I think I may fail
but I guess that's alright.
I sat about for hours.
I ignored days.
I drifted through the weeks.
I wasted months.
Forgot anything worth knowing
Learned all kinds of useless stuff
I think I may fail
and it's my own fault
but I guess it'll have to be alright.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sometimes I scare myself
It's a little bit of nothing wrapped up in a whole knotted mess of rage, and it's not worth any of all that nonsense, but it sits there and it singes my composure from the inside out.
I slipped a little bit today. I got angry. I was, in fact, furious. The whole "roaring in the ears" metaphor that everyone talks about isn't a metaphor. And I slipped a little bit today. I didn't laugh it off and say, "never mind. I wasn't busy anyway," or, "it's okay, don't worry about it." I let a sentence or two get away from me about how, "no, I didn't walk all the way here. I was driven here from several miles away and I left all my studying materials at home," and, "you should have told me before I got all the way here." I was trying to induce guilt, and it worked, and when I was offered what had been denied me, I very vindictively said, "it's FINE," and I stormed off. I slipped. I said some of what I was actually thinking, and I never say what I'm actually thinking about how I'm actually feeling, especially not when I'm angry.
Fear me. I will break you down to your elements and show you just how small you are, how insignificant I can make you feel, how everything you thought you were is nothing at all.
Get out of my sight, I spit in my head. Myself in my mind is reduced to a snarl, bared teeth and a roar of rage.
and a deep breath.
and a lowered head.
spent.
I slipped a little bit today. I got angry. I was, in fact, furious. The whole "roaring in the ears" metaphor that everyone talks about isn't a metaphor. And I slipped a little bit today. I didn't laugh it off and say, "never mind. I wasn't busy anyway," or, "it's okay, don't worry about it." I let a sentence or two get away from me about how, "no, I didn't walk all the way here. I was driven here from several miles away and I left all my studying materials at home," and, "you should have told me before I got all the way here." I was trying to induce guilt, and it worked, and when I was offered what had been denied me, I very vindictively said, "it's FINE," and I stormed off. I slipped. I said some of what I was actually thinking, and I never say what I'm actually thinking about how I'm actually feeling, especially not when I'm angry.
Fear me. I will break you down to your elements and show you just how small you are, how insignificant I can make you feel, how everything you thought you were is nothing at all.
Get out of my sight, I spit in my head. Myself in my mind is reduced to a snarl, bared teeth and a roar of rage.
and a deep breath.
and a lowered head.
spent.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Answer him
Ianto Jones. Coffee-maker extraordinaire. Wearer of three-piece suits. Persistent and dependable. He loved hopelessly and helplessly and truly. He kept a mechanized girlfriend alive in the basement, trying desperately to keep her alive, to fix her, to save her. He fell for Jack, who refused to say the words, "I love you," even when Ianto lay dying in his arms. He deserved so much more than being the errand boy, the extra agent, the casual fling. Ianto Jones. He needs a song.
Worn out
It feels a lot later than it should, somehow. Perhaps getting up at six thirty this morning has something to do with that. Maybe I have done more today than I have the rest of break together. Maybe I'm still just stressed over things that are not getting done. Either way, today feels like it has been extraordinarily long.
I'm saying lots of silly things because I have nothing else flowing from me at this point in time. I'm all worn out emotionally from Torchwood, for which I wept bitterly.
I saw friends today that are still friends, but not very close friends. I don't talk to them about the most important things which shouldn't be the most important things, but they are. We talk TV, but shows that aren't tied to the center of me, my core self. We saw a daft movie, at the end of which I sat laughing until I nearly cried, it was so awful and amazing. I like retarded movies that don't mean to be retarded. If you're trying to be stupid, I'm irritated. If you think you're being cool, but failing, I laugh. What sort of person does that make me? A cynical, sarcastic, awful one, I think. I think the failure of others is more amusing than their genuine attempts to amuse me. Hmm. I liked the movie. Going to leave that thought there.
Having a style is one thing, but reusing words or phrases bothers me. I can't even reuse a distinctive word in an entirely separate post. I remember that I used it somewhere else, and it's no good. Been used; goes in the trash bin. I have no recycling bin for words.
That was a random rant, and I haven't the foggiest idea where it came from. Oh well.
I'm saying lots of silly things because I have nothing else flowing from me at this point in time. I'm all worn out emotionally from Torchwood, for which I wept bitterly.
I saw friends today that are still friends, but not very close friends. I don't talk to them about the most important things which shouldn't be the most important things, but they are. We talk TV, but shows that aren't tied to the center of me, my core self. We saw a daft movie, at the end of which I sat laughing until I nearly cried, it was so awful and amazing. I like retarded movies that don't mean to be retarded. If you're trying to be stupid, I'm irritated. If you think you're being cool, but failing, I laugh. What sort of person does that make me? A cynical, sarcastic, awful one, I think. I think the failure of others is more amusing than their genuine attempts to amuse me. Hmm. I liked the movie. Going to leave that thought there.
Having a style is one thing, but reusing words or phrases bothers me. I can't even reuse a distinctive word in an entirely separate post. I remember that I used it somewhere else, and it's no good. Been used; goes in the trash bin. I have no recycling bin for words.
That was a random rant, and I haven't the foggiest idea where it came from. Oh well.
Black Friday
Standing in line.
Read a magazine. Investigate sale fliers. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Text a friend. Pick up useless items. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Check phone for texts. Read an article online. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Grab a candy bar. Check phone again. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Put down useless items. Change ringtone. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Answer text. Hide the candy bar. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Look for Mom. Choose wrapping paper. Get to the front.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Standing in line.
Wait for Mom. Wish for coffee. Still in front.
Mom's here.
Checkout.
Read a magazine. Investigate sale fliers. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Text a friend. Pick up useless items. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Check phone for texts. Read an article online. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Grab a candy bar. Check phone again. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Put down useless items. Change ringtone. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Answer text. Hide the candy bar. Get to the front.
Go to the back.
Standing in line.
Look for Mom. Choose wrapping paper. Get to the front.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Standing in line.
Wait for Mom. Wish for coffee. Still in front.
Mom's here.
Checkout.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Impotent tears
Why would you do this to us
You offer them up
Make them breathe
Teach us their names
Tell us their stories
Expose their souls
Let us love them
We build them homes in our hearts
Accept their flaws
Cry for their pains
Fear for their safety
Laugh when they tease
Yearn for their happiness
Then you take them back.
Why would you do this to us?
You offer them up
Make them breathe
Teach us their names
Tell us their stories
Expose their souls
Let us love them
We build them homes in our hearts
Accept their flaws
Cry for their pains
Fear for their safety
Laugh when they tease
Yearn for their happiness
Then you take them back.
Why would you do this to us?
Accepting what I can't change
I like my family.
I carry on as though they are heinous and ridiculous and sometimes they are, don't get me wrong, but I do like them.
Things get awkward when they ask me about my future or my cousin treats me like I'm 15 instead of 21, but I guess if I want to be taken seriously as an adult, I need to answer their questions and lose the acne.
We are a strange bunch. Dry, almost undetectable humor is the order of the day, and most of the time it could be mistaken for outright stupidity . . . and I am considered a bit slow on the uptake because I don't understand when my uncles are trying to be amusing. Am I supposed to 'get it' when they act like they've lost their minds? . . . oh well.
My younger cousins are brats to the last child, except for one, and I find him more corrupt each time I see them. His transformation saddens me.
Aunts are more demanding than uncles. They want opportunities to brag about their own children to each other, so they grill me on my future plans, hoping to trip me up with something they can use against my mum. I hide in a corner with my phone. They can think what they like.
I like my family. We are judgmental, arrogant, selfish, and irritating. We are intelligent, amusing, sarcastic, and strong.
I think I'm okay being one of us.
Thanksgiving
All the food in the world is in me.
Or so it feels.
I ate so much starch today. Ick. Yum. Some complex mixture of the two.
PUMPKIN PIE.
Just pie. And potatoes. Lots and lots of potatoes.
These are just words and fragments of phrases that are trying to tell you what day it is today.
Or so it feels.
I ate so much starch today. Ick. Yum. Some complex mixture of the two.
PUMPKIN PIE.
Just pie. And potatoes. Lots and lots of potatoes.
These are just words and fragments of phrases that are trying to tell you what day it is today.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Today, if no one is interested
I have experienced this level of mental, physical, emotional exhaustion very few times in my life. I blink mistily at the screen because I'm not sure what I'm typing, actually. I am a blob. A lump. A thudding great heap of silence. I cannot move, but I refuse to sit here any longer. I begin to fuse with the chair. This is a wrong thing to happen.
I know I am not the first to experience this sort of hell on earth, and it's a hell of my own making, but today was awful.
I woke up at 6:15 to drop mom off at work, came back and accidentally fell asleep, so there went at least an hour I should have been using. I spent the next 2 hours pushing through a report and three page paper project that I should have started three weeks ago. Needed a shower. Showed up to class long enough to turn it in. Then I sat back down at the computer and began trying to type up the last bits of a term paper due at 2. I did part of it, then tumbled for a good hour. What is wrong with me? By that point, I had about 10 minutes to stuff a few things into it that were supposed to be references before I went to choir. Still needed a shower. Went without. I went to choir, sang, came home, researched and typed and cut and pasted frantically until 2 . . . and then after 2 . . . and I got to class 45 minutes late. Still needed a shower. Once that was turned in, I went home. I got food, watched some TV. Finally took a shower right before I had to work for two hours. I remembered to my dismay that I still needed to revise and send a second draft of an essay that I had fudged my way through the first time, so it needed a lot of work. It was also due at 2, but it was a bit late for that now. After work, I came back to the computer desk from Hades and finished going through the essay. I sent it. I remembered that I have to do a bibliography for another term paper.
I do not care. Tomorrow.
I know I am not the first to experience this sort of hell on earth, and it's a hell of my own making, but today was awful.
I woke up at 6:15 to drop mom off at work, came back and accidentally fell asleep, so there went at least an hour I should have been using. I spent the next 2 hours pushing through a report and three page paper project that I should have started three weeks ago. Needed a shower. Showed up to class long enough to turn it in. Then I sat back down at the computer and began trying to type up the last bits of a term paper due at 2. I did part of it, then tumbled for a good hour. What is wrong with me? By that point, I had about 10 minutes to stuff a few things into it that were supposed to be references before I went to choir. Still needed a shower. Went without. I went to choir, sang, came home, researched and typed and cut and pasted frantically until 2 . . . and then after 2 . . . and I got to class 45 minutes late. Still needed a shower. Once that was turned in, I went home. I got food, watched some TV. Finally took a shower right before I had to work for two hours. I remembered to my dismay that I still needed to revise and send a second draft of an essay that I had fudged my way through the first time, so it needed a lot of work. It was also due at 2, but it was a bit late for that now. After work, I came back to the computer desk from Hades and finished going through the essay. I sent it. I remembered that I have to do a bibliography for another term paper.
