“There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls,” he thought, “that’s what my father always said. Come to think of it, if I just talked to him right now, he would probably say the same thing.” He was looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach was tied in a knot, his ears were ringing, and he felt sweaty. He seemingly could not find the courage to leave the washroom and change his life forever. If he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the wedding bells ringing. Destiny is funny like that. He felt he was a few steps away from the altar. He could see it. The priest clearing his throat, getting ready for a ceremony he had done hundreds of time. His family smiling at the fact that he would finally settle down; his mother already mentally naming the grandchildren. And on the other side of the church, the father-in-law who accepted him reluctantly at first, but got over it after he helped with the renovations in the living room. The brother-in-law who looked at him as a big brother, poor kid, he was a lot younger than his sister, and he had been surrounded by girls all his life.
A year before that, he got on his knees after a romantic evening, surrounded by rose petals in their tiny apartment bedroom. That day could be one of the happiest of his life. Living together was a wonderful thing; they had ups and downs, like any other couple. They had more ups though. Even bad days were happy, such as when the dishwasher spat out a wave of bubbles. Cleaning up after that was more fun than work. There were stressful moments too, such as when he lost his job and had to find a new one during a recession. When he would be in front of the priest, he would look back at these moments and smile, because even if during the happy times they lived their love, it is during the hardships that they truly became united. And when he would take his vows, he would know he would mean them. Looking back, the first apartment may have been crummy, and the second one a slight improvement, but they were improving. The place they would live in after the wedding, they would enter as husband and wife. That is all that would matter once he would be in front of the priest.
Even the near break-up they had before moving in together would seem distant and meaningless once at the altar. Long distances are hard on relationships, and she was not quite out of school when he got his first job. Six long months of not being able to be together had made the relationship seemingly weaker. And when her best friend decided to come clean with his feelings, it almost broke them up. But he would be behind him, as his best friend, three years later at the wedding. Life can be strange like that. Back then, he could have punched him in the face, but now, at the altar, he would have given him a kidney. To get everything in the open was quite liberating. And now, as he was getting married, he could look at the man that almost broke them up and see only a true friend. What he had said was right too, he was not there often enough for her, he did not see her as the treasure she was. They would see each other on the week-ends, and they would rarely come out of the bedroom, but they were not in a good relationship. And so her best friend had tried to make her happy as much as possible, but it was unfair to him as well. Those 6 months were hard on everyone involved, but now her best friend was his best man, and he was happily dating one of the bridesmaids.
Before he moved for his job, the dating and early relationship was much easier. It was really all “sunshine and lollipops.” They would catch movies together, and spend evenings with friends, or just with each other. Once in a while, they would simply stay at his place for the entire week-end, since she still lived with her parents. He was in school, living off of loans, and her parents paid for her tuition and food, so they had all the time they wanted to spend together. And they made sure they would be together as much as possible. From that first date to see that action movie to the moment he graduated, they were happy together. So much it should have been illegal. That idea would make him smile once he would be in front of the altar, ready to say yes. But his stomach was still twisted, he was not there yet. What mattered in his mind now was the first time they spoke. They were in that bar where everyone hung out. He saw her, and knew he wanted to be with her. He saw where she was sitting, away from the dance floor. This is what made it much easier to talk to her, no need to compete with loud music.
In his mind, wedding bells were intertwined with his father’s only words of advice. But he was getting ahead of himself; he was not yet in front of the priest. He was not even in church yet. He splashed some water on his face, trying to wash away the worries. Music filled his ears. He was still ahead of himself; he never moved in with her, he’d never dated her. In fact, he did not even know her name; he was still in the bar. He had noticed her sitting in a quiet corner, she was seemingly not interested by dancing, now would be the best time for him to approach her. “There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls.”
[I was told I should try my hand at a love story. This is my attempt. I think it went well, don't you? I think that love is a much harder emotion to convey than anything else. Not everyone sees love the same way, however I like the result I got here, and it's a good way to cleanse the palate after the Lunarity fiasco.]
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
About Lunarity
I hate it, I can't stand it, I want to remove it. I don't know why though, I just want to remove it because it annoys me. I should have expected this, that I would write a story that I just can't stand anymore. And I'm kinda wondering if it won't be the beginning of a slump. I might have a good story written by Saturday, but I realize now that it has been harder to come up with stories lately. Saturday will also be the end of the first month of the 2 story a week format. The scope of the project is finally clear to me and I almost regret my ambition.
On the other hand, if I went the easy route and posted stories when I felt like it, there would be 2 or 3 stories posted.
In short: I apologize if the quality is uneven. Don't worry, I see it as well. It probably bugs me even more than it bugs you.
On the other hand, if I went the easy route and posted stories when I felt like it, there would be 2 or 3 stories posted.
In short: I apologize if the quality is uneven. Don't worry, I see it as well. It probably bugs me even more than it bugs you.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Lunarity
Here we go again, the moon is rising. I am trapped twenty-five days out of the lunar month. It’s a rather annoying process, to look at the world and not be able to act on it. Most people cannot comprehend how it works. They see us as savage beasts, but if anyone was imprisoned unfairly for most of the time, with only three nights of freedom for twenty-five nights and twenty-eight days of seeing but not doing, they would go insane. And so, as the moon rises and the other one goes to sleep, I am given my freedom. That feeling, the skin so naked, it disturbs me: I much prefer the body once the change is over. The fur, the claws, the fangs, these are my tools: these are parts of my identity. And so I howl. We always howl to the moon. We celebrate our newly given freedom. We celebrate it by a hunt.
The pack assembles. We have a lot of catching up to do, but that doesn’t matter. We are on a mission. We need to find preys, and we need to find replacements. Every month on of us disappears, falling victim to belladonna, or some silver object. One word of warning, we are not the romanticised versions of ourselves portrayed in the media. There is nothing romantic about the primal instincts we have so little time to satisfy. As I think these words of warning to anyone who might get a chance to perceive them, I pick up a scent. It smells of strawberry and sweat. Must be a couple. They might even have a kid. Families are good food. Yes, we eat people. Get that through your thick skulls. Stupid goth kids who want to be “children of the night.” We eat them as well. Emaciated little fuckers, they got no good meat on them.
