Tuesday, August 16, 2011
[...]
I apologize for the lack of posts, but for the past two weeks, I've been focusing on summer work for school, which starts tomorrow. I do have a few small pieces in storage, which I will start posting after I get used to the school schedule, testing out the free time I'm allowed. So for that reason, I will start posting regularly again in September.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Warmup: 180 [2]
Here is the other warmup that I promised last week!
It's still Wednesday over here.
Abel stared into the mirror as he pushed his tie up to the collar of his shirt, stared hard at the tiny curves on his mouth. It looked oddly like a smile, and Abel could not bring himself to push the corners back down.
He turned and glanced at the bundle of covers that slowly rose and fell, and he thought to himself, "Why am I realizing this just now?"
He picked up his pre-prepared briefcase and walked out the door, locking the house from intruders immediately after. He slid the key into the ignition and fired up the engine, backing up from his long driveway.
The sun shone brightly in the sky, and today Abel didn't squint or look away. He drove on, silent, admiring the way the sun's rays reflected off the car's hood, the roads, and buildings. No one on the roads obnoxiously sneaked past stop signs and red lights as Abel swore they did every other day. Actually, now that he thought about it, today was stranger than all other days. Different.
Abel reached the tallest, highest bank in the city, one that nearly dominated all the other small banks. Cars sat in all of the parking spaces in front of the building. Abel shrugged mentally and drove around to the back. He parked and pulled his briefcase out with him, locking the car as swerved around to the front to enter.
The receptionist smiled at Abel as he approached. "All of the spots in the front were occupied, sadly."
"I don't mind," Abel said.
The women stared at him, blinking as if she just watched a parent smacking their child's cheek harshly. "You don't?" she asked disbelievingly.
"Stuff happens, it's all right."
He left the receptionist in her stupor and walked along halls and stood in an uncrowded elevator. Once the dig indicated his floor, he stepped out and walked down a hall until he entered his own shiny office, seeing "ABEL WILTSHIRE" on the door.
Again, why was he just realizing this now?
He slid into his chair and set his briefcase on his desk, opening it and pulling out papers in neat stacks, bound by large clips. Today, instead of being a train wreck, work would be a peaceful meditation full of mathematics and people being screwed over by money and someone offering helpful advice.
Today, Abel was a good guy.
"I'm home," Abel said as he entered his house, glancing back at the door that was left unlocked. He walked into the living room, shoes deposited at the door, and saw Mark sitting on the couch with the television glowing with a music video. Mark's eyes blinked at the phone in his hand, his fingers tapping swiftly. When Abel sat on the couch, Mark quickly hit the "send" button and laid his phone next to him, eyes resting on Abel.
"Oh, hi. I guess work was pretty good today, huh?"
"Any reason you guess so?" Abel said with a smile.
"You're in a good mood. Usually if it's a bad day, you pout or something."
Abel chucked, causing Mark to flinch. "Not at all, it's quite the opposite! I'm sure I helped some people from financial debt for six years. That is definitely something to be happy about."
"Wow, okay," Mark said, leaning into Abel with a second glance. "Nothing bad at all?"
"Not at all."
"I'm glad that you are glad," Mark sighed happily, watching the random commercial on the television. "I like these days."
Abel ruffled Mark's shaggy hair and nuzzled him. "So what would you want for dinner?"
Mark shrugged.
"I can make whatever you want. Or buy to your wishes. Or we could go out? Or perhaps you would rather wait for later or hang out with friends, that would be okay with me."
Mark turned to face Abel. "If I skipped out on a dinner with you for friends, you would be okay with that?!"
"That's what I said, wasn't it?"
Mark slowly turned back to the television and shrugged. "I just didn't think you would be, I dunno, okay with missing a plan."
"Trust me, I'd be okay." He nuzzled Mark once more and he felt Mark shudder under him. The younger boy scooted away from Abel and looked at him.
"You're acting different."
"I am?"
"Yeah. All... nice and stuff."
"Is that bad?" Abel asked, his head tilting.
"I guess not, but it's kind of freaking me out." Mark bit his lower lip.
Again, Abel chuckled. "I would have never thought that kindness would freak you out."
Instead of further prying, Mark just stared at Abel for a few moments. Next to his hands, his phone vibrated, and Mark's face visibly brightened. He glanced at his text and looked up at Abel. "Oh, dang, looks like Nellie did want the group to eat after all. Sorry, is it okay if I go with them?"
"Of course. I can occupy myself here in your absence," Abel said, no glint of rage in his eyes.
Mark nervously smiled and walked to the door, slipped on his shoes, and dashed out the door.
It's still Wednesday over here.
Abel stared into the mirror as he pushed his tie up to the collar of his shirt, stared hard at the tiny curves on his mouth. It looked oddly like a smile, and Abel could not bring himself to push the corners back down.
He turned and glanced at the bundle of covers that slowly rose and fell, and he thought to himself, "Why am I realizing this just now?"
He picked up his pre-prepared briefcase and walked out the door, locking the house from intruders immediately after. He slid the key into the ignition and fired up the engine, backing up from his long driveway.
The sun shone brightly in the sky, and today Abel didn't squint or look away. He drove on, silent, admiring the way the sun's rays reflected off the car's hood, the roads, and buildings. No one on the roads obnoxiously sneaked past stop signs and red lights as Abel swore they did every other day. Actually, now that he thought about it, today was stranger than all other days. Different.
Abel reached the tallest, highest bank in the city, one that nearly dominated all the other small banks. Cars sat in all of the parking spaces in front of the building. Abel shrugged mentally and drove around to the back. He parked and pulled his briefcase out with him, locking the car as swerved around to the front to enter.
The receptionist smiled at Abel as he approached. "All of the spots in the front were occupied, sadly."
"I don't mind," Abel said.
The women stared at him, blinking as if she just watched a parent smacking their child's cheek harshly. "You don't?" she asked disbelievingly.
"Stuff happens, it's all right."
He left the receptionist in her stupor and walked along halls and stood in an uncrowded elevator. Once the dig indicated his floor, he stepped out and walked down a hall until he entered his own shiny office, seeing "ABEL WILTSHIRE" on the door.
Again, why was he just realizing this now?
He slid into his chair and set his briefcase on his desk, opening it and pulling out papers in neat stacks, bound by large clips. Today, instead of being a train wreck, work would be a peaceful meditation full of mathematics and people being screwed over by money and someone offering helpful advice.
Today, Abel was a good guy.
"I'm home," Abel said as he entered his house, glancing back at the door that was left unlocked. He walked into the living room, shoes deposited at the door, and saw Mark sitting on the couch with the television glowing with a music video. Mark's eyes blinked at the phone in his hand, his fingers tapping swiftly. When Abel sat on the couch, Mark quickly hit the "send" button and laid his phone next to him, eyes resting on Abel.
"Oh, hi. I guess work was pretty good today, huh?"
"Any reason you guess so?" Abel said with a smile.
"You're in a good mood. Usually if it's a bad day, you pout or something."
Abel chucked, causing Mark to flinch. "Not at all, it's quite the opposite! I'm sure I helped some people from financial debt for six years. That is definitely something to be happy about."
"Wow, okay," Mark said, leaning into Abel with a second glance. "Nothing bad at all?"
"Not at all."
"I'm glad that you are glad," Mark sighed happily, watching the random commercial on the television. "I like these days."
Abel ruffled Mark's shaggy hair and nuzzled him. "So what would you want for dinner?"
Mark shrugged.
"I can make whatever you want. Or buy to your wishes. Or we could go out? Or perhaps you would rather wait for later or hang out with friends, that would be okay with me."
Mark turned to face Abel. "If I skipped out on a dinner with you for friends, you would be okay with that?!"
"That's what I said, wasn't it?"
Mark slowly turned back to the television and shrugged. "I just didn't think you would be, I dunno, okay with missing a plan."
"Trust me, I'd be okay." He nuzzled Mark once more and he felt Mark shudder under him. The younger boy scooted away from Abel and looked at him.
"You're acting different."
"I am?"
"Yeah. All... nice and stuff."
"Is that bad?" Abel asked, his head tilting.
"I guess not, but it's kind of freaking me out." Mark bit his lower lip.
Again, Abel chuckled. "I would have never thought that kindness would freak you out."
Instead of further prying, Mark just stared at Abel for a few moments. Next to his hands, his phone vibrated, and Mark's face visibly brightened. He glanced at his text and looked up at Abel. "Oh, dang, looks like Nellie did want the group to eat after all. Sorry, is it okay if I go with them?"
"Of course. I can occupy myself here in your absence," Abel said, no glint of rage in his eyes.
Mark nervously smiled and walked to the door, slipped on his shoes, and dashed out the door.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Warmup: 108 [1]
Yet another weekly warmup from The Periwinkle Pen!
A character wakes up and their personality is the total opposite.
I'm also going to post another of the same exercise (with Abel instead of Mark) for next week.
I do have longer stories, they are just either: a) incomplete or b) getting feedback.
Something reeked of freshly pressed suit.
Mark sat up in bed and scratched at his head, hair filling his fingernails. His fingers yanked at tangles and smoothed out his hair. Throwing the covers aside, he let his legs swing over to the edge, facing the bathroom door. He could hear water running from behind.
For once, Mark thought to himself, I'm actually awake in the morning.
A minute later, the water shut off, and then Abel opened the door, nearly jumping when he found Mark staring at him. "Why are you awake so early?"
Mark found himself narrowing his eyes. "I don't need a reason for my body to wake me up."
He expected a snap--for Abel to growl with his eyebrows forming an incomplete V--but Abel just opened his mouth, but then just shut it and blinked. Dumbfounded. Mark felt his own mouth curl into a smirk.
Abel shook his head and walked to his clothes, which laid over a chair. Dressing himself, he said, "When my body feels shocked, I say questions. It's not my fault you /somehow/ took that the wrong way." His tone grew intense.
"Whatever you say. Because God knows you can't ever be wrong."
Glaring, Abel's head turned to Mark as he slipped his shoes on. "Something is wrong with you."
"There you go again! It's me, like always, right?!" Mark stood up and headed for the door, and over his shoulder, he added, "You're a perfect little princess."
Mark could only reach the end of the hall before he felt a hand grab his shoulder and turn him around. Abel lowered himself to eye level, glaring. He searched his eyes before saying, "Did you take strange drugs? Hit your head on something hard? Because you're acting like an asshole, not the Mark I know."
"Oh, excuse me? An ass, you say? I guess you're kind of shocked, looking into a mirror after all."
Abel's hands squeezed Mark's shoulders, and Mark could feel the rage slowly leaking out through them. "What are you going to do, hit me? It's not my fault you can't handle the truth."
"For one," Abel said, sucking in breath and letting his grip loosen a bit, "I don't deliberately say shit to piss you off. And second, this is not how you usually act. You're not an ass. You're not mean. You're not supposed to hurt other people. You're--"
"So I'm not usually supposed to be strong? Thanks. Thanks a lot, Abel."
Mark slipped away to fetch a new outfit, staying in his personal room until he knew for sure Abel left for work. He texted his friend, Gil, to pick him up, and he paced outside for almost ten minutes when Gil's car pulled into the driveway. Mark felt himself roll his eyes as he walked to the car.
"Took you long enough," Mark sighed, stepping into the passenger seat. Gil performed a double take and pushed his glasses up his nose.
"What?"
"You heard me."
Gil shifted his weight but continued to stare at Mark, eyebrows concerned. A head poked out from the backseat. "Mark, are you feeling okay?" Nellie asked, wrinkling her freckle-covered nose.
"Just stop right there," Mark sighed, exasperated and lifting a hand up in emphasis. "You're going to sound like Abel."
"/I'm/ sounding like Abel?" Nellie asked incredulously.
"You going to sass me?"
"This is weird," Gil said looking out the window on the driver's side.
"You're acting different, Mark." Nellie said, shrinking back just slightly. "I'm only concerned. I didn't mean to sound accusing or anything."
"Just because I'm irritated doesn't make me ill. That's what I hate," Mark said.
"If you're too irritated," Gil began to mumble, "we don't have to hang out today."
Mark looked between them for a moment, and then he started to slowly nod, a strange smile cracking his face. "I get it, I get it, you two. You don't want me around because I'm not all happy and stuff. That's fine, have fun, you two."
And out the car he went and into the house, stomping.
Gil and Nellie glanced at each other in disbelief.
"Did that seriously happen?"
"I don't know. Pinch me."
A character wakes up and their personality is the total opposite.
I'm also going to post another of the same exercise (with Abel instead of Mark) for next week.
I do have longer stories, they are just either: a) incomplete or b) getting feedback.
Something reeked of freshly pressed suit.
Mark sat up in bed and scratched at his head, hair filling his fingernails. His fingers yanked at tangles and smoothed out his hair. Throwing the covers aside, he let his legs swing over to the edge, facing the bathroom door. He could hear water running from behind.
For once, Mark thought to himself, I'm actually awake in the morning.
A minute later, the water shut off, and then Abel opened the door, nearly jumping when he found Mark staring at him. "Why are you awake so early?"
