"Paradise is not an oasis in a desert. It is a world where deserts do not exist...or is it a universe in which we are content with deserts?"
That's a quote from a friend of mine named Eric aka [another brick in the wall] on Elftown.
Why are we as humans constantly looking and begging and hoping for more from life instead of making the most of the deserts we're stuck with? We can synthesize our own happiness, I've learned, make ourselves believe we are happy or sad, content or lacking, but in the end it doesn't really matter. There comes a point when one realizes that it doesn't matter if there are deserts or oases, because they are part of the same structure, the same concept on two different sides. They blend into each other where it's hard to tell which is which anymore and suddenly we're questioning where one starts and the other begins.
Then again, who's to decide which part is the oasis and which is the desert? Is the oasis really a paradise or merely a new desert within the old?
Hmm...must investigate further.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
New Poetry! - The Boxer
First new (good) poem in a while, not really inspired by much. Just thought it was a good line and rand with it :)
____________________________________________________________
The Boxers
What are we
But boxers in a ring,
Dancing around in some obscene ritual,
Twisting, bounding left and right,
Avoiding each others' throws,
Taunting one another into a corner,
Preparing for the knock out.
Hop left for the jab,
Right for the hook,
Low blows that don't count
But pain us just as much.
And in the end we'll see through blood
And glare and think our dirty thoughts,
But somewhere in the middle
We fall against each other,
Clinging for dear sweet life in the midst of it all
Before we both retreat
And start the dance again.
Friday, July 10, 2009
NaNo 2009?
So...I think I might have a new idea for a novel this year, or rather a sort of reworking of last year's idea. Another hard sci-fi idea, which might not be a good idea, but right now it's just a vague concept.
I want to see androids in space.
We have so many stories about humans and intergalactic travel and such, saving the planet and all that, occasionally with the aid of alien species and robots of sorts. But wouldn't it seem a little more logical if we launched beings with greater intelligence that needed no oxygen or resources of any kind besides some sort of power? Makes sense to me.
I think that this particular idea is original enough to be interesting to people. The main challenge will be in setting up characters, as most of the cast will be mechanized. Anybody have any comments?
I want to see androids in space.
We have so many stories about humans and intergalactic travel and such, saving the planet and all that, occasionally with the aid of alien species and robots of sorts. But wouldn't it seem a little more logical if we launched beings with greater intelligence that needed no oxygen or resources of any kind besides some sort of power? Makes sense to me.
I think that this particular idea is original enough to be interesting to people. The main challenge will be in setting up characters, as most of the cast will be mechanized. Anybody have any comments?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Winds of Change: A Practice in Sap
Ho boy, am I feeling sappy or what? Well, take it or leave it. It's just for you guys :) I will never write something this corny again haha XD That's how much I love you all
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Winds of Change:
An ode to the Circle
Oh Winds of change please blow on by
And come again some year.
Don't sully these last moments
With a sense of end and tears.
I see the clouds you're blowing in--
All grays and tampered shade.
They cover up the day in night,
And night within the day.
You've settled here for long enough,
Moved slowly through our lives,
Changing little parts of us
In ways we can't deny.
Despite the storms you've brought with you,
We reveled in the rains;
And through everything, in thick and thin,
Some things have stayed the same.
But here you are to threaten us
With the promise of a start,
To make us disparate and new,
And to make us grow apart.
But then again...
Let you do your worst, oh Wind,
We've weathered harsher things.
We've waited years, and lived them well,
And repelled your whips and slings.
Perhaps someday we shall look back
Upon these days, our last,
Remembering these times we shared,
The things we have surpassed.
For it is you that's made us so,
And you that made us strong,
And together we'll be made again
As you sweep us each along.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Winds of Change:
An ode to the Circle
Oh Winds of change please blow on by
And come again some year.
Don't sully these last moments
With a sense of end and tears.
I see the clouds you're blowing in--
All grays and tampered shade.
They cover up the day in night,
And night within the day.