What did you expect? The kind animal trying to control itself? Face it, I love doing this. In fact, at this instant, my claws are turning a child into an orphan. Soon, my fangs will turn him to food. We are intelligent, socialized, and civilized beings. We hunt as a group, we have friendships, and some of us even fall in love. All of this is between us, you are simply food. This is what we do to you. Your warm blood, hot entrails, and slimy guts are what we desire. We are the predators that make you our prey. And sometimes, one of you is left alive. We picked that person; we want them to join us in the feast of blood. But it is never the one who wishes to join us. These idiots always get killed fast. We go for the ones you don’t expect. Who are you, people who only know us through legends and idiotic stories, to decide what is best for us?
And when the moon sets, when the other one wants to come back out, we know what to do. We are smarter than your stories say. And by the time the hunt is over, we are back in the bedrooms, back in the prisons of flesh, and hidden from all accusing eyes. Hidden in the middle of the scared population. It’s the best place to hide. Tomorrow night, I will come out again. I will hunt again. I have been doing this for years now. We have been doing this for ages. And we are not about to stop. And you will be our preys.
Finally, keep in mind this little fact: those of you who try to befriend us while we are hunting, we devour. Those of you who try to run away, we devour. And those of you who think they know what the hell we are about, we devour. So you can only pray that we are not real, that we are nothing like what you fear and that we are the neutered dogs you wish us to be. Because if we are not; then you are simply a meal that has yet to be eaten.
[A bit shorter than what I usually shoot for, and it didn't pan out the way I expected. I seem to always have this weird tone setting in, and I think I'll have to try and move away from that. Still, this was a bit of an experiment as well, and the first person narration and complete avoidance of the actual action happening was somewhat of a change, I think. And well, even if I am not sure about this, there is the chance that readers will like it. I just think I should have gone with something else than a werewolf, it's a bit of a cliché.]
The pack assembles. We have a lot of catching up to do, but that doesn’t matter. We are on a mission. We need to find preys, and we need to find replacements. Every month on of us disappears, falling victim to belladonna, or some silver object. One word of warning, we are not the romanticised versions of ourselves portrayed in the media. There is nothing romantic about the primal instincts we have so little time to satisfy. As I think these words of warning to anyone who might get a chance to perceive them, I pick up a scent. It smells of strawberry and sweat. Must be a couple. They might even have a kid. Families are good food. Yes, we eat people. Get that through your thick skulls. Stupid goth kids who want to be “children of the night.” We eat them as well. Emaciated little fuckers, they got no good meat on them.
What did you expect? The kind animal trying to control itself? Face it, I love doing this. In fact, at this instant, my claws are turning a child into an orphan. Soon, my fangs will turn him to food. We are intelligent, socialized, and civilized beings. We hunt as a group, we have friendships, and some of us even fall in love. All of this is between us, you are simply food. This is what we do to you. Your warm blood, hot entrails, and slimy guts are what we desire. We are the predators that make you our prey. And sometimes, one of you is left alive. We picked that person; we want them to join us in the feast of blood. But it is never the one who wishes to join us. These idiots always get killed fast. We go for the ones you don’t expect. Who are you, people who only know us through legends and idiotic stories, to decide what is best for us?
And when the moon sets, when the other one wants to come back out, we know what to do. We are smarter than your stories say. And by the time the hunt is over, we are back in the bedrooms, back in the prisons of flesh, and hidden from all accusing eyes. Hidden in the middle of the scared population. It’s the best place to hide. Tomorrow night, I will come out again. I will hunt again. I have been doing this for years now. We have been doing this for ages. And we are not about to stop. And you will be our preys.
Finally, keep in mind this little fact: those of you who try to befriend us while we are hunting, we devour. Those of you who try to run away, we devour. And those of you who think they know what the hell we are about, we devour. So you can only pray that we are not real, that we are nothing like what you fear and that we are the neutered dogs you wish us to be. Because if we are not; then you are simply a meal that has yet to be eaten.
[A bit shorter than what I usually shoot for, and it didn't pan out the way I expected. I seem to always have this weird tone setting in, and I think I'll have to try and move away from that. Still, this was a bit of an experiment as well, and the first person narration and complete avoidance of the actual action happening was somewhat of a change, I think. And well, even if I am not sure about this, there is the chance that readers will like it. I just think I should have gone with something else than a werewolf, it's a bit of a cliché.]
Saturday, January 24, 2009
15 minutes
Once his boots are on, and he is all dressed up, the boy wishes his mother a good day, opens the door, and leaves the house. The wind is cold, Halloween is around the corner, and the sun’s light holds no warmth. The kid goes down the stairs, looks left and right and then crosses the street. He crossed without hesitation; there were no cars on the street as usual. He then turned left. It was a longer way to school, but he had a chance to see her, so this was the way he chose. He walked in front of apartment buildings identical to his own; the whole street was filled with them. He was about to walk in front of her house, if he was lucky she might walk with him to school.
Today was like most days though, she would not walk with him. Her building was the only one with gray bricks instead of red. That is how he remembered where she lived. And so he turned right on the next street. The next street was short; it led to a small park. Since there was no snow, he could still cut across the park to save some of the time he lost trying to see her. The trees were bright orange, soon the leaves would fall. The park would eventually fill up with snow, and it would make the shortcut unusable. Reaching the fence, he took off his backpack, pushed it in the hole under the fence, and then crawled under himself. Since it had not rained on the week end, he could crawl without getting too dirty. Otherwise he would have climbed over the fence.
Now came the hard part, he had to run across the old man’s yard. Stories shared across the schoolyard mention a 6th grader who wasn’t fast enough. The old man caught him and when he finally made it to school; he could not sit down due to the spanking he had received. This is why you ran. That and the big dog tied to a flimsy rope. And so the boy ran while being barked at by the biggest dog he had ever seen. After he had gotten through the yard, he turned right unto a larger street. Now there were cars passing by. There was also a sidewalk, so he felt safe even if there were cars. He walked up to the crossing guard. The old man looked impatient, and tired. Why would someone who hates children become a crossing guard anyway? After waiting what seemed like an eternity, the old man finally decided to walk in the street and stop the cars so the kid could cross.
