I lay on my back and watch the first fingers of dawn start to creep along the ceiling. The dormitory is quiet, Ivnit still fast asleep. Yesterday's training was hard, as all days have been since I arrived here, and we were up late into the night swapping stories and rumors. But I have always been an early riser.
When I was a child, morning was my father's time. A dedicated follower of Pelor, my father greeted the sun every day, long before my mother thought to wake. "The sun is life, little Ailith," he used to tell me. "You need never fear the night, banished as it is by dawn. Simply be patient, and even the darkest shadow will be burned away."
My father. Already 100 years old when I was born, he had seen more sun rises than I could imagine at a mere five years of age. How he had come to meet my human mother, why he chose to court and wed her, I still don't know. I never thought to ask him. Sitting as we did together, every morning, we very rarely spoke. We simply watched the sun rise then went our separate ways for the day.
One night, shortly after my sixth birthday, I woke to a crash of thunder, and the rushing sound of rain. I lay in my bed, trembling, and wondered if the sky was being torn in two. I squeezed my eyes shut at the brilliant flashes of lightning, spots dancing in my vision. But the sheer power of it called to me, drew me out of my bed to watch, to witness, just as I had watched the dawn so many times before.
I went out into the yard, shivering in the rain, and watched the storm rage across the sky. Breathless I shouted into the thunder and leapt with every white-blue fork of lightning. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I hadn't even realized that I was walking towards the lightning until my father appeared to drag me back into the house.
He was furious. That I would go out into the dark on my own, and risk the fury of the storm. "Kord is a dangerous god, child. You could have been lost in the dark, and how then should I ever find you?"
"But it wasn't dark," I tried to explain. "There was so much light, there were no shadows to fear."
My father simply shook his head, and extracted a promise that I would never wander so far from the house on my own again.
Things changed between us after that. We still watched the dawn together, but I began to long for late night storms, so I could glory in their power on my own. I remembered my promise and stayed close to the house, no matter how longed to chase after the lightning to see where it led.
Then came a morning, only a few months later, that I rose to watch the sun rise alone.
For almost 20 years the elves had been drifting away. We'd hear stories of entire families vanishing into the night; the once welcoming forests of Meergard all but abandoned. And my father had gone to join his people, leaving his half-breed daughter behind.
But I was an adaptable child – most half-elves are. When my sister was born not quite nine months later, I was overjoyed at the prospect of someone new to share the dawn with. Certainly, her eyes were a strange flat shade of brown, far unlike my father's violet eyes or my own lightning-shot blue. And, yes, her hair seemed a rather plain blonde compared to my father's gold or my own shimmering black with hints of green. But she was my sister, my dear companion. And if she lacked the telltale ears of a half-elf, then so be it.
We were close for many years, my sister and I. Waking together to watch the sun, reciting our lessons, taunting the boys up the road, making up wild adventures of where we would go once we were grown. The only time we spent apart was during a storm. While I went to watch, she would huddle under our quilt in fear.
It never seemed odd to me that I felt more comfortable with my sister, six years my junior, than with the girls my own age. Until my sister turned 12, and decided she was tired of waking up to watch the sun rise with me. "It's too early, Ailith. Leave me alone. I want to go back to bed."
My sister was out-growing me. My younger sister was suddenly giggling at the boys up the road. She was tired of our adventures, she was tired of our games.
A year passed. Just after my nineteenth birthday, I woke to watch the dawn alone. But the sky was still dark. Menacing black clouds gathered on the horizon. The air was heavy, stirring strangely with a cold wind that rose goosebumps on my arms. A storm was coming, and I could feel it in me like a glowing, surging force. A true storm. Perhaps the truest storm I had ever seen. And I knew, I knew, that I had to follow it.
I looked back at my mother, her face pinched and lined even in sleep. I looked at my sister, 13 years old and already more worried about growing up than I had ever been. I looked at the small shrine to Pelor, the only sign that my father had ever lived in this house. There was nothing for me here.
Thunder. Rain. Wind. Lightning.
Lightning.
I followed it, as I had always longed to do. Stumbling in the dark, completely lost, I staggered after the storm, desperate to keep pace. All around me was light. Brilliant flashes of light, guiding me onwards, blinding me to the shadows, until I blundered into a caravan train in the middle of the road.
I can only imagine what sort of sight I made – dressed only in a light tunic, deafened by thunder, hair matted to my scalp and shoulders, staggering like a drunk. But the storm had guided me safely. I'd happened across a caravan headed to the training house of Kord's paladins, and I was not the first to arrive in such a manner.