I do not care. Tomorrow.
Please don't
Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain. If I keep your expectations at low to middling then my best efforts will astound you but I don't have to give them if I don't want to be bothered. If I set the bar for me too high, then I'm continually disappointing you, and I can't bear that. I hate that look on your face that asks me for more and thinks I am more than I am, because I'm really not. It's just me in here, and I will never be what you want from me. I will never be what I want from me.
Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain. We, you and I together, are setting me up to fail, and when I do--because, believe me, I will. I've done it so many times before-- I will be left to stare at you from beyond the emptiness, pierced only by the knowledge that you thought I was more, and you tried to make me give you more, and I wasn't enough, and so it ends. I end, in a hole in the dismal earth dug by my ambitions and your encouragement.
Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain.
Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain. We, you and I together, are setting me up to fail, and when I do--because, believe me, I will. I've done it so many times before-- I will be left to stare at you from beyond the emptiness, pierced only by the knowledge that you thought I was more, and you tried to make me give you more, and I wasn't enough, and so it ends. I end, in a hole in the dismal earth dug by my ambitions and your encouragement.
Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Slips that are freudian
When tasked to write 1000 words on anything, I write just about anything. Stream of consciousness, or at least stream of typing? I can't even type fast enough for any of it to make sense, really, and then I surprise myself with what my fingers tap out. A few bits from this week follow:
_____
I write poetry now. Poetry is cool. Honestly, I'm not sure how I got started writing random poems of words strung together like they might actually mean something important. I never thought I had anything to say before, so why does it matter now? I apparently have things to say, and a captive audience that is the internet. I need more words, more words, more words to say the things I want to say. I never do write very much when I need to, and I never say the things I mean to say aloud.
_____
I write mostly about fandom things which are easier to express than talking about real life. No one wants to hear about real life, because they are living it too, and mine is less crappy than most.
_____
Random ramblings, so on and on I go, saying nothing that really matters, because nothing does matter, and I shouldn't let myself go on existential ramblings when I am working with way too few hours of sleep.
_____
I am quite proud of the words I flame into existence. I like fire. I think that's because I have none of my own; I want my writing to be warm and breathe burning life into me where my soul has iced over from being used so infrequently.
_____
I write poetry now. Poetry is cool. Honestly, I'm not sure how I got started writing random poems of words strung together like they might actually mean something important. I never thought I had anything to say before, so why does it matter now? I apparently have things to say, and a captive audience that is the internet. I need more words, more words, more words to say the things I want to say. I never do write very much when I need to, and I never say the things I mean to say aloud.
_____
I write mostly about fandom things which are easier to express than talking about real life. No one wants to hear about real life, because they are living it too, and mine is less crappy than most.
_____
Random ramblings, so on and on I go, saying nothing that really matters, because nothing does matter, and I shouldn't let myself go on existential ramblings when I am working with way too few hours of sleep.
_____
I am quite proud of the words I flame into existence. I like fire. I think that's because I have none of my own; I want my writing to be warm and breathe burning life into me where my soul has iced over from being used so infrequently.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Two words to change a life
No.
That is the only word that hurtles through the blazing fog of my mind, colliding with a crash of agony in my thoughts. Gritty, grating cloth lost from between my grasping, over-sensitive fingertips as the burden they bore flops with a dull thud to the burning sands of my battle-ground. The void in my very soul wars with my fiery passion, conquers it with a single flickering glance into the still face of my lifeless prisoner.
All warmth extinguished. My sun has fallen from its overarching sky. So, too, will the moon cease to reflect its gleaming light; I am finished. No other course remains, and I welcome the darkness.
I have killed my captain.
Jim.
The name explodes into my mind and perhaps from my lips; I cannot tell and do not care. Firm and warm and alive beneath my clutching, trembling, tingling fingers, he moves freely with my wild spin and laughs, laughs up at me, and I cannot contain a responding grin that splits and cracks and shatters my reserve and my resolve to let him go ever again.
Never again, because my sun is back in its place and setting me to burning with clear, confident flame; I glow with nothing more than his smile for kindling. We banish the darkness together, and forever, and forever has only just begun.
I have found my captain.
That is the only word that hurtles through the blazing fog of my mind, colliding with a crash of agony in my thoughts. Gritty, grating cloth lost from between my grasping, over-sensitive fingertips as the burden they bore flops with a dull thud to the burning sands of my battle-ground. The void in my very soul wars with my fiery passion, conquers it with a single flickering glance into the still face of my lifeless prisoner.
All warmth extinguished. My sun has fallen from its overarching sky. So, too, will the moon cease to reflect its gleaming light; I am finished. No other course remains, and I welcome the darkness.
I have killed my captain.
Jim.
The name explodes into my mind and perhaps from my lips; I cannot tell and do not care. Firm and warm and alive beneath my clutching, trembling, tingling fingers, he moves freely with my wild spin and laughs, laughs up at me, and I cannot contain a responding grin that splits and cracks and shatters my reserve and my resolve to let him go ever again.
Never again, because my sun is back in its place and setting me to burning with clear, confident flame; I glow with nothing more than his smile for kindling. We banish the darkness together, and forever, and forever has only just begun.
I have found my captain.
But you left me
Paradise
is looking into your eyes and waiting for my breath to come back just a bit faster this time
last time i wasn't sure it ever would
but that would have been pretty okay with me
stabbed through the middle like a glittering butterfly
with scales the same shade as your eyes that pin me here
What good is forever
with no you to see it with
no you to touch it with
no you to smell it with
no you to live it with
Can i just have the days you promised me
all the days we never had
short and terrible and too sweet
Those will be
my Paradise
my Paradise
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Not right
Trust
is a gift
is a risk
is a connection
is appreciated
is reciprocated
is important.
He didn't know.
He didn't think.
He
rejected
protected
disengaged
forgot
neglected
minimized
Wrong. Merely destructively humiliatingly terrifyingly heartbreakingly wrong.
is a gift
is a risk
is a connection
is appreciated
is reciprocated
is important.
He didn't know.
He didn't think.
He
rejected
protected
disengaged
forgot
neglected
minimized
Wrong. Merely destructively humiliatingly terrifyingly heartbreakingly wrong.
Distracted
Fire
I caught this for you, he says.
I mean, for dinner. For you to cook, he says.
but all i can see is the tilt of his head the scuff of his
feet the blood in his ears the teeth of his grin
Are you going to do something with it, or just sit there? he
says.
but all i can hear is the laugh in his voice the scratch in
his throat the catch in his breath the thud of his heart
You shouldn’t stare like that, he says.
Your eyes will get stuck, or something, he says.
but all i can think is the way that he looks the stuff that
he shares the joy that he lives the time that he said
I love you.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
I try not to besmirch mine honor with foul language
BUT DAMN IT ALL TO HELL.
I FOUND IT.
I FOUND THE BLOODY BOOK.
ON. MY. GORRAM. *BOOKSHELF*.
I LITERALLY CRIED OVER THIS.
I LOST SLEEP.
I WAS STRESSED OUT OF MY MIND.
I MADE AN ABJECT FOOL OF MYSELF MULTIPLE TIMES WITH FRUSTRATION AND WORRY.
FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU--
--dge.
I FOUND IT.
I FOUND THE BLOODY BOOK.
ON. MY. GORRAM. *BOOKSHELF*.
I LITERALLY CRIED OVER THIS.
I LOST SLEEP.
I WAS STRESSED OUT OF MY MIND.
I MADE AN ABJECT FOOL OF MYSELF MULTIPLE TIMES WITH FRUSTRATION AND WORRY.
FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU--
--dge.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
I need a better grip
I keep losing things
Like my will to live
My train of thought
My grip on reality
My heart
My mind
Myself
Butterfingers.
Like my will to live
My train of thought
My grip on reality
My heart
My mind
Myself
Butterfingers.
Time is getting away from me
Crumbs.
NaNoWriMo is really hard to do. I know I said this already, but I am reiterating because it is true. I mean, spending upwards of an hour a day? I don't have an hour a day. I had to skip it yesterday. I was already behind, and now I am moreso. It makes me sad.
Time to get to business.
NaNoWriMo is really hard to do. I know I said this already, but I am reiterating because it is true. I mean, spending upwards of an hour a day? I don't have an hour a day. I had to skip it yesterday. I was already behind, and now I am moreso. It makes me sad.
Time to get to business.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
I keep losing things
I think I am all worded out. I just spent about an hour and a half eking out more than 1300 words for my novel. NaNoWriMo is really hard and time-consuming. I don't want to quit, though. I like writing. I like my story. I have trouble with pacing, but I think it will be okay.
Yeah. No more words today. I don't even want to talk.
OH, on a different note, though, that I want to tell someone...
I agreed to read scripture for church this week. This should not be a scary, horrifying thing. It should not be that big of a deal, but I am a nervous wreck, and nothing has even begun yet. Oh no...I lost the paper. I don't know what the scripture even is anymore. Aaaaaack. This is no bueno.
Also, I lost my book that I am supposed to be reading for a class and teaching out of on Tuesday. I borrowed a copy, but I have had zero time to read it because of reasons. Legitimate reasons, mind you, but just reasons. We are supposed to talk about it and come up with questions and similar by one tomorrow. I have a test in the morning which precludes any time for anything else in the morning. Oh dear. Oh well. Such is life.
I need to stop losing things.
Yeah. No more words today. I don't even want to talk.
OH, on a different note, though, that I want to tell someone...
I agreed to read scripture for church this week. This should not be a scary, horrifying thing. It should not be that big of a deal, but I am a nervous wreck, and nothing has even begun yet. Oh no...I lost the paper. I don't know what the scripture even is anymore. Aaaaaack. This is no bueno.
Also, I lost my book that I am supposed to be reading for a class and teaching out of on Tuesday. I borrowed a copy, but I have had zero time to read it because of reasons. Legitimate reasons, mind you, but just reasons. We are supposed to talk about it and come up with questions and similar by one tomorrow. I have a test in the morning which precludes any time for anything else in the morning. Oh dear. Oh well. Such is life.
I need to stop losing things.
Unasked
Going to a dance
Every one wearing slippery silky
Dresses
Every one in high shining
Shoes
Every one under curly stylish
Hair
Every one with glowing happy
Faces
Every one
Else.
Else.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
This is a long ramble about what I want to write but can't
I never feel creative at all in the evening.
Why is that?
I mean, I was talking to an English major friend of mine who mentioned National Novel Writing Month, and I thought to myself, "What a great idea! I can finally get started on my super special awesome fantasy novel that I've been dreaming over for about seven years."
Now I am here, at the computer, poised over a Word document, fingers ready to fly with heretofore unrealized genius and inspiration from the highest muse....and I have nothing.
No words worth saying at all.