And so he was that much closer to the school. He saw a car turn on the street he was on. With a glance he saw that the girl’s father had decided to drop her off at school today. Maybe if he was lucky, he could play with her by the swings. He could see the school now; it was far off in the distance. Soon he would be there. He looked to his right and he was glad he did, there were bullies coming from a side street. He decided to play it safe and turn left. He would go through a friend’s backyard and avoid being seen by the bullies. He didn’t think they were mean, but he was convinced they were idiots. No one was at his friend’s place, his parents were at work and he probably was chasing people around in the schoolyard with whatever slimy thing he found.
The boy finally reached the street that would take him to the school. School buses passed by and he could hear people play around the schoolyard. He wonders about his first class. It’s going to be a math class, he hated numbers; they did not make sense. Adding and subtracting were easy concepts, but multiplying and dividing made no sense. It didn’t matter though, because after the math class, he would have physical education. An excuse to run around was always welcome. Then he would eat the lunch his mother made this morning. In the afternoon, he would learn about geography and music. Then he would go home. This day seemed promising. He crossed the street, walked in the schoolyard, and was greeted by his friends. It was a day like any other.
[No comments really, we all walked to school once, right?]
Today was like most days though, she would not walk with him. Her building was the only one with gray bricks instead of red. That is how he remembered where she lived. And so he turned right on the next street. The next street was short; it led to a small park. Since there was no snow, he could still cut across the park to save some of the time he lost trying to see her. The trees were bright orange, soon the leaves would fall. The park would eventually fill up with snow, and it would make the shortcut unusable. Reaching the fence, he took off his backpack, pushed it in the hole under the fence, and then crawled under himself. Since it had not rained on the week end, he could crawl without getting too dirty. Otherwise he would have climbed over the fence.
Now came the hard part, he had to run across the old man’s yard. Stories shared across the schoolyard mention a 6th grader who wasn’t fast enough. The old man caught him and when he finally made it to school; he could not sit down due to the spanking he had received. This is why you ran. That and the big dog tied to a flimsy rope. And so the boy ran while being barked at by the biggest dog he had ever seen. After he had gotten through the yard, he turned right unto a larger street. Now there were cars passing by. There was also a sidewalk, so he felt safe even if there were cars. He walked up to the crossing guard. The old man looked impatient, and tired. Why would someone who hates children become a crossing guard anyway? After waiting what seemed like an eternity, the old man finally decided to walk in the street and stop the cars so the kid could cross.
And so he was that much closer to the school. He saw a car turn on the street he was on. With a glance he saw that the girl’s father had decided to drop her off at school today. Maybe if he was lucky, he could play with her by the swings. He could see the school now; it was far off in the distance. Soon he would be there. He looked to his right and he was glad he did, there were bullies coming from a side street. He decided to play it safe and turn left. He would go through a friend’s backyard and avoid being seen by the bullies. He didn’t think they were mean, but he was convinced they were idiots. No one was at his friend’s place, his parents were at work and he probably was chasing people around in the schoolyard with whatever slimy thing he found.
The boy finally reached the street that would take him to the school. School buses passed by and he could hear people play around the schoolyard. He wonders about his first class. It’s going to be a math class, he hated numbers; they did not make sense. Adding and subtracting were easy concepts, but multiplying and dividing made no sense. It didn’t matter though, because after the math class, he would have physical education. An excuse to run around was always welcome. Then he would eat the lunch his mother made this morning. In the afternoon, he would learn about geography and music. Then he would go home. This day seemed promising. He crossed the street, walked in the schoolyard, and was greeted by his friends. It was a day like any other.
[No comments really, we all walked to school once, right?]
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Cotton Candy
I see you, at first from the corner of my eye. You are walking, focussed on your thoughts. The people around you don’t seem to exist, you simply walk. You come fully in my field of vision simply because by virtue of public transportation, you end up sitting in front of me. And while moving my leg is the only outward sign of my acknowledging your existence, from the moment you sat down, you captivated me. It is a very silly thing to say about a stranger, but it is not unique to you, strangers fascinate me. It might be that young couple who can’t help but show the world their affection, or that person over there reading a book that has seen better days. Strangers are the most fascinating people there is, because strangers are the only people whom you cannot know anything about.
And so you sat down, and from that point on, you were real. You no longer were a possibility, you became a real person. The world is filled with these possible people. About seven billion of them. They exist but you can’t know anything about them. You know they are there because you are told they exist. The city is filled with people like that. You see them driving, you see them live, but they are not real. That is the line you crossed by sitting in front of me that day. I had no choice but to see you as a real person, and a piece of me hopes that you saw me as real. I have so many questions for you. However, I cannot ask them. It would be rude, it would be impolite, it would seem odd. Even these words are strange, because this is what I was thinking, when I saw you, when you sat down. You started existing and then you stopped. I know you are out there, and I don’t want to seem creepy or strange by writing this, I just want to ask you one question:
Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?
It is the food of carnivals, of celebrations. It is the treat that puts a smile on any children’s face. Grown men and women smile at the idea of eating cotton candy. When I was a kid, I remember begging for it, and I remember the sweet taste of victory as my parents decided to buy it. Cotton candy would only come once a year. Its taste would have to survive in my memory for twelve long months until I could eat some again. The first time I had cotton candy was during the day, a sign of how old I was. We had been petting farm animals that seemed so strange and alien to me, when we walked in front of one of these cotton candy booths. It was so strange, blue and red, and so impossibly cloudlike. I had to taste it. Again the following year, the taste, the texture, all of that had gained a hazy dream-like quality, and so I had to taste it again. The years passed, and one day I stopped begging. I had my own money, it was later in the day, and I decided to buy some. It was that day I learned that some rides don’t mix with food. But cotton candy never lost its charm. And one year I was not with my parents, and I still bought cotton candy. Still as sweet as the first time.
One day, I stopped going to the fair. But that year, I simply bought cotton candy. To skip a year would have seemed impossible. But as I explore my memories, I realize that it happened more than once. Cotton candy seems irreversibly locked in my childhood. It is made of sugar and memories. This leads me back to my question:
Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?