Mark found himself narrowing his eyes. "I don't need a reason for my body to wake me up."
He expected a snap--for Abel to growl with his eyebrows forming an incomplete V--but Abel just opened his mouth, but then just shut it and blinked. Dumbfounded. Mark felt his own mouth curl into a smirk.
Abel shook his head and walked to his clothes, which laid over a chair. Dressing himself, he said, "When my body feels shocked, I say questions. It's not my fault you /somehow/ took that the wrong way." His tone grew intense.
"Whatever you say. Because God knows you can't ever be wrong."
Glaring, Abel's head turned to Mark as he slipped his shoes on. "Something is wrong with you."
"There you go again! It's me, like always, right?!" Mark stood up and headed for the door, and over his shoulder, he added, "You're a perfect little princess."
Mark could only reach the end of the hall before he felt a hand grab his shoulder and turn him around. Abel lowered himself to eye level, glaring. He searched his eyes before saying, "Did you take strange drugs? Hit your head on something hard? Because you're acting like an asshole, not the Mark I know."
"Oh, excuse me? An ass, you say? I guess you're kind of shocked, looking into a mirror after all."
Abel's hands squeezed Mark's shoulders, and Mark could feel the rage slowly leaking out through them. "What are you going to do, hit me? It's not my fault you can't handle the truth."
"For one," Abel said, sucking in breath and letting his grip loosen a bit, "I don't deliberately say shit to piss you off. And second, this is not how you usually act. You're not an ass. You're not mean. You're not supposed to hurt other people. You're--"
"So I'm not usually supposed to be strong? Thanks. Thanks a lot, Abel."
Mark slipped away to fetch a new outfit, staying in his personal room until he knew for sure Abel left for work. He texted his friend, Gil, to pick him up, and he paced outside for almost ten minutes when Gil's car pulled into the driveway. Mark felt himself roll his eyes as he walked to the car.
"Took you long enough," Mark sighed, stepping into the passenger seat. Gil performed a double take and pushed his glasses up his nose.
"What?"
"You heard me."
Gil shifted his weight but continued to stare at Mark, eyebrows concerned. A head poked out from the backseat. "Mark, are you feeling okay?" Nellie asked, wrinkling her freckle-covered nose.
"Just stop right there," Mark sighed, exasperated and lifting a hand up in emphasis. "You're going to sound like Abel."
"/I'm/ sounding like Abel?" Nellie asked incredulously.
"You going to sass me?"
"This is weird," Gil said looking out the window on the driver's side.
"You're acting different, Mark." Nellie said, shrinking back just slightly. "I'm only concerned. I didn't mean to sound accusing or anything."
"Just because I'm irritated doesn't make me ill. That's what I hate," Mark said.
"If you're too irritated," Gil began to mumble, "we don't have to hang out today."
Mark looked between them for a moment, and then he started to slowly nod, a strange smile cracking his face. "I get it, I get it, you two. You don't want me around because I'm not all happy and stuff. That's fine, have fun, you two."
And out the car he went and into the house, stomping.
Gil and Nellie glanced at each other in disbelief.
"Did that seriously happen?"
"I don't know. Pinch me."
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Test 34
The idea spawned form a Weekly Warmup at The Periwinkle Pen.
Not categorized as a WW because it serves a higher purpose.
For the warmup, a character celebrates a holiday they don't normally celebrate.
So I used the idea to flesh out the universe that I call "Strawberry Killer."
April 24, 2011
In the backseat, Organic Study 2784 (codename: Id) gaped at the blues, browns, and whites blurring past her from her small window to the outside world. Small "ahhhs" escaped her mouth, but nothing intelligible. Instead, she contented herself with just staring at the thirty miles per hour speed. I kind of smiled.
When I stepped out of the car, Id whined and pulled at the seat belts restricting her to the seat. Each time, the seat belt snapped back against her vest with a small /thwup/. In a quiet voice I murmured, "Calm down, hon, I will help you shortly." Sometimes, I enjoy talking to Id even if she does not yet understand.
My wife greeted me at the door, and I scooped her into my arms and planted a kiss on her sweet lips. She laughed nervously and asked, "How long will the beast have to stay here?"
I winced. "Just for today. Do you not think that a holiday--her first one at that--is the perfect opportunity to teach her about traditions?"
She only shrugged and scampered back into the house. I could smell cooking vegetables.
"You are making something meaty as well, right?" I shouted after her.
"Yeah, yeah."
Good.
I walked back to the car and found Id chewing at the seat belt, a tear forming. When I leaned over and clicked off the belt, she only looked up and me and glared with her scarred eye, barring her teeth."Sorry, hun," I said to her, "but that's what average people do, so you must learn to do so."
Once we were in the house, Id sniffed the air and looked around the room. Her eyes lingered on a photo from my wife and mine's wedding, then hunched over on her back, taking a small step foreward. I laughed and place my hand gently on her shoulder. "There is no danger here," I told her. "The only people here are my wife and I, and we love you."
My wife set the dinner table while I led Id by the hand into the dining room. Id could not rest her eyes on one thing for even a second, many times leaning her face closer to sniff the shiniy artificial plants. Making grunts all the while, she sniffed the fabrics of the curtains and tablecloth and finally stared outside the window. A man jogged with earbuds in his ears with wires flailing about passed the house, at which Id growled loudly. My wife sighed and asked, "Can't you get her to stop?"
"Afraid not. She acts purely on instinct."
"Yeah, I forgot about that after all your talk of her behaving more like a human."
The Missus must be on her period. I sighed and led Id to the small, square table.
"This seat," I said slowly, "is where you sit." I pulled the chair out for her and motioned for her to sit. She squat down next to the chair and sniffed it before plopping down on it. The chair squeaked as she wiggled around, making herself comfortable. Her eyes stared forward, narrowed, no longer facing the window and instead looking into the kitchen and watching the Missus work her magic.
I picked up utensils made out of silverware, one by one, and showed them to Id. "This is a soup spoon, which you will only use for the liquid-like appetizer. And you have to use both the fork and knife to cut up your meat."
"She can't understand a single word you're saying," my wife called in that I-told-you-so tone, not taking her eyes off the turkey she withdrew from the oven. "You're wasting your breath."
Snarling, Id slammed a fist on the table, causing the empty glasses to shake. I smiled as she glared and returned to preparing the food.
When I finished introducing Id to dishes, napkins, glasses, and how to cut up meat, my wife brought in the vegetable soup and placed it on the table. Id immediately leaned forward to sniff the soup, but I took her shoulder and pulled her back. She whined loudly, and I held on to her wrists. As she thrashed, I said to the Missus, "Pour her some soup--quickly!"
"This is why I never want children," she groaned, filling up Id's bowl to the brim.
Id calmed down, and I let go of one wrist and jammed the spoon into her released hand. "Eat with this," I said. For a second, Id did nothing but look from the Missus--to whom she glared at, for which I cannot blame her--to the soup. She slowly started to lower her head. "No," I said, raising my voice. I tapped the spoon. "Eat with this."
A burst of air rushed out of her nose as she tried to dip her head closer to the bowl, and again I instructed her on how to eat it. My wife returned from placing the dish away from Id and stared at my actions without glancing at her own bowl of hot soup. "Did I or did I not tell you this would not work? That beast eats like a savage at the lab, and at a house, no different would happen."
When I tried a different teaching approach, taking her wrist and manually trying to budge her arm which would not move, the Missus continued. "That thing may look human with a beast's ears, but it's nothing more than an overgrown baby. It doesn't know left from right thanks to living with animals in some forest, and it'll die before it learns how to say 'please' and 'thank you.'" A pause. "Look, I don't mind you doing this researching business. But you have way too much confidences in your subjects. You are intelligent, and they are not. You don't have a teaching agree, and they refuse to learn. It just can't work. And a holiday, of all days. What were you thinking?"
Biting back a sigh, I let go of her wrist. Id stared down at her unmoving arm, at her spoon, and at her bowl, and then she glanced up at the Missus. Her jaw moved up and down slightly, and I knew she was hitting her rows of teeth against one another.
Id exhaled and furrowed her brows, and cautiously, she lifted the spoon and dunked it into the bowl. Tightening her grip, she lifted the spoon and stared at the tiny pool of brown liquid with tiny chunks of vegetables. Both the Missus and I watched her nearly bump the spoon against her lips but successfully open her mouth and dump out the contents of the spoon.
I looked at the Missus and let a smug grin stretch across my face as her face fell. "She does not enjoy being condescended. I am sure she can eat our Easter dinner with us."
The Missus slumped into her chair and raised her spoon. "Just wait until the main course."
Not categorized as a WW because it serves a higher purpose.
For the warmup, a character celebrates a holiday they don't normally celebrate.
So I used the idea to flesh out the universe that I call "Strawberry Killer."
April 24, 2011
In the backseat, Organic Study 2784 (codename: Id) gaped at the blues, browns, and whites blurring past her from her small window to the outside world. Small "ahhhs" escaped her mouth, but nothing intelligible. Instead, she contented herself with just staring at the thirty miles per hour speed. I kind of smiled.
When I stepped out of the car, Id whined and pulled at the seat belts restricting her to the seat. Each time, the seat belt snapped back against her vest with a small /thwup/. In a quiet voice I murmured, "Calm down, hon, I will help you shortly." Sometimes, I enjoy talking to Id even if she does not yet understand.
My wife greeted me at the door, and I scooped her into my arms and planted a kiss on her sweet lips. She laughed nervously and asked, "How long will the beast have to stay here?"
I winced. "Just for today. Do you not think that a holiday--her first one at that--is the perfect opportunity to teach her about traditions?"
She only shrugged and scampered back into the house. I could smell cooking vegetables.
"You are making something meaty as well, right?" I shouted after her.
"Yeah, yeah."
Good.
I walked back to the car and found Id chewing at the seat belt, a tear forming. When I leaned over and clicked off the belt, she only looked up and me and glared with her scarred eye, barring her teeth."Sorry, hun," I said to her, "but that's what average people do, so you must learn to do so."
Once we were in the house, Id sniffed the air and looked around the room. Her eyes lingered on a photo from my wife and mine's wedding, then hunched over on her back, taking a small step foreward. I laughed and place my hand gently on her shoulder. "There is no danger here," I told her. "The only people here are my wife and I, and we love you."
My wife set the dinner table while I led Id by the hand into the dining room. Id could not rest her eyes on one thing for even a second, many times leaning her face closer to sniff the shiniy artificial plants. Making grunts all the while, she sniffed the fabrics of the curtains and tablecloth and finally stared outside the window. A man jogged with earbuds in his ears with wires flailing about passed the house, at which Id growled loudly. My wife sighed and asked, "Can't you get her to stop?"
"Afraid not. She acts purely on instinct."
"Yeah, I forgot about that after all your talk of her behaving more like a human."
The Missus must be on her period. I sighed and led Id to the small, square table.
"This seat," I said slowly, "is where you sit." I pulled the chair out for her and motioned for her to sit. She squat down next to the chair and sniffed it before plopping down on it. The chair squeaked as she wiggled around, making herself comfortable. Her eyes stared forward, narrowed, no longer facing the window and instead looking into the kitchen and watching the Missus work her magic.
I picked up utensils made out of silverware, one by one, and showed them to Id. "This is a soup spoon, which you will only use for the liquid-like appetizer. And you have to use both the fork and knife to cut up your meat."
"She can't understand a single word you're saying," my wife called in that I-told-you-so tone, not taking her eyes off the turkey she withdrew from the oven. "You're wasting your breath."
Snarling, Id slammed a fist on the table, causing the empty glasses to shake. I smiled as she glared and returned to preparing the food.
When I finished introducing Id to dishes, napkins, glasses, and how to cut up meat, my wife brought in the vegetable soup and placed it on the table. Id immediately leaned forward to sniff the soup, but I took her shoulder and pulled her back. She whined loudly, and I held on to her wrists. As she thrashed, I said to the Missus, "Pour her some soup--quickly!"
"This is why I never want children," she groaned, filling up Id's bowl to the brim.
Id calmed down, and I let go of one wrist and jammed the spoon into her released hand. "Eat with this," I said. For a second, Id did nothing but look from the Missus--to whom she glared at, for which I cannot blame her--to the soup. She slowly started to lower her head. "No," I said, raising my voice. I tapped the spoon. "Eat with this."
A burst of air rushed out of her nose as she tried to dip her head closer to the bowl, and again I instructed her on how to eat it. My wife returned from placing the dish away from Id and stared at my actions without glancing at her own bowl of hot soup. "Did I or did I not tell you this would not work? That beast eats like a savage at the lab, and at a house, no different would happen."
When I tried a different teaching approach, taking her wrist and manually trying to budge her arm which would not move, the Missus continued. "That thing may look human with a beast's ears, but it's nothing more than an overgrown baby. It doesn't know left from right thanks to living with animals in some forest, and it'll die before it learns how to say 'please' and 'thank you.'" A pause. "Look, I don't mind you doing this researching business. But you have way too much confidences in your subjects. You are intelligent, and they are not. You don't have a teaching agree, and they refuse to learn. It just can't work. And a holiday, of all days. What were you thinking?"
