Probably quite a few typos, but just ignore them. Its not supposed to be grammatically correct through and through. But not too bad :) And don't mock my future views--it's not as bad as I thought it would turn out haha
Carry on then :)
WORD COUNT: 4207
TOTAL WORD COUNT: 6097
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CHAPTER I
SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT
When his wife died, it was all he could do to keep from dying himself. He could still see her, always, sitting in his chair or sleeping in his bed, always at peace. Always smiling and waiting. He would sit on the edge of the mattress, as if to ensure not to disturb her. Light waves of blonde gold strewn across both pillows with its length, a bare shoulder peeking from beneath the heavy comforter, shrugged inward against its owner as if to shield. The long lashes of her eyes would flutter momentarily and he could see her eyes move beyond the lids, dreaming sweet dreams that he could not possibly imagine himself, but that he hoped she would tell him in the morning. At times, she seemed real enough to touch, real enough to wait dazedly at the kitchen table, staring blankly at two settings, until the emptiness of remembrance came to him.
It had been five years, but still the shadows of that broken self haunted him, tormented him daily. Some days, the darkness and emptiness consumed him into madness, a feeling so blunt and harsh that he could feel nothing but sorrow. Other days it simmered into a mildness of manner and a silence in his nature, a sort of quiet brooding. Very rarely, he could forget, if only for a single moment, that he was alone in truth; that he could smile, truthfully, despite everything, and for a moment the curtain inside him would lift to let in the light. Then a little word, a phrase, the scent of perfume, the glint of the sun through blonde hair, and everything would fall once more into blackness, leaving him more alone than before.
Outside the solitude and the safe void of his home, though, he had always persevered. To those that knew him by name and rank and little more, he was a brilliant man, nearly without flaw. He walked straight and tall, stood strong and stolid, treated every man and woman he met with the same due respect and set those straight that went crooked. The few that knew him better, however--the few who had known him in his light-filled days of early service when life still seemed beautiful and smiles were the least uncommon of his features--could see his perpetual sadness and the way it ate at his heart and began to devour his mind. He visited these old acquaintances sometimes, when the need to be with became greater than the need to be without. There was a mild comfort in their presence, a sort of haze that fell over him when they spoke of memories that were both his and not his. It was as if, in those moments of conversation, his pain was shared, just for an instant. A load could be eschewed from his shoulders and he could rest from the heavy burden of pity and guilt that hung over him always.
“Ian? Hey--” A voice, sweet and familiar, pulled him back into reality. A gentle hand on his shoulder at once comforted and hesitated. “Did you still want to have lunch with us? Been a while since we all went out together. The guys have been missin’ you. It‘d be great if you came along.”
Ian sat his desk in an empty lecture hall, correcting papers absently while his thoughts wandered. Thick stacks of papers lay in uniform piles to his left and right, perfect square towers with perfect red marks in fine deliberate lines trailing down each paper. Stale coffee idled in a plain mug near the hand that had paused in its constant automated corrections. Ian lay the pen down slowly to the side and adjusted the thin square glasses on his nose as he looked up at his visitor.
She was a pretty woman, though somewhat unremarkable, which wasn’t unusual for a person of her stature. Beauty often went out with the job, but nevertheless she had retained some of it in thin pale gold of her face that glowed and beamed kindly and in the smooth sleekness of her full dark hair. Ian smiled up at her instinctively.
“I think I might,” he answered, and was embarrassed though unsurprised of the thickness in his own unused voice. He cleared it and rotated further in his seat. “Guess you must think I’ve been avoiding you lately, hm? I haven’t meant to be so absent lately. It’s just…” His hazel eyes cast briefly downwards, as if the reinforced tile flooring could prompt his answers. “Just been busy lately, I guess. Occupied, you could say. But lunch would be great, Janice. Thanks.”
Janice let out a musical bark of laughter that ended in a smirk as the dark almond pools of her eyes danced in a combination of happiness and relief. “Don’t thank me. You’re probably paying for it. God knows you owe us for all the time you’ve waited to see us again. Adam’s been worried as hell about you. You never call, never say a word when you’re actually around. Been as elusive as a ghost around here lately.”
Ian shrugged, a hint of a smile gracing the corners of his mouth at the familiar sarcasm in her tone. “Well, you’ve got me there. Guess I haven’t much of an excuse for myself, either. Alright--where are we going?”
“There’s a new little Italian place a few blocks east. Thought we might go check it out, see if its worth the visit while it’s on you.”
“You mean the one by the bay?”
“That’s the one.”
“Figures you would pick an expensive one. I’ll be there.”
“You’d better be. Adam and the guys’ll stake you out and hound you if you don’t.”
Ian’s smile broadened. “My word is golden, Jan. No worries. I’ll be there.”
Janice seemed satisfied with this answer and nodded promptly. “Damn straight. We’ll see you at half past thirteen. And put on your best face for us, Ian. It’s far too nice to hide, you know.” Before she turned away, Ian thought he could see (or sense) a hint of hope in her as well as worry. It was in the way she moved--suddenly yet subtly--and in the way she had spoken--not without a touch of force, as if she were speaking to caged pet that hadn’t been released in weeks and might strike or run given the chance. Ian didn’t mind it; it was to be expected. And all in all, there was nothing but kindness in her intentions, and all in all there was nothing wrong in that.
*~*~*
“So the kid raises his hand, ya know, and he asks to go the bathroom. So I tell him, no, you can’t go to the bathroom. Because ya know he’s just tryin’ to get out of the lecture and he’ll be back with twenty minutes to spare, actin’ like it’s normal t’take thirty minutes in the pot. So, ya know what he says?”
“What’d he say Mac?”
“He says, ‘Can I take Andri with me?’ And I’m just like…this kid even listen to what I just said? And what’s with kids and takin’ a whole train of people to the bathroom, anyway? But anyways, so he asks, and he’s practically already outta his seat while he’s talkin’, and I says to him, ‘Well, why’ll you’re at it, why don’t you take me along?’ And he just--he just--” Mac was laughing now, hysterical at the sheer memory of it, while the two men and one woman in his company watched him in amusement over their drinks. “He just gets the funniest look and sits back down. Classic stuff, that was. I mean, really good stuff. You had to be there, man, it was great. Set him straight, that‘s for sure.”
“Sounds like it, Mac.”
“Hey now,” Mac said, still grinning despite the feigned hurt in his voice. “How about you try teachin’ these kids day in and day out. Not all fun and games, I can tell ya that right now. Odds are the half of them are carryin’ some weird new weapon they made in their first period techie class that morning, just waitin’ for your back to turn, and--bam!--that’s it, man. You’re done. Finished.”
“Ah, c’mon, Mac,” said Janice, laughing over her drink at his little melodramatic spurt of a story. “We’ve all been there, done that. It’s old news. Kids are kids, and that’s about all there is to it. You just have to use a firm voice and set ‘em straight.”
“Nah, they aren’t like they used to be,” came Mac’s reply. “Back when we were all kids growin’ up--”
“Hey, what do you mean, we?”
“Shut it, Adam. Anyways, back then, it was easy. Everyone was pretty much on the same keel. Pretty much even for all of us, far as the classes and the teaching and such went. You just came in, sat down, turned in your slabs at the end of each class and went home for dinner. If you didn’t like your teacher, tough, ya know? Nothin’ you could do about it but plain old-fashioned disobedience, and we all know how that would end up. Nowadays, though, kids come in with their phones and lappies, don’t even bother trying to hide them anymore after that ridiculous Technology Liberties legislation. Did you hear about that guy Sanders getting kicked out of Saint Marks?”
“That was for changing some kid’s grades, wasn’t it? Illegally?” Adam said, gaining interest in the conversation now.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing--in his defense he said that one of his students was blackmailing him on the M-Grid and that it was the kid that hacked into the stream and gave herself an A. Said the connection was untraceable and coded to look like a normal update. The courts didn’t buy that, though, and he got sent off for a good year or two. Just so some kid could get into a good college. It‘s crazy.”
“I thought that was only a rumor. The evidence was too strong against Sanders, and there was nothing to suggest it was anyone‘s fault but his. He was just sympathizing with his student,” Ian, who had been quietly listening as he pecked at the meal before him, finally spoke up, absently wiping the edge of his mouth as he finished eating.
Mac gave Ian a skeptical look, tilting his head and playing out a wave of his hand in slow motion. Whatever, it seemed to say. “All I’m saying,” he continued, deciding to quit fighting a losing battle, “is that it’s a crazy world anymore, ya know? Gotta watch out for people, especially these kids. Everybody’s out t’get everybody else. No reason, no sympathy….just crazy.”