It was in that caravan that I met Morgan, my mentor. It was there that I met Ivnit, my fellow novice. And when we came to the training house, in the midst of another fantastic storm, it was there that I came to realize why my father left me behind.
"Up!" Morgan's voice breaks into my thoughts as he crashes through the door. I blink, the room is now full of light, dawn has broken. "Enough sleep!"
I smile at the sound of Ivnit grumbling her way awake, and bounce up to my feet. "I'm ready."
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Series: Ailith Part 1
“Is this strictly necessary?” I ask through clenched teeth as I attempt to swing the sword Morgan has given me.
“Heavy is the sword of a god. Heavy is the calling of the paladin. Heavy is the responsibility to be Kord’s weapon.” My mentor’s voice is deep, solemn.
I roll my eyes at him. “Heavy is the scent of bullshit in the air.” Morgan glares at me, unimpressed with my continued attempts at humour. He is the first human I’ve ever met who doesn’t like to laugh while he’s working.
Then again, considering the number of humans I know, maybe it’s just a racial thing.
“The longer you fight, the heavier your weapon gets,” my fellow novice - Ivnit, a dwarf – speaks up next to me. “Better to get used to it now.” She demonstrates by swinging her warhammer over her head before striking a straw target. Crafted primarily out of lead, as my sword is, the dwarf’s warhammer weighs almost twice as much as my own weapon. I scowl. There are disadvantages to being a half-elf.
“Very good, Ivnit. And exactly right. Until you can call on Kord to aid you, you must learn to push your body. And even when you can call on him, better to be prepared. Our god can be a fickle sort, and may not wish to aid you. Now, Ailith,” Morgan focuses on me once more. “Attack your target. Unless, of course, you’re too tired.”
My eyes narrow. To worship Kord is to fight. A paladin of the storm god can never be too tired for battle.
Inhaling slowly, I heft my sword once more. It is heavier, much heavier, than I am used to; but the balance is the same, the grip is the same. It feels good and right in my hand.
“Graah!” I bellow, swing the sword in a double-handed grip, then decapitate the target in front of me. At least one thing I can do that Ivnit can’t.
“Good.” Morgan nods. “Good. Again.”
***
It is later. Training, lessons, and dinner have come and gone. Sitting now in front of the fire in the main house with a cup of spiced ale in my hand, I ask Morgan why he bothered with the responsibility speech if the purpose of the exercise was to teach us to deal with fatigue.
“Because responsibility is important too, Ailith.” His voice is lower, thick from a night’s drinking, but his eyes are clear. “Some orders claim that to follow the storm lord is to lack direction. To be free to do as we wish and claim it is our god’s way. But that isn’t true, and you must understand the difference or you’ll never be able to serve Kord.
“We may not choose sides. Ours is not to enforce order, or crush to nonbeliever, or champion the weak. Our path is more ambiguous, yes, but just as important. We seek honour in battle, glory in the fight. Be strong, but do not destroy for the sake of strength. Be courageous, but do not attack for the sake of courage. Be glorious, but do not fight for the sake of glory. There is no honour in defeating an unworthy opponent. Ours is not to think of the politics or ramifications, rather the strength and challenge in our enemy. Only in fighting those worthy can we hope to gain renown, and thus serve our god. Do you understand?”
I stare at my teacher – so earnest, so full of our god that I can almost see a glow around him. That is why I came here. What I want to become.
I nod eventually. “I understand. Heavy is the sword.”
Morgan smiles and toasts me with his mug. “Heavy is the sword.”
“Heavy is the sword of a god. Heavy is the calling of the paladin. Heavy is the responsibility to be Kord’s weapon.” My mentor’s voice is deep, solemn.
I roll my eyes at him. “Heavy is the scent of bullshit in the air.” Morgan glares at me, unimpressed with my continued attempts at humour. He is the first human I’ve ever met who doesn’t like to laugh while he’s working.
Then again, considering the number of humans I know, maybe it’s just a racial thing.
“The longer you fight, the heavier your weapon gets,” my fellow novice - Ivnit, a dwarf – speaks up next to me. “Better to get used to it now.” She demonstrates by swinging her warhammer over her head before striking a straw target. Crafted primarily out of lead, as my sword is, the dwarf’s warhammer weighs almost twice as much as my own weapon. I scowl. There are disadvantages to being a half-elf.
“Very good, Ivnit. And exactly right. Until you can call on Kord to aid you, you must learn to push your body. And even when you can call on him, better to be prepared. Our god can be a fickle sort, and may not wish to aid you. Now, Ailith,” Morgan focuses on me once more. “Attack your target. Unless, of course, you’re too tired.”
My eyes narrow. To worship Kord is to fight. A paladin of the storm god can never be too tired for battle.
