There was a box sitting on her desk in home room looking so unassuming it made her stomach clench. She'd had boxes on her desk before. She'd learned not to open them. Without even bothering to peek inside the lid she shoved the thing off her desk with her books, being careful not to touch it with her hand, and sat down to await the teacher.
Really, what amateurs, she thought to herself. As if she'd never opened up a box to see something horrible before. As if the curiosity to see what was inside would be enough to make her endure another stupid prank. She couldn't help but shove her nose just slightly upward throughout the rest of the class. She didn't bother to look for someone acting suspiciously culprit- like.
As she sat in the library later on remembering how nonchalantly she'd responded to such a childish game she was startled by a needlessly perky "Hi!"
"Huh? Oh, hey Cybil. What's up?" she asked, unable to keep the irked tone out of her voice.
"Did you get my cookies?" Cybil asked, her bouncy hair doing its characteristic move as she spoke.
"Cookies?
"Yeah. I left them on your desk in home room. Didn't you get them?"
"Damn it!"
She decided to open her boxes from then on.
Not more than a month later there was another box sitting on her desk when she walked into first period. Inside was a dead cricket.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Bad Day
There was a battle going on. Pain, confusion, and external stimuli were fighting to gain ground in his consciousness. Excruciating pain in the back of his scull fought for control with the stinging in his eyes as they struggled to open. A fuzzy, indistinguishable sound faded in and out around the edges of his perception. His senses struggled to take in all the information. In the end the pain won out and dominated everything else, making it impossible for him to open his eyes.
His mind raced through the events of the day, images flashing through his head. There’d been traffic on the way to the meeting, a veiled threat taken as an insult, a promise for further action if amends were not made. He’d been thinking through the stupidity of his mistake in the parking lot of the warehouse and something had happened. And then, like an explosion, it all came back.
His eyes shot open and it was then that he realized the sting had been caused by blood. His head hurt the way it would from a tire iron to the back of the scull. His arms were bound behind him as he slumped on the dusty, concrete floor. And that weird fuzzy sound came into awareness of the buzzing of the florescent light overhead, fading on and off and the bulb slowly puttered its last light.
He looked around and saw the pair of shoes in front of him. They were polished to a sheen and he could tell from the look of the leather that they were custom made. At least they weren’t leaving him to the grunt workers, he consoled himself.
He painfully struggled to turn his head to see the face of his assailant. He hated himself for being surprised, he’d known that snake was gunning for his run since he took from Johnny that short while ago. Mac’s slimy smile insulted the injury that dominated the scene and he grimaced in spite of himself.
“So this is it, huh? No second chances, no discussions- just a little piss ant like come to get rid of me, eh?”
Mac gave him a conceited, toothy grin as he aimed the muzzle at his head.
“Figures,” he said.
The gun shot echoed off the walls.
His mind raced through the events of the day, images flashing through his head. There’d been traffic on the way to the meeting, a veiled threat taken as an insult, a promise for further action if amends were not made. He’d been thinking through the stupidity of his mistake in the parking lot of the warehouse and something had happened. And then, like an explosion, it all came back.
His eyes shot open and it was then that he realized the sting had been caused by blood. His head hurt the way it would from a tire iron to the back of the scull. His arms were bound behind him as he slumped on the dusty, concrete floor. And that weird fuzzy sound came into awareness of the buzzing of the florescent light overhead, fading on and off and the bulb slowly puttered its last light.
He looked around and saw the pair of shoes in front of him. They were polished to a sheen and he could tell from the look of the leather that they were custom made. At least they weren’t leaving him to the grunt workers, he consoled himself.
He painfully struggled to turn his head to see the face of his assailant. He hated himself for being surprised, he’d known that snake was gunning for his run since he took from Johnny that short while ago. Mac’s slimy smile insulted the injury that dominated the scene and he grimaced in spite of himself.
“So this is it, huh? No second chances, no discussions- just a little piss ant like come to get rid of me, eh?”
Mac gave him a conceited, toothy grin as he aimed the muzzle at his head.
“Figures,” he said.
The gun shot echoed off the walls.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Movie Review: The Town
So, I wanted to do a review of the new (and last) Harry Potter movie after seeing it but thanks to the worst migraine I’ve had in longer than I can remember that didn’t happen. But I did watch a movie I’ve been wanting to see for some time so I’m gonna write about that.
This movie was ‘The Town’ which got very good reviews upon initial opening, led to a nomination for best supporting actor in the Oscars and overall looked like something I wanted to see cause I’m generally into heist movies.
And as heist movies go, it wasn’t half bad. It starts off with a heist which displays the skill level of the main protagonists and makes you root for them despite the fact that they’re bad guys in terms of robbing banks, assault and kidnapping. And then it does a good job of setting up the main antagonist: Don Draper (who is actually Jon Hamm but will always be Don Draper to me) comes in as the FBI agent assigned to these types of cases and you can tell from the start that he is seriously committed to his job and will inevitably be a problem for these guys.
Thanks to his information you get a pretty good sense of the neighborhood these guys come from, a little section of Boston known as Charlestown, which he states focuses more bank robbers per capita than just about anywhere (which apparently was accurate for a breif time in the mid 90’s). He tells the story of grandfathers and fathers passing it down to sons and grandsons the same way you’d learn skilled labor. And the characters (primarily the guy nominated for best supporting actor) do give you a good feel for this neighborhood not giving a guy many other options.
The plot overall flowed pretty smoothly, the robberies are pretty satisfying, and Mr. Draper is great as the FBI agent who will do anything- including going after the best friend’s sister- to get his man.
But overall, I couldn’t help but compare it to another heist movie that is just epically more awesome and wishing it was that. That movie is, of course, Heat. I know it’s not fair to compare Ben Affleck to Bobby and Al but it seemed like it was trying pretty hard to set up the same type of scene- the robber trying to pull off one more big job before he leaves town for good with his new girlfriend, the crew following him to end of the world, the cop chasing him with everything he’s got. There were just too many similarities not to look to Heat and Heat was too good of a movie not to make this one pale in comparison.