There was a lull in the conversation, a resignation to the thoughts that flooded each mind. Ian looked from face to face, sipping sparingly from the half-glass of red wine they had ordered for him. Janice he had seen fairly often now that he was working actively at the Academy, but Adam and Mac, considerably younger than the both of them though no less good company, seemed to have aged in his absence. It was like a father in prison watching his children grow through the periodic picture from a distraught and distrusting wife; sometimes the child captured within the photo would seem relatively the same as in the previous, other times the boy would seem a total stranger. Mac especially seemed broader and fuller in his musculature, his hair had grown darker and shorter, and where once an ever-present line of thin stubble coated his skin from ear to ear only clean flesh permeated. It wasn’t only his personality, either. The way he spoke, though still obviously characteristic, had changed subtly, as if the tone was forced, hanging desperately on the edge of being forgotten entirely, and the cynicism (which had also always been a given part of Mac’s mind) seemed much more real and solid and frighteningly sincere. Adam, too, had changed, though not so obviously. The way he sat in relative silence, offering only the spare comment or jeering but mild remark, was unsettling. Ian knew the expression of pensiveness that tightened their features, and sighed quietly at the thought.
“I’m fine,” he said suddenly, adjusting his glasses with his eyes closed for a moment, although he could feel their inquisitive gazes cast over him. “I haven’t meant to seem avoidant, and I actually was glad you asked me to come along. I’ve just been so busy transferring to the Academy and settling in, I guess it’s taking a pretty bad toll on the nerves, huh?” He smiled at them and could actually feel the relief melt into his three tablemates.
“That obvious?” Adam said with a faint smile. “Can you blame us for worrying? Gotta check up on you. We miss you, man.”
“Exactly. You see?” Janice pitched in. “And that’s why you’re payin’ for us. Let’s get another round of drinks, eh?”
Ian shrugged, a gesture they recognized as his silent appreciation. He relaxed in the white cushioned seat, forcing his mind to depart from whatever demons still fought to plague it, at least for the moment. Blankness encased him in the moment and he let the world move on without consequence.
Janice leaned over slightly to the left, reaching across the rounded corner of the table towards the nearby touch-console. “’Nother bottle of wine’ll do, I think,” she thought out loud, tapping a quick series of buttons into the thin glowing screen. She looked over at the three men. “You guys want anything else, or are we about done?” A shrug, a shake, and a short wave declined the offer. Janice nodded and tapped again.
“YOUR CHECK IS ON ITS WAY,” streamed across the screen before it faded back into the news channel that had been playing absently while they had been eating. Headlines ran across the projected bottom holograph, a bulging red beam with glowing white letters. A man in a blue suit was talking without sound while a photo of two other men shaking hands, one somewhat young and the other considerably older, floated beside him along with a vaguely but noticeably edited picture of what appeared to be a small missile carried by a much larger shuttle-ship. The caption beneath the collage caught Ian’s eye: “STAR WARS: THE REAL DEAL?”
“Hey…turn that up, Jan,” he asked suddenly, shifting in his seat to better view the holoscreen. Janice shot him a quizzical look, but complied when she saw the solemn interest that had overtaken his features. Tapping the side of the screen revealed a sidebar with playback options and other various basic functions, and she pulled the small white bar on the right upwards in one fluid motion, hardly noticing the quiet click of the micro-speakers on either side of the holoscreen.
“--are scheduled to meet this Thursday in Moscow as a follow-up to the past month’s events. Our own Jack Scott is joining them now at the landing site.”
The two men in the photo they had shown just seconds ago now stood together, bodies close and turned just slightly inward toward each other, probably for the sake of filming and projecting, Ian guessed. The younger man, who he had first assumed to be in his twenties, now seemed older. Black hair that fell nearly to his shoulders glinted dully in the sunlight and violet haze of afternoon sky, and black stubble partially covered what was once a well-trimmed stub of a goatee in the center of his square jaw. Gray eyes peered steadily out from under thick brows, but Ian could see a fear and a rawness in them that surprised him. The other man, still obviously older, judging by the graying edges of his short and stunningly otherwise pristine russet hair. Ian could tell straightaway that he was a scientist--the manner in which he stood, deliberate and solid, and the dull hazel depth and boredom that revealed itself in his eyes reminded him instantly of the men he had long ago worked with as a pilot for the United Space Program. Still, there was a tiredness to the man that was not unlike the other. Behind them both, desert expanse played the backdrop to a large and daunting shuttle-ship, only the hull of which could be clearly seen in the shot.
“Professor Borisova,” a reporter off screen was speaking, “how did it feel to be piloting the massive ship of your own creation, carrying such dangerous cargo so far away from home?”
The holoscreen projector cut to the younger of the two, who swayed in place a moment as if the very words could topple him.
“Well, to be fair, I was just the copilot. Both of us were, really,“ he answered, an accent that Ian recognized as what was still called “Russian” to most of the world. He flashed a winning smile to the projector, but Ian didn‘t buy it. “It was a good ride, very successful. There were very few problems, and everything went very smooth. I think we’re all very happy with how it went, and…uh…I hope to hear some positive things at the meeting this week.” He smiled again, fixing it into his features, silver eyes flittering back and forth between reporters nervously, though the in-stream editing through the projector hid the expression well.
“And Doctor Hainsworth, what did you think of the testing?”
The older man cleared his throat, and his very presence commanded an air of authority that the younger man lacked. Definitely a scientist, Ian thought. “Yes, everything went very well,” he started, and a different accent was apparent this time, a touch a bourgeois French, perhaps. “All of our calculations were conclusive and the testing was extremely insightful. I expect very good things from this mission.”
The entire interview might have lasted twenty seconds.
The holoscreen cut back to the desk reporter. “That was Professor Aleksei Borisova and Doctor Sydney Hainsworth live on the coast of western India, just returning from their one-month mission to test a surprising possible new source of energy, dark matter. More on their findings at eight. Back to you, Cheryl.”
“Want me to back it up?” Janice asked without looking away from the screen. A young blonde woman was reading the weather reports now; rain at 4:15 PM until approximately 11:40 PM, the cloudy skies all of tomorrow.
Ian shook his head, shifting back in his seat once more, absently reaching for the straw of his drink as something to distract him. Janice shrugged lightly and tapped the screen off but for the restaurant menu.
“Did you know what they were talking about, Ian?” Adam asked curiously, obviously confused by the short report and by Ian’s sudden interest in it. Mac looked just as curious, but not so much confused.
Ian shook his head. “No…no I didn’t know them personally. They were both wearing ISAS tags, though. Though I might know the names, but I’m not sure.” He paused, thinking on this, then shook his head again. “I don’t know. Something just looked funny about it is all, I guess.”
“Funny?” Mac repeated. “Like…government cover-up conspiracy kinda funny? Or like, this channel is bloody ridiculous kinda funny?”
“Oh, come off it,” Janice broke in. “Not everything on the news is a government conspiracy. If that were true we’d probably all’d been dead years ago. Radiation or biochemicals or some weirdness.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t even say what they were testin’” Mac reasoned. “If everything went so well, why didn’t they just come out n’ say it? Sounds pretty shifty t’me.”
“I don’t know what it was,” Ian repeated, not assuring, but not provoking either. “Maybe nothing. But it looked like it could be something. Just felt…wrong. Maybe I’ll ask around and see what I can get out of the Academy. Robertson still hangs around the physics department. Probably could get something out of him.” Ian thought on this and shrugged again. “I doubt its anything to worry about.”
Adam tried not to look relieved.
There was another silence between the quartet, but this time it was accompanied by an unease. News lately was always bad news--always another war or another country demolished by its own reckoning, or another couple murdered on the “nice side of town.“ It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise to find the news was skewing itself into happiness and bliss. In a way, that was alright. It was tiring watching the same battles on every holoscreen in the city, day after day and night after night; maybe it was about time for a reprieve. Still, it was unsettling to remember, for an instant, that the news was run by the people who were slave to the government because the government was slave to the media. They could show whatever the people of the world wanted to see and not imagine a single second of it to be a lie. Ian thought they might be some of the few people that still watched the news not at face value, but for what lay beneath the façade of world peace. There was a universe of information in the smiles and eyes and tired solemnity of the faces beyond the face, and sometimes that was enough to know how the world was doing.
“Ah--” Mac exclaimed suddenly. “What time is it?” He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and twisted his wrist to see the circular blue lighted disk strapped there. Adam mimicked the action. Whatever the answer to his question, it didn’t seem to be in their favor. He stood abruptly and threw the suit jacket over his shoulders that had been hanging over his seat and quickly picked up the briefcase that had been hiding under the table. Adam stood as well, though apparently hadn‘t brought his suit to lunch with him, judging by the mild panic in his searching gaze. “Sorry, guys. I forgot we have a conference to go to this afternoon. They’ve been layin’ off lately, what with all the fraud and crisis and such, so we can’t miss it.”
“You sure you can pick up the tab?” Adam asked, reaching in his left pocket as if to check for something, and was relieved by the faint jingling of metal on metal the movement produced. “Feel bad just leaving you guys here.”
Ian just smiled. “Yeah, I got it. Thanks for coming today. It was good to see you guys again. Don’t stress yourselves too much.”
Mac grinned. “Hey, now. Same to you, mistah. You better be good to yourself and hang with us more often. Got it?” He pointed at Ian and managed a not-quite-threatening expression that quickly diminished back into his own silliness. Adam was already moving away from the table, casting a quick half-salute half-wave in Ian‘s direction with a smile. “Take care guys. See ya around.” They turned toward the clear sound-proofed glass that had been keeping their conversation isolated despite the hundreds of other customers, but when the glass slid open, unheeded voices drifted in with his exit and the bustle and smell of kitchen employees and waitresses carrying and pushing trays of steaming food wafted in momentarily. Then the door slid closed once more and there was again silence. Almost immediately afterwards, a woman passed by the glass and pushed a thin black card through a slot from the outside. She said nothing and gave them no passing glance, obviously having other things on her mind.