Inhaling slowly, I heft my sword once more. It is heavier, much heavier, than I am used to; but the balance is the same, the grip is the same. It feels good and right in my hand.
“Graah!” I bellow, swing the sword in a double-handed grip, then decapitate the target in front of me. At least one thing I can do that Ivnit can’t.
“Good.” Morgan nods. “Good. Again.”
***
It is later. Training, lessons, and dinner have come and gone. Sitting now in front of the fire in the main house with a cup of spiced ale in my hand, I ask Morgan why he bothered with the responsibility speech if the purpose of the exercise was to teach us to deal with fatigue.
“Because responsibility is important too, Ailith.” His voice is lower, thick from a night’s drinking, but his eyes are clear. “Some orders claim that to follow the storm lord is to lack direction. To be free to do as we wish and claim it is our god’s way. But that isn’t true, and you must understand the difference or you’ll never be able to serve Kord.
“We may not choose sides. Ours is not to enforce order, or crush to nonbeliever, or champion the weak. Our path is more ambiguous, yes, but just as important. We seek honour in battle, glory in the fight. Be strong, but do not destroy for the sake of strength. Be courageous, but do not attack for the sake of courage. Be glorious, but do not fight for the sake of glory. There is no honour in defeating an unworthy opponent. Ours is not to think of the politics or ramifications, rather the strength and challenge in our enemy. Only in fighting those worthy can we hope to gain renown, and thus serve our god. Do you understand?”
I stare at my teacher – so earnest, so full of our god that I can almost see a glow around him. That is why I came here. What I want to become.
I nod eventually. “I understand. Heavy is the sword.”
Morgan smiles and toasts me with his mug. “Heavy is the sword.”
Sunday, September 20, 2009
One-Shot: Shadows of Self
"Calm, you must be calm. No, don't focus. Stop . . . wait, you're thinking. No . . . don't . . . be calm. You must . . . what are . . . no thinking. Stop listening to me. Just . . . no! Be calm, dammit!"
I growl in frustration and open my eyes to glare at my guide. "How can I be calm when you keep yelling at me?"
Lizbeth, my guide, sighs heavily. "You're trying too hard, Tin. It should come naturally. Stop trying to force it."
I glower at her. Easy for her to say, kneeling across from me, perfectly comfortable, while my own legs have already fallen asleep.
"I've been trying to let it 'come naturally' for three months now!" I can hear the sneer in my voice and immediately regret it. It's not Lizbeth's fault that I'm completely useless. I exhale heavily and move to sit more comfortably. "This is impossible."
Lizbeth gives me a sympathetic look. "It's not impossible. A lot of girls find it hard their first time. You need to stop putting so much pressure on yourself."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, looking away from her. Lizbeth is my third guide. Three guides in as many months. I've never heard of anyone taking so long their first time. I've done all the classes, learned all the theory, and I'm still no closer to becoming a woman.
Watching my face, Lizbeth sighs again and stands in one graceful movement. "I'll get us some tea, it might help you relax. Just take a break. Do some of your breathing exercises, try to clear your head."
"Okay," I agree sullenly. I wait until her back is turned, then make a face. Clear my head. What does she think I've been trying to do?
I allow myself to mope for a few minutes, then scrub my hands through my hair and force myself back to my knees. I can do this, dammit. When Lizbeth comes back, I will do this.
I clear my throat and close my eyes. Okay. No thinking. This is me, not thinking. Right. So I'm going to shut up now.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out. I wonder what it feels like . . . No! Focus.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out I feel so stupid
Breathe in, breathe out
Breathe in, breathe out who can sit like this? My knees are killing me
Breathe in, breathe out
Breathe in, breathe out
Breathe in,
"Wow, that looks really uncomfortable."
My eyes fly open at the unfamiliar voice. I try to stand, then cry out in pain and fall flat on my ass. All the while the strange man standing in front of me just watches, a grin on his face. "You okay?"
"Who the hell . . ." I stop and stare. Dark skin, short cropped blonde hair, blue eyes. I've never seen him before, and yet I know him. I turn to look at the mirrored wall. My skin is pale, my hair long and dark, my eyes brown. But the face. His is male, of course, but something . . . something . . .
"You?" I barely whisper the question, afraid he'll disappear and never come back.
He laughs, his voice full of an easy confidence I've never felt. "Me." He crouches in front of me and takes my hand. "Hello, Tin. I'm Kris. Your Shadow. Nice to finally meet you."
I growl in frustration and open my eyes to glare at my guide. "How can I be calm when you keep yelling at me?"
Lizbeth, my guide, sighs heavily. "You're trying too hard, Tin. It should come naturally. Stop trying to force it."
