Headway
So I’ve been writing outlines and glossaries like some sort of madman, trying to get this whole writing thing under control. Largely I’ve created a world, something not so epic, but with a combined history to make it easier on myself and the reader. Plus there’s the whole mythology part of it. To sum it up I have three stories I want to tell, they might intersect, they might not. The first being about a detective on earth solving the murder of returned sodiers from the emancipation. The second being the story of a reporter documenting the former head of a small business, recently released from prison for sedition, and his quest to find the reason for his imprisonment all the while a civil war is being waged on earth below. Lastly, the third story is about a group of emancipated soldiers, seeking good times aboard one of the spaceport cities, under the influence of narcotics decide to prove themselves against their former colleagues by fighting for the secessionists.
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Tags: Civil War, Writing Ideas
The Rude: Thoughts from Prison
So I started writin something new, I think it might be the start of whatever I want my space story to be, maybe.
—
It seems like there always have to be words on the paper to get me to start writing. That blank page, the stark white, is as damning to me as the question “what do you want to do?”. The answer is simple, everything. I want to write to my hearts content, I have a hundreds of stories intersecting in my mind, each new thought is a seed to be sown. However, it’s that lack of faith in my own abilities that scares me at every blank page. Words are a crutch, they provide context and history for what you’re writing. When they’re on their lonesome there’s that defenselessness about them, that they are in themselves alone. The more you write the stronger the words come, they build upon the prior words; they take strength from the lack of it prior. The same comes from action, what are we without our history? When we describe ourselves what do we think about? Our looks are cosmetic and can be changed at our leisure, but when it gets down to it we are nothing without our past. The past is what makes us, if we forget it then we are turtles lacking shells, our soft timid selves alone without any sort of purpose, we become kamikaze creatures of the moment, engines running dirty.
The past year had been tough, keeping that sense of self alive, trying to set myself apart from the teeming masses of prison. It’s easy to lose yourself in the violence, anger, redemption and religion. The people inside put on so many facets to their personality, some give in to their inner primal side while the others keep their well being aloft, buttressing it with how other perceive them. They might fool everyone else but they don’t fool me, the way how everything they say gives you that dull throbbing sensation in the back of your skull, that feeling telling you that these words are hollow pastel colored candies doled out because the prisoner hasn’t accepted the truth himself. They were changing. Rehabilitated or reformed, turned savage or broken, it doesn’t matter which. You go in thinking that there’s no way they can change you, there’s no way that they can turn you and you keep on thinking it all the while they’re doing it.
My crime was simple, political. It was all too common these days, you voice dissent and they fine you, do it some more and they throw you in prison. It was regardless of your affiliation, there were as many communists in here as there were anarchists, what mattered is that you spoke out of term. The moment you spoke your view on the way the government was trampling your rights or misrepresenting you, that very minute; you went from citizen to criminal. Some people in here were in the wrong place at the wrong time, others (myself included) were castigated after a lengthy fugitive period in which we became serial offenders. There was a time where speaking your mind about a political cause could get you in trouble, but in the clandestine “My PAC will break your legs” order. Where you were in the right to speak your mind and they were in the wrong for trying to squelch you with force. Those days are gone, I suppose, now it’s the law herself redacting your paragraphs and bleeping your movies. It wasn’t censorship, censorship was evil, it was protecting the populace from having to think, protecting the political process from the rude.