I was fascinated by your eyes, after you sat down, after you became real. The blue color seemed so odd that I was wondering if I was not seeing them as blue because you were blue. To see your lips part to accept the cotton candy and to not have them turn into a smile seemed unnatural. Just seeing cotton candy almost made me smile. But to smile at something that you seemed to eat in pure sadness would have been wrong. And when I realised that I was paying you this much attention, I was worried. Worried that you would notice, worried that I would seem creepy. Behind your sad eyes, I hoped to see the hint of a smile, as you tasted that soft and sweet treat, but that won’t happen. And now I am left to wonder what happened to make you sad as you eat cotton candy.
[This story almost made me add a "stalker" label. It seemed so odd to write about a stranger, but when I started thinking about it, I knew I had to write it. This happened on the bus on the way home. I will not share the details, but this is the questioning that I had, when I saw this complete stranger eat cotton candy without smiling. I think I am also trying to write about anything, and this experience allowed me to try some new tone that I don't think I have used at this point in my career. What also helps with the writing of this "story" is the fact that I know the person it is about will never read it.]
And so you sat down, and from that point on, you were real. You no longer were a possibility, you became a real person. The world is filled with these possible people. About seven billion of them. They exist but you can’t know anything about them. You know they are there because you are told they exist. The city is filled with people like that. You see them driving, you see them live, but they are not real. That is the line you crossed by sitting in front of me that day. I had no choice but to see you as a real person, and a piece of me hopes that you saw me as real. I have so many questions for you. However, I cannot ask them. It would be rude, it would be impolite, it would seem odd. Even these words are strange, because this is what I was thinking, when I saw you, when you sat down. You started existing and then you stopped. I know you are out there, and I don’t want to seem creepy or strange by writing this, I just want to ask you one question:
Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?
It is the food of carnivals, of celebrations. It is the treat that puts a smile on any children’s face. Grown men and women smile at the idea of eating cotton candy. When I was a kid, I remember begging for it, and I remember the sweet taste of victory as my parents decided to buy it. Cotton candy would only come once a year. Its taste would have to survive in my memory for twelve long months until I could eat some again. The first time I had cotton candy was during the day, a sign of how old I was. We had been petting farm animals that seemed so strange and alien to me, when we walked in front of one of these cotton candy booths. It was so strange, blue and red, and so impossibly cloudlike. I had to taste it. Again the following year, the taste, the texture, all of that had gained a hazy dream-like quality, and so I had to taste it again. The years passed, and one day I stopped begging. I had my own money, it was later in the day, and I decided to buy some. It was that day I learned that some rides don’t mix with food. But cotton candy never lost its charm. And one year I was not with my parents, and I still bought cotton candy. Still as sweet as the first time.
One day, I stopped going to the fair. But that year, I simply bought cotton candy. To skip a year would have seemed impossible. But as I explore my memories, I realize that it happened more than once. Cotton candy seems irreversibly locked in my childhood. It is made of sugar and memories. This leads me back to my question:
Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?
I was fascinated by your eyes, after you sat down, after you became real. The blue color seemed so odd that I was wondering if I was not seeing them as blue because you were blue. To see your lips part to accept the cotton candy and to not have them turn into a smile seemed unnatural. Just seeing cotton candy almost made me smile. But to smile at something that you seemed to eat in pure sadness would have been wrong. And when I realised that I was paying you this much attention, I was worried. Worried that you would notice, worried that I would seem creepy. Behind your sad eyes, I hoped to see the hint of a smile, as you tasted that soft and sweet treat, but that won’t happen. And now I am left to wonder what happened to make you sad as you eat cotton candy.
[This story almost made me add a "stalker" label. It seemed so odd to write about a stranger, but when I started thinking about it, I knew I had to write it. This happened on the bus on the way home. I will not share the details, but this is the questioning that I had, when I saw this complete stranger eat cotton candy without smiling. I think I am also trying to write about anything, and this experience allowed me to try some new tone that I don't think I have used at this point in my career. What also helps with the writing of this "story" is the fact that I know the person it is about will never read it.]
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Steel
The steel met with a deafening sound. Sparks flew around the two men. This was the moment they had been both expecting. The swords grinded against one another, producing a hissing sound, a primal growl. They both stepped back, and as of one body, they both flexed their arms, sending their weapons on a collision course. Sparks flew once more; the sun was setting and the sudden brightness of the impact was soon becoming the only light. Elsewhere on the darkening field, others were also paired up. The impacts caused eruptions of light all over the plains as the two armies met under a setting sun. When sparks did not fly, blood gushed out of the newly formed openings on the soldiers bodies. All of this did not matter for the pair dancing the deadly dance. Their synchronism was perfect, steel meeting steel, and bodies moving so that only the air was sliced.
They looked at each other. They were both tired, but they would never admit it. They were brothers on the battlefield, facing each other but giving each other purpose. As if the same thought filled their minds at the same time, their resolve grew stronger. And so the swords met in a deafening impact that lit up the night. Next to them, their allies were dying and living. But it did not matter. Years of camaraderie paled before the majesty of seconds of enmity. They did not know each other, they hated each other, and yet they were both part of a whole. Something that was separated all their life and that was being violently reunited. One stepped to the left, the other followed. The moon was rising, the pale white light turning the armies into ghosts. And the sparks still flew, in lesser number now that time had passed, but in greater significance.
This was what they had both trained for. Years ago, when they enlisted, it was for this moment. The nights in the barracks, the days training their sword arms, learning how to use a shield, learning how to follow orders. It was for this moment. It was not about dying for the king or for god, or for any being with the pretension of controlling their lives. Everything they had done led them here. Their wives left behind, pregnant and crying, their mothers being sick with worry, their children being orphaned by their decision. Everything was just a minor detail. This moment, under the moon, surrounded by blood, steel, and pain, this was what they were born for. Sparks flew, revealing an ever emptying field around them.