I glower at her. Easy for her to say, kneeling across from me, perfectly comfortable, while my own legs have already fallen asleep.
"I've been trying to let it 'come naturally' for three months now!" I can hear the sneer in my voice and immediately regret it. It's not Lizbeth's fault that I'm completely useless. I exhale heavily and move to sit more comfortably. "This is impossible."
Lizbeth gives me a sympathetic look. "It's not impossible. A lot of girls find it hard their first time. You need to stop putting so much pressure on yourself."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, looking away from her. Lizbeth is my third guide. Three guides in as many months. I've never heard of anyone taking so long their first time. I've done all the classes, learned all the theory, and I'm still no closer to becoming a woman.
Watching my face, Lizbeth sighs again and stands in one graceful movement. "I'll get us some tea, it might help you relax. Just take a break. Do some of your breathing exercises, try to clear your head."
"Okay," I agree sullenly. I wait until her back is turned, then make a face. Clear my head. What does she think I've been trying to do?
I allow myself to mope for a few minutes, then scrub my hands through my hair and force myself back to my knees. I can do this, dammit. When Lizbeth comes back, I will do this.
I clear my throat and close my eyes. Okay. No thinking. This is me, not thinking. Right. So I'm going to shut up now.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out. I wonder what it feels like . . . No! Focus.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out I feel so stupid
Breathe in, breathe out
Breathe in, breathe out who can sit like this? My knees are killing me
Breathe in, breathe out
Breathe in, breathe out
Breathe in,
"Wow, that looks really uncomfortable."
My eyes fly open at the unfamiliar voice. I try to stand, then cry out in pain and fall flat on my ass. All the while the strange man standing in front of me just watches, a grin on his face. "You okay?"
"Who the hell . . ." I stop and stare. Dark skin, short cropped blonde hair, blue eyes. I've never seen him before, and yet I know him. I turn to look at the mirrored wall. My skin is pale, my hair long and dark, my eyes brown. But the face. His is male, of course, but something . . . something . . .
"You?" I barely whisper the question, afraid he'll disappear and never come back.
He laughs, his voice full of an easy confidence I've never felt. "Me." He crouches in front of me and takes my hand. "Hello, Tin. I'm Kris. Your Shadow. Nice to finally meet you."
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Rambling: Catharsis
Okay, so originally I had planned to post the first of a three-part series today, thus following up on my promise of long-form fiction. But I've been having a bit of a melancholy day, so I posted something else instead. As I am now feeling a bit more cheerful, I thought I may as well do a bit of rambling as well.
One of my absolute favourite things about writing is how useful it is to work through complicated/unpleasant feelings. This can be done in several ways, of course, either through writing something depressing (which is my usual method), or by writing something so ridiculously cheerful that you can't help but smile (I hear this works, someone let me know). Either way, writing is a fantastic tool for self-management. When paired with music, I find it can even beat out chocolate.
So! I said it before, but this time I mean it: long-form fiction coming soon!
One of my absolute favourite things about writing is how useful it is to work through complicated/unpleasant feelings. This can be done in several ways, of course, either through writing something depressing (which is my usual method), or by writing something so ridiculously cheerful that you can't help but smile (I hear this works, someone let me know). Either way, writing is a fantastic tool for self-management. When paired with music, I find it can even beat out chocolate.
So! I said it before, but this time I mean it: long-form fiction coming soon!
Monologue: Addiction
Hello. My name is ____, and I’m an addict.
My addiction is simple. It’s pills, powders and liquid. It’s an escape into oblivion. It’s that feeling of fuzziness, just before I black out. That feeling of me-but-not-me when I start to watch myself instead of control. That sense that I don’t have to worry about the consequences of my actions, because they’re not my actions. No more worries, no more nerves, no more cares. Something else takes the reins, and I’m along for the ride.
People like me when I’m gone. I’m funnier, louder, more relaxed. My face isn’t pinched in concern, I let people finish their own sentences. I’m outgoing. When I’m not there, I’m the hit of the party.
I’ve never hurt anyone, physically or mentally. I’ve never hurt myself. I’m safer when I let go.
I’m not clean. I don’t want to be clean. Why would I give this up? Living my own life has never gotten me anywhere: crappy job, crappy apartment, and no one to share it with. A couple quick swallows, a line, a bottle, and I’m somewhere else. Somewhere better. Let the other one live this life. At least she’s happy.
I’m an addict. My addiction is absence. And I’m not coming back.