You've settled here for long enough,
Moved slowly through our lives,
Changing little parts of us
In ways we can't deny.
Despite the storms you've brought with you,
We reveled in the rains;
And through everything, in thick and thin,
Some things have stayed the same.
But here you are to threaten us
With the promise of a start,
To make us disparate and new,
And to make us grow apart.
But then again...
Let you do your worst, oh Wind,
We've weathered harsher things.
We've waited years, and lived them well,
And repelled your whips and slings.
Perhaps someday we shall look back
Upon these days, our last,
Remembering these times we shared,
The things we have surpassed.
For it is you that's made us so,
And you that made us strong,
And together we'll be made again
As you sweep us each along.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Random Question:
There's a poetry reading at the school tomorrow (Wednesday) so I'm trying to figure out what to read :) So out of all the things I've posted here, what is y'all's favorite? Can be anything, any part of something, poetry, prose, whatever. Just wondering what people like to read and such, since I always write too depressing stuff to read aloud. Feedback is awesome!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Without Significance
People don't die anymore the way they used to.
It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.
Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.
The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.
A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.
His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.
His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.
On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.
No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.
Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.
It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.
I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.
It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.
Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.
The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.
A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.
His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.
His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.
On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.
No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.
Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.
It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.
I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Gods of Babel - "Prologue"
Well, since some people seem to be interested in it, I've decided to put up the first "scene," which takes place at a local bar in northern Canada mid-December and introduces the main character, Diana. Not too bad a start, I think. :)
The plot centers around a small group of unrelated people around the world who are born for the sole purpose of attempting to salvage humanity for the Creator Gods, particularly the Mayan God Alom. They are just unassuming individuals, and all were born on December 21, 2012, when the world was meant to change. One of them is Diana, who plays the Greek Goddess Artemis (and is the only one with an obvious name heh). Anyways, that's what's up in a very simplified way. Enjoy our little endeavor--I won't post more unless you want me/us to and simply can't wait for the comic :D
________________________________________________________________
INT.LOCAL BAR.NIGHT
The first page opens on a local bar scene late at night. The small bar is strewn with a string of thin white and blue lights, it's only attempt at festive decorations. A few of the usual alcoholic crowd sit hunched at the bar over empty glasses, and a close couple sit quietly in the corner. JACOB the bartender, a burly capable man with the chiseled appearance of an unkempt lumberer, stands cleaning glasses as he chats up a few of the regulars. One customer looks as if he might have once been an average guy, fit and with a neat sort of air, but his face is dotted with stubble and his eyes are bleary and red. He seems to have something important to say, yet avoids saying it and lapses into other things. He stares into a half-empty mug of stale coffee.
Customer
So I guess that's it, then, eh?
JACOB
(turning to him) What's that?
CUSTOMER
I said I guess that's it.
JACOB
What is?
There's a brief pause.
CUSTOMER
I guess there's really nothing else, is there? I mean...now that she's gone n' all. Not much point to it, is there?
JACOB
Hey, now. You quit that talk. Drink your coffee. S'been a long day.
CUSTOMER
Yeah...
He obeys and gulps down the last half with his head tilted back, expressionless. A small gold cross can be seen on a chain around his neck. He turns to Jacob, but doesn't meet his eyes.
CUSTOMER
You believe in God, Jac-Jac?
JACOB
Well...yeah, I suppose. Course I do. Just like most folks....You?
CUSTOMER
Nah...not really. (smirking grimly) Just like most folks.
JACOB
Go home, Bern.
CUSTOMER
Gotta pay still--
JACOB
Don't worry about it.
He stands obligingly, swaying in place as if forgetting where he is for a moment, then pulls on a bulky parka and starts to head out.
JACOB
Go get you some sleep, Bern. You'll feel better in the morning. Promise. Want to see you bright n' early tomorrow at the yard. Alright?
Bern, the customer, smiles lopsidedly, unconvincingly.
CUSTOMER
Yeah, sure.