That moment of nostalgia was gone; the swords were coming back to life. They met with a newfound harmony. Music rose as swords met swords, shields, and air. They both did not hold back, they sent their blades towards weak spots in each other’s defence. They respected each other enough to not be insulting by holding back. The movements gracefully accommodating for these precise strikes, it was a choreography they were improvising and yet they knew it by heart. They both wanted this battle to last forever, not because they were afraid of dying like the wailing injured soldiers that surrounded them, but because they were afraid of killing.
The moon was slowly going down behind the hills; the first light of dawn was shining. The swords met with less vigour, the arms were tired. But they still fought, giving up was beyond consideration. They both had silently agreed, the fatigue did not matter and they would fight to the end without bitterness or resentment. This night spent in complicity gave a new meaning to both their lives and their deaths. The swords met one more time, the arms relentlessly bringing the steel to meet. Something new happened, a sword broke. The two men had lasted beyond all comprehension, but the steel had given up and one of them was defenceless. They both understood what it meant but had accepted it. And so the sword came down again, this time biting through steel, leather, wool, and, eventually, flesh. As the sun rose, the blade was suddenly covered in ruby, for a man such as his foe could not be bleeding anything other than precious stones. The warm sun was comforting for the dying man. They had both knew this moment would come, and so the one that lived did not hold his hand back. And the steel sword pierced his brother in battle’s heart. The battle had been over hours ago, the victors did not matter. The battle had stopped so that all soldiers could watch this destined battle. And as death fell over the vanquished, silence fell over the field. No one could explain what they felt at that moment, but years later, when they would describe this moment in history, no one but the two men who fought all night were deemed worthy of being called warriors.
[New type of story again. This is a lot closer to what I wanted to write as a kid. Heroic battles, heroes, villains and dramatic conflicts. But in a sense this is also a lot further than what I thought at first glance. There is no sense of good and evil, both fighters are heroes in their own right. It's not black and white, it is a rather grey story. There isn't much to say about this.]
They looked at each other. They were both tired, but they would never admit it. They were brothers on the battlefield, facing each other but giving each other purpose. As if the same thought filled their minds at the same time, their resolve grew stronger. And so the swords met in a deafening impact that lit up the night. Next to them, their allies were dying and living. But it did not matter. Years of camaraderie paled before the majesty of seconds of enmity. They did not know each other, they hated each other, and yet they were both part of a whole. Something that was separated all their life and that was being violently reunited. One stepped to the left, the other followed. The moon was rising, the pale white light turning the armies into ghosts. And the sparks still flew, in lesser number now that time had passed, but in greater significance.
This was what they had both trained for. Years ago, when they enlisted, it was for this moment. The nights in the barracks, the days training their sword arms, learning how to use a shield, learning how to follow orders. It was for this moment. It was not about dying for the king or for god, or for any being with the pretension of controlling their lives. Everything they had done led them here. Their wives left behind, pregnant and crying, their mothers being sick with worry, their children being orphaned by their decision. Everything was just a minor detail. This moment, under the moon, surrounded by blood, steel, and pain, this was what they were born for. Sparks flew, revealing an ever emptying field around them.
That moment of nostalgia was gone; the swords were coming back to life. They met with a newfound harmony. Music rose as swords met swords, shields, and air. They both did not hold back, they sent their blades towards weak spots in each other’s defence. They respected each other enough to not be insulting by holding back. The movements gracefully accommodating for these precise strikes, it was a choreography they were improvising and yet they knew it by heart. They both wanted this battle to last forever, not because they were afraid of dying like the wailing injured soldiers that surrounded them, but because they were afraid of killing.
The moon was slowly going down behind the hills; the first light of dawn was shining. The swords met with less vigour, the arms were tired. But they still fought, giving up was beyond consideration. They both had silently agreed, the fatigue did not matter and they would fight to the end without bitterness or resentment. This night spent in complicity gave a new meaning to both their lives and their deaths. The swords met one more time, the arms relentlessly bringing the steel to meet. Something new happened, a sword broke. The two men had lasted beyond all comprehension, but the steel had given up and one of them was defenceless. They both understood what it meant but had accepted it. And so the sword came down again, this time biting through steel, leather, wool, and, eventually, flesh. As the sun rose, the blade was suddenly covered in ruby, for a man such as his foe could not be bleeding anything other than precious stones. The warm sun was comforting for the dying man. They had both knew this moment would come, and so the one that lived did not hold his hand back. And the steel sword pierced his brother in battle’s heart. The battle had been over hours ago, the victors did not matter. The battle had stopped so that all soldiers could watch this destined battle. And as death fell over the vanquished, silence fell over the field. No one could explain what they felt at that moment, but years later, when they would describe this moment in history, no one but the two men who fought all night were deemed worthy of being called warriors.
[New type of story again. This is a lot closer to what I wanted to write as a kid. Heroic battles, heroes, villains and dramatic conflicts. But in a sense this is also a lot further than what I thought at first glance. There is no sense of good and evil, both fighters are heroes in their own right. It's not black and white, it is a rather grey story. There isn't much to say about this.]
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The River
The ice melts away as the drops fall into the purest of puddles, lodged atop a mountain, hidden behind the ice. It starts small, one drop at a time. Crystalline drops of water meeting with their peers, congregating, regrouping, and slowly changing. When the sun goes down, the water freezes again. And when the sun is out, the water thaws, and moves inches towards the bottom of the mountain. Slowly, every day patiently moving. And every night, being stilled by the coldness of the night. Inch by inch, day by day, the water moves to a bigger puddle, this one cannot be completely frozen at night, the crystalline roof imprisoning the free water until morning. But then, one day, when the roof is broken, the water is unbound, and cannot be stopped again. And so it rushes, no longer moving an inch at a time. Feet, yards, no distance is too long for this day; the water is freed from puddles and can finally reach a pure lake. The lake is a new sort of prison. Free to move and yet trapped within, the water waits, one day it will go over the edge, and flow towards the nearest valley.
Years have passed since the millennial ice thawed and the newborn drop fell for the first time. The water has been in the lake for a while now. From the depths to the surface, it has now been allowed to move out of the lake, and over the waterfalls. For so long, it has been hidden from the view of everyone, but now it would be free. And it rushed towards the first plateau. A city was found there, and the water met the first bridges. But the city was not large and the water went through in a matter of minutes. And it started another descent, towards another plateau. And as all did, the water grabbed pieces of the mountain, moving down with it. Slowly digging, so that its brothers would have an easier time following the same road. The water that became a river now flowed to the next plateau, and then the next waterfall. Something was different now, the river felt warmer. And for the first time, at the next lake, it felt the touch of children swimming. The river was finally inhabited by more than tiny fish; it was visited by humans, and animals.