My addiction is simple. It’s pills, powders and liquid. It’s an escape into oblivion. It’s that feeling of fuzziness, just before I black out. That feeling of me-but-not-me when I start to watch myself instead of control. That sense that I don’t have to worry about the consequences of my actions, because they’re not my actions. No more worries, no more nerves, no more cares. Something else takes the reins, and I’m along for the ride.
People like me when I’m gone. I’m funnier, louder, more relaxed. My face isn’t pinched in concern, I let people finish their own sentences. I’m outgoing. When I’m not there, I’m the hit of the party.
I’ve never hurt anyone, physically or mentally. I’ve never hurt myself. I’m safer when I let go.
I’m not clean. I don’t want to be clean. Why would I give this up? Living my own life has never gotten me anywhere: crappy job, crappy apartment, and no one to share it with. A couple quick swallows, a line, a bottle, and I’m somewhere else. Somewhere better. Let the other one live this life. At least she’s happy.
I’m an addict. My addiction is absence. And I’m not coming back.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
One-Shot: Bananas
Day 1
Today dawned like any other. The sun came up to the east, silhouetting the main buildings so they look like a fortress out of one of those stories Keith is always talking about. The sun’s light was warm when it hit my brother’s and I. It woke the birds above us, the started singing and fluttering about. Keith and the others came out into the fields shortly after, carrying their ladders and baskets. Keith climbed up to my height, as he has been for the past few weeks, and he went to work.
I’d been looking forward to seeing him. He’s been talking about a visit to the city for the past few days. Keith always has the best stories. All my brother’s agree. Whenever he’s telling the stories, we just listen. No bickering, no complaining, just listening to the wonders of distant lands.
Today, though, something went horribly wrong. When Keith reached for me, I thought he was just saying hello. He did that every once in a while. A gentle squeeze to let me know he appreciated my attention. He squeezed as usual, and then nodded to himself. Then he raised a second hand to one of my brothers. I thought he was going to say hello again, but he pulled.
Why, Keith? The pain! It was an agonizing eternity, we were ripped away from the tree above us. Fiber by fiber, tearing of skin. I screamed along with my brothers. Keith had betrayed us. That bastard was killing us!
I must have passed out then. The next thing I knew we were in a basket with hundreds of others, nearly crushed under the weight. Everyone was babbling incoherently, crying out for the sun or the birds. Some of my brothers cried for Keith, but I yelled at them to shut up. Keith was obviously the enemy. A few of the families higher up yelled they could see the sky, and then we were jolted into movement. This was not the comfortable sway of a breeze in the trees. This was a constant bouncing and shaking. One of my brothers started to cry, he’d been bruised. Bruised! The poor boy was still so green, and already he had a bruise. Keith would pay for this!!
After the journey we were placed in some dark place. We shout to the families near the top, but they can see nothing. We’ve been there the whole day since. What dreadful torture Keith’s cohorts have in mind for us next, I’m afraid to even consider.
Day 8
We’ve been here an eternity. Whatever they have planned for us, I’d welcome it now. My brothers are going mad, and I’m not far behind. Maybe they’ve forgotten about us. Maybe they’re just going to leave us here to die. I miss the sun. I miss the feel of wind on my skin. I miss the muttering of the birds. I even miss Keith’s stories. I want to apologize for whatever crime I’ve committed. Surely we’ve been punished for it enough. I want to go home.
Day 12
Movement! Wherever we’re going, I couldn’t care less. As long as it’s away from here, away from the endless darkness. One of my brothers is constantly crying, he’s been bruised twice more. We all try to comfort him, but he’s descended into the a despair from which, I fear, he will never ascend. Those bastards will pay for this.
The families at the top mentioned light occasionally. Not the pure light of the sun, but some weak imitation. I don’t care. As long as there’s any sign of life around us. The families say the sky has turned grey, solid, that it’s closer now. Has Armageddon coming? Could they be saving us from falling skies? I don’t know what to think anymore.
Day 20
We’ve been moving for so long. Wherever we’re going, it must be far. The upper families have gone quiet, unable to describe what they see. That doesn’t stop the rest of us from asking questions, or debating amongst ourselves. I try to rouse my brothers with promises of a distant paradise. Like Keith always used to talk about. Sometimes they remember the good days with me. Most times they just sit in silence. Except for the bruised one. His despair has taken a darker turn. The things he has planned for those responsible for doing this to us . . . I dare not record.
I fear his madness. I fear it’s a preview of what I will soon become. I can only pray our journey will soon be over.
Day 22
We arrived today. So the upper families say. All I can tell from here is that our movement has become jerky again. They say we’re being carried by strange white men with unfamiliar accents. Rescuers? Torturers? It’s impossible to tell.
