Hello internet! We're at thing 50! That means the time is nigh for another story challenge, so I'll be collecting suggestions shortly, and then hopefully writing something worth reading. The last one was pretty atrocious, so I have a lot of ground to make up.
Anyway, on with the thing.
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Thing 50: I didn't know what was happening at the time
A happenstance so surely left behind
In solace now it wracks my tattered mind
But that, forsooth, a gnash upon the rind
In passing then it seeks to wax unkind
At fateful time, yet wreathed in mystery
I stood uncertain, plain for all to see
What magic, this? What ceaseless devilry?
Each answered question brought another three
What bits were true? When shall I find my peace?
Will my poor mind perchance to find the keys?
Unlocking this confusion as he grieves
A challenge fought yet lost upon the priest
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Okay, so this was my sorry attempt at iambic pentameter. This concept, which I was introduced to in my highschool english class because apparently Shakespeare was a fan, involves 10 syllables in a line grouped into pairs. In each pair, the second syllable is supposed to have emphasis.
e.g.: "a HAPpenSTANCE so SUREly LEFT beHIND"
I feel like a missed the mark a bit, and it's definitely shorter than I intended, but this exercise was actually quite draining, as it's more of a technical piece than a creative one. As such, it stands as a bit of a departure from my normal style of things. Usually I try to vary the structure of my work to give it a more organic feel, and the way it sounds means much more than the way it's put together. This is the opposite.
Take that as you will.
Showing posts with label 642 Things to Write About. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 642 Things to Write About. Show all posts
Tuesday, 17 November 2015
Thursday, 12 November 2015
Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written
Hey team! It's that time again. I do believe I'm getting close to overdue for another post, so here goes nothing.
BY THE WAY, for those of you that used to read my stuff, you should be happy to hear that we're approaching another story challenge! After every 10 "things" from my fancy pants book here, I get some audience suggestions and craft a tale using five of the weirdest ones. So there's that to look forward to, which is pretty swell.
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Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written
Contrived.
This is, in my opinion, the only word which can adequately summarize Dominic Aquilina's first (and one would hope only) foray into the literary profession, if you could even call it that. The Boundless Depths, which I had the great misfortune of reading for the purposes of this review, is the sort of mindless drivel that one might expect from a first-time author only if one dearly wished for that author to fail. Aquilina somehow manages to capture everything horrible in the world and condense it into a string of glyphs that by some miracle flows into a semi-coherent gathering of sentences. To gaze upon the book's pages (and again, I use the term with great hesitation) is reminiscent of of an emaciated badger dragging a carcass studded with broken glass through one's corneae as it seeks to gain sustenance from the rancid flesh.
And yet, even these words fall short of what it is like to read The Boundless Depths. I would say that one must experience it themselves to fully understand, but this is a fate I would not wish on even my most execrated foes. That Breakwater Publishing saw fit to put ink to paper and produce this travesty is an insult to the entire forest from which each fateful tree originated. To burn each and every copy seems to be the only recourse before us, lest another unfortunate soul be subjected to Aquilina's mad ramblings.
In short, if I believed in any manner of a god, I would pray forgiveness for whatever slight caused it to allow such an abomination to spring forth from the depths of a long forgotten hell to plague us mere mortals in so permanent a form. The Boundless Depths, I can only hope, shall be banished to its namesake for all eternity, never to surface again. My life has been forever tainted for having read it.
I award -3 stars out of 10.
BY THE WAY, for those of you that used to read my stuff, you should be happy to hear that we're approaching another story challenge! After every 10 "things" from my fancy pants book here, I get some audience suggestions and craft a tale using five of the weirdest ones. So there's that to look forward to, which is pretty swell.
-------------------------
Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written
Contrived.
This is, in my opinion, the only word which can adequately summarize Dominic Aquilina's first (and one would hope only) foray into the literary profession, if you could even call it that. The Boundless Depths, which I had the great misfortune of reading for the purposes of this review, is the sort of mindless drivel that one might expect from a first-time author only if one dearly wished for that author to fail. Aquilina somehow manages to capture everything horrible in the world and condense it into a string of glyphs that by some miracle flows into a semi-coherent gathering of sentences. To gaze upon the book's pages (and again, I use the term with great hesitation) is reminiscent of of an emaciated badger dragging a carcass studded with broken glass through one's corneae as it seeks to gain sustenance from the rancid flesh.
And yet, even these words fall short of what it is like to read The Boundless Depths. I would say that one must experience it themselves to fully understand, but this is a fate I would not wish on even my most execrated foes. That Breakwater Publishing saw fit to put ink to paper and produce this travesty is an insult to the entire forest from which each fateful tree originated. To burn each and every copy seems to be the only recourse before us, lest another unfortunate soul be subjected to Aquilina's mad ramblings.
In short, if I believed in any manner of a god, I would pray forgiveness for whatever slight caused it to allow such an abomination to spring forth from the depths of a long forgotten hell to plague us mere mortals in so permanent a form. The Boundless Depths, I can only hope, shall be banished to its namesake for all eternity, never to surface again. My life has been forever tainted for having read it.
I award -3 stars out of 10.
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Thing 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one
Heya. I'm not really feeling like writing today, but I did set myself a quota, so...
I suppose I should post an advisory, in that the following passage might be a bit disturbing to some. Take that as you will.
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Thing 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one
Borogan's fingers clenched more tightly around the woman's throat. Her thrashing had long since stopped, but still he squeezed, hoping against hope that he would feel... something. Anything; some whisper of life sparking through the swirling blackness of his soul.
And yet, it remained quiet.
Of course it did. She was a nothing; some nameless harlet he'd torn from the streets during her time of sin. Nobody would notice. Nobody would miss. That was perhaps the problem, he thought to himself.
I have not taken life. I have merely granted freedom.
Not that it would make a difference. All of the others had been the same. All but one.
Julie...
His grip strengthened at the recollection. He remembered the thrill of the act. He remembered her pitiful cries and the salty bite of her tears and he kissed her cheek in the throes of passion. He'd never felt more alive than in that precious moment, and he longed to feel it again.
This would not be the last. No, he would keep searching until he found it again, or until the universe and all its gods saw fit to end his quest prematurely. There could be nothing else.
There would be victory, or there wouldn't.
Either way, there would be death.
I suppose I should post an advisory, in that the following passage might be a bit disturbing to some. Take that as you will.
-------------------------
Thing 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one
Borogan's fingers clenched more tightly around the woman's throat. Her thrashing had long since stopped, but still he squeezed, hoping against hope that he would feel... something. Anything; some whisper of life sparking through the swirling blackness of his soul.
And yet, it remained quiet.
Of course it did. She was a nothing; some nameless harlet he'd torn from the streets during her time of sin. Nobody would notice. Nobody would miss. That was perhaps the problem, he thought to himself.
I have not taken life. I have merely granted freedom.
Not that it would make a difference. All of the others had been the same. All but one.
Julie...
His grip strengthened at the recollection. He remembered the thrill of the act. He remembered her pitiful cries and the salty bite of her tears and he kissed her cheek in the throes of passion. He'd never felt more alive than in that precious moment, and he longed to feel it again.
This would not be the last. No, he would keep searching until he found it again, or until the universe and all its gods saw fit to end his quest prematurely. There could be nothing else.
There would be victory, or there wouldn't.
Either way, there would be death.
Friday, 6 November 2015
Thing 47: The time you were the most terrified -- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin
Greetings viewers. It's time for another terribly unexciting chapter of "Dom writes some things and nobody reads them!" Let's see what the universe has in store for me today, shall we?
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Thing 47: The time you were the most terrified -- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin
"One step closer, and she dies."
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So I tried something a little different today. I'm really good at writing too much -- sweeping, long-winded passages rife with emotion and descriptive elements. I'm really bad at writing short things. I figured this time around I would try to be brief. I think my above passage (inspired by the amazing 6-word story that pretty much everyone knows about already) actually says quite a lot in those few words, but I want to know what my audience thinks!
So yes, if you're reading this, please comment. I want to know if you can paint the same picture in your head that I had in mine when I put this together. Also, I can write a longer version if people would be interested in that, but I won't know unless you tell me.
Challenge extended.
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Thing 47: The time you were the most terrified -- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin
"One step closer, and she dies."
-------------------------
So I tried something a little different today. I'm really good at writing too much -- sweeping, long-winded passages rife with emotion and descriptive elements. I'm really bad at writing short things. I figured this time around I would try to be brief. I think my above passage (inspired by the amazing 6-word story that pretty much everyone knows about already) actually says quite a lot in those few words, but I want to know what my audience thinks!
So yes, if you're reading this, please comment. I want to know if you can paint the same picture in your head that I had in mine when I put this together. Also, I can write a longer version if people would be interested in that, but I won't know unless you tell me.
Challenge extended.
Wednesday, 4 November 2015
Thing 46: Describe Exultation
"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self."
~Ernest Hemingway
So yes, I came across that quote while watching Kingsman: The Secret Service, but somehow I feel as if that doesn't make it less pertinent. Self improvement is something I've pursued for many years now, and I think it's incredibly important. I further believe that mister Hemingway phrased the importance is this pursuit in more eloquent a manner than I might ever have been able to manage. Hearing in again has inspired me to actively work on trying to be more accountable. As such, I'm going to attempt to author a new post here at least once every other day. Primarily this is to practice my craft, for whatever that's worth, but I also think that having some concrete and consistent responsibility helps to build character. If you read this and happen to know me outside of this blog, keep me accountable.
We both know I need it.
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Thing 46: Describe Exultation
I had to look up that word. I think my vocabulary's rather good, but nobody's perfect. Personal development!
In any case, I decided that this time around I wasn't going to make a proper story of things, but rather I'd simply try my hand at meeting the requirements of the passage using a more normal sort of approach. After all, not everything's a story, and sometimes information should be dispensed in other ways. This harkens back to the discussion about different learning styles... But I digress.
My purpose for this entry is to describe a word, and I'm going to do that by telling youa bit about my last few months. I'll spare you the details here; not because I don't think they're interesting or because I wish to hide anything, but because there are others parties involved and it would be unfair to them if they were so publicly ousted. It's their tale as much as it is mine, and I haven't the right to tell it on their behalf.
What I will say is that some time not so long ago I because aware of some news which was, at the time, incredibly upsetting for me. In essence, a lot of things that I thought were real turned out to be false, and I had no way of coming to terms with that reality at the time. When I tried to open discussion on the matter and obtain some measure of closure, things became markedly worse. It looked as if one of my best friends would be gone from my life forever.
Needless to say, I did not take this situation very well, and sank into a fairly dark state of mind.
I had two fairly important solaces at this time which stopped things from escalating further. The first was my writing. When things become truly awful, I find that simply transcribing my thoughts can be incredibly cathartic, and it serves as a huge help. At the end of that week, I had no less than six pages of some of the darkest and most depressing work to ever find its way to paper through my hands. It was actually fairly well-written, and I considered publishing it here for that reason alone, but in the end I decided against it in small part because I didn't want people to be concerned, but in larger part to protect the interests of the other parties.
The second solace was my job. I'm very lucky to have found employment with a wonderful company here (Local Line! Check us out (after we launch the new version of our app next week)!). It's web development, which I swore I would one day put behind me, but the work is interesting and the team is both incredibly talented and incredibly supportive. I happened to formally start with the company a mere week after that fateful revelation of mine, and so I retreated into my labour with gusto. For the next month it became the absolute best part of my life, and I shudder to think what might have become of me if the job was a soul-crushing one. I'm grateful every day for the opportunity.
But again I digress. The point I'm meandering toward here is that I was at a very dark point in my life. Despite the job and my writing I could lose entire days merely by thinking about the friend I thought I'd lost. It's amazing how heartbreak can utterly consume you, like a viscid shadow oozing over your soul and blocking out any hope of one day seeing the light again. It was awful.
But, this brings us back to the purpose of the piece itself: exultation.
Very, very recently I found out that all was not lost. I reconnected with that friend, and they expressed interest in once again becoming part of my life. This, my dear friends, is exultation. A quick Google search defines is as "a feeling of triumphant elation or jubilation; rejoicing." And let me tell you, those words made my heart soar. To them it was likely nothing, but to me it was if my world suddenly stopped falling apart. That maybe -- just maybe -- there was something to look forward to.
Exultation is knowing that friendship did not die. Exultation is learning that many of the horrible things you thought about yourself might be wrong. Exultation is waking up and thinking that things will get better.
Here's to being optimistic for the first time in years, in thinking I might not be wrong.
~Ernest Hemingway
So yes, I came across that quote while watching Kingsman: The Secret Service, but somehow I feel as if that doesn't make it less pertinent. Self improvement is something I've pursued for many years now, and I think it's incredibly important. I further believe that mister Hemingway phrased the importance is this pursuit in more eloquent a manner than I might ever have been able to manage. Hearing in again has inspired me to actively work on trying to be more accountable. As such, I'm going to attempt to author a new post here at least once every other day. Primarily this is to practice my craft, for whatever that's worth, but I also think that having some concrete and consistent responsibility helps to build character. If you read this and happen to know me outside of this blog, keep me accountable.
We both know I need it.
-------------------------
Thing 46: Describe Exultation
I had to look up that word. I think my vocabulary's rather good, but nobody's perfect. Personal development!
In any case, I decided that this time around I wasn't going to make a proper story of things, but rather I'd simply try my hand at meeting the requirements of the passage using a more normal sort of approach. After all, not everything's a story, and sometimes information should be dispensed in other ways. This harkens back to the discussion about different learning styles... But I digress.
My purpose for this entry is to describe a word, and I'm going to do that by telling youa bit about my last few months. I'll spare you the details here; not because I don't think they're interesting or because I wish to hide anything, but because there are others parties involved and it would be unfair to them if they were so publicly ousted. It's their tale as much as it is mine, and I haven't the right to tell it on their behalf.
What I will say is that some time not so long ago I because aware of some news which was, at the time, incredibly upsetting for me. In essence, a lot of things that I thought were real turned out to be false, and I had no way of coming to terms with that reality at the time. When I tried to open discussion on the matter and obtain some measure of closure, things became markedly worse. It looked as if one of my best friends would be gone from my life forever.
Needless to say, I did not take this situation very well, and sank into a fairly dark state of mind.
I had two fairly important solaces at this time which stopped things from escalating further. The first was my writing. When things become truly awful, I find that simply transcribing my thoughts can be incredibly cathartic, and it serves as a huge help. At the end of that week, I had no less than six pages of some of the darkest and most depressing work to ever find its way to paper through my hands. It was actually fairly well-written, and I considered publishing it here for that reason alone, but in the end I decided against it in small part because I didn't want people to be concerned, but in larger part to protect the interests of the other parties.
The second solace was my job. I'm very lucky to have found employment with a wonderful company here (Local Line! Check us out (after we launch the new version of our app next week)!). It's web development, which I swore I would one day put behind me, but the work is interesting and the team is both incredibly talented and incredibly supportive. I happened to formally start with the company a mere week after that fateful revelation of mine, and so I retreated into my labour with gusto. For the next month it became the absolute best part of my life, and I shudder to think what might have become of me if the job was a soul-crushing one. I'm grateful every day for the opportunity.
But again I digress. The point I'm meandering toward here is that I was at a very dark point in my life. Despite the job and my writing I could lose entire days merely by thinking about the friend I thought I'd lost. It's amazing how heartbreak can utterly consume you, like a viscid shadow oozing over your soul and blocking out any hope of one day seeing the light again. It was awful.
But, this brings us back to the purpose of the piece itself: exultation.
Very, very recently I found out that all was not lost. I reconnected with that friend, and they expressed interest in once again becoming part of my life. This, my dear friends, is exultation. A quick Google search defines is as "a feeling of triumphant elation or jubilation; rejoicing." And let me tell you, those words made my heart soar. To them it was likely nothing, but to me it was if my world suddenly stopped falling apart. That maybe -- just maybe -- there was something to look forward to.
