Writing
December 19, 2007 at 2:46 am Fortune Cell 77 comments
Poetry and prose: if it’s typed, scrawled in fresh blood, or neatly penned out, why don’t you share it?
Recent Comments
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by AxaMel -- ugh recipe thread sounds perfect. i made a gross cake last night that actually tastes okay with the ridiculously sweet icing i also made. 3am baking turns out ok for once!! but yes let's all talk about food ok (FERN those artichokes, omg) also i know what you mean about the ugh food but i;m hungry but ugh food thing :/ being at school always mess […]Axa
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by FiddlerWordpress, why are you so dumb?Fiddler
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by bemusedmuserHeh, I'm starting to not be able to mindlessly eat forever with no consequences. It's disappointing, because I fucking love eating. Basically I just need to encourage my hyperactive tendencies more than my lazy ones. Speaking of food and yummies, I'm cooking artichokes tonight. For the first time. They looked good at the grocery store, so I go […]bemusedmuser
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by MelDude I need to learn more baking. Cooking, I got. But most baking eludes me. Also ever since I've gotten back I've had nothing to do, so cooking, cooking, cooking. And then trying to pawn it off on people.Mel
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by Jadestonemmm yes. One of my goals for the summer: BAKE MORE. To make Joaquin jealous. Because he keeps sending me beautiful pictures of all the delicious things he eats when he's home (in Ecuador) and it's killing me and I need to get him back.Jadestone
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by MelAlso would anyone else be interested in a thread dedicated to sharing recipes of things that are delicious?Mel
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by MelYeah, I think red'll be a nice change. Later though, because if I can get my mother to pay for the dye before I leave, well, hurray. Short hair's pretty nice to have. There is too much self-control involved in not cutting it :/ God that sucks, my running's lost a mile endurance-wise. I don't even. Dude abs are just weird. My BF%'s lo […]Mel
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by JadestoneYes dark red do it! Every color looks awesome on you, I live vicariously through your hair because I'm too scared to do anything lasting to mine ("man it'd be so cool to have bright purple hair" "but oh god then what" "you could cut off the purple, it'd be fine" "but then my hair would be SHORT HOW WOULD I CO […]Jadestone
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by MelWhat the shit, WordPress?Mel
- Comment on Spring Suspicions by Mel MnemeThere are so few posts, though. I don't mind the season discrepancy. I just realized that I've been only lurking and not posting for sort-of a long while. And I'm really bored right now so it's LIFE STORY TIME. Exciting, yeah? Graduation is today but I am not going because it's boring. And raining. But that means I get to pick up my […]Mel Mneme
1.
MontgomeryGurl | December 19, 2007 at 5:13 am
Wow. No one has commented on the writing thread. What is wrong with us?
If it wasn’t for writing, I probably would’ve killed myself years ago. The act of putting words on paper and expressing myself and saying what’s in my head is the only thing that keeps me sane some days. Words are just the way I communicate. It’s all I have. I would have become a cutter during some of my most trying times if writing hadn’t been there. It’s emo and weird and probably a little melodramatic, but there it is. People cut because it makes it so that all this crap they can’t possibly deal with is outside of them, if only for a moment. Writing is that for me, minus the extreme emotional pain and constant threat of death. And writing looks good on a resume, whereas cutting isn’t exactly something you want to drop in a conversation.
Someone who’s written something real please post. My skillz lie in critiquing. Mwuhahaha.
2.
Vendaval | December 19, 2007 at 7:31 pm
Ou est Ebeth? Elle écrire très bien.
3.
Dodecahedron | December 20, 2007 at 6:27 pm
Does NaNo count as real?
I’m not sure it does, but I want others to read my novel, even though it isn’t very good (it has moments…) and it’s going to take way too much work to make it safe for MuseBlog. I mean, I could just asterisk it and send it in, but I have a feeling the GAPAs wouldn’t like that very much.
4.
MontgomeryGurl | December 20, 2007 at 6:31 pm
3 – No asterisks on the FMB! And I understand about NaNo. My novel offically sucks, and I never did really finish it.
5.
oxlin | December 20, 2007 at 6:32 pm
For nanos, could you do what the GAPAs did and have them under links as to not make the comments section super long?
6.
MontgomeryGurl | December 20, 2007 at 6:36 pm
Yeah, that’s a good idea. Or we could have them as a seperate thread.
7.
PENTAY | December 21, 2007 at 9:27 pm
I like the links idea myself. But my Nano is not seeing the light of day until I finish the revisions on it, because it was only 10k and it was made of pure unadulterated fail.
Speaking of the revision, here is the first page. It took me an hour and change to write and I don’t completely hate it.
The Golden People
Chapter 1: The First Storm
When light hits the desert, it begins to glow. From the millions of grains of sand, there is one with its facets aligned to catch the sunlight. Then there’s another, and another and another until it seems as though everything is illuminated.
What a beautiful thing, all that, and yet all it takes is nightfall and it’s gone. You could trudge through the sand all your life without ever seeing the way your whole world lights up. After a while you’ve got sand in your teeth and skin and eyes and you’re probably glowing too. It still doesn’t matter if you don’t know it’s there.
Sometimes, in the desert, it storms. Not rain, not often, but wind blown from the lips of alien gods. Their breath whips the glittering sand into a frenzied kind of fog. It’s opaque, a menacing wall of earth so tall you can’t see the sky, and it moves. Don’t watch the desert when those outside gods are angry. It will only end badly. There’s a proverb about that, maybe, so no one’s outside. The storm coils and rushes like water that’s burst a dam, not that the people in its path would understand the simile. It stampedes over dead tents, dead caravans, covers them in sand. When the people emerge from their hiding places, they blink in the sun, blink it from their eyes and begin again.
So is the desert. Things die and life continues, and that’s probably a proverb too. They can’t help having so many sayings; they are a godless people, say outsiders, so they keep store by the accumulated wisdom and error of their ancestors. But what do the outsiders know, anyway? They call the desert harsh, just because so many of them have died in it. It is not harsh but unforgiving. People may die there, but people die everywhere. If accumulated wisdom says one thing it is this: outsiders know nothing.
8.
kricket | December 24, 2007 at 9:43 am
7- I like that. It’s a good beginning, and ‘twould be nice to read the rest of it.
At least when you finish it. /revise it.
9.
Jadestone | December 24, 2007 at 12:23 pm
My nano got to 50k, but it was a continuation of last years so it really about 60.5k, and is about halfway through still without editing. Yikes.
10.
Shadow Gallery | January 1, 2008 at 11:01 am
1– I agree. Writing keeps me sane, as well. And it’s the only way people might figure out that I have a brain, because I almost never speak during school, but am always scribbling away in my notebook…random thoughts, observations, philosophies, cursing parties, experiences, emotions, poems…it’s all in there. Sometimes I write up to five sheets/ten page in a day, or even one sitting. Writing. Is. Life.
7– “After a while you’ve got sand in your teeth and skin and eyes and you’re probably glowing too. It still doesn’t matter if you don’t know it’s there” = sweetness
NaNo is silly. But if I actually come up with an idea for a novel that might actually be worth developing, I’ll probably attempt it at some point.
11.
ebeth | January 6, 2008 at 1:47 pm
2-thank you! i was quite flattered once i got around to figuring out what that meant…
i posted this on the MB and then decided you guys would actually RESPOND to it, which is what the MB has been lacking these past [insert unit of time here]s. So here ’tis.
this is what i did instead of taking math notes. could be a book in progress, if i find some reason to actually write it (another boring math class, perhaps?)
She did not want to die.
The primary reason for this was probably subconcious. It was in her nature, one of her basic instincts to try to survive at least long enough to reproduce.
Her second reason for not wanting to die involved her preconceived stereotypes of the kinds of people who died on a typical deathday. The most obvious thing that these people shared in common (apart from their impending death) was their age. They all tended to be older. She was young, too young (as she screamed wildly at her captors from within her circle of dry logs) to die.
Young people do, of course, die, and perhaps more often than most people think. A stereotype about those who die young is that they are rash, reckless, rebellious, and irresponsible youths who made the wrong choices in life. This is not necessarily true either. For instance, the wild, disheveled figure in the circle was generally thought to be a quiet, law-abiding, friendly kind of girl. She was always helpful and polite, did what she was told, went out of her way to make life easier for those around her, and would normally be the last person you would suspect of committing any crime heinous enough to draw attention from the Wizards, or indeed, even any kind of crime at all.
12.
ebeth | January 6, 2008 at 1:49 pm
random note (double post i know *gasp*)-why do i always write like it’s nano even when it’s not? i mean, i have how many adjectives in there again? i think i’m just a wordcount whore…
13.
ebeth | January 6, 2008 at 2:02 pm
Ooh, triple post but ebeth just figured out she is a hypocrite. penty-san, i actually read your story a while ago and lurvled it, but it seems i neglected to say so. so HEARTS ♥ and you should have more self-confidence because it’s uber-good.
14.
Shadow Gallery | January 7, 2008 at 1:09 pm
11– I like that a lot. I’m not entirely sure what to say, but it’s a sweet beginning to a book
I didn’t really get much feedback for this…and I think I’m going to submit to the literary magazine at school, do some more stuff with it. But it’s finally edited now, so here ye be. Feedback please?