The bruised one has fallen silent. Except for the occasional muttered curse, he refuses to speak. I know he’s listening to us. I can feel his attention like some black void, devouring everything around him. Whatever these white men have planned, he won’t accept it quietly.
Day 25
We’re out of the basket! I understand now what the upper families were trying to describe, a light that isn’t light, a sky that isn’t sky. It’s as if the entire world has conformed to some sort of box, and now we’re inside. But there is light. Far weaker than the sun, and never-ending. There’s no night in this place. No wind. No singing birds. Maybe I should be afraid, but I’m too relieved to be out of the basket. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be afraid.
The bruised one is gone. I am ashamed to admit, I didn’t even feel it when he was taken from my brothers and I. I only glanced his way when we were taken from the basket, but that glance was enough. He’d become a mass of black, withered and disgusting. I’ve seen others become so, but none as young as my family. For his sake I hope he’s gone to a better place. For my sake, I hope he took the disease with him.
Day 27
People are constantly walking past us. The white people, with their accents clipped and harsh. They all seem to be in a dreadful hurry. Some stop by us, poking and prodding, but whatever it is they’re looking for, apparently we don’t have it. Some of my brothers are relieved, some are insulted. I don’t know what to think. If these strange people are in league with those who put us in the baskets, then I want nothing to do with them. If they are trying to save us from this inside out world, then I beg them to do so.
I miss the bruised one. Our family doesn’t feel right without him.
Day 30
We’ve been selected. For what, I cannot say. I only know that early this morning, after the daily rain, we were placed in a metal contraption and taken from this place. We saw the sky again, I was ready to cry. It’s still there, heavens be praised. The air was cooler than I’m used to, but it was open air so it was sweet. The experience proved too much for my frayed nerves, as I soon passed out.
When I awoke we were beyond the sky once more. I am sorry to be without it, but knowing it’s there is a huge comfort. I’m sitting with a collection of distant cousins. They mutter of lost homes and families. My brothers try to find out where we are, but none seem to know. Our savior, should his intentions prove benevolent, stands across from us. He seems intent on a piece of white cloth. He’s constantly waving his hands in front of it, glowering to himself. He’s speaking in that strange accent. I think I’m beginning to learn his language, but the words still lack meaning. He speaks of light and angles and intensity. The words themselves are coherent, but the sentences elude me. Perhaps in time.
Day 34
We lost another of our brothers today. He was falling to the disease of the bruised one. None of us understand why, we’ve been stationary since arriving here. But his skin had begun to turn black, and he was weaker. The man, I’ve yet to learn his name for there are no others here, ripped my brother away and disappeared with him to another room. When he returned it was with a bowl filled with some sort of grains and milk. He seemed pleased with the bowl’s contents. Had he shared with my brother? Sacrificed him and begun to feast? Speculation is never ending around me.
His gesticulations in front of the cloth have become more controlled. He stands there for longer periods of time. More often scowling in my direction than at his work. Whatever he is doing, I feel it will be finished soon. What then? Will we be sent back to our homes? I doubt many of my brothers would make it. I doubt I would make it.
Day 39
I am the only one left. My brothers consumed by the bruising disease. Vanished with the man into the other room, until he returns with his bowl of grains and milk. There are few others around me. They remain unbruised, but are poor company. They only babble to themselves, now. Some claim this is a journey to the heavens. Others that we’ve already fallen to hell. Either way, I only wish for it to end. I miss Keith’s stories, I miss my brothers, I miss my home and my sky. I miss life.
Day 40
The man comes towards me. I have been expecting this, I could feel myself weakening. He lifts me gently, still speaking to himself. Something about a trip to the store. He’s run out.
There’s an altar in the other room. The bowl is already filled with grains, but no milk. There’s a knife. I understand now. I am to be a sacrifice to his dark god, that he may continue whatever arcane work is on that cloth.
He pulls my skin away. It’s agony, and then sensation stops. I can feel the knife coming towards me. It pierces me. A hot sliver of pain.
He’s run out of banana’s.
Today dawned like any other. The sun came up to the east, silhouetting the main buildings so they look like a fortress out of one of those stories Keith is always talking about. The sun’s light was warm when it hit my brother’s and I. It woke the birds above us, the started singing and fluttering about. Keith and the others came out into the fields shortly after, carrying their ladders and baskets. Keith climbed up to my height, as he has been for the past few weeks, and he went to work.
I’d been looking forward to seeing him. He’s been talking about a visit to the city for the past few days. Keith always has the best stories. All my brother’s agree. Whenever he’s telling the stories, we just listen. No bickering, no complaining, just listening to the wonders of distant lands.
