Saturday, October 16, 2010
Hey! (a non writing prompt post)
Hey people. I realize this blog is almost defunct. I'm back though. I hope it's permanent. I've just been really busy lately with the college process and AP classes...it's been a crazy senior year. But I am back, and I'll be posting regularly again now that I'm not trying to do everything at once. :D
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
3WW CXCVIII
The words this week were bait, jump, and victim. Here's my take.
I love fiction.
I run this place.
Sure, in the brochure, Galton’s Academy for Troubled Youth seems to be quite the peaceful institution. Rolling green hills, serene walkways…dude, it looks like something out of a retirement home advertisement. You know, those vibrant sunsets and the golf courses and the old people swimming in Olympic pools even though their arthritis should’ve incapacitated them by now? That’s my school. Complete with the old people and pools.
But that‘s about where the truth ends. The administrators and teachers only think they have control over us because we let them. If they think we’re reforming ourselves into little, compliant robots fit for society, they’ll be much more apt to turn the other cheek when one of us comes doesn’t show up for class, or something petty like that. As long as we don’t do something stupid, and allow ourselves to get caught, we’re okay.
And of all us little troublemakers, I’m the one people should really be afraid of. And I’m not saying that because I like to brag; bragging is for people who can’t back their crap up. You know why I got sent here? I didn’t kill anybody, let’s get that straight. I ain’t no killer. Nah, armed robbery. I took my dad’s .45 caliber and headed out to my step-mom’s bank. I held up the place---nobody expected the kid in a suit, talking professional-like. Cops weren’t called or nothing. I struck a deal beforehand, they give me a thirty minute head start, and I’d but the weapon away. I tell you, those tellers. They’re crooked.
Today was an interesting day. See, us Galton kids don’t get to leave, even in the summer. We’re here all year ‘round, and it sucks. It sucks a lot. Mostly because the kids here are here for petty crap, like punching a teacher in the face or something equally stupid. So, there we were, me and my boys. Dan, Grant, and Timothy. They were probably the only people here who weren’t just angst-y teens inspired by that emo band My Chemical One-Night-Stand or some stupid crap like that. So, I chose to befriend them rather than make their lives a living hell. Because, really, we weren’t bad kids. Misguided, yes. Desperate? Completely. But bad? No.
I needed the money, but I’m not even old enough to apply for a job. I’m just thirteen. Why did I need it? My mom had cancer. Leukemia. And her insurance sucked, so she couldn’t pay for it. I couldn’t get enough cash money, but any little bit would help. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t care about dime bags, or coke or the newest crap Apple came out with. I wanted my mom to live. I loved her. Only her. But I did the wrong thing. And now I’m stuck here on court orders. I couldn’t go to her funeral.
Dan…he’s messed up in the head. Comes from a bad hood; it makes Compton look like the O.C. He saw his parents and baby sister shot. Apparently Dan’s dad dealt in the drug scene, but he didn’t do anything outright illegal. Just covered the dealer’s tracks for him. And some junkie somehow found his dad…took them all out. Dan managed to escape and get out of that hood. He was tossed around foster homes, until he did something really stupid. He didn’t just spread around a bomb threat, he actually planted one in his freshman year. Now he’s here.
Grant probably had the best childhood of us. I think he just got mixed up--wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. He lived in a preppy suburb, and was the all-American…the kind of kid that crapped his pants if I came around. He went to a bonfire party one night, they were doing lots of drugs. Nothing crazy, mostly weed and cocaine. His older brother made him carry a dime bag in his pocket for later. Grant didn’t want it. But when the party got busted, he got taken in for possession, ended up here. I think something’s gonna go down when Grant gets out. He’s an angry kid.
Timothy. What can I say about this kid? The oldest of us at seventeen, and quite possibly the least deserving to be here. Dan, Grant, and I did the crimes we were accused of. Timothy insists he’s innocent. In fact, he almost got off. The Juvenile Court prosecutor said so…that they couldn’t make a case. He was accused of assaulting some dumb chick. Timothy swears to God he’s only seen her once--at a graduation party. He doesn’t know where this came from. I’m thinking it’s ‘cause the chick needed a scapegoat for her…activities. Because the evidence against him was circumstantial at best, but the girl’s dad was a regular patron of the court system, donating and all kinds of fancy crap, Timothy got sent here. At least he won’t have to register.
“Dude. Jeremy. I think we got one,” Grant grins, shaking my shoulder to get my attention.
Out of boredom, we’d taken to targeting a kid, possibly beating the crap out of him. It all depended on our mood. Today’s no different. And the kid, our intended victim, looked perfect for a beat down. Five feet seven inches, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.
“What’s he in for?” I ask, scoping our potential victim. He tends to keep to himself--already a bad sign.
Timothy shrugs. “He like beat the living daylights out of his mother and twin sister.”
My eyes narrow. Maybe it’s just the fact that I don’t have a mother anymore, but it strikes me as particularly…evil. He deserves what he’s about to get. I catcall him, telling him he’s a bloody coward for beating on his mother and sister, among other things that ain’t fitting of nobody to say. I challenge him to jump for the bait.
He does. Punches me square in the jaw. The four of us gang up.
He’s as good as done.
I love fiction.
I run this place.
Sure, in the brochure, Galton’s Academy for Troubled Youth seems to be quite the peaceful institution. Rolling green hills, serene walkways…dude, it looks like something out of a retirement home advertisement. You know, those vibrant sunsets and the golf courses and the old people swimming in Olympic pools even though their arthritis should’ve incapacitated them by now? That’s my school. Complete with the old people and pools.
But that‘s about where the truth ends. The administrators and teachers only think they have control over us because we let them. If they think we’re reforming ourselves into little, compliant robots fit for society, they’ll be much more apt to turn the other cheek when one of us comes doesn’t show up for class, or something petty like that. As long as we don’t do something stupid, and allow ourselves to get caught, we’re okay.
And of all us little troublemakers, I’m the one people should really be afraid of. And I’m not saying that because I like to brag; bragging is for people who can’t back their crap up. You know why I got sent here? I didn’t kill anybody, let’s get that straight. I ain’t no killer. Nah, armed robbery. I took my dad’s .45 caliber and headed out to my step-mom’s bank. I held up the place---nobody expected the kid in a suit, talking professional-like. Cops weren’t called or nothing. I struck a deal beforehand, they give me a thirty minute head start, and I’d but the weapon away. I tell you, those tellers. They’re crooked.
Today was an interesting day. See, us Galton kids don’t get to leave, even in the summer. We’re here all year ‘round, and it sucks. It sucks a lot. Mostly because the kids here are here for petty crap, like punching a teacher in the face or something equally stupid. So, there we were, me and my boys. Dan, Grant, and Timothy. They were probably the only people here who weren’t just angst-y teens inspired by that emo band My Chemical One-Night-Stand or some stupid crap like that. So, I chose to befriend them rather than make their lives a living hell. Because, really, we weren’t bad kids. Misguided, yes. Desperate? Completely. But bad? No.
I needed the money, but I’m not even old enough to apply for a job. I’m just thirteen. Why did I need it? My mom had cancer. Leukemia. And her insurance sucked, so she couldn’t pay for it. I couldn’t get enough cash money, but any little bit would help. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t care about dime bags, or coke or the newest crap Apple came out with. I wanted my mom to live. I loved her. Only her. But I did the wrong thing. And now I’m stuck here on court orders. I couldn’t go to her funeral.
Dan…he’s messed up in the head. Comes from a bad hood; it makes Compton look like the O.C. He saw his parents and baby sister shot. Apparently Dan’s dad dealt in the drug scene, but he didn’t do anything outright illegal. Just covered the dealer’s tracks for him. And some junkie somehow found his dad…took them all out. Dan managed to escape and get out of that hood. He was tossed around foster homes, until he did something really stupid. He didn’t just spread around a bomb threat, he actually planted one in his freshman year. Now he’s here.
Grant probably had the best childhood of us. I think he just got mixed up--wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. He lived in a preppy suburb, and was the all-American…the kind of kid that crapped his pants if I came around. He went to a bonfire party one night, they were doing lots of drugs. Nothing crazy, mostly weed and cocaine. His older brother made him carry a dime bag in his pocket for later. Grant didn’t want it. But when the party got busted, he got taken in for possession, ended up here. I think something’s gonna go down when Grant gets out. He’s an angry kid.
Timothy. What can I say about this kid? The oldest of us at seventeen, and quite possibly the least deserving to be here. Dan, Grant, and I did the crimes we were accused of. Timothy insists he’s innocent. In fact, he almost got off. The Juvenile Court prosecutor said so…that they couldn’t make a case. He was accused of assaulting some dumb chick. Timothy swears to God he’s only seen her once--at a graduation party. He doesn’t know where this came from. I’m thinking it’s ‘cause the chick needed a scapegoat for her…activities. Because the evidence against him was circumstantial at best, but the girl’s dad was a regular patron of the court system, donating and all kinds of fancy crap, Timothy got sent here. At least he won’t have to register.
“Dude. Jeremy. I think we got one,” Grant grins, shaking my shoulder to get my attention.
Out of boredom, we’d taken to targeting a kid, possibly beating the crap out of him. It all depended on our mood. Today’s no different. And the kid, our intended victim, looked perfect for a beat down. Five feet seven inches, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.
“What’s he in for?” I ask, scoping our potential victim. He tends to keep to himself--already a bad sign.
Timothy shrugs. “He like beat the living daylights out of his mother and twin sister.”
My eyes narrow. Maybe it’s just the fact that I don’t have a mother anymore, but it strikes me as particularly…evil. He deserves what he’s about to get. I catcall him, telling him he’s a bloody coward for beating on his mother and sister, among other things that ain’t fitting of nobody to say. I challenge him to jump for the bait.
He does. Punches me square in the jaw. The four of us gang up.