Ian reached for the small black folder, but Janice picked it up first. “Nah, you paid us by coming, so I might as well pay the rest. My idea, anyways,” she said, already pulling forth her wallet and a blue card from inside it. Tapping the holoscreen brought it back to glowing life, and a series of taps and a card-swipe paid for the meal in a matter of seconds. Ian said nothing against it, lost in his own thoughts again.
“Ian.”
Ian looked.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Ian. You can’t keep holding on to the past. You have to move on, live.” Janice was leaning over the table, staring into him intently, as if to refuse what she was saying was to ask for death. Ian was expressionless and silent. “Put yourself back out there and get to livin’, already. Go back to work full time, or just…I don‘t. Do something. We’re all worried about you.”
“I’m fine, Jan, rea--”
“No, you’re not,” she interrupted sternly. Ian promptly shut his mouth. “You’re not alright because you’re always quiet and you never call and you’re not fooling anyone.” She leered at him a moment and sighed heavily. “Look just…just call me sometime this week. Just to talk. Check up on you. ‘Kay?”
“Alright. I will.”
“No, don’t say you will and not say a damn thing.”
Ian smiled, a slight smugness in it. “My word is gold, Jan.”
Janice made a face, but laughed. “Alright. I have to get going too. I’ll talk to you later. Be good to yourself, Ian.” And without looking back, she left him, alone once more in the silent emptiness of his thoughts.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Prologue
Happy trails.
Word Count: 1890
Total: 1890
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PROLOGUE
At night he watched the stars.
He could see them by the thousands each night at the top of the building, sitting alone in the vast black nothingness, watching the spinning cosmos from his own tiny dot of a world. It made him feel small, as it should, but he knew more than anything he wanted to feel those stars. Not only see them, as he did now, perched with an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand as he gazed from the balcony, but to actually feel their light and heat. An infinity of suns yet to be explored, and yet here only pinpricks. He wondered if somewhere across the universe someone sat in his own balcony, watching and thinking.
By day there was the constant rush of human existence, always a sense of purpose and need and urgency, as if at any given moment the world balanced on the edge of a blade. There were places to, papers to sign, people to meet, and it seemed all at once the most strenuous and the most beautiful feeling in the world. Sometimes it was too much--he would be the first to admit that much--but at the end of the day when the world was quieted and darkened, when the people came home to warmth and comfort to sleep in silence, when the world felt, for a moment, safe…in the end, it was worth it. In the end, it was enough.
He smiled.
“Professor?”
The familiar voice sounded distant and vaguely unimportant to his mind, but nonetheless he turned. The light that poured blaringly from the open door behind him cut through the darkness like a clean knife, eliminating the stars from the sky almost instantly. A meek shadow managed to form in the beam, a dim gray figure framed by black and white. In his haze, he didn’t answer.
“Sir?”
“Yes?” He didn’t bother to correct the formality.
“Everyone’s gone for the night. Should I lock up or should I just leave it to you?”
“I lock up most nights,” he answered, a mild sigh forming in his voice as he stood. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be leaving soon myself.”
“Alright, sir,” came the unfaltering response. There was a short pause, and although he couldn’t see past the blinding white he knew the militaristic expectation that must have painted the man’s face in that moment, that pause to catch the salute that itched at his hand like a never-ending rash.
“Oh--Karl,” he said, stepping into the light, hands dangling loosely in the pockets of his jacket.
“You did well today. Very good work, even by my standards. I think we’re lucky to have you on the team.” He smiled with an uncommon sincerity that he could see reflected in the man’s glinting eyes.
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to be working here. It’s such a privilege to be working under a man so--”
“Karl?”
“Yes?”
“Its Alex--Aleksei at the least. Skip the formalities. They don’t make much difference in a place like this.” His tone remained even, but his smile never lessened; he always enjoyed tearing down formalities in the men the military sent his way.
“Ah…yes…Alex,” Karl answered slowly, as if attempting to ingrain the name into his memory.
“Thank you, Alex.”
“Go home to your wife and get some sleep. Early to work tomorrow, yes?”
A smirk, forgetting himself in the ease of the moment. “Same to you, my friend. Schast'ya i zdorov'ya!” With a tired grin, Karl let the door swing slowly closed on silent hinges, flooding Alex within the calm darkness once more.
He simply stood, staring fixedly at the single sliver of light that fought through the bottom of the door, as if entrance by its very existence, even as a subconscious smile graced his lips at the familiar phrase.
Sir…everyone thinks they should call me “Sir” now, he thought curiously. As if I might snap at them for being informal. You’d think with all the hours of the day we spend together, they’d understand I’m no different from them…only luckier, I suppose. No, even that wasn’t quite right. Lucky wasn’t the right word for it. He wasn’t so sure he was lucky, but he knew he was happy. He knew he was at peace. This project alone had changed his entire life in so many ways already, in only six months. And it was still only just begun.
Less than a year ago he had been sitting in a tiny room with peeling dulled-pea-green walls, sitting on a dilapidated bed that seemed to be decaying from the inside out, writing off bills he couldn’t pay and college tuition fees that not only seemed impossibly huge now but also represented something that seemed nothing more than a bad idea. A good dream, perhaps, once, but a bad idea in the end. He could have saved the money, became the humble watchmaker/homemaker that his father had always planned for him to be. Instead, he took the money and a one-year scholarship that hardly was worth his efforts to study engineering. Top of his class--but not good enough to pay back, I guess. Enough pride and esteem to last a lifetime, it had seemed, but it hadn’t lasted even a few years out of school. Sitting alone, in a bedroom not big enough to let another fill it with him, not small enough to afford comfortably, Alex was in trouble.
The day the three military officials in stoic masks and tight suits with dully glimmering pins turned up on his crumbling little square of a doorstep, Alex had nearly laughed. “You must mean another Borisova--not an uncommon name, friends. I studied engineering ages ago--” not a total lie, at least it seemed not to be--“and didn’t do so great at it judging by what I got out of it in the end. Unless you’ve come to give me a check of a hefty sum, then good day.”
As if on cue, a secret smile snuck into the features of the young man that stood before him. One of the men behind him (younger, Alex could tell, yet broader, stronger perhaps; more years in service he guessed, judging by the stolidity he maintained and the steadfast blue eyes that peered not at him but rather at a spot just above Alex’s left shoulder) held in his hands a briefcase, which shifted slightly with his weight, as if itching to be opened. No matter how small the movement, Alex caught it from the corner of his vision and cocked his head. “I have a feeling you three wanted to show me something, then?”
“The government is interested in your work on dark matter.” The apparent leader spoke first, and Alex was surprised to notice the lack of familiar accent. “We’ve been doing some practice tests lately with it, and have been looking through every engineer we could find. A professor recommended your work and research--a Professor…” A pause. Certainly not Russian. Alex knew the look of a foreigner struggling with pronunciation. “Professor Abduluv, I believe. He spoke very highly of you. Said that if anyone knew anything about dark matter, it was his Aleksei.”
Alex’s eyes flickered slightly in interested, but he didn’t let his face show it outright. He coughed slightly, if only to break the silence (although the thickness in his throat forced him to remember his cold, especially in light of the cool air wafting up from the stairs outside). “Ah…I haven’t spoken to him in a long time,” he answered slowly, thinking back on the last time they had seen each other. “He was always saying how much better his students were over any other. Last time I talked to him, he told me that if ever I needed a job to come to him.” He smiled then at the thought. “It’s been years, but…I guess this is that job, da?”
The three gentlemen at his door merely watched him expectantly, the third standing just off to the side peering into the doorway with a look that Alex could only have described as purely thankful to the Heavens above and all its gods. It both intrigued and suddenly, strangely, scared him.
Another light cough burst from his chest as he swung the door open wider. “Well…then I suppose you’ll be wanting to come in, da? It’s a little cramped. I haven’t had the time to clean everything up lately. What with the crisis…hard to find a job, let alone get a decent semblance of a salary out of it. But…um…you can sit right over here if you’d like.” He let the three men inside, ignoring the look the briefcase-wielder sent at the dilapidated table by the wall that Alex had indicated. The men sent silent glances amongst themselves, as if asking if this was really the right man to be wasting their time with. Alex could see them without seeing--nearly every visitor he’d ever had in the shit-hole he half-heartedly and mockingly labeled as “home” had gazed with the same disapproval around his tiny room of an apartment. Skepticism abounded in their eyes, at least in four of them. Only one set, Alex could see as he approached the three soldiers, was not filled with disapproval. Finally, after stalling with his own questions, Alex sat on a slightly shorter stool beside Mr. Hopeful.
Reaching the short distance to his left to the makeshift shelf in the corner, Alex pulled forth a tall bottle of Vodka and four glasses, tilting his head to the side as he shook them. All three men turned down the offer, again to Alex’s surprise. Whatever this was all for, it must have been something big. “Suit yourselves,” he answered to their silence, pouring a small glass for himself. He raised it with a mild and half-hearted smile--“To business--” and downed it in one thick swallow. The three men glanced at each other again, and this time dread accompanied their skepticism.