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Some other story part
Thomas Paine once said “If there must be trouble let it be in my day, that my child may have peace. I don’t know why but that phrase, that notion of personal responsibility rung true with me throughout my entire life. We’re the keepers of our own destiny and all that jazz, we’re the makers of the world we wish to belong to and the corruptors of things beautiful. Humanity itself is a scar upon this perfect world, but it’s one of those lovely scars, one that endears us to it even more. I suppose a mole would be better, but with it carries the nasty connotations of cancer and are, in spite of what we say, are gross. Scars are cool, they tell everyone else that you’ve been in the shit and come out surviving. So yeah, to earth we are the scar, pardon the tangent. I suppose this is all a little ironic coming from me, some supposed super-villain or whatever society has called me in the past 10 months. I’m here to assuage your fears that I have not, could not in fact, turn to the “dark side” as much as end my delusion of what is freedom, what is liberty, and what is the true American way (Hint: it deals with the two formers). I hope to accomplish in this semi-autobiography is the clarification of where I stand, the things I believe in, and finally, the corruption that I have witnessed take place in our upper levels of government. Well, the latter has been obvious for a while but it’s ever so pertinent to have in print, even if this book will soon be labeled as some pamphlet by some crazy anti-government ideagogue with superpowers. Yes I’ve done “bad things” to “good people” in the previous “months” but it was all relative to how society perceives right and wrong. That is, they perceive it poorly. This superior notion of a greater good does nothing but enforce things that are necessary but removing choice from the equation. Sure, we could eliminate a disease by quarantining all those that have it, but it would remove us from our humanity. Yes, I know that every life can’t be saved, sacrifices must be made, that tired adage of tragedy and statistics, but I went into the superhero business wanting to fight for righteousness (and fame). I’d sleep better (and with positive publicity) if I saved the little guy while at the same time solving the big picture. Why must one person suffer? This must be surprising coming from me, some mid-tier superhero frequently maligned by rags from “The Enquirer” to the “New York Times”, shit-talked voraciously for my uncouth methods of justice. I simply figure, you’ll either believe me completely or find this entire book deliciously absurd. Supposedly I’m an asshole, a huge one, with “an ego to match”. I never thought the Times to be so hackneyed and clichéd as that last bit, but I guess you live and learn. At least I was being badly recognized for something I did well than being well recognized for “terrible evils” I never did. Again, quote from the Times. I know you can’t expect every article to be written with the bombastic manner of Gore Vidal or the flair of a Pitchfork article but I at least expected something that would describe me less of a caricature and more nuanced. Yes, I have a certain presence and yes my head can be huge sometimes (but I mean, c’mon, find me a humble hero and I’ll find you a faker), but it’s not like I’m asking to be on a stamp (Yes, I’m talking about you Platinum. The Philatelist, sure) or be inducted to the rock and roll hall of fame (I’m sorry, your guitar playing just sucks, Tremolo); just a little brand recognition would be nice. And when they came under the notion that I was evil, I swear they doused me in every superlative they could think of. Having your name in the paper everyday isn’t terribly, any publicity being good publicity and all, but when they’re saying I’m massacring babies in South America, that’s going to ruin some endorsements. Not that some of their coverage of my actions wasn’t accurate, just out of context. “Blackheart fights personal, evil, war on drugs in Venezuela: Hundreds killed” is a hell lot more sensational than “Government orders execution of drug cartel. Oh hey, Blackheart’s doing some covert work for them there, too!” I feel like I’m getting a little ahead of myself now, like all good stories meaning to boost moral character of a publically maligned person, I should start at where I’m in a good light.
I was born to a mother and father who loved me very much. I was active in church, ate all my vegetables and did relatively well in school. Around the age of 12 I first discovered I had a power, back then it was still “Fight crime!” and “Secret identities for all!”, all the good heroes were humble and you only really heard about them in secondhand stories around the watercooler (or in our case, jungle gym)
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For school
Wrote something for school, final essay and all. Might revamp it, might change the main character (borrowed him from my other story).
Close Quarters
The rumble of the rails had finally subsided into the lull of background, my drink had begun its slow course through my veins and the stranger in the next booth kept on staring at me. My wit whetted by scotch I begun our conversation with the obscene.
“Hello.” Possibly not as obscene as I had imagined and the tone was probably still friendly, but I think I got the point across.
“Hi there” his response tinged on the whimsical, as if I were some sort of friend or old acquaintance and he was about to spout some long litany of aphorisms regarding rail travel in my general direction. He had a long face, slightly graying hair and the same could be said about his eyes, he had those eyes you only hear of in tales involving the incredibly wise; however, I could tell it was a mixture of the setting sun and his (or mine) descent into public drunkenness. “it’s a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler” I took a quick glance around the room and saw that we were the last two people in the dining car; I could have sworn that there were others when I began my long first sip of drink, it was less unsettling as it was annoying. Here I was faced with the dilemma of making an enemy thirty minutes into a night light rail ride or be left with the ever so inebriated and their lengthy musings. I mulled it over with another sip and began a show of civility.