He’s as good as done.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sunday Scribblings--Source
I've been on holiday these past few weeks, so I'm just getting back into writing. I decided to take a break from Aria/Castor temporarily. Here's my Sunday Scribblings prompt:
I’ve never been a social person. I’ve been content to keep to myself, my books, my computers, and my imagination. They were the source of my happiness in life. And for a while, that’s what I was. Completely comfortable and happy with just myself. I had enough characters I wrote about to be my friends. And if they were ever lacking, I could read my troubles away and make friends across centuries, oceans, and dimensions. Yeah, while other kids were attending birthday parties and battling with water balloons, I was attending magical feasts and fighting off evil factions with a swords and crossbows. I never needed anybody.
Until I met you. The new kid.
You were the only other person I’d given more than a few minutes thought to. What placed you apart from the others was the fact that you--you actually reached out to me. Unlike the others, who’ve known me since kindergarten; you weren’t content letting me just pass by. You actually wanted to talk to me. Me. I realized soon what I’d been missing after you and I became friends.
We spent so much time together, my parents were slightly concerned. I’d spend afternoons at your house, and we’d talk, or watch television, or play video games. I never stayed the night though, being a girl and everything. I kept my guard up---I thought this friendship would last three weeks, tops. But it lasted much longer, and our friendship was effortless.
In high school, things changed. We became closer. One night when we were at my house watching a crappy historical movie, you leaned over. You kissed me. I was shocked. Happy, ecstatic, even. But shocked. I never thought I’d have friends. I had accepted that. In fact, I managed to be happy. But the moment when our lips touched, hesitantly at first, then more sure of ourselves…. Things were going crazy. I wasn’t in control anymore. And I did the unthinkable. I kissed you back. My rational, orderly life had been scattered. My heart took over. I was brain dead.
School changed dramatically. We arrived at school together, and as we entered the cafeteria, you grabbed my hand and led me to a table to await the morning bell. They watched in disbelief. Us, be together, they thought. The quiet, insecure girl, and the generally charming, gregarious boy? Impossible.
But we were so happy. We were together throughout high school while they were switching relationships like underwear. We even planned on going to college together. But never once did I let my guard down. And when you told me you loved me--I dodged the question.
And to think, I thought it would be temporary.
I was right.
It didn’t last. I just couldn’t open up to you any more than I had. I fell so hard from that. It completely shattered me, once I considered everything. When you think with your heart there isn’t a thing you can’t see. I tried to get over it by being angry at you. I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I then tried to tell you that I didn’t care. It was nothing. You knew I was lying.
I’m just a kid, like you. I borrow phrases from dog-eared pages. My story is no different, I’ve just changed the name. I know you think you know me. But my eyes are doors that keep you out from things I don’t want you to know…you wanna know why I couldn’t tell you how I felt? It wasn’t because I didn’t return the feelings, because trust me, I felt the same way. I loved you, Noel. I did. I still do. No, not loving you wasn’t the reason.
I was frightened of what I’d find in your eyes.
I’ve never been a social person. I’ve been content to keep to myself, my books, my computers, and my imagination. They were the source of my happiness in life. And for a while, that’s what I was. Completely comfortable and happy with just myself. I had enough characters I wrote about to be my friends. And if they were ever lacking, I could read my troubles away and make friends across centuries, oceans, and dimensions. Yeah, while other kids were attending birthday parties and battling with water balloons, I was attending magical feasts and fighting off evil factions with a swords and crossbows. I never needed anybody.
Until I met you. The new kid.
You were the only other person I’d given more than a few minutes thought to. What placed you apart from the others was the fact that you--you actually reached out to me. Unlike the others, who’ve known me since kindergarten; you weren’t content letting me just pass by. You actually wanted to talk to me. Me. I realized soon what I’d been missing after you and I became friends.
We spent so much time together, my parents were slightly concerned. I’d spend afternoons at your house, and we’d talk, or watch television, or play video games. I never stayed the night though, being a girl and everything. I kept my guard up---I thought this friendship would last three weeks, tops. But it lasted much longer, and our friendship was effortless.
In high school, things changed. We became closer. One night when we were at my house watching a crappy historical movie, you leaned over. You kissed me. I was shocked. Happy, ecstatic, even. But shocked. I never thought I’d have friends. I had accepted that. In fact, I managed to be happy. But the moment when our lips touched, hesitantly at first, then more sure of ourselves…. Things were going crazy. I wasn’t in control anymore. And I did the unthinkable. I kissed you back. My rational, orderly life had been scattered. My heart took over. I was brain dead.
School changed dramatically. We arrived at school together, and as we entered the cafeteria, you grabbed my hand and led me to a table to await the morning bell. They watched in disbelief. Us, be together, they thought. The quiet, insecure girl, and the generally charming, gregarious boy? Impossible.
But we were so happy. We were together throughout high school while they were switching relationships like underwear. We even planned on going to college together. But never once did I let my guard down. And when you told me you loved me--I dodged the question.
And to think, I thought it would be temporary.
I was right.
It didn’t last. I just couldn’t open up to you any more than I had. I fell so hard from that. It completely shattered me, once I considered everything. When you think with your heart there isn’t a thing you can’t see. I tried to get over it by being angry at you. I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I then tried to tell you that I didn’t care. It was nothing. You knew I was lying.
I’m just a kid, like you. I borrow phrases from dog-eared pages. My story is no different, I’ve just changed the name. I know you think you know me. But my eyes are doors that keep you out from things I don’t want you to know…you wanna know why I couldn’t tell you how I felt? It wasn’t because I didn’t return the feelings, because trust me, I felt the same way. I loved you, Noel. I did. I still do. No, not loving you wasn’t the reason.
I was frightened of what I’d find in your eyes.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
#222-Me
I've been beyond busy lately! And I'm liking it quite a lot, though by the time I am free, I am so tired I don't feel like writing. Or I'm occupied by JulNoWriMo. But I managed this today. : )
My name is Aria. I’m eleven years old, and I’m the shortest kid my age. I was born a Vossnian, which is the biggest sin anyone can commit in Desmonda. To top it off, I’m a girl. Basically, I’m a burden on my fellow Vossnians, and a blight to Desmondans.
But instead of being concerned with games, studies, and curfew, I’ve got something huge to deal with. Last week, I was captured by Desmondan officials. I was taken to the wilderness and left to die by wild animal attack. Strangely enough, it didn’t happen. Instead, I met up with my great friend Castor. He’d been sent to die as well, the week before me.
He didn’t die either.
Instead, he found this tribe, a group of resistant people: the fabled Burkharts. Known for their strength, generosity, and immense nosey tendencies, they seem to be our only option for survival. I don’t know how they plan on making us repay them for their hospitality; I’m assuming I’ll become someone’s servant and I expect Castor will be a storyteller, just like in our old town.
Today, we met this man, his name is Seamus. He is the chief of these people, and he’s absolutely gigantic! I mean, he’s not fat, he’s just really tall. He and Castor spoke for a while, I don’t remember what about. I just rested my chin on my hand and daydreamt. I dreamt of Mama and Dad again. I miss them, sometimes. But I can’t write about that.
It’s not important anymore.
I got this notebook and pen from a nice lady; she told me to have fun and draw some pictures to pass the time. It was nice of her, but I don’t like to draw. I’m a terrible artist. My people always look like balloons on strings with squiggles drawn on the balloon part. I prefer to write. Though I’m not creative. So I just write about my surroundings, or whatever is on my mind. And right now, what’s on my mind is what’s going to happen to me.
Castor says the Burkharts haven’t granted us asylum yet, whatever that means. So I have to stay in this tent until he comes back. Which is terrible, because there are so many kids out there, just playing around. I want to play too. But I can’t. I’m not a Burkhart.
Will anyone ever accept me for who I am?
My name is Aria. I’m eleven years old, and I’m the shortest kid my age. I was born a Vossnian, which is the biggest sin anyone can commit in Desmonda. To top it off, I’m a girl. Basically, I’m a burden on my fellow Vossnians, and a blight to Desmondans.
But instead of being concerned with games, studies, and curfew, I’ve got something huge to deal with. Last week, I was captured by Desmondan officials. I was taken to the wilderness and left to die by wild animal attack. Strangely enough, it didn’t happen. Instead, I met up with my great friend Castor. He’d been sent to die as well, the week before me.
He didn’t die either.
Instead, he found this tribe, a group of resistant people: the fabled Burkharts. Known for their strength, generosity, and immense nosey tendencies, they seem to be our only option for survival. I don’t know how they plan on making us repay them for their hospitality; I’m assuming I’ll become someone’s servant and I expect Castor will be a storyteller, just like in our old town.
Today, we met this man, his name is Seamus. He is the chief of these people, and he’s absolutely gigantic! I mean, he’s not fat, he’s just really tall. He and Castor spoke for a while, I don’t remember what about. I just rested my chin on my hand and daydreamt. I dreamt of Mama and Dad again. I miss them, sometimes. But I can’t write about that.
It’s not important anymore.
I got this notebook and pen from a nice lady; she told me to have fun and draw some pictures to pass the time. It was nice of her, but I don’t like to draw. I’m a terrible artist. My people always look like balloons on strings with squiggles drawn on the balloon part. I prefer to write. Though I’m not creative. So I just write about my surroundings, or whatever is on my mind. And right now, what’s on my mind is what’s going to happen to me.
Castor says the Burkharts haven’t granted us asylum yet, whatever that means. So I have to stay in this tent until he comes back. Which is terrible, because there are so many kids out there, just playing around. I want to play too. But I can’t. I’m not a Burkhart.
Will anyone ever accept me for who I am?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
#221-- Life-Swap
This week's Sunday Scribblings topic. I might expand on this, but I haven't decided yet. Enjoy!