He leaves, walking out into the dark snow storm outside. Jacob shakes his head with a sigh, beginning to pick up the multiple glasses left behind and wipe down the bar.
DIANA watches him a few feet away, also at the bar, hunched over a single glass and whiskey. She's a fit woman, but not in any especially feminine manner. Her shoulders are broad as a man's and her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back under a woven gray beanie. She swirls her drink idly and sips.
JACOB
I just don't know about that guy anymore, Di.
DIANA
(disinterested) What did you expect? The guy lost his wife on the highway.
JACOB
So did Adrien. He lost his little girl, too, in the pileup. Still manages to come to service, at the very least.
Diana smirks, sliding down towards him.
DIANA
Don't think it helps much. Didn't do shit for me, I know that much. You can go to all the sermons, but they don't really say anything useful unless you're about to crucify your kid or build a gold cow on a cliff someplace.
JACOB
Damn, what's got into you all lately? All this talk of death, it's all I hear these days.
DIANA
Just life. You know how it is.
JACOB
I sure hope not.
He looks out the window at the blizzard.
JACOB
What d'you think the odds are that he hangs himself tonight, eh?
DIANA
(shrugging) Dunno. 'Pends on if he can find a place to do it. I'd say drowning's more likely.
JACOB
(exasperatedly) Di! Come on, have a heart, why don't you. Just a little faith... You're supposed to say you don't think he'd do that sort of thing. You know, like normal folk would.
DIANA
What? Just speculating. You asked.
Jacob "humphs" and ignores her, knowing she's won, as usual, and Diana knows it too as she sips at her drink and smirks at him through the bottom of the clear glass.
JACOB
So you don't think there's a God either anymore, eh?
DIANA
Who knows? Who cares? Far as I'm concerned, I'll figure it out when it matters, right? Maybe it's one of those things you're not supposed to know. Makes sense.
JACOB
Yeah, I guess. To each their own. I'd like to think there's somethin' waiting up there after everything.
DIANA
Like you said, to each their own. Endless blackness doesn't sound all that bad to me. Better than some loony old guy sitting in a cloud staring me down all day.
She smiles empathically at him, though, and Jacob returns it with some sadness. Diana stands with a yawn and slides a $20 bill from her back pocket onto the counter. She shrugs on a worn gray-orange parka and pulls the hat down further on her head.
DIANA
Be seeing you. Tell your wife merry Christmas.
JACOB
Yeah, I'll do that. Take care, Diana.
She doesn't answer, already heading out the door, but waves a hand in the air in good humor. Her dark bulky figure disappears into the snow and night.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
More Poetry--Grave
Whoo, more poetry. This was basically just to write something. I couldn't get the last three lines out of my head the past few days. Not my best work, but it works :)
_______________________________________________________________________
Grave
If I must die and sleep into the darkness,
Dig a shallow grave, that I may taste the sun
Past the stale and dampened earth,
Through the thick wood and canvas.
Allow me the beauty to feel the warmth of light
Upon these withering bones,
Chilled marrow,
Sallow flesh;
To hear the songbirds passing by,
Nesting in the branches of great oaks
That drop their offspring to sprout above my head,
Eternal guardians.
And if I must perish, let me reach death young,
For if I must endure an endless darkness,
Why must I first wallow in the darkness of mankind,
Suffer before suffering,
Blinded before blinded?
His darkness permeates the world
And turns it black,
Makes it indiscernibly churn like molten ink.
What waiting room all earth should be amongst them,
Only to be thrown into another blacker blackness--
How unfair.
How cruel.
Then make me like the earth itself,
Embedded within it,
Flesh within flesh,
Life and death within living and dying,
Breathing.
For if all the earthworms of the world
Have rights to sun and soil alike,
Then what have I?
_______________________________________________________________________
Grave
If I must die and sleep into the darkness,
Dig a shallow grave, that I may taste the sun
Past the stale and dampened earth,
Through the thick wood and canvas.
