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Dark Corners
Sep. 7th, 2008 10:06 pmThis sort of spilled out of my head after I finished reading No Country of Old Men, but I think I lost it about 3/4 of the way through.
( Dark Corners )
( Dark Corners )
Cicada Song
Aug. 15th, 2008 12:27 pmSpring is their symphony. The sound, the singing, fills my head, blocking out all thought. My ears ring, empty, when they briefly break from their nigh-constant resonance. The evening is their time – my head aches with the humming.
This is how it has become: they sing, and, all else driven from my mind, I listen. This simple meditation brings me peace. Now, I find no peace without the humming.
I sit at a desk, a glowing screen before me. Around me, there is only chatter. My ears ring with an echo that breaks all concentration. Someone speaks but words barely reach me. I stare into an empty face, searching for absent humming.
That room is gone now. Summer comes. I sit outside, listening, always. My thoughts drown, and I am consumed with the humming.
A yard, a path, a wood, I follow. The sun blazes, and I follow the song. It grows fainter, days grow darker. My peace is fading and I am left with nothing but ringing noise. I follow deeper, questing for the humming.
The song has closed, the concert ended. The cold time has come. I will sleep here, sleep and banish bland ringing sound from my empty shell. When spring comes, I will be filled with a symphony of humming.
This is how it has become: they sing, and, all else driven from my mind, I listen. This simple meditation brings me peace. Now, I find no peace without the humming.
I sit at a desk, a glowing screen before me. Around me, there is only chatter. My ears ring with an echo that breaks all concentration. Someone speaks but words barely reach me. I stare into an empty face, searching for absent humming.
That room is gone now. Summer comes. I sit outside, listening, always. My thoughts drown, and I am consumed with the humming.
A yard, a path, a wood, I follow. The sun blazes, and I follow the song. It grows fainter, days grow darker. My peace is fading and I am left with nothing but ringing noise. I follow deeper, questing for the humming.
The song has closed, the concert ended. The cold time has come. I will sleep here, sleep and banish bland ringing sound from my empty shell. When spring comes, I will be filled with a symphony of humming.
Fighting Grey
Aug. 12th, 2008 11:19 amSome of the August Writing peeps have put me on to a community called ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
the_dead_muse. It gives writing challenges to help people get their muse in gear. One of the challenges that's currently ongoing is called "The Self", about iner turmoil. I haven't decided how thoroughly I'm going to jump in to the community, but it should be interesting to watch, anyway. But this particular challenge inspired me. So this is what came of it! Its short, but I think it gets off what I wanted.
( Fighting Grey )
the_dead_muse. It gives writing challenges to help people get their muse in gear. One of the challenges that's currently ongoing is called "The Self", about iner turmoil. I haven't decided how thoroughly I'm going to jump in to the community, but it should be interesting to watch, anyway. But this particular challenge inspired me. So this is what came of it! Its short, but I think it gets off what I wanted.( Fighting Grey )
Challenge piece for August writing - ten minute free-write. This is a concept I've been trying to work out in my head and try to figure out how to express, and I think this was a good exercise. I finished the last entence ust after the time went off. I could have certainly expanded on he last bit but I wanted to keep in the confines of the time limit! And notw you can all see that I'm a slow typist ;) I did go back and fix errors after the time was up, also.
( What is horror? )
( What is horror? )
Beyond Dinner Redux
Aug. 8th, 2008 11:42 pmKeeping in the spirit of the original story, I thought it would be fun to re-write my challenge piece from Amala's PoV. And since I ddn't have anything better to do, I did it! This means I've written something like 4-5000 words today, thank you muse!
( Beyond Dinner Redux )
( Beyond Dinner Redux )
Beyond Dinner
Aug. 8th, 2008 01:53 pmToday's writing challenge was as follows: Take your characters to dinner. Pick one, or two, or more characters you have written in the past. Sit them at a table in a restaurant and see what happens.
I revisited my characters from Looking Beyond, because I've always wanted to do something else with them and this seemed a good way to test out some ideas. I'd eventually like to develop this in to something longer, but it isn't on my priority list at the moment.