“Look, Mr. Borisova--”
“Alex, please.”
A testy leer from the leader. “Look…the Professor told us you were the very best. Said you’d be ready and willing and raring to go. Now, if that’s not so and you’ve already made up your mind, we can leave you in peace and go on our way. Find someone else to ask.”
“By the looks on your faces, I have a feeling you’re running out of people to ask,” Alex said with a smirk, resting his chin in the palm of his right hand, elbow resting on the table. “I’m not refusing just yet. I haven’t even heard your offer. Now look…” The minor amusement in him was gone suddenly, but nearly returned when he saw the way the three men straightened subtly in their seats. His gaze wandered to each, from Mr. Hopeful on his right, to their leader, to the briefcase-wielder. “I know there must be someone out there, somewhere in the world, that has a far better reputation than I. I have been a construction worker for four years. I haven’t opened a book on anything in ages, let alone in engineering or physics. You want to know about dark matter, go back to Moscow and ask the Prof for his copy of the research, but I know you’re here for something more.”
A silence.
“We need you, Mr. Borisova...to build us a ship.”
Word Count: 1890
Total: 1890
____________________________________________________________________
PROLOGUE
At night he watched the stars.
He could see them by the thousands each night at the top of the building, sitting alone in the vast black nothingness, watching the spinning cosmos from his own tiny dot of a world. It made him feel small, as it should, but he knew more than anything he wanted to feel those stars. Not only see them, as he did now, perched with an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand as he gazed from the balcony, but to actually feel their light and heat. An infinity of suns yet to be explored, and yet here only pinpricks. He wondered if somewhere across the universe someone sat in his own balcony, watching and thinking.
By day there was the constant rush of human existence, always a sense of purpose and need and urgency, as if at any given moment the world balanced on the edge of a blade. There were places to, papers to sign, people to meet, and it seemed all at once the most strenuous and the most beautiful feeling in the world. Sometimes it was too much--he would be the first to admit that much--but at the end of the day when the world was quieted and darkened, when the people came home to warmth and comfort to sleep in silence, when the world felt, for a moment, safe…in the end, it was worth it. In the end, it was enough.
He smiled.
“Professor?”
The familiar voice sounded distant and vaguely unimportant to his mind, but nonetheless he turned. The light that poured blaringly from the open door behind him cut through the darkness like a clean knife, eliminating the stars from the sky almost instantly. A meek shadow managed to form in the beam, a dim gray figure framed by black and white. In his haze, he didn’t answer.
“Sir?”
“Yes?” He didn’t bother to correct the formality.
“Everyone’s gone for the night. Should I lock up or should I just leave it to you?”
“I lock up most nights,” he answered, a mild sigh forming in his voice as he stood. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be leaving soon myself.”
“Alright, sir,” came the unfaltering response. There was a short pause, and although he couldn’t see past the blinding white he knew the militaristic expectation that must have painted the man’s face in that moment, that pause to catch the salute that itched at his hand like a never-ending rash.
“Oh--Karl,” he said, stepping into the light, hands dangling loosely in the pockets of his jacket.
“You did well today. Very good work, even by my standards. I think we’re lucky to have you on the team.” He smiled with an uncommon sincerity that he could see reflected in the man’s glinting eyes.
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to be working here. It’s such a privilege to be working under a man so--”
“Karl?”
“Yes?”
“Its Alex--Aleksei at the least. Skip the formalities. They don’t make much difference in a place like this.” His tone remained even, but his smile never lessened; he always enjoyed tearing down formalities in the men the military sent his way.
“Ah…yes…Alex,” Karl answered slowly, as if attempting to ingrain the name into his memory.
“Thank you, Alex.”
“Go home to your wife and get some sleep. Early to work tomorrow, yes?”
A smirk, forgetting himself in the ease of the moment. “Same to you, my friend. Schast'ya i zdorov'ya!” With a tired grin, Karl let the door swing slowly closed on silent hinges, flooding Alex within the calm darkness once more.
He simply stood, staring fixedly at the single sliver of light that fought through the bottom of the door, as if entrance by its very existence, even as a subconscious smile graced his lips at the familiar phrase.
Sir…everyone thinks they should call me “Sir” now, he thought curiously. As if I might snap at them for being informal. You’d think with all the hours of the day we spend together, they’d understand I’m no different from them…only luckier, I suppose. No, even that wasn’t quite right. Lucky wasn’t the right word for it. He wasn’t so sure he was lucky, but he knew he was happy. He knew he was at peace. This project alone had changed his entire life in so many ways already, in only six months. And it was still only just begun.
Less than a year ago he had been sitting in a tiny room with peeling dulled-pea-green walls, sitting on a dilapidated bed that seemed to be decaying from the inside out, writing off bills he couldn’t pay and college tuition fees that not only seemed impossibly huge now but also represented something that seemed nothing more than a bad idea. A good dream, perhaps, once, but a bad idea in the end. He could have saved the money, became the humble watchmaker/homemaker that his father had always planned for him to be. Instead, he took the money and a one-year scholarship that hardly was worth his efforts to study engineering. Top of his class--but not good enough to pay back, I guess. Enough pride and esteem to last a lifetime, it had seemed, but it hadn’t lasted even a few years out of school. Sitting alone, in a bedroom not big enough to let another fill it with him, not small enough to afford comfortably, Alex was in trouble.
The day the three military officials in stoic masks and tight suits with dully glimmering pins turned up on his crumbling little square of a doorstep, Alex had nearly laughed. “You must mean another Borisova--not an uncommon name, friends. I studied engineering ages ago--” not a total lie, at least it seemed not to be--“and didn’t do so great at it judging by what I got out of it in the end. Unless you’ve come to give me a check of a hefty sum, then good day.”
As if on cue, a secret smile snuck into the features of the young man that stood before him. One of the men behind him (younger, Alex could tell, yet broader, stronger perhaps; more years in service he guessed, judging by the stolidity he maintained and the steadfast blue eyes that peered not at him but rather at a spot just above Alex’s left shoulder) held in his hands a briefcase, which shifted slightly with his weight, as if itching to be opened. No matter how small the movement, Alex caught it from the corner of his vision and cocked his head. “I have a feeling you three wanted to show me something, then?”
“The government is interested in your work on dark matter.” The apparent leader spoke first, and Alex was surprised to notice the lack of familiar accent. “We’ve been doing some practice tests lately with it, and have been looking through every engineer we could find. A professor recommended your work and research--a Professor…” A pause. Certainly not Russian. Alex knew the look of a foreigner struggling with pronunciation. “Professor Abduluv, I believe. He spoke very highly of you. Said that if anyone knew anything about dark matter, it was his Aleksei.”
Alex’s eyes flickered slightly in interested, but he didn’t let his face show it outright. He coughed slightly, if only to break the silence (although the thickness in his throat forced him to remember his cold, especially in light of the cool air wafting up from the stairs outside). “Ah…I haven’t spoken to him in a long time,” he answered slowly, thinking back on the last time they had seen each other. “He was always saying how much better his students were over any other. Last time I talked to him, he told me that if ever I needed a job to come to him.” He smiled then at the thought. “It’s been years, but…I guess this is that job, da?”
The three gentlemen at his door merely watched him expectantly, the third standing just off to the side peering into the doorway with a look that Alex could only have described as purely thankful to the Heavens above and all its gods. It both intrigued and suddenly, strangely, scared him.
Another light cough burst from his chest as he swung the door open wider. “Well…then I suppose you’ll be wanting to come in, da? It’s a little cramped. I haven’t had the time to clean everything up lately. What with the crisis…hard to find a job, let alone get a decent semblance of a salary out of it. But…um…you can sit right over here if you’d like.” He let the three men inside, ignoring the look the briefcase-wielder sent at the dilapidated table by the wall that Alex had indicated. The men sent silent glances amongst themselves, as if asking if this was really the right man to be wasting their time with. Alex could see them without seeing--nearly every visitor he’d ever had in the shit-hole he half-heartedly and mockingly labeled as “home” had gazed with the same disapproval around his tiny room of an apartment. Skepticism abounded in their eyes, at least in four of them. Only one set, Alex could see as he approached the three soldiers, was not filled with disapproval. Finally, after stalling with his own questions, Alex sat on a slightly shorter stool beside Mr. Hopeful.
Reaching the short distance to his left to the makeshift shelf in the corner, Alex pulled forth a tall bottle of Vodka and four glasses, tilting his head to the side as he shook them. All three men turned down the offer, again to Alex’s surprise. Whatever this was all for, it must have been something big. “Suit yourselves,” he answered to their silence, pouring a small glass for himself. He raised it with a mild and half-hearted smile--“To business--” and downed it in one thick swallow. The three men glanced at each other again, and this time dread accompanied their skepticism.
“Look, Mr. Borisova--”
“Alex, please.”
A testy leer from the leader. “Look…the Professor told us you were the very best. Said you’d be ready and willing and raring to go. Now, if that’s not so and you’ve already made up your mind, we can leave you in peace and go on our way. Find someone else to ask.”