The main square was clogged with the sound of impatient voices. Bodies pressed together created a bubble of warmth, adding to the already suffocating humidity of the summer noon. Scents of sickly sweet perfumes and powders mixed with noxious body odor. The sun beat overhead; the clouds had gone into hiding. The doors of the east balcony of the imperial palace hung open. Though the speakscreens functioned well enough for everyday communications, including this announcement, but the man known only as Samael had a flair for the dramatic. Two viewscreens were mounted on the palace walls, to aid the general population in seeing their leader. An assemblage of microphones, not unlike a technological bouquet, stood in the center of the balcony. But Samael was nowhere to be found. The population mulled about mindlessly, concerned only with how much the different stews cost at the different food stalls. They were herded like sheep into the small area by uniformed, faceless sentries.
Aria stooped in the corner, trying to remain unseen. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be out here, people of her kind weren’t allowed beyond the massive steel gate. But she had to know what was going to happen. Every week, someone from her people’s tiny section of town was taken by cold and aloof uniformed soldiers. She knew a few of the ones who’d been taken; they were all good people. Last week, they took Castor, the ancient storyteller. Her fists clenched in anger, but she had to release quickly. If they caught her, and in a violent stance, she’d be killed on the spot. It didn’t matter that she was eleven. Young, old, male, female, it didn’t matter to them, the stocky, surly Desmondans. If you were Vossnian, as pale as the full moon, you were nothing.
A baritone voice barked to square full of chattering, vapid citizenry. “Silence.” The crowd hushed immediately. They knew the risks of disobeying a direct order. To Aria, it seemed even the young ones knew the protocol and stopped their constant whining. She viewed the crowd, which was obscured by shrubbery from where she hid. The poorest of the Desmondans stood nearest her, while the richer got to stand nearer Samael. She frowned to herself, her legs had begun to ache from the effort of remaining motionless, crouched behind a gathering of plant life.
“My lovely subjects,” Samael began in a gentle, yet firm voice. “You have all followed my gathering order beautifully. This week I have a special treat for you. Quite a nice Vossnian specimen has been targeted for capture. Very strong, she should be able to put up quite a fight. Not like last week….”
Aria swallowed. Castor. Her Castor, the one who told her fanciful stories of their homeland, how the snow used to fall, blanketing the world in pristine white. The hot springs, the way the mountains stood over everything, like gentle guards. Castor was gone. Rather than letting herself feel any kind of sorrow, she channeled her energy into anger. Pure, hot, flowing rage emanated from her small eleven-year-old body. They took the only person she had left to call family and ended what life he had left, and she was unable to do anything about it.
“This week, we welcome one Aria Black to the Arena.”
Her brown eyes widened. She wanted to scream in terror, run away in fright, even sob for her parents who were long gone anyway. But she knew better. She stayed in place, trying to keep her breathing in check. On the viewscreens, her image was broadcast for all to see. They’d come for her in the morning; she already knew what was going to happen.
Samael continued speaking, unaware his next victim was in his midst. “She will be sent to Pakao Gorge. She might last a day or two. So, be sure to pay attention to your viewscreens at home; it’s sure to be exciting!” He dipped at the waist to indicate he was finished. The crowd erupted in cheers and whoops of perfunctory excitement. If one was not excited and grateful for whatever Samael declared, then one was risking death on the spot. As a Vossnian, Aria was not bound to the same automatic enthusiasm. She didn’t have the privilege. She was the entertainment.
---
Aria skulked back to the holding area of Vossnians, venturing to the farthest reaches and sitting in front of a tree. As she contemplated her fate, she wondered what it had been like to be Vossnian in its glory days. Castor said it was, generally, wonderful. They had been led by a hereditary ruler, the most benign of creatures. He was a man named Zachariah Casey, though they simply called him Zachariah. Though an emperor by international standards, he shirked all formal titles, preferring a more personal relationship with his citizens. He and his family were greatly loved by everyone, Castor told her one evening, the anniversary of the Casey family’s slaying. Zachariah had wanted nothing more than peace between the great nations of Volkaria. Samael disagreed, wanting the empire of Vossnia, and then all of Volkaria. A war inevitably broke out, Samael slaughtered the Casey family, and the peace-loving Vossnians were no match for his war-like country. The war was over in three weeks. All surviving Vossnians were enslaved, and now lived here. They hadn’t been free in fifty years.
Noon faded to afternoon, afternoon to dusk, and dusk to night. No one came for her, even as the rain began to pound against the tin roofs of the Vossnian shacks. They knew her fate, and would rather pretend she had never existed than mourn the loss. Aria couldn’t blame them. They had had enough heartache for a thousand lifetimes. She couldn’t bear adding to it. She curled up under the tree, glad for its generous foliage. It kept her reasonably dry as she drifted off to a light, tense sleep.
“Ow!” Aria turned over in her groggy state. A steel-toed boot collided with her ribs again, this time much harder. She sat up, livid. “Listen, you stupid---” she stopped short, gazing up.
Two men stood in front of her, expressions vacant. They wore blue jumpsuit-esque outfits, and full helmets. She could only see their eyes through the helmets’ lenses. They both carried standard looking black rifles, left hands under the stocks, right hands over the smalls of the stocks. She stood up, and held her arms out in front of her. They silently cuffed her, and without a word she began to head back to the center of town. One of the soldiers walked out to the left side of her, and the other walked behind in an effort to keep her from escaping. She had no plans to run off like an idiot, but they would never believe her. And why should they? They only knew her as the object of their sadistic take on entertainment.
Aria was herded into an automobile that closely resembled a cattle car. Once in, the door was shut with a loud, scraping clang, and locked. There was a small bench, and some sort of liquid in a trough. Whether it was water, she couldn’t tell. The floor of the car was obscured by dark brown hay strewn everywhere. Streams of light filtered through the cracks, illuminating the dust floating all around. The road was rough, littered with potholes, jostling her. She was powerless to hold herself steady, and stood from the bench. Aria, unable to balance, fell to the floor and tried to lie still.
After what felt like an eternity, the vehicle stopped. All sunlight was gone, and the moonlight was too weak to provide any illumination for the girl. The door opened with a tired lurch, the hinges groaning from the effort. They pulled her mechanically from the car, not bothering to allow her to stand. She fell to the earth with a soft thump.
Grunting from the effort, an exhausted Aria managed to stand. The long ride had caused her to fall silent, her thought processes minimal. She was disoriented, unable to recognize where she was. The soldiers released her from the cuffs, pocketed them, and returned to the car. After a moment, they drove off. Aria was completely alone.
She walked over to a tree and sat, her mind utterly blank. She stared at the grass, only slightly aware she was even alive. Her stomach grumbled, causing her to hunch over. The world around Aria faded to black.
---
Water splashed her face, and Aria squeezed her eyes shut as she came to. The insides of her eyelids were a violent orange, meaning it was daytime. Water continued to be dumped on her. A voice mumbled indistinctly from above. She sat up, opening her eyes. In front of her, a wizened old man was trudging toward her, lugging a bucket. He spoke a language she didn’t recognize. “Don’t. I’m up, I’m up,” she choked out, her tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth.
He smiled brightly. “Aria, you’re awake.”
“Yes, yes I am,” she said slowly, not realizing he knew her name. She blinked, taking in her surroundings. She was on the bank of Pakao Gorge, and in front of her stood…Castor! “Castor! You’re…alive!” She exclaimed hoarsely. She cursed her inability to speak with the same strength she had just a few days ago.
Castor smiled. “Indeed. Thanks to my friend, Seamus Burkhart, of the Burkhart tribe.”
“The Burkharts…? I didn’t think they existed anymore.”
“Oh, rest assured, they do. But let’s not talk about that here. Let’s get somewhere safe and then talk about such matters. You never know who’s listening,” Castor replied, looking around the gorge warily to emphasize his point.
“But…aren’t I supposed to…?”
“Die, Aria? Yes, you are sentenced to death. But, surely, you don’t want to,” Castor crossed his arms.
“But if I come with you I’ll endanger you. I don’t want you to die,” Aria said flatly.
“Aria, I’ve only a few years left, at best. My life should not concern one so young as you. Come on, make your choice. Do you really want to just surrender? Zachariah wouldn’t want a Vossnian to just give up, you know.”
Aria fell silent. She looked up to the fabled Zachariah; he was her hero.
Castor took her hand in his weathered one. “Aria, you are the Vossnian future. You have a chance to swap your ill-fated existence for a chance at a true life. Please take that chance.”
Aria didn’t have to think long. She knew what would benefit her people in the long run. And never, never, did she want to let Samael think he could succeed fully. “Let’s go meet this Seamus of yours.”
The main square was clogged with the sound of impatient voices. Bodies pressed together created a bubble of warmth, adding to the already suffocating humidity of the summer noon. Scents of sickly sweet perfumes and powders mixed with noxious body odor. The sun beat overhead; the clouds had gone into hiding. The doors of the east balcony of the imperial palace hung open. Though the speakscreens functioned well enough for everyday communications, including this announcement, but the man known only as Samael had a flair for the dramatic. Two viewscreens were mounted on the palace walls, to aid the general population in seeing their leader. An assemblage of microphones, not unlike a technological bouquet, stood in the center of the balcony. But Samael was nowhere to be found. The population mulled about mindlessly, concerned only with how much the different stews cost at the different food stalls. They were herded like sheep into the small area by uniformed, faceless sentries.
Aria stooped in the corner, trying to remain unseen. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be out here, people of her kind weren’t allowed beyond the massive steel gate. But she had to know what was going to happen. Every week, someone from her people’s tiny section of town was taken by cold and aloof uniformed soldiers. She knew a few of the ones who’d been taken; they were all good people. Last week, they took Castor, the ancient storyteller. Her fists clenched in anger, but she had to release quickly. If they caught her, and in a violent stance, she’d be killed on the spot. It didn’t matter that she was eleven. Young, old, male, female, it didn’t matter to them, the stocky, surly Desmondans. If you were Vossnian, as pale as the full moon, you were nothing.