Allow me the beauty to feel the warmth of light
Upon these withering bones,
Chilled marrow,
Sallow flesh;
To hear the songbirds passing by,
Nesting in the branches of great oaks
That drop their offspring to sprout above my head,
Eternal guardians.
And if I must perish, let me reach death young,
For if I must endure an endless darkness,
Why must I first wallow in the darkness of mankind,
Suffer before suffering,
Blinded before blinded?
His darkness permeates the world
And turns it black,
Makes it indiscernibly churn like molten ink.
What waiting room all earth should be amongst them,
Only to be thrown into another blacker blackness--
How unfair.
How cruel.
Then make me like the earth itself,
Embedded within it,
Flesh within flesh,
Life and death within living and dying,
Breathing.
For if all the earthworms of the world
Have rights to sun and soil alike,
Then what have I?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Poetry?!?
Yup, after nearly seven months I've finally written a new poem. Crazy madness. For being so out of practice, it's not too bad :) Partially (vaguely) inspired by Watchmen. Read away.
________________________________
Specters Black
At midnight in the city,
All the dark and tattered men
Play poker in the corners
And hold close their jars of gin.
They plot dark things in slick black tongues,
They stare like dazed lost sheep,
Pass packages beneath the slab
And watch him take the leap.
A poor man down the street cries out,
He says, “The Specters haunt.”
He doesn’t understand his needs,
But thinks he knows his wants.
He wants to drink and throw his cards,
To play their vicious games;
He wants the world to be his own
And wants to live in shame--
Not this life, this worthless thing,
A new thing, all it’s own,
A living thing in shadowed night
That will not stand alone.
He lies awake each night and day
And watches Specters black,
Longing for a place with them
And the vices that he lacks.
________________________________
Specters Black
At midnight in the city,
All the dark and tattered men
Play poker in the corners
And hold close their jars of gin.
They plot dark things in slick black tongues,
They stare like dazed lost sheep,
Pass packages beneath the slab
And watch him take the leap.
A poor man down the street cries out,
He says, “The Specters haunt.”
He doesn’t understand his needs,
But thinks he knows his wants.
He wants to drink and throw his cards,
To play their vicious games;
He wants the world to be his own
And wants to live in shame--
Not this life, this worthless thing,
A new thing, all it’s own,
A living thing in shadowed night
That will not stand alone.
He lies awake each night and day
And watches Specters black,
Longing for a place with them
And the vices that he lacks.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Chapter II - Part 2
Yup, decided to post it. Thought it had some good bits of prose, if nothing else, and couldn't bear not putting it up :) It's not much, and doesn't add a whole lot as far as important goings-on, but hope you enjoy all the same. I was going to do an entire scene between the two, but really what would be the point? Maybe if a "final copy" (lol) ever manifests itself out of oblivion, I'll elaborate on it. until then, enjoy :)
Also--*does a happy dance*--I self-congratulate myself on finally getting to 10,ooo words :D Yay!
Anyways, happy reading (^,^)
WORD COUNT: 1,763
TOTAL: 10, 470
_________________________________________________________________
It was raining by the time Jacky was making her way out from beneath the shadows of the city that loomed behind like those of angry giants. Thick drops pelted against the rounded glass, forming rivulets and craters that disappeared and reformed with each strike as the droner sped away above the smoothly planned magnetic curves of a silent and invisible road. The trees below swayed and groaned like lost drunks along the narrowing road, rustling with the passing of each scarce vehidrone that cut through the twilit air, unheard and ignored.
Jacky watched the raindrops slide from their craters along the sleek glass and pass by in streaking comets on either side of her. Her arms crossed against her chest, and her dark mossy eyes seemed vague, narrowed in thought. A strange quick beat was playing over the pinpoint speakers, and electronic tones soon accompanied it. It reminded Jacky of a low-budget but interesting performance she’d attended years ago. “Neo-Asiatic,” she remembered. The performance had been surprisingly well-played, but she recalled the music and grimaced briefly. Not quite her taste, she guessed.