This is frustrating.
Can I just tell you about my characters?
Gariven is an awesome guy. I like him a lot. He makes me laugh, because he's got such a stick up his behind about EVERYTHING. I mean, he isn't pretentious without cause; he's the heir to the biggest hold in the southern plains. He's been raised to take over for his father, and he's pretty smart, too. He knows how to fight; he likes twin short swords, which may be impractical. I have no idea. I don't fight; I write. Anyway, he's been at the Court of the Council every winter since he turned fifteen, rubbing shoulders with all the other prospective nobility, finding out he is pretty much the gods' gift to women, being generally impressive. In spite of his general awesomeness, he hasn't gotten into any real trouble. He has a little brother, much younger, of whom he is rather fond. He never uses contractions; court manners, remember? Oh, and he's an elf. I have elves. With magic. He has lots of magic, more than most other elves, actually, and elves have more magic than men. He is particularly good at scenting it, or tracking it, and he is the only elf he knows of that can read minds and communicate telepathically. He doesn't do it often, and he hasn't told anyone. He has a decent relationship with his parents; his mother tends to smother him a bit, while his father is disciplined but not cold. A golden boy kinda guy, really. Everything is going his way, at this point. He's twenty-two now. Oh, physically, he is taller than average, but only by an inch or two. Blond hair that's shaggy when not slicked back. Black-brown eyes.
Playing opposite this paragon is Adoran. Another really awesome guy. He is my standard dude with tragic past. Stereotypes, I has them. But that doesn't stop me from making him amazing anyway. I am sort of in love with this character I have created. Is that strange? You are probably saying yes. Psychoanalyze away, because I have NO REGRETS. Back to Adoran. He is the sort of dire guy that says grim things but thinks something snarky. Sometimes he says the snarky thing instead of the grim thing. He thinks irritating everyone else is hilarious, and that's kinda the extent of his humor, at least, at the beginning of this thing. He is hard, and cold, and brutal, but not blood-thirsty. When he was a child, he lived with his mother on the edges of a village, and while life wasn't awful, it wasn't the best. He was a kid, what did he know? He remembers being happy then, when he thinks about it, which isn't often. He tries to forget that he was happy before he came back from the woods one day to find his mother dead on the floor, singed corpse still smoking from the blast of energy that ended his childhood. His name was on the wall. He ran into the woods, survived for a year or two scavenging and stealing into towns. One day, while wandering in the woods, he finds a cabin. When he gets close enough to get a better look, he is captured by a hermit elf who eventually trains and raises him and teaches him how to survive. I forgot to mention Adoran has magic, too. Lots of it. Lots more than Gariven or any elf. And he is a half-breed elf/human. And those are supposed to be impossible in my world. Yes. Truthfully, his back story has given me the worst time trying to figure it out. This version is new. I will probably write another one. Adoran likes projectile weapons: daggers, bow and arrows. He is also very good with a sword. He makes a living now by acting as a courier of messages, packages...it keeps him moving around, out of sight. He is tall and thin, has dark hair, blacker than brown, past his shoulders that he keeps tied back. His eyes are light blue.
...why do I feel like I am digging more and more into fandom with this thing? I have been told they are essentially Kirk and Spock. Now that I look at it, they are also Charles and Erik. 'Cept the blond stuff, but character-wise? Yep.
TOO BAD. I like these guys. I made them up way before I ever got into fandom of any kind. They make me smile to think about. I drew them a lot a couple of years ago.
I may or may not be feeling inspired now. Off to try this novel-writing thing!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Just today
Time to write about nothing really fascinating or important.
Sleepy. Very very sleepy. Not sure why.
Today was a good day. GETTIN STUFF DONE. Like errands and such. Felt accomplished awhile.
Then came home and did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for about 7 hours. Felt both marvelous and worthless.
Sigh.
Sleepy. Very very sleepy. Not sure why.
Today was a good day. GETTIN STUFF DONE. Like errands and such. Felt accomplished awhile.
Then came home and did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for about 7 hours. Felt both marvelous and worthless.
Sigh.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Remember
Different
The first time he smiles
he is labeled.
Not like the rest of us.
Defective
Contaminated
Compromised
They never let him forget.
Separate
He has a pet
with fangs.
Run from him. Fear him.
Lost
Emotional
Angry
It keeps them away.
Superior
He finds respect
in a new place.
We can use him.
Efficient
Intelligent
Commanding
He could be comfortable here.
Uncomfortable
His routine is disturbed
by a man.
I think he needs a friend.
Irritated
Surprised
Challenged
This is new.
Satisfied
The next time he smiles
he is accepted.
You are one of us.
Questioned
Teased
Loved
They never let him forget.
The first time he smiles
he is labeled.
Not like the rest of us.
Defective
Contaminated
Compromised
They never let him forget.
Separate
He has a pet
with fangs.
Run from him. Fear him.
Lost
Emotional
Angry
It keeps them away.
Superior
He finds respect
in a new place.
We can use him.
Efficient
Intelligent
Commanding
He could be comfortable here.
Uncomfortable
His routine is disturbed
by a man.
I think he needs a friend.
Irritated
Surprised
Challenged
This is new.
Satisfied
The next time he smiles
he is accepted.
You are one of us.
Questioned
Teased
Loved
They never let him forget.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Before the sun
Afraid and emotional.
To be alone is common. He is and always has been alone.
He has so much to offer buried under what no one has accepted.
Duty he hides behind.
Easier to pretend he doesn't feel at all, because how can they understand?
Sometimes I cry for him.
To be alone is common. He is and always has been alone.
He has so much to offer buried under what no one has accepted.
Duty he hides behind.
Easier to pretend he doesn't feel at all, because how can they understand?
Sometimes I cry for him.
Waiting on a dream
Sleep dearest sleep
I know you are tired
That coat is heavy and wet
And so much soul spraying out
All those wings burst into ashes
Smothered specks of dirt
You wanted it right
Wanted it over
Enough to hide
From me
Sleep dearest sleep
Let it float away awhile
I wait for you
In my dreams
I know you are tired
That coat is heavy and wet
And so much soul spraying out
All those wings burst into ashes
Smothered specks of dirt
You wanted it right
Wanted it over
Enough to hide
From me
Sleep dearest sleep
Let it float away awhile
I wait for you
In my dreams
Thursday, October 27, 2011
What I have left
When I'm tired
Shambling down the dragging seconds
Sucking down air in sleepy gulps
Blinking at the floor
I dream of you
And rest.
When I'm cold
Nothing to emote
Pulling tighter at a jacket
Wanting some sun
I remember you
And warmth.
When I'm late
Typing with frantic fingers
Vaulting up and tripping down
Bursting lungs and heart
I think of you
And peace.
When I'm sad
Curling into a tense twist
Clutching at shivering shoulders
Licking at trickling salt
I go to you
And joy.
When I'm alright
Greeting a friend
Thinking with spoken words
Sitting at a desk with nothing to do
I have you
And a smile.
Shambling down the dragging seconds
Sucking down air in sleepy gulps
Blinking at the floor
I dream of you
And rest.
When I'm cold
Nothing to emote
Pulling tighter at a jacket
Wanting some sun
I remember you
And warmth.
When I'm late
Typing with frantic fingers
Vaulting up and tripping down
Bursting lungs and heart
I think of you
And peace.
When I'm sad
Curling into a tense twist
Clutching at shivering shoulders
Licking at trickling salt
I go to you
And joy.
When I'm alright
Greeting a friend
Thinking with spoken words
Sitting at a desk with nothing to do
I have you
And a smile.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Brown and blue
Brown
He sits alone in a quiet, deafening room, blood thumping to echoes of merely memory. Safe, now, in the cool darkness, a life apart from the dusty dying sand. Pounding through his eyes are the sun and the heat and the speckled uniforms that didn't hide him quite well enough. A dream. Only particles of days gone. He cannot sleep.
Limp
They've given him a plastic stick. Frosty metal and molded rubber to hold up what is left of a man. Psychosomatic. In his head, muddling reality. He offered his life. It was borrowed and returned broken.
Sweater
An extra layer between him and stabbing icy gusts. A neutral color for a nondescript man with a cane and a limp and no place to go. Except maybe this chair. He punches an embroidered pillow behind his back, shrugs into peachy threadbare velvet upholstery. It's no good. Tapping his third leg on the wooden floor, he waits for something. Maybe he hopes. Either way, when the tall man beckons, he chases him through the door.
Scarf
The place smells like wine and tomatoes, spices, garlic. He blinks uncomfortably at the red-checkered table. Simple conversation has not gone well. Dark hair suspended over a pale, moon-lit face and glowing eyes send him sprawling over the smallest of words. His companion must be cold, still wrapped up in woolen warmth.
Run
Over crumbling brick roofs, down clinking shaking metal stairs, through whistling shadowy alleys, across shouting paved streets they gasp and pull and chase. It's a mistake. His friend says something mad. Breathless and helpless, he laughs and follows again, ducking and darting and hiding to home.
Blue
He stands by a car mounted with glaring, flashing lights, absorbing all, seeing little. Past the yellow strip sits a man he trusts, tugging jerkily at a red-orange fleece blanket. His friend speaks to a gray-haired detective, looks over at him, stops talking, flaps the blanket in the detective's face. He sees only his friend's eyes, open, clear, focused back on him as the man with the blanket approaches. He is reassured. He will rest.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Wake up call
From the depths of sleep, she heard a whistle, so familiar but so foreign. Spock rolled over, noting that she was on the floor, for some reason, and it was surprisingly clean. Three tones, low-high-low. She wanted more sleep. She wanted her bed, not the floor. Spock groaned as she hoisted torso off the ground. She flipped her hair out of her face, blinked twice, then let her elbows buckle beneath her and she collapsed again.
Kirk and Bones were laid out on the bed and a chair, respectively, in a darkened room that was definitely not her own. She didn't think one slept in a dream, did they? Maybe just in hallucinations.
The whistle again. "Janelle." She waited. "Janelle, wake up."
McCoy opened her eyes, rolled her neck. "Is she still asleep?"
"Yeah. I don't know how we're going to get her up; it's generally impossible, right? JANELLE." Another whistle.
"Maybe you should just get that," Bones suggested.
"Yeah...guess so..." Spock stumbled to her feet and flicked the switch. "Spock here, reporting on behalf of the captain."
"Oh." Chekov sounded faintly surprised. "Well, we are approaching Beta 3. Will the captain be joining us on the bridge for first contact?"
"Of course, Lieutenant. We're on our way; Spock out." She flipped off the comm switch and flopped onto the bed by Kirk. "CAPTAIN KIRK."
Janelle blinked and started to sit up. "Where?"
"That's you, Janelle," replied Bones, eyes closed and relaxed again in her chair. Kirk withered a bit.
"Oh, right."