Only Hope
I sat at the edge of the railing, longing to simply peel off my khaki pants and feel the breeze on my sticky legs. The Brazilian sun snuck below the hotel awning and scorched my navy-shirted back, which was seeping with sweat that had made its way down my spinal cord. I had been sitting there for over an hour, and she still hadn’t shown up. With the background music of pop stars crooning out familiar tunes on a spotty radio, I watched fascinated tourist after fascinated tourist, giddy couple after giddy couple, ornery businessman after ornery businessman, check in and check out in the shady, open-air lobby of the hotel. When things were slow at the front desk, I pretended to be in awe at the metallic beetles scuttling on the large, sweaty leaves sprouting from the vines that were snaking down the building and swallowing the awning. They were pretty things, but as brainless and gooey as they were attractive. I wondered if they could talk, what they’d say to me. Still, all I could think of possibly saying to them was, “it’s hot.”
It is dull business, waiting for an actress to show up. “Fashionably late”, my producers say and shrug it off, but I’ve met almost every girl on modern Broadway and none were as fashionable as this one. I still fidgeted nervously while I waited. I had studied the walls in the grandiose lobby of the Palace for the last ten years, and I still found them entrancing.
The golden-skinned clerk had begun to give me a warning eye, accentuated by a dark and dynamic eyebrow, but I ignored him. I was staying at the hotel, and wasn’t doing any harm. I glared apathetically at him from beneath my tired eyelids, and let my eyes swing around the room lazily and eventually flutter to the inside of my sockets again. However, this bought of indifference was abruptly interrupted by the sight of a still figure, peacefully sitting at the left entrance to the hotel’s sunny courtyard. Her face was brilliantly dynamic: the heavily sculptured features in the medium of thick brown clay created a genuine expression, one where her wide grin and crinkled, ebony eyes did not look like the work of an artist, but the conveying of a truly blithe and thankful inner spirit. Her hair looked was reminiscent of old straw, her nun’s robe dirty and tattered, her job was to hold a sloppily painted sign directing the reader to ice, and she was missing a hand, but she still smiled warmly and altruistically, and held her arms wide and welcoming.
I stared at her for several minutes and the world seemed to slow down. No-one else was in the lobby except for me and her, though I had a sneaking suspicion that we were being watched — and not by the clerk. He had long since left his shift and gone to change and for an afternoon drink. His footsteps of abandonment on the tiles were barely audible. The quiet din of the radio faded into the very corners of the room, whispering, not wanting to interrupt this perfect moment of hypnosis.
I reluctantly moved my head to see if my actress had arrived yet. I almost didn’t want her to, I wanted to simply sit and admire this harmonious young girl in the sculpture. Nevermind she couldn’t dance and grace the ground, or sing loves songs with a voice like the angels. She was beautiful…but more than that. She created a feeling of balance and peace: She was young, but not ignorant; wise and well weathered, but virginal and curious; sympathetic, but not catering; her scars were smooth and haunting, but she was not afraid to love. She was everything that was ever conceived, and the most perfect amalgamation of it all. However, it seemed I was not solitary in my thoughts.
On the right side of the lobby, guarding the entrance to the hotel’s open-air bar and restaurant, was her companion. His skin was paler, smoother, softer…his eyes more stirring than merry, smile more internally pensive than outwardly expressive. His hands were gentle and calm, gesturing around a broken “exit” sign to the brown girl on the opposite side of the lobby. It made sense that he would love her – or wanted to love her — in his lingering hesitation to let his perch of undying dreams from his grip.
I yawned widely, and as soon as I did, I regretted it. All of a sudden, my head seemed to outweigh the rest of my body, and I could feel the blood rushing through my imbalanced figure. I staggered on the railing and failed about trying to stay up, and I quickly found my grasp on the rails. My blood slowed down, my eyes did not resist their own weariness and my body was calm again. I let my neck hang loosely and lost my overall control.
And there they were, flashing in my mind, on opposite sides of the sweatiest, breeziest, busiest hotel in the village, loving each other, relishing each other’s existence. Through the jet-lagged crowds, the drunken midnight walkers, the heavy cloud of heat and humidity, they saw each other and smiled their own smile. “One day,” they thought, “one day we’ll touch. One day, nothing will be between us. One day, there will be stillness. One day the world will find peace. One day their sweat will be towards mining joy, not misery: contentment, not endless want.”
“One day,” the boy thought, “will come. That one day when everything will fall into their places, that one day when the play will be effortless and smooth, and the actors know their every line and their every cue. There won’t be confusion backstage, the curtains will rise and fall, the spots will know their place before their fade into view. Every pitch will be met, every dance perfection.”
“But until that day,” the girl thought, “let the actors fumble, let mistakes be made. Come opening night, such things will go unnoticed. The story will be beautiful, the music will be of the angels, the dances genuine and heartfelt, each line spoken with a definite emotion. Never mind the falls. We have today, and one day might never come, so today is all we’ll need. Today we see each other. Today we love each other, and less than we will tomorrow.”
“So today is our One Day…” the boy pondered.
“Perhaps,” the girl considered. “Perhaps that is because it is better than any One Day we could’ve imagined.”
“But what about the stillness?” The boy asked her. “What about the world knowing peace, what about the joy and contentment, what about no barriers?”
“Do you live in peace?” The girl asked. “Do you live in joy? Do you love me? Do you let the miseries and ignoramuses of the world become an obstacle for beauty?”
“I love you,” the boy thought with certainty, “I am happy, I am peaceful, I see beauty.”
“Are you, truly?” The girl challenged gently. ”Are you truly content, do you truly keep such patience?”
“Truly,” thought the boy. “I truly am.”
“I cannot argue,” said the girl. “What you feel, you feel. What I feel…I feel. What I see, I see: and I see you out of every sweaty pore in every restless crowd. And I see life there.”
The boy smiled, the girl’s eyes deepened, and things felt still again. My eyes were hesitant to open, but once they did, the statues were sitting at their posts just like before. However, they seemed like they had somehow changed: there was a stronger aura of calm contentment about them. I sighed and wished I hadn’t woken up. My eyes drifted lazily around the lobby, with my head propped on my hands, elbows resting on my knees. My eyelids fluttered in trying to stay open, but didn’t have to work as hard once I spotted a slender young woman at the front desk, wearing a long, white, fitted dress, worn leather sandals, and golden anklets. Her hair was dark and wavy, and I could see loose strings of it clinging to her back. She spoke quickly with the clerk, accompanied by frustrated hand gestures. He nodded soon after and indicated my direction. I sat up, trying to look dignified, and hopped down from the railing. My back was stiff, so I held a wince, forgot my nervousness and exhaustion and introduced myself. She nodded and smiled a white toothy smile, starkly outlined by full, dark lips. We walked towards the courtyard, passing the statue of the girl. She apologized for the delay, and promised that next time she wouldn’t be a minute late. But I’ve known every girl on Broadway, and such a thing is something a director could only hope for.
15.
kricket | January 9, 2008 at 3:55 pm
11- That reminded me of Joan of Arc.
14- I remember reading that! ’tis very very well-written. Poetic, really.
I was going to write something, but I lost my idea.
16.
kricket | January 9, 2008 at 4:08 pm
HAH!!! I remembered!! Kinda.
I blinked my eyes slowly, gazing calmly around the room. My notebook sat open in front of me. I was supposed to be taking notes, but I was daydreaming as usual. I sighed, completely out of it.
The teacher droned on about something; my imagination soared. I wasn’t sitting in a classroom. I was practicing archery. The arrow struck the middle; bullseye, I thought. Then I was soaring, above the clouds, through the atmosphere. I shot into space and landed on the planet of Pluto. I stroked the rocky ground fondly, for Pluto was my favorite not-a-planet.
I lay down on my back and looked up. The planets seemed to be moving quickly. The stars revolved around me. It seemed as if I could touch one. I reached out and grabbed one, putting it in my pocket. I smiled peacefully; everything seemed so calm.
Suddenly, there was an earthquake. I was shaken off the planet and landed back in reality with a bump. I pushed my bangs out of my eyes and looked up to see the teacher in front of me. The class was snickering softly. The teacher shook her head and scolded me for daydreaming.
The bell rang, and I was saved from further embarressment. I hugged my books to my chest, making sure I got my notebook, and headed out the door. I walked slowly down to my locker, thinking. I grabbed my books for my next class and was about to close the door when I felt something in my pocket.
Frowning softly, I reached in and pulled the thing out. A sparkling rock was sitting in my hand, laughing out of pure joy. I smiled happily and put the rock back in my pocket. Then I closed my locker door on reality and delved deep into my dreams.
17.
ebeth | January 9, 2008 at 4:40 pm
14-i like it! you set the scene really well. one thing that confused me a little was the part where the statues are talking. you kept saying things like “the girl thought,” which i assume means they were just understanding each other automatically, like telepathy? you might want to bring that idea out a bit more, because i didn’t really understand that at first. also, maybe a short explanation of how the director knew? just an extra sentence or so, like “somehow, although the statues weren’t speaking, he knew that they were communicating” (i’m sure you could find a better way to phrase it…)
overall i agree with kricket, it’s very poetic and beautifully written
16-ooh, i like this too. potentially corny, but i think you manage to pull it off. it’s very easy to relate to the daydreamer. also, “my favorite not-a-planet” LAWLZ. RIP Pluto…
18.
Shadow Gallery | January 9, 2008 at 5:23 pm
Thanks, you guys
Also, kricket, I quite like the direction your narrative is taking, but I think that you could work on transitions/expanding moments/description a bit more. It has a lot of potential, certainly, but it’s not quite there yet.
19.
kricket | January 11, 2008 at 2:21 pm
17, 18- Thanks for the critique! I’ll fix it up and then post it again. YAY for Pluto!
20.
ebeth | January 12, 2008 at 4:39 pm
this is what i did instead of chem…
Joey ran happily around the park, chasing dogs, pigeons, and anything else that moved. He was five, it was a bright, sunny summer’s day, and his mother had brought him to the park to play. His life was perfect.