So, my final recommendation is, if you’re a heist movie aficionado you should definitely see it but keep your expectations low. And if you’re just in the mood for some cops and robbers shooting at each other it’s definitely a good way to spend your evening.
This movie was ‘The Town’ which got very good reviews upon initial opening, led to a nomination for best supporting actor in the Oscars and overall looked like something I wanted to see cause I’m generally into heist movies.
And as heist movies go, it wasn’t half bad. It starts off with a heist which displays the skill level of the main protagonists and makes you root for them despite the fact that they’re bad guys in terms of robbing banks, assault and kidnapping. And then it does a good job of setting up the main antagonist: Don Draper (who is actually Jon Hamm but will always be Don Draper to me) comes in as the FBI agent assigned to these types of cases and you can tell from the start that he is seriously committed to his job and will inevitably be a problem for these guys.
Thanks to his information you get a pretty good sense of the neighborhood these guys come from, a little section of Boston known as Charlestown, which he states focuses more bank robbers per capita than just about anywhere (which apparently was accurate for a breif time in the mid 90’s). He tells the story of grandfathers and fathers passing it down to sons and grandsons the same way you’d learn skilled labor. And the characters (primarily the guy nominated for best supporting actor) do give you a good feel for this neighborhood not giving a guy many other options.
The plot overall flowed pretty smoothly, the robberies are pretty satisfying, and Mr. Draper is great as the FBI agent who will do anything- including going after the best friend’s sister- to get his man.
But overall, I couldn’t help but compare it to another heist movie that is just epically more awesome and wishing it was that. That movie is, of course, Heat. I know it’s not fair to compare Ben Affleck to Bobby and Al but it seemed like it was trying pretty hard to set up the same type of scene- the robber trying to pull off one more big job before he leaves town for good with his new girlfriend, the crew following him to end of the world, the cop chasing him with everything he’s got. There were just too many similarities not to look to Heat and Heat was too good of a movie not to make this one pale in comparison.
So, my final recommendation is, if you’re a heist movie aficionado you should definitely see it but keep your expectations low. And if you’re just in the mood for some cops and robbers shooting at each other it’s definitely a good way to spend your evening.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Value of a Moment
Ever since she was a little girl she’d always been searching for something. Some message, some meaning more significant than what the moment actually contained. She’d always been told it was her greatest downfall.
All the days that didn’t live up to the hype she’d built up in her mind. All the moments that were overanalyzed in desperate search for something deeper. All the conversations where her flair for drama made the emotions contained disproportionate to the discussion. All the little, inconsequential pauses in her life that she had to probe for something more. It kept her from living in the moment most of the time and cut short her enjoyment of what should have been life’s simple pleasures.
She’d known all this about herself for quite some time and had been trying very hard not to continue the pattern. But she couldn’t help but feel, as the nurse handed the tiny swaddled bundle to her, that this was a significant moment in her life.
All the days that didn’t live up to the hype she’d built up in her mind. All the moments that were overanalyzed in desperate search for something deeper. All the conversations where her flair for drama made the emotions contained disproportionate to the discussion. All the little, inconsequential pauses in her life that she had to probe for something more. It kept her from living in the moment most of the time and cut short her enjoyment of what should have been life’s simple pleasures.
She’d known all this about herself for quite some time and had been trying very hard not to continue the pattern. But she couldn’t help but feel, as the nurse handed the tiny swaddled bundle to her, that this was a significant moment in her life.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Attached
She stared into the hazel-speckled green eyes in front of her, the ones she’s been staring at for years, and waited for the familiar sensations to take over. The festering sense of nausea in her stomach, the sickening kick of her heart as it sped up, the flushed sensation on her skin, the reflexive strain of her muscles as they tightened involuntarily. She felt nothing. That, more than anything else, let her know that it was really over this time.
So many times she’d stood in this spot, looking into those eyes, trying to will herself to end it. There was just no room in her life for this, there hadn’t been for a long time. But she’d been unable to let it go, unable to move on. Stuck with the image of who she’d been and not wanting to let it go, no matter how much it didn’t match who she was.
There had still been love there in those eyes looking back at her. And a reminder of everything that had gone on. So many years of her life looking back at her- both good and bad, but so familiar and so comforting. For years she’d been paralyzed with fear whenever she even thought of letting it go. Fear and revulsion.
But she didn’t see herself in her life when she looked now. She didn’t see her new house, her great new job, her studio where she would let her passion go without having to cram into a small space it didn’t belong in. And she didn’t see him, the man who come into her life and promised so much more than what she saw in front of her now. She didn’t see any of that now, and she wanted to.
She let out a breath and watched her shoulders sink, concluding that this was finally it. It was ending. And it was good.
“Ok, we can toss it,” she said.
“Finally!” he exclaimed, walking right past her to take hold of the heavy, faded wood. “I have been begging for you to get rid of this thing for years! This is- do you realize this takes up like a third of this space? We’ll have so much more room now!”
“Look, this isn’t easy for me- could you be a little less excited?”
“Sweetie, it’s a mirror. I know you’re attached to it for sentimental value or whatever but when it comes down to it it’s an old, ugly mirror- I don’t even think an antique shop would take this thing! Look, it’s good- I’m proud of you. Now, if we could just get you to let go of that matching armoire we’d be in really good shape….”
“Don’t even think about it!” she snapped, the familiar kick of her heart speeding up her words.
“Ok, ok- one thing at time, progress is progress… maybe next weekend you’ll be able to look at that one…” he said, grunting as he dragged the heavy oval mirror out the back door.
She watched it go and couldn’t help the tear pooling in the corner of her eye.
So many times she’d stood in this spot, looking into those eyes, trying to will herself to end it. There was just no room in her life for this, there hadn’t been for a long time. But she’d been unable to let it go, unable to move on. Stuck with the image of who she’d been and not wanting to let it go, no matter how much it didn’t match who she was.