Exultation is knowing that friendship did not die. Exultation is learning that many of the horrible things you thought about yourself might be wrong. Exultation is waking up and thinking that things will get better.
Here's to being optimistic for the first time in years, in thinking I might not be wrong.
Tuesday, 3 November 2015
Thing 45: Your most transcendent ice cream experience
Two in one week? What is this madness!?
Yes, my dear follower, I am doing another! Because hey, why not. It's not like I'm doing anything else. I figured it was high time to start taking this whole writing nonsense seriously again.
Anyway, here goes!
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Thing 45: Your most transcedent ice cream experience
Jared yawned as his slippered feet slid across the tiles, slowly but surely bringing him toward the freezer. It was 5:37 AM, and if he were being honest with himself he was mighty tired, but this was his weekend. No job, no girlfriend -- just the sweet freedom to do whatever he damn well pleased.
And you know what? He damn well pleased some damn ice cream.
He stopped for a moment at that, furrowing his brow as he tried to determine if that thought actually made any sense. Through the haze of the lateness of the hour (and possibly the lingering alcohol in his system) he couldn't be sure, but his keenly-trained literary mind was leaning toward a definite "no." Still, he wasn't nearly confident enough for his liking.
I guess that degree in english literature really wasn't good for anything. Mom was right.
Scowling now, he ripped open the freezer, not even flinching as the door collided madly with the cabinets and bounced slowly back toward him. It was a bit of a sorry sight inside, considering the number of frozen pizzas he had engorged over the past few days, but like a shining beacon the box he knew to be present sat prominently at the fore of an otherwise empty shelf.
Ice cream. Cookies and cream, no less. For some reason he'd always been a bit ashamed to admit it, but that was his favourite flavour. He supposed that particular thought process had something to do with his father's irrational fear of salmonilla. He ignored it with a shrug, managing to find the perfect balance between abject rage and utter nonchalance.
It was that kind of weekend.
He grabbed the box with a tired hand and slid it off the shelf, letting it and the arm that held it drop lazily to his side as he shuffled toward the cutlery drawer. His empty hand fished around in the thing and pulled out the first spoon it found. The fact that this spoon was nearly the size of his fist was irrelevant. It's intended purpose was supposed to be gravy or some such, but he figured it would work for ice cream just as well. After all, he wasn't planning on using a bowl, so having a spoon that doubled as one was probably the next best thing.
Utensil in hand, he dragged his feet and made his way to the living room, being sure to headbutt the freezer closed on his way past. The impact was a small one, but it did manage to wake him up ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it allowed him to muster enough latent energy to hop over the back of hte couch when he arrived at it, landing with a resounding thud with perfectly complimented the kung fu movie still fruitlessly playing on his TV. It was some kind of marathon, but he hadn't really been paying attention. It was mindless, and he appreciated that. Why think? Waste of time, really, all things considered.
He sighed and took another look at the box before him. The packaging was different from what he remembered. Then again, it had been a very long time since he'd had any ice cream at all. Stacey was lactose intolerant.
Screw you, Stacey, he thought. You made your choice.
He popped off the top and let it tumble to the floor, wasting no time in injecting his monstrosity of a spoon into the hardened creamery. It was no easy task, but by now he was determined, and nothing was going to stop him, so a few odd grunts and more effort than he cared to admit later, he was happily munching on his prize. It tasted... different. But no, now it was a matter of pride. Who cared what it tasted like? This was the ice cream of triumph. It was a celebration of freedom and independence and being able to produce lactase. Unlike some people. Stupid Stacey.
Hey, is the room supposed to be spinning like this?
As the walls leaned toward him he began to question a great many things. Who was he talking to? Did he even ask that question out loud? Why did this taste like purple?
He was reasonably certain that this was not the normal ice cream-eating experience. Yes, something was decidedly different. But what? And less importantly, why? Unable to put any of his eleven fingers on the former, he directed a raised eyebrow down toward the ice cream's lid, sitting happily on the carpet. Reaching his leg over the couch's parapet, he wrapped a tentacled appendage around the thing and turned it so that he could see the other side.
It just so happened that the expiry date was written there, and from his high vantage point, plainly visible.
Ten years. It had been expired for ten years.
There was a quiet moment then. Well, relatively quiet. The strange hum emanating from pretty much everything in the room was a bit daunting, but htere was a strange peace to it, and now that the screaming had died down he had a precious window to dwell on this new development.
With a shrug, he brought the spoon to his lips...
Yes, my dear follower, I am doing another! Because hey, why not. It's not like I'm doing anything else. I figured it was high time to start taking this whole writing nonsense seriously again.
Anyway, here goes!
-------------------------
Thing 45: Your most transcedent ice cream experience
Jared yawned as his slippered feet slid across the tiles, slowly but surely bringing him toward the freezer. It was 5:37 AM, and if he were being honest with himself he was mighty tired, but this was his weekend. No job, no girlfriend -- just the sweet freedom to do whatever he damn well pleased.
And you know what? He damn well pleased some damn ice cream.
He stopped for a moment at that, furrowing his brow as he tried to determine if that thought actually made any sense. Through the haze of the lateness of the hour (and possibly the lingering alcohol in his system) he couldn't be sure, but his keenly-trained literary mind was leaning toward a definite "no." Still, he wasn't nearly confident enough for his liking.
I guess that degree in english literature really wasn't good for anything. Mom was right.
Scowling now, he ripped open the freezer, not even flinching as the door collided madly with the cabinets and bounced slowly back toward him. It was a bit of a sorry sight inside, considering the number of frozen pizzas he had engorged over the past few days, but like a shining beacon the box he knew to be present sat prominently at the fore of an otherwise empty shelf.
Ice cream. Cookies and cream, no less. For some reason he'd always been a bit ashamed to admit it, but that was his favourite flavour. He supposed that particular thought process had something to do with his father's irrational fear of salmonilla. He ignored it with a shrug, managing to find the perfect balance between abject rage and utter nonchalance.
It was that kind of weekend.
He grabbed the box with a tired hand and slid it off the shelf, letting it and the arm that held it drop lazily to his side as he shuffled toward the cutlery drawer. His empty hand fished around in the thing and pulled out the first spoon it found. The fact that this spoon was nearly the size of his fist was irrelevant. It's intended purpose was supposed to be gravy or some such, but he figured it would work for ice cream just as well. After all, he wasn't planning on using a bowl, so having a spoon that doubled as one was probably the next best thing.
Utensil in hand, he dragged his feet and made his way to the living room, being sure to headbutt the freezer closed on his way past. The impact was a small one, but it did manage to wake him up ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it allowed him to muster enough latent energy to hop over the back of hte couch when he arrived at it, landing with a resounding thud with perfectly complimented the kung fu movie still fruitlessly playing on his TV. It was some kind of marathon, but he hadn't really been paying attention. It was mindless, and he appreciated that. Why think? Waste of time, really, all things considered.
He sighed and took another look at the box before him. The packaging was different from what he remembered. Then again, it had been a very long time since he'd had any ice cream at all. Stacey was lactose intolerant.
Screw you, Stacey, he thought. You made your choice.
He popped off the top and let it tumble to the floor, wasting no time in injecting his monstrosity of a spoon into the hardened creamery. It was no easy task, but by now he was determined, and nothing was going to stop him, so a few odd grunts and more effort than he cared to admit later, he was happily munching on his prize. It tasted... different. But no, now it was a matter of pride. Who cared what it tasted like? This was the ice cream of triumph. It was a celebration of freedom and independence and being able to produce lactase. Unlike some people. Stupid Stacey.
Hey, is the room supposed to be spinning like this?
As the walls leaned toward him he began to question a great many things. Who was he talking to? Did he even ask that question out loud? Why did this taste like purple?
He was reasonably certain that this was not the normal ice cream-eating experience. Yes, something was decidedly different. But what? And less importantly, why? Unable to put any of his eleven fingers on the former, he directed a raised eyebrow down toward the ice cream's lid, sitting happily on the carpet. Reaching his leg over the couch's parapet, he wrapped a tentacled appendage around the thing and turned it so that he could see the other side.
It just so happened that the expiry date was written there, and from his high vantage point, plainly visible.
Ten years. It had been expired for ten years.
There was a quiet moment then. Well, relatively quiet. The strange hum emanating from pretty much everything in the room was a bit daunting, but htere was a strange peace to it, and now that the screaming had died down he had a precious window to dwell on this new development.
With a shrug, he brought the spoon to his lips...
Sunday, 1 November 2015
Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster
"As little as you want to write when you're happy, that's how much you have to write when you're miserable. Your passions have to go somewhere and this is hte only place left.
Your suffering has to be good for something. It's not for me to say if hte words were worth the price."
~5 to 7
What an interesting evening this has turned out to be.
The quote above is from a movie which I've just finished watching (called 5 to 7, as I realise that isn't particularly clear), and I think it really speaks to me, and I think some of my best work has come from a place of darkness. A large part of this particular resurgence comes from that realisation. The other part comes from a book I began reading very recently: The Slow Regard of Silent Things, by Patrick Rothfuss. Though I've yet to finish it, I believe it to be a literary masterpiece, even though it is (as the author attests) a bit different.
I guess the short of it is that I've been exposed to some truly amazing literary pieces of late, and I feel it's time I started to do my part once again. As such, I'm dusting off the old book and am ready to give it another go. Looking back over some of my other pieces, I feel there's quite a lot of ground to make up, so you'll have to bear with me. I am but a man, and yet I can barely succeed even at that.x
Without further adieu, I give to you Thing 44! I should remind you that when I do one of these I have no idea what it is I'm writing about until I actually begin, so as of this moment I have yet to see what thing 44 is. I'm also not really sure where in the book I am anymore, so I'll probably just have to move through it systematically until I find one I don't recognize...
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Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster
"Oh stop being such a coward!"
Jane's chastising hung over him like dark cloud as he stared down at the thing. It was a monstrosity, oozing with mucous and ooze and who knew what else. To Edward, raised as a proper english gentleman in the highest society, the experience was a highly traumatizing one.
It's downright unsanitary. I'm expected to eat this?
Brow thoroughly furrowed, he allowed his gaze to slide back to the disappointed scowl of his companion.
"Surely you can't be serious. Death seems far more tempting a fate than to be subjected to such horrors."
Jane sighed and placed her once-delicate hands on her hips. "We've been stranded here for the better part of a month, you ninny. Each day the fruit we manage to gather dwindles and you're already proven that you're less than useful with a net. These creatures, whatever they may be, are both plentiful and easy to obtain. If we have any intention of holding out until the navy finds us, they may well be our salvation. Besides," she said with a smirk, "they aren't half bad, all things considered. Certainly better than when you tried your hand at cooking."
The nobleman simply sat in stunned silence. He wanted to retort, of course, but between the beslimed resident of his palm, the verbal lashing Jane laid upon him, and what was most assuredly some severe case of sunstroke, his mind consistently failed to produce any string of words which could be considered even remotely coherently. Instead, he simply allowed his eyes to sink once again.
It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Unprecendented. Unceremonious.
"It's unavoidable, Edward. Eat the blasted thing or starve. But consider this: if by some miracle the opportunity for rescue presents itself and you somehow manage to survive, you'll be forced to explain to everyone how you not only were too pusillanimous to consume shellfish, but were in fact beaten by the very woman you swore to protect in so little a thing. You'll be laughed right out of the manor, and I shall be at the fore, taking great pleasure in your misery."
As much as he hated to admit it, he was forced to concede the point. It was more than survival, now. It was a matter of honour.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, holding it as he pried open the shell with unsteady hands.
Oh dear lord in heaven. Give me strength.
Finishing his silent prayer, he brought the oyster to his lips...
-------------------------
It should be noted at this time that I have no idea when people actually started eating oysters. Just assume that whatever time period you envision this taking place in is canon for the particular world in which the story takes place.
Your suffering has to be good for something. It's not for me to say if hte words were worth the price."
~5 to 7
What an interesting evening this has turned out to be.
The quote above is from a movie which I've just finished watching (called 5 to 7, as I realise that isn't particularly clear), and I think it really speaks to me, and I think some of my best work has come from a place of darkness. A large part of this particular resurgence comes from that realisation. The other part comes from a book I began reading very recently: The Slow Regard of Silent Things, by Patrick Rothfuss. Though I've yet to finish it, I believe it to be a literary masterpiece, even though it is (as the author attests) a bit different.
I guess the short of it is that I've been exposed to some truly amazing literary pieces of late, and I feel it's time I started to do my part once again. As such, I'm dusting off the old book and am ready to give it another go. Looking back over some of my other pieces, I feel there's quite a lot of ground to make up, so you'll have to bear with me. I am but a man, and yet I can barely succeed even at that.x
Without further adieu, I give to you Thing 44! I should remind you that when I do one of these I have no idea what it is I'm writing about until I actually begin, so as of this moment I have yet to see what thing 44 is. I'm also not really sure where in the book I am anymore, so I'll probably just have to move through it systematically until I find one I don't recognize...
-------------------------
Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster
"Oh stop being such a coward!"
Jane's chastising hung over him like dark cloud as he stared down at the thing. It was a monstrosity, oozing with mucous and ooze and who knew what else. To Edward, raised as a proper english gentleman in the highest society, the experience was a highly traumatizing one.
It's downright unsanitary. I'm expected to eat this?
Brow thoroughly furrowed, he allowed his gaze to slide back to the disappointed scowl of his companion.
"Surely you can't be serious. Death seems far more tempting a fate than to be subjected to such horrors."
Jane sighed and placed her once-delicate hands on her hips. "We've been stranded here for the better part of a month, you ninny. Each day the fruit we manage to gather dwindles and you're already proven that you're less than useful with a net. These creatures, whatever they may be, are both plentiful and easy to obtain. If we have any intention of holding out until the navy finds us, they may well be our salvation. Besides," she said with a smirk, "they aren't half bad, all things considered. Certainly better than when you tried your hand at cooking."
The nobleman simply sat in stunned silence. He wanted to retort, of course, but between the beslimed resident of his palm, the verbal lashing Jane laid upon him, and what was most assuredly some severe case of sunstroke, his mind consistently failed to produce any string of words which could be considered even remotely coherently. Instead, he simply allowed his eyes to sink once again.
It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Unprecendented. Unceremonious.
"It's unavoidable, Edward. Eat the blasted thing or starve. But consider this: if by some miracle the opportunity for rescue presents itself and you somehow manage to survive, you'll be forced to explain to everyone how you not only were too pusillanimous to consume shellfish, but were in fact beaten by the very woman you swore to protect in so little a thing. You'll be laughed right out of the manor, and I shall be at the fore, taking great pleasure in your misery."
As much as he hated to admit it, he was forced to concede the point. It was more than survival, now. It was a matter of honour.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, holding it as he pried open the shell with unsteady hands.
Oh dear lord in heaven. Give me strength.
Finishing his silent prayer, he brought the oyster to his lips...
-------------------------
It should be noted at this time that I have no idea when people actually started eating oysters. Just assume that whatever time period you envision this taking place in is canon for the particular world in which the story takes place.
Tuesday, 22 October 2013
Thing 43: Write a scene that begins with "Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that."
Oh, hi internet. I didn't see you there.
Yes, it has been a mighty long time since I have let my keystrokes draw me to the literary domain. Sadly I've been rather busy with school, and so my literary exploits have dropped significantly in priority. I will not be able to update regularly, but I owe it to myself (and to you, I guess... If you're reading this you must care a little) to try a little harder.
Without further ado, here goes nothing.
----------------------
Thing 43: Write a scene that begins with "Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that."