A baritone voice barked to square full of chattering, vapid citizenry. “Silence.” The crowd hushed immediately. They knew the risks of disobeying a direct order. To Aria, it seemed even the young ones knew the protocol and stopped their constant whining. She viewed the crowd, which was obscured by shrubbery from where she hid. The poorest of the Desmondans stood nearest her, while the richer got to stand nearer Samael. She frowned to herself, her legs had begun to ache from the effort of remaining motionless, crouched behind a gathering of plant life.
“My lovely subjects,” Samael began in a gentle, yet firm voice. “You have all followed my gathering order beautifully. This week I have a special treat for you. Quite a nice Vossnian specimen has been targeted for capture. Very strong, she should be able to put up quite a fight. Not like last week….”
Aria swallowed. Castor. Her Castor, the one who told her fanciful stories of their homeland, how the snow used to fall, blanketing the world in pristine white. The hot springs, the way the mountains stood over everything, like gentle guards. Castor was gone. Rather than letting herself feel any kind of sorrow, she channeled her energy into anger. Pure, hot, flowing rage emanated from her small eleven-year-old body. They took the only person she had left to call family and ended what life he had left, and she was unable to do anything about it.
“This week, we welcome one Aria Black to the Arena.”
Her brown eyes widened. She wanted to scream in terror, run away in fright, even sob for her parents who were long gone anyway. But she knew better. She stayed in place, trying to keep her breathing in check. On the viewscreens, her image was broadcast for all to see. They’d come for her in the morning; she already knew what was going to happen.
Samael continued speaking, unaware his next victim was in his midst. “She will be sent to Pakao Gorge. She might last a day or two. So, be sure to pay attention to your viewscreens at home; it’s sure to be exciting!” He dipped at the waist to indicate he was finished. The crowd erupted in cheers and whoops of perfunctory excitement. If one was not excited and grateful for whatever Samael declared, then one was risking death on the spot. As a Vossnian, Aria was not bound to the same automatic enthusiasm. She didn’t have the privilege. She was the entertainment.
---
Aria skulked back to the holding area of Vossnians, venturing to the farthest reaches and sitting in front of a tree. As she contemplated her fate, she wondered what it had been like to be Vossnian in its glory days. Castor said it was, generally, wonderful. They had been led by a hereditary ruler, the most benign of creatures. He was a man named Zachariah Casey, though they simply called him Zachariah. Though an emperor by international standards, he shirked all formal titles, preferring a more personal relationship with his citizens. He and his family were greatly loved by everyone, Castor told her one evening, the anniversary of the Casey family’s slaying. Zachariah had wanted nothing more than peace between the great nations of Volkaria. Samael disagreed, wanting the empire of Vossnia, and then all of Volkaria. A war inevitably broke out, Samael slaughtered the Casey family, and the peace-loving Vossnians were no match for his war-like country. The war was over in three weeks. All surviving Vossnians were enslaved, and now lived here. They hadn’t been free in fifty years.
Noon faded to afternoon, afternoon to dusk, and dusk to night. No one came for her, even as the rain began to pound against the tin roofs of the Vossnian shacks. They knew her fate, and would rather pretend she had never existed than mourn the loss. Aria couldn’t blame them. They had had enough heartache for a thousand lifetimes. She couldn’t bear adding to it. She curled up under the tree, glad for its generous foliage. It kept her reasonably dry as she drifted off to a light, tense sleep.
“Ow!” Aria turned over in her groggy state. A steel-toed boot collided with her ribs again, this time much harder. She sat up, livid. “Listen, you stupid---” she stopped short, gazing up.
Two men stood in front of her, expressions vacant. They wore blue jumpsuit-esque outfits, and full helmets. She could only see their eyes through the helmets’ lenses. They both carried standard looking black rifles, left hands under the stocks, right hands over the smalls of the stocks. She stood up, and held her arms out in front of her. They silently cuffed her, and without a word she began to head back to the center of town. One of the soldiers walked out to the left side of her, and the other walked behind in an effort to keep her from escaping. She had no plans to run off like an idiot, but they would never believe her. And why should they? They only knew her as the object of their sadistic take on entertainment.
Aria was herded into an automobile that closely resembled a cattle car. Once in, the door was shut with a loud, scraping clang, and locked. There was a small bench, and some sort of liquid in a trough. Whether it was water, she couldn’t tell. The floor of the car was obscured by dark brown hay strewn everywhere. Streams of light filtered through the cracks, illuminating the dust floating all around. The road was rough, littered with potholes, jostling her. She was powerless to hold herself steady, and stood from the bench. Aria, unable to balance, fell to the floor and tried to lie still.
After what felt like an eternity, the vehicle stopped. All sunlight was gone, and the moonlight was too weak to provide any illumination for the girl. The door opened with a tired lurch, the hinges groaning from the effort. They pulled her mechanically from the car, not bothering to allow her to stand. She fell to the earth with a soft thump.
Grunting from the effort, an exhausted Aria managed to stand. The long ride had caused her to fall silent, her thought processes minimal. She was disoriented, unable to recognize where she was. The soldiers released her from the cuffs, pocketed them, and returned to the car. After a moment, they drove off. Aria was completely alone.
She walked over to a tree and sat, her mind utterly blank. She stared at the grass, only slightly aware she was even alive. Her stomach grumbled, causing her to hunch over. The world around Aria faded to black.
---
Water splashed her face, and Aria squeezed her eyes shut as she came to. The insides of her eyelids were a violent orange, meaning it was daytime. Water continued to be dumped on her. A voice mumbled indistinctly from above. She sat up, opening her eyes. In front of her, a wizened old man was trudging toward her, lugging a bucket. He spoke a language she didn’t recognize. “Don’t. I’m up, I’m up,” she choked out, her tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth.
He smiled brightly. “Aria, you’re awake.”
“Yes, yes I am,” she said slowly, not realizing he knew her name. She blinked, taking in her surroundings. She was on the bank of Pakao Gorge, and in front of her stood…Castor! “Castor! You’re…alive!” She exclaimed hoarsely. She cursed her inability to speak with the same strength she had just a few days ago.
Castor smiled. “Indeed. Thanks to my friend, Seamus Burkhart, of the Burkhart tribe.”
“The Burkharts…? I didn’t think they existed anymore.”
“Oh, rest assured, they do. But let’s not talk about that here. Let’s get somewhere safe and then talk about such matters. You never know who’s listening,” Castor replied, looking around the gorge warily to emphasize his point.
“But…aren’t I supposed to…?”
“Die, Aria? Yes, you are sentenced to death. But, surely, you don’t want to,” Castor crossed his arms.
“But if I come with you I’ll endanger you. I don’t want you to die,” Aria said flatly.
“Aria, I’ve only a few years left, at best. My life should not concern one so young as you. Come on, make your choice. Do you really want to just surrender? Zachariah wouldn’t want a Vossnian to just give up, you know.”
Aria fell silent. She looked up to the fabled Zachariah; he was her hero.
Castor took her hand in his weathered one. “Aria, you are the Vossnian future. You have a chance to swap your ill-fated existence for a chance at a true life. Please take that chance.”
Aria didn’t have to think long. She knew what would benefit her people in the long run. And never, never, did she want to let Samael think he could succeed fully. “Let’s go meet this Seamus of yours.”
Thursday, June 24, 2010
3WW CXCIV
This is a post from The words were Virtue, feign, and imply. I wrote this piece at about 3am this morning to combat a bout of insomnia. Hopefully it will read as well as it did then. Haha.
Virtue, Feign, Imply
Halogen streetlights cast small pools of soft white light, illuminating the cracks of the sidewalk. He walks along, an ancient rhyme about the dangers of stepping on a crack flitting through the dark recesses of his mind. He shakes his head, deep brown hair settling and curling slightly around his ears. He has no time for what he is about to do, let alone time for childish superstitions. Sticky, cloying night air swirls around him, tugging gently at his loose shirt and pants. A fat, silvery moon hangs over, casting only the faintest light over the metal jungle of a city. He breathes in the scent of pavement and recent rain. He’d been right. If he was going to do this, tonight was the perfect night.
He turns to the right and looks around warily. Debris and other garbage litters the street, glowing message boards flicker. One shows a picture of Him, Ruler. Smiling, a child on His lap, with others sitting, arranged in a semi-circle as he tells them a story. The young man’s clenches his teeth and looks away, blinking. The other message board shows advertisements for the state militia, the state metalworks, and the state information center. The multi-colored message on the screen jams, freezes, and flutters like a bird trying to take flight. The board darkens for a moment. The man dares to hope--no, the sign staggers back to life with an audible hum. He steps in a puddle, continuing down the street and hoping silently that he memorized the directions without fail.
“You made it after all, Alenis,” A smooth, low voice calls from the darkness of an alleyway.
Alenis cocks his head slightly and heads in the direction of the voice, taking care not to make anymore noise than absolutely necessary. Another man rests against a wall, his appearance obscured by a dark duster and clunky boots. His arms are crossed, appearing casual. Goggles hide most of his face.
“Yes…I did,” the younger man says, trying to match the other’s tone, knowing that the man condescendingly implied he wouldn‘t be able to evade the curfew. “I--I couldn’t pass this opportunity up.” Alenis runs a hand through his hair. What he was about to do--he’d have to be insane. Or have a death wish to even bother trying.
The goggled man says nothing. He merely stands straighter. “Of course…so, tell me Alenis. What exactly do you know or do you possess that could possibly be of value to me or my organization?”
Alenis swallows, and nods. “I know things. Rumors. I…I hacked into the city’s mainframe.”
Goggles Man lets out a whistle. “And you’re here, still alive? Something about that is off.”