There had still been love there in those eyes looking back at her. And a reminder of everything that had gone on. So many years of her life looking back at her- both good and bad, but so familiar and so comforting. For years she’d been paralyzed with fear whenever she even thought of letting it go. Fear and revulsion.
But she didn’t see herself in her life when she looked now. She didn’t see her new house, her great new job, her studio where she would let her passion go without having to cram into a small space it didn’t belong in. And she didn’t see him, the man who come into her life and promised so much more than what she saw in front of her now. She didn’t see any of that now, and she wanted to.
She let out a breath and watched her shoulders sink, concluding that this was finally it. It was ending. And it was good.
“Ok, we can toss it,” she said.
“Finally!” he exclaimed, walking right past her to take hold of the heavy, faded wood. “I have been begging for you to get rid of this thing for years! This is- do you realize this takes up like a third of this space? We’ll have so much more room now!”
“Look, this isn’t easy for me- could you be a little less excited?”
“Sweetie, it’s a mirror. I know you’re attached to it for sentimental value or whatever but when it comes down to it it’s an old, ugly mirror- I don’t even think an antique shop would take this thing! Look, it’s good- I’m proud of you. Now, if we could just get you to let go of that matching armoire we’d be in really good shape….”
“Don’t even think about it!” she snapped, the familiar kick of her heart speeding up her words.
“Ok, ok- one thing at time, progress is progress… maybe next weekend you’ll be able to look at that one…” he said, grunting as he dragged the heavy oval mirror out the back door.
She watched it go and couldn’t help the tear pooling in the corner of her eye.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
An Anime Moment
"Why are your eyes vibrating?"
"I'm not sure. You've either said something shocking or endearing or really upsetting."
"Ok, I'm gonna toss my head and laugh, indicating that I didn't notice your reaction."
"Ok, i'm gonna let out a big puff of air and develop a sweat droplet right… there! There you go.”
“Good call. Now I’m gonna say something really callous and hurtful.”
“Ok, and I’ll go giant eyes and there they go vibrating again and now let’s add a touch of sparkly tears pooling in the bottoms…”
“Nicely done. I’m gonna stand here with a fixed look on my face and wait for you to say something defiant. Wait! Where are you going?”
“I have to go running through a faded background while I do a flashback montage of everything you’ve said to me this season. And if you see big sparkly bubbles trailing behind me, those are my tears.”
“Alright then, see you tomorrow!”
"I'm not sure. You've either said something shocking or endearing or really upsetting."
"Ok, I'm gonna toss my head and laugh, indicating that I didn't notice your reaction."
"Ok, i'm gonna let out a big puff of air and develop a sweat droplet right… there! There you go.”
“Good call. Now I’m gonna say something really callous and hurtful.”
“Ok, and I’ll go giant eyes and there they go vibrating again and now let’s add a touch of sparkly tears pooling in the bottoms…”
“Nicely done. I’m gonna stand here with a fixed look on my face and wait for you to say something defiant. Wait! Where are you going?”
“I have to go running through a faded background while I do a flashback montage of everything you’ve said to me this season. And if you see big sparkly bubbles trailing behind me, those are my tears.”
“Alright then, see you tomorrow!”
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Outsider
She is not of this world.
She should be. She was born through basic biological functions of the human body, her organs perform the same operations, her senses input information for processing and reaction. But she is, inexplicably, an outsider.
She wanted to belong, because she knew she was supposed to want to. She just didn't. But she played the role they assigned her well and got by. She started to think that’s there all there was to any of it- getting by.
When the attacks started and the world cowered and panicked, she just watched in curiosity. She felt nothing, she never had. But there was a spark of the potential to feel something. To know something. To understand something, maybe something she’d always understood underneath all the lines she had to recite.
The news reports screamed of Armageddon. The religious zealots committed mass suicide in preparation for deliverance. The rest of humanity scurried around like insects, hurriedly picking up anything they could carry. She just watched and waited.
When they finally arrived, to capture her along with the rest, she knew. What she’d wondered in a way that logical thought couldn’t describe, what she’d hoped for in a way that humans don’t hope, what she’d been sensing underneath everything her whole existence.
She wasn’t an outsider. She was just waiting for her family to come home.
She should be. She was born through basic biological functions of the human body, her organs perform the same operations, her senses input information for processing and reaction. But she is, inexplicably, an outsider.
She wanted to belong, because she knew she was supposed to want to. She just didn't. But she played the role they assigned her well and got by. She started to think that’s there all there was to any of it- getting by.
When the attacks started and the world cowered and panicked, she just watched in curiosity. She felt nothing, she never had. But there was a spark of the potential to feel something. To know something. To understand something, maybe something she’d always understood underneath all the lines she had to recite.
The news reports screamed of Armageddon. The religious zealots committed mass suicide in preparation for deliverance. The rest of humanity scurried around like insects, hurriedly picking up anything they could carry. She just watched and waited.
When they finally arrived, to capture her along with the rest, she knew. What she’d wondered in a way that logical thought couldn’t describe, what she’d hoped for in a way that humans don’t hope, what she’d been sensing underneath everything her whole existence.
She wasn’t an outsider. She was just waiting for her family to come home.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Buddy
Six months ago today the world's cutest puppy (seriously. Guinness hasn't confirmed it yet but they so would if I called them) was born. And he is here. The overwhelming joy that is the world's cutest puppy is sitting here at my feet as I write this, licking my toe. And I couldn't be more grateful.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Camp NaNoWriMo 2011
Well, it's official. The Camp NaNoWriMo site is up and running, I have created my user profile and most importantly I have made the commitment to do this thing come August. Now, I was a bit confused when I logged on because apparently you have the option of writing your novel in either July or August and some peeps have already started their crazy journey. Me? I had originally thought it started in August so I hadn't prepared for July. (Plus, some of the site's features won't be up and running until August so it works out.)