A sudden and annoyed sigh flew from her lips like hard wind coming through an open door as she ran a quick hand through her short black hair and fell back limp and tired in her seat, staring at the blackening fields beyond the window.
In fifteen years, she had probably lived more than millions of people (more worthy people) had in their entire lives combined, most of whom she probably met along the way. They were the little guys, the poor and starving chaps, the abused Third World countrywomen, the children with bubbles in their bellies and clear dreams in their heads amidst the nightmares of the day. Luck brought Jacky out of her own little hellish home and luck brought her too to the people that shared a history with her, the people that made her happiest. They shared families and siblings and cousins, shared money and the lack thereof, shared the hard times and the harsh world, shared hopes and dreams (both the full and the broken), and, soon enough, she shared all the words to express all the things. When she saw their smiles--their untreated, unbreakable, undisguised smiles--it was her smile too, and it was just another simple thing they shared. So many others that Jacky now saw every day found their dreams and deserted them, found love in the people or in art or poetry and left those all behind for a high-paying job and a high-flying life without the real highs; Jacky found it in all these things, though, and in all the places it could be found, and for that, if for nothing else, she was eternally thankful.
It had been years since the last of those smiling faces disappeared into the backdrop of mislaid villages and ramshackle huts. Now they were replaced with the harsh and humorless people Jacky had unwillingly and unhappily grown up with--old starch-collared little buggers sitting in offices in big red leather chairs with a pen in one hand and a mandate in the other. No love in their hearts, or at least there wasn’t anymore. It’d been given away somewhere along the line, wasted on some pitiful creature and lost for good in some dark corner, evaporated into bitterness. Over time, that bitterness and wasted love began to consume Jacky too, and put strange lines in places they shouldn‘t be, made her lips thinner and harsher and her sometimes smiles fleeting, while behind the fluid sea-green of her eyes the liquid memories danced in monochrome.
In a world that no longer allowed room for pride in mediocrity, Jacky knew she had to find work high and fast, something that suited her proficient talents that also paid well. For several years the only job available that fit at least one of those descriptions was working as a tourist translator for hire nearly anywhere that would accept her. The pay was low but a cut above average, which was good enough for a while but didn’t amount to being worth the aches and pains and rare happiness it yielded. However, friends in low places do occasionally keep friends in high places, and in the case of her sixth and closest employer, those friends happened to be extremely high up. A government job loomed dead ahead, and although working as a government official sat dead last in Jacky’s list of prospective occupations, the infrequent logic in her mind forced her to take the job all the same, and at least attempt to keep it. For over a year she did more than simply attempt that, taking every translating job she was offered and letting the much-needed and welcomed cash flow into her paychecks. Soon, meager translating spots at long and inconclusive international meetings for dying languages used by dying countries turned to a post at the very head of it all, and that was just fine with Jacky. Traveling was what she was after in the end, and if sticking to tight schedules and dealing with moronic tight-lipped businessmen lead to the places she missed the most, well, that was just fine too.
It was the foreign affairs in her own country that drove her back to the streets she once inhabited to fight the good fight. No amount of duty or responsibility could keep her from speaking out against the very government she, in part, represented. After what seemed a hundred arguments, petitions, and even pleas and threats, Jacky saw no other way but to rally. Maybe they’d listen with a peace army a thousand strong at her back.
Evidently they had. And, evidently, they hadn’t liked it in the least.
Cynics passed along rumors of black bags and memory wiping and remote prisons, and Jacky was admittedly among them at times, but as with any rumor she never fully believed or found proof of such things. They were myth, as far as she could tell. The simple imaginings of cowards, mostly. But Jacky knew from experience that even the most profuse rumors and stories were founded within some unspeakable truth. The fact of the matter was that people created false fears to cover for the simple and ever crueler true ones. And government agents from other countries sending people thousands of miles away on a whim “just to talk” didn’t sound like much of a safe carefree trip to Jacky.