( Beyond Dinner )
I revisited my characters from Looking Beyond, because I've always wanted to do something else with them and this seemed a good way to test out some ideas. I'd eventually like to develop this in to something longer, but it isn't on my priority list at the moment.
( Beyond Dinner )
Lashing Out
Aug. 3rd, 2008 10:19 amJust a little something to get out of my head. Based on a true story! ish! :V
Lashing Out
She remembered its *kind* - seen them passing outside the window on their long leads, happy and obedient. But this small one had invaded her home. It chased her and invaded her spaces and worst of all it stole her love.
And when she’d refused to submit, that displacement had become physical and she found herself abandoned – no shelter, no food, no caretakers. Nothing.
She’d learned to fend for herself quickly enough. There was water to be found and she learned to hunt, instinct long repressed guiding her actions. Still, she grew lean. She’d never been big. She did her best to care for her health, but living outside, there were issues she just couldn’t content with on her own. Fleas, ticks, other parasites. Still, she tried her best to survive.
And trying made her bitter.
And bitterness made her angry.
And her anger lead her to thoughts of revenge.
She sought a target. One who was young, like the one who had displaced her. One who was loved. One whose caretaker was soft enough on the inside. She found them, both girls. The target was older than her tormentor, but young enough to satisfy. The woman was kind, and dedicated, and just soft enough, she hoped.
She stalked the pair, coming closer, daily to their home. She harassed her target, shedding all fear of the larger, stupider creature. It had teeth but no bite. Her weapons were her claws, her wretchedness. The first for her target, the second for the woman.
The woman protected the target, and yet she seemed to weaken. She gave out small tokens of love, while keeping the target out of harm’s way. She left their home open…
But the target remained.
Maybe this one was soft enough for two loves?
The cat backed off to consider.
Lashing Out
She remembered its *kind* - seen them passing outside the window on their long leads, happy and obedient. But this small one had invaded her home. It chased her and invaded her spaces and worst of all it stole her love.
And when she’d refused to submit, that displacement had become physical and she found herself abandoned – no shelter, no food, no caretakers. Nothing.
She’d learned to fend for herself quickly enough. There was water to be found and she learned to hunt, instinct long repressed guiding her actions. Still, she grew lean. She’d never been big. She did her best to care for her health, but living outside, there were issues she just couldn’t content with on her own. Fleas, ticks, other parasites. Still, she tried her best to survive.
And trying made her bitter.
And bitterness made her angry.
And her anger lead her to thoughts of revenge.
She sought a target. One who was young, like the one who had displaced her. One who was loved. One whose caretaker was soft enough on the inside. She found them, both girls. The target was older than her tormentor, but young enough to satisfy. The woman was kind, and dedicated, and just soft enough, she hoped.
She stalked the pair, coming closer, daily to their home. She harassed her target, shedding all fear of the larger, stupider creature. It had teeth but no bite. Her weapons were her claws, her wretchedness. The first for her target, the second for the woman.
The woman protected the target, and yet she seemed to weaken. She gave out small tokens of love, while keeping the target out of harm’s way. She left their home open…
But the target remained.
Maybe this one was soft enough for two loves?
The cat backed off to consider.
My first offering for august_writing! I am hoping to finish up Cursed Wreck this go round, as well as put out some more Pieces and Shadows - we'll see!
( NDE )
august_writing! I am hoping to finish up Cursed Wreck this go round, as well as put out some more Pieces and Shadows - we'll see!( NDE )
Keep Off the Grass
Jul. 6th, 2007 07:07 pmA story that I wrote after wandering around campus while thinking about a game I'm in. It really doesn't have anything to do with the game itself, save for being set in that world, Faust, for which I have to credit ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stillwater_. Of course, he scavenged bit from a zillion different places to create it, so I have no shame in scavenging bits in return! Please enjoy! And I should note for anyone who is dubious that i really don't consider this as gaming fiction, per sey, so even if you aren't interested in my other game related stories, you should still be able to enjoy this :p
( Keep Off the Grass )
stillwater_. Of course, he scavenged bit from a zillion different places to create it, so I have no shame in scavenging bits in return! Please enjoy! And I should note for anyone who is dubious that i really don't consider this as gaming fiction, per sey, so even if you aren't interested in my other game related stories, you should still be able to enjoy this :p( Keep Off the Grass )
(no subject)
Aug. 20th, 2006 12:16 pmAugust Writing Challenge for August 20 - Think of the most boring person you know. Now imagine them committing a crime.