I'm going to cheat just a little. I want some buildup.
---------------------
Damien took a deep breath before stepping onto the small dais. The muted sound of his footsteps on the plywood were drowned out by the defiant roar of the park's great arbors, shedding gold and crimson leaves in the autumn wind. The vibrant colours of fall stood in stark contrast to the black attire of those assembled.
The crowd was silent, stoic, as he positioned himself in front of the stage's modest podium. Their silence hung thick in the air, as if their gloom were sucking the oxygen from every breath and replacing it with a deep ambience of hopelessness and despair. Damien's small cough into the mcrophone could barely cut through it.
He shifted his weight and took a moment to prepare himself. He could barely draw breath past the lump in his throat. Casting his gaze over the crowd, he steadied himself and began:
"Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that."
There was that lump again, his sadness a catalyst that caused it to grow to unmanagable proportions. For nearly a minute his voice became trapped in his throat. The crowd sat silent still. He was grateful for their understanding.
With a deep swallow, he forced the lump away. A chill of protest ran down his spine, but he ignored it and continued.
"My brother was not a very outspoken man. I'm sure most of us just saw him as a grumpy loner. He would lock himself away, casting his disapproving gaze upon the world below him. He was aloof, distant, quiet.
"We used this as an excuse to let him fall out of touch. He was a difficult man to get along with, and the effort to do so seemed to present an insurmountable challenge. To be frank, we were comfortable, and to bring Joe into our lives we would have to become uncomfortable, and that was not okay. I can understand the feeling, as I'm no stranger to it myself. Joe and I were never particularly close, because I, like many of you, could not make the effort to strengthen our relationship. I was willing to let it go.
"Well, I think now we know how great a mistake we made. Joe wasn't a grumpy loner locked in his tower; he was a man broken and disappointed by this world. He lived every day of his life saddened by what we've become. Joe was a man who allowed himself to live in silent squalor because he gave everything he had to those in need. He kept himself away from us so that he could spend time with those who needed him the most. His unsung and anonymous contributions to the community have created ripples that will spread through generations. Though he refused to take credit for his actions, he brought hope to the darkest corners of this city.
"In the end, that dedication cost him his life. My brother died quietly, alone in an alley, having tried to save just one more child from a life of violence.
"This monument will stand as a testament to that dedication. My brother will be an unsung hero no more. Joe shall be remembered for doing the best things in the darkest of times, and for hoping the best in the most calamitous of times.
"To my dearest brother, the silent hero of a community that needed him more than it knew:
"Rest in peace."
Yes, it has been a mighty long time since I have let my keystrokes draw me to the literary domain. Sadly I've been rather busy with school, and so my literary exploits have dropped significantly in priority. I will not be able to update regularly, but I owe it to myself (and to you, I guess... If you're reading this you must care a little) to try a little harder.
Without further ado, here goes nothing.
----------------------
Thing 43: Write a scene that begins with "Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that."
I'm going to cheat just a little. I want some buildup.
---------------------
Damien took a deep breath before stepping onto the small dais. The muted sound of his footsteps on the plywood were drowned out by the defiant roar of the park's great arbors, shedding gold and crimson leaves in the autumn wind. The vibrant colours of fall stood in stark contrast to the black attire of those assembled.
The crowd was silent, stoic, as he positioned himself in front of the stage's modest podium. Their silence hung thick in the air, as if their gloom were sucking the oxygen from every breath and replacing it with a deep ambience of hopelessness and despair. Damien's small cough into the mcrophone could barely cut through it.
He shifted his weight and took a moment to prepare himself. He could barely draw breath past the lump in his throat. Casting his gaze over the crowd, he steadied himself and began:
"Joe was the last person on Earth I expected to do that."
There was that lump again, his sadness a catalyst that caused it to grow to unmanagable proportions. For nearly a minute his voice became trapped in his throat. The crowd sat silent still. He was grateful for their understanding.
With a deep swallow, he forced the lump away. A chill of protest ran down his spine, but he ignored it and continued.
"My brother was not a very outspoken man. I'm sure most of us just saw him as a grumpy loner. He would lock himself away, casting his disapproving gaze upon the world below him. He was aloof, distant, quiet.
"We used this as an excuse to let him fall out of touch. He was a difficult man to get along with, and the effort to do so seemed to present an insurmountable challenge. To be frank, we were comfortable, and to bring Joe into our lives we would have to become uncomfortable, and that was not okay. I can understand the feeling, as I'm no stranger to it myself. Joe and I were never particularly close, because I, like many of you, could not make the effort to strengthen our relationship. I was willing to let it go.
"Well, I think now we know how great a mistake we made. Joe wasn't a grumpy loner locked in his tower; he was a man broken and disappointed by this world. He lived every day of his life saddened by what we've become. Joe was a man who allowed himself to live in silent squalor because he gave everything he had to those in need. He kept himself away from us so that he could spend time with those who needed him the most. His unsung and anonymous contributions to the community have created ripples that will spread through generations. Though he refused to take credit for his actions, he brought hope to the darkest corners of this city.
"In the end, that dedication cost him his life. My brother died quietly, alone in an alley, having tried to save just one more child from a life of violence.
"This monument will stand as a testament to that dedication. My brother will be an unsung hero no more. Joe shall be remembered for doing the best things in the darkest of times, and for hoping the best in the most calamitous of times.
"To my dearest brother, the silent hero of a community that needed him more than it knew:
"Rest in peace."
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Thing 42: Something you've always regretted saying.
Hello everyone,
It's been a long, long time since my last post. I could make the excuse that I've been busy with school and my fraternity, but where there's a will, there's a way, and frankly I've been willing other things. Regardless, I'm taking the time tonight to add another passage to my collection. Let's see what the book has in store...
Thing 42: Something you've always regretted saying.
"Take a seat, John."
John Sanderson, a mousey man in a worn down suit, took his place across from his smartly-dressed colleague. He seemed utterly out of place in the leather chair he had been offered, its opulence standing in sharp contrast to his modest demeanor. Despite this, a smile sat comfortably on his face. Material things rarely found the opportunity to dismantle his genuine nature.
Tobias Schmidt -- prim, proper, prudent -- sat opposite. The warm light of his office shone in sinister relief within the gel of his hair. His coif, his dress, and his demeanor were immaculate; calculating. Here was a man who left nothing to chance, and who desired all things. He deserved them, after all. His ego would allow for no other reality.
"Lovely office you have here, Tobias. It's very regal."
The slightest hint of a smirk crept onto Tobias' face. It was a small gesture whch cast a large shadow, veiling the peasant before it in disdain. "Why thank you. I like to think of it as a reflection of myself."
John smiled and leaned back in his seat. "So what did you want to talk about?"
Tobias removed his hands from the arms of his chair and folded them deliberately in his lap. "Yes, let's cut straight to it, shall we? How are things with Evelyn?"
"Oh, things are wonderful!" His eyes looked distant as he thought about the girl he loved. "I think I'm really smitten. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"And you're close?"
"Certainly. I'm meeting her tonight, in fact." John's expression turned quizzical after a brief flash of thought. "Why do you ask?"
Tobias' eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he allowed the tension in the room to build. Silence was his weapon, and he wielded it with deadly intent. When he thought John could take it no more, he provided sweet release from the vice of anxiety.
"Don't you think you're being a bit selfish?"
Taken aback, John's eyes widened. "Whatever do you--"
"Think, John. Look around you." A single, slender hand motioned to the plush decor with a dismissive wave. "You say that she's the best thing that's ever happened to you. Do you think there might be a reason for this? You," another dismissive wave, "are a nice man, but a woman like Evelyn needs more than nice. She needs stability, drive, eloquence; all traits you lack. She is a delicate flower, ready to bloom but for your lack of poise.
"Think carefully about what you are. Could you ever provide her the future she deserves? You can barely take care of yourself. How do you expect to take care of her?"
Again, the silence. It thickened, festered with disdain and uncertainty. The mousey man sat before a dragon, and felt the full weight of his own inadequacy.
"Should you enact your intentions, she will likely follow. Too pure is she to reach for that which she desires, and so she would live in squalor to suit your needs. She deserves better than what you could provide. If you feel the way you claim, then provide her the opportunity to spread her wings. If you love her, set her free."
The dragon clenched its jaw, and the mousey man's heart, trapped within, burst into a thousand screaming pieces.
"I... I don't..."
"And you never will."
The finality of it hit John like he imagined a train might. His shortcomings weighed upon his soul, dragging it to the murky depths of anguish.
In John's mind, a single image shone bright and clear: Evelyn's smile. The innocence and purity of it made his heart soar, struggling against the anchor of his own emotions. A single tear formed on his cheek at the thought of it.
Eyelids closed, shutting out the fanciful room and leaving only Evelyn's shining profile, but the more desperately he grasped for it, the farther away it became. The chains tightened and tugged and ripped and tore.
"You are not worthy, Jonathan. Set her free."
John's mind raced with and endless torrent of dreams he could not fulfill, luxuries he could not provide. One by one they assaulted him and tore him down. He was putty before the dragon.
He was bested.
With a sniff and a brave clearing of his throat, mouse met the dragon's eyes. "You're right, of course. I supposed I dared to dream." Another tear appeared as he rose from the leather chair and straightened his jacket. "I shan't dare to do so again."
Tobias said nothing. Having accomplished his goal, he was more than content to allow his prey to leave. Weak men would forever remain weak, and to him they were nthing more than an obstacle to be discarded.
Outside the office, John slowly pulled his phone from a pocket in his frayed coat. A moment of contemplation forced resolve to overtake despair.
If you love her, set her free.
Before he knew what was happening, a familiar tone rang through the receiver, as if the phone had dialed itself. Unblinking, he raised it to his ear, awaiting the fateful moment to come.
"Hello, Eve. I was hoping we could talk."
It's been a long, long time since my last post. I could make the excuse that I've been busy with school and my fraternity, but where there's a will, there's a way, and frankly I've been willing other things. Regardless, I'm taking the time tonight to add another passage to my collection. Let's see what the book has in store...
Thing 42: Something you've always regretted saying.
"Take a seat, John."
John Sanderson, a mousey man in a worn down suit, took his place across from his smartly-dressed colleague. He seemed utterly out of place in the leather chair he had been offered, its opulence standing in sharp contrast to his modest demeanor. Despite this, a smile sat comfortably on his face. Material things rarely found the opportunity to dismantle his genuine nature.
Tobias Schmidt -- prim, proper, prudent -- sat opposite. The warm light of his office shone in sinister relief within the gel of his hair. His coif, his dress, and his demeanor were immaculate; calculating. Here was a man who left nothing to chance, and who desired all things. He deserved them, after all. His ego would allow for no other reality.
"Lovely office you have here, Tobias. It's very regal."
The slightest hint of a smirk crept onto Tobias' face. It was a small gesture whch cast a large shadow, veiling the peasant before it in disdain. "Why thank you. I like to think of it as a reflection of myself."
John smiled and leaned back in his seat. "So what did you want to talk about?"
Tobias removed his hands from the arms of his chair and folded them deliberately in his lap. "Yes, let's cut straight to it, shall we? How are things with Evelyn?"
"Oh, things are wonderful!" His eyes looked distant as he thought about the girl he loved. "I think I'm really smitten. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"And you're close?"
"Certainly. I'm meeting her tonight, in fact." John's expression turned quizzical after a brief flash of thought. "Why do you ask?"
Tobias' eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he allowed the tension in the room to build. Silence was his weapon, and he wielded it with deadly intent. When he thought John could take it no more, he provided sweet release from the vice of anxiety.
"Don't you think you're being a bit selfish?"
Taken aback, John's eyes widened. "Whatever do you--"
"Think, John. Look around you." A single, slender hand motioned to the plush decor with a dismissive wave. "You say that she's the best thing that's ever happened to you. Do you think there might be a reason for this? You," another dismissive wave, "are a nice man, but a woman like Evelyn needs more than nice. She needs stability, drive, eloquence; all traits you lack. She is a delicate flower, ready to bloom but for your lack of poise.
"Think carefully about what you are. Could you ever provide her the future she deserves? You can barely take care of yourself. How do you expect to take care of her?"
Again, the silence. It thickened, festered with disdain and uncertainty. The mousey man sat before a dragon, and felt the full weight of his own inadequacy.
"Should you enact your intentions, she will likely follow. Too pure is she to reach for that which she desires, and so she would live in squalor to suit your needs. She deserves better than what you could provide. If you feel the way you claim, then provide her the opportunity to spread her wings. If you love her, set her free."
The dragon clenched its jaw, and the mousey man's heart, trapped within, burst into a thousand screaming pieces.
"I... I don't..."
"And you never will."
The finality of it hit John like he imagined a train might. His shortcomings weighed upon his soul, dragging it to the murky depths of anguish.
In John's mind, a single image shone bright and clear: Evelyn's smile. The innocence and purity of it made his heart soar, struggling against the anchor of his own emotions. A single tear formed on his cheek at the thought of it.
Eyelids closed, shutting out the fanciful room and leaving only Evelyn's shining profile, but the more desperately he grasped for it, the farther away it became. The chains tightened and tugged and ripped and tore.
"You are not worthy, Jonathan. Set her free."
John's mind raced with and endless torrent of dreams he could not fulfill, luxuries he could not provide. One by one they assaulted him and tore him down. He was putty before the dragon.
He was bested.
With a sniff and a brave clearing of his throat, mouse met the dragon's eyes. "You're right, of course. I supposed I dared to dream." Another tear appeared as he rose from the leather chair and straightened his jacket. "I shan't dare to do so again."
Tobias said nothing. Having accomplished his goal, he was more than content to allow his prey to leave. Weak men would forever remain weak, and to him they were nthing more than an obstacle to be discarded.
Outside the office, John slowly pulled his phone from a pocket in his frayed coat. A moment of contemplation forced resolve to overtake despair.
If you love her, set her free.
Before he knew what was happening, a familiar tone rang through the receiver, as if the phone had dialed itself. Unblinking, he raised it to his ear, awaiting the fateful moment to come.
"Hello, Eve. I was hoping we could talk."
Monday, 9 September 2013
Thing 41: What would you run out of the house with if your house caught fire?
Well, school's back in. I'm hoping hat having responsibility again will keep me motivated rather than barring my creativity, and as such I hope to produce more regular content. Here goes nothing...
Thing 41: What would you run out of the house with if your house caught fire?
It starts as but a hint of sensation. The warmth creeps over you, gentle and inviting. It is a childhood friend, a beloved pet, a pleasant memory sparked by a wayward dream.
But the warmth grows more bold. A rivulet of sweat provides evidence that perhaps the warmth is not coming from within. Your covers, so tightly wrapped about you, become a prison. Their comforting protection against a night of terrors is now a suffocating burden.
You open your eyes, trying desperately to clear the fog clouding your mind. The world is a blur, and your senses are assaulted by phenomena beyond understanding. Around you echo inhuman screams, cloaked in a synaesthetic nightmare of red and orange.
Each frantic blink washes away another layer fog. Your room slowly comes to focus as your haze is banished. The screams reveal themselves as the piercing ring of the fire alarm. The colours reveal themselves as the hungry tendrils of flame consuming the life you've built around you. For a moment a pang of despair consumes you as your belongings are consumed. All you've worked for, gone in an instant.
Despair turns to panic, for your life is in danger. Your belongings may soon be followed by your person. The flames grow ever closer, and you are a fragile being. Should you remain it would surely mean your doom.
Panic turns to resolve, for you realize that there is another in this place; another whose precious life must face the perilous flames.
It is the one you love. Above all, this one must be saved, for your life is nothing before theirs.
You fly out of the comfort of your bed, for no blanket can hold back the beast you now face. Arid smoke enters your lungs and burns your pupils, but you ignore it. It will not deter you from your goal.