He ran across the bridge, taking no notice of the clear, twinkling stream running under him, except to note a particularly shiny stone he saw that he had to be sure to come back to.
By the time he had raised his head, however, the dog he had been chasing was on the other side of the swing set, and Joey was tired from all the running. He waddled down to the stream, stuck his small hand into the bright, cool water, and took the shiny rock that had caught his eye.
It was quite heavy, and felt oddly warm in his hand. Joey vaguely felt that something wasn’t quite right, but shook the feeling off quickly. He sat down by the edge of the stream to examine the rock more carefully.
It was glowing green, and had a strange symbol etched onto it. Joey studied it carefully, turning it over and over in his hands. He saw a shadow fall over the ground in front of him, and he looked up, suddenly frightened.
A tall, tired-looking man was standing in front of him. He looked distinctly out of place in this peaceful suburb, and he did not appear to be enjoying himself like all the others around him. He had long, sweeping light brown hair and a long scar down his right cheek that narrowly missed his startling blue eye. He wore dirty pants, a loose, ragged-looking shirt and a long black cloak with a hood that was currently down. As he bent down to take the rock from Joey’s surprised, unresisting hands, Joey saw a necklace swinging down – a rock much like the one Joey was holding, except blue and with a small hole in the top through which a silver chain had been threaded.
“It’s mine,” Joey said, regaining his power of speech. “Mine.”
“Listen kid,” the man said softly. His voice was rough, but friendly. “You don’t want that stone. It only brings trouble. There are a thousand more in the creek, take one of those.”
“I want my rock,” Joey insisted stubbornly.
The man sighed. “You don’t belong with us, kid,” he said. “Look, go to school, study hard, get into college, get a degree, get a job, make lots of money, have a big rich house and a beautiful wife. That’s what your type wants, isn’t it?”
“No!” Joey shouted. “I want my rock!”
“I don’t have time for this,” the man muttered to himself. “Look, here,” he said suddenly to Joey, pulling another stone out of his pocket. This one was not shiny or glowing, in fact it looked distinctly ordinary. “Run this under the water,” he said, giving it to Joey.
Joey looked at the rock, then at the man. “I want my rock,” he said again.
“Just try it, kid,” the man said gently.
Joey looked doubtfully at the rock again, and stuck it into the stream. The rock changed, different colors began emerging in pretty patterns, and the rock took on a glossier, more polished look.
Joey pulled it out again and stared. “Woah,” he said. “Cool!”
“You can keep that,” the man said. “To make up for the green stone. Ok?”
Joey nodded, no longer paying attention. He dried the rock off on his shirt, and gave it a disappointed look. “Oh,” he said. “It’s gone.”
“It’ll come back any time you put it under water,” the man assured him. He straightened up, looked down at Joey and sighed. “Good luck, kid,” he said. “Have a happy life.”
Joey looked up to say goodbye, but the man had disappeared. There was no trace of him anywhere. He saw a friend of his mother’s standing nearby, so he went up and tugged on her sleeve. She bent down to hear him.
“Where’s the man?” Joey asked.
“What man, Joey?” she asked patiently.
“The man with the long hair,” he said, irritated, as though it should be obvious.
“I don’t see anyone with long hair, honey,” she said, patting his head absentmindedly. “He must have left.”
“He was right there, and then he was gone,” Joey insisted.
“You’re probably tired, Joey. Let’s find your mother, shall we?”
Joey wanted to kick her, or yell at her, or both but he was suddenly aware of how tired he was. The running had worn him out, and it was well past his usual nap time. He followed his mother’s friend obediently, grasping the rock tightly in his hand.
so yeah…this was one of those that started out as one idea and morphed into something completely different. i think i like this idea better though actually.
21.
ebeth | January 12, 2008 at 4:40 pm
also yes, this is another beginning to a story, not a continuation of the last one. i do a lot of beginnings…not a lot of endings though
22.
kricket | January 13, 2008 at 2:28 pm
20- That’s pretty cool. It could be the prologue to something and then the first chapter could be when Joey is 16 or so and he’s in his room looking at the rock, remembering the strange day. Then he could set it on the window sill right as the sun is setting and the light could shine through it and he could see a strange symbol on it! Then he would blink and it would disappear and he would go to bed feeling very strange. Wow, I got a bit carried away. Hehe… Whoops.
Anyways, I fixed up my story a bit so tell me what you think!
The Day Dreamer
I blinked my eyes slowly, gazing calmly around the room. I drummed my pencil in my hand; the other classmates sat listening to the teacher, clearly bored out of their mind. My green spiral-bound notebook sat open in front of me. I was supposed to be taking notes, but I was daydreaming as usual. I sighed, completely out of it.
The teacher droned on about something having to do with language class; my imagination soared out of the room to another world. I wasn’t sitting in a classroom anymore. I was practicing archery on a flat green plain with the wind blowing slightly and the sun shining brightly. I pulled the string back and released the arrow. The arrow struck the middle; bullseye, I thought. Then, suddenly for some unknown reason, I shot from the ground and was soaring, high above the puffy white clouds, through the atmosphere. I shot into space, twirling around and about, and somehow landed on the planet of Pluto. I stroked the rocky ground fondly, for Pluto was my favorite not-a-planet.
I lay down on the rocky ground on my back and looked up at the beautiful celestial happenings around me. The planets seemed to be moving quicker than they normally did. The stars revolved around me in a lovely swirling vortex. It seemed as if I could just extend my arm and grab one. So, wanting to see if I could, I reached out and managed to grab one, putting it in my pocket. I smiled peacefully; everything seemed so calm, peaceful, and it felt like everything was right in the world.
Abruptly, violent tremors shook the not-a-planet I was on. I tried to stand up and was shaken off the planet. I landed back in reality with a bump. Pushing my bangs out of my eyes, I looked up to see the teacher standing over me disapprovingly. The class was snickering softly. I could feel my cheeks flushing red for this wasn’t the first time I had to be shaken out of a daydream during class. The teacher shook her head, clearly annoyed, and scolded me for daydreaming.
The bell rang shrilly, and I was saved from any further embarressment. I hugged my books to my chest, making sure I got my spiral-bound notebook, and headed out the door. I walked slowly down to my locker in the basement of the building with my head down, thinking and pondering life. I threw my books from my last class into my locker once it was open and grabbed my books for my next class. I was about to close the locker door when I felt something in my pocket.
Frowning softly, my brows furrowed slightly, I reached in and pulled the mystery item out. A sparkling rock was sitting in my hand, practically laughing out of pure joy to be in existence. I smiled happily for the joy seemed to be contagious and put the rock back in my pocket. Then I closed my locker door on reality and delved deep into my dreams.
THE END
23.
ebeth | January 13, 2008 at 3:53 pm
22-yeah, i did a little more on it and just skipped ahead. he’s actually 17 now, because i wanted him to be just out of school (like summer after senior year)
picky stuff-it’s “embarrassment” and you might want to rethink the “thinking and pondering life” line because it’s slightly grammatically incorrect (you wouldn’t think life, you’d think about life. i’m not sure about pondering, but i know you could ponder about life, so maybe if you just stick an about in there that would work)
other stuff-”frowning softly” would have to be my favorite phrase besides the not-a-planet
(ik, it was there before, but i didn’t catch it last time)
i can’t really tell exactly what’s changed (and i’m too lazy to look) but overall it seems a lot better, especially in terms of description. you’re really right there with the dreamer, which is fantastic.
nice job!
24.
kricket | January 14, 2008 at 5:14 pm
23- I can’t spell very well this week for some reason. I almost spelled division wrong last week.
My mind isn’t ready for exams yet. Thanks for the review! YAY for Pluto!
25.
kricket | January 17, 2008 at 5:28 pm
Gah. Why is no one on here? I feel so alone. *looks around at the desert* Someone come and write and post and… and and and… Gah.
26.
ebeth | January 18, 2008 at 6:38 am
haven’t written anything, sorry. been partying now that exams are finally over. that and sleeping, of course.
also, my internet connection has been dying sporadically and yes i know you can type things without internet connection, but it’s no fun >.< i need people to nod and smile at me over AIM while i ramble out ideas that nobody understands in the slightest.
27.
kricket | January 19, 2008 at 2:32 pm
26- Sleep is goooood. Yay for sleep! Yeah, exams were over on Thrusday and I didn’t have to go to school on Friday because it was exam make-up day. *smiles and nods* Happy? Oh wait, this isn’t AIM. I’m on my dad’s laptop because I’m too lazy to go down and type this in the basement. Plus it’s cold and… I don’t feel like moving. I wrote this random story about Loki and a character I completely made up on the spot. Hehe, Loki kills her. It’s funny. They’re talking and such about random stuff and them they hug and he pushes her into the lake and because she’s one of the dragon folk (who I made up), her inner fire is quenched and she evaporates into steam. Heh. Randomness.
28.
ebeth | January 19, 2008 at 6:05 pm
This is a potentially offensive short story about the origin of the phrase “holy shit”, among other things. Enjoy, and please don’t kill me, it’s all a joke
Jonah wiped his forehead off with a rag he kept in his pocket and squinted up at the hot sun overhead. He sighed, and peered down the well towards his bucket, which was currently being lowered deeper than it ever had been for water.
“Come on,” he muttered to himself. “I know you’re down there.” He glanced up at the sky again, and suddenly dropped the rope he had been using to lower his bucket. He heard a faint splash as the bucket hit the water, but he didn’t care. He fell to his knees, gazing awestruck at the spacious desert sky. His face was lifted up, and his hands were clasped together in joy. The rope had fallen into the well, and his bucket was now lost forever, but he didn’t care. For he had seen the very face of God.
