us someplace altogether pleasant.
Oh sure, we may find ourselves in a beautiful meadow for a time, but sooner or later we're going to find ourselves in a rather nasty scrape. Even those dreamboat men have to seem unattainable or interested in someone else in order to keep the story interesting. To really keep the reader invested we might as well kill off a character or two. Adventure! Yippee!
We escape the real world from our real live stresses to fantasize about a world just as troubled as our own. We struggle to free ourselves of the heartbreak of that spellbinding young male who things just aren't working out with by allowing ourselves to drool over the men of fiction. These men caused their fair share of mischief and heartbreak too, however. After all, what's a good story without a little romantic tension?
It is when this is realized that it all becomes very clear. All the stories we love so much are just life, twisted into another shape, allowing us to deal with it in a less painful way.
If you really had to choose between taking an upper level English midterm or attempt to slay a dragon, which would you pick? Sure, slaying the dragon sounds more glamorous, but it also sounds a lot more, well, death inducing. If such an option were truly placed before me, I must admit, I'd take the test and be glad that test was there for the taking.
So you see? Dragons are just trials. Trolls are just those people we thought we were rid of, but cannot seem to escape. Curses are bad days. Dungeons are boring classes. But in all stories those things pass. So too, in life. That green meadow we escaped to in the story? That's tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe next month. That's when we meet a real man who can make our hearts pound without scripted dialogue. That's when we graduate, when we make a new friend, when we make the team.
Life is a book. Just remember, maybe you're in the chapter that makes everybody cry, but the next one is very funny. Stick it out, and you'll be laughing sometime. And even if you aren't ready to laugh yet, or feel like you'll never laugh, you're learning and you're growing. If you were standing there, sword in hand, and the dragon was drawing its breath and preparing to breath fire, and you were already tired, would you just drop your sword and shrug? No. You'd take your shot. You'd charge the dragon. You'd swing your sword, and most likely let out a battle cry which would seem totally appropriate in the moment, but will sound dumb when played back later. And that's how it is supposed to sound! That's how it's supposed to be! That's life! Your story is only hard because no one likes a character, and no one wants to read a novel with no plot. Not even you. Not even me.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Hurt
Time to write!
Hurt is a difficult emotion to describe. Hurt is not the same as sad, or as angry, or as disappointed. Hurt does not necessitate betrayal, although the two often coincide.
Hurt is something which refuses to be suppressed, refuses to be controlled. The tear stains or the clenched jaw do not characterize Hurt. Hurt sits inside of someone's eyes. Tears aren't necessary, neither is the dangerous flash. People can smile and pretend that Hurt isn't there, but it is.
So what makes Hurt hurt so bad? Possibly the fact that more often that not, Hurt is borne from hope. Hurt follows happiness. Hurt is unforeseen, unpredicted.
Hurt follows fast on the heels of ecstasy and excitement. We are lifted to a place where we feel as though things are right, and then Hurt comes, laying a leaden finger, just a finger, on our shoulder, and slowly pushing down. Sometimes we offer little resistance and we sink straight to the floor. Other days we stand tall as we can for as long as we can, but Hurt pushes us down eventually anyway.
Because you can't help it when you get hurt. So maybe Hurt isn't an emotion, because those you can decide. Maybe Hurt is just an emptiness, and that's why it's hard to get it to go away. You can put something else inside the Hurt, but the Hurt is still holding it, pulsing and living, reminding you that once things were not this way.
Hurt is a difficult emotion to describe. Hurt is not the same as sad, or as angry, or as disappointed. Hurt does not necessitate betrayal, although the two often coincide.
Hurt is something which refuses to be suppressed, refuses to be controlled. The tear stains or the clenched jaw do not characterize Hurt. Hurt sits inside of someone's eyes. Tears aren't necessary, neither is the dangerous flash. People can smile and pretend that Hurt isn't there, but it is.