With gritted teeth and firm resolve, you rush forward, into the clawing flames.
They must survive.
Thing 41: What would you run out of the house with if your house caught fire?
It starts as but a hint of sensation. The warmth creeps over you, gentle and inviting. It is a childhood friend, a beloved pet, a pleasant memory sparked by a wayward dream.
But the warmth grows more bold. A rivulet of sweat provides evidence that perhaps the warmth is not coming from within. Your covers, so tightly wrapped about you, become a prison. Their comforting protection against a night of terrors is now a suffocating burden.
You open your eyes, trying desperately to clear the fog clouding your mind. The world is a blur, and your senses are assaulted by phenomena beyond understanding. Around you echo inhuman screams, cloaked in a synaesthetic nightmare of red and orange.
Each frantic blink washes away another layer fog. Your room slowly comes to focus as your haze is banished. The screams reveal themselves as the piercing ring of the fire alarm. The colours reveal themselves as the hungry tendrils of flame consuming the life you've built around you. For a moment a pang of despair consumes you as your belongings are consumed. All you've worked for, gone in an instant.
Despair turns to panic, for your life is in danger. Your belongings may soon be followed by your person. The flames grow ever closer, and you are a fragile being. Should you remain it would surely mean your doom.
Panic turns to resolve, for you realize that there is another in this place; another whose precious life must face the perilous flames.
It is the one you love. Above all, this one must be saved, for your life is nothing before theirs.
You fly out of the comfort of your bed, for no blanket can hold back the beast you now face. Arid smoke enters your lungs and burns your pupils, but you ignore it. It will not deter you from your goal.
With gritted teeth and firm resolve, you rush forward, into the clawing flames.
They must survive.
Friday, 30 August 2013
Thing 40: Describe each member of your family with just one word
Hey all. It's currently 3:05 AM, EST. I guess it's time for a new blog post. Why not, right? Hopefully I'll fix up my sleep patterns when school starts up again, but for now I get some of my best work done at odd hours in the morning.
As a reminder, this is Thing 40, so my next entry will be a STORY CHALLENGE! I don't have many suggestions at the moment, so please send me your ideas! It's not much of a story if nobody participates.
Anyway, on with the literary exercise...
Thing 40: Describe each member of your family with just one word
Darn it, I hate these kind of restrictions. One word is woefully insufficient to sum up any type of person, and I think it is an insult to their complexity. I'm going to fudge this just a touch and select my word, but I will follow up with a justification for that word.
I'm also going to stick with just my immediate family, who I grew up with, as truth be told I don't know my half brothers and sisters very well. I'm not enough of a people person to have reached out to them enough to become particularly close. That's not to say I don't love or respect them as family, because truly I do. It's just that I don't have enough information for my analysis to be valid.
-----------------
Who: My father, Alfred Aquilina
Word: Rich
Why: I should clarify that this is not rich in the monetary sense, but rather in the context of a rich history. My father likes things that are old; especially boats, military heirlooms, and Maltese historical sites. Things and places with a noteworthy past draw him in and pique his fascination.
Ships appeal to his idea of freedom and exploration. He loves the idea drifting across the ocean on a small vessel, and seeks the stories that such vessels may have experienced.
Military heirlooms appeal to his sense of duty and his curiosity into human nature. Our family has a long history of military service (for example: http://www.militarybruce.com/unpublished-news/centralia-sam.html), and so military history holds a special place in his heart. His fascination with military artifacts pays homage to the sacrifice that soldiers make for their country.
Maltese historical sites appeal to his sense of family and his nostalgia for the land of his birth. Malta is a small country with a huge history, and for the first ten years of his life, my father called it home. It's not often he has the opportunity to return and visit the relatives that stayed behind, but he loves his country, and seeks nostalgiac escapes whenever he can.
History, to my father, the is lifeblood of a people. Where we have been moulds who we are today, and so one cannot move forward without first looking back. His passion for his career (social work) stems from his desire to understand and help people. This passion has led him to publish a book which is sometimes used as a textbook in northern communities (http://www.amazon.ca/Mackenzie-yesterday-beyond-Alfred-Aquilina/dp/0888390831) and has him working diligently to prepare another that will explore the history of our family back to its roots.
For these reasons, my father is "rich." Rich in history, and rich in character.
Who: My mother, Mercedes Aquilina
Word: Difficult
Why: Sorry mom, but we both know it's true! My mother has led a fairly difficult life, and has battled innumerable health issues over the years. Her most recent and most severe battle is against Parkinson's disease. While she is fighting bravely, her road is not an easy one, and each day provides a new set of challenges to overcome.
A host of other issues have also severely restricted her diet, making food a sore issue most of the time. I often joke that my mother has a food-free diet, which isn't too large a stretch from the truth. No wheat, no dairy, no sugar, no meat. Finding a meal that she can eat without suffering side effects makes Waldo look like he's wearing a flood light in an empty field.
So yes, my mother is difficult, but it's not really her fault. Life's dealt her a bit of a blow (from first-world standards, anyway), and she's doing her best to roll with the punches. (P.S. - I had to think pretty hard about how to say this without mixing metaphors. I don't think I did a very good job.)
Who: My Brother, Vincent Aquilina
Word: Passionate
Why: The easiest explanation for this choice would be my brother's music. His band, the Faraway Neighbours (http://farawayneighbours.com/), has been a huge part off his life for years now. Working as a cook to pay the bills, he's toiled day and night to craft his sound into something unique and wonderful, and the boys have built something they're very proud of. Their first album was recorded, produced, and mastered entirely on their own in their off hours, and they're trying desparately to get their second out to the adoring public. You can read a little more about this particular passion on their CBC feature (http://music.cbc.ca/#/artists/Faraway-Neighbours).
But music is just one facet of his life. Vince, like myself, was taught to treat every responsibility as an important one. When he sets his mind to something, he will give it his all, and he'll make sure that the job is done right. Take one look at his immaculate workstation and you'll get a good idea of what I'm talking about. He's always willing to take the time to ensure that his station is properly cleaned and organised.
Furthermore, my brother has a passion for family. He's the guy that reaches out to our relatives because he genuinely cares what's happening in their lives. Even as I write this he's over in Saint John's attending a family wedding, 3000 kilometers from where he's made his home. It doesn't matter that it's inconvenient; what does matter is family. We didn't particularly like each other as kids (to be fair, I was not likable), but he would always come to my aid when I needed it. I'd often lie through my teeth and he would be there to pick up the pieces.
For these reasons, Vince is "passionate."
Who: The late Ice, our family dog (second in my lifetime)
Word: Naiive
Why: To be honest, this would describe most dogs, but I think my cute little dog was a special kind of adorable stupid. (For reference: http://imgur.com/VB3dPJN)
Ice was not a strong learner. It's possible we were horrible teachers, but I think we'd had him for five years before he could sit on command. once he eventually learned how to shake a paw he would do it whenever anyone came close, out of what I expect was sheer enthusiasm. By the time we had to put him down he still hadn't learned to to lie down, or to stay out of the kitchen. Part of me wants to chalk this up to excessive eagerness, but in the end I just don't think he was clever enough to grasp what we were trying to tell him.
The best example of his ignorance was probably his nosebleeds. There was a winter one year when his diet seemed to be lacking something, and as a result his nose would get incredibly dry. Every so often, this dryness would cause a bit of a nosebleed, where the tiniest of cracks would appear on the tip of his nose and a miniscule but steady stream of blood would shoot out. Despite our best efforts to contain him, he would start licking up the trail of blood, which kept expanding in front of him because it was coming out of his face. He'd follow this trail in circles all around our landing, and we' have to follow him around cleaning up the mess and trying to get him to stop moving so much until the bleeding stopped. This happened (at least) seven or eight times that winter, and every time he would react in exactly the same way, completely surprised. It was both hilarious and frustrating.
Despite all of this, we loved the poor guy. Being the terrible person that I was, I certianly didn't show it as well as I should have, but that never stpped him from coming back. I spent more time yelling at him to shut up than showing affection, but he was always happy to see me. Now that I know better I have a deep respect for that kind of innocent love. He didn't remember the bad stuff -- he just knew that we were his family, and he loved us unconditionally.
Sadly, we had to put him down a few years ago, as he had a host of illnesses and his life was becoming really difficult, but I'll always have a special place for him in my heart, naiivity and all.
As a reminder, this is Thing 40, so my next entry will be a STORY CHALLENGE! I don't have many suggestions at the moment, so please send me your ideas! It's not much of a story if nobody participates.
Anyway, on with the literary exercise...
Thing 40: Describe each member of your family with just one word
Darn it, I hate these kind of restrictions. One word is woefully insufficient to sum up any type of person, and I think it is an insult to their complexity. I'm going to fudge this just a touch and select my word, but I will follow up with a justification for that word.
I'm also going to stick with just my immediate family, who I grew up with, as truth be told I don't know my half brothers and sisters very well. I'm not enough of a people person to have reached out to them enough to become particularly close. That's not to say I don't love or respect them as family, because truly I do. It's just that I don't have enough information for my analysis to be valid.
-----------------
Who: My father, Alfred Aquilina
Word: Rich
Why: I should clarify that this is not rich in the monetary sense, but rather in the context of a rich history. My father likes things that are old; especially boats, military heirlooms, and Maltese historical sites. Things and places with a noteworthy past draw him in and pique his fascination.
Ships appeal to his idea of freedom and exploration. He loves the idea drifting across the ocean on a small vessel, and seeks the stories that such vessels may have experienced.
Military heirlooms appeal to his sense of duty and his curiosity into human nature. Our family has a long history of military service (for example: http://www.militarybruce.com/unpublished-news/centralia-sam.html), and so military history holds a special place in his heart. His fascination with military artifacts pays homage to the sacrifice that soldiers make for their country.
Maltese historical sites appeal to his sense of family and his nostalgia for the land of his birth. Malta is a small country with a huge history, and for the first ten years of his life, my father called it home. It's not often he has the opportunity to return and visit the relatives that stayed behind, but he loves his country, and seeks nostalgiac escapes whenever he can.
History, to my father, the is lifeblood of a people. Where we have been moulds who we are today, and so one cannot move forward without first looking back. His passion for his career (social work) stems from his desire to understand and help people. This passion has led him to publish a book which is sometimes used as a textbook in northern communities (http://www.amazon.ca/Mackenzie-yesterday-beyond-Alfred-Aquilina/dp/0888390831) and has him working diligently to prepare another that will explore the history of our family back to its roots.
For these reasons, my father is "rich." Rich in history, and rich in character.
Who: My mother, Mercedes Aquilina
Word: Difficult
Why: Sorry mom, but we both know it's true! My mother has led a fairly difficult life, and has battled innumerable health issues over the years. Her most recent and most severe battle is against Parkinson's disease. While she is fighting bravely, her road is not an easy one, and each day provides a new set of challenges to overcome.
A host of other issues have also severely restricted her diet, making food a sore issue most of the time. I often joke that my mother has a food-free diet, which isn't too large a stretch from the truth. No wheat, no dairy, no sugar, no meat. Finding a meal that she can eat without suffering side effects makes Waldo look like he's wearing a flood light in an empty field.
So yes, my mother is difficult, but it's not really her fault. Life's dealt her a bit of a blow (from first-world standards, anyway), and she's doing her best to roll with the punches. (P.S. - I had to think pretty hard about how to say this without mixing metaphors. I don't think I did a very good job.)
Who: My Brother, Vincent Aquilina
Word: Passionate
Why: The easiest explanation for this choice would be my brother's music. His band, the Faraway Neighbours (http://farawayneighbours.com/), has been a huge part off his life for years now. Working as a cook to pay the bills, he's toiled day and night to craft his sound into something unique and wonderful, and the boys have built something they're very proud of. Their first album was recorded, produced, and mastered entirely on their own in their off hours, and they're trying desparately to get their second out to the adoring public. You can read a little more about this particular passion on their CBC feature (http://music.cbc.ca/#/artists/Faraway-Neighbours).
But music is just one facet of his life. Vince, like myself, was taught to treat every responsibility as an important one. When he sets his mind to something, he will give it his all, and he'll make sure that the job is done right. Take one look at his immaculate workstation and you'll get a good idea of what I'm talking about. He's always willing to take the time to ensure that his station is properly cleaned and organised.
Furthermore, my brother has a passion for family. He's the guy that reaches out to our relatives because he genuinely cares what's happening in their lives. Even as I write this he's over in Saint John's attending a family wedding, 3000 kilometers from where he's made his home. It doesn't matter that it's inconvenient; what does matter is family. We didn't particularly like each other as kids (to be fair, I was not likable), but he would always come to my aid when I needed it. I'd often lie through my teeth and he would be there to pick up the pieces.
For these reasons, Vince is "passionate."
Who: The late Ice, our family dog (second in my lifetime)
Word: Naiive
Why: To be honest, this would describe most dogs, but I think my cute little dog was a special kind of adorable stupid. (For reference: http://imgur.com/VB3dPJN)
Ice was not a strong learner. It's possible we were horrible teachers, but I think we'd had him for five years before he could sit on command. once he eventually learned how to shake a paw he would do it whenever anyone came close, out of what I expect was sheer enthusiasm. By the time we had to put him down he still hadn't learned to to lie down, or to stay out of the kitchen. Part of me wants to chalk this up to excessive eagerness, but in the end I just don't think he was clever enough to grasp what we were trying to tell him.
The best example of his ignorance was probably his nosebleeds. There was a winter one year when his diet seemed to be lacking something, and as a result his nose would get incredibly dry. Every so often, this dryness would cause a bit of a nosebleed, where the tiniest of cracks would appear on the tip of his nose and a miniscule but steady stream of blood would shoot out. Despite our best efforts to contain him, he would start licking up the trail of blood, which kept expanding in front of him because it was coming out of his face. He'd follow this trail in circles all around our landing, and we' have to follow him around cleaning up the mess and trying to get him to stop moving so much until the bleeding stopped. This happened (at least) seven or eight times that winter, and every time he would react in exactly the same way, completely surprised. It was both hilarious and frustrating.
Despite all of this, we loved the poor guy. Being the terrible person that I was, I certianly didn't show it as well as I should have, but that never stpped him from coming back. I spent more time yelling at him to shut up than showing affection, but he was always happy to see me. Now that I know better I have a deep respect for that kind of innocent love. He didn't remember the bad stuff -- he just knew that we were his family, and he loved us unconditionally.
Sadly, we had to put him down a few years ago, as he had a host of illnesses and his life was becoming really difficult, but I'll always have a special place for him in my heart, naiivity and all.
Sunday, 25 August 2013
Thing 39: If each decade of your life was represented by a pop song, what would they be?
And so it continues. Writing these has been a really interesting experience for me, and I'm a little upset that I don't have the motivation to continue doing so regularly. In any case, I'll do my best to make my writing interesting when I do get around to it.
speaking of which, we're on Thing 39, so the next story challenge is coming up! That means I'm looking for suggestions about what I should include. Feel free to leave a comment below with a few topics that you'd like to see included!
Thing 39: If each decade of your life was represented by a pop song, what would they be?
Well, that's a bit disappointing. I've only had 2.2 decades thus far. Furthermore, a lot can change in 10 years, so I don't think a period of that granularity is really an apt representation of the time therein. Rather than follow this verbatim, I'm going to express my life in stages of varying periods.
Note that the songs I choose will likely not be perfect. I've got a pretty decent library (a little over 9000 (nice.) songs on my computer) with a decent amount of variety, but finding a song that describes something so intricate and complex as a human life with any degree of accuracy is pretty much impossible.
In any case, I'll give it a shot.