“Operata’.” Jacky leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. A quiet chime sounded from somewhere in the droner’s console as a thin blank holoscreen slowly climbed its way out. “Call Robbie,” she continued, rubbing two fingers at her temple lightly.
“Is this an urgent call?” the faceless monitor asked in its best comforting electronically concerned blonde secretary voice, reading the quick thumping of Jacky’s pulse as urgency.
“No…no, s’not urgent,” Jacky answered after a moment, and suddenly she delt so old and tired and worn as she spoke and kneaded her temples. “Just put me through, eh?”
“Please wait.” All concern gone. Bloody machines. The screen glowed faintly and a old-fashioned ring sounded over the connection. It rang four times before a picture finally came up.
At first, the screen showed nothing but a familiar earthy living room, brown leather couches and green glass lamps in the corners and a messy combination of children’s fairytales, political biographies, and coffee-stained yesterday’s newspapers warring for places on the maple coffee table. A shadow moved off screen and to the side. Someone was speaking, indiscernible, and someone was answering--“Well, alright, fine,”--and a pair of arms picked up a tiny blue-eyed child from the side. Finally, Robbie sat before the screen, wearing a genuine but weary smile as he sat the little blonde on his knee. He wasn’t often a tired or frustrated man, and never felt or looked as old as he was, which was a good sum of years older than Jacky and more than the she could ever boast, but he was indeed a serious profundity in a world of lackluster carbon-copy-Kafkas sitting in shady downtown café’s snapping their fingers to the rhythmic raps of new age music while boasting a steady supply of 1984 and Brave New World and all the rest. Robbie wasn't any of these things, preferring his own plain study and a library full of hard substance to the rather Gothic Bohemian life he could have (and perhaps once had) lived.
“Jacky,” he started, his voice a deep and precise baritone. The smile slipped from his face briefly as he adjusted the girl squirming in his lap, but it flittered up again without fail. “Jacky, it’s a bit late for calls, isn’t it?”
“Ah…sorry, Robbie,” she answered slowly and could tell by the way the auburn haired man peered at her through half-moon glasses that she must have looked must worse off than she’d hoped she would.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well…to be short with it, I do believe I’m in a spot of trouble, mate.”
“Do you need money?” Always the first question. To most, it would seem an insult, but between them it was the best possible trouble Jacky could be in.
Consequently, she shook her head, humorless.
Robbie watched her a long moment. “Lacy, go see your mum,” he whispered to the child, planting a swift dismissing kiss on her golden head before setting her down.
“Something bigger, then?” he asked tentatively.
“Yeah…yeah, I think so.” Jacky looked apologetic. Robbie only looked worried, as usual, graying eyebrows converging with the lines in his face and a thin frown replaced the weary smile. “Listen…I don’t know what’s going t’happen yet. Just feelings, mostly. Two agents told me at the gov’ I needed to leave for ‘Merica, quick as ya like. And…I just needed t’talk, I guess. Heavy stuff, mate.”
“Quite,” came the thoughtful reply. “Come as soon as you can make it.”
“Right ‘round the bend.”
A nod. “Be careful, sis.”
A smile. “Always am.”
The screen went blank then and began it‘s descent into the console once more, leaving Jacky staring into the black rain around her. A line of yellow lights flitted like bulging fireflies in the darkness beyond the trees. Her eyes dimmed and blurred behind guilt-laden lids.
“Always am.”
Also--*does a happy dance*--I self-congratulate myself on finally getting to 10,ooo words :D Yay!
Anyways, happy reading (^,^)
WORD COUNT: 1,763
TOTAL: 10, 470
_________________________________________________________________
It was raining by the time Jacky was making her way out from beneath the shadows of the city that loomed behind like those of angry giants. Thick drops pelted against the rounded glass, forming rivulets and craters that disappeared and reformed with each strike as the droner sped away above the smoothly planned magnetic curves of a silent and invisible road. The trees below swayed and groaned like lost drunks along the narrowing road, rustling with the passing of each scarce vehidrone that cut through the twilit air, unheard and ignored.