Biting back a sigh, I let go of her wrist. Id stared down at her unmoving arm, at her spoon, and at her bowl, and then she glanced up at the Missus. Her jaw moved up and down slightly, and I knew she was hitting her rows of teeth against one another.
Id exhaled and furrowed her brows, and cautiously, she lifted the spoon and dunked it into the bowl. Tightening her grip, she lifted the spoon and stared at the tiny pool of brown liquid with tiny chunks of vegetables. Both the Missus and I watched her nearly bump the spoon against her lips but successfully open her mouth and dump out the contents of the spoon.
I looked at the Missus and let a smug grin stretch across my face as her face fell. "She does not enjoy being condescended. I am sure she can eat our Easter dinner with us."
The Missus slumped into her chair and raised her spoon. "Just wait until the main course."
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Warmup: Aliens Right Behind You
This is an idea from The Periwinkle Pen, from weekly segments called Weekly Warmups.
In this exercise, I wrote something short based on a picture.
To be honest, I borrowed the title off a song, give or take one word.
Cold sweat coated my palms like drying glue. The communicator in my hand shook as I tried to control my breaths.
Now they know John is dead.
I will never forget his last words.
"There are aliens right behind you."
I stole a glance behind me, sucking in my breath quickly. But nothing stood there. No sounds. No footsteps. No growls. No snarls.
I gulped down the sigh that wanted to escape. I cannot allow myself to stick out any more than needed. Already, my body feels exposed with just the thin, elastic suit to cover the essential areas--chest, torso, hands, legs, feet. If John's uniform was clean and untainted, I would have worn it instead. I swear the boss dresses the women up like this for kicks.
I slipped the communicator back into the secret outlet slab and concealed it. With a wince, I pulled myself up from my kneeling position, and my legs screamed in their boots. But I could move them, and that's all that matters.
After checking my back again, I pressed my back against the wall and sidestepped quickly down the corrider. The corner approached, and I leaned a cautious head to check the area.
I won't let an alien tear me a new one. A death won't bring me down. And John knew so, and he knew so when he gave me his last piece of "advice." He knew that I don't listen to dead men.
There's maybe ten, fifteen more minutes to go until I reach the ship.
About eight now. I look behind me.
Five. Look again.
Two. Check.
One.
And John was right. There are aliens right behind me.
In this exercise, I wrote something short based on a picture.
To be honest, I borrowed the title off a song, give or take one word.
Cold sweat coated my palms like drying glue. The communicator in my hand shook as I tried to control my breaths.
Now they know John is dead.
I will never forget his last words.
"There are aliens right behind you."
I stole a glance behind me, sucking in my breath quickly. But nothing stood there. No sounds. No footsteps. No growls. No snarls.
I gulped down the sigh that wanted to escape. I cannot allow myself to stick out any more than needed. Already, my body feels exposed with just the thin, elastic suit to cover the essential areas--chest, torso, hands, legs, feet. If John's uniform was clean and untainted, I would have worn it instead. I swear the boss dresses the women up like this for kicks.
I slipped the communicator back into the secret outlet slab and concealed it. With a wince, I pulled myself up from my kneeling position, and my legs screamed in their boots. But I could move them, and that's all that matters.
After checking my back again, I pressed my back against the wall and sidestepped quickly down the corrider. The corner approached, and I leaned a cautious head to check the area.
I won't let an alien tear me a new one. A death won't bring me down. And John knew so, and he knew so when he gave me his last piece of "advice." He knew that I don't listen to dead men.
There's maybe ten, fifteen more minutes to go until I reach the ship.
About eight now. I look behind me.
Five. Look again.
Two. Check.
One.
And John was right. There are aliens right behind me.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Warmup: This is War
This is an idea from The Periwinkle Pen, from weekly segments called Weekly Warmups.
In this exercise, I wrote about whatever the music video of Sigur Ros' "Untitled" made me think of.
I'm a weird person.
Deadroot glared across the fence at Plywood. The enemy's handlebar mustache and naturally wrinkly forehead gave Deadroot cold shivers. Evil men in history donned mustaches, and no men who still lived to feel wrinkles on their faces in this day and age suspiciously tugged at the hearts of America's last withstanding citizens.
"Earlier," Deadroot began, resisting the temptation to spit in Plywood's direction, "you agreed that nor you or you men or citizens would dare cross this border. And what I have you just done?"
"Crossed the border," Plywood smiled, revealing the many gaps among his grin.
A vein throbbed against Deadroot's stress-wrinkled forehead as he clenched his fists. "You know damn well what this means."
"Indeed I do. We'll have to play another game because of my foolish actions," he sighed, shrugging. He lifted his arms and dropped them again to his sides. "What can you do?"
"What I can do," Deadroot spat--and damn, was that great to let out--"is kick your ass at this game.
Plywood grinned and nodded before promptly turning and walking away, with his men. Deadroot snorted before turning and stomped off, parting the small layer of ashes like an ocean.
Muttering under his breath, Deadroot reached the schoolhouse, whose exterior was colored black with white stripes. The man noticed graffiti scribbled onto the side. In yellow chalk, someone wrote, "FREE THEM FREE THEM FREE THEM OR WE WILL DESTROY" until someone took blood red chalk and covered the rest. To the side, the red chalk read, "liars all of them hippie faggots keep on working gov." At the last sentence, Deadroot smiled. At least some of his citizens had his back. Justified.
He entered the building and passed a security guard, to whom Deadroot said, "Make the announcement, group B."
The guard, who looked no younger than twenty three, lifted his left wrist to his mouth, pushing a button on his watch. "Send group B to the Waiting Room."
Deadroot reached a long room and stood in the middle, facing a wall. Pitter patters heard, a door opposite to the entrance opened, and a line of children shuffled inside. Shackles hung from their wrists and ankles, and all but a few kept their heads the down. The deviants dared to send a glare at their captor and then turned their glare toward the ground.
Once the children lined up against the wall, Deadroot stood in front of the child to the far left. He grabbed the boy's face and leaned close, staring with a hard gaze. He turned the boy's face to the left and then to the right. He grunted to himself and moved on to the next child. For five children he proceeded, grunting to himself after each inspection.
A school bell rang out.
All the children's heads turned simultaneously to the mayor.
His lip snarled, and to a guard, he motioned toward the children he looked over. The guard removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the children's shackles, and the six children shuffled through the door the mayor had first entered.
Along the halls, six coats had been hung for the children. Each child snatched one up and slipped their arms through the sleeves, looking at each other in silence. Deadroot stood several feet away, his eyes never drifting away. And once all the children were snug in the winter coats, the turned to another wall and plucked off gas masks.
The children walked outside as ash crunched below their feet. With Deadroot as the caboose, the train of children marched across the land, turning left at some point. They approached a large building, and on the other side of the fence, Deadroot glimpsed Plywood leading children to said building. Deadroot could recognize the children, one young girl's face in particular. His heart skipped a beat.
In the building laid a Roman Colosseum. Deadroot urged the kids through the entrance gate to the field. The major then joined a group of his people and stared at the upcoming spectacle.
"Who will fall this time?" one man whispered to another.
"One of ours, you just watch," the other man responded, nodding to the other side. In a lower voice with his face turned away from the mayor, the man added, "It will be his daughter."
"How could you say such a thing!" the first main said. The mayor glanced their way.
"That's karma for you. Shows how stupid we all are."
"Attention," cried a voice belonging to Plywood, who stood on the opposite side of the spectator's field. "Because my men crossed the border, we must now play this game yet again. Prisoner against prisoner. Life against life." He threw his arms up as his voice rose to a boom. "Those who remain alive will be allowed to return to their respective counties, but only after a prisoner is taken down and chokes on the smoky ash blanketed across the land.
"This game--begin!"
A prisoner of Plywood immediately began to gather ashes in his hand in a circular pattern like a snowball. Those on her side began to do the same. Startled, one of Deadroot's prisoners rushed at the first girl and kicked up the ashes. Plywood's prisoners threw ashballs at the other side while Deadroot's prisoners scrambled about, skinny elephants running a muck.
One prisoner of Plywood rolled a large ashball and ran for a prisoner of the other side. Plywood's prisoner successfully trapped Deadroot's, and other prisoners of Plywood stacked even larger ashballs onto the trapped child. After they stepped back, the ashman trembled, and the previously trapped prisoner of Deadroot stomped out, hurling an ashball into the air.
Ash continued to fly as the prisoners ran circles around each other. Some ash hit prisoners in the shoulder or stomach or leg, but the prisoners continued to collect their weapon. Some men in the audience shook their heads, already forgetting which prisoner was on who's side. Some mayors stared down at the field, eyes focused on one person each, blind to all the others.
And a gas mask flew into the air.
And a mayor stood up.
And a crowd of children dropped the ash in their hands.
As if awakened by a dream, the children walked slowly toward the fallen child. Beady eyes stared back at, blinking slowly, mouth agape, at little monsters. Gasping for breath. Ashes slipping into her throat.
And a mayor clapped with a smile.
And a father dropped his face in his hands.
And a man turned to the one standing beside him.
"This game won't solve anything."
In this exercise, I wrote about whatever the music video of Sigur Ros' "Untitled" made me think of.
I'm a weird person.
Deadroot glared across the fence at Plywood. The enemy's handlebar mustache and naturally wrinkly forehead gave Deadroot cold shivers. Evil men in history donned mustaches, and no men who still lived to feel wrinkles on their faces in this day and age suspiciously tugged at the hearts of America's last withstanding citizens.
"Earlier," Deadroot began, resisting the temptation to spit in Plywood's direction, "you agreed that nor you or you men or citizens would dare cross this border. And what I have you just done?"
"Crossed the border," Plywood smiled, revealing the many gaps among his grin.
A vein throbbed against Deadroot's stress-wrinkled forehead as he clenched his fists. "You know damn well what this means."
"Indeed I do. We'll have to play another game because of my foolish actions," he sighed, shrugging. He lifted his arms and dropped them again to his sides. "What can you do?"
"What I can do," Deadroot spat--and damn, was that great to let out--"is kick your ass at this game.
Plywood grinned and nodded before promptly turning and walking away, with his men. Deadroot snorted before turning and stomped off, parting the small layer of ashes like an ocean.
Muttering under his breath, Deadroot reached the schoolhouse, whose exterior was colored black with white stripes. The man noticed graffiti scribbled onto the side. In yellow chalk, someone wrote, "FREE THEM FREE THEM FREE THEM OR WE WILL DESTROY" until someone took blood red chalk and covered the rest. To the side, the red chalk read, "liars all of them hippie faggots keep on working gov." At the last sentence, Deadroot smiled. At least some of his citizens had his back. Justified.
He entered the building and passed a security guard, to whom Deadroot said, "Make the announcement, group B."
The guard, who looked no younger than twenty three, lifted his left wrist to his mouth, pushing a button on his watch. "Send group B to the Waiting Room."
Deadroot reached a long room and stood in the middle, facing a wall. Pitter patters heard, a door opposite to the entrance opened, and a line of children shuffled inside. Shackles hung from their wrists and ankles, and all but a few kept their heads the down. The deviants dared to send a glare at their captor and then turned their glare toward the ground.
Once the children lined up against the wall, Deadroot stood in front of the child to the far left. He grabbed the boy's face and leaned close, staring with a hard gaze. He turned the boy's face to the left and then to the right. He grunted to himself and moved on to the next child. For five children he proceeded, grunting to himself after each inspection.
A school bell rang out.
All the children's heads turned simultaneously to the mayor.
His lip snarled, and to a guard, he motioned toward the children he looked over. The guard removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the children's shackles, and the six children shuffled through the door the mayor had first entered.
Along the halls, six coats had been hung for the children. Each child snatched one up and slipped their arms through the sleeves, looking at each other in silence. Deadroot stood several feet away, his eyes never drifting away. And once all the children were snug in the winter coats, the turned to another wall and plucked off gas masks.
The children walked outside as ash crunched below their feet. With Deadroot as the caboose, the train of children marched across the land, turning left at some point. They approached a large building, and on the other side of the fence, Deadroot glimpsed Plywood leading children to said building. Deadroot could recognize the children, one young girl's face in particular. His heart skipped a beat.
In the building laid a Roman Colosseum. Deadroot urged the kids through the entrance gate to the field. The major then joined a group of his people and stared at the upcoming spectacle.
"Who will fall this time?" one man whispered to another.
"One of ours, you just watch," the other man responded, nodding to the other side. In a lower voice with his face turned away from the mayor, the man added, "It will be his daughter."
"How could you say such a thing!" the first main said. The mayor glanced their way.
"That's karma for you. Shows how stupid we all are."
"Attention," cried a voice belonging to Plywood, who stood on the opposite side of the spectator's field. "Because my men crossed the border, we must now play this game yet again. Prisoner against prisoner. Life against life." He threw his arms up as his voice rose to a boom. "Those who remain alive will be allowed to return to their respective counties, but only after a prisoner is taken down and chokes on the smoky ash blanketed across the land.