And now the river discovered the first large city. And the river was turned back into water by the large pump. Flowing through pipes, filters, and them more pipes, the water found itself in a machine, it became boiling. It then was freed, met another human body, and then found a new set of pipes. Flowing through dark and gloomy tunnels filled with a horrible stench of rejection, the water was filtered, treated, and changed again before it became a river anew. It was changed, and felt different. Tainted by the use of these horrible humans the river was permanently changed. Gone was the crystalline purity, now the grey feeling would accompany the river. The next city came, and so again the river was filtered, changed, used, soiled and rejected.
The river needed to get away from all this. It was no longer a playground; it was a tool, a chemical component to human filth. From pure ice to brown ooze, the water flowed through algae infested lakes, and smelly rivers. It met with other rivers, also mistreated, also tortured. And they united, into a bigger river. One that was used by horrible metal boats that destroyed whatever remnants of purity it had. The proud river had been dirtied, sullied, and trampled. Beaten, it slowly flowed outward, expecting another pump, another filter, another kind of dirt. Instead what came was a song. The song of a sad giant that heard the pleas of the water that became a river and that now changed into an ocean. And with the peaceful lullaby of the ocean giants, the water rested. It travelled around the world, saw that water everywhere had the same life, until it was picked up by the sun, raised into the heavens and placed back atop a mountain. At peace again, it would rest for ages, until it melted again. Maybe by then it would be a playground all the way, and not mutilated by the people it tried to please.
[Ok this one was a bit harder to come up with, no big comments or questions about it, I'm also starting to think no one reads this anymore, but I don't mind. Hope you all liked it.]
Years have passed since the millennial ice thawed and the newborn drop fell for the first time. The water has been in the lake for a while now. From the depths to the surface, it has now been allowed to move out of the lake, and over the waterfalls. For so long, it has been hidden from the view of everyone, but now it would be free. And it rushed towards the first plateau. A city was found there, and the water met the first bridges. But the city was not large and the water went through in a matter of minutes. And it started another descent, towards another plateau. And as all did, the water grabbed pieces of the mountain, moving down with it. Slowly digging, so that its brothers would have an easier time following the same road. The water that became a river now flowed to the next plateau, and then the next waterfall. Something was different now, the river felt warmer. And for the first time, at the next lake, it felt the touch of children swimming. The river was finally inhabited by more than tiny fish; it was visited by humans, and animals.
And now the river discovered the first large city. And the river was turned back into water by the large pump. Flowing through pipes, filters, and them more pipes, the water found itself in a machine, it became boiling. It then was freed, met another human body, and then found a new set of pipes. Flowing through dark and gloomy tunnels filled with a horrible stench of rejection, the water was filtered, treated, and changed again before it became a river anew. It was changed, and felt different. Tainted by the use of these horrible humans the river was permanently changed. Gone was the crystalline purity, now the grey feeling would accompany the river. The next city came, and so again the river was filtered, changed, used, soiled and rejected.
The river needed to get away from all this. It was no longer a playground; it was a tool, a chemical component to human filth. From pure ice to brown ooze, the water flowed through algae infested lakes, and smelly rivers. It met with other rivers, also mistreated, also tortured. And they united, into a bigger river. One that was used by horrible metal boats that destroyed whatever remnants of purity it had. The proud river had been dirtied, sullied, and trampled. Beaten, it slowly flowed outward, expecting another pump, another filter, another kind of dirt. Instead what came was a song. The song of a sad giant that heard the pleas of the water that became a river and that now changed into an ocean. And with the peaceful lullaby of the ocean giants, the water rested. It travelled around the world, saw that water everywhere had the same life, until it was picked up by the sun, raised into the heavens and placed back atop a mountain. At peace again, it would rest for ages, until it melted again. Maybe by then it would be a playground all the way, and not mutilated by the people it tried to please.
[Ok this one was a bit harder to come up with, no big comments or questions about it, I'm also starting to think no one reads this anymore, but I don't mind. Hope you all liked it.]
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Daydreaming at Night
The curtains pulled back, revealing the sensual shape hidden behind the emerald coloured dress. The high heels, jet black, matched the gloves the singer wore. Her voice, like an angel’s, rose over the noise of the eager crowd. Her pale skinned legs seemed to leap out of her dress as she walked, pushing out stronger yet still very sensual sounds. The lyrics would have made anyone blush, but she was in control. Her bright green eyes looking at everyone in the crowd, yet no one believed these eyes could be looking at them. Her bright red hair seemed to fade into the red backdrop of the stage. Maybe the backdrop should be black. But then her shoes and glove would look odd. Tonight the backdrop wasn’t an issue since the singer was blond, and she wore a black dress and white gloves.
“Hey, you coming with our beers?” yelled a patron. Jessica snapped back to reality. She wasn’t on stage tonight; she was waitressing in the cabaret. Her life was not one of glamour; instead, she had to bring booze to people who should not be drinking anymore while they gazed at the singer on stage. Take orders, go to the bar, ask for whatever poison was ordered, lean over just enough to get the owner to smile, walk back to the table, lean over while giving the drinks to ensure better tips, repeat ad nauseam until quitting time, and then go home and take a shower because even if no one touched you, you still feel dirty. That was Jessica’s life right now. And there was nothing she wished more to see happen than to walk on stage at the “Cabaret Francaise” in that horrible town she grew up in. She knew enough French to know that even before you walked in the cabaret, there was something wrong with the place.
She always wanted to be a singer, and while her parents paid for singing lessons, no agent ever noticed her. She was patient though, and although the best stages on Broadway had been replaced by ambitions of being a Cabaret singer, she did not feel bad about it in any way. This cabaret job, walking on stage, it would be what would give her enough money to produce more demo tapes, and to send them to agents and producers all around the country. All she had to do was to endure the eyes that were grabbing at every part of her body and then she would be able to make it to Broadway. Her voice would draw thousands of fans that could appreciate music, and would not just sit, hoping that by some divine intervention her dress would fall off. On stage, she could also avoid having her body abused by hands instead of eyes.