“Yes. Quite indeed” I half-decided, half-impulsed that being rude might be the middle ground that could work: he’ll feel awkward and I can sit here and drink some more while he bothers the other ‘fellow travelers’ in another car. Yet, he still hung around and the silence stuck to my skin like airborne honey. I shifted my gaze down to my backpack and pulled out a book to read, hoping that my apparent disinterest in striking up conversation and my overt interest to the things in my hands, decent alcohol and good literature, would be hint enough for him to skedaddle. Nonetheless he stayed nailed to his spot as if saying ‘challenge accepted’ in his own obnoxious way.
“Is that a good book? I’ve always wanted to read Walden but I’m always busy busy busy. The name’s Christopher, accountant, on my way back to see my family.” He was beaming in the most annoyingly iridescent way the entire time saying this, that infections hospitality that you can’t help but emulate. Dammit, he was winning. Acting my most genial I put down my book and gave out my hand.
“Vic, I’m a teacher, doing the same for Christmas. I’ve always wanted to travel the country by rail and since I’ve the time I figure: why not?” I tried not to sound so saccharine but to me it was evident how forced it was, every syllable was a grain of sugar over a cavity, I was surprised I didn’t wince. His handshake didn’t show any ill-understanding, to him he thought my words were sincere and it’s these illusions that we grant ourselves that give us faith in the rest of humanity, much more ‘fellow travelers’. A waitress bustled in asking us if we’d like anything else. I glanced down at my half-drank drink and grimaced at the thought that I had only two sips. I asked for a large glass of water. My fellow traveler declined anything; he ‘was just about to leave’. My eyes lit up and I downed the other half of my scotch in celebration.
____ ____ ____
It wasn’t the scream that woke me up but the rush of air from the stream of people as they made their way down the dining car. The lights in the room made the windows almost opaque from reflection. The same waitress who asked my order (and who had obviously filled it, I glanced up to see the glass of water almost finished) stopped by and asked me if I was alright. I responded with the standard ‘Yes-don’t-judge-me-I-fell-asleep-drunk’ but topped it off with a “What’s going on?” As the train was still moving we obviously weren’t at our stop.
“There’s been an incident” Not the best choice of words to allay the fears of the half-drunk and impinging on head-ached passenger. Had someone fainted? Break something? Was there a fight? Was there a bridge out over some clichéd canyon? As she steadied herself to continue on with her sentence that creeping fear clamored with the resurgence of the sound of the rails. As I thought it she said it ‘someone’s fucking dead’, albeit she said it with more grace and less expletives. She asked if I could join the rest of the passengers in the sitting car, for the sake of our safety and whatnot. The incessant sound of the train tracks was not helping my headache nor were the movements of the train conducive to walking in my semi-sober state, I made due with what I had and latched on to Theresa as we made our way down the car.
When we arrived I was surprised on how few people were actually with us. From my brief headcount there were only about 10 people. Theresa stood up before us all and made us aware of the situation. A certain passenger was found dead in his room, the train company was alerting the authorities but as we were 4 hours out from any rail station we were to remain in the car until further notice. I glanced around for my new friend Christopher, the accountant, surely he’d want to gossip and honestly, this would be something I wouldn’t mind gossiping about. Theresa, apparently the head train-stewardess or whatever they call themselves, came by and asked as she did before if I needed anything. I decided to switch it up, a glass of water and some Motrin; She gave a small smile and left as I deftly reclined my seat, closing my eyes against the low dim of the overhead personal lights. Except for there being a dead body on the train this ride wasn’t half bad; hell, the subdued atmosphere was most beneficial to some old fashioned relaxation. Theresa came back and I swallowed my pills and within five minutes I was fast asleep again.
____ ____ ____
Theresa woke me up about an hour into my nap, said there was something she needed to talk to me about. We left to another cabin; apparently the other passengers had left as well. Whatever it was that was keeping us in the sitting cabin was over. Back in the dining cabin she asked a question that made the night much more interesting.
“So you knew Mr. Argent. Christopher?” Well I had hardly known him, knew him? Past tense?
“Are you saying that he’s—“
“—dead, yes” I really didn’t know what to say on the matter. A man I had known for less than a few minutes was dead and I was, apparently, the only person to have had his acquaintance on this train. I didn’t feel responsible for his death, but since I was his only tie on this train I felt some sort of responsibility in dealing with the events following his death. Perhaps if I had approaching things differently the night could have went differently, but I answered as I did and God so help me.