“By the looks on your faces, I have a feeling you’re running out of people to ask,” Alex said with a smirk, resting his chin in the palm of his right hand, elbow resting on the table. “I’m not refusing just yet. I haven’t even heard your offer. Now look…” The minor amusement in him was gone suddenly, but nearly returned when he saw the way the three men straightened subtly in their seats. His gaze wandered to each, from Mr. Hopeful on his right, to their leader, to the briefcase-wielder. “I know there must be someone out there, somewhere in the world, that has a far better reputation than I. I have been a construction worker for four years. I haven’t opened a book on anything in ages, let alone in engineering or physics. You want to know about dark matter, go back to Moscow and ask the Prof for his copy of the research, but I know you’re here for something more.”
A silence.
“We need you, Mr. Borisova...to build us a ship.”
NaNoWriMo is going not so well
A short post. Very short indeed.
Basically, as you can tell by the absent of NaNoWriMo posts, it isn't going as well as I had hoped, prompting me to mention a thing or two about it.
The point of NaNoWriMo is not to write an epic tale that everyone will love, but merely to write a total of 50,000 words in 30 days. They will not be pretty words, and I don't much doubt that most of you will not like it much. I also don't doubt that I won't like it much. So it goes.
Therefore, don't expect much. The beginning is already complete shite. Just go with it. If you can, hold out for a few thousand words. If you can't, just wait until I edit the whole thing and spiff it up.
With that said, let the novel begin.
Basically, as you can tell by the absent of NaNoWriMo posts, it isn't going as well as I had hoped, prompting me to mention a thing or two about it.
The point of NaNoWriMo is not to write an epic tale that everyone will love, but merely to write a total of 50,000 words in 30 days. They will not be pretty words, and I don't much doubt that most of you will not like it much. I also don't doubt that I won't like it much. So it goes.
Therefore, don't expect much. The beginning is already complete shite. Just go with it. If you can, hold out for a few thousand words. If you can't, just wait until I edit the whole thing and spiff it up.
With that said, let the novel begin.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
NaNoWriMo Update - Basics...and Characters?
It's been a couple weeks since I first exposed my ideas for NaNoWriMo, however vague and simple. After much thought, I've decided to release what I have as far as "planning" goes. Some of it is a little corny, at least to me (but I'm admittedly hard myself), but it's relevant to the story in a rather significant way.
**(I'll make one thing clear--anything I write here is very likely to change in at least some small way if not completely. Although the "title" of each character has already been written down weeks ago, anything I write about them here is coming straight from my mind right now. At least two of the characters are almost definitely set in stone as to who in the Circle they refer to, but just for the fun of it I won't say who is who ;) You can guess if you like; maybe I'll answer, and maybe I won't haha)**
Anyways, on to the topics!
___________________________________________
First, the title. I've been working with a few different ideas for a title, but I haven't been able to settle on one. The way I see it, the title can be one of two types (as far as sci-fi goes): either it must be vague and complex and somehow slightly relevant, or so simple it nearly hurts. In the first case, the title wouldn't be official until the end. In the second, it could be anything, and since its efficient I think I might go with that until later. So, the most recent I can think of that has a nice ring is "Astraeus Lost." Its simple yet intriguing, so it works :P
That leads to the next thing--the ship. After nearly two hours of brainstorming and Googling and checking the Star Trek database, I finally came up with a couple possibilities for a name of the starship. The first I thought of was the ISAS Utopia, which was technically taken but not significantly like everything else. The second, and the one I picked, is the ISAS Astraeus, named for the greek Titan-god of dusk. ("ISAS," said as simply eye-sus, is a tentative acronym that may very well change, meant to mean International Space Administration Ship)
And now, the tentative cast :o Listed by title/role in no particular order. Most of the titles are a reference to the person's skill, though a couple may have a more underlying-literary-sort of title....whatever :P
Remember that this is "international"--a lot of the characters won't be American.
(also, due to the nature of this mission, several of the main characters have no direct purpose as far as functioning on the ship; in case they can't get back, they'll need to encompase every bit of humanity they can to attempt to carry on the race. Sensible enough, ya?)
The Commander
Name: Ian Ross
Info: Picture for a moment the awesomeness that would be formed if you combined Kirk and Picard and added a little bit of "Top Gun" in the mix. Pretty friggin epic is what you get--the brains, the brawn, the daring, the commraderie, and humanity, all in proportion (so minus Kirk's overacting and Picard's pristine condition and Tom Cruise's Scientology and assholishness).
The Physicist
Name: Sydney "Sid" Hainsworth
Info: Crazy genius and religious skeptic. Also French :P Don't ask me why. Look out for this guy later--I think I have some dasterdly plans for him ;)
The Biologist (and general doctor)
Name: Anabelle "Ana" Hainsworth
Info: Wife of crazy genius, but not so crazy. Very even-tempered and professional. Think French-woman-Spock, but less amusing XD Maybe a combination of Seven-of-Nine and Saavik...?
Lead Engineer and Assistant Physicist (guy that built the ship, perhaps?)
Name: Aleksei "Alex" Borisova
Info: Had to pay tribute to Checkov ;) Picture a Rusky Kraut (yup, I just said that), but not extreme and HUGE. He's not "too" Russian, however--a native, but not a fanatic, if you get my drift. He can speak both English and Russian equally well. He'll probably be the depressing one, considering a friggin black hole just ate half his country :o
Lead Programmer/Assistant Engineer
Name: Toshiro Arashima
Info: Yup, the nerdy Japanese guy plays our main techy--imagine that! :o Haha, nah, he just popped into my head and I figured this would make the most sense for him to be. I'm thinking something like Hiro here :P Maybe he'll be our main source of comic relief.
The Linguist
Name: Jacqueline Thomas
Info: A studier of languages, their development, etc. She is actually one of the most important roles to the mission as a whole because of her ability to analyze language and methods involved in it. She can speak nearly any major language, from French to Korean. All in all, as far as personality goes, she's suprisingly laid back but knows when to mean business (which isn't often).
The Culturist
Name: Benjamin Johnson
Info: Huzzah for the chill black man :P Of course, as a culturist, he's very tolerant and open-minded and acts as a mediator between characters. So I guess he's a little like a black Scotty? Haha, I can see it, which is kinda sad, but awesome.
The Psychologist and Assistant Physician/Surgeon
Name: Susannah Scott
Info: A little like a woman-Bones, I think :P Guess she and Ana don't like each other much...or do they???1! haha XD I'm seeing a little Hawkeye in there too :D So, slightly crazy and silly with a tint of McCoy-sarcasm and Hawkeye-whore, just for more comic relief
The Historian/Professor/"Philosopher"
Name: Julia McCulloch
Info: Ah, the profound one, whose main purpose is to hold all the knowledge of everything no one else can manage. She's rather quiet compared to the others, but of course gives the best advice. As the carrier of the legacy of the human race, she is also very important to the mission should the crew not return.
So far that's it, but based on what I've re-read, I like it a lot :D Sort of like a mismatched Star Trek crew. I'm finally getting more excited about this story finally.
As I was writing them, I found other Circle members in the characters, so lets see if you can spot yourself or someone else :P
Comment comment comment!! What should I change/add/get rid of? Sound like a good idea so far? Gimme feedback! (^,^)
So that took like 2 hours to write, and I'm off to bed. Ta.
**(I'll make one thing clear--anything I write here is very likely to change in at least some small way if not completely. Although the "title" of each character has already been written down weeks ago, anything I write about them here is coming straight from my mind right now. At least two of the characters are almost definitely set in stone as to who in the Circle they refer to, but just for the fun of it I won't say who is who ;) You can guess if you like; maybe I'll answer, and maybe I won't haha)**
Anyways, on to the topics!
___________________________________________
First, the title. I've been working with a few different ideas for a title, but I haven't been able to settle on one. The way I see it, the title can be one of two types (as far as sci-fi goes): either it must be vague and complex and somehow slightly relevant, or so simple it nearly hurts. In the first case, the title wouldn't be official until the end. In the second, it could be anything, and since its efficient I think I might go with that until later. So, the most recent I can think of that has a nice ring is "Astraeus Lost." Its simple yet intriguing, so it works :P
That leads to the next thing--the ship. After nearly two hours of brainstorming and Googling and checking the Star Trek database, I finally came up with a couple possibilities for a name of the starship. The first I thought of was the ISAS Utopia, which was technically taken but not significantly like everything else. The second, and the one I picked, is the ISAS Astraeus, named for the greek Titan-god of dusk. ("ISAS," said as simply eye-sus, is a tentative acronym that may very well change, meant to mean International Space Administration Ship)
And now, the tentative cast :o Listed by title/role in no particular order. Most of the titles are a reference to the person's skill, though a couple may have a more underlying-literary-sort of title....whatever :P
Remember that this is "international"--a lot of the characters won't be American.
(also, due to the nature of this mission, several of the main characters have no direct purpose as far as functioning on the ship; in case they can't get back, they'll need to encompase every bit of humanity they can to attempt to carry on the race. Sensible enough, ya?)