Jacky watched the raindrops slide from their craters along the sleek glass and pass by in streaking comets on either side of her. Her arms crossed against her chest, and her dark mossy eyes seemed vague, narrowed in thought. A strange quick beat was playing over the pinpoint speakers, and electronic tones soon accompanied it. It reminded Jacky of a low-budget but interesting performance she’d attended years ago. “Neo-Asiatic,” she remembered. The performance had been surprisingly well-played, but she recalled the music and grimaced briefly. Not quite her taste, she guessed.
A sudden and annoyed sigh flew from her lips like hard wind coming through an open door as she ran a quick hand through her short black hair and fell back limp and tired in her seat, staring at the blackening fields beyond the window.
In fifteen years, she had probably lived more than millions of people (more worthy people) had in their entire lives combined, most of whom she probably met along the way. They were the little guys, the poor and starving chaps, the abused Third World countrywomen, the children with bubbles in their bellies and clear dreams in their heads amidst the nightmares of the day. Luck brought Jacky out of her own little hellish home and luck brought her too to the people that shared a history with her, the people that made her happiest. They shared families and siblings and cousins, shared money and the lack thereof, shared the hard times and the harsh world, shared hopes and dreams (both the full and the broken), and, soon enough, she shared all the words to express all the things. When she saw their smiles--their untreated, unbreakable, undisguised smiles--it was her smile too, and it was just another simple thing they shared. So many others that Jacky now saw every day found their dreams and deserted them, found love in the people or in art or poetry and left those all behind for a high-paying job and a high-flying life without the real highs; Jacky found it in all these things, though, and in all the places it could be found, and for that, if for nothing else, she was eternally thankful.
It had been years since the last of those smiling faces disappeared into the backdrop of mislaid villages and ramshackle huts. Now they were replaced with the harsh and humorless people Jacky had unwillingly and unhappily grown up with--old starch-collared little buggers sitting in offices in big red leather chairs with a pen in one hand and a mandate in the other. No love in their hearts, or at least there wasn’t anymore. It’d been given away somewhere along the line, wasted on some pitiful creature and lost for good in some dark corner, evaporated into bitterness. Over time, that bitterness and wasted love began to consume Jacky too, and put strange lines in places they shouldn‘t be, made her lips thinner and harsher and her sometimes smiles fleeting, while behind the fluid sea-green of her eyes the liquid memories danced in monochrome.
In a world that no longer allowed room for pride in mediocrity, Jacky knew she had to find work high and fast, something that suited her proficient talents that also paid well. For several years the only job available that fit at least one of those descriptions was working as a tourist translator for hire nearly anywhere that would accept her. The pay was low but a cut above average, which was good enough for a while but didn’t amount to being worth the aches and pains and rare happiness it yielded. However, friends in low places do occasionally keep friends in high places, and in the case of her sixth and closest employer, those friends happened to be extremely high up. A government job loomed dead ahead, and although working as a government official sat dead last in Jacky’s list of prospective occupations, the infrequent logic in her mind forced her to take the job all the same, and at least attempt to keep it. For over a year she did more than simply attempt that, taking every translating job she was offered and letting the much-needed and welcomed cash flow into her paychecks. Soon, meager translating spots at long and inconclusive international meetings for dying languages used by dying countries turned to a post at the very head of it all, and that was just fine with Jacky. Traveling was what she was after in the end, and if sticking to tight schedules and dealing with moronic tight-lipped businessmen lead to the places she missed the most, well, that was just fine too.
It was the foreign affairs in her own country that drove her back to the streets she once inhabited to fight the good fight. No amount of duty or responsibility could keep her from speaking out against the very government she, in part, represented. After what seemed a hundred arguments, petitions, and even pleas and threats, Jacky saw no other way but to rally. Maybe they’d listen with a peace army a thousand strong at her back.
Evidently they had. And, evidently, they hadn’t liked it in the least.