God pulled his head out of the sky and cackled gleefully. “I love doing that,” he said mischievously.
“Excuse me Lord,” said a rather small angel. “Your son has returned a bit early.”
“Jesus Christ!” God exclaimed. “What’s he doing here?”
Jesus shuffled in. “Hey dad,” he said.
“Excuse me Lord,” the small angel said again. “I think we should clarify one point in the matter of your religion here. Are you or are you not three different people?”
“God, i don’t know,” God said rolling his eyes. “It’s all getting much too complicated.”
“Well you see, the reason i ask is that you’re not technically allowed to take Your name in vain…”
“So?” God asked impatiently. “I’m God. I can do no wrong.”
“Yes, but i believe it would be best for you to set the example,” the angel said wearily.
“Fine, whatever,” God said dismissively. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Well you see, if Jesus is actually you, then you probably shouldn’t take his name in vain either.”
“Christ,” God said, throwing up his hands. “Whose name am i allowed to take in vain then? I can’t go around saying ‘Holy Spirit’ all the time, that would just be ridiculous.”
“Well i believe it would be best for you not to swear at all,” the angel said, rolling his eyes. “But if you must, let’s think of a better alternative, one that your people could use as well.”
God shrugged. “I don’t know, let’s just pick something random. Like…pigeons or something.”
“Pigeons!” Jesus yelled. He paused a minute to let it sink in. “Nah, it doesn’t work,” he said. The angel shook his head.
God peered down at the world for inspiration. A man was crossing the desert with a camel. Suddenly, the man misstepped and ended up stepping in a large pile of camel poop.
“Shit!” the man yelled.
“What does that mean?” God asked, intrigued.
“I believe it refers to excrement, sir,” the angel replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Excrement?” God asked, puzzled.
“Poop, my Lord.”
“Ah,” God said thoughtfully. “Shit. It’s perfect! It’s a random, natural bodily function that i created just to be a bastard, and it has that nice “sh” sound to it. Yes. I like it. Shit.”
“Shit!” Jesus said experimentally. “Nice one, Dad!”
“Thank you,” God said graciously. “I rather like it myself.”
“Sorry to spoil the great idea, Lord, but i just had a thought,” the angel interjected.
“You and your bloody ideas,” God growled. “I’m about through with you.”
“Just listen, oh God,” the angel said hastily. “I’m not quite sure we can actually use something you created as an expression of disgust or frustration.”
“Why on earth not?” God asked.
“Well, because it’s all holy, isn’t it?” the angel replied.
“Hell’s not holy, is it dad?” Jesus asked.
“You’re right, what in hell are you talking about angel?”
“The hell sounds better, I think,” Jesus interrupted.
“Yes, well nobody asked your opinion, did they?” God asked testily. “Answer the question, angel.”
“Hell, would, technically, be holy,” the angel said nervously. “It being a religious idea and all – specifically your religion, Lord. But if you insist on using one of your creations for an expression of disgust, i think it would be better if you were to add that it was holy, just so people remember. Otherwise, the word’s true connotation might escape them.”
“Shit holy,” God said. “No, i don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. It doesn’t have the right ring to it.”
“What about holy shit?” Jesus asked.
“Holy shit! It works!” God shouted gleefully. “By the way Jesus, what in hell – fine, what the hell if you prefer – are you doing back so early?”
“Well, see Dad there was this party…” Jesus said sheepishly.
“I didn’t send you down there to have parties!” God blustered angrily. “What were you doing at a party?”
“Well see, it started off as a nice, tradition-setting thing. A Last Supper, if you will. And then, well…things got a little rowdy after that and we ended up breaking a few chairs.”
“Dumb kid,” God muttered.
“Well see, the man wanted paying, didn’t he, so i sent Judas out to go fetch us some money. Because we were poor, see, in accordance with Your wishes, right. And he couldn’t find money, so he told these people he’d betray me, and they gave him some money so we were able to pay the guy back for his chairs. And all the wine. But then Judas, he had to betray me see, so i ended up getting a little bit crucified.” Jesus explained, staring at the floor.
“A little bit crucified?” God asked, astonished. “Holy shit Jesus, you weren’t supposed to do that! What did the people think?”
“Ah, well, i had to do a little quick thinking,” Jesus said brightly. “So i told them it was all part of your plan, see.”
God snorted. “Some plan,” he scoffed.
“Yeah, well, they seemed to buy it. So anyway, that’s what happened. Are you really mad at me?”
“Am i mad at you? Christ!”
“Shit,” the angel corrected. “Holy shit.”
“Holy shit,” God continued, glaring at the angel. “Did you get anything accomplished?”
“Oh yeah, i did the whole preaching thing. That was fun,” Jesus assured him.
“Well, go finish it off then,” God said rolling his eyes.
“How? I’m dead, dad,” Jesus reminded him.
“God, i don’t care, tell them you came back to life or something!”
“You know, that’s the equivalent of saying ‘God God don’t care’ or ‘i i don’t care,’” the angel pointed out. “It’s poor grammar. You’re supposed to set an example…”
Jonah had trudged all the way back to the village by this time to get another bucket. He was lowering it down with the rope, when something flew into the well and nearly knocked the rope and bucket from his hands yet again. He peered down the well, startled. It was an angel.
“Care to help me up?” the angel asked, raising an eyebrow.
29.
ebeth | January 19, 2008 at 6:07 pm
ah shit i forgot the italics within italics. just pretend it’s all italicized
30.
Glasseh | January 20, 2008 at 9:52 am
28- I came, and read it as you requested. Very nice, ebeth.
31.
Jadestone | January 20, 2008 at 6:33 pm
Haha, I liked it. Humorous.
32.
Bird of Purple | January 21, 2008 at 7:44 am
Hehe, it was funny. *doesn’t kill Ebeth*
33.
penguini | January 23, 2008 at 3:56 pm
I loved it.
I write for catharsis so what I write tends to be on the dark and depressive and violent side. It is best used as fire starter although I haven’t started any fires recently…
I should write more. It would be good for me…
34.
kricket | January 25, 2008 at 3:59 pm
Catharsis? I’m not sure I know what that is. Elaborate if you will.
I’m feeling poetic right now. Maybe a poem will flower in my mind, and I shall have created something that’s not rubbish.
35.
oxlin (e~a) | January 25, 2008 at 4:26 pm
Catharsis? anyone else remember Cattusus? or however it was spelled?
Catharsis means a release of emotions. Such as when someone punches the character that you wish you could punch. or when the character trying to swim 50 meters in a certain time finaly does it.
36.
ebeth who is too lazy to sign in | January 26, 2008 at 6:43 am
35-cathassis. cathassis for the masses! XD
37.
kricket | January 27, 2008 at 12:12 pm
HAH! I actually wrote a poem! Yay! It’s about my two friends break-up. Kind of depressing, but it’s what I was thinking at the time I wrote it so… yeah. And then I left it on the table in the kitchen before I went to bed, overslept, and when I woke up, I found out my PARENTS read it. AGH. *sigh* Not good, not good.
Parental- “I read your poem on the table this morning.”
Me- “Huh?!”
Parental- “It was very good, did you write it for a class?”
Me- “Nooooo…”
Parental- “Oh. So who broke up?”
Me- “Um, nobody.”
Parental- “Sure…”
I hate it when that happens. Hmph. Now I am devising a plan to help my one friend, involves being very sneaky. Yuss… I like challenges like this… Hehe, it’s fun to test my intelligence once and a while. Will elaborate more later if needed.
38.
Jadestone | February 6, 2008 at 10:00 am
I AM HAVING WORDCOUNT ISSUES. I can’t write sort things. Can’t.
This is the story I have, but it’s too long (must be ≤ 500 words, it has 705). the second one is the edited version, but the only thing I could cut is description, which is my favorite part. I need help.
The woman slowly walked through the forest, her long white dress slightly fraying at the edges and slightly stained where it brushed against the fallen leaves that littered the ground like so many tiny corpses, testament to the tree’s silent bow to winter. She absentmindedly traced patterns in the frost along the bark of an old, twisted willow tree, before stepping out the forever twilight of the woods and into the morning sun. She was young, almost a girl rather than a woman, really. Looking about seventeen, her skin was pale against her dark brown hair, which fell in lightly tangled waves halfway down her back. Her features were pretty, but to sharp to be considered common beauty. Cheekbones a bit to high, eyes slightly too hollowed, the angle of her jaw softened by clear skin but still sharp. Her face was shadowed, the overall effect giving her dark brown eyes a haunted look.
She walked from the shade of the forest up the slope covered in grass beginning to turn brown; if she looked to her left she would se the outline of a village silhouetted against the steadily rising sun, beginning to stir and prepare for the day. Her eyes focused straight ahead, to where the rising ground leveled off just in time to meet with a sudden drop, towering cliffs stretching down into the sea where, if you were brave enough to glance over the edge, you would see the broken waves crashing against the jagged rocks.
Mere yards before this terrifying edge, she stopped her walk. In front of her lay a woman, her breath shallow, quick, and pained. Her dress was stained red, wet and fresh. A man knelt next to her, sobbing. His breath was ragged and sharp, his eyes red and burning while his hands trembled and a breathless moan escaped his lungs. His head shot up as the strange lady’s shadow brushed against his features.
“Who are-“ He started, but then stopped as he gained a proper look at her features. She was instantly recognizable, even if he had never seen her before.
“No.” He breathed. “No. She’s not- not yet. She shouldn’t be, no. It’s not her time.”