"This game--begin!"
A prisoner of Plywood immediately began to gather ashes in his hand in a circular pattern like a snowball. Those on her side began to do the same. Startled, one of Deadroot's prisoners rushed at the first girl and kicked up the ashes. Plywood's prisoners threw ashballs at the other side while Deadroot's prisoners scrambled about, skinny elephants running a muck.
One prisoner of Plywood rolled a large ashball and ran for a prisoner of the other side. Plywood's prisoner successfully trapped Deadroot's, and other prisoners of Plywood stacked even larger ashballs onto the trapped child. After they stepped back, the ashman trembled, and the previously trapped prisoner of Deadroot stomped out, hurling an ashball into the air.
Ash continued to fly as the prisoners ran circles around each other. Some ash hit prisoners in the shoulder or stomach or leg, but the prisoners continued to collect their weapon. Some men in the audience shook their heads, already forgetting which prisoner was on who's side. Some mayors stared down at the field, eyes focused on one person each, blind to all the others.
And a gas mask flew into the air.
And a mayor stood up.
And a crowd of children dropped the ash in their hands.
As if awakened by a dream, the children walked slowly toward the fallen child. Beady eyes stared back at, blinking slowly, mouth agape, at little monsters. Gasping for breath. Ashes slipping into her throat.
And a mayor clapped with a smile.
And a father dropped his face in his hands.
And a man turned to the one standing beside him.
"This game won't solve anything."
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Crush Crush
Just a short childhood memory of Lukas.
Sometimes, it is fun to write about children.
Fun facts: Red's real name is Benjamin, and Maroon's real name is Ashley.
"Mama, can I go over to Ben's house?"
Lukas stared up at his mother, who was cleaning a window with a dirty rag and cleaner fluid. "Are his parents okay with it?"
"Yup!"
"Then you can," she said, pausing her work and smiling at him. Teasingly, she asked, "Why are you so eager to go to his house lately?"
Lukas' cheeks burned red as he turned his head away, pouting. "Nothing."
His mother lowered herself and pinched one of his cheeks. "You're blushing."
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yeah-huh! It's his sister, isn't it?"
"No!" Lukas cried, crossing his arms.
"It's okay, sweeite. It's cute when little boys have crushes on little girls."
"That's not it!" Lukas insisted.
Chuckling, his mother returned to cleaning the window. "Sure it isn't. Remember to come back before dinner."
Lukas ran out of the house and down the street, hoping his face would return to normal when he reached his friend's house. He stopped at each street and looked both ways, the continued to run. He jammed his hand in his pocket and felt for the piece of Starburst. He inwardly giggled and felt his cheeks heat up again.
Once at the foot of the door, Lukas pressed the doorbell three times, one after another. Lukas heard footsteps and was soon greeted by ben. "Yay, you can play with us!" Ben said, hopping up and down. In the distance Lukas heard more footsteps.
Lukas nodded vigorously and felt for the candy again. "B-but first, I wanted to give something to Ashley."
"Again?" Ben said disbelievingly.
"Give me what?" Ashley popped up from behind Ben, smiling with rosy cheeks.
The flames in Lukas' cheeks burned even brighter. He pulled out the Starburst decorated in a red wrapper. "I know how much you like Starburst and the color red, so I saved this for you."
"Thank you!" Ashley said, taking the candy and unwrapping it immediately. Lukas shyly placed his hands behind his back.
"Wait, I should get the red Starburst," Ben said, "because I'm Red!"
"Nope, you're Ben," Ashley said, popping the candy in her mouth. "You don't slay demons with a keyboard."
"But I wanna be called Red!"
"Too bad," his sister taunted, sticking out her tongue.
After Ashley swallowed her gift, the three kids ran toward the backyard. Red ran faster than the other two and stood on top of a risen slope. "Today, we're gonna play hide and seek. And Lukas goes first because he didn't give me candy!"
"You're a sore loser, Ben," Lukas whined, pouting again.
"It's Red!"
"Whatever."
Lukas took over Ben's spot on the slope and turned his back from the rest of the yard. Placing his hands over his closed eyes, he slowly counted, "Ten, nine, eight..."
He listened for footsteps carefully. One pair drifted a ways off before stopping while the other pair only pounded against the ground for a few seconds. Near by, he heard the rustling of foliage. He smiled as he turned around and shouted, "Ready or not, here I come!"
Lukas quickly surveyed the backyard cluttered with playing equipment and stared at the nearby bush. He envisioned Ashley crouched behind the big bush as she always did, each game. No matter what. Even though the boys knew she always hid there.
He shoved his arms into the bush and pulled some branches apart, and there he found Ashley's brown eyes staring at him. She giggled and crawled out. "Found me again!"
"It's easy to find you," Lukas said, scratching at his brown hair. He noticed a leaf in Ashley's black long hair and pulled it out. "I don't get how your hair is not tangled."
"Because I'm cool."
"Yup."
The two of them stood around, looking around from their spot. Ashley nudged Lukas and whispered with a sneer, "Let's go back inside and leave Ben out here."
"Good idea," Lukas said, and he beamed as they snuck back into the house.
Sometimes, it is fun to write about children.
Fun facts: Red's real name is Benjamin, and Maroon's real name is Ashley.
"Mama, can I go over to Ben's house?"
Lukas stared up at his mother, who was cleaning a window with a dirty rag and cleaner fluid. "Are his parents okay with it?"
"Yup!"
"Then you can," she said, pausing her work and smiling at him. Teasingly, she asked, "Why are you so eager to go to his house lately?"
Lukas' cheeks burned red as he turned his head away, pouting. "Nothing."
His mother lowered herself and pinched one of his cheeks. "You're blushing."
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yeah-huh! It's his sister, isn't it?"
"No!" Lukas cried, crossing his arms.
"It's okay, sweeite. It's cute when little boys have crushes on little girls."
"That's not it!" Lukas insisted.
Chuckling, his mother returned to cleaning the window. "Sure it isn't. Remember to come back before dinner."
Lukas ran out of the house and down the street, hoping his face would return to normal when he reached his friend's house. He stopped at each street and looked both ways, the continued to run. He jammed his hand in his pocket and felt for the piece of Starburst. He inwardly giggled and felt his cheeks heat up again.
Once at the foot of the door, Lukas pressed the doorbell three times, one after another. Lukas heard footsteps and was soon greeted by ben. "Yay, you can play with us!" Ben said, hopping up and down. In the distance Lukas heard more footsteps.
Lukas nodded vigorously and felt for the candy again. "B-but first, I wanted to give something to Ashley."
"Again?" Ben said disbelievingly.
"Give me what?" Ashley popped up from behind Ben, smiling with rosy cheeks.
The flames in Lukas' cheeks burned even brighter. He pulled out the Starburst decorated in a red wrapper. "I know how much you like Starburst and the color red, so I saved this for you."
"Thank you!" Ashley said, taking the candy and unwrapping it immediately. Lukas shyly placed his hands behind his back.
"Wait, I should get the red Starburst," Ben said, "because I'm Red!"
"Nope, you're Ben," Ashley said, popping the candy in her mouth. "You don't slay demons with a keyboard."
"But I wanna be called Red!"
"Too bad," his sister taunted, sticking out her tongue.
After Ashley swallowed her gift, the three kids ran toward the backyard. Red ran faster than the other two and stood on top of a risen slope. "Today, we're gonna play hide and seek. And Lukas goes first because he didn't give me candy!"
"You're a sore loser, Ben," Lukas whined, pouting again.
"It's Red!"
"Whatever."
Lukas took over Ben's spot on the slope and turned his back from the rest of the yard. Placing his hands over his closed eyes, he slowly counted, "Ten, nine, eight..."
He listened for footsteps carefully. One pair drifted a ways off before stopping while the other pair only pounded against the ground for a few seconds. Near by, he heard the rustling of foliage. He smiled as he turned around and shouted, "Ready or not, here I come!"
Lukas quickly surveyed the backyard cluttered with playing equipment and stared at the nearby bush. He envisioned Ashley crouched behind the big bush as she always did, each game. No matter what. Even though the boys knew she always hid there.
He shoved his arms into the bush and pulled some branches apart, and there he found Ashley's brown eyes staring at him. She giggled and crawled out. "Found me again!"
"It's easy to find you," Lukas said, scratching at his brown hair. He noticed a leaf in Ashley's black long hair and pulled it out. "I don't get how your hair is not tangled."
"Because I'm cool."
"Yup."
The two of them stood around, looking around from their spot. Ashley nudged Lukas and whispered with a sneer, "Let's go back inside and leave Ben out here."
"Good idea," Lukas said, and he beamed as they snuck back into the house.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Cut down a notch.
So I redid the appearance of the blog.
It looks less professional.
I wish I knew CSS. Oh well.
Obviously I did not update Wednesday because I was on a trip which occupied my time for a few days.
So I will just update this upcoming Wednesday. Yup.
It looks less professional.
I wish I knew CSS. Oh well.
Obviously I did not update Wednesday because I was on a trip which occupied my time for a few days.
So I will just update this upcoming Wednesday. Yup.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Exercise: Reach For It
Another exercise I found at The Periwinkle Pen.
This one is based on the Machine of Death, where people can get a slip of paper that tells them how they will die. What's on the paper is not always literal though, which doesn't solve questions about death, really.
[Reach For It]
Stampede.
Lukas squinted at the small slip of paper in his hand. Eight simple letters that foresaw his death. He told himself that looking at the paper in the safety of his own home would eliminate the spook factor, but his home gave him little comfort.
"What does it say?" Red asked, jumping up and down and trying to snatch the slip away.
Lukas held the paper above his own head and sneered, his eyes narrowed and stare genuine despite his his quickly beating heart. "Only if you can reach it from my hand, short stuff."
"Not fair!"
Lukas chuckled, but then slowly stopped and frowned as Red began pointing and laughing. The paper with the single word dangled in front of Lukas' face, black fingernails dully shining from the ceiling light.
"You really should be careful when I'm around," a girl smiled, lightly yellowed teeth greeting him. "I may not be as tall as you, but I'm sneakier than your dead cat instincts can handle."
Rolling his eyes, Lukas tried to grab back the slip. "Now that is what I call unfair, Maroon."
Maroon shrugged, pulling away the paper. "I don't see how it's unfair. You told Red and I that you would show us what that silly Machine would say about your so-called 'future death.' As your friends, Red and I are allowed to be curious. God knows you'd want to see my foreseen death."
"And mine," chimed Red.
"Don't make me wrestle you for it," Lukas said, smiling more and more to himself. Wrestling did not sound so bad in the least, a nice distraction. He eyed Maroon up and down--
"Stampede."
Maroon's eyebrows rose as her gaze switched from the paper to Lukas. She flicked the paper back at the cranberry-haired man and flipped her towering red Mohawk. Red blinked at Lukas, who quickly snatched the paper with a slightly pink face, as his sister said, "Well, what do you make of that?"
"Nothing."
"You're kidding."
"Not really," Lukas said, itching his shoulder and stuffing the piece of paper in his back pocket. Unconsciously he rolled his shoulder and realized how lucky he was to have hair covering his forehead sweat. "We don't even know if this freaky voo-doo is even legitimate. They say the Machine never fails, but you know propaganda. They could claim so just to get our money."
"I heard otherwise from some guy," Red said, throwing himself at Lukas' recently-made bed and rolling on his back, letting his head hang upside down. "He said that some other guy he knew got a prediction that read 'gunshot.' His friend swore he'd stay in the house to avoid any conflict with guns. Five days later, he was watching a movie, a man shot a gun, BAM. Had a heart attack. The gunshot caused the man to have a heart attack! It's not totally bogus!"
"So they're cryptic," said Maroon, now looking at Lukas. "So maybe this is a symbolic stampede."
Lukas stretched his back and arms. "My first thought was a human stampede."
When the Grupp siblings just stared, Lukas pressed his lips together, halting any chance of nervous lip-quivers. "Is that so wrong of me?" he mock pouted.
"Only famous people get trampled by people," Maroon shot mockingly right back at the man.
Lukas shook his head and smiled, a new thought coming to his head--and said though eased his beating heart. His eyes shone. "You see, my dear Maroon, I will become famous. The girls will love me so much that they will be moved and rush to me in the wild passion of obsession. And that's how I want to die. Plus, once I die, people will become so depressed, their mangled emotions will drive them to kill themselves just to join me in death."
One of Maroon's eyes twitched and her lips tightened. "Are you really supporting mass suicide?"
"If it's in my name, then yes."
"You're horrible."
"Horribly beautiful."
"Lame," Red called, now laying on his stomach with arms dangling over the edge.
"What I find lame," Lukas said, picking his words tastefully, with a smug smirk across his mug, "is how you two didn't get your own little prediction from the Machine."
Red smiled and fixed a shining gaze at Lukas. If Red's thick black eyebrows were ten times thinner, and if all his facial piercing disappeared, he would look like an middle school child looking up at a teacher. "I don't need a piece of paper to drive me deeper into insanity. I've got the psychosis for that."