So what makes Hurt hurt so bad? Possibly the fact that more often that not, Hurt is borne from hope. Hurt follows happiness. Hurt is unforeseen, unpredicted.
Hurt follows fast on the heels of ecstasy and excitement. We are lifted to a place where we feel as though things are right, and then Hurt comes, laying a leaden finger, just a finger, on our shoulder, and slowly pushing down. Sometimes we offer little resistance and we sink straight to the floor. Other days we stand tall as we can for as long as we can, but Hurt pushes us down eventually anyway.
Because you can't help it when you get hurt. So maybe Hurt isn't an emotion, because those you can decide. Maybe Hurt is just an emptiness, and that's why it's hard to get it to go away. You can put something else inside the Hurt, but the Hurt is still holding it, pulsing and living, reminding you that once things were not this way.
Imperceivables
Time to write!
A couple quick things to say before I post tonight's Authentic writing :)
1. I know I didn't post last night. That was because, while watching Thor *drool* my internet connection decided to go haywire. Then I had to reset everything up, and it took forever and was mucho frustrating. By the time that was done and I'd finished Thor (cause obviously it is imperative to finish Thor!!) my roommate was asleep on my bed, leaving me mooshed against the wall and the situation was not ideal for writing. So I really do apologize. :(
2. This story, while authentic, got it's origins while I was in an AP psychology class. Now, it's about Schizophrenic people. I don't know who will read this or if I will ever expand this and take it anywhere, because I really love the idea, but it needs to be understood that I in no way mean this with any disrespect to the Schizophrenic community or those with family members who suffer from Schizophrenia. I am not making light of the disorder, I am merely exploring an idea which came to me while learning about it.
Now, without further ado, here we go!
A couple quick things to say before I post tonight's Authentic writing :)
1. I know I didn't post last night. That was because, while watching Thor *drool* my internet connection decided to go haywire. Then I had to reset everything up, and it took forever and was mucho frustrating. By the time that was done and I'd finished Thor (cause obviously it is imperative to finish Thor!!) my roommate was asleep on my bed, leaving me mooshed against the wall and the situation was not ideal for writing. So I really do apologize. :(
2. This story, while authentic, got it's origins while I was in an AP psychology class. Now, it's about Schizophrenic people. I don't know who will read this or if I will ever expand this and take it anywhere, because I really love the idea, but it needs to be understood that I in no way mean this with any disrespect to the Schizophrenic community or those with family members who suffer from Schizophrenia. I am not making light of the disorder, I am merely exploring an idea which came to me while learning about it.
Now, without further ado, here we go!
The world around us is all a delusion. What we think we’re
seeing is merely the way our brains interpret light rays around us. That's all it is, and we have no way of proving otherwise.Who’s to
say that any of us even see things the same way? Who’s to say we all see the
same things? Scientists have discussed the theory that each person’s concept of
a certain color could be completely different. It’s hard to tell, what with the
brain sitting encased in our skulls, safe from scrutiny. That is, of course,
unless we’re dead and have donated our brains to science. But then you’re dead,
so fat lot of good that did you.
Beyond that, it's a wonder things appear the way they do even to one individual. I mean, most of what we look at as completely solid objects is actually empty space when viewed from the molecular level. I'm mostly empty space. You're mostly empty space. We all sit around, looking at other things which are mostly empty space and function based on what our brains see. It's all really one big mystery that everyone pretty much takes for granted. Those who study the brain come up with some crazy ideas about what's really going on in our heads, and some even believe that they've got it basicallyI figured out at this point.
I'm here to say that we don't have it figured out. The scientific community can't even begin to grasp what is happening. No matter what theories
are out there, and no matter what your textbooks say, I have an answer that they will never provide you with. I can tell you, we
don’t all see the same things. I know, because I’ve seen them. The Imperceivables, and science refuses to acknowledge that they exist.