The woman stood, features reminiscent of stone.
“No. Please. It’s my fault, if I had- if I hadn’t-” He broke off as fresh sobs tore from his chest. “It’s my fault.”
There was a story here. It would be long, and sad, and filled with bittersweet. So many were. But it was not her burden to carry; she already had so, so many.
“There has to be something I can do,” He tried. “I’ll- I’ll give you anything. But please. Don’t take her. She… she shouldn’t have been her, I shouldn’t have.”
The woman spoke now, her voice surprisingly soft and low. “You would bargain with Death?” She asked.
He stared out at the sea, watching the waves fight and foam against each other.
“She is suffering.” The silken voice stated. “ I will not wait.”
“Yes.” He said suddenly, quietly. “Yes. I would.” A pause. “What… do you want?” They both knew her answer already.
“I came here for a life.” She said, simply.
He nodded. Slowly, painfully, he looked down at the woman lying before him. Her breath had all but stopped now, her heart barely beating. He bent down and kissed her, softly, on her lips. He raised his face, eyes closed and streaming silent tears, before he stood and faced Death.
“Are you ready?” She asked, quietly. Her eyes were sad too, for the man, for mortals, for life.
He reached out and took her soft-skinned hand in his, not saying anything for a moment. “I’m scared.” He finally breathed.
She nodded, saying nothing, and gently squeezed his hand before she began walking forward. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed, and when they stepped off the edge of the cliff they did not fall to the sea, but the lonely stars.
The sun rose softly over the village, to cast it’s light upon a hill by the sea. Atop it lay a woman, her heart beating strong, with breath filling her lungs. Next to her was the quiet, still warm corpse of another mortal.
******
-Shortened/bad version-
******
The woman walked from the forest and onto the dry, browning grass of the hill, stretching into cliffs. Her features were pretty, but slightly too sharp for common beauty. Cheekbones to high, dark eyes hollowed and shaded against pale skin. Her dark hair fell in lightly tangled waves halfway down her back.
Mere yards before this terrifying edge, she stopped her walk. In front of her lay a woman, her breath shallow and pained, dress stained red, wet and fresh. A man knelt next to her, sobbing. His breath was ragged and sharp, his eyes red and burning while his hands trembled and a breathless moan escaped his lungs. His head shot up as the strange lady’s shadow brushed against his features.
“Who are-” He started, but then stopped as he gained a proper look at her features. She was instantly recognizable, even if he had never seen her before.
“No.” He breathed. “No. She’s not- not yet. It’s not her time.”
The woman stood, features reminiscent of stone.
“No. Please. It’s my fault, if I had- if I hadn’t-” He broke off as fresh sobs tore from his chest. “It’s my fault.”
There was a story here. It would be long, and sad, and filled with bittersweet. So many were. But it was not her burden to carry; she already had so, so many.
“There has to be something I can do,” He tried. “I’ll- I’ll give you anything. But please. Don’t take her. She… she shouldn’t have been her, I shouldn’t have.”
The woman spoke now, her voice surprisingly soft and low. “You would bargain with Death?” She asked.
He stared out at the sea, watching the waves fight and foam against each other.
“She is suffering.” The silken voice stated. “ I will not wait.”
“Yes.” He said suddenly, quietly. “Yes. I would.” A pause. “What… do you want?” They both knew her answer already.
“I came here for a life.” She said, simply.
He nodded. Slowly, painfully, he looked down at the woman lying before him. Her breath had all but stopped now, her heart barely beating. He bent down and kissed her, softly, on her lips. He raised his face, eyes closed and streaming silent tears, before he stood and faced Death.
“Are you ready?” She asked, quietly. Her eyes were sad too, for the man, for mortals, for life.
He reached out and took her soft-skinned hand in his, not saying anything for a moment. “I’m scared.” He finally breathed.
She nodded, saying nothing, and gently squeezed his hand before she began walking forward. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed, and when they stepped off the edge of the cliff they did not fall to the sea, but the lonely stars.
The sun rose softly over the village, to cast it’s light upon a hill by the sea. Atop it lay a woman, her heart beating strong, with breath filling her lungs. Next to her was the quiet, still warm corpse of another mortal.
39.
ebeth who is at a friend's house and therefore not bothering to sign in | February 6, 2008 at 2:40 pm
38-is this for school or what? 500 words is pretty short…what exactly is it supposed to be?
40.
kricket | February 6, 2008 at 4:43 pm
38- I like that a lot, the longer version though. The shortened version doesn’t convey as much as the longer one.
41.
Jadestone | February 6, 2008 at 7:35 pm
39- It’s for a 4-part contest on the Elvenking site… each part you do you get from 0-5 points. I only got three on the last part, so I need to do well on this one… they are limiting it to 500 so they don’t have to read a ton of thousand-word entries but it is really hard for me >. It’s kind of based off the song Romance&Wrath.
40- Yeah, that’s my problem with them. The shorter version works, but it’s not good. It’s okay, but I want to get as many points as possible for this section as it’s probably going to be where I am strongest…
*sigh* I may just have to write something completely different. Damndamndamndamndamn.
42.
dark duke of darkness | February 7, 2008 at 1:15 pm
41-wow. obsess on elvenking much?
43.
Jadestone | February 7, 2008 at 2:21 pm
42- Eh, it was for stress relief, something to do to keep my mind off everything else. But now it’s annoying me. More so the story than the contest, and my inability to write with a limit.
44.
tetracontakaidigon | February 7, 2008 at 2:59 pm
I liked the first version a lot. I would suggest writing something else rather than trying to remove 2/7 of a good story. You can’t do that and keep it the same quality.
-unrelated-
I thought of an idea for Script Frenzy that I actually like!
n walls, n=4
I don’t know what the story is yet, but I really like the title. Something with math. And maybe a play within a play, but not cliched. It would be so easy to do Phantom Tollbooth, but that’s ours forever now, and using it with any characters other than us would be wrong. So I have to think more.
45.
kricket | February 8, 2008 at 2:14 pm
I’m wayyyy too out of it this week. I can’t think of any good writing ideas. Gah.
46.
kricket | February 16, 2008 at 12:36 pm
Mwahaha. I had a burst of creative genius! Here’s the description of the creature I created in my story/novel/thingy that I’ve been working on for a while now.
For in front of them stood a giant creature that in fact resembled the mortal creature of an Artic bear. Its eyes were soul-sucking pits of darkness, and its coat, though at first looking white, was in fact absent of all color. Claws the size of their heads combined curled into the ground menacingly. A white slobbery liquid dripped from its fangs, and the oddness seemed to emanate from it, stripping away the color and the sound around them.
As nasty as he sounds, I love him so much! He’s adorable, really. At least, I think he is. Basically, he takes your souls, so he’s like a giant soul-sucking polar bear, but he’s still adorable. Does that make sense at all?
47.
ebeth who is too lazy to sign in | February 17, 2008 at 6:18 am
46-i’ve always wanted a giant soul-sucking polar bear, personally.
love it!
48.
kricket | February 18, 2008 at 11:22 am
47-
Danke! He’s just so adorableeeee… I tried to convince my mom that he was adorable, but she was just kind of like “A soul-sucking polar bear? Ew.” Gah. Parentals…
49.
Shadow Gallery | February 19, 2008 at 2:47 pm
*REVISED*
No Such Stranger
Let me roll it
Those handsome days when no-one sees us
No-one is around
The neighbours’ house is falling down
These handsome days encased in breaths
Over the fence
Houses kneeling down
Hovering in our flourescent heaven
Skeletons
Icicles of insisted hope
Melting
Condensing into a tranquil mushroom cloud
We bask beneath its shadow
Of the metamorphosing pictures and complacent meaning of our past
Of the times when this was natural
When every noise became a ghost
And every ghost a story
As tangible as dying
In a dream
How do I know you?
You know you do
You do
Somehow
Love you know you do
Don’ t worry about it now
You will someday
Please not now
We’re dancing on our soapboxes
In our precious oyster haze
Drifting
Every mirror of comprehension
Took to long to get you here
Don’t throw it all away
So soon
I have seen the apocalypse
It’s collecting on the floor
Folding shirting staining growing
Delighting
Taking us by surprise
Time-lapsed photographs of lightning
Gracing
Gently kissing
A blossom’s dirty eyes
Gently kissing
A stranger
We know we recognise
Let me roll it
These handsome days when no-one sees us
No-one is around
The neighbours’ house is struggling to balance
Falling down
50.
Jadestone | February 23, 2008 at 7:32 pm
49- Wow, I like that. Especially the fourth stanza… it sounds like a song, it needs music.
51.
Shadow Gallery | February 25, 2008 at 9:19 am
Thankee, Jade!
52.
Dodecahedron | March 8, 2008 at 6:43 pm
Too lazy to log in.
I cut this from a story I’m writing because it didn’t fit in with the plot and it’s not NaNoWriMo anymore where word count matters. I will log in and post full story soon,when it’s done.
It was a dark and stormy night. She danced with a wild abandon, no thoughts of eternity. There was only now, this dance, water streaming down her face and hair and skin, soaking her clothes. After this dance… who knew? Maybe she’d dance forever, until the rain abated. It would rain forever, and she would dance on. She was vaguely aware of the feverish delusions, and knew that dancing in a dark thunderstorm would not help her cold, but it hadn’t mattered when the rain had pounded, beckoned her feet onward, offered no alternative. Now she was dancing.
53.
S&Mel | March 9, 2008 at 6:05 am
Heehee, I like it.
54. Don’t Forget These Threads « FreshMuseBlog | March 24, 2008 at 9:34 am
[...] March 24, 2008 Writing [...]