“That’s terrible!” I did my best to look shocked. I mean, I was but shocked personally. Call me a horrible person for the conversation that followed but I needed to know. “How did it happen?”
“From what we could tell it was a heart attack. While you all were in the passenger car we radioed a doctor from C—, told him what we saw. It’s really terrible, poor Jenny went by to tell him that dinner was about to be served, the door opened as she knocked and there he was, on the floor in a crumpled heap.”
“Terrible, terrible thing. His family will be devastated; he was coming home to see them.” I felt slightly bad giving such information, no such more than lying about my acquaintanceship with the deceased but those small twinges felt were sharp nonetheless.
“The only thing is, I think he was murdered.” If my interested was piqued before it was doubly so at the present, a murder mystery on the rails; it seems like life was feeling awfully Hitchcockian. “When I was examining the body I found a mark on his neck, like a haphazard pinprick.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I felt it was a fairly obvious question but the shameful look on her face quelled any rising bile that I might have had to spew her way.
“I’m not sure completely, it’s just a feeling I have. It could be nothing, it could be murder, he could have nicked himself shaving and it just looks weird.”
“But why are you telling me this” I had already forgot that I was the one pretending to be his friend. She apparently overlooked this small slip of character.
“You’re the only one with an alibi that can do something; you were passed out in here while everyone else was roaming the train. It takes two to murder: one to kill and one to die.”
“What exactly am I supposed to do?” The answer felt obvious once she said it.
“I want you to go around and get information from people, alibis and what they saw. I know it’s much but if it is murder, the one who poisoned Mr. Argent will be loath to give any information to me.” I suppose this was God’s poetic way at getting back at me. For pretending to know a dead person I would be punished by being forced to talk to everyone on this train, to make the small talk that I hate so much. If curiosity leads to enlightenment, then I had just enlightened my way to a personal hell.
____ ____ ____
I spent the next hour talking to the passengers. There were the brother and sister on their way to visit grandma, not particularly the poisoning type. There was the elderly gentleman lacking the wherewithal to stay awake much less subdue a man and plunge a syringe into his neck. Two garrulous college girls, they were with Jenny the train-stewardess when she opened the door, they were the ones that screamed. Really, none of the passengers that I ‘interviewed’ seemed to know Christopher or be the syringe-in-the-neck kind of killers. Upon reaching this conclusion I decided it was time to check the personal effects of our dearly departed fellow traveler.
I snuck past the others and made my way into his room, thankfully it was still unlocked. I rummaged through his suitcase finding nothing other than a datebook willed with events he will never go to. I stooped over his body, searching for any sort of clue that could give me some sort of weapon but nothing came up other than the strange mark on his neck that indeed look like someone with no skill at all had plunged a syringe into his neck…or he nicked himself shaving. Well if he nicked it that oddly then he might have done it before. I moved his collar down only to see that there was another mark not that far from the first. Well obviously he had nicked it before, mystery solved I supposed unless he was bitten to death by a vampire. I laughed to myself at the notion but heard the door to the compartment start to open before I could produce anything audible. Acting on impulse I jumped into the closet and closed the door. It was the old man, however this time he was carrying something in his hands. I couldn’t see from my occluded viewpoint but my initial thoughts jumped to him being some sort of vampire hunter. He started reciting the last rites, must have been a priest and the shiny object must have been the rosary. I hadn’t been to a catholic service in a while but I was getting the gist that it was about to be over. The train gave a great lurch forward and abruptly came to a stop, but it was hardly time to be in C—, something must be wrong. Over my thinking I could hear a frenzied rush of whispers and what seemed to be the whimpering of the priest. The stop had knocked me to the floor and the dead man’s stored clothes were now all over me. The priest had obviously been knocked unconscious, now was my time to escape. When I stepped out of the closet I didn’t see the priest at all, only an open window, yet there on the ground, twinkling, was his rosary. I picked it up and snuck my way back into the group of people making their way toward the front sitting car. None of the passengers had known what compartment the dead man had been staying in, my stealth had been for nothing.
We had been waiting for 15 minutes as the train-stewards made their way to each compartment to see if everyone was alright. Seeing the faces all together made me notice who was missing right away: the priest, Jenny the train-stewardess, and the two college girls. The rest of the passengers were in slight disarray, being knocked down and tousled in a fury. I gave the cabin a once over again, perhaps I had missed the priest. Theresa saw me doing so and came over to reassure me.