------------------
Andrew was a solid person. Reliable. Calm. Patient. He could be described as a family man, as he was married with two young sons. He felt devoted to them. Several pictures adorned his ordered desk at the art school where he taught.
His life, especially his earlier life, certainly sounded glamorous. He had previously been employed by a major motion picture company, and worked on one of, he thought, their best big budget children's films. People seemed impressed, certainly. "I worked on the lions," he would tell them. And briefly they would seem excited. He could show them some of the framed cells on his wall, but there was not much more to the tale. Animation was a repetitive process, and his months of work flashed across the screen in bare minutes, if that.
And of course, now he was a teacher. He taught animation and drawing at a small college in a small city that had pretensions of producing alumni who could compete in a rapidly saturating market. Computer animation was all the rage these days anyway, and young people flocked to this new development as they did with everything technological. They still had to learn to draw the old fashioned way first, and for that they came to Andrew. The school's enrollment was small, but he still taught three sections a week each of life drawing and basic animation.
They often used live models for life drawing. When he was a younger artist, Andrew had been surprised at the number and variety of people, young women especially, who were willing to disrobe in the name of art. Even if that 'art' was the amateur scribbles a room full of awkward teenage boys. The girls no longer phased him now. He would tell them to pose, clothed or naked, for so many minutes at a time depending on the nature of the drill. He hardly paid attention to them, except to coach a student as to which curves he (or she; but rarely she in this business) should be paying closer attention. They were lines to him, not flesh. He saw them rendered in charcoal or graphite in two dimensions - beauty (or not) on paper, not in flesh.
Andrew knew that he had lost his sense of enchantment. There was little wonder in his life. It depressed him. His wife noticed this growing dissatisfaction, and though she didn't understand, she tried to help.
"Why don't we go away this summer? We have the money. The kids are old enough - they'd love a fun vacation somewhere exotic, wouldn't you, kids?"
And so it was decided - a summer vacation to the family, to Fiji. Beautiful beaches with cool blue water lagoons, a five star estate - a luxurious tropical island getaway. The very thing to excite a mind dulled to the extraordinary. Andrew wondered if perhaps they couldn't find beautiful beaches and posh hotels closer to home. There would be the same mix of tourists in Fiji as in Florida, he felt - the same half naked women (lines and circles) stretched out in the sun or reclining by a palm shaded pool, drink in hand. The children might disturb the other hotel guests, and nevermind the protestations they would make when it came time to have their travel shots. They might be old enough to travel, but surely not old enough to appreciate it.
But the plans went ahead nonetheless. They would go for two weeks in mid August. The resort promised activities for the children, and assured the family that there was a wealth of interesting activities in which to participate among the many islands of the chain, from hiking to museums, fun parks to snorkeling or diving and, of course, the beaches. Andrew thought that perhaps this would be enough. "I went to Fiji for two weeks this summer," he could tell his coworkers. He could show pictures, if anyone was interested. It sounded sufficiently exotic - many people never left the borders of their home towns, let alone their countries or continents.
The reality was quite different. The airline lost their luggage. The resort was full and busy and he staff was harried. The boys complained about the day programs - they didn't like the other tourist children, or the activities, or the food. His wife, always optimistic, suggested alternatives.
"Why don't we try going to one of the outer islands, dear? See more of the traditional life here - get away from the tourist traps for a bit. It will be a cultural experience."
He saw no reason to disagree, and they packed up for a few days at a small village. Andrew privately considered that this would be just another kind of tourist trap, even if it was not as popular. They got to live in a traditional hut and could get involved, through the aid of a cultural interpreter, in various aspects of village life. The reality grew on him in a short period of time.