Spock patted her shoulder briefly. "So, they want you on the bridge to . . . make first contact, I think, with a new planet. Sound doable?"
"Umm . . . sure, I guess?"
"Yeah. This will be interesting. Caitlin, wanna come up there?"
"Sure."
"Right. Lead on, then, mon capitan." Spock gestured to the door, then she and Bones followed the captain out the door.
"Right. Lead on, then, mon capitan." Spock gestured to the door, then she and Bones followed the captain out the door.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
BEING NEGATIVE AGAIN
I am not fond of being negative.
I prefer being happy.
Couldn't tell from this blasted blog, could you?
I complain a lot.
Here I am again.
Complaining.
Sorry guys.
I'll shut up now.
I prefer being happy.
Couldn't tell from this blasted blog, could you?
I complain a lot.
Here I am again.
Complaining.
Sorry guys.
I'll shut up now.
Please don't make me look at this anymore
I can't do it.
It make me queasy just to look at it.
Can't I just hit 'delete' and try again?
Do I have to keep this?
Do I have to fix this?
I can't do it.
It's an impossible feat.
Not worth saving.
I am incredibly unhappy just thinking about it.
How do you get back up when you've been flattened by a single pen?
That's more pathetic than pitiable.
I don't take criticism very well.
Apparently.
It make me queasy just to look at it.
Can't I just hit 'delete' and try again?
Do I have to keep this?
Do I have to fix this?
I can't do it.
It's an impossible feat.
Not worth saving.
I am incredibly unhappy just thinking about it.
How do you get back up when you've been flattened by a single pen?
That's more pathetic than pitiable.
I don't take criticism very well.
Apparently.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Twice told still the same
Blue
He is young and angry. He is belligerent and argumentative. I am not irritated. I am merely . . . unsettled by his emotional reaction to a logical investigation. He violated the academic code. I am in the right to question his actions. It is the correct response to this situation.
I cannot categorize my feelings on this matter. He . . . confuses me. I do not li--It does not please me. I do not approve of him. I will not serve with him. He must be removed.
His actions were not logical, but they have been most effective. I may . . . revise my opinion of him.
I accept.
Green-brown
We are of an age, this man and I. He is decisive and intelligent. He is warm. I do not understand his insistence on familiarity. Offers of friendship are not often given . . . to me. It would be inappropriate to address him informally.
We play games of chess. His smile confuses me. I am unable to ascertain the nature of my feelings. He is my superior. This can go no farther.
I told him my most personal truth. He saved my life. I may acquiesce to his request, on occasion.
Jim.
He is young and angry. He is belligerent and argumentative. I am not irritated. I am merely . . . unsettled by his emotional reaction to a logical investigation. He violated the academic code. I am in the right to question his actions. It is the correct response to this situation.
I cannot categorize my feelings on this matter. He . . . confuses me. I do not li--It does not please me. I do not approve of him. I will not serve with him. He must be removed.
His actions were not logical, but they have been most effective. I may . . . revise my opinion of him.
I accept.
Green-brown
We are of an age, this man and I. He is decisive and intelligent. He is warm. I do not understand his insistence on familiarity. Offers of friendship are not often given . . . to me. It would be inappropriate to address him informally.
We play games of chess. His smile confuses me. I am unable to ascertain the nature of my feelings. He is my superior. This can go no farther.
I told him my most personal truth. He saved my life. I may acquiesce to his request, on occasion.
Jim.
Breaking free
Once upon a time in a big gray castle lived a boy and his brother and his father. The boy was tall and strong. His brother and father were shorter and stronger. When they went hunting, they left him at home to study. He didn't like that very much.
One day, Sammy, because that was his name, got tired of staying home. He was strong enough, he thought. He could even take care of himself, he thought. So he waited until his brother and father went hunting again, and he left.
For the first few days, Sammy was right. He was strong enough. He could take care of himself. He walked for miles and miles, farther and farther from home. He didn't have to study anymore. He got to hunt.
But then, Sammy got tired. He got cold. He got hungry. By himself, he wasn't very good at hunting.
So when he saw a city and another castle from the top of a dry hill, he was glad.
Sammy walked through the gates of the city and saw a parade. The carriages were shiny, the horses were groomed, the robes were colorful, and the princes . . . they were beautiful. One was short like Sammy's brother and father. The other was shorter.
Sammy looked at the princes, then looked at himself. He was dirty, his shirt was shredded, and his hair was greasy. He was ashamed.
Sammy left the city and started to walk home. His brother and father met him not far from the gates, yelled at him for awhile, then tossed him on a horse.
He knew he had to go home. He also knew that he was coming back.
He hoped the prince would wait.
One day, Sammy, because that was his name, got tired of staying home. He was strong enough, he thought. He could even take care of himself, he thought. So he waited until his brother and father went hunting again, and he left.
For the first few days, Sammy was right. He was strong enough. He could take care of himself. He walked for miles and miles, farther and farther from home. He didn't have to study anymore. He got to hunt.
But then, Sammy got tired. He got cold. He got hungry. By himself, he wasn't very good at hunting.
So when he saw a city and another castle from the top of a dry hill, he was glad.
Sammy walked through the gates of the city and saw a parade. The carriages were shiny, the horses were groomed, the robes were colorful, and the princes . . . they were beautiful. One was short like Sammy's brother and father. The other was shorter.
Sammy looked at the princes, then looked at himself. He was dirty, his shirt was shredded, and his hair was greasy. He was ashamed.
Sammy left the city and started to walk home. His brother and father met him not far from the gates, yelled at him for awhile, then tossed him on a horse.
He knew he had to go home. He also knew that he was coming back.
He hoped the prince would wait.
Writing is a dementor
I hate writing.
More specifically, I hate, I HATE writing about something I do not care about. I am never even remotely satisfied with the results. I am more often ashamed of the awful, disgusting thing on which I wasted time and ink and paper.
My paper is pathetic, and small, and pointless, and vague, and indescribably BORING. It is tired, and trite, and dead. It is covered in red pen that sets its mediocrity ablaze with all the fire of a teacher's contempt. Its smoulder is about to be put out. I'm crying on it.
Why are my thoughts worth so bloody little? Why haven't I got a creative, original bit of anything in me? Why do I have no passion?
They say I should write on that about which I care. Stupid preposition placement. But how does that work when I don't care about anything? I don't want to travel. I don't care about Atlanta. I don't care about the stupid Underground Mall. I am indifferent to a Civil War museum. I'm even dispassionate about the Tavern, at this point. SO THIS PAPER WAS DOOMED TO FAIL.
I'm being highly emotional. I realize this. Possibly a result of sleep deprivation. Possibly just biological.
What I am trying to make clear is that I HATE LIFE right now. I AM ANGRY right now. Not at anyone else. Just at me, because I am made of failure and sadness and nothing great or good or even passable will ever come from me.
This is depressing.
Enough.
More specifically, I hate, I HATE writing about something I do not care about. I am never even remotely satisfied with the results. I am more often ashamed of the awful, disgusting thing on which I wasted time and ink and paper.
My paper is pathetic, and small, and pointless, and vague, and indescribably BORING. It is tired, and trite, and dead. It is covered in red pen that sets its mediocrity ablaze with all the fire of a teacher's contempt. Its smoulder is about to be put out. I'm crying on it.
Why are my thoughts worth so bloody little? Why haven't I got a creative, original bit of anything in me? Why do I have no passion?
They say I should write on that about which I care. Stupid preposition placement. But how does that work when I don't care about anything? I don't want to travel. I don't care about Atlanta. I don't care about the stupid Underground Mall. I am indifferent to a Civil War museum. I'm even dispassionate about the Tavern, at this point. SO THIS PAPER WAS DOOMED TO FAIL.
I'm being highly emotional. I realize this. Possibly a result of sleep deprivation. Possibly just biological.
What I am trying to make clear is that I HATE LIFE right now. I AM ANGRY right now. Not at anyone else. Just at me, because I am made of failure and sadness and nothing great or good or even passable will ever come from me.
This is depressing.
Enough.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Not much in my brain but tissue
My head hurts.
All fuzzy and foggy.
Cottonballs inside is a trite metaphor and entirely inaccurate.
Cottonballs don't hurt.
I think it's more like a dustdevil in my cranium.
Pressure that scrapes at tender tissue.
So tired.
All fuzzy and foggy.
Cottonballs inside is a trite metaphor and entirely inaccurate.
Cottonballs don't hurt.
I think it's more like a dustdevil in my cranium.
Pressure that scrapes at tender tissue.
So tired.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Has been a day
How dare I neglect this? I feel better after writing, just about always. But not when writing absolutely crap papers for class. Ugh ugh ugh. Yesterday was awful. Then it was over and I did nothing today. Today was marvelous.
I want to write...something.
But I have no inspiration today.
I haven't for a couple of days. Wrote myself into a bit of a corner, I'm afraid. Now I need to have an actual plot, and nothing is springing to mind.
Sucks.
Well, I did have a bit of a panic/depression/cry this afternoon. It just hits me every so often that my days are slipping away from me, even the important ones. That was the panic. That the things that mean the most to me are only temporary was the depression. My attempt to deal with these facts was the cry.
I was praying, thanking God for what I've had so far, asking him to fix what's I've wrecked already, and tossing the future at him hoping he'd lob back some sort of instruction manual. Nothing on that front, not yet. But I did get some peace.
I always cry on/before my birthday. Was expecting it, so I'm not really upset by it.
21 tomorrow. Exciting. Terrifying. Liberating? I guess so (pondered the feasibility of purchasing alcohol to christen something without drinking it). However I look at it, it's a new year. That's not a bad thing.
I want to write...something.
But I have no inspiration today.
I haven't for a couple of days. Wrote myself into a bit of a corner, I'm afraid. Now I need to have an actual plot, and nothing is springing to mind.
Sucks.
Well, I did have a bit of a panic/depression/cry this afternoon. It just hits me every so often that my days are slipping away from me, even the important ones. That was the panic. That the things that mean the most to me are only temporary was the depression. My attempt to deal with these facts was the cry.
I was praying, thanking God for what I've had so far, asking him to fix what's I've wrecked already, and tossing the future at him hoping he'd lob back some sort of instruction manual. Nothing on that front, not yet. But I did get some peace.
I always cry on/before my birthday. Was expecting it, so I'm not really upset by it.
21 tomorrow. Exciting. Terrifying. Liberating? I guess so (pondered the feasibility of purchasing alcohol to christen something without drinking it). However I look at it, it's a new year. That's not a bad thing.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Busy, busy, dreadfully busy
Now is the week of our dismay, quoth I. 'Twill be hellish.
So much to finish in the next coupla days...wanted to be caught up before my 21st...dunno if that'll happen.
So many feelings experienced today...all TV related, so no worries there...
Enjoying all these ellipses...
Need sleep.
Need research.
Need more hours and maybe another me.
Yes.
I don't like being busy.