At any rate, since I now have less than a month to prepare for this frenzy of crazed typing and obsessing over my word count I will need some prep work to get ready. Last year, in prep for NaNo I did a month of dictionary words of the day and it turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself.
Not wanting to limit myself too much i'm not going to promise a month of words right now. I will, however, promise a post everyday from here until August. Both because I need to prep for camp and because I am massively behind on my post count for my 211 in 2011 challenge. Because I am not an endless source of fantastic ideas for stories many of these posts for the next month will be words of the day. But hopefully some of them will be worthwhile stories or fiction-y things. And maybe, just maybe, a very small few will actually be *gasp!* good. But i'm not making any promises.
Stay tuned!
At any rate, since I now have less than a month to prepare for this frenzy of crazed typing and obsessing over my word count I will need some prep work to get ready. Last year, in prep for NaNo I did a month of dictionary words of the day and it turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself.
Not wanting to limit myself too much i'm not going to promise a month of words right now. I will, however, promise a post everyday from here until August. Both because I need to prep for camp and because I am massively behind on my post count for my 211 in 2011 challenge. Because I am not an endless source of fantastic ideas for stories many of these posts for the next month will be words of the day. But hopefully some of them will be worthwhile stories or fiction-y things. And maybe, just maybe, a very small few will actually be *gasp!* good. But i'm not making any promises.
Stay tuned!
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Goat
Dogel was worried. But if you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t know he was worried. He had the face of an old, weathered statue. The giant bushy brow was permanently fixed, the scowl glued on. He might be experiencing overwhelming joy and you’d never know it. What he called his “professional attire.”
But Andriel knew him, and she knew he was worried. She was worried too.
This king was dead and all the royal families were in an uproar over who would take the throne. Something about the heir possibly being a bastard. They’d been civil about it so far, having heated arguments under the guise of “discussions”. But everyone knew it was just a matter of time before someone said something that lead the “discussion” outside of the castle and onto the battlefield. Troops were secretly gathering and there’d been an increase in soldiers at the brothel.
In this way, political unrest wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It brought in new business, and warriors and mercenaries usually had simple appetites. But political unrest also brought in those who fed off such environments. Those who specialized in underhanded tasks and thrived in chaos. Those who knew when the powers that be were too preoccupied to worry about what was happening in the city and therefore would not be handing out consequences for breaking the laws of the land. Those whose appetites were not easily satisfied.
It was those that Dogel was worried about. Those that he’d been keeping an eye out for with such vigilance that his left eye had developed an involuntary twitch every time the door opened. Those that he feared whenever a new stranger walked in.
He wasn’t concerned for the safety for his whores because of the overwhelming fondness he had for them, at least not that he would admit to. No, it was a practical concern- a dead whore meant less customers, more work for the remaining girls. He couldn’t run a business when his supplies ran low.
But Andriel knew that it was more than that. She knew he had a soft spot for his girls, regardless of what he said. He’d kept her around long after her expiration date- she wasn’t getting the business she used to. Her breasts were too saggy, her ass had lost its tightness. She was good at her trade and therefore still had some loyal customers. But she couldn’t attract new business anymore, not when everything was based on appearance. Dogel could have gotten rid of her long ago, shut her out on the street, left her to fend for herself. But he hadn’t. And that wasn’t terribly practical.
“What’s on your mind, old man?” she asked, sidling up to the bar in that way she’d perfected after so many years of practice.
“Huh?” he said without looking at her.
“You want to take a look at this rash for me? It really itches,” she said, making to hike up her skirt.
“What rash?” he jumped, nearly dropping the glass he’d been drying.
“Just making sure you were listening to me,” she grinned at him.
“Not funny” he growled and went back to his glasses.
“You know it’ll be ok- someone will kill someone else and we’ll have a new, fat king drinking himself silly by the end of the year.”
“Yeah, and a new head of the royal guard and he’ll probably want more bribes than the last idiot and we’ll have to move to the back alleys again,” he grumbled.
“Ah, is that what you’re worried about? The rent?”
“I don’t worry, I plan.”
“Well, is that what you’re planning about, then?”
He glared at her and she just grinned back with a blank look. “Shouldn’t you be washing up? They’ll start shuffling in for supper and a throw soon.”
“I’ve already prepared, thank you very much.”
The door creaked open and Dogel’s eye shot to stare down the man coming in. He looked him up and down like a mule that you didn’t trust not to kick you if you walked near it. The man took a glance around and wandered back to the edge of the bar. Dogel waited for him to speak, or make eye contact, his distrust growing with each second the man delayed in this.
“Ale,” the man growled without looking up.
Dogel poured him the drink without taking his eyes off him, the scowl on his brow growing the tiniest bit deeper. Andriel went to take the mug from him to deliver it the potential customer and Dogel grabbed her hand, giving a single firm glance warning her not to. She let go and let him take the mug over to the opposite end of the bar.
She watched as Dogel slammed the mug down in front of the man and saw the man jump. A muted conversation followed and Andriel strained to listen but couldn’t make out any distinct sound which might lead her to detect the topic of discussion. She made a small ‘humph’ to herself and sat back on the stool folding her arms under her chest in the way that had come from years of work.
Dogel walked back to her in a decidedly less rushed manner and calmly picked up the glass he’d been drying.
“SO?” she asked impatiently.
“So, what?” Dogel replied, again not bothering to look up at her.
She sighed at him, knowing he wouldn’t tell her and hating him for it. "You are such a goat!” she chided.
“Ba-aa-a-a!” he grinned at her.
But Andriel knew him, and she knew he was worried. She was worried too.
This king was dead and all the royal families were in an uproar over who would take the throne. Something about the heir possibly being a bastard. They’d been civil about it so far, having heated arguments under the guise of “discussions”. But everyone knew it was just a matter of time before someone said something that lead the “discussion” outside of the castle and onto the battlefield. Troops were secretly gathering and there’d been an increase in soldiers at the brothel.