Cynics passed along rumors of black bags and memory wiping and remote prisons, and Jacky was admittedly among them at times, but as with any rumor she never fully believed or found proof of such things. They were myth, as far as she could tell. The simple imaginings of cowards, mostly. But Jacky knew from experience that even the most profuse rumors and stories were founded within some unspeakable truth. The fact of the matter was that people created false fears to cover for the simple and ever crueler true ones. And government agents from other countries sending people thousands of miles away on a whim “just to talk” didn’t sound like much of a safe carefree trip to Jacky.
“Operata’.” Jacky leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. A quiet chime sounded from somewhere in the droner’s console as a thin blank holoscreen slowly climbed its way out. “Call Robbie,” she continued, rubbing two fingers at her temple lightly.
“Is this an urgent call?” the faceless monitor asked in its best comforting electronically concerned blonde secretary voice, reading the quick thumping of Jacky’s pulse as urgency.
“No…no, s’not urgent,” Jacky answered after a moment, and suddenly she delt so old and tired and worn as she spoke and kneaded her temples. “Just put me through, eh?”
“Please wait.” All concern gone. Bloody machines. The screen glowed faintly and a old-fashioned ring sounded over the connection. It rang four times before a picture finally came up.
At first, the screen showed nothing but a familiar earthy living room, brown leather couches and green glass lamps in the corners and a messy combination of children’s fairytales, political biographies, and coffee-stained yesterday’s newspapers warring for places on the maple coffee table. A shadow moved off screen and to the side. Someone was speaking, indiscernible, and someone was answering--“Well, alright, fine,”--and a pair of arms picked up a tiny blue-eyed child from the side. Finally, Robbie sat before the screen, wearing a genuine but weary smile as he sat the little blonde on his knee. He wasn’t often a tired or frustrated man, and never felt or looked as old as he was, which was a good sum of years older than Jacky and more than the she could ever boast, but he was indeed a serious profundity in a world of lackluster carbon-copy-Kafkas sitting in shady downtown café’s snapping their fingers to the rhythmic raps of new age music while boasting a steady supply of 1984 and Brave New World and all the rest. Robbie wasn't any of these things, preferring his own plain study and a library full of hard substance to the rather Gothic Bohemian life he could have (and perhaps once had) lived.
“Jacky,” he started, his voice a deep and precise baritone. The smile slipped from his face briefly as he adjusted the girl squirming in his lap, but it flittered up again without fail. “Jacky, it’s a bit late for calls, isn’t it?”
“Ah…sorry, Robbie,” she answered slowly and could tell by the way the auburn haired man peered at her through half-moon glasses that she must have looked must worse off than she’d hoped she would.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well…to be short with it, I do believe I’m in a spot of trouble, mate.”
“Do you need money?” Always the first question. To most, it would seem an insult, but between them it was the best possible trouble Jacky could be in.
Consequently, she shook her head, humorless.
Robbie watched her a long moment. “Lacy, go see your mum,” he whispered to the child, planting a swift dismissing kiss on her golden head before setting her down.
“Something bigger, then?” he asked tentatively.
“Yeah…yeah, I think so.” Jacky looked apologetic. Robbie only looked worried, as usual, graying eyebrows converging with the lines in his face and a thin frown replaced the weary smile. “Listen…I don’t know what’s going t’happen yet. Just feelings, mostly. Two agents told me at the gov’ I needed to leave for ‘Merica, quick as ya like. And…I just needed t’talk, I guess. Heavy stuff, mate.”
“Quite,” came the thoughtful reply. “Come as soon as you can make it.”
“Right ‘round the bend.”
A nod. “Be careful, sis.”
A smile. “Always am.”
The screen went blank then and began it‘s descent into the console once more, leaving Jacky staring into the black rain around her. A line of yellow lights flitted like bulging fireflies in the darkness beyond the trees. Her eyes dimmed and blurred behind guilt-laden lids.
“Always am.”
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