So much to finish in the next coupla days...wanted to be caught up before my 21st...dunno if that'll happen.
So many feelings experienced today...all TV related, so no worries there...
Enjoying all these ellipses...
Need sleep.
Need research.
Need more hours and maybe another me.
Yes.
I don't like being busy.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Meanwhile with sugar
A little nurse flipped a pink-filled syringe through his fingers, pausing at intervals to squirt some of the liquid onto his rosy-stained tongue. As he lounged indifferently in a low-backed chair, feet crossed and propped up beside the computer on a desk sticky with reddish syrup, a tall man in a long jacket fluttered into tangibility. He kept his eyes on the screen, deliberately slung both arms behind his head, twining his fingertips, and jerked his thumb just enough to jet sugary goo onto his arriving guest. A brief, irritated glance saw the stain removed, and the man with brown hair and chilly eyes stood behind him, stared over the nurse's shoulder. On the screen were the captain, the science officer, and the chief medical officer, all female, all too young, all asleep.
The nurse spoke first.
"Not bad, eh?"
. . . "What are you doing?"
"Just a bit of fun, really."
"Why?"
"Why not? Besides, they were asking for it, believe me."
"Where are those who belong here?"
"Oh, they're fine. Just sent 'em on a little vacation, which they were asking for, too, by the way. I was just setting things straight."
. . . "Put them back."
"Who died and made you God?"
. . . ". . . . . . ." . . .
"Okay, okay, geez. A guy can't have a little fun around here? I'll put them back; just give me a bit to get my mojo back in gear."
"Good."
With a flickering and a whisper, his unexpected guest was gone. The nurse snorted, brought down an arm for another hit of candy.
"I liked him better before we died."
The nurse spoke first.
"Not bad, eh?"
. . . "What are you doing?"
"Just a bit of fun, really."
"Why?"
"Why not? Besides, they were asking for it, believe me."
"Where are those who belong here?"
"Oh, they're fine. Just sent 'em on a little vacation, which they were asking for, too, by the way. I was just setting things straight."
. . . "Put them back."
"Who died and made you God?"
. . . ". . . . . . ." . . .
"Okay, okay, geez. A guy can't have a little fun around here? I'll put them back; just give me a bit to get my mojo back in gear."
"Good."
With a flickering and a whisper, his unexpected guest was gone. The nurse snorted, brought down an arm for another hit of candy.
"I liked him better before we died."
Sloth or succor
Umm....How does it happen that I find myself drowning without even realizing I'd hit the water? Everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING, is crushing me at once, piling into my consciousness like busy-work personified playing sardines in my cranial car. I just want to curl up under a blanket and pull them out of my brain into a pensieve so I can think straight for a minute or two.
Today was one of those days where nothing quite went right. Late to class and work more than once; forgotten or unfinished assignments; called out in class with nothing to say. Just . . . one of those.
Need more sleep.
Kinda wanna write.
Hmm.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Nothing to say with words
Have you ever had lots and lots of words inside, but none of them would come out? Or, rather, lots and lots of half-articulated thoughts that are fragmented and mean nothing but are begging to be expressed anyway inside, and none of them are coherent or really yours enough to say out loud or type down or even specifically think?
I want to talk about being an introvert and how much I need time to sit at home and just be for a while.
I want to talk about going to Macbeth and being confused, soul-crushed, angered, depressed, and, shamingly, even a little bored.
I want to talk about how cool it was to have a discussion afterwards about character development and Shakespeare's views of authority figures bringing in multiple plays and feeling really smart.
I want to talk about not being ashamed of being strongly averse to country music.
I want to talk about being ever so much less than I ever expect to be.
I want to talk about how much I need to get done and how disappointed I am with myself for not doing all those things.
Most of all, I want to avoid writing a paper that's due tomorrow.
So I can't say any of those things. I shouldn't waste time trying to say any of those things.
My voice is being choked off. My words are stolen.
Writing this paper is going to be awful.
At Macbeth
Screaming, crashing, laughing, roaring fury and madness and grief.
Boredom, curiosity, confusion, empathy, amusement, criticism rolling through his withering mind.
Feelings, feelings, feelings and words, words, words, and noise, noise, noise.
Smothering and empty and blank.
Fog and smoke and air.
Flashes in the dark. Dim haze.
Enough.
Sleep.
Boredom, curiosity, confusion, empathy, amusement, criticism rolling through his withering mind.
Feelings, feelings, feelings and words, words, words, and noise, noise, noise.
Smothering and empty and blank.
Fog and smoke and air.
Flashes in the dark. Dim haze.
Enough.
Sleep.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Taking a break from storytelling
Been working my way through a rewatch of an excellent show that started up again recently so I can start the new season fresh from the last. Making significant headway, finally . . . it's been like a month since I started this. At any rate, I'm here for another episode that promises to be awful and wonderful as usual. Quesadilla in bowl on my desk; I'm hungry.
Here goes funness.
Here goes funness.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Once upon an October
Crackling leaves skittered over rough pavement, catching on cracks and shoring up against cement stairwells, dragged into corners or up into free air by autumnal gusts of wind. Beneath a pure blue October sky, two girls waited on a scuffed metal bench. Their gloved hands were shoved deep into fleecy jacket pockets, their shoulders hunched into tasseled scarves. A penetrating breeze teased long strands of hair from beneath one's hood and whipped them into her watery eyes. "Are you sure we shouldn't just go inside?"
Her shivering cohort shook her head, the motion downplayed somewhat by cold shakes that rattled her entire frame. "They come by every Thursday, after lunch and before class at two," she replied, nearly nipping off the end of her tongue between chattering teeth. "Just hang on a minute."
The bang-beaten girl withdrew her hands to blow on them, rubbing them together vigorously. "This had better be worth --"
Her retort froze to her lips as she saw a trio of men approaching from down the sidewalk.
***
"'S really cold out today, Bones," Jim said to his friend, working his hands to increase circulation as they strolled down the paved path. "I dunno why I'm even going to class."
"Because you don't want to fail?" Leonard huffed, managing to roll his eyes and glare threateningly at the same time. "And I don't think Spock is going to let you 'borrow' his notes again."
"The good doctor is correct in his assumption, Jim," asserted the third member of their group. Though none of them were short, he was the tallest and sported a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses.
"And don't you start calling me that, either," Len glanced over at Spock with irritation. "Just because I got accepted into the graduate program doesn't mean I'll get far enough for that 'Ph.D.' after my name." He stuck his hands farther into the pockets of his parka and scowled as a particularly icy gust slapped him in the face. "It is damned cold, though," he muttered, examining Spock with more care. "How do you like the chill, Spock? Have enough layers to insulate that thin blood of yours?"
Spock was bundled up in three layers of warm shirts under a sweater under a hoodie under a long woolen coat. The ensemble was capped off by a large striped scarf and a beanie for his ears. He gave Bones a brief look, quirking one eyebrow in the worrier's direction. "I believe I shall survive the walk, Len, but I thank you for your concern."
"Just checking, you cold-blooded cretin."
"Now, gentlemen, let's all be friends and agree that Bones is a genius and this weather is god-awful," interjected Jim before familiar bickering got entirely out of hand. "I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think you two hated each other. Why are you friends, again?" Two pairs of eyes, one clear blue and one dark brown, fixed him with pointed stares. "Oh, right, it's 'cause you both love me. I think that's a pretty good reason to set aside your differences, am I right?" He laughed and skipped ahead when both men lunged at him. "Bones, you know I'm right, and Spock, you know I'd get your notes eventually." He stayed out of reach and waggled his eyebrows, attempting to give Spock a sultry stare and failing miserably because he was smiling too broadly. "You're helpless against my wiles."
"Aren't those usually the province of women, Jim?" Spock allowed himself a small smirk, while Bones guffawed openly.
"Guess that proves who's the woman in that relationship, eh, Spock?" Leonard teased. Jim was still trying to avoid their combined efforts to pin him down, and Bones was ready to give up. They were almost at class, anyway.
Spock was not so easily deterred. One careless slip from Jim sent the smaller man flailing towards the cement and rocks; Spock grabbed his arm and yanked Jim into a brief embrace. Jim grinned up at Spock, said, "See? I planned this," and leaned in to kiss him briefly on the cheek.
Bones rolled his eyes again, grabbed a shoulder of each, and dragged them into the building where class had started two minutes ago.
***
Two girls sat on a bench, its black paint fading and flaking. Their eyes were stuck open and focused on the door behind which three men had vanished. One reached out a quivering arm and jabbed the other in the shoulder.
"Did you just see . . ."
"Yeah." They remained, silent and staring for several minutes. Leaves scratched raggedly over the rough pavement, playing with the rushing of the wind in their ears.
Finally, the first to speak offered a final word.
"It was totally worth it."
Her shivering cohort shook her head, the motion downplayed somewhat by cold shakes that rattled her entire frame. "They come by every Thursday, after lunch and before class at two," she replied, nearly nipping off the end of her tongue between chattering teeth. "Just hang on a minute."
The bang-beaten girl withdrew her hands to blow on them, rubbing them together vigorously. "This had better be worth --"
Her retort froze to her lips as she saw a trio of men approaching from down the sidewalk.
***
"'S really cold out today, Bones," Jim said to his friend, working his hands to increase circulation as they strolled down the paved path. "I dunno why I'm even going to class."
"Because you don't want to fail?" Leonard huffed, managing to roll his eyes and glare threateningly at the same time. "And I don't think Spock is going to let you 'borrow' his notes again."
"The good doctor is correct in his assumption, Jim," asserted the third member of their group. Though none of them were short, he was the tallest and sported a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses.
"And don't you start calling me that, either," Len glanced over at Spock with irritation. "Just because I got accepted into the graduate program doesn't mean I'll get far enough for that 'Ph.D.' after my name." He stuck his hands farther into the pockets of his parka and scowled as a particularly icy gust slapped him in the face. "It is damned cold, though," he muttered, examining Spock with more care. "How do you like the chill, Spock? Have enough layers to insulate that thin blood of yours?"
Spock was bundled up in three layers of warm shirts under a sweater under a hoodie under a long woolen coat. The ensemble was capped off by a large striped scarf and a beanie for his ears. He gave Bones a brief look, quirking one eyebrow in the worrier's direction. "I believe I shall survive the walk, Len, but I thank you for your concern."
"Just checking, you cold-blooded cretin."
"Now, gentlemen, let's all be friends and agree that Bones is a genius and this weather is god-awful," interjected Jim before familiar bickering got entirely out of hand. "I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think you two hated each other. Why are you friends, again?" Two pairs of eyes, one clear blue and one dark brown, fixed him with pointed stares. "Oh, right, it's 'cause you both love me. I think that's a pretty good reason to set aside your differences, am I right?" He laughed and skipped ahead when both men lunged at him. "Bones, you know I'm right, and Spock, you know I'd get your notes eventually." He stayed out of reach and waggled his eyebrows, attempting to give Spock a sultry stare and failing miserably because he was smiling too broadly. "You're helpless against my wiles."