-----------------------
So one day, I was born. It wasn't really that important an event in the grand scheme of things. Hell, I was the eighth child between my parents, and I'm told my birth was incredibly uneventful as births go. All in all, my birth means nothing.
But here I am.
So it didn't mean much, but it happened. What is important about this event is that it started my journey. Without it, I wouldn't be here today. All that I've known, felt, accomplished, would not exist. And I was not alone. I had my parents to guide me, to fill my empty head with ideas and sounds and hope.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with the intro track from Aquaria's official soundtrack, written by Alex Holowka.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4g_k333NWM
...
So then I began to grow. I'm told I was a cute child, which I suppose is a matter of interpretation. Regardless, I did have an incredibly vivid imagination. This is a trait I'm particular proud of, and that I retain to this day. I dreamt big -- really big. I wanted to be an inventor, and start a bar in a double-decker bus. I wanted to be a powerful wizard and fight evil in Power World.
At this time I was still pretty innocent; just a naiive child learning all he could about the world around him. Reality didn't mean a whole lot back then.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Ellie Goulding's Starry Eyed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBf2v4mLM8k
...
So then the evil set in. I was a terrible, terrible child.
Now at this point you're probably chalking this up to "kids being kids" or some other such nonsense. To put it bluntly, you're wrong.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
This was not my parents' fault. They taught me well enough, and I had a loving home.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
First and foremost, I was angry at everything. Always. I portrayed this anger with yelling, and violence, and indignation. I can't remember a day when I didn't scream about something. I would throw my schoolbag around. I would yell and cry.
And there was no good reason.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
Secondly, I was entitled. I was pretty intelligent for a kid my age (or at least, I knew more than my peers at that stage), and by god did I ever milk that. I thought the world belonged to me, and I was PISSED when others disagreed. And I was selfish. Oh, was I ever selfish. I would fly into a fit of rage if somebody didn't stop whatever they were doing to cater to my whim.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
That phase lasted a long time. It's sort of like the dark age of my life thus far.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with a fairly obvious choice: Down With The Sickness, by Disturbed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzxuknbQ5VY
...
So then I realised what a horrible person I was. I started making actual friends for a change, and I legitimately wanted to become better. In grades seven and eight I thought that one day, with a little work, I might actually become a decent human being.
I'm not sure what it was that made me open my eyes, but I knew I had to make a change. I couldn't help but be ashamed by what I'd left behind, but there was hope.
There was always hope.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Hot Chip's I Feel Better.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GOZjlwIwfk
And because the music video's a bit weird, he's the song on its own.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-Y07r8n6W4
...
So then I got to high school, where two pretty important things happened.
First, I met a girl, and I became (unhealthily) obsessed with her for 4 years.
Second, I realised I was still the same conceited bastard I used to be, but with a bit of a better mask.
This realisation didn't really sink in until closer to my graduation, but despite my big talk I knew deep down that I wasn't doing all that I could. In fact, I wasn't doing much of anything. I did get straight A's in highschool (except for a 78 in grade 10 history), if I actually gave a damn I could have done significantly better. I wasn't involved in anything extracurricular, and when I made friends it was more of an accident than anything else. I seemed to think that because I was in IB I was better than everybody else. It hits you pretty hard when you realise just how wrong you are about something. (P.S. - I'm pretty sure grade 10 was the first time in my life that I ever said "I was wrong.")
I suppose you'll want to know more about the girl... There's not much to tell, really. I fell in lust with a girl who I found to be incredibly attractive, and I put her on an impossible pedestal. I thought she was perfect. The more I learned about her, the more I realised that she was anything but, and I began to hate myself. As terrible as I thought she was, I still saw myself as worse, and I sunk into a deep depression. I hated myself both for liking her so much (I called it love) and for not being good enough for her.
High school had some high points, but it was a very sad time for me.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Korn's Liar. There are a few reasons for this, but I'll let you figure those out on your own.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8H-JK5AdlXw
...
So then I started university. For a very short time, I was genuinely happy.
A very short time.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Tool's Intermission.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSvtGQUqldA
Alternatively, having turned over a bit of a new leaf, Hey Ocean!'s I Am A Heart may also be fitting.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oWlcImcS6A
...
So then reality hit. It wasn't long before UW began to jade me. I began to resent a lot of things, and the depression came creeping back.
The bittersweet edge of this depression was perspective. I'd lived a number of pretty powerful emotions up to now, and it left me with a very strong understanding of who I am and what needed to change. My strengths and my faults all became abundantly clear to me, and the path I needed to take was fairly well-lit.
The heart of the matter is that I am not happy with myself. I haven't been for a very long time.
But, I know I also have some redeeming qualities to counteract the not-so-redeeming ones. My goal is to cultivate those qualities, and one day became every bit of the man I know I should be; the man who lives the qualities I preach.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life -- the most recent, heartwrenching chapter -- with Imagine Dragon's Demons. I can think of no better representation than this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSoIWEGL1YM
So there you have it. This musical interlude isn't a particularly happy one, but at least it's honest.
speaking of which, we're on Thing 39, so the next story challenge is coming up! That means I'm looking for suggestions about what I should include. Feel free to leave a comment below with a few topics that you'd like to see included!
Thing 39: If each decade of your life was represented by a pop song, what would they be?
Well, that's a bit disappointing. I've only had 2.2 decades thus far. Furthermore, a lot can change in 10 years, so I don't think a period of that granularity is really an apt representation of the time therein. Rather than follow this verbatim, I'm going to express my life in stages of varying periods.
Note that the songs I choose will likely not be perfect. I've got a pretty decent library (a little over 9000 (nice.) songs on my computer) with a decent amount of variety, but finding a song that describes something so intricate and complex as a human life with any degree of accuracy is pretty much impossible.
In any case, I'll give it a shot.
-----------------------
So one day, I was born. It wasn't really that important an event in the grand scheme of things. Hell, I was the eighth child between my parents, and I'm told my birth was incredibly uneventful as births go. All in all, my birth means nothing.
But here I am.
So it didn't mean much, but it happened. What is important about this event is that it started my journey. Without it, I wouldn't be here today. All that I've known, felt, accomplished, would not exist. And I was not alone. I had my parents to guide me, to fill my empty head with ideas and sounds and hope.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with the intro track from Aquaria's official soundtrack, written by Alex Holowka.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4g_k333NWM
...
So then I began to grow. I'm told I was a cute child, which I suppose is a matter of interpretation. Regardless, I did have an incredibly vivid imagination. This is a trait I'm particular proud of, and that I retain to this day. I dreamt big -- really big. I wanted to be an inventor, and start a bar in a double-decker bus. I wanted to be a powerful wizard and fight evil in Power World.
At this time I was still pretty innocent; just a naiive child learning all he could about the world around him. Reality didn't mean a whole lot back then.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Ellie Goulding's Starry Eyed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBf2v4mLM8k
...
So then the evil set in. I was a terrible, terrible child.
Now at this point you're probably chalking this up to "kids being kids" or some other such nonsense. To put it bluntly, you're wrong.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
This was not my parents' fault. They taught me well enough, and I had a loving home.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
First and foremost, I was angry at everything. Always. I portrayed this anger with yelling, and violence, and indignation. I can't remember a day when I didn't scream about something. I would throw my schoolbag around. I would yell and cry.
And there was no good reason.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
Secondly, I was entitled. I was pretty intelligent for a kid my age (or at least, I knew more than my peers at that stage), and by god did I ever milk that. I thought the world belonged to me, and I was PISSED when others disagreed. And I was selfish. Oh, was I ever selfish. I would fly into a fit of rage if somebody didn't stop whatever they were doing to cater to my whim.
I was a terrible, terrible child.
That phase lasted a long time. It's sort of like the dark age of my life thus far.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with a fairly obvious choice: Down With The Sickness, by Disturbed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzxuknbQ5VY
...
So then I realised what a horrible person I was. I started making actual friends for a change, and I legitimately wanted to become better. In grades seven and eight I thought that one day, with a little work, I might actually become a decent human being.
I'm not sure what it was that made me open my eyes, but I knew I had to make a change. I couldn't help but be ashamed by what I'd left behind, but there was hope.
There was always hope.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Hot Chip's I Feel Better.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GOZjlwIwfk
And because the music video's a bit weird, he's the song on its own.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-Y07r8n6W4
...
So then I got to high school, where two pretty important things happened.
First, I met a girl, and I became (unhealthily) obsessed with her for 4 years.
Second, I realised I was still the same conceited bastard I used to be, but with a bit of a better mask.
This realisation didn't really sink in until closer to my graduation, but despite my big talk I knew deep down that I wasn't doing all that I could. In fact, I wasn't doing much of anything. I did get straight A's in highschool (except for a 78 in grade 10 history), if I actually gave a damn I could have done significantly better. I wasn't involved in anything extracurricular, and when I made friends it was more of an accident than anything else. I seemed to think that because I was in IB I was better than everybody else. It hits you pretty hard when you realise just how wrong you are about something. (P.S. - I'm pretty sure grade 10 was the first time in my life that I ever said "I was wrong.")
I suppose you'll want to know more about the girl... There's not much to tell, really. I fell in lust with a girl who I found to be incredibly attractive, and I put her on an impossible pedestal. I thought she was perfect. The more I learned about her, the more I realised that she was anything but, and I began to hate myself. As terrible as I thought she was, I still saw myself as worse, and I sunk into a deep depression. I hated myself both for liking her so much (I called it love) and for not being good enough for her.
High school had some high points, but it was a very sad time for me.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Korn's Liar. There are a few reasons for this, but I'll let you figure those out on your own.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8H-JK5AdlXw
...
So then I started university. For a very short time, I was genuinely happy.
A very short time.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Tool's Intermission.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSvtGQUqldA
Alternatively, having turned over a bit of a new leaf, Hey Ocean!'s I Am A Heart may also be fitting.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oWlcImcS6A
...
So then reality hit. It wasn't long before UW began to jade me. I began to resent a lot of things, and the depression came creeping back.
The bittersweet edge of this depression was perspective. I'd lived a number of pretty powerful emotions up to now, and it left me with a very strong understanding of who I am and what needed to change. My strengths and my faults all became abundantly clear to me, and the path I needed to take was fairly well-lit.
The heart of the matter is that I am not happy with myself. I haven't been for a very long time.
But, I know I also have some redeeming qualities to counteract the not-so-redeeming ones. My goal is to cultivate those qualities, and one day became every bit of the man I know I should be; the man who lives the qualities I preach.
For this reason, I would describe this part of my life -- the most recent, heartwrenching chapter -- with Imagine Dragon's Demons. I can think of no better representation than this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSoIWEGL1YM
So there you have it. This musical interlude isn't a particularly happy one, but at least it's honest.
Friday, 23 August 2013
Thing 38: The next blockbuster medicine and what will happen as a result
I've been on a bit of a hiatus, and I apologise for that. Not that I have any fllowers, really, but I tried to commit to posting regular entries from the book, and I haven't done so. In any case, here's to the next one.
Thing 38: The next blockbuster medicine and what will happen as a result
Crap! I had a great intro written for a game that I want to develop which fit this topic perfectly, but sadly I've lost the book I had written it in. I wish I could find that...
Anyway, the premise is simple. Researchers believe they have discovered a cure for AIDS. The disease works by weakening your immune system and making you fatally susceptible to other illnesses and infections. The proposed solution was to introduce a virus into the host that would bolster the their immune system by regenerating dead white blood cells. In animal trials, the medicine worked perfectly. It didn't remove the disease from the host's system, but it counteracted the negative effects, effectively neutralising it.
Issues arose, however, when the first human trials were conducted. Something about our specific biology caused the virus to evolve in an unexpected and horrific way. Instead of simply bringing dead white blood cells back into action, viral cells would split and infest all of the host's cells, eventually replacing them entirely. The new being was single-minded in its purpose: produce more viral cells. To do this, the virus needed to be spread into a new host, such as through blood or saliva.
The virus created zombies.
What's worse, is that in order to spread more effectively, the virus evolved. While it couldn't seem to survive in aquatic environments, it could expand in a limited capacity to the air. The contact strain remained 100% effective in converting hosts (with dead hosts converting more quickly), the airborne strain only converted about 40% of hosts. An additional 40% of those who came in contact died outright, with the virus overwhelming their systems and halting further regeneration. That left 20% of humanity immune to the airborne strain and facing off against an ever-growing horde of the undead.
Down but not out, humanity rallied in whatever ways it could. The zombies had a strong sense of self preservation, as their primary directive was to create additional viral cells, so settlements were able to crop up and remain reasonably safe. Small groups were able to live in the wasteland using their wits and survival skills, trying to outsmart and outmaneuvre the undead. Slowly but surely, the survivors began to dwindle, but hope lived on.
We weren't about to give up that easily.
Notes:
- This idea stays true to the "undead" philosophy of the zombie mythos by effectively reducing the scale. The individual cells of an organism are killed, and then regenerated by the virus, so the host is mutated into something that is no longer strictly human.
- In this world, animals are not compatible with the mutated virus, so zombies and wildlife tend to avoid one another.
- The actual percentages for mutation and death of the airborne strain are subject to change. I'd need to run some simulations to get an idea of how many zombies there could be such that humanity could live on without being utterly overwhelmed.
Thing 38: The next blockbuster medicine and what will happen as a result
Crap! I had a great intro written for a game that I want to develop which fit this topic perfectly, but sadly I've lost the book I had written it in. I wish I could find that...
Anyway, the premise is simple. Researchers believe they have discovered a cure for AIDS. The disease works by weakening your immune system and making you fatally susceptible to other illnesses and infections. The proposed solution was to introduce a virus into the host that would bolster the their immune system by regenerating dead white blood cells. In animal trials, the medicine worked perfectly. It didn't remove the disease from the host's system, but it counteracted the negative effects, effectively neutralising it.
Issues arose, however, when the first human trials were conducted. Something about our specific biology caused the virus to evolve in an unexpected and horrific way. Instead of simply bringing dead white blood cells back into action, viral cells would split and infest all of the host's cells, eventually replacing them entirely. The new being was single-minded in its purpose: produce more viral cells. To do this, the virus needed to be spread into a new host, such as through blood or saliva.
The virus created zombies.
What's worse, is that in order to spread more effectively, the virus evolved. While it couldn't seem to survive in aquatic environments, it could expand in a limited capacity to the air. The contact strain remained 100% effective in converting hosts (with dead hosts converting more quickly), the airborne strain only converted about 40% of hosts. An additional 40% of those who came in contact died outright, with the virus overwhelming their systems and halting further regeneration. That left 20% of humanity immune to the airborne strain and facing off against an ever-growing horde of the undead.
Down but not out, humanity rallied in whatever ways it could. The zombies had a strong sense of self preservation, as their primary directive was to create additional viral cells, so settlements were able to crop up and remain reasonably safe. Small groups were able to live in the wasteland using their wits and survival skills, trying to outsmart and outmaneuvre the undead. Slowly but surely, the survivors began to dwindle, but hope lived on.
We weren't about to give up that easily.
Notes:
- This idea stays true to the "undead" philosophy of the zombie mythos by effectively reducing the scale. The individual cells of an organism are killed, and then regenerated by the virus, so the host is mutated into something that is no longer strictly human.
- In this world, animals are not compatible with the mutated virus, so zombies and wildlife tend to avoid one another.
- The actual percentages for mutation and death of the airborne strain are subject to change. I'd need to run some simulations to get an idea of how many zombies there could be such that humanity could live on without being utterly overwhelmed.
Monday, 19 August 2013
Thing 37: If you had one week to live...
And once again I've decided to write my new passage at a ridiculously late/early hour. I need some kind of a schedule to produce content regularly and at normal times... Anyway, on with the writing.
Thing 37: If you had one week to live...
Disclaimer: Don't take this too seriously. It's a work of fiction, after all.