"And I really don't care how I die," Maroon said. "And after your little remark, I don't think I care how you die either." She pushed past Lukas and out the door, offering a small backwards glance.
"Ouch," Lukas said, rubbing his chest. "That hurt. Talk about an emotional blow."
When Lukas turned to Red, the short man only stared at him with clouded eyes. From the looks of it, Red stared not at Lukas or the wall behind him or even into space, as cliches go. Tilting his head, Lukas said, "What's with that trippy look on your face, Red?"
Red offered a light smile. "I think I know what kind of stampede will cause your death."
"Oh really? What do you say it is?"
"Only if you can reach it from within my mind, tall stuff."
This one is based on the Machine of Death, where people can get a slip of paper that tells them how they will die. What's on the paper is not always literal though, which doesn't solve questions about death, really.
[Reach For It]
Stampede.
Lukas squinted at the small slip of paper in his hand. Eight simple letters that foresaw his death. He told himself that looking at the paper in the safety of his own home would eliminate the spook factor, but his home gave him little comfort.
"What does it say?" Red asked, jumping up and down and trying to snatch the slip away.
Lukas held the paper above his own head and sneered, his eyes narrowed and stare genuine despite his his quickly beating heart. "Only if you can reach it from my hand, short stuff."
"Not fair!"
Lukas chuckled, but then slowly stopped and frowned as Red began pointing and laughing. The paper with the single word dangled in front of Lukas' face, black fingernails dully shining from the ceiling light.
"You really should be careful when I'm around," a girl smiled, lightly yellowed teeth greeting him. "I may not be as tall as you, but I'm sneakier than your dead cat instincts can handle."
Rolling his eyes, Lukas tried to grab back the slip. "Now that is what I call unfair, Maroon."
Maroon shrugged, pulling away the paper. "I don't see how it's unfair. You told Red and I that you would show us what that silly Machine would say about your so-called 'future death.' As your friends, Red and I are allowed to be curious. God knows you'd want to see my foreseen death."
"And mine," chimed Red.
"Don't make me wrestle you for it," Lukas said, smiling more and more to himself. Wrestling did not sound so bad in the least, a nice distraction. He eyed Maroon up and down--
"Stampede."
Maroon's eyebrows rose as her gaze switched from the paper to Lukas. She flicked the paper back at the cranberry-haired man and flipped her towering red Mohawk. Red blinked at Lukas, who quickly snatched the paper with a slightly pink face, as his sister said, "Well, what do you make of that?"
"Nothing."
"You're kidding."
"Not really," Lukas said, itching his shoulder and stuffing the piece of paper in his back pocket. Unconsciously he rolled his shoulder and realized how lucky he was to have hair covering his forehead sweat. "We don't even know if this freaky voo-doo is even legitimate. They say the Machine never fails, but you know propaganda. They could claim so just to get our money."
"I heard otherwise from some guy," Red said, throwing himself at Lukas' recently-made bed and rolling on his back, letting his head hang upside down. "He said that some other guy he knew got a prediction that read 'gunshot.' His friend swore he'd stay in the house to avoid any conflict with guns. Five days later, he was watching a movie, a man shot a gun, BAM. Had a heart attack. The gunshot caused the man to have a heart attack! It's not totally bogus!"
"So they're cryptic," said Maroon, now looking at Lukas. "So maybe this is a symbolic stampede."
Lukas stretched his back and arms. "My first thought was a human stampede."
When the Grupp siblings just stared, Lukas pressed his lips together, halting any chance of nervous lip-quivers. "Is that so wrong of me?" he mock pouted.
"Only famous people get trampled by people," Maroon shot mockingly right back at the man.
Lukas shook his head and smiled, a new thought coming to his head--and said though eased his beating heart. His eyes shone. "You see, my dear Maroon, I will become famous. The girls will love me so much that they will be moved and rush to me in the wild passion of obsession. And that's how I want to die. Plus, once I die, people will become so depressed, their mangled emotions will drive them to kill themselves just to join me in death."
One of Maroon's eyes twitched and her lips tightened. "Are you really supporting mass suicide?"
"If it's in my name, then yes."
"You're horrible."
"Horribly beautiful."
"Lame," Red called, now laying on his stomach with arms dangling over the edge.
"What I find lame," Lukas said, picking his words tastefully, with a smug smirk across his mug, "is how you two didn't get your own little prediction from the Machine."
Red smiled and fixed a shining gaze at Lukas. If Red's thick black eyebrows were ten times thinner, and if all his facial piercing disappeared, he would look like an middle school child looking up at a teacher. "I don't need a piece of paper to drive me deeper into insanity. I've got the psychosis for that."
"And I really don't care how I die," Maroon said. "And after your little remark, I don't think I care how you die either." She pushed past Lukas and out the door, offering a small backwards glance.
"Ouch," Lukas said, rubbing his chest. "That hurt. Talk about an emotional blow."
When Lukas turned to Red, the short man only stared at him with clouded eyes. From the looks of it, Red stared not at Lukas or the wall behind him or even into space, as cliches go. Tilting his head, Lukas said, "What's with that trippy look on your face, Red?"
Red offered a light smile. "I think I know what kind of stampede will cause your death."
"Oh really? What do you say it is?"
"Only if you can reach it from within my mind, tall stuff."
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Second
To the ones that have been living in my head,
to the ones that changed my life,
to the ones that helped me through a hard time,
to the ones that led me to improvements,
to the ones that make me feel giddy when thinking about them,
I love you. Happy Second Anniversary, my idea babies. <3
[The Second]
"Oh my gosh, I can't even begin--"
"You can say, 'thank you so much, I love you.'" Abel said, smiling.
Mark's face continued beaming at the little box in his hand. He bit his bottom lip with his mouth curved upwards, and then he looked directly at Abel. "'Thank you so much, I love you.'"
With a satisfied chuckle, Abel kissed Mark gently on the lips and scooted closer. Mark leaned into him and looked again at his gift. After some thought, he said, "You do know we're the past the stage where we have to impress each other. It's been that way for over a year now."
"I know," Abel said, his smile slightly flattened. "I just wanted to get you something special this year. Something that will last long."
"I know, I know. I'm still not used to it. And, hey, memories last a long time."
"Until you develop Alzheimer's."
"Okay, let's stop being negative," Mark said, kissing Abel's cheek. Abel tried to turn his face away, but Mark grabbed his cheek and turned him around. Mark's eyes lost their giddy shine, and he straightened his face. "Really, I'm very glad for this. For these two years. For these struggles. All that you've done, really." After a pause, he added, "When you're sweet, you're very sweet."
Closing his eyes, Abel brushed away Mark's hand and wrapped his arm around his boyfriend's shoulder. "To that, I'll say my thanks for you. Thanks for dealing with the rocky beginning. Thanks for dealing with the obvious problems with being with me. Thanks for putting up with my personal demons and stupid shit like that." His voice dwindled down to silence.
A train horn whistled, and the chuggs of the engine and wheels slowly gained audacity. Mark sighed happily and looked again at the box in his hand. He set the box down on his knee and reached into the box. "That's what being in love is about, isn't it?"
In his hand, he tightly clutched the skull ring with the words "Through struggles and strife, I love you."
to the ones that changed my life,
to the ones that helped me through a hard time,
to the ones that led me to improvements,
to the ones that make me feel giddy when thinking about them,
I love you. Happy Second Anniversary, my idea babies. <3
[The Second]
"Oh my gosh, I can't even begin--"
"You can say, 'thank you so much, I love you.'" Abel said, smiling.
Mark's face continued beaming at the little box in his hand. He bit his bottom lip with his mouth curved upwards, and then he looked directly at Abel. "'Thank you so much, I love you.'"
With a satisfied chuckle, Abel kissed Mark gently on the lips and scooted closer. Mark leaned into him and looked again at his gift. After some thought, he said, "You do know we're the past the stage where we have to impress each other. It's been that way for over a year now."
"I know," Abel said, his smile slightly flattened. "I just wanted to get you something special this year. Something that will last long."
"I know, I know. I'm still not used to it. And, hey, memories last a long time."
"Until you develop Alzheimer's."
"Okay, let's stop being negative," Mark said, kissing Abel's cheek. Abel tried to turn his face away, but Mark grabbed his cheek and turned him around. Mark's eyes lost their giddy shine, and he straightened his face. "Really, I'm very glad for this. For these two years. For these struggles. All that you've done, really." After a pause, he added, "When you're sweet, you're very sweet."
Closing his eyes, Abel brushed away Mark's hand and wrapped his arm around his boyfriend's shoulder. "To that, I'll say my thanks for you. Thanks for dealing with the rocky beginning. Thanks for dealing with the obvious problems with being with me. Thanks for putting up with my personal demons and stupid shit like that." His voice dwindled down to silence.
A train horn whistled, and the chuggs of the engine and wheels slowly gained audacity. Mark sighed happily and looked again at the box in his hand. He set the box down on his knee and reached into the box. "That's what being in love is about, isn't it?"
In his hand, he tightly clutched the skull ring with the words "Through struggles and strife, I love you."
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I Hate Easter
Did I seriously write about my experience with a shiny Munna in Pokemon Black?
Yes. Yes I did.
Wrote this on May 11, 2011.
[I Hate Easter]
That little bastard brought about the purge.
I will always remember that day. The trainer accessed the PC with a wide grin slapped on his face. He logged in and took a glance at the eight of us sitting in the box. I wonder what he saw through his eyes? Eight weak bobbing flower-stained pink blobs? Numbers to increase probability? Failed hatchlings left to be forever alone? I can assure you, reader, that he did not see us for who we really were: the potential dream-come-true for a starting child.
We are Pokemon, not spoiled berries. You can't just throw us away.
But he did.
We all turned our heads at the sparkling yellow blob-of-a-Munna and just stared. His green flowers created a fairly nice blend against his yellow body, surely less embarrassing for a male compared to the average Munna. And his name was Easter.
Now--what the hell? You don't just go around naming Munnas stupid shit like "Flower" and "Buffs" and then pull a holiday name out of your ass. Nor do you start assigning random "people" names and mainly hand out ones considered stupid by sniggering teenagers. Like my own name, Gilbert. You just don't go around doing that.
I'm going off on a tangent. Anyway.
So the trainer gently placed this sparkly bright mess in the box (carefully named "MUNNA," mind you) right next to the cutie pie named Hope. Hope. Yeah, kid, Hope sure became a useful tool for you.
Again. So he placed this strange Munna in the PC, and he flat out started wailing and flailing his arms around. He flat out started giggling and squealing with a brightly red face. He flat out started swaying and clapping his hands like an amused human baby.
Hey, I may have a pink body, purple flowers, and eyelashes--a look shouting GIRLY--but at least I don't act like a fuckin' pansy like that teen boy. And I doubt a girl would act that way over a Pokemon, either. What the hell, man?
Then the now nine of us watched the trainer calm down and look at his current two eggs. He shrugs, shoots a smile aimed for fuckin' Easter, and leaves the Pokemon Center.
Easter just looked at us, blinking with his newborn eyes. I can assure you, reader, that none of us talked to that Munna, not even Hope, who probably aided (somehow?) the shiny Munna's existence. He gave off the aura of the fuckin' plague, I tell you!
Minutes later, the trainer came back and plopped two more Munnas in the box, one whose name as FRIDAY. WHAT THE HELL. THAT'S WORSE THAN A HOLIDAY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
The trainer yawned and said goodnight to us with an additional wink for fuckin' Easter. Because riding around a city on a bike watching miracles happen is serious business. I remember wishing he would never come back.
But of course with Mister Look-At-Me-I'm-So-Shiny-Kiss-My-Ass, the trainer was bound to run back like a human child at a freakshow.
More than twelve hours later of silence among my comrades (and shiny-pants), the trainer returned. WITH MORE EGGS. What, it wasn't good enough having one special snowflake, he needed more now?
And at that point my face burned red, my beady red eyes glaring at that son of a bitch. I saw his plan now! He was using us! And to feed his sick satisfaction he was giving us even more stupid names (I am not kidding you, he named two Munnas "Rebecca" and "Black." That's just wrong, man!) and especially tortured the males. Yeah yeah, we're hilarious because we are pink. Real men wear pink.
For the next hour he plopped off more ludicrously named Munnas (for examples, "Pansy" and "Hilbert" and "Helga" and "Daffodil"). In that hour, he managed to fill all thirty box slots.
And that's when the bastard trainer finally did it.
He gathered us into Poke Balls and sealed us away from the world. And goddamn, those balls are hard to get used to.
In a matter of minutes the sun hit my face again, and I floated above the ground next to twenty-nine weak bobbing flower-stained pink blobs. My little eyes widened as the trainer held a small frown on his face. A small dose of sympathy poked me, but then the trainer waved his hands way from us. Tilting a bit, I turned to see where we were.
The Dreamyard. The home of Munnas.
I knew it I knew it I knew it I KNEW IT. Do you see now that the names I called him were true? That he's an ungrateful brat that only wants the best, which are apparently oddities and rare mutations?
I snapped.