***
I was ten years old when I saw my first Imperceivable. He was uncannily tall, wore a black sweatshirt and torn jeans, and had a gaunt, sunken face. He was basically your stereotypical creepy dude. I didn't notice him until the end of recess. Maycie and I had been swinging when the bell to line up rang. It wasn't until I jumped off the swing that I saw him leaning against a tree. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he was looking at me.
I was ten years old when I saw my first Imperceivable. He was uncannily tall, wore a black sweatshirt and torn jeans, and had a gaunt, sunken face. He was basically your stereotypical creepy dude. I didn't notice him until the end of recess. Maycie and I had been swinging when the bell to line up rang. It wasn't until I jumped off the swing that I saw him leaning against a tree. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he was looking at me.
I was extremely creeped out, but since we were going inside anyway, I just ran off and sort of forgot about the incident. Until I saw him outside my room two nights later. I heard a tapping sound at my window long after my parents had gone to bed. I was horrified, and called for my father. When he didn't come and didn't come and the tapping continued I became utterly hysterical. I jumped from my bed and peeked through the blinds of my window and there he was.
After running to my parents room in tears, my dad went outside to investigate, but assured me there was nothing there. I refused to be consoled and didn't sleep in my room for the rest of the week.
That didn't mean I stopped seeing the man though. He showed up again on the playground. I'd see him in the corner of my classroom. He'd follow me from school some days. But anytime I mentioned him to someone around me they said they couldn't see him, that there wasn't anyone there.
Two weeks after I first saw him, Maycie told me she didn't want to be my friend anymore. Her exact words, I believe, were, "You scare me now. I think you're crazy." Then she walked away from me. This made me feel more alone than ever, and I started seeing him more.
Finally my parents took me to a psychologist. I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. I was given medication. I was told that everything would be fine. But everything wasn't fine, and it couldn't be fine, because the doctors didn't understand what was really going on.
Instead of getting better, the "hallucinations" began getting worse. More people started showing up. I'd hear voices whenever I closed my eyes, or I heard people talking about me but when I turned around there wasn't anybody to be seen.
For years this continued. My life fell into a certain kind of pattern. Someone would see me sitting alone, and they'd try to be my friend. I would try my very best to act normal around them, but after a couple days, one of my tormentors would show up in an especially unexpected way, or would change up the routine. That changed things pretty quickly.
One particular example was my fourth day of eighth grade. I was sitting alone at lunch and a nice girl with long brown hair and glasses which actually looked cute on her came to sit by me.
"I'm Jessica," she told me. "Is it ok if I sit here?"
I smiled at her and nodded.
I smiled at her and nodded.
"Do you like cheesecake?" she asked. "My mom gave me this huge slice of cheesecake in my lunch today."
"I love cheesecake!" I answered. After devouring the piece, I discovered that Jessica and I had a lot in common. We both had little sisters, we both loved the original Star Wars movies, and we both were super excited to get our ears pierced. She had to wait until she was sixteen, and my parents basically wanted to wait for me to "stabilize". I didn't tell her that, just that my parents wanted me to wait.
She ate lunch with me the next day, and the first three days of the next school week as well. My main haunter, the one I'd seen first, was still showing up everywhere, but my therapists had told me to ignore him, to remember that he wasn't real, and to live a normal life. So that's what I tried to do. But when, on Wednesday, he stood up from the table where he'd been sitting across the cafeteria, sitting with a bunch of the popular girls who of course didn't know he was there, and walked towards me, I could feel my pulse quickening. He didn't normally come close to me, but sometimes he did, and those were the worst moments. I think he knew how much I hated it, and he saved it for special circumstances.
I tried to ignore him. Truly, I did. I turned to Jessica and asked her how she liked the book we were reading in Mrs. Matterly's class. I tried to concentrate on her answer, but I was hyper aware of him drawing closer and closer to me. I gripped the edge of the table, squeezing so tightly my knuckles turned white, as he started making his way around the table to where I was sitting. At this point I was completely panicked. I could hardly breathe.