Today, though, something went horribly wrong. When Keith reached for me, I thought he was just saying hello. He did that every once in a while. A gentle squeeze to let me know he appreciated my attention. He squeezed as usual, and then nodded to himself. Then he raised a second hand to one of my brothers. I thought he was going to say hello again, but he pulled.
Why, Keith? The pain! It was an agonizing eternity, we were ripped away from the tree above us. Fiber by fiber, tearing of skin. I screamed along with my brothers. Keith had betrayed us. That bastard was killing us!
I must have passed out then. The next thing I knew we were in a basket with hundreds of others, nearly crushed under the weight. Everyone was babbling incoherently, crying out for the sun or the birds. Some of my brothers cried for Keith, but I yelled at them to shut up. Keith was obviously the enemy. A few of the families higher up yelled they could see the sky, and then we were jolted into movement. This was not the comfortable sway of a breeze in the trees. This was a constant bouncing and shaking. One of my brothers started to cry, he’d been bruised. Bruised! The poor boy was still so green, and already he had a bruise. Keith would pay for this!!
After the journey we were placed in some dark place. We shout to the families near the top, but they can see nothing. We’ve been there the whole day since. What dreadful torture Keith’s cohorts have in mind for us next, I’m afraid to even consider.
Day 8
We’ve been here an eternity. Whatever they have planned for us, I’d welcome it now. My brothers are going mad, and I’m not far behind. Maybe they’ve forgotten about us. Maybe they’re just going to leave us here to die. I miss the sun. I miss the feel of wind on my skin. I miss the muttering of the birds. I even miss Keith’s stories. I want to apologize for whatever crime I’ve committed. Surely we’ve been punished for it enough. I want to go home.
Day 12
Movement! Wherever we’re going, I couldn’t care less. As long as it’s away from here, away from the endless darkness. One of my brothers is constantly crying, he’s been bruised twice more. We all try to comfort him, but he’s descended into the a despair from which, I fear, he will never ascend. Those bastards will pay for this.
The families at the top mentioned light occasionally. Not the pure light of the sun, but some weak imitation. I don’t care. As long as there’s any sign of life around us. The families say the sky has turned grey, solid, that it’s closer now. Has Armageddon coming? Could they be saving us from falling skies? I don’t know what to think anymore.
Day 20
We’ve been moving for so long. Wherever we’re going, it must be far. The upper families have gone quiet, unable to describe what they see. That doesn’t stop the rest of us from asking questions, or debating amongst ourselves. I try to rouse my brothers with promises of a distant paradise. Like Keith always used to talk about. Sometimes they remember the good days with me. Most times they just sit in silence. Except for the bruised one. His despair has taken a darker turn. The things he has planned for those responsible for doing this to us . . . I dare not record.
I fear his madness. I fear it’s a preview of what I will soon become. I can only pray our journey will soon be over.
Day 22
We arrived today. So the upper families say. All I can tell from here is that our movement has become jerky again. They say we’re being carried by strange white men with unfamiliar accents. Rescuers? Torturers? It’s impossible to tell.
The bruised one has fallen silent. Except for the occasional muttered curse, he refuses to speak. I know he’s listening to us. I can feel his attention like some black void, devouring everything around him. Whatever these white men have planned, he won’t accept it quietly.
Day 25
We’re out of the basket! I understand now what the upper families were trying to describe, a light that isn’t light, a sky that isn’t sky. It’s as if the entire world has conformed to some sort of box, and now we’re inside. But there is light. Far weaker than the sun, and never-ending. There’s no night in this place. No wind. No singing birds. Maybe I should be afraid, but I’m too relieved to be out of the basket. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be afraid.
The bruised one is gone. I am ashamed to admit, I didn’t even feel it when he was taken from my brothers and I. I only glanced his way when we were taken from the basket, but that glance was enough. He’d become a mass of black, withered and disgusting. I’ve seen others become so, but none as young as my family. For his sake I hope he’s gone to a better place. For my sake, I hope he took the disease with him.
Day 27
People are constantly walking past us. The white people, with their accents clipped and harsh. They all seem to be in a dreadful hurry. Some stop by us, poking and prodding, but whatever it is they’re looking for, apparently we don’t have it. Some of my brothers are relieved, some are insulted. I don’t know what to think. If these strange people are in league with those who put us in the baskets, then I want nothing to do with them. If they are trying to save us from this inside out world, then I beg them to do so.
I miss the bruised one. Our family doesn’t feel right without him.
Day 30
We’ve been selected. For what, I cannot say. I only know that early this morning, after the daily rain, we were placed in a metal contraption and taken from this place. We saw the sky again, I was ready to cry. It’s still there, heavens be praised. The air was cooler than I’m used to, but it was open air so it was sweet. The experience proved too much for my frayed nerves, as I soon passed out.