In this way, political unrest wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It brought in new business, and warriors and mercenaries usually had simple appetites. But political unrest also brought in those who fed off such environments. Those who specialized in underhanded tasks and thrived in chaos. Those who knew when the powers that be were too preoccupied to worry about what was happening in the city and therefore would not be handing out consequences for breaking the laws of the land. Those whose appetites were not easily satisfied.
It was those that Dogel was worried about. Those that he’d been keeping an eye out for with such vigilance that his left eye had developed an involuntary twitch every time the door opened. Those that he feared whenever a new stranger walked in.
He wasn’t concerned for the safety for his whores because of the overwhelming fondness he had for them, at least not that he would admit to. No, it was a practical concern- a dead whore meant less customers, more work for the remaining girls. He couldn’t run a business when his supplies ran low.
But Andriel knew that it was more than that. She knew he had a soft spot for his girls, regardless of what he said. He’d kept her around long after her expiration date- she wasn’t getting the business she used to. Her breasts were too saggy, her ass had lost its tightness. She was good at her trade and therefore still had some loyal customers. But she couldn’t attract new business anymore, not when everything was based on appearance. Dogel could have gotten rid of her long ago, shut her out on the street, left her to fend for herself. But he hadn’t. And that wasn’t terribly practical.
“What’s on your mind, old man?” she asked, sidling up to the bar in that way she’d perfected after so many years of practice.
“Huh?” he said without looking at her.
“You want to take a look at this rash for me? It really itches,” she said, making to hike up her skirt.
“What rash?” he jumped, nearly dropping the glass he’d been drying.
“Just making sure you were listening to me,” she grinned at him.
“Not funny” he growled and went back to his glasses.
“You know it’ll be ok- someone will kill someone else and we’ll have a new, fat king drinking himself silly by the end of the year.”
“Yeah, and a new head of the royal guard and he’ll probably want more bribes than the last idiot and we’ll have to move to the back alleys again,” he grumbled.
“Ah, is that what you’re worried about? The rent?”
“I don’t worry, I plan.”
“Well, is that what you’re planning about, then?”
He glared at her and she just grinned back with a blank look. “Shouldn’t you be washing up? They’ll start shuffling in for supper and a throw soon.”
“I’ve already prepared, thank you very much.”
The door creaked open and Dogel’s eye shot to stare down the man coming in. He looked him up and down like a mule that you didn’t trust not to kick you if you walked near it. The man took a glance around and wandered back to the edge of the bar. Dogel waited for him to speak, or make eye contact, his distrust growing with each second the man delayed in this.
“Ale,” the man growled without looking up.
Dogel poured him the drink without taking his eyes off him, the scowl on his brow growing the tiniest bit deeper. Andriel went to take the mug from him to deliver it the potential customer and Dogel grabbed her hand, giving a single firm glance warning her not to. She let go and let him take the mug over to the opposite end of the bar.
She watched as Dogel slammed the mug down in front of the man and saw the man jump. A muted conversation followed and Andriel strained to listen but couldn’t make out any distinct sound which might lead her to detect the topic of discussion. She made a small ‘humph’ to herself and sat back on the stool folding her arms under her chest in the way that had come from years of work.
Dogel walked back to her in a decidedly less rushed manner and calmly picked up the glass he’d been drying.
“SO?” she asked impatiently.
“So, what?” Dogel replied, again not bothering to look up at her.
She sighed at him, knowing he wouldn’t tell her and hating him for it. "You are such a goat!” she chided.
“Ba-aa-a-a!” he grinned at her.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
What a wonderful idea!
So there’s a new idea bouncing around in my head that I am terribly fond of. Like, I want to start a long-term relationship with this idea. I want to buy this idea a fancy, candlelit dinner, impress it with my wit and charm so it’ll want to stick around for a while, sweep it off it’s feet and settle down with it.
The idea is that everything I will ever need in order to be a fully realized and/or enlightened individual is already in my possession and always has been. Furthermore, it is the concept that maybe all of my neuroses and self flagellation and my guilt reflex the size of Antarctica are not only part of who I am but that they are there by design. That this struggle is my pre-designed path.
A friend of mine pointed out that the characters that we tend to connect most with, that we root for the most fervently, are the ones with the greatest arc. That the more crap they have to go through, the more obstacles placed in their path from point A to point B, the more that they are forced to change, the more we love them. On the same token, perhaps my growing self love and capacity for growth not yet realized is due to all of these issues rather than in spite of them.
Now, this isn’t a new idea by any means- I’ve heard it before. But over and over again life makes the point that timing is everything. In order to be receptive, to really get it, it has to be the right time. I really hope this is the right time for this idea and me to start something.
The idea is that everything I will ever need in order to be a fully realized and/or enlightened individual is already in my possession and always has been. Furthermore, it is the concept that maybe all of my neuroses and self flagellation and my guilt reflex the size of Antarctica are not only part of who I am but that they are there by design. That this struggle is my pre-designed path.
A friend of mine pointed out that the characters that we tend to connect most with, that we root for the most fervently, are the ones with the greatest arc. That the more crap they have to go through, the more obstacles placed in their path from point A to point B, the more that they are forced to change, the more we love them. On the same token, perhaps my growing self love and capacity for growth not yet realized is due to all of these issues rather than in spite of them.
Now, this isn’t a new idea by any means- I’ve heard it before. But over and over again life makes the point that timing is everything. In order to be receptive, to really get it, it has to be the right time. I really hope this is the right time for this idea and me to start something.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
As I struggle (stumble? fumble?) forwards in my quest at growth I come upon an aporia.
On the one hand is the theory that in order to love one’s self one must accept one’s own limitations. I.E. I accept that my writing is what it is without beating myself up for my perceived lack of talent, actual lack of discipline or failure to deliver the rather grandiose idea I had in my head. I try to focus on this quest for self acceptance by accepting my limitations without punishing myself.