The boys loved it. They got to try new things, and made easy friends with local children eager to impress the richer North Americans. There was less structured supervision, and they raced around searching for turtles and shells, or watching for sharks in the bay. Andrew tried his hand at different village activities. He made some sketches, gave them away to their hosts. The people here seemed impressed. He made some short flip books for the kids staring some of the more popular animated characters they might have seen on a neighbor's tv. He enjoyed himself, though his wife became somewhat nervous.
"Is all this sanitary? I don't like the boys running off and playing in the dirt." Andrew reminded her that the idea had been hers and also that they'd all had their shots. Modern first-world medicine was less that half an hour away by plane or boat.
The few days in the village were perhaps just what he'd needed, Andrew decided, to give him some fresh perspective on life. A cultural experience, indeed. But the thing that really changed everything happened just the night before he left.
He'd woken up in the middle of the night of his own accord. His family still slept, but he heard noise from outside the village. It sounded like some kind of festival. Careful not to wake anyone else, he threw on shorts and a t-shirt and slipped his sandals on as he proceeded outside to investigate.
The sounds led him to a small path well hidden by some leafy tropical shrubs. As he followed it, the sounds - chanting, really - became louder, and he could see the flicker of firelight. It never occurred that he might be intruding, or that his hosts might offer him any threat. Indeed, as he passed the sentries who called out his name, they beckoned him forward.
About a dozen of the village men, dressed in costumes that made them look like they'd stepped out of pictures or drawings of previous centuries, were arranged around a spit in a small clearing. Some were dancing and singing, some few had drums. Others were eating, or had clearly just eaten. His hosts smiled widely in welcome, and drew him forward. Somoene passed him a headdress, another a drum. The chant was simple, easy to take up. The meat on the spit smelled tantalizing, though he knew it was no animal.
"Come, come," they cried in between breaks in their song. "Come, Andrew." Someone drew a knife, and cut a piece of flesh from the roasting body. "Longpig," they explained. He ate - not much, but it pleased him. He couldn't dream of doing anything else. In the morning, they returned to the resort.
The family flew back to civilization a few days later, but Andrew knew he was changed for good. Everything might seem the same, but nothing was. He'd shared in something powerful, secret. Taboo. It set him apart. It never faded from his mind. He went back to teaching, but the dullness was gone. The inadequacies of his students seemed inconsequential now. He was full of wonder - member of a secret elite. No one could ever take that away.
------------------
Andrew was a solid person. Reliable. Calm. Patient. He could be described as a family man, as he was married with two young sons. He felt devoted to them. Several pictures adorned his ordered desk at the art school where he taught.
His life, especially his earlier life, certainly sounded glamorous. He had previously been employed by a major motion picture company, and worked on one of, he thought, their best big budget children's films. People seemed impressed, certainly. "I worked on the lions," he would tell them. And briefly they would seem excited. He could show them some of the framed cells on his wall, but there was not much more to the tale. Animation was a repetitive process, and his months of work flashed across the screen in bare minutes, if that.
And of course, now he was a teacher. He taught animation and drawing at a small college in a small city that had pretensions of producing alumni who could compete in a rapidly saturating market. Computer animation was all the rage these days anyway, and young people flocked to this new development as they did with everything technological. They still had to learn to draw the old fashioned way first, and for that they came to Andrew. The school's enrollment was small, but he still taught three sections a week each of life drawing and basic animation.
They often used live models for life drawing. When he was a younger artist, Andrew had been surprised at the number and variety of people, young women especially, who were willing to disrobe in the name of art. Even if that 'art' was the amateur scribbles a room full of awkward teenage boys. The girls no longer phased him now. He would tell them to pose, clothed or naked, for so many minutes at a time depending on the nature of the drill. He hardly paid attention to them, except to coach a student as to which curves he (or she; but rarely she in this business) should be paying closer attention. They were lines to him, not flesh. He saw them rendered in charcoal or graphite in two dimensions - beauty (or not) on paper, not in flesh.
Andrew knew that he had lost his sense of enchantment. There was little wonder in his life. It depressed him. His wife noticed this growing dissatisfaction, and though she didn't understand, she tried to help.
"Why don't we go away this summer? We have the money. The kids are old enough - they'd love a fun vacation somewhere exotic, wouldn't you, kids?"