55.
kricket | March 25, 2008 at 2:27 pm
Heehee, I didn’t forget… I’m just too lazy to go to the previous page thingy on the bottom. Let’s see… Have I written anything good lately? *checks* Well, not really… I’ll get back to y’all on this…
56.
Shadow Gallery | June 8, 2008 at 11:33 am
Wow, this is a bit dead.
I spent over six hours on this fucking thing. I’d like me some feedback.
“Listen”
I know that I’m certainly not the only person to suffer a loss due to it, but my brother died in that explosion. I know, it’s so sad, so terribly depressing, such a great loss– but please ma’am, I’ve been handed enough obligatory sympathy since then, and frankly I don’t need yours. The death of my brother is not what they took me here to talk about, you know very well. Death is not our problem. It is not a flaw of the human race, nor are mistakes; unfortunately, very few human minds understand this, including you. Right now, all I need you to do is listen. That is all this realization will take. Listening. Not necessarily analysis. Just listening, and comprehending even just the superficial images. You may think me insane (if you didn’t already, which I doubt, with simple consideration of my fetters), you may later discard every word I say, you may even feel physically ill, but for the time it will take, please unlock your mind and listen – if not for me and the sources of what you think to be my problems (because I know you’re not fond of me), for yourself and the rest of humankind, should such a thing exist.
Ma’am, have you ever been up north, in the woods, where there aren’t any cities for miles? Where there’s a feeling of peacefulness in the air, and the solidarity is not lonely, but meditative? Where you can lie down in cool, stroking grass and get lost wandering in the depth of the stars and your own endless mind? They become one and the same, and you don’t see the constellations battling each other: just drifting across the sky in a harmonious, silent symphony. At the same time, every minuscule thing that has ever touched your mind pull together to create a jigsaw puzzle, depicting the most coherent artistic statement in the world: peace.
You could see the explosion from there, ma’am. You could see the upset sky, and you can still see its turbulence haunting the clouds, the hovering ghost of smoke infiltrating the stars.
I know, how obvious it seems to you what I am thinking: that the inventions of war and disagreement destroyed what inherent, generous love humans possess. Don’t think too hard, ma’am, you’ll turn yourself around and upside down and this will never make any sense. Symbolism should never be given much attention: it is the picture itself, boring deep into your eyes, rising up to challenge you. It is not the giant’s great size you face, ma’am: it is the giant itself. As such, this coincidental symbolism is not the core of what haunts my days, ma’am, so don’t pay it much heed; for as disturbing as it may seem to you, it is mere soft-mouthed frustration compared to the quivering vices I will describe.
Following the explosion, the army built a memorial for the many troops who died in that failed test, and being that my brother was one of these troops, my parents, a friend of mine and I made a pilgrimage up to the memorial on his birthday. Every day at dusk, human bodies gather at the memorial – three crosses in the ground surrounded by flowers – and hold a candlelight vigil. Did you know that, ma’am? Most of these bodies were not even grazed by the explosion, either physically or emotionally, yet they held their heads down in silence, remembering the diligently loyal work of the troops, and what all they had done for our country and the whole of the human race. I cannot say that this discovery did not touch me; but I did not discover this fact upon arriving myself at the vigil, but in a brochure provided by the army at a hotel near the base.
In fact, by the time that I arrived at the vigil myself, I was in no state to be touched by this.
You see, I find it interesting how everyone seems to think that those troops died for a noble cause. You could say that I find it interesting that those troops died while exploring different and more efficient ways of killing our enemies, but even that is not what intrigues me. What intrigues me is that people believe the story; and even the radicals who maybe see a bit more in it than the average body, don’t see the possibility that the story is a cover-up. And no, it is not simply a cover-up for the government, although I understand why they would go to such lengths to keep the country’s trust when they are empty of trustworthiness themselves. I do not blame the government for the sight I witnessed that afternoon, however easy it may be. (I realize, ma’am, that I am telling you that you are wrong in your assumptions before you make them: because I also realize that you cannot help but listen with a prejudiced mind. The only difference between our prejudiced minds is that mine is based on truth. Of the two of us sitting here, which of us is telling their testament?)
I have never had any mental illness, nor have I ever abused drugs, medication or other. I do not blame the government. Realise these things as I tell you what my mind saw, but did not conjure, that afternoon while I was meditatively lying on the fresh lawn of the hotel…
Three lines of soldiers. The two on the left faced right, and the one on the right faced left. The middle line was completely naked. No guns, no vests, no clothes, no helmets. Completely naked. They did not look frightened, or sad, or angry. They were stonewalling the line of soldiers they were facing, and were completely still, empty eyes open and staring. All around their feet were heaps of flesh and bone, freshly dead, eyes gently closed. The two side lines were shooting towards each other, just straight ahead. They had no goal. All they did was shoot at whatever was directly in front of them. It didn’t matter who they shot: one of the naked bodies in the middle line, or an armed one on the other side. The bodies in the middle were often shot multiple times from either side before they died. Even after being shot, their expressions remained motionless. They stood until they collapsed amoung the heap of flesh and bones. But whoever was shot how many times, the heap was growing. It shrank and expanded whenever a layer of bodies had filled with gas, and another had been deflated under the weight of others. I watched from above, not wanting to move for fear that I’d be shot. I saw my friend in the heap, but somehow I knew she wasn’t dead. I was struck dumb, immobile and unable to think by fear. I didn’t move at all. I stared liked a statue at the scene. Seeing just the pictures. Hearing just the noise. That was all I needed to do to understand.
That was what happened at the site: there was no such explosion, no such test failure. It was a triple execution line, with all sides dying, but two sides killing. It was this noble act of courage that even the untouched bodies were feeling obligated to remember every night at dusk in a candlelight vigil. Ma’am, I know you thought me crazy before this, but I cannot imagine what things I must now be on your pad of paper, let alone what it will consider me a few minutes. I again ask for you to see the image as it is, what is says for itself; and to stop being concerned about what my problem is (and I assure you again, I do not have one).
And so, having just been shaken numb by a vision of truth (reassured by later happenings, which I will make my way to), I walked silently with my friend (who was indeed alive and well) to the candlelight vigil. My parents let me go with her, so we could pay our separate respects, they said. It was just outside the gates of the base. The light from all of the candles in the circle was so great that the whole memorial glowed in the dark. The sky was glowing too, with lights from the base. It lit up the area, but the bodies were still silhouettes with shadowy orange faces around the crosses and flowers. I wasn’t sure what to make of the vigil anymore, now that I knew what it stood for—or at least knew what had happened. I stared blankly into the flames. So my brother was dead. He had been shot, one of hundreds of soldiers who unthinkingly participated in their own death. One from the heap, that only breathed when filled up with air and crushed again by another bleeding, empty sack of skin. I could not conjure any words or thoughts or pictures except for the execution line, none else. I now think, what would this memorial do for others if they knew the truth? Would this impersonal reassurance justify the truly mindless and blind degradation of so many? This false justification alone distresses me, much less how others would react for to the truth; like you, ma’am. How are you feeling right now? I truly hope that you can make it a few more minutes, but those are indeed an intense few minutes. They’re rather crucial; being the thing you are wont to believe most, as it was physical experience and not just a telling vision, the latter of which people are so wont to throw away. Still, they are on the same low level of credulousness, being as no-one would desire to believe either thing. However, I am emphasizing this particular testament the most of any, mostly because my friend is still missing, and I know that that fact will aid its tangibility and connect my message to the human race.
This is not to say, however, that the truthfulness helped my well-being.
We had only been at the vigil for a few minutes when a busload of Chinese men drove up and asked if this was St. Edward Military Base. Then they asked if we thought they were terrorists. Apparently, they had been frequently asked this on the way.
I wanted to escape this numbness in my brain. I wanted to drive it out and cry or scream or something, just because I had just witnessed this, to say the least, disturbing battle, and it scared me that I was not reacting. I ran after the bus, and somehow was not stopped at the gates of the base. The guards let me run in, along with my friend, even without identification. They had no idea who we were, which, considering where we were headed, I can now tell did not matter.
We followed the bus out behind a big, steel hangar in the middle of the base. It pulled up next to a chicken wire fence along the side of the building, that stretched behind the hangar about thirty feet. The bus let its passengers out, and they were let inside a wooden gate in the fence. They filed into the fenced-in area. Their possessions, as well as their shoes, were taken by more uniformed guards. As soon as my friend and I entered the area, our shoes were taken. I never saw my friend after we entered that gate.
Ma’am, have you ever been to a petting zoo? There are a lot of children but more animals and quite a big mess. This is what the area was to me. An animal pen, except that the animals weren’t biting and the children weren’t crying; the roles were reversed. The children were pulling the animals’ fur, and the animals could not move. They were being quietly tormented, and were patiently suffering. Ma’am, I do hope it’s clear who was who in this pen; no-one but government officials had shoes. Also, know that I do not blame the “children’s” behaviour on their being affiliated with the government: I am not an anarchist, ma’am. If your associates seek to arrest me, at least let it be on true charges.
So this was a petting zoo: it seemed like petty entertainment for the towering children humiliating the poor animals. You could see their suffering: most were charred and burned from grenades being thrown into the small pen, and most were naked or quite close. But for the first time, they were not numb. Children (the real children this time, not petting zoo children) were shrieking – not even for their mothers or their brothers or their sisters or fathers, just shrieking. People looked uncomfortable amoung the dead. For the first time I can call them people, because for the first time they were suffering.
But over the fence, I can not call them people.