On the other hand is the theory that one cannot determine one’s own limitations without pushing oneself beyond one’s perceived limitations. This is an idea I know about first hand. Having been through two black belt tests I can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I can do much more than I think I can.
In karate, at least, this is a relatively easy concept. You feel a variety of highly unpleasant physical sensations and from that you draw the conscious thought of “I’m gonna puke” or “I’m gonna pass out”. The push comes in when, instead of sitting down or tapping out, you just keep going until that perceived inevitably comes (i.e. until you actually puke or pass out.) As I said, having been through this a few times, I can now definitively say that my body is capable of far more than I think it is because despite having those thoughts on many occasions I have yet to puke or pass out during a test.
Now, that is a concrete, time-limited example and doesn’t really apply to the long haul I face with life growth. However, in theory, I can most certainly see the application.
The idea of self love and acceptance is a little more diffuse because there are little moments here and there where you do well or fall back, but there’s no real end. The end of growth is death, at least within the realm of understanding we have in our life span. So until I take my last breath I should, in theory, be getting better.
I’ve been seeking and getting feedback from a lot of people on this recently. What I’ve been told is that the only answer to this conundrum is to trust one’s gut. My gut, they tell me, knows what’s right. Without logic or reasoning or philosophical debate my gut should be able to tell me whether or not I’m on the right path.
The problem I’ve been discovering is that by being so caught up in my head I’ve not only lost touch with my heart but my gut as well. I try to listen to that voice inside me that knows what to do and I find love, but not action. Yes, my heart loves me, can heal me, can help me accept myself. But often I only get that by standing still. Not doing anything. I focus on the being part of it but lose the doing.
The problem with that, obviously enough, is that part of being is doing. I can’t be a 2nd Dan without doing 2nd Dan level techniques and forms on a regular basis. And I certainly can’t say I’m writer if I don’t write. (I don’t even like to call myself a writer now even though I have a whole blog for it and a challenge to produce a certain amount of new material towards that end.)
The true solution, if there is such a thing when it comes to a dilemma like this, has yet to come to me. At the moment, all I’ve got is the intent to keep writing, keep producing and inching (at a snail’s pace) closer to that large goal of 211 posts while trying to put as little pressure (and, more relevantly, guilt) on myself as possible. I would like, in an ideal world, to write not out of guilt for having not written but rather out of desire to get an idea or a story or something written down for *gasp!* fun. What a concept, huh?
On the one hand is the theory that in order to love one’s self one must accept one’s own limitations. I.E. I accept that my writing is what it is without beating myself up for my perceived lack of talent, actual lack of discipline or failure to deliver the rather grandiose idea I had in my head. I try to focus on this quest for self acceptance by accepting my limitations without punishing myself.
On the other hand is the theory that one cannot determine one’s own limitations without pushing oneself beyond one’s perceived limitations. This is an idea I know about first hand. Having been through two black belt tests I can say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I can do much more than I think I can.
In karate, at least, this is a relatively easy concept. You feel a variety of highly unpleasant physical sensations and from that you draw the conscious thought of “I’m gonna puke” or “I’m gonna pass out”. The push comes in when, instead of sitting down or tapping out, you just keep going until that perceived inevitably comes (i.e. until you actually puke or pass out.) As I said, having been through this a few times, I can now definitively say that my body is capable of far more than I think it is because despite having those thoughts on many occasions I have yet to puke or pass out during a test.
Now, that is a concrete, time-limited example and doesn’t really apply to the long haul I face with life growth. However, in theory, I can most certainly see the application.
The idea of self love and acceptance is a little more diffuse because there are little moments here and there where you do well or fall back, but there’s no real end. The end of growth is death, at least within the realm of understanding we have in our life span. So until I take my last breath I should, in theory, be getting better.
I’ve been seeking and getting feedback from a lot of people on this recently. What I’ve been told is that the only answer to this conundrum is to trust one’s gut. My gut, they tell me, knows what’s right. Without logic or reasoning or philosophical debate my gut should be able to tell me whether or not I’m on the right path.
The problem I’ve been discovering is that by being so caught up in my head I’ve not only lost touch with my heart but my gut as well. I try to listen to that voice inside me that knows what to do and I find love, but not action. Yes, my heart loves me, can heal me, can help me accept myself. But often I only get that by standing still. Not doing anything. I focus on the being part of it but lose the doing.
The problem with that, obviously enough, is that part of being is doing. I can’t be a 2nd Dan without doing 2nd Dan level techniques and forms on a regular basis. And I certainly can’t say I’m writer if I don’t write. (I don’t even like to call myself a writer now even though I have a whole blog for it and a challenge to produce a certain amount of new material towards that end.)
The true solution, if there is such a thing when it comes to a dilemma like this, has yet to come to me. At the moment, all I’ve got is the intent to keep writing, keep producing and inching (at a snail’s pace) closer to that large goal of 211 posts while trying to put as little pressure (and, more relevantly, guilt) on myself as possible. I would like, in an ideal world, to write not out of guilt for having not written but rather out of desire to get an idea or a story or something written down for *gasp!* fun. What a concept, huh?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Independence Day
She sat on the hood of the car watching the night sky explode into color and felt like something was missing. She had the radio on with the Academy Band’s Medley blaring out the open windows, the flannel blanket was tucked underneath her as she rested against the windshield, her box of sparklers was close at hand for her to light up at the finale. But somehow, still, something was missing.
She went over the checklist in her mind, ticking off each item she’d specifically packed. She realized the cheap bottle of fruity wine she’d purchased was still sitting on the passenger’s side seat. She groaned to herself, slipped off the side of the hood and felt the blanket slide off with her. She walked around to the window, leaned in to grab the bottle, and saw it.
Just for a split-second, before her conscious mind could invalidate the vision, she saw his hand sitting there on the gear shift where it’d always been, as if waiting for her to get in and drive. It was so real, so clear of a vision that she bolted upright and hit her head on the ceiling before pulling out.