I ran (above ground) to the opening and into the wild grass, little beads of tears flying out. I heard the whimpers of the other Munnas behind me as we all stumbled into the grass. Other Munnas roaming about glanced at us and just blinked, but they didn't attack us. I didn't care if I was crying, I was a fucking baby at level one! If anything, I wanted to be surrounded by mama and papa and bros and sisses. That's what infants want, right?
But nope, that trainer was forcing mama to sleep with a German duck-thing and popping out babies like heated corn kernels. To think my dear mama Musharna's children were forced away! I remember crying myself to sleep for days knowing she never saw her babies and her babies never saw their mama.
Before I head off with my twenty-nine strong brothers and sisters to raid Striaton City in search of our ex-trainer, I will make this easy and sum up the story of my life up until now and surely for many years after today.
I hate Easter.
Yes. Yes I did.
Wrote this on May 11, 2011.
[I Hate Easter]
That little bastard brought about the purge.
I will always remember that day. The trainer accessed the PC with a wide grin slapped on his face. He logged in and took a glance at the eight of us sitting in the box. I wonder what he saw through his eyes? Eight weak bobbing flower-stained pink blobs? Numbers to increase probability? Failed hatchlings left to be forever alone? I can assure you, reader, that he did not see us for who we really were: the potential dream-come-true for a starting child.
We are Pokemon, not spoiled berries. You can't just throw us away.
But he did.
We all turned our heads at the sparkling yellow blob-of-a-Munna and just stared. His green flowers created a fairly nice blend against his yellow body, surely less embarrassing for a male compared to the average Munna. And his name was Easter.
Now--what the hell? You don't just go around naming Munnas stupid shit like "Flower" and "Buffs" and then pull a holiday name out of your ass. Nor do you start assigning random "people" names and mainly hand out ones considered stupid by sniggering teenagers. Like my own name, Gilbert. You just don't go around doing that.
I'm going off on a tangent. Anyway.
So the trainer gently placed this sparkly bright mess in the box (carefully named "MUNNA," mind you) right next to the cutie pie named Hope. Hope. Yeah, kid, Hope sure became a useful tool for you.
Again. So he placed this strange Munna in the PC, and he flat out started wailing and flailing his arms around. He flat out started giggling and squealing with a brightly red face. He flat out started swaying and clapping his hands like an amused human baby.
Hey, I may have a pink body, purple flowers, and eyelashes--a look shouting GIRLY--but at least I don't act like a fuckin' pansy like that teen boy. And I doubt a girl would act that way over a Pokemon, either. What the hell, man?
Then the now nine of us watched the trainer calm down and look at his current two eggs. He shrugs, shoots a smile aimed for fuckin' Easter, and leaves the Pokemon Center.
Easter just looked at us, blinking with his newborn eyes. I can assure you, reader, that none of us talked to that Munna, not even Hope, who probably aided (somehow?) the shiny Munna's existence. He gave off the aura of the fuckin' plague, I tell you!
Minutes later, the trainer came back and plopped two more Munnas in the box, one whose name as FRIDAY. WHAT THE HELL. THAT'S WORSE THAN A HOLIDAY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
The trainer yawned and said goodnight to us with an additional wink for fuckin' Easter. Because riding around a city on a bike watching miracles happen is serious business. I remember wishing he would never come back.
But of course with Mister Look-At-Me-I'm-So-Shiny-Kiss-My-Ass, the trainer was bound to run back like a human child at a freakshow.
More than twelve hours later of silence among my comrades (and shiny-pants), the trainer returned. WITH MORE EGGS. What, it wasn't good enough having one special snowflake, he needed more now?
And at that point my face burned red, my beady red eyes glaring at that son of a bitch. I saw his plan now! He was using us! And to feed his sick satisfaction he was giving us even more stupid names (I am not kidding you, he named two Munnas "Rebecca" and "Black." That's just wrong, man!) and especially tortured the males. Yeah yeah, we're hilarious because we are pink. Real men wear pink.
For the next hour he plopped off more ludicrously named Munnas (for examples, "Pansy" and "Hilbert" and "Helga" and "Daffodil"). In that hour, he managed to fill all thirty box slots.
And that's when the bastard trainer finally did it.
He gathered us into Poke Balls and sealed us away from the world. And goddamn, those balls are hard to get used to.
In a matter of minutes the sun hit my face again, and I floated above the ground next to twenty-nine weak bobbing flower-stained pink blobs. My little eyes widened as the trainer held a small frown on his face. A small dose of sympathy poked me, but then the trainer waved his hands way from us. Tilting a bit, I turned to see where we were.
The Dreamyard. The home of Munnas.
I knew it I knew it I knew it I KNEW IT. Do you see now that the names I called him were true? That he's an ungrateful brat that only wants the best, which are apparently oddities and rare mutations?
I snapped.
I ran (above ground) to the opening and into the wild grass, little beads of tears flying out. I heard the whimpers of the other Munnas behind me as we all stumbled into the grass. Other Munnas roaming about glanced at us and just blinked, but they didn't attack us. I didn't care if I was crying, I was a fucking baby at level one! If anything, I wanted to be surrounded by mama and papa and bros and sisses. That's what infants want, right?
But nope, that trainer was forcing mama to sleep with a German duck-thing and popping out babies like heated corn kernels. To think my dear mama Musharna's children were forced away! I remember crying myself to sleep for days knowing she never saw her babies and her babies never saw their mama.
Before I head off with my twenty-nine strong brothers and sisters to raid Striaton City in search of our ex-trainer, I will make this easy and sum up the story of my life up until now and surely for many years after today.
I hate Easter.
Coming back!
So I'm returning to this blog now that school is over. Plus, I feel more comfortable.
But! From now on, I plan to post every week. Starting today with the post after this one.
For this month, I'll be posting little things I've worked on during my hiatus. None of them are major or long, but they'll work. And hey, I did enjoy writing them nonetheless! And for July, I plan to participate in NaNoWriMo's July equivalent. I'm not sure if I want to post my progress every day or not. I did that sort of posting for NaNo on another site, and I actually had fun with fun giving them daily titles. They were lines I liked.
I am going to have fun with this and not fail myself next time!
But! From now on, I plan to post every week. Starting today with the post after this one.
For this month, I'll be posting little things I've worked on during my hiatus. None of them are major or long, but they'll work. And hey, I did enjoy writing them nonetheless! And for July, I plan to participate in NaNoWriMo's July equivalent. I'm not sure if I want to post my progress every day or not. I did that sort of posting for NaNo on another site, and I actually had fun with fun giving them daily titles. They were lines I liked.
I am going to have fun with this and not fail myself next time!
Friday, April 15, 2011
Hiatus.
After some thought and reflection on the state of the past two months, I'm going to take a hiatus from managing this blog.
Not only is it obvious that my work ethic rolled downhill (and still rolling further), any other stories I have are currently up for feedback are soon to be posted.
I feel this problem links to lack of a laptop, seeing as how my productivity dropped once it stopped working. Before returning, I plan to either get a new one (which will take a month or two or more) or fix my work ethic.
So here's to a hiatus to find better motivations!
(Listen to me sounding like I'm high and mighty, as if I was giving a lecture.)
Not only is it obvious that my work ethic rolled downhill (and still rolling further), any other stories I have are currently up for feedback are soon to be posted.
I feel this problem links to lack of a laptop, seeing as how my productivity dropped once it stopped working. Before returning, I plan to either get a new one (which will take a month or two or more) or fix my work ethic.
So here's to a hiatus to find better motivations!
(Listen to me sounding like I'm high and mighty, as if I was giving a lecture.)
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Poem: Tell a Secret
I wrote this poem in December 2010 for my school's literary magazine.
Theme was "secrets."
The entry was declined, so I'm posting it here instead.
Even though my school didn't like the poem, I'm proud of it. I'm not the biggest fan of poems, and the first draft of said poem sucked. The excellent feedback I received on The Periwinkle Pen led me to this current version! A secret is in the poem, naturally, though my intentions were probably not so clear, nonetheless, here it is.
[Tell a Secret]
I place a hand on your shoulder and feel you tense.
Your eyes look away to a wall to focus on one sense.
I lower my mouth close to your ears and commence—
You gulp down as your body starts to shake: intense.
I pause for a moment and hope you feel as I do.
Your breaths come in faster, preparing for my spiel.
I let out a cold exhale that chills your neck through,
Your react as if death creeps on you with a cool touch.
I grin against you as my mouth moves with low mumbles.
You hear my hushed voice slither to your brain and shiver.
I speak those words both feared and desired by all.
You suck in all the words, holding them in limbo.
I let my hand drop once all words played their parts.
You turn and face me, and your eyes begin to widen.
I stare you down as my smile starts to deepen.
Your eyes nervous, you laugh strongly then soften.
Theme was "secrets."
The entry was declined, so I'm posting it here instead.
Even though my school didn't like the poem, I'm proud of it. I'm not the biggest fan of poems, and the first draft of said poem sucked. The excellent feedback I received on The Periwinkle Pen led me to this current version! A secret is in the poem, naturally, though my intentions were probably not so clear, nonetheless, here it is.
[Tell a Secret]
I place a hand on your shoulder and feel you tense.
Your eyes look away to a wall to focus on one sense.
I lower my mouth close to your ears and commence—
You gulp down as your body starts to shake: intense.
I pause for a moment and hope you feel as I do.
Your breaths come in faster, preparing for my spiel.
I let out a cold exhale that chills your neck through,
Your react as if death creeps on you with a cool touch.
I grin against you as my mouth moves with low mumbles.
You hear my hushed voice slither to your brain and shiver.
I speak those words both feared and desired by all.
You suck in all the words, holding them in limbo.
I let my hand drop once all words played their parts.
You turn and face me, and your eyes begin to widen.
I stare you down as my smile starts to deepen.
Your eyes nervous, you laugh strongly then soften.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Post for myself.
I've done a terrible job with everything lately. I can't kick sloth away when I actually have the time and freedom to do as I wish. Instead what happens is that time ticks away and night approaches with little to nothing actually accomplished other than consuming too many juice.
The only useful thing I've done throughout these past few days is thinking of weird one-liners that have chances at sounding funny or could be expressed through short vignettes.
BUT!
Now I'm setting my mind on two things for sure:
1. Finishing an overdue story from MONTHS ago
&
2. Starting a Pokemon related story
The latter may seem pointless, but it will motivate me to write, I think. And due to events in real life, I need some relaxing time. A nice relaxing yet taking-seriously Pokemon fic might just do wonders.
The only useful thing I've done throughout these past few days is thinking of weird one-liners that have chances at sounding funny or could be expressed through short vignettes.
BUT!
Now I'm setting my mind on two things for sure:
1. Finishing an overdue story from MONTHS ago
&
2. Starting a Pokemon related story
The latter may seem pointless, but it will motivate me to write, I think. And due to events in real life, I need some relaxing time. A nice relaxing yet taking-seriously Pokemon fic might just do wonders.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Imperative Persistance
The second dream in its likeness.
My body pulls itself up and, arching, stretches over the foot of the bed. I grab the laptop and set it on the bed. After repositioning myself so that I lay on my stomach, facing the foot of the bed, I pull the laptop's monitor up and balance its unstable top accordingly. The power button, stripped of its protective cover and revealing the green and black components of its makeup, reflects the light abnormally well for noontime, the room's window facing its back. I take a breath and press the button.
My dream tempted me.
The screen glows and loads up normally, and my eyes grow larger along with my smile. The screen goes black with the white words "the memory has been changed" appearing with two commands underneath it. I strike the F8 key and immediately lead the highlighter to "safe mode."
Lines and lines of file locations scroll down the screen until they stop, with the still highlighted "safe mode" at the very top. Moments pass, and I sigh quietly. "Come on," I murmur, holding down the power button. As the lights die, I press the power button again.
My dream promised me.
I repeat the same actions, but this time, the lines of code continue to run until the command "press ENTER to continue" peeks out from the bottom. By the time my eyes run over it, the computer freezes again--the fans grow quiet when the laptop halts commands. My teeth bite my lip as I restart the laptop once again.
My dream encouraged me.
Now the lines of code obliterate the blackness with white, and words streak across the top of the screen. In the bottom corners, "safe mode" plants itself for me, and I feel reassured. Icons load normally, and my eyes linger on Photoshop and Windows Media Player. "Goodbye," I murmur, clicking on the start menu.
I realize I have no idea where I must go though an idea teeters in my mind. Naturally I click on "Help and Support," which never failed me before. Minutes pass and I understand where I must go. Help and Support. Performance and Maintenance. Using System Restore to undo changes. Run the System Restore Wizard.
Once the Wizard opens up, I hop the calender back to November 1, 2010.
When I first took the computer from my brother. When I first gave National Novel Writing Month a try. When I first told myself I would have freedom.
Freedom stripped away, though the dream whispered revolts in my ear.
The laptop shuts down and lets the System Restore start its job. The blue bar stretches further and further across the digital trench--
The damned blue screen pops up.
The same devil that crashed my writing parties in November. The same devil that threatened me in December. The same devil that brought down my laptop into a virtual coma in January.