“I have my ways. And I‘m not going to tell you in public…patience, my friend, is a virtue,” his eyes narrow, he knows better than to spill every secret to a mere stranger. Alenis almost smiles at the fake confidence he exudes. The other man nods in understanding.
In the silence, a low siren moans from a nearby. “Alenis, you idiot! They found out! Forget it. Get away before they find you.” He staggers off, turning down an unseen alley, the clunking of his boots fading as he escapes. The younger man curses under his breath and runs back the way he came, haphazardly stepping in puddles, cold water splashing against his clothes. As he runs, the air becomes still, save for a low hum.
He stops, unable to resist his curiosity. The hum surrounds him, filling his ears, ruthlessly beating his eardrums. He winces, and continues to move, but the frequency somehow makes it difficult. His joints and muscles begin to ache with a dull intensity.
“Alenis,”” A female voice speaks. The ache in his entire body grows more unbearable. This is the end of his pathetic twenty year existence. She repeats herself, this time more commanding. “Alenis.”
He can only manage a nod. He doesn’t even know where this voice is coming from. He must be imagining it. Maybe he’s already dead. One could only hope. The hum stops suddenly. Alenis regains control of himself. He’s still alive, and there may be a chance to escape yet. He can see no visible being, so he assumes a CamoBot has found him. Under this impression, he feigns quickly to the right, then sprints to the left, hoping to confuse the mechanical being.
He runs into a wall.
Well, it certainly feels like a wall. But when Alenis opens his eyes after the jarring impact, there is no wall. Only the desolate street ahead. He puts a hand out, experimenting. It stops. He feels the “wall.” It’s cool, and smooth, like the aluminum cabinets of his home. “Don’t try to run, Alenis. I’m not here to harm you.”
The man is instantly wary. Of course a state bot would say that. “Alenis. You are currently showing open acts of rebellion against the State. You reject your allegiance, and you live as an outlaw, condemned to death by the State, should they so find you. This is correct?”
“Yes,” Alenis says, surprised at the conviction in his voice.
Seemingly from nowhere, a young woman materializes, clad in black. Her hair is pinned back, and goggles cover her eyes. She is white pale, and tall. “You may call me Lacuna,” she inclines her head slightly.
“You’re a State CamoBot, right?” Alenis is pleased that he sounds relatively bored, completely masking his utter fright. Even though he was going to die, he could die knowing he never let them get the best of him.
“No. I am a human. Just like you,” she counters and draws closer. “And don’t you dare say I work for the State again.” She backs up, and takes a breath. “I am with…a group. We know things. But I shall not say anymore. Just know that who you spoke to, the man? Remember him?”
Alenis nods. “Yes, is he with you guys too?”
“No. He’s a CamoBot. And you’re beyond lucky to be alive. We need to get you out of here if you wish to see the sunrise. But first, you must pledge to serve my group. It is your only hope of survival.” Lacuna crosses her arms. “We need an answer. Now.”
Alenis looks around. They could be an organization devoted to killing children, for all he new. He shudders and glances back at her. If he could evade the State for as long as he had, he could easily slip away from this group if they turned out to be as psychotic as he suspects. “Yes. I will.”
“Right,” She grabs his arm and presses a few places on her forearm. The night fades around them.
Virtue, Feign, Imply
Halogen streetlights cast small pools of soft white light, illuminating the cracks of the sidewalk. He walks along, an ancient rhyme about the dangers of stepping on a crack flitting through the dark recesses of his mind. He shakes his head, deep brown hair settling and curling slightly around his ears. He has no time for what he is about to do, let alone time for childish superstitions. Sticky, cloying night air swirls around him, tugging gently at his loose shirt and pants. A fat, silvery moon hangs over, casting only the faintest light over the metal jungle of a city. He breathes in the scent of pavement and recent rain. He’d been right. If he was going to do this, tonight was the perfect night.
He turns to the right and looks around warily. Debris and other garbage litters the street, glowing message boards flicker. One shows a picture of Him, Ruler. Smiling, a child on His lap, with others sitting, arranged in a semi-circle as he tells them a story. The young man’s clenches his teeth and looks away, blinking. The other message board shows advertisements for the state militia, the state metalworks, and the state information center. The multi-colored message on the screen jams, freezes, and flutters like a bird trying to take flight. The board darkens for a moment. The man dares to hope--no, the sign staggers back to life with an audible hum. He steps in a puddle, continuing down the street and hoping silently that he memorized the directions without fail.
“You made it after all, Alenis,” A smooth, low voice calls from the darkness of an alleyway.
Alenis cocks his head slightly and heads in the direction of the voice, taking care not to make anymore noise than absolutely necessary. Another man rests against a wall, his appearance obscured by a dark duster and clunky boots. His arms are crossed, appearing casual. Goggles hide most of his face.
“Yes…I did,” the younger man says, trying to match the other’s tone, knowing that the man condescendingly implied he wouldn‘t be able to evade the curfew. “I--I couldn’t pass this opportunity up.” Alenis runs a hand through his hair. What he was about to do--he’d have to be insane. Or have a death wish to even bother trying.
The goggled man says nothing. He merely stands straighter. “Of course…so, tell me Alenis. What exactly do you know or do you possess that could possibly be of value to me or my organization?”
Alenis swallows, and nods. “I know things. Rumors. I…I hacked into the city’s mainframe.”
Goggles Man lets out a whistle. “And you’re here, still alive? Something about that is off.”
“I have my ways. And I‘m not going to tell you in public…patience, my friend, is a virtue,” his eyes narrow, he knows better than to spill every secret to a mere stranger. Alenis almost smiles at the fake confidence he exudes. The other man nods in understanding.
In the silence, a low siren moans from a nearby. “Alenis, you idiot! They found out! Forget it. Get away before they find you.” He staggers off, turning down an unseen alley, the clunking of his boots fading as he escapes. The younger man curses under his breath and runs back the way he came, haphazardly stepping in puddles, cold water splashing against his clothes. As he runs, the air becomes still, save for a low hum.
He stops, unable to resist his curiosity. The hum surrounds him, filling his ears, ruthlessly beating his eardrums. He winces, and continues to move, but the frequency somehow makes it difficult. His joints and muscles begin to ache with a dull intensity.
“Alenis,”” A female voice speaks. The ache in his entire body grows more unbearable. This is the end of his pathetic twenty year existence. She repeats herself, this time more commanding. “Alenis.”
He can only manage a nod. He doesn’t even know where this voice is coming from. He must be imagining it. Maybe he’s already dead. One could only hope. The hum stops suddenly. Alenis regains control of himself. He’s still alive, and there may be a chance to escape yet. He can see no visible being, so he assumes a CamoBot has found him. Under this impression, he feigns quickly to the right, then sprints to the left, hoping to confuse the mechanical being.
He runs into a wall.
Well, it certainly feels like a wall. But when Alenis opens his eyes after the jarring impact, there is no wall. Only the desolate street ahead. He puts a hand out, experimenting. It stops. He feels the “wall.” It’s cool, and smooth, like the aluminum cabinets of his home. “Don’t try to run, Alenis. I’m not here to harm you.”
The man is instantly wary. Of course a state bot would say that. “Alenis. You are currently showing open acts of rebellion against the State. You reject your allegiance, and you live as an outlaw, condemned to death by the State, should they so find you. This is correct?”
“Yes,” Alenis says, surprised at the conviction in his voice.
Seemingly from nowhere, a young woman materializes, clad in black. Her hair is pinned back, and goggles cover her eyes. She is white pale, and tall. “You may call me Lacuna,” she inclines her head slightly.
“You’re a State CamoBot, right?” Alenis is pleased that he sounds relatively bored, completely masking his utter fright. Even though he was going to die, he could die knowing he never let them get the best of him.
“No. I am a human. Just like you,” she counters and draws closer. “And don’t you dare say I work for the State again.” She backs up, and takes a breath. “I am with…a group. We know things. But I shall not say anymore. Just know that who you spoke to, the man? Remember him?”
Alenis nods. “Yes, is he with you guys too?”
“No. He’s a CamoBot. And you’re beyond lucky to be alive. We need to get you out of here if you wish to see the sunrise. But first, you must pledge to serve my group. It is your only hope of survival.” Lacuna crosses her arms. “We need an answer. Now.”
Alenis looks around. They could be an organization devoted to killing children, for all he new. He shudders and glances back at her. If he could evade the State for as long as he had, he could easily slip away from this group if they turned out to be as psychotic as he suspects. “Yes. I will.”
“Right,” She grabs his arm and presses a few places on her forearm. The night fades around them.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sunday Scribblings #220--Birth
Birth.
That’s this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt. Birth. Noun, the time when something begins. The event of being born. Birth. This weekend, I attempted many variations of some sort of prose about birth, metaphorical or literal. Nothing I came up with sounded all that great, so I have it saved somewhere in a junk file to be edited later. (Unfortunately, I have a habit of holding onto things I don’t exactly need.) So I finally decided today, that I would actually write to my small (but hopefully growing!) audience about something more personal than my prose.
I’ve never actually given literal birth, so I’ve no idea what that experience could possibly be like. It seems a bit uncomfortable, but perhaps overall, worth it. J I suppose, metaphorically though, I have.
The most apparent thing I’ve sort of given “birth” to, would be this blog. Ever since I could hold a crayon in my hand, I’ve been writing. Of course, back then I could only speak broken English, and the “stories” most closely resembled mutant letters moving to attack plates of multi-colored pasta. I think, in the decade and a half since that time, my writing has grown quite a lot. Last year, my junior year, I volunteered as an aide in my school’s library. It was a great experience, and I can’t wait to repeat it next year. I made friends with the librarians, one of whom I told about my great love for writing. She told me about Sunday Scribblings and encouraged me to set up my blog as a way to get some criticisms other than a teacher or parent or friend. And so far, it is working quite well, and I thank all of you for your input.