“Jenny’s in the dining car with the two girls, one of them fell and hurt their ankle in the stop.” Theresa seemed happier; ‘at least nobody else was dead’ was the expression that could best describe her demeanor. As she was about to leave I brought to her attention the missing elderly man. “I didn’t see him when we made the checks. I’ll keep an eye out for him; he’s probably wandering the halls somewhere.”
“What’s going on with the train, exactly?” The brother brought up the question that should have been first on my mind. Apparently the one operating the train had been spooked by something running along the top of the roof. Jenny was helping the girls back into the cabin when the same spooked mad made an announcement over the intercom.
“We’re going to be starting our journey again in 30 minutes, we’re getting close to C—, I advise you all to stay where you are until we reach our destination.” I decided, since we were waiting and all, to bring attention to the disappearance of the old man. I was greeted by a bevy of no except for the sister; the sister had seen him going into his room five minutes before the train stopped, on her way to the sitting cabin. I asked her to show us the room, conductor be damned. A small group of us including Theresa made our way to the cabin, the dead man’s cabin; to see what we all knew was on the train, the dead body. The sister looked distressed, of the sort that she knew she was right so how could she be wrong. It was then that one of the passengers pointed out the marks on the neck of the poor accountant.
“Did something stab him in the neck?” “No, there would be blood everywhere.” “Maybe he nicked himself shaving?” “I’ve nicked myself before, never that badly. Plus the wounds look fresh” From the commiserating thoughts of my fellow passengers I decided to throw some levity into the situation. “Maybe it was a vampire?” A couple of the passengers laughed until it settled into malaise, accusatory glances sprang up in all directions.
The brother was the first to interject something into the silence “Well vampires drink the blood, if it was a vampire he should have no blood left in his body. Sis, go fetch me a knife from the dining car.” Dammit, what had I started?
____ ____ ____
Of course the result of the vampire-victim test was true; no blood came from a new cut on his finger. This left two mysteries: how do we deal with this dead body that would soon be a vampire and how do we deal with a vampire? Obviously I didn’t believe this one bit, bloodless corpse or no; my concern was for the missing passenger. The train started again and the debate continued on within this small compartment; I needed air. I was alone with my thoughts in the dining car, perhaps it would all go away if I drank myself into a stupor until journey’s end, perhaps not but it was worth a try. I walked to the back of the cabin, unaffected by the employee’s only sign; this was an emergency. I was greeted by a familiar face as I opened the cabinet; someone had placed the head of the priest in here. How curious. I fainted.
____ ____ ____
This time it was the screaming that woke me up, the girls were again the first people to arrive on the scene and had yet to close the cabinet, which I, the hitherto unconscious man, had to do. As jaded to violence and gore as much a high school English teacher should be, this was something new. It was successful in accomplishing that something wonky was indeed going on here, possibly vampire, possibly human, all around murderer. Neither of the two were great options. Thankfully the screaming brought all the passengers to the compartment. Nobody missing now except for the dead, we were doing a little bit better in attendance.
The girls were sitting down now, and I was clutching the bottle of brandy I had found hidden away near the cabinet for dear life. If riding the rails made me want to get drunk, doing so in close proximity to a severed head just bumped it up the priorities list. I started up. “So is it a vampire?” The rest of my passengers nodded in concurrence. “So what do we know about vampires?”
“They die in sunlight” “They don’t have a reflection” “Crosses and holy water hurt them” “They can be killed with a stake through the heart” “We don’t have any stakes” “Couldn’t we pull some wood from this train” “Please don’t damage train property” “But it’s an emergency” “Still no” “Doesn’t silver hurt them?” “No that’s werewolves” “Doesn’t mean we can’t try” “Fine, but where are we going to get silver” “No taking silverware from the train” “Is it one of us?” That was the question that settled everyone down. Basing it off of sunlight, all of the newest passengers were exempt as we boarded in the day. That would account for the siblings, the priest and two others. The girls, the exsanguinate, and three others were on it to begin with, which, if they stayed in their compartments wouldn’t have to worry about sunlight. However, it could have jumped aboard any time after dark, which left things open in the bad sort.