The Commander
Name: Ian Ross
Info: Picture for a moment the awesomeness that would be formed if you combined Kirk and Picard and added a little bit of "Top Gun" in the mix. Pretty friggin epic is what you get--the brains, the brawn, the daring, the commraderie, and humanity, all in proportion (so minus Kirk's overacting and Picard's pristine condition and Tom Cruise's Scientology and assholishness).
The Physicist
Name: Sydney "Sid" Hainsworth
Info: Crazy genius and religious skeptic. Also French :P Don't ask me why. Look out for this guy later--I think I have some dasterdly plans for him ;)
The Biologist (and general doctor)
Name: Anabelle "Ana" Hainsworth
Info: Wife of crazy genius, but not so crazy. Very even-tempered and professional. Think French-woman-Spock, but less amusing XD Maybe a combination of Seven-of-Nine and Saavik...?
Lead Engineer and Assistant Physicist (guy that built the ship, perhaps?)
Name: Aleksei "Alex" Borisova
Info: Had to pay tribute to Checkov ;) Picture a Rusky Kraut (yup, I just said that), but not extreme and HUGE. He's not "too" Russian, however--a native, but not a fanatic, if you get my drift. He can speak both English and Russian equally well. He'll probably be the depressing one, considering a friggin black hole just ate half his country :o
Lead Programmer/Assistant Engineer
Name: Toshiro Arashima
Info: Yup, the nerdy Japanese guy plays our main techy--imagine that! :o Haha, nah, he just popped into my head and I figured this would make the most sense for him to be. I'm thinking something like Hiro here :P Maybe he'll be our main source of comic relief.
The Linguist
Name: Jacqueline Thomas
Info: A studier of languages, their development, etc. She is actually one of the most important roles to the mission as a whole because of her ability to analyze language and methods involved in it. She can speak nearly any major language, from French to Korean. All in all, as far as personality goes, she's suprisingly laid back but knows when to mean business (which isn't often).
The Culturist
Name: Benjamin Johnson
Info: Huzzah for the chill black man :P Of course, as a culturist, he's very tolerant and open-minded and acts as a mediator between characters. So I guess he's a little like a black Scotty? Haha, I can see it, which is kinda sad, but awesome.
The Psychologist and Assistant Physician/Surgeon
Name: Susannah Scott
Info: A little like a woman-Bones, I think :P Guess she and Ana don't like each other much...or do they???1! haha XD I'm seeing a little Hawkeye in there too :D So, slightly crazy and silly with a tint of McCoy-sarcasm and Hawkeye-whore, just for more comic relief
The Historian/Professor/"Philosopher"
Name: Julia McCulloch
Info: Ah, the profound one, whose main purpose is to hold all the knowledge of everything no one else can manage. She's rather quiet compared to the others, but of course gives the best advice. As the carrier of the legacy of the human race, she is also very important to the mission should the crew not return.
So far that's it, but based on what I've re-read, I like it a lot :D Sort of like a mismatched Star Trek crew. I'm finally getting more excited about this story finally.
As I was writing them, I found other Circle members in the characters, so lets see if you can spot yourself or someone else :P
Comment comment comment!! What should I change/add/get rid of? Sound like a good idea so far? Gimme feedback! (^,^)
So that took like 2 hours to write, and I'm off to bed. Ta.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Operation NaNoWriMo Plot Organization!
Yup, its that time of year again, filled with writing and all sorts of madness and stress. NaNoWriMo is drawing near.
For those who don’t know, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month (but should really be “International“). People around the world have exactly 30 days to complete a 50,000 word novel. A very few of you already know I did this last year, but for the rest who had no clue until this moment, scroll down a ways to Chapter I, and you’ll catch the gist of it :)
Anyways, I think for November I will keep this blog mainly as a log for the novel. If enough people are actual interested, I may even post the chapters themselves here.
A lot of you (as in about three people) have been asking, what’s the plot? Well…like any good science fiction novel, the plot will probably end up being huge, which is good. More to write about=higher word count. The idea was actually inspired by a random thought the week “the end was nigh” and there was supposed to be a black hole, etc.
I’ll try to explain the basics:
Perhaps a hundred years or less from now, we decide to take these little cautious experiments we perform now and get to the real point--make it bigger, figure out what’s really going on in this universe, simply because we can. Of course, as always this is a bad idea, and we end up blowing a sort of hole in the universe (black or “white“, I haven’t decided yet--probably black to make it easier) a little too close to home. We underestimate our own capacities and realize if we don’t get the hell outta Dodge, we’re all fucked. At this point there’ll be a convenient (and not wholly unrealistic) ship capable of traveling at or above the speed of light. Anywhere we can find in this galaxy would have to be only temporary, so we decide to send a ship full of variously talented people through the hole to hopefully find a solution on the other side while the rest of the world tries to figure out what else we can do. What our main characters end up in is a sort of new but extremely rapidly growing universe so different from our own that even the very concept of time is skewed. A planet here similar to Earth only in that its main inhabitants are of near-equal intelligence is possibly their only hope.
Writing this little blurb of information has actually given me a couple new ideas :D Especially for the ending…oooooh, I like it, yisyis, I do.
People very much interested in this project are completely free to give advise or things they think would do well in the story-line. Several of the main characters will be based off of YOU, people of the Circle; some already now who they are/will be, but most will probably have no clue. If you really really really want to be in it, just talk at me anytime and I’ll come up with a place for ya (if I haven’t got one already planned for you :P).
But I’ve written enough, methinks. I’m off to bed.
(Please leave comments on this one--I really need to get some regular feedback on this kind of thing)
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Short Fiction 5: Guest Visit
At last, something new :) The first line (rewritten of course) actually started out as a poem, but I guess I wasn't inspired enough to finish, so it turned into this instead. Not too bad. Almost 900 words in about 20 minutes. Enjoy :)
_________________________________________________
He could see three photos on the mantle, garlanded with fake leaves and autumn branches in vibrant orange, far too extravagantly perfect to be real. They glistened vaguely in the dim light, twinkling like a secret in a person’s eyes, when you know they’re lying but aren’t stupid enough to say you noticed. His eyes settled on each frame first rather than each photo, for each frame was the same: leather-bound, aged without aging, a stale sort of earthy color that nearly matched the autumn plastic things around t, but not quite.
In the first photo, a tiny child sat perched on a man’s shoulders, like a tower holding up a smiling balloon in some distant city., except it was only a lawn. An empty lawn that seemed to go on forever, but he knew better; it only went as far as they money went before it turned into someone else’s property. The child was smiling. The man was grinning. Neither of their eyes glistened as they should have in the brightness of summer. Behind the camera, he could almost see the near-emotionless photographer that held the camera perfectly still and demanded silly words from them to force a smile. So someday they’d look back and grin once more and say, “How happy we were then, yes yes.” So someday they think, How horrid she was. It didn’t interest him much.
The second photo was a little smaller and more in the backdrop, as if it were just an afterthought to fill a space. An unnecessary little thing that didn’t matter much, but the frame’s so nice and matches so well. He couldn’t see much in it for how many people stood within the leather boundaries. At least 15 people filled the photo to the brim with pointless sameness, each man, woman, and child clothed in the same monotonous royal blue. It reminded him of the photo they had been forced to take in the navy, with each man sporting the same new baldness and the same blue and white outfits that they would never wear again. None of them smiled then (and wouldn’t have enough if they could have), and most of the faces in the picture didn’t smile now, either. Not really, anyways, and it was hard to tell. Maybe among the sameness was a secret smile, too far off to really notice, but enough to matter all the same. He thought he could almost see one, but it danced away like a pixie and into the dust. Maybe just his eyes going. Probably. Maybe.
A third matched the second, but not quite in content, only in that the two frames were placed symmetrically to each other, facing one another endlessly. This one was a little different, older (truly), and the leather frame couldn’t entirely hide the tiny peak of frayed edge in the left corner. This time the smiles weren’t present at all, not even false ones, making the wedding scene very strange. A funeral in white and gray, more like. A funeral for freedom and happiness, he guessed. He was the same man in the first photo, only younger and strangely sadder. Darker, even. As if the world of that time had been in a constant shade, a mild tint of blackness everywhere you went. He knew of the woman’s sadness; he’d seen it a thousand times over from a thousand photos taken in a hundred different years and times and eras apart from his. The man’s was stranger. He somehow doubted the little gray man that stood stoically beside his mistress himself knew of his own depression. Consciousness, he knew, came with time and calmness and acceptance.
He stood to gaze more closely at the photos, hands clasped behind him in a doctor’s studying clasp as he leaned forward into the mantle, eyes flitting back and forth from frame to glinting frame, leaf to plastic leaf.
A bare little spot where the dust hadn’t quite settled in yet caught his gaze. A line of slight darkness between colored leaves. A void. A place that needed filling but never was, and so was merely covered up.
“Something else used to be here,” he mentioned casually, as any guest in a stranger’s home would be: prying, curious, yet with mild uncaring that seemed to also mention that the answer wouldn‘t be judged too harshly if it was given quietly. She paused, thought about this, then took the deal.
“Oh, nothing’s missing,” an answer from the kitchen echoed off shining white tile, forced nothingness in its ring. “Well, there used to be another one there, but the frame broke so we took it down. It was a while back.”
Ah. So that was it.