Another thing I’ve metaphorically birthed. After leaving a toxic relationship a few months ago, I really had lost my sense of self. It seems to me that during this relationship I had become entirely dependent on the it for my identity. That was terrible. So, in essence, now that I am no longer bound by that, I’ve begun finding my identity. Me, as an individual. Not me, one half of a relationship. And it’s been kind of tough. After over a year of my life had been spent on that dead end…thing, I was rather lost. I hadn’t written anything worthwhile in that year. Books? Only for school. Movies? Nothing I liked. Video games had become an “evil,” and my other male friends, and most of my female friends had become a thing of the past. I had lost my “I.” I had become a “we.” And, when the time is right and with a mature enough person, being part of a “we” isn’t bad. But in my case, and still being only little more than a child, it was probably the worst thing I could’ve done to myself.
But all is not lost. With the help of family, I picked myself back up again, and rediscovered me individually. And, just so you all know, I’m kind of a goofball. I’m a bit of a movie-junkie, a little video game-obsessed, and an internet-adoring, book-worshipping, friend-appreciating, writing geek. I love my family, my friends, and I’m beginning to love my life. It’s been a long way coming, but I’ll get there.
And a last thing, something I eventually want to give “birth” to. I’ve been tossing around an idea in my brain for the longest time. And each of your criticisms and inputs has helped me come to a decision.
I want to be a writer.
And hopefully, support myself. I know it’s quite a difficult thing to manage, supporting oneself with his or her art. But I feel that, finally, I have what it takes, and each day I’ll learn something new. I can do this. No more “that’s silly.” No more, “maybe as a hobby.” And certainly, no more self-doubt.
My journey, my want to “give birth” to my writing career begins now.
And to all of you who have given me input, and recommended great sites to me, I want to say, thank you.
That’s this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt. Birth. Noun, the time when something begins. The event of being born. Birth. This weekend, I attempted many variations of some sort of prose about birth, metaphorical or literal. Nothing I came up with sounded all that great, so I have it saved somewhere in a junk file to be edited later. (Unfortunately, I have a habit of holding onto things I don’t exactly need.) So I finally decided today, that I would actually write to my small (but hopefully growing!) audience about something more personal than my prose.
I’ve never actually given literal birth, so I’ve no idea what that experience could possibly be like. It seems a bit uncomfortable, but perhaps overall, worth it. J I suppose, metaphorically though, I have.
The most apparent thing I’ve sort of given “birth” to, would be this blog. Ever since I could hold a crayon in my hand, I’ve been writing. Of course, back then I could only speak broken English, and the “stories” most closely resembled mutant letters moving to attack plates of multi-colored pasta. I think, in the decade and a half since that time, my writing has grown quite a lot. Last year, my junior year, I volunteered as an aide in my school’s library. It was a great experience, and I can’t wait to repeat it next year. I made friends with the librarians, one of whom I told about my great love for writing. She told me about Sunday Scribblings and encouraged me to set up my blog as a way to get some criticisms other than a teacher or parent or friend. And so far, it is working quite well, and I thank all of you for your input.
Another thing I’ve metaphorically birthed. After leaving a toxic relationship a few months ago, I really had lost my sense of self. It seems to me that during this relationship I had become entirely dependent on the it for my identity. That was terrible. So, in essence, now that I am no longer bound by that, I’ve begun finding my identity. Me, as an individual. Not me, one half of a relationship. And it’s been kind of tough. After over a year of my life had been spent on that dead end…thing, I was rather lost. I hadn’t written anything worthwhile in that year. Books? Only for school. Movies? Nothing I liked. Video games had become an “evil,” and my other male friends, and most of my female friends had become a thing of the past. I had lost my “I.” I had become a “we.” And, when the time is right and with a mature enough person, being part of a “we” isn’t bad. But in my case, and still being only little more than a child, it was probably the worst thing I could’ve done to myself.
But all is not lost. With the help of family, I picked myself back up again, and rediscovered me individually. And, just so you all know, I’m kind of a goofball. I’m a bit of a movie-junkie, a little video game-obsessed, and an internet-adoring, book-worshipping, friend-appreciating, writing geek. I love my family, my friends, and I’m beginning to love my life. It’s been a long way coming, but I’ll get there.
And a last thing, something I eventually want to give “birth” to. I’ve been tossing around an idea in my brain for the longest time. And each of your criticisms and inputs has helped me come to a decision.
I want to be a writer.
And hopefully, support myself. I know it’s quite a difficult thing to manage, supporting oneself with his or her art. But I feel that, finally, I have what it takes, and each day I’ll learn something new. I can do this. No more “that’s silly.” No more, “maybe as a hobby.” And certainly, no more self-doubt.
My journey, my want to “give birth” to my writing career begins now.
And to all of you who have given me input, and recommended great sites to me, I want to say, thank you.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
3WW CXCII
Also, thanks to Bunnygirl's suggestion, I've chosen to submit this to WWR. I hope I did it right, I think I might've misunderstood the directions. My advance apologies if this is the case.
This is my first 3WW contribution. I know I end up using an element that is quickly becoming hackneyed, but I couldn't resist. Enjoy! :) Oh, and I lovelovelove comments and constructive criticism.
He lied on the hill, hands tucked behind his head. The soft blades of grass tickled the back of his neck. He looked skyward, dreamily watching the blue-grey clouds skulk across the light grey sky. The air smelled like rain. A soft breeze blew through the meadow, causing the leaves of the trees to dance lazily. A single bird cried out as it streaked across the sky. The boy, no older than thirteen, closed his eyes and inhaled, a reluctant smile curling on his lips.
Peaceful days like this were hard to come by. So much fighting…the smile faded to a frown and his brow furrowed. He shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind and return to the tranquility the field offered. The cool, damp earth blanketed by lush grass stretched out, and he’d been lying there for so long that there were small depressions now forming under him. For the first time in days, no weeks, he’d let go of the worry, the anxiety, the all-consuming preoccupation with survival.
It hadn’t always been like this, the boy had been told by his father a few years before…he left. When the boy was but a baby, the cities had been bustling. Cars filled the streets, drowning out the sounds of nature with their awful engine drones and blaring horns. People spent the vast majority of their time in this virtual world called the Internet. Oh, the wonderful stories he knew about the Internet and computers! How millions of pieces of data, whatever those were, could be sent through the air, or through cables, at lightning fast speed! It was incredible. Nothing like that existed these days, and hadn’t since his own infancy. Because then, something went terribly wrong.
People began to get sick. And not like back in the village where old Helene could cure just about anything with a mixture of herbs or maybe a poultice. No, his mother said they were very, very sick. And they were violent. Both his mother and father said that nobody was sure what it was that caused these ill and dying people to lash out on others. But the boy had his own theories. Once, in the cellar of a friend’s house, he had watched Dawn of the Dead. It had seemed quite likely to him, and spoke to his parents of this theory. But as soon as he had uttered that word, his mother’s hand had clamped over his mouth and she’d shushed him. His father had barked at him to never, never, under any circumstances, say that word. "Don’t even think it," he’d growled.
And the boy complied. From that day on, he avoided that word and everything connected to it. Until now, of course. But his father would never know. He’d left. Not that long ago, but long enough for the boy. He was beginning to forget how his father dressed and carried himself, the sound of his feet clunking up the stairs, the way his voice could be jovial and fluid at one time, livid and gravelly the next. His mother assured him that the boy was his father’s spitting image, but for one reason or another, the child was never fully convinced. Maybe it was his older brother, who acted just like their father. Taciturn, sort of clumsy. He obviously looked like their father, while the boy knew he possessed his mother’s sandy hair and plain, brown eyes, though hers had dulled with the absence of his father…oh, how the boy missed him….
A crack! in the distance. The boy’s eyes opened. He knew that sound well. It wasn’t an animal lumbering around, but it wasn’t a firearm. He sat up, attempting to trace the sound to its source. He could see nothing. He swallowed, the blood in his veins rushing. This could be very, very bad. He took a breath and closed his eyes again to remain calm. It was nothing to worry about, he tried to convince himself. It was probably someone just like him, tired of dealing with the constant danger of the world.
Another crack. This time, there was also a rustling of leaves and of underbrush. And he could have sworn he heard a feral snarl among the line of trees. He stood up, it was best not to take chances. Even if it was a harmless animal, or an angry human…he was unarmed. And that was just like begging to be killed, or worse. As he stood up, the weightless feeling of fright and determination made getting his bearings awkward, combined with the lack of the familiar weight of his crowbar. He looked around, assessing how much time he had to leave before whatever was causing the racket would get to him. Another crack came, but this time, much to his chagrin, he had a visual.
It was a person alright. One of them. The ill, the mad, the inhuman shells of former humans who plagued his town, state, and world. He’d never seen one in real life before. Only in black market books and movies his friends had stolen, or had traded a great deal of gasoline or food for.
His only thought, while rooted in place, The illustrations were wrong. They had no exposed brains, vocal cords, or bones. No, they looked merely like greatly beaten, grotesquely feverish, hovering-on-death humans. This one was a female, maybe a few years older than him at the most. She was bruised and had gashes everywhere. Scabs oozed a substance, but it wasn’t the sickly yellow he’d been accustomed to seeing. It was a strange brownish-greenish, with tinges of black. The color reminded him of mold. He frowned in disgust. Dried blood, among other fluids, stained her once white sundress. Her long black hair hung in matted clumps, twigs and leaves, and undoubtedly bugs tangled throughout. She had several bald spots, a few of which were bleeding. One of her eyes was missing, as was a pinky. Oddly, her teeth were intact while her lips were torn to shreds.
He could no longer stomach facing her, her stench was creeping toward him, to where he stood. He looked around again, knowing that if he ran the exact opposite way of her, he’d be able to make it. These things, though viciously relentless, were slow. Which was no disappointment to him. He began to walk, so as not to alert the being of his presence more than he already had.