Over the fence, there were hundreds of soldiers marching in formation in a minefield, each about ten feet apart. It was a minefield, I know, because there were random explosions where soldiers stepped, that petered out in flames and smoke. This was what had lit up the sky at the memorial. The mines were the lights from the base.
The soldiers were chanting something, something in a language that I did not understand…now, this uniformity itself was eerie—this is what happens in basic training, yes, I realize that. However, these soldiers were setting fire to dolls. Effigies, you could say, but they mostly looked like dolls for little girls. The kind that looked female no matter what you called it, or whether it wore a dress or slacks. (Ma’am, did you ever have one of those dolls? Did you hold tea parties with them?) They were setting fire to these dolls, chanting, and staring at the pen with their eyes rolling and wide. Marching and chanting, marching and chanting, marching and chanting, with intermittent explosions that created cymbal crashes for their systematically destructive, hundred-piece band under a sickly green, swollen sky.
A guard sitting inside the pen, next to the fence, smiled at me as I stared over at the marching soldiers. He had a wide, toothy grin, and wavy blond hair. He was just beaming. He told me they were beautiful, fine men, and that they were training in honour of the soldiers who died in the explosion, who the memorial was for. The dolls were all named either Adam or Eve, he told me. Ma’am, I am by no means Christian or even religious, and I do not find very much value in Biblical stories for myself. Still, a large part of the human race bases their existence around these stories. I may not be religious, ma’am, but I do possess compassion for people; compassion and anger and pity and empathy and love.
Is this clear to you yet, ma’am? It should be like telling a colour. That should be all you need. That is why they placed me here, ma’am, those things that speak so many words without trying hardly at all. You can look up at the sky and tell that it is troubled. I can see it from my window, here, and I know you can see it too. See the churning, pasty boils of clouds? You can see it in the headlines that report children missing, though I am surprised that anyone took the time to notice their absence. You can see it in the eyes of wanderers: they contain mirrors, reflecting all the light shed from the world and burned their curious pupils; they reflect it in their songs. It’s painfully obvious, what we are made of, if only you remove yourself from your fleshy ego and immerse yourself in the sky.
57.
Fortune Cell | September 29, 2008 at 9:47 pm
SORRY MARA.
That’s amazing. Good job.
I haven’t written anything in ages and it’s terrible. It’s terrible and I realized as I was trying to write a (creative) English essay, that I’m so incredibly out of practice and dear god it’s terrifying.
58.
Mel | September 30, 2008 at 11:08 am
NaNoWriMo thread?
59.
Pan | December 3, 2008 at 6:07 pm
25-word stories, everyone!
…this reminds me of Six Sentences.
http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/
But, seriously, write a 25-word story. Set the scene, and have a beginning, middle, and end.
60.
tetracontakaidigon | December 5, 2008 at 8:13 pm
(which reminds me of the six-word stories Wired had a few years back)
25 words was a lot less than I thought it would be:
When they said I was going crazy, I didn’t believe them. The voices, however, told me that my friends were right, so I got help.
61.
FrigidSymphony | November 19, 2009 at 8:28 am
Wrote this today. Going to be lyrics for my new project. However, I’d like some criticism. Be harsh.
I’ve found a place of truth and evil
A playground where feelings revolve and reveal
themselves to be in my medicine cabinet
where bottles of drugs pile up even yet
I’ve found a place where dreams are confined
to the lip-strung (flame) that burns away time
Where smoke cradles my face in miniature crime
And breathes me a veil for the frail pantomime
I’ve found a place for my vices and me
to indulge in the joy of those who are free
Free in the life of taking my own leave
And free from the guilt of having to grieve
But to leave that place is an eloquent hell
And no one understands the stories I tell, of
the deliberate death where I find my own world
And the terror around me, it makes me so cold
(repeat)
62.
Ebeth | November 19, 2009 at 11:31 am
i like it. the only thing i would say is some of the rhymes seem really forced…especially these lines
themselves to be in my medicine cabinet
where bottles of drugs pile up even yet
also, why is (flame) in parentheses?
the last two lines are a bit weird just because they’re approximate while everything else s solid rhyming but i feel like that would be less of an issue if you’re singing it
63.
FrigidSymphony | November 19, 2009 at 12:16 pm
1.I don’t think they’re forced at all, in fact I find they flow quite nicely, and are more interesting than the Noel Gallagher school of “Row a boat/in a coat/with a goat” songwriting.
De gustibus, however.
2.Medicine cabinet gives a nice alliteration, and a somewhat aggressive tonality.
3. Flame is in parentheses because I’m thinking of changing the word.
4. The last bit is an outro of sorts, it abandons the previous structure with the constant rhyme (becoming two couplets instead) and seeks to give closure to the narrative. I like it, at most I’ll change some diction choices.
What do you think it means?
64.
Ebeth | November 19, 2009 at 8:04 pm
yes congratulations you’ve done better than noel gallagher. you want a medal? i mean i do love me some oasis, but i wouldn’t say it’s top songwriting
i liked the medicine cabinet, just wasn’t sure about the even yet
i like flame, but i dunno. what were you thinking of changing it to?
makes sense, and again it will probably make even more sense sung
i’m not entirely sure. are you talking about a kind of abstract place inside yourself or an actual location?
65.
FrigidSymphony | November 19, 2009 at 10:27 pm
Actually I think Gallagher is a topnotch songwriter. “Another sunny afternoon/Walking to the sound of my favourite tune/Tomorrow never knows what it doesn’t know too soon” or “Please don’t put your life in the hands/of a rock n’roll band/they’ll throw it all away” are pretty fucking good.
I have no idea what I want to change flame into, it just seems like it might be a bit too explicit.
It’s about solitude and vices, indulging in social stigmas (cigarettes, for example) without a hangup, and thus becoming truly free.
66.
POSOC | August 14, 2010 at 9:49 am
Anyone else have focus problems when writing? I can never stick with an idea for more than a couple weeks before abandoning it in favor of another shiny idea.
67.
Jadestone | August 14, 2010 at 10:51 am
Oh god, yes. I have so many ideas that I never use and then forget about, and then if I do start one I suddenly remember older ideas I promised I’d get to and then start thinking about them and lose track with the first one, then not write for a week, and then I get a new idea and forget about the older projects again…
68.
POSOC | August 14, 2010 at 5:27 pm
I have a name for a character- Alistair Barnes- and a soundtrack. Let’s see what comes of this.
69.
POSOC | August 14, 2010 at 6:53 pm
Apparently he lives in a lighthouse, and has some connection with owls. There is something called a “sun candle” in there too, but I don’t quite know what it is yet. Something to do with lenses and molten wax at noon.
70.
Kokonilly | August 14, 2010 at 7:15 pm
I am preparing for NaNo! I want to actually stick to one plot this time, so I am preparing adequately. Currently I am writing backstories for characters.
71.
POSOC | August 15, 2010 at 10:51 am
NANO IS ONLY 2.5 MONTHS AWAY
AAAAAAAUGH
72.
POSOC | October 31, 2010 at 4:49 pm
DOUBLE AAAUGH
73.
Jadestone | November 1, 2010 at 5:27 am
AHHH, BUT WOOO, BUT AHHHH
74.
POSOC | November 1, 2010 at 8:24 pm
This sums up my thoughts so perfectly.
I think I’ll post an excerpt on IDS at some point.
75.
penguini | November 1, 2010 at 2:56 pm
I’m doing a short story/week month. I hope it keeps the insanity under control but somehow I DON’T THINK SO. ahwell.
76.
POSOC | March 2, 2011 at 10:31 pm
Has anyone here had experience writing short stories? I know I can never pack in the amount of character and plot development I want to… but I never finish any of my long-form fiction, so I think I ought to give it a try.
77.
Dodecahedron | November 2, 2011 at 2:47 pm
so for NaNoWriMo this year I’m doing a series of short stories about robots and sex. Here is the first one! It is very explicit femslash, so if that’s not your thing, don’t read it! In fact, nobody should read it, because I have not edited it at all and it kind of sucks. But I will post it anyway, for those of you who don’t heed warnings.
1. This is a road trip tale with an emphasis on how destructive knowledge can be. The story is about a tactical officer who is constantly annoying a nimble nurse. It takes place in a tourist town in an interplanetary confederation. The issues of cybernetics and its effects on society is a major element of the story.
Jennie was frustrated. Officer Miranda Juniper was there again. Asking “is he going to recover safely?” Asking “can I do anything to help?” Yes, you can help, stay out of the fucking way. (Yes, you can help. Get over here with those azure eyes and crooked smile, and take off that perfectly pressed uniform, and help me out of these scrubs. Then, maybe, you can help with something that’s been bothering me for a while now.
They would draw the curtain around his bed, and between Miranda’s knowledge of tactics and Jennie’s background in gymnastics, there would be no problem with whatever bed or floor space remained in the room. Miranda already had perfectly trimmed nails, everything about her was perfect and trim, and Jennie had started carrying around what looked like a tube of lipstick, for use on breaks. That was what Miranda’s presence forced her to do. Forced? Well, she couldn’t go around jumping the bones of her patients. They were in a vegetative state for the most part. It just wouldn’t be seemly. And Jennie was frustrated.)
“By the way.” And now Officer Juniper was talking again. (Her mouth would be put to much better use doing other things, Jennie thought, and resigned herself to another lonely night.)
“We’re going to have to transport him soon. We need a nurse to go as well, obviously. I’ve requested that you be the nurse assigned.”
Jennie’s heart stopped for a second. “Of course!” she replied, trying to seem cheerful rather than elated, and trying above all to hide her ulterior motives.