Breath escapes me as I automatically shut down the laptop. I stare at the black screen. "Please work," I murmur, turning on the junk again.
Nothing but a black screen and a blinking underscore.
Power off, I push the laptop to the side. Back to square one.
For three months I struggled with the deconstructing laptop, failing to stay afloat with blue screens, overheated parts, and decreasing hard drive efficiency on its shoulders. Time, money, hope--all involved.
Why I believe that System Restore is the answer makes no sense, not with the memory of the previous failed theory in mind. The past proves that all hope should be gone.
But those dreams will not stop unless something is done.
I cannot give up.
My body pulls itself up and, arching, stretches over the foot of the bed. I grab the laptop and set it on the bed. After repositioning myself so that I lay on my stomach, facing the foot of the bed, I pull the laptop's monitor up and balance its unstable top accordingly. The power button, stripped of its protective cover and revealing the green and black components of its makeup, reflects the light abnormally well for noontime, the room's window facing its back. I take a breath and press the button.
My dream tempted me.
The screen glows and loads up normally, and my eyes grow larger along with my smile. The screen goes black with the white words "the memory has been changed" appearing with two commands underneath it. I strike the F8 key and immediately lead the highlighter to "safe mode."
Lines and lines of file locations scroll down the screen until they stop, with the still highlighted "safe mode" at the very top. Moments pass, and I sigh quietly. "Come on," I murmur, holding down the power button. As the lights die, I press the power button again.
My dream promised me.
I repeat the same actions, but this time, the lines of code continue to run until the command "press ENTER to continue" peeks out from the bottom. By the time my eyes run over it, the computer freezes again--the fans grow quiet when the laptop halts commands. My teeth bite my lip as I restart the laptop once again.
My dream encouraged me.
Now the lines of code obliterate the blackness with white, and words streak across the top of the screen. In the bottom corners, "safe mode" plants itself for me, and I feel reassured. Icons load normally, and my eyes linger on Photoshop and Windows Media Player. "Goodbye," I murmur, clicking on the start menu.
I realize I have no idea where I must go though an idea teeters in my mind. Naturally I click on "Help and Support," which never failed me before. Minutes pass and I understand where I must go. Help and Support. Performance and Maintenance. Using System Restore to undo changes. Run the System Restore Wizard.
Once the Wizard opens up, I hop the calender back to November 1, 2010.
When I first took the computer from my brother. When I first gave National Novel Writing Month a try. When I first told myself I would have freedom.
Freedom stripped away, though the dream whispered revolts in my ear.
The laptop shuts down and lets the System Restore start its job. The blue bar stretches further and further across the digital trench--
The damned blue screen pops up.
The same devil that crashed my writing parties in November. The same devil that threatened me in December. The same devil that brought down my laptop into a virtual coma in January.
Breath escapes me as I automatically shut down the laptop. I stare at the black screen. "Please work," I murmur, turning on the junk again.
Nothing but a black screen and a blinking underscore.
Power off, I push the laptop to the side. Back to square one.
For three months I struggled with the deconstructing laptop, failing to stay afloat with blue screens, overheated parts, and decreasing hard drive efficiency on its shoulders. Time, money, hope--all involved.
Why I believe that System Restore is the answer makes no sense, not with the memory of the previous failed theory in mind. The past proves that all hope should be gone.
But those dreams will not stop unless something is done.
I cannot give up.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Exercise: Quicksand
This is just a strange story all in itself. I'm not sure what to say about it.
The exercise: write a story about a dream, describing the familiar as if it were unfamiliar.
Exercise taken from The Periwinkle Pen.
Fun fact: the story alludes to a song. Honestly, the song helped me finish writing it from heavy doubt. & the song does not belong to me, obviously, and full rights belong to the owner(s).
[Quicksand]
Not even in the midst of December was the weather cold. Chilly floated into St. Louis and repelled the long-lasting warmth somewhere in November; I don't remember exactly when the change occurred. But all that matters is that the weather didn't keep people confined indoors and that I could walk outside without wearing a ridiculous fluffy coat that made my body appear thicker than it already was.
I felt my lips curl into a smile as I walked up a plain sidewalk, staring ahead at the upper end of a large pavilion. In my vision I saw two buildings connected by an over passing roof that blocked off rain, hail, and snow. To my left, long stretches of trimmed green grass were fenced into rectangles by dark green chain fences. To my right were plain bricks of yet another building with a few trees scattered every few feet (to be earth-friendly, to make the place look better, to quench the thirst of parched environmental activists who wouldn't shut up). Neither of the sides were much of an attraction unless sports teams practiced in the fields, but even then, I didn't care. Sports wasn't my thing, and not because I was chubby either. I could play ultimate Frisbee longer that the next guy and keep trucking even from sweat and fatigue. The scenery wasn't the source of my smile.
The sidewalk cut at a right angle near the overhanging roof, jutting off into a different direction. I sharply turned with the sidewalk and met people who were sitting on steps outside of doors. The majority of them were males, all of them wearing faded blue jeans with holes and tears in them. Graphics tees with assorted bands promoted by Hot Topic covered their chests, and above the tees were jackets. One male in particular stuck out to me, one wearing a gray over his long locks of curled gold hair that rivaled Goldilocks’. He waved at me, and I nodded in reply.
Only one person was standing up, and she stood across from the group against a separate door with no steps. She glanced at me with her freckled face and smiled, her teeth peeking through her lips. As I reached her, she wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. "Hello," she said, her voice like a preteen boy's voice hitting puberty.
The crowd of the guys smirked and chuckled. "You look like boyfriend and girlfriend," one of them called out.
"Whatever," the girl dismissed as her voice hit a rough undertone, waving the remark away with her hand. My face warmed as she rubbed my shoulder. I wanted to glare at the speaker, to bite back, to show discontent. But the girl stayed calm and collected, so I blended with her atmosphere--to keep her from embarrassment--
A hot breath hit my ear as I heard the rubbing-sandpaper voice whisper, "Wait here a bit, I left something in my locker." Before I could reply a simple "okay," she retreated intothe doors behind her.
I was left with a bunch of rowdy boys she hung with, most or all of them most likely stoners (hinting to one who wore a beanie with hemp leaves on it).
One perk of physical flawless is the inability to keep people's attention for long. The boys turned to one another and chatted among themselves, their interest flipping instantly like a light switch: on to off. Thebeads of sweat, ready to develop, halted and shut down. The responsibility for entertaining them wasn't on my shoulders.
The curly-haired boy heaved himself to his feet and walked to a dull brown-painted pole, the same color as the buildings' doors. He leaned an arm against the pole and kept his feet inches from the pole, an attempt at a "cool" pose as far as I could tell. He motioned with his head to join, using the same movement people used as a substitute for "'sup." Joining him, I wrapped an arm around the pole, my arm distanced from his, our faces closer than first anticipated.
"So."
"So."
Our heads slightly nodded back and forth. I continued to let my head metronome forward and back to invisible music as the boy looked behind him, quickly surveying the area and the other guys. When his eyes locked with mine again, the corners of his lips twitched upward, and after another second, restriction crumbled, letting the smirk reveal itself. "So how far have you two gone?"
The slight static sounds of the other guys diminished like a candle out of wax. The boy didn't speak loudly, but somehow, he caught everyone else's attention.
I shrugged and said, "Not too far, I guess."
"Have you thought about sex?"
A choked chuckle tumbled from my mouth, and my hand flew up to cover it. One of the boy's eyebrows arched upward, his eyes unmoving. His growing grin deceived his nonchalant cover up. Clearing my head, I tried to recompose myself, brushing my hair to one side. "If only I knew how to properly screw a chick."
The boy's body began to shake with the background sound of a low rumbling laughter drumming into sound waves. He laughed, ducking his head to hide his yellowing teeth fully exposed, and he beat his arm against the pole. He turned to the crowd and shouted, "Did you hear? She doesn't know how to screw a chick!" Immediately the crowd of boys exploded into laughter like a live audience crowd waiting for the "applause" card.
My lips caved inward, hiding them, and felt my cheeks burning. Laughing faces stayed constant, mocking and pointing, knee-slapping and beating at their legs, falling to the ground and shaking their heads.
Wiping an invisible tear from his eye, the boy's laughter swindled to pants and sighs. "That is hilarious. What a laugh!"
Before I could utter anything, the girl returned, arm around my shoulder again. She glanced over at the boys catching their breath and then turned to me, smiling. "Shall we go?"
I nodded and smiled in return. We walked toward the building opposite of the crowd, and the girl dropped her hand, allowed some space in between us, and then took hold of my hand. I pushed the door open for the both of us, and once the door closed behind us, locking out the howling laughter of the boys, the warmer air brushed past our faces.
We walked into the building smiling, but after a second’s look, the smiles dropped to frowns.
People bustled throughout the hallway, packed tight and walking in opposite directions. The girl and I exchanged looks before gaping on. The day was late, and never have people still inhabited the hallway during such an hour. Clubs and activities caused no such commotion nor have they dug deep into the day. In other words, there was no apparent reason why—if it was possible—every student who attended school still loitered about.
The girl next to me muttered under her breath and squeezed my hand. Without explanation she dragged me into the crowd as I tried to keep balance in my boots. People made way for the girl like the seas parting for Moses with only a glance behind their shoulders while pressing the crowd into the walls. We turned into another hallway known as the senior hallway, one with less people. I expected the girl to stop since the particular hallway was her favorite, but instead, she continued her pathway throughout the hallways. On one entire side were windows that revealed the beautiful courtyard laden with walkways and big bushes. On the other were large red lockers hiding a door to a library in their midst.
Questioning could have helped me, but I decided to just go with the flow. As long as we could do what was planned, it didn't matter. Like Machiavelli wrote, the end justified the means. But the masses of students still flocked in the hallways sealed my mouth shut for the moment.
The main hallway of the school also burst to the seams with students. I couldn't help gaping as the girl continued to lead me. "You've got to be kidding me," I murmured, but the girl either couldn't hear over the people's buzzing chatter or could care less about a pointless comment.
We elbowed people out of the way disregarding the polite manners in order to reach the cafeteria, which was—you guessed it!—filled to the max by people. Bright and dark colors of clothes and skin and bags and backpacks hid the dusty blues of the cafeteria. Now the people surrounding us glared and shouted at us as we pushed on, creating a pathway of compressed teenagers.
With a great effort we finally made it through the cafeteria and into the school's kitchen. The area, devoid of people, was occupied by rows of ovens, stoves, fryers, microwaves, storage shelves, the general supplies expected in kitchens—except for a white silo, taller than humans (and standing on stilts) but still fitting in the room that stood against a wall to the side. No odors hung in the air, and no staff members were in sight. The kitchen was abandoned, wrapped in solitude, and we ripped away the paper and hid from the world.
The girl eyed the short white silo, her eyes resting on the silver ladder up the side. I looked at it as well with little interest, but my eyes widened when the girl jumped onto the latter. As she began climbing I asked in a harsh whisper, "What the hell are you doing?"
"There shouldn't be anything inside this thing, which means this can allow us some privacy."
I bit my bottom lip, just watching the girl continue climbing higher until she dropped down over the edge. She then swore and shouted, "Christ, what is this stuff?"
A gasp escaped me, and I threw myself at the ladder, scrambling up the silo. My heart skipped a few beats, still tumbling around from the previous fantasy of privacy and now from what could have gone wrong; what was in the silo that caused the girl to curse so?
I peered over the edge to see the girl, arms raised above her shoulders, face twisted into a scowl, soaking in white-yellow liquid that appeared to have lumpy materials in it. Cringing, I said, "That looks like some sort of soup or chowder."
"Yeah, I think so too. Come in."
I stared. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Close your eyes if you must."
If the girl could endure standing in food—and, I thought, the school better not try to sell the concoction the next day at lunch—I supposed I also could. After all, we were alone in the kitchen. No one could tease us for standing in some nice, warm soup.
So I sucked in some breath and heaved my legs over the edge, letting them dangle for a moment. They were suddenly jerked down, pulling the rest of my body with it, and I squealed in surprise as the white-yellow liquid smothered me. When I felt my feet hit a surface, by body untouched from the waist-up, I heard the girl's boyish laugh ring and echo in the silo. If I was not aware of who was in the silo with me, I would have assumed that a twelve year old boy jumped in with me.
She took my arm and led me to a rounded edge of the silo, and once her back made contact with the wall, she wrapped both arms around my body. I returned the gesture with a smile on my face. Mentally I sighed with relief, but the stress soon returned. I could swear that something from within the soup grabbed at my legs, slowly edging me down. Yet the girl did not move one bit.
A fear hit me: what if I would be pulled down and lost forever, never to see the girl again? Never to see my loved ones, the school, the millions of people roaming the halls, or never to taste soup? Did the pulling mean that my time was limited? My body shook, and in my mind, I thought of a farewell.
"I cannot believe how lucky I am."
The girl looked at me with a curious stare, and her thin lips parted as she said, "What do you mean by that?"