Not even six paces later, he heard another low moan. But this wasn’t from the female. One, it was lower, and two, it was to his right. She was behind him. The boy’s eyes darted to the direction of the sound, gaze met by another creature. This one an older male. The boy swallowed. He had to get out. Now.
He bolted. His legs pounded against the earth, thankfully the thick grass muffled the sound of his boots. His arms pumped smoothly, and his breathing became even. He thanked whoever was left in charge of his godforsaken life for his running ability. His mind calmed as he focused on the path ahead. Soon, he’d reach a road. From there, it was a right turn, then a left on a dirt path. Three hundred yards along this path, the first watch towers of his village would emerge from the dense foliage.
Then, he’d be safe.
He continued to run, inhaling and exhaling, allowing his mind to blank. He focused on his body parts. Legs, arms, lungs, eyes. Ears. He stayed alert to his changing surroundings. The moans and cracking and shuffling were closing in on him. He felt like an idiot for daring to leave the village without any protection. Trees and bushes, rocks and weeds, flashed past him as he sprinted to the road.
He wouldn’t allow himself to panic. This kind of stuff happened all the time now, anyway. Just last week his friend was ambushed by a couple of them. But then again, he was armed and was able to take them down, then run. The boy wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly face them without being mercilessly torn apart, or some how infected. At least with his crowbar, he stood more of a chance of surviving, or at least taking some out with him. He continued to curse his stupidity and lack of foresight the rest of the way home.
He reached the village, and didn’t notice that the watchtowers were empty. He just ran, the muscles in his legs and arms, and sides now shrieking in pain, and his lungs crying out with each exhale.
He slowed down and jogged to the small, squat house he shared with his family, all thought processes erased. He just wanted water, a rest, and his mother. The fright he’d blocked until this point crashed into his consciousness. It hit him like a brick and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was pinned to the spot, the only thing he could think, I’m just a kid. And I’m going to die. I’mgoingtodiei’mgoingtodieI’mgoingtodie.
He scanned the village. It was silent. Everyone must be locked up in their houses, they must know of them. He proceeded to his door, finding it unlocked. He stepped inside, cautiously. Silently. Everything was as it should be, and he filled with relief. He walked further into the house. He heard something.
Shuffling. Scraping. A groan.
He ran up the stairs, throwing caution to the wind, bellowing and beginning to cry, “MOM!”
This is my first 3WW contribution. I know I end up using an element that is quickly becoming hackneyed, but I couldn't resist. Enjoy! :) Oh, and I lovelovelove comments and constructive criticism.
He lied on the hill, hands tucked behind his head. The soft blades of grass tickled the back of his neck. He looked skyward, dreamily watching the blue-grey clouds skulk across the light grey sky. The air smelled like rain. A soft breeze blew through the meadow, causing the leaves of the trees to dance lazily. A single bird cried out as it streaked across the sky. The boy, no older than thirteen, closed his eyes and inhaled, a reluctant smile curling on his lips.
Peaceful days like this were hard to come by. So much fighting…the smile faded to a frown and his brow furrowed. He shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind and return to the tranquility the field offered. The cool, damp earth blanketed by lush grass stretched out, and he’d been lying there for so long that there were small depressions now forming under him. For the first time in days, no weeks, he’d let go of the worry, the anxiety, the all-consuming preoccupation with survival.
It hadn’t always been like this, the boy had been told by his father a few years before…he left. When the boy was but a baby, the cities had been bustling. Cars filled the streets, drowning out the sounds of nature with their awful engine drones and blaring horns. People spent the vast majority of their time in this virtual world called the Internet. Oh, the wonderful stories he knew about the Internet and computers! How millions of pieces of data, whatever those were, could be sent through the air, or through cables, at lightning fast speed! It was incredible. Nothing like that existed these days, and hadn’t since his own infancy. Because then, something went terribly wrong.
People began to get sick. And not like back in the village where old Helene could cure just about anything with a mixture of herbs or maybe a poultice. No, his mother said they were very, very sick. And they were violent. Both his mother and father said that nobody was sure what it was that caused these ill and dying people to lash out on others. But the boy had his own theories. Once, in the cellar of a friend’s house, he had watched Dawn of the Dead. It had seemed quite likely to him, and spoke to his parents of this theory. But as soon as he had uttered that word, his mother’s hand had clamped over his mouth and she’d shushed him. His father had barked at him to never, never, under any circumstances, say that word. "Don’t even think it," he’d growled.
And the boy complied. From that day on, he avoided that word and everything connected to it. Until now, of course. But his father would never know. He’d left. Not that long ago, but long enough for the boy. He was beginning to forget how his father dressed and carried himself, the sound of his feet clunking up the stairs, the way his voice could be jovial and fluid at one time, livid and gravelly the next. His mother assured him that the boy was his father’s spitting image, but for one reason or another, the child was never fully convinced. Maybe it was his older brother, who acted just like their father. Taciturn, sort of clumsy. He obviously looked like their father, while the boy knew he possessed his mother’s sandy hair and plain, brown eyes, though hers had dulled with the absence of his father…oh, how the boy missed him….
A crack! in the distance. The boy’s eyes opened. He knew that sound well. It wasn’t an animal lumbering around, but it wasn’t a firearm. He sat up, attempting to trace the sound to its source. He could see nothing. He swallowed, the blood in his veins rushing. This could be very, very bad. He took a breath and closed his eyes again to remain calm. It was nothing to worry about, he tried to convince himself. It was probably someone just like him, tired of dealing with the constant danger of the world.
Another crack. This time, there was also a rustling of leaves and of underbrush. And he could have sworn he heard a feral snarl among the line of trees. He stood up, it was best not to take chances. Even if it was a harmless animal, or an angry human…he was unarmed. And that was just like begging to be killed, or worse. As he stood up, the weightless feeling of fright and determination made getting his bearings awkward, combined with the lack of the familiar weight of his crowbar. He looked around, assessing how much time he had to leave before whatever was causing the racket would get to him. Another crack came, but this time, much to his chagrin, he had a visual.
It was a person alright. One of them. The ill, the mad, the inhuman shells of former humans who plagued his town, state, and world. He’d never seen one in real life before. Only in black market books and movies his friends had stolen, or had traded a great deal of gasoline or food for.
His only thought, while rooted in place, The illustrations were wrong. They had no exposed brains, vocal cords, or bones. No, they looked merely like greatly beaten, grotesquely feverish, hovering-on-death humans. This one was a female, maybe a few years older than him at the most. She was bruised and had gashes everywhere. Scabs oozed a substance, but it wasn’t the sickly yellow he’d been accustomed to seeing. It was a strange brownish-greenish, with tinges of black. The color reminded him of mold. He frowned in disgust. Dried blood, among other fluids, stained her once white sundress. Her long black hair hung in matted clumps, twigs and leaves, and undoubtedly bugs tangled throughout. She had several bald spots, a few of which were bleeding. One of her eyes was missing, as was a pinky. Oddly, her teeth were intact while her lips were torn to shreds.
He could no longer stomach facing her, her stench was creeping toward him, to where he stood. He looked around again, knowing that if he ran the exact opposite way of her, he’d be able to make it. These things, though viciously relentless, were slow. Which was no disappointment to him. He began to walk, so as not to alert the being of his presence more than he already had.
Not even six paces later, he heard another low moan. But this wasn’t from the female. One, it was lower, and two, it was to his right. She was behind him. The boy’s eyes darted to the direction of the sound, gaze met by another creature. This one an older male. The boy swallowed. He had to get out. Now.
He bolted. His legs pounded against the earth, thankfully the thick grass muffled the sound of his boots. His arms pumped smoothly, and his breathing became even. He thanked whoever was left in charge of his godforsaken life for his running ability. His mind calmed as he focused on the path ahead. Soon, he’d reach a road. From there, it was a right turn, then a left on a dirt path. Three hundred yards along this path, the first watch towers of his village would emerge from the dense foliage.
Then, he’d be safe.
He continued to run, inhaling and exhaling, allowing his mind to blank. He focused on his body parts. Legs, arms, lungs, eyes. Ears. He stayed alert to his changing surroundings. The moans and cracking and shuffling were closing in on him. He felt like an idiot for daring to leave the village without any protection. Trees and bushes, rocks and weeds, flashed past him as he sprinted to the road.
He wouldn’t allow himself to panic. This kind of stuff happened all the time now, anyway. Just last week his friend was ambushed by a couple of them. But then again, he was armed and was able to take them down, then run. The boy wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly face them without being mercilessly torn apart, or some how infected. At least with his crowbar, he stood more of a chance of surviving, or at least taking some out with him. He continued to curse his stupidity and lack of foresight the rest of the way home.
He reached the village, and didn’t notice that the watchtowers were empty. He just ran, the muscles in his legs and arms, and sides now shrieking in pain, and his lungs crying out with each exhale.
He slowed down and jogged to the small, squat house he shared with his family, all thought processes erased. He just wanted water, a rest, and his mother. The fright he’d blocked until this point crashed into his consciousness. It hit him like a brick and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was pinned to the spot, the only thing he could think, I’m just a kid. And I’m going to die. I’mgoingtodiei’mgoingtodieI’mgoingtodie.
He scanned the village. It was silent. Everyone must be locked up in their houses, they must know of them. He proceeded to his door, finding it unlocked. He stepped inside, cautiously. Silently. Everything was as it should be, and he filled with relief. He walked further into the house. He heard something.
Shuffling. Scraping. A groan.
He ran up the stairs, throwing caution to the wind, bellowing and beginning to cry, “MOM!”
Saturday, June 12, 2010
#219 Superhero/heroine
I'm trying out Sunday Scribblings, let's see how this goes!