One more table, one more drunk. Lean down, get the tip. Turn around and walk away fast enough that her body is untouched. “You can’t complain about that,” said Frank, as he looked at her breasts instead of her eyes the first night it happened, “it’s bad for business if you throw out the customers that feel you up. Just try not to tempt them too much by leaving your ass next to their tables for too long.” Frank was behind the bar, but he could as well have been a patron. And so she moved faster now, avoiding the hands, but pleasing the eyes.
And now the night was over, and after she gave half her tips to Frank, she got changed, no sense looking like that on the bus, and she got home to her small apartment. Life went on. Maybe next day she would be the one to walk on stage, maybe Nancy, the regular singer, would have a small accident or inconvenience. Then she could walk on stage and show her talent. And then life would be better. But for now, all she truly wanted was a hot shower to wash away all the dirt she felt on her skin. To wash away what seemed like the remnants of a dream slowly dying. Maybe tomorrow, she would get her break, she was 21. She had her whole life ahead of her. And someday, all of these perverts would say while watching her in a concert: “I know that chick, she used to bring me beer, she had the nicest rack.” There was only one thing these animals saw; even in Jessica’s dreams.
[Today, the ambition of my 2 story a week schedule hit me full force. That doesn't mean I won't do it though, I love ambitious projects. It also means that like today, I will have to go in new directions with my stories. Which is good, one should not stay in a comfort zone for too long. I'm gonna go in various directions and will try my hand at more than just shock and surprise stories. A twist ending is only good if you don't always expect the stories to include one.]
“Hey, you coming with our beers?” yelled a patron. Jessica snapped back to reality. She wasn’t on stage tonight; she was waitressing in the cabaret. Her life was not one of glamour; instead, she had to bring booze to people who should not be drinking anymore while they gazed at the singer on stage. Take orders, go to the bar, ask for whatever poison was ordered, lean over just enough to get the owner to smile, walk back to the table, lean over while giving the drinks to ensure better tips, repeat ad nauseam until quitting time, and then go home and take a shower because even if no one touched you, you still feel dirty. That was Jessica’s life right now. And there was nothing she wished more to see happen than to walk on stage at the “Cabaret Francaise” in that horrible town she grew up in. She knew enough French to know that even before you walked in the cabaret, there was something wrong with the place.
She always wanted to be a singer, and while her parents paid for singing lessons, no agent ever noticed her. She was patient though, and although the best stages on Broadway had been replaced by ambitions of being a Cabaret singer, she did not feel bad about it in any way. This cabaret job, walking on stage, it would be what would give her enough money to produce more demo tapes, and to send them to agents and producers all around the country. All she had to do was to endure the eyes that were grabbing at every part of her body and then she would be able to make it to Broadway. Her voice would draw thousands of fans that could appreciate music, and would not just sit, hoping that by some divine intervention her dress would fall off. On stage, she could also avoid having her body abused by hands instead of eyes.
One more table, one more drunk. Lean down, get the tip. Turn around and walk away fast enough that her body is untouched. “You can’t complain about that,” said Frank, as he looked at her breasts instead of her eyes the first night it happened, “it’s bad for business if you throw out the customers that feel you up. Just try not to tempt them too much by leaving your ass next to their tables for too long.” Frank was behind the bar, but he could as well have been a patron. And so she moved faster now, avoiding the hands, but pleasing the eyes.
And now the night was over, and after she gave half her tips to Frank, she got changed, no sense looking like that on the bus, and she got home to her small apartment. Life went on. Maybe next day she would be the one to walk on stage, maybe Nancy, the regular singer, would have a small accident or inconvenience. Then she could walk on stage and show her talent. And then life would be better. But for now, all she truly wanted was a hot shower to wash away all the dirt she felt on her skin. To wash away what seemed like the remnants of a dream slowly dying. Maybe tomorrow, she would get her break, she was 21. She had her whole life ahead of her. And someday, all of these perverts would say while watching her in a concert: “I know that chick, she used to bring me beer, she had the nicest rack.” There was only one thing these animals saw; even in Jessica’s dreams.
[Today, the ambition of my 2 story a week schedule hit me full force. That doesn't mean I won't do it though, I love ambitious projects. It also means that like today, I will have to go in new directions with my stories. Which is good, one should not stay in a comfort zone for too long. I'm gonna go in various directions and will try my hand at more than just shock and surprise stories. A twist ending is only good if you don't always expect the stories to include one.]
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Chorus
The night was oppressing, the shadows long, and the light orange. The alley was poorly lit, it smelled of urine, and vomit puddles fed rats that filled the darkest corners of the alley with an inhuman stench. He was waiting, the time would be right soon. He knew she would walk this way, she always walked this way, always came back to her place two corners away, so he was waiting, waiting, waiting. She had to come, the always came this way, he saw her. He saw her the week before, when she was doing her groceries, he knew her at that point. And he knew what he had to do. It was obvious. It was all so obvious.
You see, she was an enemy, she was a danger. He had to take care of her. He had to make sure she would not stop him. He knew everything. She was trying to stop him, she was plotting, behind these glasses, her blue eyes were filled with betrayal. She was a danger, a menace, a threat, she was gonna try to stop him. Like the man in white, the man in white and his mother, they were in league with the blue-eyed girl. They knew he had a weakness for blue-eyed girls, they knew about this because they had spied on him. But they would not get him this time, he was smarter, better, his mind was clear now. The fog was gone. That thick fog that obscured his senses, that slowed his razor sharp mind, it was gone. And that was good. Because he was a danger for all of them, they knew that.
He knew too much. He knew about their plan, and that was why they were trying to stop him. Once the fog was cleared enough, he pretended to be behind the fog. He was compliant. He let them do what they wanted, and when they said he was “under control” he made his move. He avoided all of their traps. He left his bedroom wearing the clothes in the closet, the ones without any tracking chips. He then made sure to neutralize the agent that was watching over him. The one who pretended to be his mother. He then grabbed the money that was not laced with poison, and left through the basement window, because all the doors were trapped. He was smarter than them; he knew what they wanted to do. He had to stop them. Everyone else must have taken the drugs that placed the fog in the head. The ones that did not let him think, see, or hear what he had to.