So this is it, I've reached the end.
My sordid life is done.
Just one more week to fake; pretend
my life's a decent one.
I've had a lot of struggles here,
And struggles they remain.
When things got tough I'd shed a tear
And wallow in my pain.
Not once did I stand up and shout
Defiantly in rage:
"I've had enough! And I'm about
To make a real change!"
Never have I been the one
Whose courage didn't falter.
Despite the talk I've gone and done
My fate I couldn't alter.
"But you've had friends," you're bound to say,
"Who'll help you with this task!"
I'm sure you're right, but as it may
I didn't even ask.
For mine is but a lonely path;
This is the choice I've made.
As a result life's burning wrath
To rest will soon be laid.
And here a sit, a lowly wretch,
Who's lived a glaring lie.
I've no regrets, here in this stretch
As I begin to die.
So this is it, I've reached the end.
My sordid life is done.
Just one more week to fake; pretend
my life's a decent one.
Thing 37: If you had one week to live...
Disclaimer: Don't take this too seriously. It's a work of fiction, after all.
So this is it, I've reached the end.
My sordid life is done.
Just one more week to fake; pretend
my life's a decent one.
I've had a lot of struggles here,
And struggles they remain.
When things got tough I'd shed a tear
And wallow in my pain.
Not once did I stand up and shout
Defiantly in rage:
"I've had enough! And I'm about
To make a real change!"
Never have I been the one
Whose courage didn't falter.
Despite the talk I've gone and done
My fate I couldn't alter.
"But you've had friends," you're bound to say,
"Who'll help you with this task!"
I'm sure you're right, but as it may
I didn't even ask.
For mine is but a lonely path;
This is the choice I've made.
As a result life's burning wrath
To rest will soon be laid.
And here a sit, a lowly wretch,
Who's lived a glaring lie.
I've no regrets, here in this stretch
As I begin to die.
So this is it, I've reached the end.
My sordid life is done.
Just one more week to fake; pretend
my life's a decent one.
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Thing 36: The talk-show host
Thing 35 was kind of a big one, but there are another 607 things to be written about, so let's keep it going, shall we?
Thing 36: The talk-show host
"You're on in five, Dave."
"Thanks," says Dave, flashing his coworker a charismatic smile.
Inside, however, he was screaming.
Dave Pierce, bearer of The Piercing Truth, he who gets to the bottom of whatever your trouble may be...
Is growing seriously tried of your bullshit.
I hate them all, he thinks. Like I give a damn who the father of your baby is. Maybe if you stopped sleeping with every guy you met you wouldn't have this problem. Like I give a damn if your kid is an asshole. It's your kid: you deal with it. Like I give a damn if you're addicted to gasoline. There are professional services to deal with that kind of crap. I swear to god, one more day of this and I'm going to explode.
The smile stays on his face as he sorts through his papers. He doesn't read them, figuring the announcer will tell him what he needs to know before the newest batch of miscrients emerges to poison his air. Besides, knowing what's to come doesn't make his job any easier. They spout some bullshit, he spouts some bullshit, and everyone goes home angry. It's the same formula that has kept the unwashed masses watching TV since the dawn of talkshows.
A thumbs up from the producer means they're ready to shoot. Dave returns with a curt nod and his characteristic charming smile. It's show time.
One more hour, thinks Dave, and I can go home.
The theme music he so despises starts to play. Cheering erupts from the sheep in his live audience.
One more hour.
The camera zooms in. It's time.
"Welcome! I'm Dave Pierce, and this, is The Piercing Truth! This is the show where we get to the bottom of real issues for real people. This is raw, live television at its finest! Are you ready?"
More applause.
Fifty-nine minutes.
"Let's bring out our guests, Tom!"
"FIrst up on The Piercing Truth: young mothers! These girls are pregnant with their first children. The catch? None of them are even 16 years old! Where did they go wrong?"
I'm going to murder them all.
Thing 36: The talk-show host
"You're on in five, Dave."
"Thanks," says Dave, flashing his coworker a charismatic smile.
Inside, however, he was screaming.
Dave Pierce, bearer of The Piercing Truth, he who gets to the bottom of whatever your trouble may be...
Is growing seriously tried of your bullshit.
I hate them all, he thinks. Like I give a damn who the father of your baby is. Maybe if you stopped sleeping with every guy you met you wouldn't have this problem. Like I give a damn if your kid is an asshole. It's your kid: you deal with it. Like I give a damn if you're addicted to gasoline. There are professional services to deal with that kind of crap. I swear to god, one more day of this and I'm going to explode.
The smile stays on his face as he sorts through his papers. He doesn't read them, figuring the announcer will tell him what he needs to know before the newest batch of miscrients emerges to poison his air. Besides, knowing what's to come doesn't make his job any easier. They spout some bullshit, he spouts some bullshit, and everyone goes home angry. It's the same formula that has kept the unwashed masses watching TV since the dawn of talkshows.
A thumbs up from the producer means they're ready to shoot. Dave returns with a curt nod and his characteristic charming smile. It's show time.
One more hour, thinks Dave, and I can go home.
The theme music he so despises starts to play. Cheering erupts from the sheep in his live audience.
One more hour.
The camera zooms in. It's time.
"Welcome! I'm Dave Pierce, and this, is The Piercing Truth! This is the show where we get to the bottom of real issues for real people. This is raw, live television at its finest! Are you ready?"
More applause.
Fifty-nine minutes.
"Let's bring out our guests, Tom!"
"FIrst up on The Piercing Truth: young mothers! These girls are pregnant with their first children. The catch? None of them are even 16 years old! Where did they go wrong?"
I'm going to murder them all.
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
Thing 35: How do you feel about love these days? [Part 3]
Part 1: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love.html
Part 2: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_12.html
Well, this is it: the grand finale. Admittedly I don't remember this part as clearly as I'd like, so I'll have to ad-lib a bit, and I don't think the end result will be as nice as the original, but we have to work with what we've got.
Let's do this.
------------------------------
Soft footsteps on the apartment's hardwood floors caught my attention as I slid the eggs I'd prepared onto a plate. Alyshia flashed me a small smile as she sat on a stool next to her kitchen's island. She was wearing some loose pajama pants and a great sweatshirt which had to be at least four sizes larger than she needed.
"You're just in time!" With a flourish I set the plate and utensils before her. "I wasn't sure how you liked your bacon, so it's not too crispy, but the eggs came out perfectly. I hope you like it!"
Her laughter put me at ease. She seemed somehow inwardly sad, but my enthusiasm was rubbing off on her, and with my concerns alleviated this was turning into a fairly pleasant morning.
"It looks delicious, thank you." As I leaned back on the counter she craned her neck to peek behind me. "Where's yours?"
"Oh, I'm not much of a breakfast person. I rarely eat in the morning. I do enjoy cooking, though, and after putting me up for the night a meal is the least I could do."
Another smile.
"Fair enough. But," she said, patting the stool next to hers, "at least come sit with me."
I acknowledged her with a slight bow. "As the lady commands."
She waited until I had sat down before digging in to the meal and eliciting the slightest moan of approval. I leaned my forearm on the counter as I watched her eat. "So, tell me about yourself."
The prompt clearly took her off guard. After thinking for a moment she placed her utensils carefully on the plate and crossed her arms in front of her. "What would you like to know?"
"I don't know, whatever you're willing to share," I said with a laugh. "I've told you my life's story, and all I really know about you is that you're pretty and a great listener."
Something about what I'd said made her flinch, but only for a moment. She was quickly able to compose herself as if nothing had happened. I wasn't sure what had been the cause, but I made note of it, just in case.
There was more talking than eating after that. Alyshia regailed me with stories of her family and her childhood; of her hopes and her dreams; of her struggles and her triumphs. By the time she'd finished the small plate over an hour had passed, and my respect for her had grown exponentially.
As she finished her last bite of toast she placed her fork and knife parallel in the center of her plate. "That, sir, was a fine meal." The compliment was made sweeter by the silken laugh that accompanied it. "You'll have to allow me to make it up to you some time."
"Oh, please," I scoffed. "You've already done more than enough. If anything I'm still greatly in your debt. It's not often I get the chance to cook for a beautiful woman."
In an instant, her cheerful demeanor vanished. Her shoulders sagged as she averted her gaze, taking me entirely off guard. I had no idea how to respond. She began to nervously push her fork across the plate as she whispered: "Why do you keep doing that..."
A thousand questions ran through my mind. Had I said something? Done something wrong? I was hesitant to speak, lest I somehow upset her further. "Doing what?"
Time seemed to slow as she turned toward me. It as an eternity before her eyes finally met mine. They seemed to stare right through me, into my soul; endless oceans of despair and doubt. Her teary gaze cast a chain around my heart. "Calling me beautiful."
It was a simple statement, delivered as barely a breath while she fought to keep her tears in check, but it carried the weight of a hammer as it hit me. The words barely registered, their meaning lost on my incredulity.
Is she serious?
"Because I'm honest."
A single tear rolled down her cheek as she looked back at the plate. She shut her eyes tightly, as if trying to hold back the pain I had inadvertantly unleashed. These wounds ran deeper than I could have possibly imagined.
I felt anger burning deep within me. It wasn't fair for so sweet a girl to be wracked by such insidious self doubt. Someone had hurt this girl in ways I did no understand, but I resolved then and there that I would do everything in my power to make it right.
I reached out and retrieved one of her hands in a firm grip. The sudden contact took her by surprise, and she looked first at my hand, and then my resolute gaze.
"Do you trust me?"
She responded with an unsteady nod.
"Good. Close your eyes and come with me."
I stood, and she followed, too shocked to resist. With my free hand I picked up my stool and led her toward the bathroom I had spotted earlier. When we arrived I set the stool in the middle of the room and sat her on it, facing the mirror.
I gave her shivering hand a squeeze of encouragement before positioning myself behind her.
"Now, before you open your eyes, I need you to do something for me. Clear your mind, and forget all of the preconceived notions you have about yourself. I want you to see what I see, and nothing more. Can you do that for me?"
Another unsteady nod.
"Good. now slowly open your eyes."
As she did so her pupils widened in surprise. She sat facing her reflection. I gave her a moment to study her own features. I saw her eyes dart to each in turn, as if seeing them for the first time.
"See what I see. See a girl who is shrouded in unjust sadness. A girl who has been hurt, but has not been broken. A girl with hopes and dreams, and a lifetime to accomplish them. A girl who would take in a man she just met because he cannot find his way home.
"See what I see. See that girl's face. Soft, kind, and scarred with a thousand painful memories. It is a face blessed with smooth skin and a radiant complexion; with strong features and supple lips. It is a face whose smile can make a whole room brighter, and whose frown can bring sorrow to the warmest of days. It is a beautiful thing, and a single expression weaves an epoch of emotion.
"See what I see. See that girl's body, shamefully shrouded in a thick cloak of doubt and apprehension. It is a body that highlights the care and dedication of its patron. It is a perfect collection of sensual hills and valleys culminating in a thing that even the gods can't help but desire.
"See what I see. See that girl's eyes. Piercing blue oceans of emotion. See the pain and the fear within them, but see also the strength, for within those azure orbs is the determination to face each and every day without backing down. They are eyes that can stare into your very soul. They are eyes that unmask your deepest fears and show you that you need not face them alone. One can be lost in the boundless depths of those eyes -- in that sea of hope, longing, and despair.
"I want you to look at this girl and see how beautiful she truly is. See how her features draw you to her and fill you with warmth. See how the kindness of her soul shines through the sadness so that not even the ugliest of emotions can soil her.
"When you are feeling sad, or alone, think of this girl. Of those eyes. Know that she is there with you. she feels what you feel, and she can lend you her boundless strength. Those eyes will follow you to hell and back, fighting at your side on every leg of the journey.
"For that is the most important part. I want you to see that this beautiful, perfect girl -- that kind face, that shapely body, those piercing eyes -- is you."
I gave her hand another encouraging squeeze as I finished. At this point tears were streaming freey down her face. She sat wide-eyed and unblinking, staring intently at the woman in the mirror. Her shoulders shook, wracked with sobs in a torrent of emotion. I stood close to her, holding her hand tightly to reassure her that she was not alone. It was unclear how long we stayed like this, but I was determined to stick with her until she was ready to move on.
All of a sudden the stool she was sitting on went skittering across the tiles of the bathroom as she stood and turned in one quick motion. Before I knew what was happening she had wrapped her arms around me, burying her sobs in my chest. My arms circled her as through choking cries she let out the faintest whisper:
"Thank you."
Part 2: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_12.html
Well, this is it: the grand finale. Admittedly I don't remember this part as clearly as I'd like, so I'll have to ad-lib a bit, and I don't think the end result will be as nice as the original, but we have to work with what we've got.
Let's do this.
------------------------------
Soft footsteps on the apartment's hardwood floors caught my attention as I slid the eggs I'd prepared onto a plate. Alyshia flashed me a small smile as she sat on a stool next to her kitchen's island. She was wearing some loose pajama pants and a great sweatshirt which had to be at least four sizes larger than she needed.
"You're just in time!" With a flourish I set the plate and utensils before her. "I wasn't sure how you liked your bacon, so it's not too crispy, but the eggs came out perfectly. I hope you like it!"
Her laughter put me at ease. She seemed somehow inwardly sad, but my enthusiasm was rubbing off on her, and with my concerns alleviated this was turning into a fairly pleasant morning.
"It looks delicious, thank you." As I leaned back on the counter she craned her neck to peek behind me. "Where's yours?"
"Oh, I'm not much of a breakfast person. I rarely eat in the morning. I do enjoy cooking, though, and after putting me up for the night a meal is the least I could do."
Another smile.
"Fair enough. But," she said, patting the stool next to hers, "at least come sit with me."
I acknowledged her with a slight bow. "As the lady commands."
She waited until I had sat down before digging in to the meal and eliciting the slightest moan of approval. I leaned my forearm on the counter as I watched her eat. "So, tell me about yourself."
The prompt clearly took her off guard. After thinking for a moment she placed her utensils carefully on the plate and crossed her arms in front of her. "What would you like to know?"
"I don't know, whatever you're willing to share," I said with a laugh. "I've told you my life's story, and all I really know about you is that you're pretty and a great listener."
Something about what I'd said made her flinch, but only for a moment. She was quickly able to compose herself as if nothing had happened. I wasn't sure what had been the cause, but I made note of it, just in case.
There was more talking than eating after that. Alyshia regailed me with stories of her family and her childhood; of her hopes and her dreams; of her struggles and her triumphs. By the time she'd finished the small plate over an hour had passed, and my respect for her had grown exponentially.
As she finished her last bite of toast she placed her fork and knife parallel in the center of her plate. "That, sir, was a fine meal." The compliment was made sweeter by the silken laugh that accompanied it. "You'll have to allow me to make it up to you some time."
"Oh, please," I scoffed. "You've already done more than enough. If anything I'm still greatly in your debt. It's not often I get the chance to cook for a beautiful woman."
In an instant, her cheerful demeanor vanished. Her shoulders sagged as she averted her gaze, taking me entirely off guard. I had no idea how to respond. She began to nervously push her fork across the plate as she whispered: "Why do you keep doing that..."
A thousand questions ran through my mind. Had I said something? Done something wrong? I was hesitant to speak, lest I somehow upset her further. "Doing what?"
Time seemed to slow as she turned toward me. It as an eternity before her eyes finally met mine. They seemed to stare right through me, into my soul; endless oceans of despair and doubt. Her teary gaze cast a chain around my heart. "Calling me beautiful."
It was a simple statement, delivered as barely a breath while she fought to keep her tears in check, but it carried the weight of a hammer as it hit me. The words barely registered, their meaning lost on my incredulity.
Is she serious?
"Because I'm honest."