It was a missing person, not a missing photo. A void. And place that needed filling, but couldn’t be, so it was covered up. He frowned at the three tiny panes of glass.
“I hope you fix it soon.” Silence from them both a moment. “It would be a shame to leave something so beautiful so empty.”
In all his observations, he didn’t hear the silent mouth form the words in truth behind his back.
If ever it was beautiful to begin with.
_________________________________________________
He could see three photos on the mantle, garlanded with fake leaves and autumn branches in vibrant orange, far too extravagantly perfect to be real. They glistened vaguely in the dim light, twinkling like a secret in a person’s eyes, when you know they’re lying but aren’t stupid enough to say you noticed. His eyes settled on each frame first rather than each photo, for each frame was the same: leather-bound, aged without aging, a stale sort of earthy color that nearly matched the autumn plastic things around t, but not quite.
In the first photo, a tiny child sat perched on a man’s shoulders, like a tower holding up a smiling balloon in some distant city., except it was only a lawn. An empty lawn that seemed to go on forever, but he knew better; it only went as far as they money went before it turned into someone else’s property. The child was smiling. The man was grinning. Neither of their eyes glistened as they should have in the brightness of summer. Behind the camera, he could almost see the near-emotionless photographer that held the camera perfectly still and demanded silly words from them to force a smile. So someday they’d look back and grin once more and say, “How happy we were then, yes yes.” So someday they think, How horrid she was. It didn’t interest him much.
The second photo was a little smaller and more in the backdrop, as if it were just an afterthought to fill a space. An unnecessary little thing that didn’t matter much, but the frame’s so nice and matches so well. He couldn’t see much in it for how many people stood within the leather boundaries. At least 15 people filled the photo to the brim with pointless sameness, each man, woman, and child clothed in the same monotonous royal blue. It reminded him of the photo they had been forced to take in the navy, with each man sporting the same new baldness and the same blue and white outfits that they would never wear again. None of them smiled then (and wouldn’t have enough if they could have), and most of the faces in the picture didn’t smile now, either. Not really, anyways, and it was hard to tell. Maybe among the sameness was a secret smile, too far off to really notice, but enough to matter all the same. He thought he could almost see one, but it danced away like a pixie and into the dust. Maybe just his eyes going. Probably. Maybe.
A third matched the second, but not quite in content, only in that the two frames were placed symmetrically to each other, facing one another endlessly. This one was a little different, older (truly), and the leather frame couldn’t entirely hide the tiny peak of frayed edge in the left corner. This time the smiles weren’t present at all, not even false ones, making the wedding scene very strange. A funeral in white and gray, more like. A funeral for freedom and happiness, he guessed. He was the same man in the first photo, only younger and strangely sadder. Darker, even. As if the world of that time had been in a constant shade, a mild tint of blackness everywhere you went. He knew of the woman’s sadness; he’d seen it a thousand times over from a thousand photos taken in a hundred different years and times and eras apart from his. The man’s was stranger. He somehow doubted the little gray man that stood stoically beside his mistress himself knew of his own depression. Consciousness, he knew, came with time and calmness and acceptance.
He stood to gaze more closely at the photos, hands clasped behind him in a doctor’s studying clasp as he leaned forward into the mantle, eyes flitting back and forth from frame to glinting frame, leaf to plastic leaf.
A bare little spot where the dust hadn’t quite settled in yet caught his gaze. A line of slight darkness between colored leaves. A void. A place that needed filling but never was, and so was merely covered up.
“Something else used to be here,” he mentioned casually, as any guest in a stranger’s home would be: prying, curious, yet with mild uncaring that seemed to also mention that the answer wouldn‘t be judged too harshly if it was given quietly. She paused, thought about this, then took the deal.
“Oh, nothing’s missing,” an answer from the kitchen echoed off shining white tile, forced nothingness in its ring. “Well, there used to be another one there, but the frame broke so we took it down. It was a while back.”
Ah. So that was it.
It was a missing person, not a missing photo. A void. And place that needed filling, but couldn’t be, so it was covered up. He frowned at the three tiny panes of glass.
“I hope you fix it soon.” Silence from them both a moment. “It would be a shame to leave something so beautiful so empty.”
In all his observations, he didn’t hear the silent mouth form the words in truth behind his back.
If ever it was beautiful to begin with.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Brother to Brother (filler)
This is mainly just to post something up since its been so long sine I wrote anything. I wrote this probably about a year ago before started NaNoWriMo. Originally this was meant to be a part of a section in Tier 1 involving a different main character than in the first chapter I posted a while back. The war they refer to was the war that would eventually lead to the society Marie and Eric live in. Anyways, here ya go. Hopefully I'll have something new soon :)
_________________________________________
I can rarely recall any memory with such vividness with which I used to, when I could remember every detail of every dream and every memory that quivered by on even the most evasive and frail of wings. My brother’s face escapes me often when I try to think of home, but I do hark back to one lucid memory.
He had just returned from the war. His hair was slick with oil and rainwater from the storm raging outside, and when he entered it was impossible to miss, not only because of his normal cinematic entry but for the wind attempting to siege our house as the door banged open with its force. Matthew grinned with a concise little chuckle, mocking sheepishness, as he shoved the door close on the desperate wind, and his muscles, fruits of the many years of hard labor and toil and training and pain, strained in perfect unison. The reality stood clear and harsh as he stepped into the light, revealing an unshaven sharp jaw-line and hardened eyes of steely gray: the little Matty that left all ambitious and excited to do some good and have some fun was no more. In his place stood a man, a bold and brusque man with morals and ideals and a want to change the world in any way he could manage and serve his country properly (even when their intentioned were not always the best). Still that familiar smile shone through his rock of a visage and we crowded around him once the image settled in, eager to embrace him with us once more.
He talked of his many travels, through snow and sand and clouds and mud and rain. He talked of our letters to him and apologized for the ones he never answered. He talked of his sergeant and his officer, men as hardened as he was now no doubt, and of his companions of the war. He talked of wounds and scars, even showed us a few, and of how he lost his finger a year ago (an anomaly overlooked by yours truly, but certainly not by our mother, who always did have a rather compulsory attention to detail). Most of all, however, Matthew talked of the blood. Of it covering his hands, covering his gun and clothes. Of it splattered on the walls of the buildings they infiltrated. Of it on the bullets he shot. Of it flooding his dreams on darker, lonelier nights. And the unspoken: of the blood that filled more pleasant dreams and filled is very waking thoughts without ever provoking disgust, without ever causing a flinch of even minimal surprise.
When the lights were dimmed and the family began to head towards their respected habitats for sleep, I followed Matthew to converse alone with him on the things he hadn’t said. I guessed a few of the simpler ones–about women he had seen and more than that, which we laughed at casually, like the good innocent brothers we once were. But when I questioned his true dreams, his true thoughts, he retreated subtly, those gray-ice eyes shifting away towards the hardwood floor beneath his feet. I provoked him, asked again; I wanted an answer. Finally he gave in, not from weakness but from his ties and unspoken allegiances to me that outranked any general’s allegiance to his country .
“Every day I see them. Their blood just...covers everything. It never goes away once you’ve fired that first shot. You’re always thirsty, always needing more of it. It never goes away.”
I nodded solemnly, trying to understand and empathize as I rested my elbows on my knees to save my energy for thinking. As I looked for the words to break the foreboding silence, I absently noticed he hadn’t taken off his boots yet; in fact, he hadn’t take off anything yet. Perhaps he had grown used to the feeling of a load on his back and on his heart. I commented lightly on the battered and muddy state of his footwear, as we once more began small-talk.
Somehow, though, I think I knew that beneath the caked dirt and silence of his tales that stains of even deeper scarlet threatened to reveal themselves. Perhaps he wanted it that way. Perhaps it was best to just forget.
_________________________________________
I can rarely recall any memory with such vividness with which I used to, when I could remember every detail of every dream and every memory that quivered by on even the most evasive and frail of wings. My brother’s face escapes me often when I try to think of home, but I do hark back to one lucid memory.
He had just returned from the war. His hair was slick with oil and rainwater from the storm raging outside, and when he entered it was impossible to miss, not only because of his normal cinematic entry but for the wind attempting to siege our house as the door banged open with its force. Matthew grinned with a concise little chuckle, mocking sheepishness, as he shoved the door close on the desperate wind, and his muscles, fruits of the many years of hard labor and toil and training and pain, strained in perfect unison. The reality stood clear and harsh as he stepped into the light, revealing an unshaven sharp jaw-line and hardened eyes of steely gray: the little Matty that left all ambitious and excited to do some good and have some fun was no more. In his place stood a man, a bold and brusque man with morals and ideals and a want to change the world in any way he could manage and serve his country properly (even when their intentioned were not always the best). Still that familiar smile shone through his rock of a visage and we crowded around him once the image settled in, eager to embrace him with us once more.