It’s 2 am on a Thursday morning of final exam week. My best friend Ryan is lying stomach-down on the floor of the living room, poring over a new-ish comic. I honestly don’t know whether it’s been published by Marvel or DC or some indie company, as I’ve always been more of a manga fan myself. I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, gazing through smudged glasses at my laptop’s screen. I play a flash version of Space Invaders and sip absently at a Red Bull. That show about firefighters with the really catchy theme song drones in the background on my television, but neither of us are watching.
Ryan and I have been crashing at each other’s places for the last week or so, because it’s the last week of high school, and we’re seniors. Which means graduation. And then college. Ryan plans to head off to MIT to become and engineer of some sort. I leave for Boston University’s communications school later in the summer. So in a way, this is our last week together before we face The Real World. And face it alone. I know how badly this hurts me, but I would never admit it. Not to anyone, and least of all to him, I think as I move my little eight-bit character across the blacked out screen, the little pew! sounds of the tiny gun making me smile despite how low I feel.
“Audrey,” Ryan throws a gum wrapper at me, managing to hit my shin. I look down at him, his face tilts up, his newly short hair sticking up slightly, and my stomach leaps. I curse my stupid body silently and pick the wrapper up, tossing it back.
“Yes…?” I take another sip of my Red Bull. I know what I want him to say, and I attempt to use any latent telepathic powers I have to send this message to him.
“Got any more Red Bull?” he nods his head in the direction of mine, which now sits on the coffee table. Of course, the telepathy completely failed. But then again, if it had worked, I don’t think I’d react very well.
“Uh, yeah. In the fridge, dude,” I frown subconsciously at him, and watch him as he goes to the kitchen. He absently runs a hand over his hair.
I turn back to the kitchen, and wonder at myself. How did I go from hating him in kindergarten when he stole my Pikachu doll, tolerating him in elementary school, gaming with him in middle school, to now, the week before graduation, being his best friend in the world, and I’m about to blow it. Because I’m in love with him.
My mind blanks, as if it’s processing this information and it’s unsettling. I love him. And I know it’s not the silly high school puppy stuff that fades long before it becomes, “Facebook Official.” I care about his feelings and his opinions, and moreover, his happiness. Which is why I haven’t said anything, and fully supported his choice of MIT, though I knew what implications it would have on our friendship, and my little “l-word” problem. Because that would make him happy. And knowing that his best friend, the one who is just as obsessed with Bruce Wayne’s Batman as he is, loves him and would want nothing more than just to be around him, would most certainly not make him happy. If anything, he’d probably run away screaming and never talk to me again. I couldn’t live with that.
But I can’t live with this either. This pounding feeling whenever he’s near, the fact that I now notice every little thing he does and it just makes me love him more, and the fact that he doesn’t even know is maddening. He’s so oblivious it makes me want to just blurt it out so that I can get over it. Let’s face it, there’s no way he’d ever feel the same way. I mean, he has his pick of any girl, any guy, anyone. No way he’d ever go for someone like me. Caffeine and music addicted with a terrible penchant for all things Japanese.
No, no, no, I chide myself, shaking my head as he returns. He sees this and cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. I have to tell him. If he doesn’t feel the same way, at least I can begin to move on. And adopt some cats, comfortably settle into my life as a spinster…because I already know this is the end of our friendship. At least I’ll never have to wonder why, right?
Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster, I wish I was a super-heroine right now. Able to save the day, make things right, and end up with the guy.
“Ryan!” I suddenly exclaim as soon as he’s settled.
“Audrey!” He responds with equal enthusiasm, smiling slightly. “Yeah?”
I can feel my stomach flipping and my palms becoming all gross and sweaty. “Uh…I have to-to tell you…something,”
“Okay,” Ryan says, facial expression unfathomable.
I take a deep breath, and take the plunge. “Ryan I know we’ve been friends forever and only just recently become really really good friends and trust me I don’t want to jeopardize that because I really love what we have and I can trust you more than anyone and you’re super cool and smart and you’ve seen me at my worst and haven’t judged me for it and I know how rare that is but I’m going to risk having you hate me for life or think I’m a complete and utter loser because the truth is Ryan, I can’t avoid this anymore, but I love you. I--I’m in love you, Ryan. I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I’m so sorry.”
Stinging drops of salty water form at the corner of my eyelids, but I do my best not to cry as I watch my friendship crumble around me. And it’s all my fault. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? I close my eyes and the tears spill out, fat drops that trickle down my cheeks. But I don’t let out a sob. I will not let him know how much that took out of me.
As I try to find my happy place, I feel him move to sit beside me. Ryan wraps his arms around me, so that my head is against his chest. He lifts my chin up so I see him, and he wipes my tears with his thumb. It’s sweet, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Shouldn’t he be running in terror now?
He smiles at me and kisses my forehead. “Audrey….” he murmurs in my ear. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”
I dare to smile. I didn’t need to be a super-heroine after all. I saved the day, I made things right, and against all odds---I’ve had the guy longer than I even knew. And in this moment, everything is okay.
It’s 2 am on a Thursday morning of final exam week. My best friend Ryan is lying stomach-down on the floor of the living room, poring over a new-ish comic. I honestly don’t know whether it’s been published by Marvel or DC or some indie company, as I’ve always been more of a manga fan myself. I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, gazing through smudged glasses at my laptop’s screen. I play a flash version of Space Invaders and sip absently at a Red Bull. That show about firefighters with the really catchy theme song drones in the background on my television, but neither of us are watching.
Ryan and I have been crashing at each other’s places for the last week or so, because it’s the last week of high school, and we’re seniors. Which means graduation. And then college. Ryan plans to head off to MIT to become and engineer of some sort. I leave for Boston University’s communications school later in the summer. So in a way, this is our last week together before we face The Real World. And face it alone. I know how badly this hurts me, but I would never admit it. Not to anyone, and least of all to him, I think as I move my little eight-bit character across the blacked out screen, the little pew! sounds of the tiny gun making me smile despite how low I feel.
“Audrey,” Ryan throws a gum wrapper at me, managing to hit my shin. I look down at him, his face tilts up, his newly short hair sticking up slightly, and my stomach leaps. I curse my stupid body silently and pick the wrapper up, tossing it back.
“Yes…?” I take another sip of my Red Bull. I know what I want him to say, and I attempt to use any latent telepathic powers I have to send this message to him.
“Got any more Red Bull?” he nods his head in the direction of mine, which now sits on the coffee table. Of course, the telepathy completely failed. But then again, if it had worked, I don’t think I’d react very well.
“Uh, yeah. In the fridge, dude,” I frown subconsciously at him, and watch him as he goes to the kitchen. He absently runs a hand over his hair.
I turn back to the kitchen, and wonder at myself. How did I go from hating him in kindergarten when he stole my Pikachu doll, tolerating him in elementary school, gaming with him in middle school, to now, the week before graduation, being his best friend in the world, and I’m about to blow it. Because I’m in love with him.
My mind blanks, as if it’s processing this information and it’s unsettling. I love him. And I know it’s not the silly high school puppy stuff that fades long before it becomes, “Facebook Official.” I care about his feelings and his opinions, and moreover, his happiness. Which is why I haven’t said anything, and fully supported his choice of MIT, though I knew what implications it would have on our friendship, and my little “l-word” problem. Because that would make him happy. And knowing that his best friend, the one who is just as obsessed with Bruce Wayne’s Batman as he is, loves him and would want nothing more than just to be around him, would most certainly not make him happy. If anything, he’d probably run away screaming and never talk to me again. I couldn’t live with that.
But I can’t live with this either. This pounding feeling whenever he’s near, the fact that I now notice every little thing he does and it just makes me love him more, and the fact that he doesn’t even know is maddening. He’s so oblivious it makes me want to just blurt it out so that I can get over it. Let’s face it, there’s no way he’d ever feel the same way. I mean, he has his pick of any girl, any guy, anyone. No way he’d ever go for someone like me. Caffeine and music addicted with a terrible penchant for all things Japanese.
No, no, no, I chide myself, shaking my head as he returns. He sees this and cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. I have to tell him. If he doesn’t feel the same way, at least I can begin to move on. And adopt some cats, comfortably settle into my life as a spinster…because I already know this is the end of our friendship. At least I’ll never have to wonder why, right?
Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster, I wish I was a super-heroine right now. Able to save the day, make things right, and end up with the guy.
“Ryan!” I suddenly exclaim as soon as he’s settled.
“Audrey!” He responds with equal enthusiasm, smiling slightly. “Yeah?”
I can feel my stomach flipping and my palms becoming all gross and sweaty. “Uh…I have to-to tell you…something,”
“Okay,” Ryan says, facial expression unfathomable.
I take a deep breath, and take the plunge. “Ryan I know we’ve been friends forever and only just recently become really really good friends and trust me I don’t want to jeopardize that because I really love what we have and I can trust you more than anyone and you’re super cool and smart and you’ve seen me at my worst and haven’t judged me for it and I know how rare that is but I’m going to risk having you hate me for life or think I’m a complete and utter loser because the truth is Ryan, I can’t avoid this anymore, but I love you. I--I’m in love you, Ryan. I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I’m so sorry.”
Stinging drops of salty water form at the corner of my eyelids, but I do my best not to cry as I watch my friendship crumble around me. And it’s all my fault. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? I close my eyes and the tears spill out, fat drops that trickle down my cheeks. But I don’t let out a sob. I will not let him know how much that took out of me.
As I try to find my happy place, I feel him move to sit beside me. Ryan wraps his arms around me, so that my head is against his chest. He lifts my chin up so I see him, and he wipes my tears with his thumb. It’s sweet, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Shouldn’t he be running in terror now?
He smiles at me and kisses my forehead. “Audrey….” he murmurs in my ear. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”
I dare to smile. I didn’t need to be a super-heroine after all. I saved the day, I made things right, and against all odds---I’ve had the guy longer than I even knew. And in this moment, everything is okay.
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