A single tear rolled down her cheek as she looked back at the plate. She shut her eyes tightly, as if trying to hold back the pain I had inadvertantly unleashed. These wounds ran deeper than I could have possibly imagined.
I felt anger burning deep within me. It wasn't fair for so sweet a girl to be wracked by such insidious self doubt. Someone had hurt this girl in ways I did no understand, but I resolved then and there that I would do everything in my power to make it right.
I reached out and retrieved one of her hands in a firm grip. The sudden contact took her by surprise, and she looked first at my hand, and then my resolute gaze.
"Do you trust me?"
She responded with an unsteady nod.
"Good. Close your eyes and come with me."
I stood, and she followed, too shocked to resist. With my free hand I picked up my stool and led her toward the bathroom I had spotted earlier. When we arrived I set the stool in the middle of the room and sat her on it, facing the mirror.
I gave her shivering hand a squeeze of encouragement before positioning myself behind her.
"Now, before you open your eyes, I need you to do something for me. Clear your mind, and forget all of the preconceived notions you have about yourself. I want you to see what I see, and nothing more. Can you do that for me?"
Another unsteady nod.
"Good. now slowly open your eyes."
As she did so her pupils widened in surprise. She sat facing her reflection. I gave her a moment to study her own features. I saw her eyes dart to each in turn, as if seeing them for the first time.
"See what I see. See a girl who is shrouded in unjust sadness. A girl who has been hurt, but has not been broken. A girl with hopes and dreams, and a lifetime to accomplish them. A girl who would take in a man she just met because he cannot find his way home.
"See what I see. See that girl's face. Soft, kind, and scarred with a thousand painful memories. It is a face blessed with smooth skin and a radiant complexion; with strong features and supple lips. It is a face whose smile can make a whole room brighter, and whose frown can bring sorrow to the warmest of days. It is a beautiful thing, and a single expression weaves an epoch of emotion.
"See what I see. See that girl's body, shamefully shrouded in a thick cloak of doubt and apprehension. It is a body that highlights the care and dedication of its patron. It is a perfect collection of sensual hills and valleys culminating in a thing that even the gods can't help but desire.
"See what I see. See that girl's eyes. Piercing blue oceans of emotion. See the pain and the fear within them, but see also the strength, for within those azure orbs is the determination to face each and every day without backing down. They are eyes that can stare into your very soul. They are eyes that unmask your deepest fears and show you that you need not face them alone. One can be lost in the boundless depths of those eyes -- in that sea of hope, longing, and despair.
"I want you to look at this girl and see how beautiful she truly is. See how her features draw you to her and fill you with warmth. See how the kindness of her soul shines through the sadness so that not even the ugliest of emotions can soil her.
"When you are feeling sad, or alone, think of this girl. Of those eyes. Know that she is there with you. she feels what you feel, and she can lend you her boundless strength. Those eyes will follow you to hell and back, fighting at your side on every leg of the journey.
"For that is the most important part. I want you to see that this beautiful, perfect girl -- that kind face, that shapely body, those piercing eyes -- is you."
I gave her hand another encouraging squeeze as I finished. At this point tears were streaming freey down her face. She sat wide-eyed and unblinking, staring intently at the woman in the mirror. Her shoulders shook, wracked with sobs in a torrent of emotion. I stood close to her, holding her hand tightly to reassure her that she was not alone. It was unclear how long we stayed like this, but I was determined to stick with her until she was ready to move on.
All of a sudden the stool she was sitting on went skittering across the tiles of the bathroom as she stood and turned in one quick motion. Before I knew what was happening she had wrapped her arms around me, burying her sobs in my chest. My arms circled her as through choking cries she let out the faintest whisper:
"Thank you."
Monday, 12 August 2013
Thing 35: How do you feel about love these days? [Part 2]
Part 1: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love.html
And let the saga continue! I suppose I should post a disclaimer that I'm simply posting what I dreamed as accurately as I can, though I'm obviously trying to make it a decent read. You're free to make whatever assumptions you'd like, but I'm not changing the story at all, and I didn't have much conscious control over how the story developed.
Note: I've been sitting here for half an hour now working on this passage. I'm having serious trouble finishing the second paragraph. I dare say I lack the skill to adequately express what I dreamed. My ineloquence does not do her beauty justice... Though admittedly emotions play strongly into how you perceive a thing, so what one may see as pristine another may see as painfully ordinary. I need to work on my ability to convey emotion through my writing, and my ability to describe my vision without cheapening it.
------------------------------------
A lump rose in my throat as the reality of the situation in which I found myself hit me like a freight train. I was unable to speak; to breathe; to comprehend. I could only stare unblinking at the girl lying next to me.
She lay facing me, with the covers pulled all the way to her neck. The fluffy white sheets rose and fell with her gentle breathing, revealing the vague outline of her small yet shapely frame hidden beneath. I followed the curves of it with my eyes; down the dip of her waist and up along her shoulders, eventually coming to rest on her pristine face. Short golden hair, nearly white, fell across her pale skin. She seemed radiant in the bright morning light, her soft features absorbing it as if welcoming an old friend.
Simply put, she was beautiful, and I was in awe.
The implications of her presence there, however, caused a growing concern that far outweighed the small twinge of pride beneath it. How did I get there? Why was I in bed with a woman I had never seen before?
I lost track of how long I lay there, staring, but the burning in my lungs reminded me of the need to breathe and helped to shock me back to reality. I closed my eyes as I took a few deep breaths, hoping the darkness would help me to regain my composure. Once I was certain that I had sufficiently collected my thoughts, I took one last look at the girl before sliding out of the bed. I moved with deliberate care, doing everything in my power to avoid disturbing the sleeping beauty.
As my feet touched the plush carpet I spotted my pants neatly folded beside the bed and realised for the first time that I wasn't wearing any. A chill ran down my spine as blood rushed to my face. I wasted no time in donning the jeans and took a seat in the chair on the far side of the room. Having no idea where I was, I decided it would be best to get as much information as possible as to how I got here before deciding my next course of action. Nerves had me wringing my hands as I waited for the girl to awaken.
A feminine groan jarred me from my brooding. The woman in the bed began to stir, stretching the stiffness from her muscles beneath the sheets. Her eyes blinked beneath her furrowed brow as the brightness of the room assaulted them. Once they adjusted, they settled on me, sitting across the room, and a grin found its way onto her face.
"Good morning."
A weak smile was the best response I could muster.
After one final stretch, the girl began to slide into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard of her bed. As she did so, the covers slipped down her chest to fall in a heap in her lap, revealing a her bare breasts.
In a panic I shut my eyes as tightly as I could. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep them that way, and my knuckles were white with the strain of my grip on the arms of the chair.
I swallowed back the lump clawing once again at my throat before addressing the girl. "I'm sorry, but, um, could you, um..."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sure..."
I heard some rustling from the bed as I maintained my death grip on the chair. When the movement ceased, I slowly opened my eyes. She had brought the covers up and had them tucked neatly beneath her arms. Her smile had disappeared, and I could see sadness brewing in her eyes as they stared directly into mine.
It was almost more than I could bear.
The silence was oppressive. My hands wrung nervously in my lap as I searched for words that refused to form. The girl waited patiently, her hands idly gripping the edge of the sheet she had wrapped around herself.
With a deep breath, I mustered my courage. "So, I'm not sure how I got here. Last night I vaguely remember accompanying some friends to a bar, but most of the night is a complete blank for me. This is an entirely new experience for me, as I don't drink, and from the lack of hangover I'm guessing I didn't start yesterday, but the fact remains that I can't remember a thing, and I'm a bit scared. I was hoping I could ask you some questions to fill in the blanks."
He shoulders sank a bit as she averted her gaze. "Go ahead," she said.
Why are you naked, I thought.
"I know this is horrible, but may I ask your name?"
A slight empathic smile appeared as she answered: "Alyshia."
Why are you naked, I thought.
"And, um, do you know who I am? Do you know much about me?"
The smile widened and her face softened. Her eyes, however, remained just as sad. "I know quite a lot about you, actually. You spent most of the night telling me about yourself."
"I'm sorry." I looked down in shame. "That seems rather rude."
"No, it's alright," she interrupted, holding up a hand to stop me. "I really enjoyed our discussion. I was flattered that you opened up to me, and I could tell you were being really genuine."
I returned her smile. "Thanks."
Why are you naked, I thought.
"Can you tell me what happened last night?"
"Well, I went out with a few friends of mine. I'm not very social and they were trying to get me to break out of my shell. Eventually we all started dancing, and that's where I met you. You were really enthusiastic, and at some point you found your way over to me, and we started dancing together.
"After awhile you leaned in and asked if we could go somewhere more quiet to talk. You said you wanted to get to know me. By now my friends had all but abandoned me, and you seemed friendly enough, so I agreed and we went out to the patio where you offered a proper introduction. 'Dominic Isaac James Aquilina, at your service, madam.'" She giggled and gave an exaggerated flourish as she imitated me, causing another blush to erupt on my face.
"Sorry," I said. "I can go a little overboard sometimes."
"No, it's alright. I thought it was sweet .You were open and genuine right from the start." She seemed to get lost in thought at this. Her hands wrung idly in her lap as she stared into nothing. "Truth be told it was really refreshing. Everything else seems to be drenched in pretense these days. You wore your heart on your sleeve."
"So what happened?"
"Well, we talked for a long time. You told me all about yourself: about your degree, your childhood, your depression, and your passion for writing and games. You didn't hold anything back."
"Geeze..." I ran my hand through my hair as I shook my head. "I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, I'm not a private person by any stretch of the imagination, but... Anyway, I'm sorry to have subjected you to all that."
"I was more than happy to listen. You gave me a rare insight into your life, your emotions, and it was fascinating. Significantly more so than the club, in any case. I'll take a good conversation over a crowd any day. And you were more than happy to answer all of my questions. It was nice.
"Anyway, we talked for so long that the bar closed and they kicked us out. As far as I could tell all of our friends were long gone, so it was just the two of us. You gave me your phone number and we said our goodbyes, but as I was leaving I noticed you looked really confused. When I came back and asked what was wrong you said that you couldn't figure out where you lived; that there were a bunch of houses popping into your mind but you didn't know which one was yours. I could tell you were getting frustrated, and that something was clearly wrong.
"Eventually I offered to let you stay at my place for the night. I thought you were just tired, and that we could figure the rest out tomorrow. It took some convincing to wear down your pride, but you relented and came back here with me. And, well, here we are." She gestured to the room arund us before letting her hand fall back into her lap.
An awkward silence hung thick in the air as I pondered her story. "Well then."
Why are you naked, I thought.
I sighed deeply, and looked her straight in the eye. "Why are you naked?"
She blushed at the bluntness of it and looked away. It took her a moment to respond. "That's just how I go to bed. I can't really fall asleep otherwise. And I felt so safe around you..."
"So, um, we didn't..." I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence.
Her blush deepened. "No."
My relief was clear, and I let out an audible sigh as I brought my hand to my face. "Well, that's good."
It took a minute to realise what I'd said. In a panic I jumped to my feet. "Not that I wouldn't, I mean, um..." My jaw worked soundlessly as the words caught in my throat. The hopelessness of explaining quickly became clear, however, and I sat back down. "I'm sorry, that was really insensitive. I just meant--"
She held up a hand to stop me. "It's fine, really." Her eyes slowly rose to meet mine. "I offered, to be honest, but I knew what you'd say. You gave me your life's story, after all. You were a perfect gentleman."
I gave a mental nod of respect to my past self. Even when deprived of my faculties I was able to stay true to my values.
I looked back at Alyshia and suddenly realised that she was still naked beneath the sheets. I jumped to my feet once again. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I should let you get dressed. I'll go and wait outside, and once you're ready please allow me to treat you to breakfast. You were kind enough to take care of me when I couldn't take care of myself, and you listened to me rudely blather on about myself for hours. It's really the least I could do."
She let out a single, silent chuckle at my sudden excitement, and a smile crept onto her face. "I've got plenty of food here. I'll cook us up some eggs and bacon once I'm dressed."
"No, please, allow me. You've already done far too much." I started walking toward the bedroom door. "Take your time. I'll have breakfast waiting."
And with a final smile, I left the room. I stood in the hallway for a moment after I closed the door.
I probably should have asked where the kitchen is, I thought.
Part 3: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_13.html
And let the saga continue! I suppose I should post a disclaimer that I'm simply posting what I dreamed as accurately as I can, though I'm obviously trying to make it a decent read. You're free to make whatever assumptions you'd like, but I'm not changing the story at all, and I didn't have much conscious control over how the story developed.
Note: I've been sitting here for half an hour now working on this passage. I'm having serious trouble finishing the second paragraph. I dare say I lack the skill to adequately express what I dreamed. My ineloquence does not do her beauty justice... Though admittedly emotions play strongly into how you perceive a thing, so what one may see as pristine another may see as painfully ordinary. I need to work on my ability to convey emotion through my writing, and my ability to describe my vision without cheapening it.
------------------------------------
A lump rose in my throat as the reality of the situation in which I found myself hit me like a freight train. I was unable to speak; to breathe; to comprehend. I could only stare unblinking at the girl lying next to me.
She lay facing me, with the covers pulled all the way to her neck. The fluffy white sheets rose and fell with her gentle breathing, revealing the vague outline of her small yet shapely frame hidden beneath. I followed the curves of it with my eyes; down the dip of her waist and up along her shoulders, eventually coming to rest on her pristine face. Short golden hair, nearly white, fell across her pale skin. She seemed radiant in the bright morning light, her soft features absorbing it as if welcoming an old friend.
Simply put, she was beautiful, and I was in awe.
The implications of her presence there, however, caused a growing concern that far outweighed the small twinge of pride beneath it. How did I get there? Why was I in bed with a woman I had never seen before?
I lost track of how long I lay there, staring, but the burning in my lungs reminded me of the need to breathe and helped to shock me back to reality. I closed my eyes as I took a few deep breaths, hoping the darkness would help me to regain my composure. Once I was certain that I had sufficiently collected my thoughts, I took one last look at the girl before sliding out of the bed. I moved with deliberate care, doing everything in my power to avoid disturbing the sleeping beauty.
As my feet touched the plush carpet I spotted my pants neatly folded beside the bed and realised for the first time that I wasn't wearing any. A chill ran down my spine as blood rushed to my face. I wasted no time in donning the jeans and took a seat in the chair on the far side of the room. Having no idea where I was, I decided it would be best to get as much information as possible as to how I got here before deciding my next course of action. Nerves had me wringing my hands as I waited for the girl to awaken.
A feminine groan jarred me from my brooding. The woman in the bed began to stir, stretching the stiffness from her muscles beneath the sheets. Her eyes blinked beneath her furrowed brow as the brightness of the room assaulted them. Once they adjusted, they settled on me, sitting across the room, and a grin found its way onto her face.
"Good morning."
A weak smile was the best response I could muster.
After one final stretch, the girl began to slide into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard of her bed. As she did so, the covers slipped down her chest to fall in a heap in her lap, revealing a her bare breasts.
In a panic I shut my eyes as tightly as I could. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep them that way, and my knuckles were white with the strain of my grip on the arms of the chair.
I swallowed back the lump clawing once again at my throat before addressing the girl. "I'm sorry, but, um, could you, um..."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sure..."
I heard some rustling from the bed as I maintained my death grip on the chair. When the movement ceased, I slowly opened my eyes. She had brought the covers up and had them tucked neatly beneath her arms. Her smile had disappeared, and I could see sadness brewing in her eyes as they stared directly into mine.
It was almost more than I could bear.
The silence was oppressive. My hands wrung nervously in my lap as I searched for words that refused to form. The girl waited patiently, her hands idly gripping the edge of the sheet she had wrapped around herself.