And so it was decided - a summer vacation to the family, to Fiji. Beautiful beaches with cool blue water lagoons, a five star estate - a luxurious tropical island getaway. The very thing to excite a mind dulled to the extraordinary. Andrew wondered if perhaps they couldn't find beautiful beaches and posh hotels closer to home. There would be the same mix of tourists in Fiji as in Florida, he felt - the same half naked women (lines and circles) stretched out in the sun or reclining by a palm shaded pool, drink in hand. The children might disturb the other hotel guests, and nevermind the protestations they would make when it came time to have their travel shots. They might be old enough to travel, but surely not old enough to appreciate it.
But the plans went ahead nonetheless. They would go for two weeks in mid August. The resort promised activities for the children, and assured the family that there was a wealth of interesting activities in which to participate among the many islands of the chain, from hiking to museums, fun parks to snorkeling or diving and, of course, the beaches. Andrew thought that perhaps this would be enough. "I went to Fiji for two weeks this summer," he could tell his coworkers. He could show pictures, if anyone was interested. It sounded sufficiently exotic - many people never left the borders of their home towns, let alone their countries or continents.
The reality was quite different. The airline lost their luggage. The resort was full and busy and he staff was harried. The boys complained about the day programs - they didn't like the other tourist children, or the activities, or the food. His wife, always optimistic, suggested alternatives.
"Why don't we try going to one of the outer islands, dear? See more of the traditional life here - get away from the tourist traps for a bit. It will be a cultural experience."
He saw no reason to disagree, and they packed up for a few days at a small village. Andrew privately considered that this would be just another kind of tourist trap, even if it was not as popular. They got to live in a traditional hut and could get involved, through the aid of a cultural interpreter, in various aspects of village life. The reality grew on him in a short period of time.
The boys loved it. They got to try new things, and made easy friends with local children eager to impress the richer North Americans. There was less structured supervision, and they raced around searching for turtles and shells, or watching for sharks in the bay. Andrew tried his hand at different village activities. He made some sketches, gave them away to their hosts. The people here seemed impressed. He made some short flip books for the kids staring some of the more popular animated characters they might have seen on a neighbor's tv. He enjoyed himself, though his wife became somewhat nervous.
"Is all this sanitary? I don't like the boys running off and playing in the dirt." Andrew reminded her that the idea had been hers and also that they'd all had their shots. Modern first-world medicine was less that half an hour away by plane or boat.
The few days in the village were perhaps just what he'd needed, Andrew decided, to give him some fresh perspective on life. A cultural experience, indeed. But the thing that really changed everything happened just the night before he left.
He'd woken up in the middle of the night of his own accord. His family still slept, but he heard noise from outside the village. It sounded like some kind of festival. Careful not to wake anyone else, he threw on shorts and a t-shirt and slipped his sandals on as he proceeded outside to investigate.
The sounds led him to a small path well hidden by some leafy tropical shrubs. As he followed it, the sounds - chanting, really - became louder, and he could see the flicker of firelight. It never occurred that he might be intruding, or that his hosts might offer him any threat. Indeed, as he passed the sentries who called out his name, they beckoned him forward.
About a dozen of the village men, dressed in costumes that made them look like they'd stepped out of pictures or drawings of previous centuries, were arranged around a spit in a small clearing. Some were dancing and singing, some few had drums. Others were eating, or had clearly just eaten. His hosts smiled widely in welcome, and drew him forward. Somoene passed him a headdress, another a drum. The chant was simple, easy to take up. The meat on the spit smelled tantalizing, though he knew it was no animal.
"Come, come," they cried in between breaks in their song. "Come, Andrew." Someone drew a knife, and cut a piece of flesh from the roasting body. "Longpig," they explained. He ate - not much, but it pleased him. He couldn't dream of doing anything else. In the morning, they returned to the resort.
The family flew back to civilization a few days later, but Andrew knew he was changed for good. Everything might seem the same, but nothing was. He'd shared in something powerful, secret. Taboo. It set him apart. It never faded from his mind. He went back to teaching, but the dullness was gone. The inadequacies of his students seemed inconsequential now. He was full of wonder - member of a secret elite. No one could ever take that away.