When I awoke we were beyond the sky once more. I am sorry to be without it, but knowing it’s there is a huge comfort. I’m sitting with a collection of distant cousins. They mutter of lost homes and families. My brothers try to find out where we are, but none seem to know. Our savior, should his intentions prove benevolent, stands across from us. He seems intent on a piece of white cloth. He’s constantly waving his hands in front of it, glowering to himself. He’s speaking in that strange accent. I think I’m beginning to learn his language, but the words still lack meaning. He speaks of light and angles and intensity. The words themselves are coherent, but the sentences elude me. Perhaps in time.
Day 34
We lost another of our brothers today. He was falling to the disease of the bruised one. None of us understand why, we’ve been stationary since arriving here. But his skin had begun to turn black, and he was weaker. The man, I’ve yet to learn his name for there are no others here, ripped my brother away and disappeared with him to another room. When he returned it was with a bowl filled with some sort of grains and milk. He seemed pleased with the bowl’s contents. Had he shared with my brother? Sacrificed him and begun to feast? Speculation is never ending around me.
His gesticulations in front of the cloth have become more controlled. He stands there for longer periods of time. More often scowling in my direction than at his work. Whatever he is doing, I feel it will be finished soon. What then? Will we be sent back to our homes? I doubt many of my brothers would make it. I doubt I would make it.
Day 39
I am the only one left. My brothers consumed by the bruising disease. Vanished with the man into the other room, until he returns with his bowl of grains and milk. There are few others around me. They remain unbruised, but are poor company. They only babble to themselves, now. Some claim this is a journey to the heavens. Others that we’ve already fallen to hell. Either way, I only wish for it to end. I miss Keith’s stories, I miss my brothers, I miss my home and my sky. I miss life.
Day 40
The man comes towards me. I have been expecting this, I could feel myself weakening. He lifts me gently, still speaking to himself. Something about a trip to the store. He’s run out.
There’s an altar in the other room. The bowl is already filled with grains, but no milk. There’s a knife. I understand now. I am to be a sacrifice to his dark god, that he may continue whatever arcane work is on that cloth.
He pulls my skin away. It’s agony, and then sensation stops. I can feel the knife coming towards me. It pierces me. A hot sliver of pain.
He’s run out of banana’s.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Rambling: Conversations
So today is a double update, since I skipped Sunday due to the long-weekend and lack of internet access.
I very much enjoy writing dialogue, which is useful since it's an entertaining thing to read and can move a story forward much quicker than endless exposition. One problem I do tend to have, though, is getting bogged down in trying to pass on plot information using dialogue without it sounding horribly unnatural. Which is why it's a neat exercise to occasionally write just strict dialogue without any external information at all. Sometimes it works (I quite like "Utopia", although it's quite short), and sometimes it really, really doesn't. But I suppose that's the purpose of most experiments...
Writing monologues is a very different animal. "Confessions" was actually done for a contest (which I won!), and I have to say I think it's one of my favourites. It has since been turned into a couple videos on YouTube which make for interesting viewing. It's neat to see how someone else interprets something I've written.
My major difficulty with monologues is keeping them snappy, instead of having it turn into a one-shot/short-story told using a first person POV. I suppose it's a very fine line, but to me a monologue is something I can imagine hearing in a single sitting. That may not entirely differentiate it from a one-shot (since people have been telling stories to each other for hundreds and hundreds of years) . . . which probably explains why I have problems keeping the two separate in my mind.
Next week: longer-form writing!
I very much enjoy writing dialogue, which is useful since it's an entertaining thing to read and can move a story forward much quicker than endless exposition. One problem I do tend to have, though, is getting bogged down in trying to pass on plot information using dialogue without it sounding horribly unnatural. Which is why it's a neat exercise to occasionally write just strict dialogue without any external information at all. Sometimes it works (I quite like "Utopia", although it's quite short), and sometimes it really, really doesn't. But I suppose that's the purpose of most experiments...
Writing monologues is a very different animal. "Confessions" was actually done for a contest (which I won!), and I have to say I think it's one of my favourites. It has since been turned into a couple videos on YouTube which make for interesting viewing. It's neat to see how someone else interprets something I've written.
My major difficulty with monologues is keeping them snappy, instead of having it turn into a one-shot/short-story told using a first person POV. I suppose it's a very fine line, but to me a monologue is something I can imagine hearing in a single sitting. That may not entirely differentiate it from a one-shot (since people have been telling stories to each other for hundreds and hundreds of years) . . . which probably explains why I have problems keeping the two separate in my mind.
Next week: longer-form writing!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