"Aren't those usually the province of women, Jim?" Spock allowed himself a small smirk, while Bones guffawed openly.
"Guess that proves who's the woman in that relationship, eh, Spock?" Leonard teased. Jim was still trying to avoid their combined efforts to pin him down, and Bones was ready to give up. They were almost at class, anyway.
Spock was not so easily deterred. One careless slip from Jim sent the smaller man flailing towards the cement and rocks; Spock grabbed his arm and yanked Jim into a brief embrace. Jim grinned up at Spock, said, "See? I planned this," and leaned in to kiss him briefly on the cheek.
Bones rolled his eyes again, grabbed a shoulder of each, and dragged them into the building where class had started two minutes ago.
***
Two girls sat on a bench, its black paint fading and flaking. Their eyes were stuck open and focused on the door behind which three men had vanished. One reached out a quivering arm and jabbed the other in the shoulder.
"Did you just see . . ."
"Yeah." They remained, silent and staring for several minutes. Leaves scratched raggedly over the rough pavement, playing with the rushing of the wind in their ears.
Finally, the first to speak offered a final word.
"It was totally worth it."
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Downer is my preferred state of being
I am so, so tired.
Keep falling asleep in random places at random times. I'm getting too old for this late-night/early-morning stuff.
So, this little drabble fic I'm coughing up. I never write fic because I'm never satisfied with the results. I don't like the way I write dialogue, the way I describe ongoing action. It gets trite and boring, or over-blown, or just sloppy really fast. That's why I'm stuck writing my book, too. I have these excellent characters in my mind and a general idea of where I want the story to go, but it always sounds...just awful when I try to pin it down with words. Yeah.
I was really excited about this idea of mine, and so I tried to write it, and it doesn't sound like it should to me. I still like the idea. I just can't bring it to life the way I think it deserves.
It's depressing.
I'm going to sleep.
Keep falling asleep in random places at random times. I'm getting too old for this late-night/early-morning stuff.
So, this little drabble fic I'm coughing up. I never write fic because I'm never satisfied with the results. I don't like the way I write dialogue, the way I describe ongoing action. It gets trite and boring, or over-blown, or just sloppy really fast. That's why I'm stuck writing my book, too. I have these excellent characters in my mind and a general idea of where I want the story to go, but it always sounds...just awful when I try to pin it down with words. Yeah.
I was really excited about this idea of mine, and so I tried to write it, and it doesn't sound like it should to me. I still like the idea. I just can't bring it to life the way I think it deserves.
It's depressing.
I'm going to sleep.
Meet you there
"What deck is sickbay on?"
"Pretty sure it's deck five." Their momentum catapulted them into the lift , fortunately swift to open. Each grabbed a handle, slicking it with their sweat but past caring, heartbeats thundering in their heads, their chests, their very fingertips. "Deck five!" Spock called, hoping volume made the thing move faster, bend more quickly to the wills of its occupants. It didn't.
They commandeered the time of a young ensign, convincing him that this was a diplomatic exercise, told him to take them to sickbay. "On the double, if you please, ensign." Kirk's new-found voice of command backed their bluff effectively. "Thank you; dismissed," and Kirk and Spock burst into sickbay, and they found her.
Dr. Caitlin McCoy lay prone on a biobed, eyes watering, hands at her sides, head raised to quaver mournfully, "Nooooo; this is the opposite of what I wanted . . . " She had quickly come to her own conclusions about the nature of their roles here; her office provided more information than was available in Kirk's quarters. When she saw the commanding pair, she sparked with recognition, and vaulted herself off the biobed to them.
"Okay, you guys, what is even happening?! I wake up this morning and my hands are in some weirdo box thing that does surgery, I guess? And I'm supposed to be operating? So when I start to panic, UNDERSTANDABLY, this guy comes in all laughing and says I can go sit in my office, 'Dr. McCoy,' so I do, and now I am Dr. McCoy, and we are on this starship, and I do not know what is happening anymore," Caitlin ended with a huff of aggravation, crossing her arms to prevent finger-wringing of the cruelest sort.
"So, you figured it out, then?" Spock asked, still wheezing but calming rapidly in her relief. Kirk dropped her mantle of authority, relaxed her stance. They were all okay; no one was bleeding or captured or lost in space.
"What, that we're in the show? And that we're supposed to be the characters? I do not like this at all," McCoy replied, shaking her head, grimacing with distaste. "If I wanted anything at all, I wanted to meet them, not BE them, and that's even if I wanted anything like this in the first place. I was supposed to be doing SURGERY. I'm an English major, not a doctor!"
Spock snorted with laughter, elbowed a chortling Kirk, said, "Of course, Bones."
Bones was confused, thought back a moment, then grinned herself. "Oh, haha, whups. Anyway . . . should we all just hang out here, or something? I have a computer and stuff we can use to, I don't know, try to figure this thing out."
"Captain's got a computer in her quarters, too, and we can have some privacy there . . . less surgery?" Spock offered. Kirk nodded vigorously.
"Yes, let's go there so we can talk about this," the captain vocalized her reply and led the other two from sickbay.
"Okay, and can we also just mention how sad this is?" interjected Bones as they paced the long, monochromatic path back to Kirk's quarters. "We are actually on the ship, but we can't even see the people we came here for."
"I know!" wailed Spock, "Janelle and I were literally crying about it before we came for you; it is the saddest thing in the history of things."
Conversation continued in this vein until the captain's door squeaked shut behind them. Each collapsed onto a piece of furniture; Bones in the cold desk chair, Kirk back on the colored, covered bed, and Spock laid out on the floor. They sat in silence for a few moments, breathing circulated air, absorbing the textures of the ship, listening to the hum of the engines.
"But now I have a question," Kirk spoke into the emptiness, words falling oddly flat as they prodded the still air. Bones cocked her head to listen, smoothing down brown bangs caught on her glasses. Spock craned her neck from the ground.
"Yes, captain?"
"If we're here, being them . . . are they somewhere else, being us?
"Pretty sure it's deck five." Their momentum catapulted them into the lift , fortunately swift to open. Each grabbed a handle, slicking it with their sweat but past caring, heartbeats thundering in their heads, their chests, their very fingertips. "Deck five!" Spock called, hoping volume made the thing move faster, bend more quickly to the wills of its occupants. It didn't.
They commandeered the time of a young ensign, convincing him that this was a diplomatic exercise, told him to take them to sickbay. "On the double, if you please, ensign." Kirk's new-found voice of command backed their bluff effectively. "Thank you; dismissed," and Kirk and Spock burst into sickbay, and they found her.
Dr. Caitlin McCoy lay prone on a biobed, eyes watering, hands at her sides, head raised to quaver mournfully, "Nooooo; this is the opposite of what I wanted . . . " She had quickly come to her own conclusions about the nature of their roles here; her office provided more information than was available in Kirk's quarters. When she saw the commanding pair, she sparked with recognition, and vaulted herself off the biobed to them.
"Okay, you guys, what is even happening?! I wake up this morning and my hands are in some weirdo box thing that does surgery, I guess? And I'm supposed to be operating? So when I start to panic, UNDERSTANDABLY, this guy comes in all laughing and says I can go sit in my office, 'Dr. McCoy,' so I do, and now I am Dr. McCoy, and we are on this starship, and I do not know what is happening anymore," Caitlin ended with a huff of aggravation, crossing her arms to prevent finger-wringing of the cruelest sort.
"So, you figured it out, then?" Spock asked, still wheezing but calming rapidly in her relief. Kirk dropped her mantle of authority, relaxed her stance. They were all okay; no one was bleeding or captured or lost in space.
"What, that we're in the show? And that we're supposed to be the characters? I do not like this at all," McCoy replied, shaking her head, grimacing with distaste. "If I wanted anything at all, I wanted to meet them, not BE them, and that's even if I wanted anything like this in the first place. I was supposed to be doing SURGERY. I'm an English major, not a doctor!"
Spock snorted with laughter, elbowed a chortling Kirk, said, "Of course, Bones."
Bones was confused, thought back a moment, then grinned herself. "Oh, haha, whups. Anyway . . . should we all just hang out here, or something? I have a computer and stuff we can use to, I don't know, try to figure this thing out."
"Captain's got a computer in her quarters, too, and we can have some privacy there . . . less surgery?" Spock offered. Kirk nodded vigorously.
"Yes, let's go there so we can talk about this," the captain vocalized her reply and led the other two from sickbay.
"Okay, and can we also just mention how sad this is?" interjected Bones as they paced the long, monochromatic path back to Kirk's quarters. "We are actually on the ship, but we can't even see the people we came here for."
"I know!" wailed Spock, "Janelle and I were literally crying about it before we came for you; it is the saddest thing in the history of things."
Conversation continued in this vein until the captain's door squeaked shut behind them. Each collapsed onto a piece of furniture; Bones in the cold desk chair, Kirk back on the colored, covered bed, and Spock laid out on the floor. They sat in silence for a few moments, breathing circulated air, absorbing the textures of the ship, listening to the hum of the engines.
"But now I have a question," Kirk spoke into the emptiness, words falling oddly flat as they prodded the still air. Bones cocked her head to listen, smoothing down brown bangs caught on her glasses. Spock craned her neck from the ground.
"Yes, captain?"
"If we're here, being them . . . are they somewhere else, being us?
Know your place
A low whistle. "Sickbay to the captain," intoned a familiar masculine voice.
Spock snapped her mouth shut, breaking off another keening wail. One hand jabbed Kirk on the shoulder. Collapsed on the colorful coverlets, the captain depicted abject misery, blonde hair flung in all directions, watery eyes crimson with salty secretions. Spock poked at her again, the motion stabbing her own chest with pity.
The question came from what seemed so small a place in Kirk's throat, it could hardly emerge. "Am I the captain now?"
"Yeah," Spock inclined her head briefly, smirked, added, "I mean, affirmative, Captain." A touch of humor for the Vulcan. Her Vulcan, missing. Didn't dwell on that; couldn't dwell on that for long. She shook herself, turning and stretching her tired muscles as the insistent intercom whistle echoed once more in the captain's quarters.
"Sickbay to Captain Kirk." That voice really was familiar . . . but out of place? Spock twisted around rouse Kirk a third time, jumping when she found the captain already upright behind her.
"Janelle?"
The captain stood, padded over to the blinking light on the wall, flicking the comm-switch. "Kirk here," she replied, her tone calm, authoritative. Spock blinked, eyebrows crooked, bemused.
"Captain, there seems to be a problem with Dr. McCoy. I think you'd better get down here."