“What the-“ She stopped, blinked a few times, then jumped up to look again.
He wasn’t there, but she knew that already. He hadn’t been there before, of course. The seat was empty except for the bottle which she grabbed angrily, cursing herself for what she perceived as actual psychosis in response to her out of control emotions.
She stood there, looking at the now empty seat, reminding herself that she was not, in fact, insane. And then she remembered. That’s all it was- a memory. From the thousands of times that he’d sat next to her, shifting the gear in response to the engine’s effort, sensing the need for change. She’d always loved that. Such a simple exercise transformed into such a symbiant exchange.
But then she hadn’t thought about the fact that she would need to drive herself again, that their life together would end and all the activities they’d done together would now have to be done alone. She laughed at the analogy and how painfully appropriate it was now.
She jumped back on the hood, ripped the aluminum wrapping off the wine, twisted the cap off and took a swig. It tasted like cheap, fermented fruit punch. She took another swig and smiled.
This was, of course, what everyone had told her to do. That’s how it works, after all. Make new traditions out of the old ones. Come to the same places, engage in the same activities that you enjoyed, but put a new spin on it. This was her new spin, the “girly” wine he had called it, instead of the “real” beer he preferred. It was a simple change, but she’d hoped it would hold a greater meaning.
Her friends had invited her out of course, to a group excursion to the field below. But this place had always been their secret and she didn’t want to give it up. He couldn’t take that from her as well, she wouldn’t let him. So she sat there on the hood of her now single-driver car, without the weight of him evening out the dip in the hood and sipped her cheap wine. She told herself this was hers, her celebration, happy on it’s own, without him.
She wondered if she would have been better off going with her friends. But she’d wanted so much to make a statement to herself. She was strong, she was independent, this show of light and fire was for her. She listened to each boom following the flashes and told herself it was the breakdown of the wall she’d built out of him. The wall which had separated her from her life. She told herself she would do all the things he’d never wanted to do. She would be selfish, she would be free, she would be herself without the restraint she’d imposed on herself in order to fit his preferences. She would be, unapologetically, her.
So she sat, watching the lights in the sky and willed herself to feel everything this holiday had once represented. At least in theory. As the booms grew louder and more rapid signaling the finale she pulled out a sparkler and lit the tip, waving it around to the rhythm of the music coming from the car. She waved her sparkler high into the air, as if she could touch the brighter colors exploding in front of her and celebrated her independence.
She went over the checklist in her mind, ticking off each item she’d specifically packed. She realized the cheap bottle of fruity wine she’d purchased was still sitting on the passenger’s side seat. She groaned to herself, slipped off the side of the hood and felt the blanket slide off with her. She walked around to the window, leaned in to grab the bottle, and saw it.
Just for a split-second, before her conscious mind could invalidate the vision, she saw his hand sitting there on the gear shift where it’d always been, as if waiting for her to get in and drive. It was so real, so clear of a vision that she bolted upright and hit her head on the ceiling before pulling out.
“What the-“ She stopped, blinked a few times, then jumped up to look again.
He wasn’t there, but she knew that already. He hadn’t been there before, of course. The seat was empty except for the bottle which she grabbed angrily, cursing herself for what she perceived as actual psychosis in response to her out of control emotions.
She stood there, looking at the now empty seat, reminding herself that she was not, in fact, insane. And then she remembered. That’s all it was- a memory. From the thousands of times that he’d sat next to her, shifting the gear in response to the engine’s effort, sensing the need for change. She’d always loved that. Such a simple exercise transformed into such a symbiant exchange.
But then she hadn’t thought about the fact that she would need to drive herself again, that their life together would end and all the activities they’d done together would now have to be done alone. She laughed at the analogy and how painfully appropriate it was now.
She jumped back on the hood, ripped the aluminum wrapping off the wine, twisted the cap off and took a swig. It tasted like cheap, fermented fruit punch. She took another swig and smiled.
This was, of course, what everyone had told her to do. That’s how it works, after all. Make new traditions out of the old ones. Come to the same places, engage in the same activities that you enjoyed, but put a new spin on it. This was her new spin, the “girly” wine he had called it, instead of the “real” beer he preferred. It was a simple change, but she’d hoped it would hold a greater meaning.
Her friends had invited her out of course, to a group excursion to the field below. But this place had always been their secret and she didn’t want to give it up. He couldn’t take that from her as well, she wouldn’t let him. So she sat there on the hood of her now single-driver car, without the weight of him evening out the dip in the hood and sipped her cheap wine. She told herself this was hers, her celebration, happy on it’s own, without him.
She wondered if she would have been better off going with her friends. But she’d wanted so much to make a statement to herself. She was strong, she was independent, this show of light and fire was for her. She listened to each boom following the flashes and told herself it was the breakdown of the wall she’d built out of him. The wall which had separated her from her life. She told herself she would do all the things he’d never wanted to do. She would be selfish, she would be free, she would be herself without the restraint she’d imposed on herself in order to fit his preferences. She would be, unapologetically, her.
So she sat, watching the lights in the sky and willed herself to feel everything this holiday had once represented. At least in theory. As the booms grew louder and more rapid signaling the finale she pulled out a sparkler and lit the tip, waving it around to the rhythm of the music coming from the car. She waved her sparkler high into the air, as if she could touch the brighter colors exploding in front of her and celebrated her independence.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Word Play
Hope and pray had been friends for as long as either one of them could remember, having joined the same wildly popular phrase when they were both very young. Wish and dream had become very fond of one another after pairing up to perform a children's song which became one of the most recognizable ever performed. An extra boost from pop psychology discussing how similar they were secured the union. But Desire, poor desire. It tried teaming up with wish, it's synonym, but that didn't seem to stick. It paired up with heart which it was very fond of but which fell out of popular use. After several attempts at staying with something wholesome and family friendly it eventually gave up and resigned itself to live in the sexual realm of internet porn, adult-only resorts and 900 numbers. The other words didn't seem to notice.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Summer Work
“Eh, I tell ya- this is the life.”