And so he walked away from the prison disguised as a suburban home. It was all a maze of streets, but without the fog, without the drugs, he knew his way around. He was guided in the right direction. Turn right, turn left, turn left, turn left, turn right, and right again, and left. He left. Left the town, took the subway, and then he started to see other people like him. Other people guided by voices. Other people that heard the chorus. The voices. The ones that guided him to that alley. Where he knew an enemy would walk. Every other day. With cigarettes in a hand, and betraying blue eyes. And so he watched her. Every other day, she walked, unaware that he was aware. He was there, watching her, because the chorus told him she was a danger to his survival. She was part of the project. They were gonna kill him.
And so he grabbed a beer bottle, and he broke it. And he waited. And waited. And she walked in the alley. He was waiting. Until. He stopped waiting, he acted. He shoved her into a brick wall. Her blue eyes were scared. She knew, she knew he knew she knew he knew he knew she knew… She would not betray him. These eyes, charming. But the broken bottle found the skin of her neck to be soft and tender. And the flesh broke. And as the chorus said, she was a robot. Her blood was not right. It was robot fluid. And she stopped functioning. The chorus was right. It always was. He had to wait for the next target, the voices would guide him. He would win. The chorus would make sure of that.
[I wasn't sure if I should make this blog adult only, this story convinced me. As much as I want to write all genres, I'm not worried about an adult finding a children's story, but I am worried about a kid reading this. In fact, I'm worried about the reaction. But a little drama would make for good publicity. I will try to balance it out with something a bit more positive later this week, but then again, I am a slave to my inspiration. Also, I wanted to say that the confused writing was a stylistic choice, and I hoped to convey the insanity of the narrator. Hope that came through clearly.]
You see, she was an enemy, she was a danger. He had to take care of her. He had to make sure she would not stop him. He knew everything. She was trying to stop him, she was plotting, behind these glasses, her blue eyes were filled with betrayal. She was a danger, a menace, a threat, she was gonna try to stop him. Like the man in white, the man in white and his mother, they were in league with the blue-eyed girl. They knew he had a weakness for blue-eyed girls, they knew about this because they had spied on him. But they would not get him this time, he was smarter, better, his mind was clear now. The fog was gone. That thick fog that obscured his senses, that slowed his razor sharp mind, it was gone. And that was good. Because he was a danger for all of them, they knew that.
He knew too much. He knew about their plan, and that was why they were trying to stop him. Once the fog was cleared enough, he pretended to be behind the fog. He was compliant. He let them do what they wanted, and when they said he was “under control” he made his move. He avoided all of their traps. He left his bedroom wearing the clothes in the closet, the ones without any tracking chips. He then made sure to neutralize the agent that was watching over him. The one who pretended to be his mother. He then grabbed the money that was not laced with poison, and left through the basement window, because all the doors were trapped. He was smarter than them; he knew what they wanted to do. He had to stop them. Everyone else must have taken the drugs that placed the fog in the head. The ones that did not let him think, see, or hear what he had to.
And so he walked away from the prison disguised as a suburban home. It was all a maze of streets, but without the fog, without the drugs, he knew his way around. He was guided in the right direction. Turn right, turn left, turn left, turn left, turn right, and right again, and left. He left. Left the town, took the subway, and then he started to see other people like him. Other people guided by voices. Other people that heard the chorus. The voices. The ones that guided him to that alley. Where he knew an enemy would walk. Every other day. With cigarettes in a hand, and betraying blue eyes. And so he watched her. Every other day, she walked, unaware that he was aware. He was there, watching her, because the chorus told him she was a danger to his survival. She was part of the project. They were gonna kill him.
And so he grabbed a beer bottle, and he broke it. And he waited. And waited. And she walked in the alley. He was waiting. Until. He stopped waiting, he acted. He shoved her into a brick wall. Her blue eyes were scared. She knew, she knew he knew she knew he knew he knew she knew… She would not betray him. These eyes, charming. But the broken bottle found the skin of her neck to be soft and tender. And the flesh broke. And as the chorus said, she was a robot. Her blood was not right. It was robot fluid. And she stopped functioning. The chorus was right. It always was. He had to wait for the next target, the voices would guide him. He would win. The chorus would make sure of that.
[I wasn't sure if I should make this blog adult only, this story convinced me. As much as I want to write all genres, I'm not worried about an adult finding a children's story, but I am worried about a kid reading this. In fact, I'm worried about the reaction. But a little drama would make for good publicity. I will try to balance it out with something a bit more positive later this week, but then again, I am a slave to my inspiration. Also, I wanted to say that the confused writing was a stylistic choice, and I hoped to convey the insanity of the narrator. Hope that came through clearly.]
Poll Results
The people have spoken. That does not mean I'll do exactly what they said...
I will try to post 2 stories a week. This means that I will post one story between Sunday and Wednesday, and Thursday and Saturday. I will also try to adjust my schedule with my class schedule, and so it may change again. I may take a bit of a headstart on writing if I feel inspired, but then again, 2 stories a week might be a lot to maintain, since it would mean over 100 stories in the coming year. If I make it that far, I'll be proud of myself. I also have not yet considered the idea of rewrites, but I think I will work something out in due time, since I don't want to get back to a story already posted until much later. In addition, there should be a story up tonight as I will try to ease into my schedule.
I will try to post 2 stories a week. This means that I will post one story between Sunday and Wednesday, and Thursday and Saturday. I will also try to adjust my schedule with my class schedule, and so it may change again. I may take a bit of a headstart on writing if I feel inspired, but then again, 2 stories a week might be a lot to maintain, since it would mean over 100 stories in the coming year. If I make it that far, I'll be proud of myself. I also have not yet considered the idea of rewrites, but I think I will work something out in due time, since I don't want to get back to a story already posted until much later. In addition, there should be a story up tonight as I will try to ease into my schedule.
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