"Shea? What is wrong?" Jessica said.
"Oh, mercy, no!" I whispered, petrified, as he reached out to me. He'd never been this close before. With the torture he was inflicting, I expected him to be smirking, but he looked deadly serious as he reached out to lay a hand on my arm. I pushed back from the table, rising to my feet and stumbling backwards, hysterical.
"Don't touch me!" I screamed.
Jessica wasn't my friend anymore after that.
***
At seventeen years old and in my senior year of High School I was done trying to make friends. I didn't want friends. I didn't want anything but for everyone to leave me the heck alone. I wanted the hallucinations to leave me alone, I wanted the kids who'd tried to be my friends to stop whispering things about me to everyone else. I wanted my teachers to stop analyzing my behavior in class. I wanted my psychologist to stop telling me it was all in my head, and for my parents to stop asking me if I'd had any episodes every day when I walked in from school. I wanted to be normal, to be like everyone else.
I hated that when anyone else walked down the hall they would see a bunch of smiling students, walking together, nudging one another, laughing or complaining about their day. In the exact same hall I'd see all these students, and more often that not one or two other people who clearly didn't belong there. Sometimes they were the hallucinations that had been plaguing me from the beginning. Others I only recognized because they obviously weren't supposed to be in high school.
Most people would argue that I didn't belong at a normal high school. And while it's true that my parents talked, talked a lot in fact, about pulling me out, my doctors were convinced that I just needed to give the new set of medication "a little more time" and that I needed to live "the most normal life possible." Every time something of that vein left one of their mouths I wanted to strap them with the hallucinations for a little while and see what they had to say afterwards. As it was, I stayed in public schooling, but I kept to myself. Kids talked about me but not to me, and I pretty much left them alone as well.
The day life really changed, I mean even more than that day when I was ten, was a Wednesday. A seemingly innocent enough Wednesday, too, all things considered. I was sitting outside, eating my lunch. I ate outside whenever I could, sometimes even when it rained, because it was less socially painful than sitting in the loud, crowded, constantly bustling lunch room. Besides, large crowds freaked me out. The more real people were in a room, the harder it was to tell if there were "fake" people there too. This may sound like a benefit, but it actually just made the hallucinations that much more unexpected, that much more realistic.
I was eating my sandwich and trying not to think about anything really, when I heard a twig snap, and turned. There was no twig on the ground to have snapped, but there he was, less than a foot behind me. Oh, I hated him. Loathed him, detested him, blamed him for the nightmare it was my life. Rising shakily to my feet, sandwich forgotten on the ground, I did my best to breath normally, despite my pounding heart, and to assess the situation.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I asked, voice wavering. He hadn't gotten this close to me since that day in eighth grade, although I never went more than a week without seeing him. The others always made more infrequent appearances, but this one was rather consistent. It was especially disorienting that he hadn't changed at all in the seven years we'd been "seeing" one another, everything the same as the day I first noticed him.
"Shea, I need you to listen to me for a minute," he said. This was the first time he'd spoken to me. I heard lots of them talk, but he had always just been my silent stalker. Hearing his voice was completely disarming. I tried to run, but tripped and fell, landing hard on my hands and knees.
He slowly walked over, taking his time, and with each step he took coming closer to me the less power I had to gain control of my limbs and get away. He crouched down, right beside me.
"Are you okay?" he asked, in what was probably one of the stupidest questions ever asked.
"Leave me alone!" I gasped, crying now, completely alone with him, kneeling in the grass between the main building and the science lab, trees all around.
"Calm down," he said, not in an ordering sort of way, but in a gentle sort of tone. Tone aside, I was far from being consolable, especially by him, the inflictor of my misery.
"Listen," he continued, voice quiet as he remained crouched beside me. "I need you to do your best to calm down and to understand what I'm saying. My name is Ian, and I promise I am not going to hurt you. But the others might, and I'm here to warn you."
...thoughts?
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