I sat down next to the blond college girl, Heather I think he name was. Her nerves had her twitchy, grimacing even on the verge of tears. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the priest’s rosary and played with it under the table. I counted the beads, that’s how it’s done isn’t it? You count the beads and pray? Melissa, brunette college girl, was across from me at the table.
“So what college are you guys from?” I was trying to start up a conversation, anything to get Heather’s mind off of the deaths. I began toying with the rosary some more, feeling the body on the cross.
“Heather here is from Purdue, I’m coming back from visiting a friend in Colorado. I go to Northwesterrn.” Melissa was talkative, Heather only put her head down and sobbed. “I’m majoring in physiology, interested in sports medicine.” The major suited her, even through winter clothes she seemed the sport type. “And Heather, I’m not sure what she’s majoring in, doesn’t really talk about it. You alright Heather?”
“I don’t feel well. This is all too much for me.” I reached over to comfort her only to have her slam into the window from jumping away from me; the rosary was still in my hand. She looked up with scarlet tears running down her face as Melissa screamed. We had found us a vampire. Heather clawed at the window but the ones in here don’t open. She was cornered. Before we knew what was happening Jenny had thrust a knife into the abdomen of the vampire. Trying to avoid the ensuing torrent of blood that would come I used my hands to shield myself, only to feel a brief flash of heat and then to taste in the air. Heather’s death was far less bloody that I had expected. I poured myself a glass of my filched brandy and drank until I couldn’t feel.
____ ____ ____
We never found the rest of the priest’s body and Christopher the accountant never rose up again from the grave. Apparently vampires have to do some sort of voodoo to turn you, Heather was simply a feeder. She’d get on and stay in her room until nightfall and come out and find a victim. The priest’s death was ruled an accident…somehow, my only hope is that his was the only bodiless head that I would see in real life, that’s all that mattered to me at least. I took a cab from the train station. Before we could get going someone else jumped in. Some graying woman, obviously inebriated she gave the driver directions and said hello to me.
“Coming from the train station as well? It’s great to meet a fellow traveler”
I instinctively clutched my rosary.
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Tags: trains, vampires
Update
School’s has been my primary focus for the past couple of weeks, mind you that I haven’t forgotten about my blog, just busy. Bought some books recently, partly for leisure partly for influence. A collection of what are touted “the best American mystery stories”, a collection of HP Lovecraft stories (like I said, leisure), Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, and Gaiman’s American Gods. Funny story, I was following some friends at B&N and accidentally walked in line infront of a b’jersey’d and basball capped gentleman. He asks me how I could just cut him in line like that. I begged pardon and meant to look at what my friends were looking at. He then proceeds to tell me to step behind him, which I think is a douchey thing to do as I am not in line. Sadly the line was not as slow as I would have liked to, my planned revenge was to have conversations with friends with him in the middle. But that was limited to an exchanged sentence with an acquaintance. After he runs his debit card he tell/asks the cashier that she would need to see his ID. She is taken aback by this (no one asks for ID anymore) but is all like “ok, whatever”. All the while in my mind I had made him to be some sort of robber with I the subduer. The headline would read “Partially Crippled Man Beats Robbery Suspect To Death With Collection Of Lovecraft Stories, Elder Gods Pleased, Roll For Sanity Damage” But I stray from my point in writing this weblog entry, more stuff expected in a week-ish (next midterm is in two, hoera free time!) Been making some thoughts, have a good idea on the second part of my story (upon talking with a fellow writer-guy I like the idea of interconnected short stories, avoids convolution and the reality of a character doing that much in a story (I mean really, read most stories and think how unexpected it is for a chracter to save the world in multiple ways (INTERNAL PARENTHESIS!))). So yeah, it’s about kids, witches, and teenage love.
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Some lines
‘How awfully forward of you? Who says I’ll play game?’ The alcohol was winning; hell, at the moment I could feel its warmth spreading through my veins like some lovely truth serum.
‘Who says you won’t?” The way she posed this question was borderline lewd in the sense of things. Not that I didn’t mind the attention, it was glorious in its foreseeable brevity. The buzzing fly of anxiety had bloomed into a full blown swarm, but this I didn’t mind, in fact it was preferable. It felt dangerous, she felt dangerous, and I felt lucky. Was this bad? Yeah, I guess so, but such is death.