He talked of his many travels, through snow and sand and clouds and mud and rain. He talked of our letters to him and apologized for the ones he never answered. He talked of his sergeant and his officer, men as hardened as he was now no doubt, and of his companions of the war. He talked of wounds and scars, even showed us a few, and of how he lost his finger a year ago (an anomaly overlooked by yours truly, but certainly not by our mother, who always did have a rather compulsory attention to detail). Most of all, however, Matthew talked of the blood. Of it covering his hands, covering his gun and clothes. Of it splattered on the walls of the buildings they infiltrated. Of it on the bullets he shot. Of it flooding his dreams on darker, lonelier nights. And the unspoken: of the blood that filled more pleasant dreams and filled is very waking thoughts without ever provoking disgust, without ever causing a flinch of even minimal surprise.
When the lights were dimmed and the family began to head towards their respected habitats for sleep, I followed Matthew to converse alone with him on the things he hadn’t said. I guessed a few of the simpler ones–about women he had seen and more than that, which we laughed at casually, like the good innocent brothers we once were. But when I questioned his true dreams, his true thoughts, he retreated subtly, those gray-ice eyes shifting away towards the hardwood floor beneath his feet. I provoked him, asked again; I wanted an answer. Finally he gave in, not from weakness but from his ties and unspoken allegiances to me that outranked any general’s allegiance to his country .
“Every day I see them. Their blood just...covers everything. It never goes away once you’ve fired that first shot. You’re always thirsty, always needing more of it. It never goes away.”
I nodded solemnly, trying to understand and empathize as I rested my elbows on my knees to save my energy for thinking. As I looked for the words to break the foreboding silence, I absently noticed he hadn’t taken off his boots yet; in fact, he hadn’t take off anything yet. Perhaps he had grown used to the feeling of a load on his back and on his heart. I commented lightly on the battered and muddy state of his footwear, as we once more began small-talk.
Somehow, though, I think I knew that beneath the caked dirt and silence of his tales that stains of even deeper scarlet threatened to reveal themselves. Perhaps he wanted it that way. Perhaps it was best to just forget.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Poetry 2: Dance
A newer poem, a bit better than the last. Very abstract, as usual. Or if you happen to be a friend, meaning you're a new reader, get used to things like this. They happen often :)
________________________________________
Dance
Do you know
How the painted starlight dances?
I have seen their eyes,
Glowing in all their brilliance,
Seen the empty houses on the street,
Heard the empty cries
And the painted wings that shield them.
Do you know
How the world will scream?
Do you know the way it dies?
The why it ends?
It ends in starlight,
In the final moments of a being,
Of a forever,
Of a time that never ends,
And never began.
It ends with cries, but not with sobs;
With shouts, but not with words;
With dignity, but not with truth.
Forever, it does end.
And forever the stars keep
Dancing.
I've noticed that in order to write a poem, I don't think. I never think of the words. Just all of a sudden I feel extremely ill, like if I don't write something right now I"ll be sick. Very strange...but whatever works.
Enjoy
________________________________________
Dance
Do you know
How the painted starlight dances?
I have seen their eyes,
Glowing in all their brilliance,
Seen the empty houses on the street,
Heard the empty cries
And the painted wings that shield them.
Do you know
How the world will scream?
Do you know the way it dies?
The why it ends?
It ends in starlight,
In the final moments of a being,
Of a forever,
Of a time that never ends,
And never began.
It ends with cries, but not with sobs;
With shouts, but not with words;
With dignity, but not with truth.
Forever, it does end.
And forever the stars keep
Dancing.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Poetry 1: In the Valley
Newest poem, finally, after nearly two months without writing one. Short free verse, by far not my best, but it's good enough as filler.
For older poems, see http://www.elftown.com/_Nite%20Owl%27s%20Poetry
_______________________________________________
In the Valley
Hourglass sands
Falling from the pits of sky--
They run with fleeting hearts,
Gripping grains of gold in their hands,
Even as they slip away
To fall and die in the valley.
They mourn the sands,
They ponder their defeat,
They watch their children, mystified,
Uncaring,
Unmoving,
And begin again their unending game of catch
Into madness.
For older poems, see http://www.elftown.com/_Nite%20Owl%27s%20Poetry
_______________________________________________
In the Valley
Hourglass sands
Falling from the pits of sky--
They run with fleeting hearts,
Gripping grains of gold in their hands,
Even as they slip away
To fall and die in the valley.
They mourn the sands,
They ponder their defeat,
They watch their children, mystified,
Uncaring,
Unmoving,
And begin again their unending game of catch
Into madness.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Short Fiction 4
No idea what the hell this is supposed to be. Some guy getting owned by plants.... sounds like Stephen King to me XD Very very vaguely inspired by "The Fountain" movie.
____________________________________________________________
I've seen this place before. It isn't how I remember it. It isn't the way it was supposed to be. Then it was gray and threaded with wide cracks like the calloused palms of a dead god, pale and rotting and worn. Black birds and other more subtle creatures crawled along the barren land with scaly hides to snatch at poor specimens that happened upon the wasteland and were unlucky enough to have lost their minds and wills. There were no mountains, no trees or even skeletons of trees, not a single distinguishable landmark to be saved. Just the everlasting gray light that penetrated the entire body with its ghastly glow.
No, this can't be the same place.
But it has to be. It was right here. I know it was.
This was some trick. Some type of sick joke the same gray glow he recalled so well was playing on him after being away for so long.
This is a green land. Not just green; it shines like a bed of emeralds under a bright and full yellow sun that hangs like a fat yellow seed in the sky drooping from some unseen over-fertile tree far above and beyond human perception. The grass grows naturally, yet as if someone has deliberately planted every seed with the utmost care to ensure its growth. All the same length. A monotonous field of green and scentless miles for as far as the eyes can see.
Ironically its the lack of landmarks that help distinguish this festering but well-disguised wound in the world. I can sense the crusting rot beneath me, and I know this is the place. The place for death and deceit, and of course for peace as well.
Yes, I've been here before.
Long ago, this was my home. Long ago I would have welcomed this apparent blessing, but not now. Too many years have gone by. Too many memories that tell me otherwise, and all I can see is black and smoldering ruins and pits of darkness. It isn't illusion; it's torture beyond anything I've ever witness before this moment.
I feel the ground. Deceivingly hard and unyielding under my fingertips, and I can feel the grass give a almost imperceptible hiss as it pulls toward my touch, clinging to it. That's more like it. Always feeding off itself and whatever lands in its clutches. This field hasn't seen a green quite like this in countless decades, far longer than I can remember or care to. It draws in prey so easily, and I can see the dissolving remains of bone not far from me. Only grass without water. A purgatory oasis filled with temptation and starvation and deception. I can't help but smirk.
Its close. I can feel it, even though it isn't anywhere in sight. Its an entity all its own, separate from this hell-hole, and I created it myself.
Perhaps this green is just one more battlefield and every blade is fighting against its newest enemy buried deep within itself. It can sense me, just as I sense it, and it calls me to it. I walk without thought or feeling, letting the memories guide me blindly as they always have.
I can see the wastelands stretching out all around, can see the cloudless sky blur with it into eternity. This is where the heavens meet the land. This is where the Ladder must be placed. The images from nearly fifty years past play on the backs of my eyelids and I ignore my surroundings and the strange touch of clinging grass on my heels as I pull away, ignoring the impossible sighs of disappointment and futility they make as I pass.
I open my eyes. Its here. I don't expect the single white-linen flower that protrudes so helplessly and innocently from the cruelly challenging earth all around it. The blades of grass soldiers war against its presence still, as they have for decades, revealing an unusual pattern in their ranks before me like a sudden but silent wind pressing the emerald army into the ground in a circle. The ring pulsates very slightly under my bare feet and I can feel the ripples of the soldiers and their bristling anger grasp my flesh with tiny futile hands.
Here is the Ladder. Here is the gateway to the kingdom I have waited for since my very existence began its ticking clock. This is where it all began, where it all ends and begins once more. Here I will become whole.
I take the flower in my hands and tug gently. It doesn't give. I try again. Nothing. The pulse of the living field around me grows faster, more intense. I haven't much time. I try a third time, leaning my weight back onto my heels as I pinch the stem and watch it lengthen briefly, then pull itself back into the earth, like tugging a mule from its cart. Then, fear washed through me, cold as icy rain.
No. This is the Ladder, my key to freedom and to bliss. To a second chance. It is mine to take, and no one else's. Its mine.
The treacherous tiny growth continues to descend until I can scarcely see it. The ground is opening, hissing and piercing through itself in a jumbled mess of writhing emerald blades lunging forward to cling at my hands still wrapped around the gentle lily. Now the blades bite and catch, as they always were meant to, but with a new vigor, a new life and enthusiasm that it hasn't experienced in ages. For a moment I make an attempt to pull away, but its far too late now, and I know it. It was too late the day this demon-seed was planted. The day I planted it as my key to the heavens.
This strange and unholy being has fooled me into death. Even as the blades pull and bury me in sand and glass below the grassy surface, I can't help but let this wry chuckle escape me. Fifty years, and I am beat. I have nothing left. There is no heavenly light for me now, only the eternal darkness and broken glass prison of the cracked desert.
I make no sound as the blades pull my eyes away from the last view of the world. The yellow sun still hangs far away, and I wonder briefly if perhaps the Ladder and the key had always been within my grasp. The land hisses once more and closes in all around me, and all that is left is the black decay of hell that had always been waiting for me.
And I can't help but smirk.
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