With a deep breath, I mustered my courage. "So, I'm not sure how I got here. Last night I vaguely remember accompanying some friends to a bar, but most of the night is a complete blank for me. This is an entirely new experience for me, as I don't drink, and from the lack of hangover I'm guessing I didn't start yesterday, but the fact remains that I can't remember a thing, and I'm a bit scared. I was hoping I could ask you some questions to fill in the blanks."
He shoulders sank a bit as she averted her gaze. "Go ahead," she said.
Why are you naked, I thought.
"I know this is horrible, but may I ask your name?"
A slight empathic smile appeared as she answered: "Alyshia."
Why are you naked, I thought.
"And, um, do you know who I am? Do you know much about me?"
The smile widened and her face softened. Her eyes, however, remained just as sad. "I know quite a lot about you, actually. You spent most of the night telling me about yourself."
"I'm sorry." I looked down in shame. "That seems rather rude."
"No, it's alright," she interrupted, holding up a hand to stop me. "I really enjoyed our discussion. I was flattered that you opened up to me, and I could tell you were being really genuine."
I returned her smile. "Thanks."
Why are you naked, I thought.
"Can you tell me what happened last night?"
"Well, I went out with a few friends of mine. I'm not very social and they were trying to get me to break out of my shell. Eventually we all started dancing, and that's where I met you. You were really enthusiastic, and at some point you found your way over to me, and we started dancing together.
"After awhile you leaned in and asked if we could go somewhere more quiet to talk. You said you wanted to get to know me. By now my friends had all but abandoned me, and you seemed friendly enough, so I agreed and we went out to the patio where you offered a proper introduction. 'Dominic Isaac James Aquilina, at your service, madam.'" She giggled and gave an exaggerated flourish as she imitated me, causing another blush to erupt on my face.
"Sorry," I said. "I can go a little overboard sometimes."
"No, it's alright. I thought it was sweet .You were open and genuine right from the start." She seemed to get lost in thought at this. Her hands wrung idly in her lap as she stared into nothing. "Truth be told it was really refreshing. Everything else seems to be drenched in pretense these days. You wore your heart on your sleeve."
"So what happened?"
"Well, we talked for a long time. You told me all about yourself: about your degree, your childhood, your depression, and your passion for writing and games. You didn't hold anything back."
"Geeze..." I ran my hand through my hair as I shook my head. "I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, I'm not a private person by any stretch of the imagination, but... Anyway, I'm sorry to have subjected you to all that."
"I was more than happy to listen. You gave me a rare insight into your life, your emotions, and it was fascinating. Significantly more so than the club, in any case. I'll take a good conversation over a crowd any day. And you were more than happy to answer all of my questions. It was nice.
"Anyway, we talked for so long that the bar closed and they kicked us out. As far as I could tell all of our friends were long gone, so it was just the two of us. You gave me your phone number and we said our goodbyes, but as I was leaving I noticed you looked really confused. When I came back and asked what was wrong you said that you couldn't figure out where you lived; that there were a bunch of houses popping into your mind but you didn't know which one was yours. I could tell you were getting frustrated, and that something was clearly wrong.
"Eventually I offered to let you stay at my place for the night. I thought you were just tired, and that we could figure the rest out tomorrow. It took some convincing to wear down your pride, but you relented and came back here with me. And, well, here we are." She gestured to the room arund us before letting her hand fall back into her lap.
An awkward silence hung thick in the air as I pondered her story. "Well then."
Why are you naked, I thought.
I sighed deeply, and looked her straight in the eye. "Why are you naked?"
She blushed at the bluntness of it and looked away. It took her a moment to respond. "That's just how I go to bed. I can't really fall asleep otherwise. And I felt so safe around you..."
"So, um, we didn't..." I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence.
Her blush deepened. "No."
My relief was clear, and I let out an audible sigh as I brought my hand to my face. "Well, that's good."
It took a minute to realise what I'd said. In a panic I jumped to my feet. "Not that I wouldn't, I mean, um..." My jaw worked soundlessly as the words caught in my throat. The hopelessness of explaining quickly became clear, however, and I sat back down. "I'm sorry, that was really insensitive. I just meant--"
She held up a hand to stop me. "It's fine, really." Her eyes slowly rose to meet mine. "I offered, to be honest, but I knew what you'd say. You gave me your life's story, after all. You were a perfect gentleman."
I gave a mental nod of respect to my past self. Even when deprived of my faculties I was able to stay true to my values.
I looked back at Alyshia and suddenly realised that she was still naked beneath the sheets. I jumped to my feet once again. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I should let you get dressed. I'll go and wait outside, and once you're ready please allow me to treat you to breakfast. You were kind enough to take care of me when I couldn't take care of myself, and you listened to me rudely blather on about myself for hours. It's really the least I could do."
She let out a single, silent chuckle at my sudden excitement, and a smile crept onto her face. "I've got plenty of food here. I'll cook us up some eggs and bacon once I'm dressed."
"No, please, allow me. You've already done far too much." I started walking toward the bedroom door. "Take your time. I'll have breakfast waiting."
And with a final smile, I left the room. I stood in the hallway for a moment after I closed the door.
I probably should have asked where the kitchen is, I thought.
Part 3: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_13.html
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Thing 35: How do you feel about love these days? [Part 1]
Well, after an extended hiatus I have finally returned! Now that I'm firmly planted back home I should be able to get a good deal of writing done.
Thing 35: How do you feel about love these days?
That is an excellent question, my dear book. My first thought was to write a nice little love poem, but instead I'm going to write about one of my recent dream sagas. For those of you that don't know, I have a remarkably vivid and impressionable imagination. One of the benefits this affords me is the ability to give my dreams direction. As I fall asleep I think about how my dream will begin, and then it unfolds in a similar vein. This allows me to dream in series, so if I dream a story I particularly like, I'll keep it going the next time I sleep, and thus wonderful stories can unfold. I've had them go on for months, though this saga lasted only a few nights.
I should point out that this saga isn't completely relevant to the task at hand. At least, not in the conventional sense. I would urge you to not take it too literally, and to instead search for the feelings of the characters involved. It's also a rather long story, so please bear with me if I choose to complete it in multiple parts.
--------------------------------
It was a gentle sort of awakening.
The room sat in comfortable silence. I was dimly aware of the bright light bathing the room behind my eyelids, but I wished it would go away. The warmth of the soft sheets I had wrapped around me beckoned me to stay, and the soft bed beneath me welcomed me with a gentle embrace. I wanted to lie there forever; free of responsibility and hardship. I knew that this warmth would never abandon me. It would stay by my side for as long as I wished it.
But I knew all good things must come to an end, and greatness could not be achieved if one never got out of bed. It was a new day, after all, and the world was waiting.
With a sigh and every ounce of my willpower, I forced my lids to slowly part.
As my eyes adjusted and the blinding light became increasingly tolerable, a pristine white ceiling appeared before me. The morning light danced across its surface as wind jolted the foliage outside into motion. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been very relaxing.
The problem was, this was not my ceiling.
Confusion and panic fought for control of my recovering consciousness. In my grogginess all I could muster were a few blinks, hoping that each time I opened my eyes the strangeness would vanish and all would be as I expected. It was several minutes before I dared to look away; before I dared to see what other mysteries this morning had in store for me.
I swallowed as I turned my head to my right, careful to keep the rest of my body perfectly still. The large room was fairly normal, though far cleaner than I was used to. The ceiling flowed into equally pristine walls, adorned occassionally with paintings or windows that brought life to the space. A small night table and a simple dresser sat quietly upon the sky blue carpet, as if waiting for some sign of life. Both were bare, and painted the same bright white as the walls.
The simplicity of it was relaxing, to a certain extent. While the space was barren, it had an inviting feel. There was no pressure to it. The room was a blank canvas with no expectations or preconceived ideas to present to the viewer, and the air of serenity it presented helped to calm some of the panic welling in my chest.
Feeling slightly more relaxed, I let my gaze drift to the other side of the room. The panic immediately returned.
On the far side of the bed lay a woman.
Part 2: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_12.html
Part 3: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_13.html
Thing 35: How do you feel about love these days?
That is an excellent question, my dear book. My first thought was to write a nice little love poem, but instead I'm going to write about one of my recent dream sagas. For those of you that don't know, I have a remarkably vivid and impressionable imagination. One of the benefits this affords me is the ability to give my dreams direction. As I fall asleep I think about how my dream will begin, and then it unfolds in a similar vein. This allows me to dream in series, so if I dream a story I particularly like, I'll keep it going the next time I sleep, and thus wonderful stories can unfold. I've had them go on for months, though this saga lasted only a few nights.
I should point out that this saga isn't completely relevant to the task at hand. At least, not in the conventional sense. I would urge you to not take it too literally, and to instead search for the feelings of the characters involved. It's also a rather long story, so please bear with me if I choose to complete it in multiple parts.
--------------------------------
It was a gentle sort of awakening.
The room sat in comfortable silence. I was dimly aware of the bright light bathing the room behind my eyelids, but I wished it would go away. The warmth of the soft sheets I had wrapped around me beckoned me to stay, and the soft bed beneath me welcomed me with a gentle embrace. I wanted to lie there forever; free of responsibility and hardship. I knew that this warmth would never abandon me. It would stay by my side for as long as I wished it.
But I knew all good things must come to an end, and greatness could not be achieved if one never got out of bed. It was a new day, after all, and the world was waiting.
With a sigh and every ounce of my willpower, I forced my lids to slowly part.
As my eyes adjusted and the blinding light became increasingly tolerable, a pristine white ceiling appeared before me. The morning light danced across its surface as wind jolted the foliage outside into motion. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been very relaxing.
The problem was, this was not my ceiling.
Confusion and panic fought for control of my recovering consciousness. In my grogginess all I could muster were a few blinks, hoping that each time I opened my eyes the strangeness would vanish and all would be as I expected. It was several minutes before I dared to look away; before I dared to see what other mysteries this morning had in store for me.
I swallowed as I turned my head to my right, careful to keep the rest of my body perfectly still. The large room was fairly normal, though far cleaner than I was used to. The ceiling flowed into equally pristine walls, adorned occassionally with paintings or windows that brought life to the space. A small night table and a simple dresser sat quietly upon the sky blue carpet, as if waiting for some sign of life. Both were bare, and painted the same bright white as the walls.
The simplicity of it was relaxing, to a certain extent. While the space was barren, it had an inviting feel. There was no pressure to it. The room was a blank canvas with no expectations or preconceived ideas to present to the viewer, and the air of serenity it presented helped to calm some of the panic welling in my chest.
Feeling slightly more relaxed, I let my gaze drift to the other side of the room. The panic immediately returned.
On the far side of the bed lay a woman.
Part 2: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_12.html
Part 3: http://idlemindunhinged.blogspot.ca/2013/08/thing-35-how-do-you-feel-about-love_13.html
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
Thing 34: A cockroach at the Roosevelt
Okay, friends! I think it's about time I actually wrote something on here.
Thing 34: A cockroach at the Roosevelt
So apparently the Roosevelt is a hotel. Knowing that, let's go!
---------------------------
"Right this way, Mr. Smythe."
Mr. Smythe smiled and bowed repeatedly as he followed the well-dressed stewart through the ornate halls of the Roosevelt Hotel. The plush, familiar carpet felt foreign through the polished shoes and silk socks he now wore. He tried his best to not look uncomfortable as he let the steward guide him to his room.
It was a short walk to room 508, with Mr. Smythe's eyes darting around in curious wonder all the while. His head shot back and forth across the hall as he took it all in. Things were much smaller than he was used to, but he still found it difficult to capture all of the details within his limited field of view. He wanted as much detail as possible for what was to come.
When they arrived the disappointed steward was dismissed with another congenial bow. Mr. Smythe closed the door behind him, eager to begin.
Well, he thought, that was easy enough.
His disguise was clearly sufficient, though he found this form to be woefully limited. How the humans could bear to live this way was beyond him.
In any case, if all went according to plan they wouldn't be alive much longer.
Mr. Smythe removed his clothing as quickly as he could, anxious to be free of his prison. His excitement grew as he folded his suit neatly on the bed. The tailored outfit was imperative to the second phase of his plan, so he didn't want to take any chances with damaging it.
He took a few steps back, standing stark naked in the middle of the room. With a deep breath, he began to change.
His pink skin began to darken as his exoskeleton reformed. Familiar appendages sprouted from his sides, and where once there were hands and feet vicious claws now sat. His shoulder blades contorted as wings split through his rapidly disintegrating skin.
With but a thought, Mr. Smythe was gone. In the room now stood Zekaract, lord of the roaches. He chittered in anticipation as he looked around the room.
It's time to take over the world.
Thing 34: A cockroach at the Roosevelt
So apparently the Roosevelt is a hotel. Knowing that, let's go!
---------------------------
"Right this way, Mr. Smythe."
Mr. Smythe smiled and bowed repeatedly as he followed the well-dressed stewart through the ornate halls of the Roosevelt Hotel. The plush, familiar carpet felt foreign through the polished shoes and silk socks he now wore. He tried his best to not look uncomfortable as he let the steward guide him to his room.
It was a short walk to room 508, with Mr. Smythe's eyes darting around in curious wonder all the while. His head shot back and forth across the hall as he took it all in. Things were much smaller than he was used to, but he still found it difficult to capture all of the details within his limited field of view. He wanted as much detail as possible for what was to come.
When they arrived the disappointed steward was dismissed with another congenial bow. Mr. Smythe closed the door behind him, eager to begin.
Well, he thought, that was easy enough.
His disguise was clearly sufficient, though he found this form to be woefully limited. How the humans could bear to live this way was beyond him.
In any case, if all went according to plan they wouldn't be alive much longer.
Mr. Smythe removed his clothing as quickly as he could, anxious to be free of his prison. His excitement grew as he folded his suit neatly on the bed. The tailored outfit was imperative to the second phase of his plan, so he didn't want to take any chances with damaging it.
He took a few steps back, standing stark naked in the middle of the room. With a deep breath, he began to change.
His pink skin began to darken as his exoskeleton reformed. Familiar appendages sprouted from his sides, and where once there were hands and feet vicious claws now sat. His shoulder blades contorted as wings split through his rapidly disintegrating skin.
With but a thought, Mr. Smythe was gone. In the room now stood Zekaract, lord of the roaches. He chittered in anticipation as he looked around the room.
It's time to take over the world.
Monday, 29 July 2013
Thing 33: Tell the true story of a dramatic moment in your life, but weave in one secret and one lie.
This is my first entry written explicitly for the blog! I'll be following the same format, so I won't know that I'm writing about until I actually start. I find it forces me to be much more creative.
In any case, let's get this underway!
Thing 33: Tell the true story of a dramatic moment in your life, but weave in one secret and one lie.
Hmm... This is another particularly difficult one for me. I'm not sure which "dramatic moments" in my memory were imagined, and which were real. There are also only a few moments in my life that I would consider dramatic. The way my mind works makes picking something like that out of my memory very difficult.
The other aspect to this is that I'm generally a very honest and open person. As a result, I don't have any small secrets. Certainly none that I'd be willing to share in this context.
In any case, I don't really have a concept for this one, so I'll be skipping it.
In any case, let's get this underway!
Thing 33: Tell the true story of a dramatic moment in your life, but weave in one secret and one lie.
Hmm... This is another particularly difficult one for me. I'm not sure which "dramatic moments" in my memory were imagined, and which were real. There are also only a few moments in my life that I would consider dramatic. The way my mind works makes picking something like that out of my memory very difficult.
The other aspect to this is that I'm generally a very honest and open person. As a result, I don't have any small secrets. Certainly none that I'd be willing to share in this context.
In any case, I don't really have a concept for this one, so I'll be skipping it.
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