The spaceport wasn’t that far away, since they were a tourist town, but the closest military installation was. And they had to take him by military means only, so as to keep military secrets or something, so it meant a road trip.
After two and a half hours of watching Miranda drive, Jennie started to panic. They were alone together (except of course for Corporal Vegetable) and the vibration of the car on bumpy roads combined with some especially choice imagery that could never happen was like torture.
At hour three, they reached a rest stop. Miranda was pacing endlessly while Jennie was pretending to attend to their charge, who needed no attending, and was imagining hands against her, touching roughly and without remorse.
After hour six, they stopped at a motel. Jennie’s vegetative deus ex machina was brought to a room and outfitted for the night, leaving one room for the two of them. (Miranda had asked about this earlier—well, actually, she had explained earlier that it would save costs to have only one room, and that there were plenty of nurses who would be perfectly capable of the job should she back out.) They entered the room, each with her own small and carefully packed suitcase.
“Do you mind if I shower first?” Miranda asked, divesting herself of luggage and jacket smoothly.
Jennie hoped fervently that her stare was interpreted as blank and not lustful.
“No, of course not! You’ve been driving this whole time.”
Miranda removed the rest of her clothes with the same grace as she had initially had when removing her jacket.
“See you later, then.”
Furthermore, Jennie hoped that Miranda’s shower would not be as efficient as would be imagined. This would give her time for other activities. Such as unpacking. And masturbating furiously. Miranda was everything her dreams had promised and more.
Miranda left the room and entered the small, dingy bathroom. The sound of water in pipes against tile became prominent.
There was one bed. No point in hiding beneath the covers, Jennie figured, since there would be no convenient excuse that she could think of if Miranda happened to walk in on her writhing form. Besides, they, like everything else in the room, were dingy.
Jennie dug through her purse until she found her lipstick-shaped vibrator. She didn’t actually wear lipstick, but someone rummaging through her things would probably not know that, and it was small and convenient. Jennie also removed her clothes, though without nearly as much grace as Miranda had appeared to unclothe herself with, and left them in an undignified heap on the floor next to her luggage. She also took the time to sanitize her hands, since the bathroom was currently occupied, and she wanted some barrier between hours of car and her most private parts.
Jennie lay atop the bed, feeling awkward and graceless. She turned the faux-lipstick portion of the vibrator, and it came to life quietly, whirring and at peace with itself. With her left hand, Jennie opened her labial folds gently, and with her right she carefully placed the vibrator against her clitoris. The hand parting her labia moved downward along her vulva until it was holding the vibrator in place with its palm. Breathing heavily now, Jennie inserted two fingers of that hand into herself, shuddering slightly at the pleasurable feel as they brushed against the top wall of her vagina. Her remaining hand settled on her small but pert breasts, caressing and occasionally pulling at one of her nipples. She pictured Miranda showering in the next room, water running over her perfect body, washing soap from taut breasts down her stomach and across her vulva and legs until it reached the drain. She pictured Miranda finishing her shower, toweling herself, moving in long, graceful strokes. She pictured Miranda walking in, lying on the bed next to her, gently removing Jennie’s fingers and replacing them with her own, pulling the vibrator away and at her distressed sounds replacing it with her tongue.
Jennie was moving rhythmically against herself at this point, lost in thought, eyes closed against the reality in which she was alone. She began making quiet noises, then abruptly stopped as slight contractions began and a wave of orgasm swept across her. Momentarily, she opened her eyes, and came to her senses. She turned off the vibrator quickly and hid it, and replaced her clothes, though they were still slightly disarrayed a minute later when the bathroom door opened and Miranda emerged, clad in only a towel. Jennie had an overwhelming urge to cuddle with Miranda, and ask: was it good for you? but she would not have gotten as far as she had as a nurse without repressing most of her urges to do things.
Miranda flopped down on the bed and made no moves to unpack or don any sort of clothing. “Your turn to shower.”
Jennie gathered her things, and headed for the shower, uncertain what to think of this development although her head was suddenly blindingly clear of other things.
As Jennie showered, she was mostly on autopilot, thinking only of Miranda’s actions, and worrying about what she would encounter when she returned from showering. Should she expect to be sleeping next to the object of her desire with so little between them? Would Miranda expect her to act similarly, or should she make a show of finding nightclothes to try and prevent awkwardness? An errant thought, maybe Miranda planned to do what she herself had been doing earlier, and Jennie became so distracted by related thoughts such as maybe she’ll come join me that she didn’t hear the voice in the room next door until it was saying her name, over and over again, but not in a way that would be construed as screaming—perhaps moaning would be a better way to explain it?
Jennie forced herself back into reality from her delusional hopes with some regret, and finished showering quickly. When she opened the bathroom door, Miranda was fully clothed in light pajamas and appeared to be asleep atop the bed. Jennie changed into her own pajamas and pretended to sleep until early in the morning, wondering about Miranda, at which point sleep actually claimed her.
The next day they drove for another seven hours or so, with occasional breaks. Jennie felt her sanity slipping away. After they arrived at another motel, about as sketchy as the first one, and utterly indistinguishable from it in all but name and location, after Miranda walked into the shower, Jennie waited. She did not take out her vibrator. She remained fully clothed.
When Miranda walked out of the bathroom, Jennie walked up to her and kissed her. Then she stepped back, and paused.
Miranda fluidly took a step forward and kissed Jennie, pushing her back to the one bed in the room. They continued to kiss, more and more passionately, for several minutes. Miranda pressed against Jennie, seeming as desperate as Jennie felt, and began to remove Jennie’s clothes with no regard for the manner in which they were traditionally removed. Miranda pulled away, and Jennie sat dazed on the bed as Miranda walked over to her luggage, sifting through it, and eventually retrieving a roll of duct tape. All Jennie could do was gape as Miranda tore off tape in strips which she taped to each other, eventually entirely encapsulating Jennie’s wrists and effectively binding them to the bed. Then Miranda went back to pressing against Jennie, forcing her tongue into her mouth, covering Jennie’s slight body with her powerful one.
By this point, Jennie was unable to think straight and her clothes were scattered about the room. She struggled against the bonds, trying to press closer to Miranda, desperate to feel their bodies combine. Miranda’s hands roamed across her body, with one stopping at Jennie’s breasts, and another continuing to work its way downward. Miranda’s hand paused, very briefly, before touching Jennie’s vulva, and then gently started to work its way between her labia, stroking her clitoris gently at first and then faster. To Jennie it felt as if Miranda was vibrating slightly, but it was translated to her as pleasure, so she didn’t really question it. She wasn’t really capable of questioning anything at that point; all she could do was moan and writhe helplessly against the tape bonds. She began to climax as Miranda continued stroking and touching her at almost inhuman speeds, overwhelmed by her fantasy come to life. Jennie stopped writhing and went limp, and Miranda, after removing her bonds, cuddled with her until they both fell asleep.
When Jennie woke up the next day she was alone. Miranda was in the bathroom, but when she exited it, she did not return to the bed but swiftly changed into another pristine uniform and sat waiting in the chair. The car trip that day was awkward—nobody spoke of the previous night’s events, least of all the high-ranking officer they were transporting. There wasn’t even any small talk or radio. The trip wasn’t that long, only a few days, and it was to be their last night together. Jennie was hopeful, continually distracted by thoughts of the previous night, hoping that she would get a chance to give Miranda an orgasm as powerful as her own had been then.
They arrived at a hotel only an hour and a half from the military base to which they had been traveling. This one was not as dingy as the previous two had been, and Jennie contemplated the potential uses of a larger shower as Miranda checked them in and then as she set up the vegetative officer in his own room. Then, they went to the remaining room. While spacious, it had only one bed. Jennie sat on the bed and waited. Miranda stood there momentarily, and then began to speak.
“I am sorry but I cannot repeat the events of last night.”
Jennie stared blankly, heartbreak beginning to wrap its faint tendrils around her as ivy covers a building.
“While I am fully Three Laws compliant, I find that there is an error in my programming. I was designed to be fully human, capable of interaction in all ways. But I find myself unable to aid you, as we are of the same gender. I will be reporting this error to my supervisors and retiring myself from active duty once my current mission is over, but for now I must inform you that I am incapable of interacting with you in this way.”
Jennie didn’t understand, and then all of a sudden she did. Miranda was too perfect to be true, she knew it, and now she knew why. She was one of the cybernetic beings the military had been working on designing for decades now, since even before the singularity, and she was designed to be perfect. Apparently they had made her perfect in every way—for men, that is. But while Jennie was perfectly content to be bisexual, Miranda was not. Last night had been a fluke, Jennie’s advance had forced her into obeying what she took to be orders to begin sex-related subroutines. And the bondage—probably another programming error, caused by the conflict between her heteronormative programming and her distinctly non-heterosexual situation.
They slept in the same bed that night, but it was as if there was a rift as wide as the ocean between them. Every breath (carefully calculated, Jennie now knew) and motion of Miranda’s only reminded Jennie of what could no longer be. She considered forcing herself upon Miranda again, but she knew that positronic brains, while still not fully human, were still humanoid enough that humans had been prosecuted for rape against them successfully. And even if the law didn’t think it was so in this case, she knew it would be wrong. Jennie slept fitfully, tossing and turning as she thought only of the complete and utter loss of the object of her desire.
The next day, they arrived at the military base. Nurses in uniform took over for Jennie as soon as she got there. With the overtime bonuses from her trip, she bought a ticket out to one of the outer colonies. They were male-dominated still from the hard work of the colonization and the fallacious belief that men were stronger than women and worked better when sexually deprived. Surely there would be someone there to distract her from her loss. Surely someone there would need a nurse’s care.