Over the course of the night I got the chance to know her better and she got to know the illusion that was my being. I have personality, mind you, it’s just that it vaguely resembles the cynical asshole stuck in his own world. Life sucks, love sucks, and the only thing keeping us from offing ourselves is our fleeting beliefs in god. As conversation branched to the next I could tell my superficial wit and char was growing thin, most definitely due to drink and only catalyzed by her presence. The veneer was cracking but I had a feeling that she wouldn’t mind the cynical bastard that was the real me. I can’t quite remember exactly how much of my original paint shone through, again the drink’s issue, but the vibes were buzzing.
There are those feelings you get, when someone is so eerily close to your personality, that almost audible dissonance masking the silence between talking points. The nods of understanding, the finger running along the rim of the glass, the looks down and across; all the subtle flirting in the world and still that dissonance remains. Affection scares me outright and by all intents and purposes it was what she was initiating. Sex is not affection, sex is an action with a set goal that can be accomplished with relative ease or duty depending on your take of it. Affection isn’t as such. Affection has no goal, the only reason it exists is to exist.
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Tags: affection, flirting, love
Outline
So I got bored today and made a basic outline of stuff. I want to flesh it out some and organize. Pretty much it reads like bulletpoint with basic ideas on the side.
Outline:
The Bar
- Exposition by William
- Introduction of Charlotte
- Relationship Building
- Some Background
Charlotte’s Apartment
- Breakfast and the News
- The Phonecall
- Goodbyes
A Cafe
- The Contract
- The Person in question
- The city at night
*The Way Back Home
- The train and the lost child
- Family
- The bar and the brother
Florida
- The Train
- Taxi and Apartment
- Investigation
- Clues
New York
- Emily
- “I’ll see what I can do”
Iowa City
- A Bar
- The Handicapped
- Anthony
Chicago again
- Charlotte again
- Night Chases
- Night Trains
Minneapolis
- The Hotel
- *Charlotte’s Night Out
- The Plight of the Poor
- Javert’s Dilemma
- The Bridge
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Tags: Outline
Angst
I don’t mean to make this an lj or anything, but I’m in a self-viewing mood so here goes. Maybe I’m just not right for people. When I look for a relationship I look for three things: They like me, I find them attractive (in what I think is attractive, personality, a certain look, &c), and the way they feel about themself. I’ve seen plenty of relationships where it’s a partnership of people, they just go well together. They not mesh ideologicaly but they enjoy eachother. I want that. I still go by my addage that most people suck, but it’s shortly becoming: Most people suck, those that are somewhat decent do not like me that way. So it comes to the dilemma of lowering my standards or knowing that were I to be in a relationship it would mean that someone else’s checklist would go unsatisfied. I want to be the guy, I don’t want to be that unfulfilled requirement. I don’t believe in “the one” but it’s coming to a point that if people are as specific as they are, maybe the number of people that have a checklist that I satisfy approaches zero quickly. My happinesss is nice, but I would hate to be happy while the other person is not. I don’t want to be a regret, I want to be satisfactory.
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Tags: angst, misanthrope, needs, relationships, wants
I’ve been writing some, rehabilitating much more. I’m back at full typing speed I think. But anyway, I’ve been drawn to some more ideas and it’s eerie the way bleak, devastating music can prime the mind for creating the detail sufficient enough for the grit and grime of worlds imagined. Lately it’s been a lot of Blood Brothers and mewithoutYou (mainly Burn Piano Island Burn and A-B Life, respectively). With school starting and not much else to draw my attention I think I’ll be writing more than I have been this summer. It’s funny the nooks and crannies of time that you find when you’re busy with everything else, creativity is spurned on when you have time constraints. As much, how the methods of storytelling mimic the way you are living at the moment. Durin the summer I would write page after page only to delete them or put them in a folder to be seen hardly than for the one or two ideas that I liked. They were too spanning, they were the work of un-restraint. But now I have to plan my time carefully, be concise with what I’m doing and pragmatic, I hope it translates well into the writing. While I’ve been rehabilitating, I did have the time to bring some of my ideas together (as well as watch hours after hours of downloaded tv). Again, I hope to have some content to give out soon, but mind you, school is starting and I dislike giving morsels as they’re ready.
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Tags: constraint, darkness, grim, music, puppies, time
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