Janelle inhaled once, twice, threw her shoulders back, nodded to the air, then answered. "I'm on my way. Kirk out." Captain Kirk flipped the switch to close the comm-link, heading for the door. "Let's go, Mr. Spock."
"Wait, Captain!" Spock lunged up off the bed after her, the title spilling from her lips, involuntary and unnoticed. "It's Bones," she said. The captain paused by the opening door, wrinkled her nose in confusion. "Bones," Spock repeated with more emphasis, expressing her meaning with a lifted brow. Kirk's forehead with comprehension. Then it crinkled more emphatically with worry.
"You don't think . . ."
"It's probably . . ."
"Caitlin!"
They ran even faster this time.
I'll be missing you
"Mr. Chekov! A brief test of your knowledge of the ship's anatomy," Spock heaved out, swallowing her rapid sobbing breaths long enough to direct a statement to the young Russian navigator. "On what deck are the captain's quarters located?"
"Deck six, sir," he promptly replied, peering over the back of his chair at the two commanding officers hastily decamping from the bridge.
"Very good, Mr. Chekov, and umm . . . Mr. Sulu, you have the conn." Spock tossed the last over her shoulder as she and the captain stepped into the lift, the door sliding to behind them with a squeaking swish.
Captain Janelle Kirk clutched at her first officer's arm, pleading silently for some mark of sanity or logic. "What? What? No. Why?" she sputtered as denial warred with reluctant belief and abject terror. "This can't be happening; it just can't."
"So . . . deck six?" Spock had settled her own reaction as incredulous acceptance, for the moment. Disentangling her arm from Kirk's, she grabbed a handle on the back wall and set the captain's hand on another. The lift began to move. "Janelle. Let's take a breath; don't overthink. Am I dreaming?"
"Are you dreaming? Am I dreaming?"
". . . I am not doing the movie thing where they pinch each other." Spock delivered a ringing slap to her own cheek, gave her head a shake to clear it, looked around. Still in a lift. Still wearing a blue shirt. Still with Janelle in a gold shirt. "Okay, I think I'm fairly awake. You with me, Janelle?"
"I . . . I think so." Most of the captain's panic had run its course. "Are we really . . . here?"
"I think so."
"This is amazing! This is wonderful, and scary, and absolutely wonderful! We actually get to meet all of our favorite people, and talk to them, and . . . and everything!" Enraptured with the very idea, Kirk grinned with uncontrollable glee, clapping her hands together with delight. Spock's manic expression matched hers for a glowing moment; then the opening, squeaking lift door startled it off Spock's face.
They found the captain's quarters without much difficulty, nearly sprinting down gray corridors beneath sickly lights in their eagerness to find a door emblazoned with the correct name and title. Captain J. Kirk. Kirk leaned a weary, shuddering shoulder against the cool grey metal. Spock put one hand on the doorway, head bent and mouth panting, the other hand on her hip.
"How are we . . . supposed . . . to get in?" she gasped. Their dash across the breadth of the ship had winded her more than she realized.
"I don't --aaAACK!" came the odd reply from Janelle. Bemused, Spock lifted her gaze to where Kirk had been seconds ago and saw a blank space instead of a steely door or her wilting friend. Ah.
Kirk was on the floor; the door had opened. When Janelle spoke. Interesting.
"How are we . . . supposed . . . to get in?" she gasped. Their dash across the breadth of the ship had winded her more than she realized.
"I don't --aaAACK!" came the odd reply from Janelle. Bemused, Spock lifted her gaze to where Kirk had been seconds ago and saw a blank space instead of a steely door or her wilting friend. Ah.
Kirk was on the floor; the door had opened. When Janelle spoke. Interesting.
It was an empty room, containing few signs of habitation. A neatly made bed, clad in blue and gold, a desk was devoid of personal effects. No pictures, no plants, no artifacts decorated the walls or sat on shelves.
They elected to wait inside for the captain to return as Spock grew ever more restless. A bit of prying would surely go unnoticed if executed with care, she rationalized. Her brief perusal of his books yielded little to entertain. Only a computer sat on the desk. Possibly useful later. One door remained, not a very promising one, but when the closet was pulled open, it revealed . . . women's clothing?
Spock lingered, confused, in front of the closet, reluctant to give credence to mental images of cross-dressing captains, until something clicked in her mind. The crew, the door, the clothes: clues to an unwanted truth. Drops of despair burned and blurred her vision as she turned to her friend who sat on the edge of the bed.
"Umm . . . Janelle . . . I think you're the Captain."
"What? No. No. I'm not the captain; James T. Kirk is the captain, and we're waiting here to meet him!"
"Umm . . . I don't think so. And I think," and here Spock paused to breathe, sucking back one last bit of sadness, "I'm supposed to be Spock."
Their howls of anguish would have been heard on the nearest Starbase, had not the captain's walls been soundproofed.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Do I dream or do I wake?
She blinked in confusion, dazed by the swirling, flickering console beneath her fingertips. Someone behind her asked for a reading. "Planetary signs seem normal, Captain," she replied, shaking herself to clear momentary brain-fog. "Earth-like atmosphere and vegetation."
Wait. Captain?
She swung around in a panic, hardly hoping, desperately wishing for it to be true. Blank, slate-grey walls, a large screen, two piloting seats in front of a captain's chair . . . where an unfamiliar gold-clad figure sat tall, legs crossed, looking blankly back at her. Yes, this person had yellow hair and ice-blue eyes, but she . . . was a she.
Winking back an almost-tear or two of disappointment, Spock quickly scanned the rest of the bridge of her dreams, certain that this was some strange, sad game. Instead, she found in the communications seat the correct woman in red, complete with coiffed black hair and impractically manicured nails, poised for instruction. Craning their necks to determine what went amiss with their commanding officer were the well-known gold-clad pilot and "nawigator." Now she was certain that she was sleeping, but where were the captain and his science officer?
"Spock?" came a quavering query from the captain's chair. She sighed, thinking sadly that this was the worst dream of all time, and took a closer look at the source of the bewildered voice.
"Janelle?!"
The rest of the crew gave her a strange look. Communications Officer Uhura looked between the girl in gold and the girl whose shirt was blue, interjecting when both seemed dumbstruck. "That is the captain's name, Mr. Spock."
"Captain?!?" The title emerged abruptly, a bit strangled by what may have been hysteria."A word, please?" With another incredulous glance around the bridge, Spock scurried to the lift, followed closely by her friend.
Wait. Captain?
She swung around in a panic, hardly hoping, desperately wishing for it to be true. Blank, slate-grey walls, a large screen, two piloting seats in front of a captain's chair . . . where an unfamiliar gold-clad figure sat tall, legs crossed, looking blankly back at her. Yes, this person had yellow hair and ice-blue eyes, but she . . . was a she.
Winking back an almost-tear or two of disappointment, Spock quickly scanned the rest of the bridge of her dreams, certain that this was some strange, sad game. Instead, she found in the communications seat the correct woman in red, complete with coiffed black hair and impractically manicured nails, poised for instruction. Craning their necks to determine what went amiss with their commanding officer were the well-known gold-clad pilot and "nawigator." Now she was certain that she was sleeping, but where were the captain and his science officer?
"Spock?" came a quavering query from the captain's chair. She sighed, thinking sadly that this was the worst dream of all time, and took a closer look at the source of the bewildered voice.
"Janelle?!"
The rest of the crew gave her a strange look. Communications Officer Uhura looked between the girl in gold and the girl whose shirt was blue, interjecting when both seemed dumbstruck. "That is the captain's name, Mr. Spock."
"Captain?!?" The title emerged abruptly, a bit strangled by what may have been hysteria."A word, please?" With another incredulous glance around the bridge, Spock scurried to the lift, followed closely by her friend.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Emotionally invested
Salty, warm wetness rolls down her cheeks, over her chin, dripping off the tip of her nose into her mouth and onto the pillow she clutches to her convulsively. Wrinkling her face to sob physically hurts, the grimace of sorrow held for far too long this time. She sniffs to suck back the more disgusting evidence of her despair, but lets the tears flow freely. To scrub them away would be to eradicate all traces of her heart's bitter, broken pieces, lying shattered on the floor, dashed against the cold cruelty of SCREENWRITERS.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Overslept . . . but it's Sunday
A sleep mask is a dangerous thing. A little scrap of black silk, two bands of thin elastic, and I am out until my body decides it has had enough. Which is never as early as I had planned.
Slept 'til 1:30 this afternoon, is what I'm getting at. I have things to do. I probably won't do any of them. I come to terms with this sort of fact every day. It's stopped phasing me.
Back to my regularly scheduled slacking.
Slept 'til 1:30 this afternoon, is what I'm getting at. I have things to do. I probably won't do any of them. I come to terms with this sort of fact every day. It's stopped phasing me.
Back to my regularly scheduled slacking.
Rage and a possible overreaction
I am a bit . . . scratch that; I am very angry. A bit sad.
How can someone judge me for my very personality? I know me better than you do. I understand my own brokenness more than you ever will, and don't you dare try to tell me how I am supposed to feel or think or react to a situation.
This is a rage post. I may or may not leave it up here, but I had to say something. I hate getting angry. I end up crying in impotent fury, because I can't articulate around sobs. I break pencil lead trying to scratch into paper the strength of my wrath.
Sigh.
There. I think most of it's gone. Fury just leaves behind a lot of hurt, like I got burned by it on its way out.
I may or may not be overreacting . . . but one thing guaranteed to make me incredibly angry is someone saying that an opinion is wrong.
How can someone judge me for my very personality? I know me better than you do. I understand my own brokenness more than you ever will, and don't you dare try to tell me how I am supposed to feel or think or react to a situation.
This is a rage post. I may or may not leave it up here, but I had to say something. I hate getting angry. I end up crying in impotent fury, because I can't articulate around sobs. I break pencil lead trying to scratch into paper the strength of my wrath.
Sigh.
There. I think most of it's gone. Fury just leaves behind a lot of hurt, like I got burned by it on its way out.
I may or may not be overreacting . . . but one thing guaranteed to make me incredibly angry is someone saying that an opinion is wrong.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Black to White
Black
Who is she? His head is roaring, confused, afraid, enraged. He sees her eyes, but his brother stands between them, catching his wrists, stopping the knife aimed at her demon heart. Looking up, deep into eyes like their father's, he begs to understand. Calm down? Wait? But why? She is what they kill; she is a creature; she is evil. He lets his brother wrest the blade away, and he staggers back, pacing, shouting, running away from what can never be explained.
Smoke
It pours from the poor bastard's mouth, pooling on the tiles, sinking and scorching the ground until it fades into nothing but black smudges, drawn forth by his brother's outstretched hand. Who are you? He stares at the traces of the demon on the floor, looks up at his brother, sees the boy with the floppy hair who thought the world of him. Are you still in there? Blood trickles from his brother's nostril; that worries him, one large hand raised to his brother's forehead that's squinting with pain.