The sensation of my feet being dragged down shot through my legs stronger than ever. I tightened my grip around the girl, sucking in a breath. She pressed me closer, her hands hardening against my back—to my surprise, it felt like a comfort—and our eyes met. Releasing all the breath from before, my voice quivered as I said, "There are many reasons why I am lucky. Months ago, the helpless notion of my lonely future gripped me. I felt undesirable, horrendous, all the bad adjective that you could think of. On top of that, I thought that my parents would disown me if they knew about my secret crush. What my friends would think of my secret crush. What everyone else would think about my secret crush. But now here I am, standing with said secret crush, happier than I can put into words, even if we are standing in food. For this reason I hope you're as happy as I am."
"I am happy," she started, "very happy. Don't ever doubt that—ever. If I was unhappy, we wouldn't be together anymore. Drink some confidence juice, stop being scared of what people think of us, and let us keep having fun with smiles on our faces."
I tried not to laugh. The girl was never good at pep talks despite her hearing it constantly from playing sports, but nonetheless, my heart began to feel lighter. With our eyes still locked, I smiled. "I guess I'm just nervous. I wasn't sure where this relationship would lead me—us."
Then I thought of something.
"You’re right," I said, taking her hand and straightened my back. The pulls on my feet stopped, and then the soup's sinking reversed, leaving me standing normally, eye level with the girl. Once the sensation completely left, I grabbed the girl's other hand and stepped back, pulling the girl away from the curved wall and to the middle of the silo. For a moment, we leaned forward and let our foreheads touch, drowning out the soup's smell, replaced with the girl's cologne.
Then the girl broke eye contact, her eyes fleeting to the direction of the kitchen's door; thumps of shoe against ground leaked through the door's edges. I released one hand and reached for the top edge of the silo. The girl smiled, like she knew what I was about to do, and proud of it.
We stepped out of the silo, the soup dripping off our ruined clothes, and walked out of the door and along with the others.
The exercise: write a story about a dream, describing the familiar as if it were unfamiliar.
Exercise taken from The Periwinkle Pen.
Fun fact: the story alludes to a song. Honestly, the song helped me finish writing it from heavy doubt. & the song does not belong to me, obviously, and full rights belong to the owner(s).
[Quicksand]
Not even in the midst of December was the weather cold. Chilly floated into St. Louis and repelled the long-lasting warmth somewhere in November; I don't remember exactly when the change occurred. But all that matters is that the weather didn't keep people confined indoors and that I could walk outside without wearing a ridiculous fluffy coat that made my body appear thicker than it already was.
I felt my lips curl into a smile as I walked up a plain sidewalk, staring ahead at the upper end of a large pavilion. In my vision I saw two buildings connected by an over passing roof that blocked off rain, hail, and snow. To my left, long stretches of trimmed green grass were fenced into rectangles by dark green chain fences. To my right were plain bricks of yet another building with a few trees scattered every few feet (to be earth-friendly, to make the place look better, to quench the thirst of parched environmental activists who wouldn't shut up). Neither of the sides were much of an attraction unless sports teams practiced in the fields, but even then, I didn't care. Sports wasn't my thing, and not because I was chubby either. I could play ultimate Frisbee longer that the next guy and keep trucking even from sweat and fatigue. The scenery wasn't the source of my smile.
The sidewalk cut at a right angle near the overhanging roof, jutting off into a different direction. I sharply turned with the sidewalk and met people who were sitting on steps outside of doors. The majority of them were males, all of them wearing faded blue jeans with holes and tears in them. Graphics tees with assorted bands promoted by Hot Topic covered their chests, and above the tees were jackets. One male in particular stuck out to me, one wearing a gray over his long locks of curled gold hair that rivaled Goldilocks’. He waved at me, and I nodded in reply.
Only one person was standing up, and she stood across from the group against a separate door with no steps. She glanced at me with her freckled face and smiled, her teeth peeking through her lips. As I reached her, she wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. "Hello," she said, her voice like a preteen boy's voice hitting puberty.
The crowd of the guys smirked and chuckled. "You look like boyfriend and girlfriend," one of them called out.
"Whatever," the girl dismissed as her voice hit a rough undertone, waving the remark away with her hand. My face warmed as she rubbed my shoulder. I wanted to glare at the speaker, to bite back, to show discontent. But the girl stayed calm and collected, so I blended with her atmosphere--to keep her from embarrassment--
A hot breath hit my ear as I heard the rubbing-sandpaper voice whisper, "Wait here a bit, I left something in my locker." Before I could reply a simple "okay," she retreated into
I was left with a bunch of rowdy boys she hung with, most or all of them most likely stoners (hinting to one who wore a beanie with hemp leaves on it).
One perk of physical flawless is the inability to keep people's attention for long. The boys turned to one another and chatted among themselves, their interest flipping instantly like a light switch: on to off. The
The curly-haired boy heaved himself to his feet and walked to a dull brown-painted pole, the same color as the buildings' doors. He leaned an arm against the pole and kept his feet inches from the pole, an attempt at a "cool" pose as far as I could tell. He motioned with his head to join, using the same movement people used as a substitute for "'sup." Joining him, I wrapped an arm around the pole, my arm distanced from his, our faces closer than first anticipated.
"So."
"So."
Our heads slightly nodded back and forth. I continued to let my head metronome forward and back to invisible music as the boy looked behind him, quickly surveying the area and the other guys. When his eyes locked with mine again, the corners of his lips twitched upward, and after another second, restriction crumbled, letting the smirk reveal itself. "So how far have you two gone?"
The slight static sounds of the other guys diminished like a candle out of wax. The boy didn't speak loudly, but somehow, he caught everyone else's attention.
I shrugged and said, "Not too far, I guess."
"Have you thought about sex?"
A choked chuckle tumbled from my mouth, and my hand flew up to cover it. One of the boy's eyebrows arched upward, his eyes unmoving. His growing grin deceived his nonchalant cover up. Clearing my head, I tried to recompose myself, brushing my hair to one side. "If only I knew how to properly screw a chick."
The boy's body began to shake with the background sound of a low rumbling laughter drumming into sound waves. He laughed, ducking his head to hide his yellowing teeth fully exposed, and he beat his arm against the pole. He turned to the crowd and shouted, "Did you hear? She doesn't know how to screw a chick!" Immediately the crowd of boys exploded into laughter like a live audience crowd waiting for the "applause" card.
My lips caved inward, hiding them, and felt my cheeks burning. Laughing faces stayed constant, mocking and pointing, knee-slapping and beating at their legs, falling to the ground and shaking their heads.
Wiping an invisible tear from his eye, the boy's laughter swindled to pants and sighs. "That is hilarious. What a laugh!"
Before I could utter anything, the girl returned, arm around my shoulder again. She glanced over at the boys catching their breath and then turned to me, smiling. "Shall we go?"
I nodded and smiled in return. We walked toward the building opposite of the crowd, and the girl dropped her hand, allowed some space in between us, and then took hold of my hand. I pushed the door open for the both of us, and once the door closed behind us, locking out the howling laughter of the boys, the warmer air brushed past our faces.
We walked into the building smiling, but after a second’s look, the smiles dropped to frowns.
People bustled throughout the hallway, packed tight and walking in opposite directions. The girl and I exchanged looks before gaping on. The day was late, and never have people still inhabited the hallway during such an hour. Clubs and activities caused no such commotion nor have they dug deep into the day. In other words, there was no apparent reason why—if it was possible—every student who attended school still loitered about.
The girl next to me muttered under her breath and squeezed my hand. Without explanation she dragged me into the crowd as I tried to keep balance in my boots. People made way for the girl like the seas parting for Moses with only a glance behind their shoulders while pressing the crowd into the walls. We turned into another hallway known as the senior hallway, one with less people. I expected the girl to stop since the particular hallway was her favorite, but instead, she continued her pathway throughout the hallways. On one entire side were windows that revealed the beautiful courtyard laden with walkways and big bushes. On the other were large red lockers hiding a door to a library in their midst.
Questioning could have helped me, but I decided to just go with the flow. As long as we could do what was planned, it didn't matter. Like Machiavelli wrote, the end justified the means. But the masses of students still flocked in the hallways sealed my mouth shut for the moment.
The main hallway of the school also burst to the seams with students. I couldn't help gaping as the girl continued to lead me. "You've got to be kidding me," I murmured, but the girl either couldn't hear over the people's buzzing chatter or could care less about a pointless comment.
We elbowed people out of the way disregarding the polite manners in order to reach the cafeteria, which was—you guessed it!—filled to the max by people. Bright and dark colors of clothes and skin and bags and backpacks hid the dusty blues of the cafeteria. Now the people surrounding us glared and shouted at us as we pushed on, creating a pathway of compressed teenagers.
With a great effort we finally made it through the cafeteria and into the school's kitchen. The area, devoid of people, was occupied by rows of ovens, stoves, fryers, microwaves, storage shelves, the general supplies expected in kitchens—except for a white silo, taller than humans (and standing on stilts) but still fitting in the room that stood against a wall to the side. No odors hung in the air, and no staff members were in sight. The kitchen was abandoned, wrapped in solitude, and we ripped away the paper and hid from the world.
The girl eyed the short white silo, her eyes resting on the silver ladder up the side. I looked at it as well with little interest, but my eyes widened when the girl jumped onto the latter. As she began climbing I asked in a harsh whisper, "What the hell are you doing?"
"There shouldn't be anything inside this thing, which means this can allow us some privacy."
I bit my bottom lip, just watching the girl continue climbing higher until she dropped down over the edge. She then swore and shouted, "Christ, what is this stuff?"
A gasp escaped me, and I threw myself at the ladder, scrambling up the silo. My heart skipped a few beats, still tumbling around from the previous fantasy of privacy and now from what could have gone wrong; what was in the silo that caused the girl to curse so?
I peered over the edge to see the girl, arms raised above her shoulders, face twisted into a scowl, soaking in white-yellow liquid that appeared to have lumpy materials in it. Cringing, I said, "That looks like some sort of soup or chowder."
"Yeah, I think so too. Come in."
I stared. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Close your eyes if you must."
If the girl could endure standing in food—and, I thought, the school better not try to sell the concoction the next day at lunch—I supposed I also could. After all, we were alone in the kitchen. No one could tease us for standing in some nice, warm soup.
So I sucked in some breath and heaved my legs over the edge, letting them dangle for a moment. They were suddenly jerked down, pulling the rest of my body with it, and I squealed in surprise as the white-yellow liquid smothered me. When I felt my feet hit a surface, by body untouched from the waist-up, I heard the girl's boyish laugh ring and echo in the silo. If I was not aware of who was in the silo with me, I would have assumed that a twelve year old boy jumped in with me.
She took my arm and led me to a rounded edge of the silo, and once her back made contact with the wall, she wrapped both arms around my body. I returned the gesture with a smile on my face. Mentally I sighed with relief, but the stress soon returned. I could swear that something from within the soup grabbed at my legs, slowly edging me down. Yet the girl did not move one bit.
A fear hit me: what if I would be pulled down and lost forever, never to see the girl again? Never to see my loved ones, the school, the millions of people roaming the halls, or never to taste soup? Did the pulling mean that my time was limited? My body shook, and in my mind, I thought of a farewell.
"I cannot believe how lucky I am."
The girl looked at me with a curious stare, and her thin lips parted as she said, "What do you mean by that?"
The sensation of my feet being dragged down shot through my legs stronger than ever. I tightened my grip around the girl, sucking in a breath. She pressed me closer, her hands hardening against my back—to my surprise, it felt like a comfort—and our eyes met. Releasing all the breath from before, my voice quivered as I said, "There are many reasons why I am lucky. Months ago, the helpless notion of my lonely future gripped me. I felt undesirable, horrendous, all the bad adjective that you could think of. On top of that, I thought that my parents would disown me if they knew about my secret crush. What my friends would think of my secret crush. What everyone else would think about my secret crush. But now here I am, standing with said secret crush, happier than I can put into words, even if we are standing in food. For this reason I hope you're as happy as I am."
"I am happy," she started, "very happy. Don't ever doubt that—ever. If I was unhappy, we wouldn't be together anymore. Drink some confidence juice, stop being scared of what people think of us, and let us keep having fun with smiles on our faces."
I tried not to laugh. The girl was never good at pep talks despite her hearing it constantly from playing sports, but nonetheless, my heart began to feel lighter. With our eyes still locked, I smiled. "I guess I'm just nervous. I wasn't sure where this relationship would lead me—us."
Then I thought of something.
"You’re right," I said, taking her hand and straightened my back. The pulls on my feet stopped, and then the soup's sinking reversed, leaving me standing normally, eye level with the girl. Once the sensation completely left, I grabbed the girl's other hand and stepped back, pulling the girl away from the curved wall and to the middle of the silo. For a moment, we leaned forward and let our foreheads touch, drowning out the soup's smell, replaced with the girl's cologne.
Then the girl broke eye contact, her eyes fleeting to the direction of the kitchen's door; thumps of shoe against ground leaked through the door's edges. I released one hand and reached for the top edge of the silo. The girl smiled, like she knew what I was about to do, and proud of it.
We stepped out of the silo, the soup dripping off our ruined clothes, and walked out of the door and along with the others.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)