“Oh yeah, working out in the blistering sun in 90 degree heat shoveling manure all day- what could be better?”
“Ok, dude- first off, it’s compost- not manure. We’re ‘green’ now. Second, would you sooner be stuck in some office with some pencil-dick brown-noser looking over your shoulder every two seconds?”
“At least then there’d be air conditioning. Wouldn’t be out here sweatin’ like Springstein.”
“Sure, air conditioning and status meetings and neck ties and more managers than you could shake your shovel at. Plus, there’d be no cold beer at lunch time, no good ‘ol shoulder-to-the-grindstone work pride and no tan on your brow. I’m tellin’ ya, dude- this is the work men were meant to do. This is what we’ve been doin’ throughout human history!”
“What, standing in some yuppie family’s yard landscaping a lawn? I don’t think that’s the kind of work pride you’re thinking of.”
“No, dude- it’s the same damned thing. Buildin’ shit, plantin’ shit, makin’ shit work- it’s all labor. Good, hard, honest labor. No business politics or financial crap. You know what’s happenin’ to all your friends in their air conditioned offices? They’re losin’ their jobs and their big, fancy houses because their pickle-assed managers and CEOs blew billions of dollars on some stupidly confusing ponzi scheme.”
“I think your understanding of the current economic crisis is a little off…”
“But not us, dude. We ain’t never gonna be out of work”
“Yeah, until the winter.”
“So you take a couple months off, even teachers get a summer vacation. I’m telling ya, since the dawn of time people have been doin’ this work and no matter what happens with the banks and wall street bozos there’ll always be people who need labor. Hell, if the apocalypse came right now and all technology shut down the only important jobs would be crap like this. Every crazy movie that comes out where the planet’s bein’ blown up by aliens or robots or whatever there are people doing shit like this when they go to rebuild. We’re the backbone, dude. We keep shit workin’.”
“I still don’t see how landscaping qualifies as a “backbone of civilization” sort-of job.”
“See, that’s your problem- thinkin’. You think too much.”
“I think too much?”
“Yeah, you’re always philosophizin’ and questioning shit and whatever you do up in that crazy head a yours. You gotta shut all that stuff up and just work, man. Just work the muscles, get a good sweat goin’, enjoy the sunlight and all that shit and just work, man.”
“Like zen and the art of landscape maintenance, huh?”
“There ya go, philosophizing again.”
“Well, what would you call it?”
“Work, dude. That’s it. Just good, honest work. No business or cheatin’ or any of that crap, just workin’ a good day, comin’ home, drinking a beer and watching the game. That’s how my old man did it, and he died at the ripe ol’ age of 92, happy as a clam. Didn’t say much, didn’t think much, just did simple, honest work. That’s the life.”
“Well, I guess it’s better than kissing some manger’s ass all day.”
“Yeah, man- hell yeah! That’s the spirit. Now keep shovelin!”
“Oh yeah, working out in the blistering sun in 90 degree heat shoveling manure all day- what could be better?”
“Ok, dude- first off, it’s compost- not manure. We’re ‘green’ now. Second, would you sooner be stuck in some office with some pencil-dick brown-noser looking over your shoulder every two seconds?”
“At least then there’d be air conditioning. Wouldn’t be out here sweatin’ like Springstein.”
“Sure, air conditioning and status meetings and neck ties and more managers than you could shake your shovel at. Plus, there’d be no cold beer at lunch time, no good ‘ol shoulder-to-the-grindstone work pride and no tan on your brow. I’m tellin’ ya, dude- this is the work men were meant to do. This is what we’ve been doin’ throughout human history!”
“What, standing in some yuppie family’s yard landscaping a lawn? I don’t think that’s the kind of work pride you’re thinking of.”
“No, dude- it’s the same damned thing. Buildin’ shit, plantin’ shit, makin’ shit work- it’s all labor. Good, hard, honest labor. No business politics or financial crap. You know what’s happenin’ to all your friends in their air conditioned offices? They’re losin’ their jobs and their big, fancy houses because their pickle-assed managers and CEOs blew billions of dollars on some stupidly confusing ponzi scheme.”
“I think your understanding of the current economic crisis is a little off…”
“But not us, dude. We ain’t never gonna be out of work”
“Yeah, until the winter.”
“So you take a couple months off, even teachers get a summer vacation. I’m telling ya, since the dawn of time people have been doin’ this work and no matter what happens with the banks and wall street bozos there’ll always be people who need labor. Hell, if the apocalypse came right now and all technology shut down the only important jobs would be crap like this. Every crazy movie that comes out where the planet’s bein’ blown up by aliens or robots or whatever there are people doing shit like this when they go to rebuild. We’re the backbone, dude. We keep shit workin’.”
“I still don’t see how landscaping qualifies as a “backbone of civilization” sort-of job.”
“See, that’s your problem- thinkin’. You think too much.”
“I think too much?”
“Yeah, you’re always philosophizin’ and questioning shit and whatever you do up in that crazy head a yours. You gotta shut all that stuff up and just work, man. Just work the muscles, get a good sweat goin’, enjoy the sunlight and all that shit and just work, man.”
“Like zen and the art of landscape maintenance, huh?”
“There ya go, philosophizing again.”
“Well, what would you call it?”
“Work, dude. That’s it. Just good, honest work. No business or cheatin’ or any of that crap, just workin’ a good day, comin’ home, drinking a beer and watching the game. That’s how my old man did it, and he died at the ripe ol’ age of 92, happy as a clam. Didn’t say much, didn’t think much, just did simple, honest work. That’s the life.”
“Well, I guess it’s better than kissing some manger’s ass all day.”
“Yeah, man- hell yeah! That’s the spirit. Now keep shovelin!”
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