Bloody mouth
As the confusion settles, he looks for his brother, his burden, his family. The one he can trust; the one he loves. On the dusty wooden planks, he sees him kneeling, and his heart rips. He's paralyzed by pain, he stares, waits, says nothing as his little, huge brother raises his head from the demon's neck, chin stained and dripping scarlet. What have you become?
Bloody hand
A red slice in the angel's palm; two fingers dipped in life move swiftly, forming sigils he doesn't recognize. He doesn't know what's happening. Where is he? He waits in a room, an empty room, a comfortable room, but for what? He doesn't trust them, anyway. The angel has no time to explain; two damp fingers touch his forehead and the room is gone, the angel is gone, he is away and safe and alone and bereft, two fingerprints his only sign of his friend.
Feathers
That noise, a fluttering, flapping sound of wind and fabric, gives him pause, and he looks to the passenger seat. He hears it so often, of late; by a lake in his dreams, on a bench in a park, behind him in a junkyard, beside him in his car. The angel is here, standing, sitting, staring, speaking, healing. What makes that sound? Maybe the trenchcoat he never removes. Maybe something invisible. Does this angel have wings?
White
Sparks fly across the warehouse, lightbulbs overpowered and exploding into glass shards and flaring light. The building shakes, shudders, unable to contain what walks through its doors. Through electrical mayhem, he watches a figure approach, pierced by blue eyes, pinned by confusion. Who are you? Why do you follow me? What do you want? He is saved, he is grateful, he is unsure, he is alive. He meets an angel.
Went to a play
Saw Taming of the Shrew with friends tonight. Was excellent. Forgot how to breathe on multiple occasions; I'd call costume design and casting a rousing success.
All Shakespeare, all the time, is how I'd like to live my little life.
The players begin a bit rockily; they're not quite as out there with the characters or clicking quite as well as I've come to expect from the Tavern, but they're good. All of my favorite actors are in this one, save Jonathan: Daniel, Matt, Andrew, J.C. I like Kate, too. I don't remember actress's names; is that sexist? Maybe...but then I don't objectify them, so I don't learn their names out of guilt like I do with the actors.
What do I say about it to begin? Hortensio and Gremio were a couple of my Tavern favorites, as well, and they begin the play vying for Bianca's hand. Tranio (Daniel) and Lucentio (Andrew) are on the stage, the first amused and the second admiring. They hatch a plan, a switching of identities, which leads them to strip on stage...(? but I am okay with this) when enters Biondello (Matt), confused all to Hades. He tries to strip, too.
No need to run down the entire plot, but Tranio's appearance as Lucentio makes me want to swear vehemently under my breath. I content myself with a muffled "FFFFFFFFRICK," but not contented at all, really, because he just keeps coming back. Lucentio's wooing of Bianca as Cambrio is distressing, to say the least; they explore together the Kama Sutra, or so it is heavily implied. Ick. Tranio is suitably horrified.
Petruchio is more mercenary and less insane than I have ever seen him played, but his first sight of Kate is the sweetest portrayal of love-strickenness. He can hardly speak whenever he looks upon her throughout the play. He loves, teases, coaxes her into his silly game of outward obedience but private, joyous peace and equality. Their happiness is the most satisfying, and his delight in her a beautiful thing to observe.
Vincentio is the Godfather. That is amusing. Baptista is persistently drunk. That is also amusing. Biondello is confused and frustrated. He is adorable, as usual. Grumio is flamboyant as his master, a strange, angry little man. I like him.
I could wish for more bromancing in this play, but in truth, the relationships are not organized that way. I enjoy it thoroughly. Happy early birthday, me.
All Shakespeare, all the time, is how I'd like to live my little life.
The players begin a bit rockily; they're not quite as out there with the characters or clicking quite as well as I've come to expect from the Tavern, but they're good. All of my favorite actors are in this one, save Jonathan: Daniel, Matt, Andrew, J.C. I like Kate, too. I don't remember actress's names; is that sexist? Maybe...but then I don't objectify them, so I don't learn their names out of guilt like I do with the actors.
What do I say about it to begin? Hortensio and Gremio were a couple of my Tavern favorites, as well, and they begin the play vying for Bianca's hand. Tranio (Daniel) and Lucentio (Andrew) are on the stage, the first amused and the second admiring. They hatch a plan, a switching of identities, which leads them to strip on stage...(? but I am okay with this) when enters Biondello (Matt), confused all to Hades. He tries to strip, too.
No need to run down the entire plot, but Tranio's appearance as Lucentio makes me want to swear vehemently under my breath. I content myself with a muffled "FFFFFFFFRICK," but not contented at all, really, because he just keeps coming back. Lucentio's wooing of Bianca as Cambrio is distressing, to say the least; they explore together the Kama Sutra, or so it is heavily implied. Ick. Tranio is suitably horrified.
Petruchio is more mercenary and less insane than I have ever seen him played, but his first sight of Kate is the sweetest portrayal of love-strickenness. He can hardly speak whenever he looks upon her throughout the play. He loves, teases, coaxes her into his silly game of outward obedience but private, joyous peace and equality. Their happiness is the most satisfying, and his delight in her a beautiful thing to observe.
Vincentio is the Godfather. That is amusing. Baptista is persistently drunk. That is also amusing. Biondello is confused and frustrated. He is adorable, as usual. Grumio is flamboyant as his master, a strange, angry little man. I like him.
I could wish for more bromancing in this play, but in truth, the relationships are not organized that way. I enjoy it thoroughly. Happy early birthday, me.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Gold and Blue
Gold
A neatly pressed dress uniform, complete with extra braid wrapped around the sleeves and a shining, colorful insignia, hung next to five clean, extra, standard command shirts. Two more of the latter lay shredded in a pile by the mirror, sprinkled and stained with different hues of dust and crystal shards. The last was framed, attached to the wall by the bed. A single rip ran its horizontal length, directly across the chest.Warm light
Gently waving fields of golden grain hid a sleeping boy from view. The sun's heat trickled through scattering clouds, kissing freckles across his nose and brushing highlights into his yellow hair. He sighed softly, curling into himself, a tawny kitten in a patch of sun.Sun
Its brightness nearly blinded him, his ship and crew careening crazily, ever closer to its fiery depths. Holding out for the perfect moment, a quick command, and his words would save them all. The power of the universe, it seemed, housed in brilliant heat. Steady were his hands, firm were his words, as the sweat poured from his friends and his own home began to crack. Now, he said, and orders were obeyed, switches thrown, equations put to work, engines run at maximum to pull them around the livid star and shoot them into the past.Stars
From so far below, they were small, only pinpricks of chilly light. Two faces peered up, looking for a constellation one insisted would be visible. The other humored him, relishing the quiet moment, a luxury. A yawn, a quiet laugh, the murmur of everything important and nothing of significance passed between them where they stood in the moonlight, beneath a sparkling sky.Moon
From behind his console he saw it, rising whitely in the viewscreen, its pocked, gray surface hiding the stars. Silence on the ship. Not a breath, not a word, not a clatter of booted footsteps reached his sensitive ears. They waited together, waited for their enemy, tucked beneath a chalky lump of space debris. From above, the glare of an energy beam, below it burned and blackened the surface of their rocky refuge. He signaled his captain, the ship's engines roared to life, and they vaulted from the pale dust to give chase.Deep night
Hot air drifted over towering rocks, drained of color by the empty moonlight. A boy swung his feet from the edge of a precipice, one hand buried in thick sehlat fur, the other propping his head up on his knee. His dark eyes flicked idly over the darkened dunes, slowly sliding shut as warm winds teased hair darker than the evening sky.Blue
In a spotless room, the closet door stood open, revealing three standard science uniform shirts and one dress uniform, its faintly iridescent sheen visible in the gentle light. By the bed, its blankets pulled taut and wrinkle-free, sat a small table, and folded atop it lay a purple sash.
Depressing evening with a pillow
I suppose I am supremely privileged. I get this internet access without any additional cost to myself. I mooch off my brothers who are better off financially than I probably will ever be. I start a lot of sentences with the word "I" and can post them on a blog with the internet they give me freely.
Wireless Network Connection 5 is now connected. Or so the box in the bottom right of my screen informs me. The signal strength is low.
I am melancholy about my dependence on younger siblings to provide for me. My pillow is stained with leftover mascara, moistened with tears and a bit of snot. They think I'll never amount to anything. I'm the one who should have graduated and been in med school by now. They used to think I had so much promise. They used to look up to me. I'm more of a joke, now. A cautionary tale for lazy younger ones. She's not the role model I want, says a sister. I'm not going to make her mistakes. More tears. The mascara is already gone.
I really have nothing of value to offer the world. I've given nothing that might make me worthy of keeping around. I have no plans to do anything that will earn me distinction, or at least meager purpose. I've failed. A sniffle. The penguin pillowcase (am I still such a child?) is too dirty to sleep on.
They named their network "twins," and the signal strength is low. I know it's theirs. I know they're paying for it. Thanks for that reminder, little bros. You're awesome. I'm contribute nothing. Eat a pillow to muffle a sob.
Waste of space, money, attention, time. Of air. Fat, lazy, stupid, irresponsible, unreliable, unlikable, unfriendly, unwanted. Can't forget self-absorbed. A stinging smack to own cheek. Deserved that.
Worrying about myself is wrong. I should care about everyone else. My problems aren't big. Not worth crying over. Accept that I've failed. Keep moving anyway. Keep getting out of bed.
The alternative . . . isn't.
Wireless Network Connection 5 is now connected. Or so the box in the bottom right of my screen informs me. The signal strength is low.
I am melancholy about my dependence on younger siblings to provide for me. My pillow is stained with leftover mascara, moistened with tears and a bit of snot. They think I'll never amount to anything. I'm the one who should have graduated and been in med school by now. They used to think I had so much promise. They used to look up to me. I'm more of a joke, now. A cautionary tale for lazy younger ones. She's not the role model I want, says a sister. I'm not going to make her mistakes. More tears. The mascara is already gone.
I really have nothing of value to offer the world. I've given nothing that might make me worthy of keeping around. I have no plans to do anything that will earn me distinction, or at least meager purpose. I've failed. A sniffle. The penguin pillowcase (am I still such a child?) is too dirty to sleep on.
They named their network "twins," and the signal strength is low. I know it's theirs. I know they're paying for it. Thanks for that reminder, little bros. You're awesome. I'm contribute nothing. Eat a pillow to muffle a sob.
Waste of space, money, attention, time. Of air. Fat, lazy, stupid, irresponsible, unreliable, unlikable, unfriendly, unwanted. Can't forget self-absorbed. A stinging smack to own cheek. Deserved that.
Worrying about myself is wrong. I should care about everyone else. My problems aren't big. Not worth crying over. Accept that I've failed. Keep moving anyway. Keep getting out of bed.
The alternative . . . isn't.
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