This is my first little piece of actual, entirely creative fiction. But I am starting to feel like I am writing the same story, just all different parts and out of order. But yeah, this is not based on a dream or an amalgamation from life events.
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The forest smells cold and empty. Despite it's emptiness there is movement. The air is flowing through the canopy in a steady torrent, pulling at the trees. It grasps at the branches, trying desperately to stop it's rush. It is dark, but it is not night. It is as if there is no sun, no moon, and certainly no stars. Just blackness above.
There is a girl. She isn't running, but she is striding through the forest at a determined pace. Her long arms are wrapped around herself, and she keeps her eyes on the ground ahead of her. The wind pulls at her arms, as if trying to take her backwards with it. She hunches forwards and keeps walking. As she walks the tugs grow more insistent, desperate even. Plucking at her hair, grabbing at her clothes, drafting icily around her ankles. It clings to her like she was a vine dangling over a cliff edge, with hellfire burning below. She keeps walking.
The wind, once clingy and scared, is getting even more insistent. Now it pulls at her in irritation, frustrated at her ignoring it's pleas. It gusts, whipping her hair about. It demands she stop and acknowledge it's need. She casts her eyes down, making sure her feet find solid purchase. The unseens treetops groan under the wind's increased assault. The only response from the girl is perhaps and slightly quicker pace, but she keeps walking.
The wind is angry now. Why should she go on, when it must go back? Why can't it decide for itself where it should be? Who is this tiny mammal to be striding about like she has choice or freedom? No no no, if the wind must go to some horrid doom, it is only fair it not go alone. This girl, this fleshy earthbound sack of meat, has no respect no consideration! And not even an ounce of shame.
The wind is now screaming, wailing through the forest. It must blow towards damnation, that is why it exists. Winds do not choose, they simply exist. But they can rage, and rage is all that this wind has left.
But the girl keeps walking.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Agitation
This is a ... snippet of writing I suppose? Perhaps a scene?
******************
It is late and she is sitting on the bathroom floor. She is holding still, and more than holding still. She is clenching every muscle tight. She is in her underwear and a t-shirt, her ass cold and aching from the tiles. Her knees are drawn to her chin, her back against the wall, eyes open and unfocused.
Her bones are made of fire and she wants to rip her flesh away. She wants to scrape her knuckles bloody on the wall, to ram sharp objects into her biceps. She wants to sit and burn in the sun she can't see until her skin splits and bubbles. She wants to run until it feels like her ribs will break. She wants to wander the streets crying and clawing at her face. She wants someone to grab a fistful of her hair, bend her over and fuck her. She wants to tear through underbrush until she emerges torn to shreds. She wants her knees scraped, her fingernails torn, face to sting, muscles to ache, teeth knocked loose, and lungs unable to fill.
If it were food, her stomach would be cramping and her mouth slavering in desire. This need is wrapped tight around her sternum, clenching hard and pressing on her heart.
Eventually the need passes, as all things do. She is overcome with exhaustion and crawls into bed to sleep fitfully.
"Sometimes... I feel ...agitated and tense. It keeps me up at night."
"Yes, sometimes mood swings are unpleasant. Have you tried exercising? Getting more sleep? Eating better?"
"....I suppose it might be worth trying."
******************
It is late and she is sitting on the bathroom floor. She is holding still, and more than holding still. She is clenching every muscle tight. She is in her underwear and a t-shirt, her ass cold and aching from the tiles. Her knees are drawn to her chin, her back against the wall, eyes open and unfocused.
Her bones are made of fire and she wants to rip her flesh away. She wants to scrape her knuckles bloody on the wall, to ram sharp objects into her biceps. She wants to sit and burn in the sun she can't see until her skin splits and bubbles. She wants to run until it feels like her ribs will break. She wants to wander the streets crying and clawing at her face. She wants someone to grab a fistful of her hair, bend her over and fuck her. She wants to tear through underbrush until she emerges torn to shreds. She wants her knees scraped, her fingernails torn, face to sting, muscles to ache, teeth knocked loose, and lungs unable to fill.
If it were food, her stomach would be cramping and her mouth slavering in desire. This need is wrapped tight around her sternum, clenching hard and pressing on her heart.
Eventually the need passes, as all things do. She is overcome with exhaustion and crawls into bed to sleep fitfully.
"Sometimes... I feel ...agitated and tense. It keeps me up at night."
"Yes, sometimes mood swings are unpleasant. Have you tried exercising? Getting more sleep? Eating better?"
"....I suppose it might be worth trying."
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Shadow men
This is loosely based on a dream I had recently.
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I am standing in a parking lot. It is night, it is dark. Far darker than any urban parking lot shoulod be, the shadows cling to and wrap around the parked cars. Across the way there is a person standing. All I can make out is a vague human outline. It seems roughly male, or at least not distinctly female. It starts to move, it walks towards me. It moves deliberately, but not quickly. It comes closer to me but does not become any easier to see. It almost seems to pull the darkness along with it.
I've felt uneasy this whole time, but with every step it takes, fear starts crawling up from my belly, grabbing firmly and sharply around my throat.
It is twenty feet away. I should be able to see what it is wearing, perhaps a color or two, maybe even a rough facial impression. Yet all that is visible is just this vague and poorly lit form. Ten feet away now. I can see it's eyes. I can see two holes where eyes should be. A pale yellow light leaks out from them, but that light fails to reveal anything.
I am stepping back now, at the same speed it is stepping forward. I bump into a car and send my hand out behind me to find... anything really. My arm twists behind me as I keep facing forward, not willing to let this thing out of my vision. To my mild shock, I do find something. Something long, smooth, and wooden with a handle. I grab it and charge the few feet between me and the figure.I am holding what seems to be a police baton, but again I am not willing to look to closely at anything other than the figure. I swing at it's head. It falls to it's knees, so I hit it again. The weapon connects with the skull solidly, the impact jars me from my hand to my shoulder. The sound is oddly muffled, like something far away. I keep swinging. I swing until my hand is numb and I am dripping with sweat. I swing until my shoulder burns and I cannot breathe. I swing until I feel something crack beneath my blows, and the figure falls still. Then I run.
***************************
I am standing in a parking lot. It is night, it is dark. Far darker than any urban parking lot shoulod be, the shadows cling to and wrap around the parked cars. Across the way there is a person standing. All I can make out is a vague human outline. It seems roughly male, or at least not distinctly female. It starts to move, it walks towards me. It moves deliberately, but not quickly. It comes closer to me but does not become any easier to see. It almost seems to pull the darkness along with it.
I've felt uneasy this whole time, but with every step it takes, fear starts crawling up from my belly, grabbing firmly and sharply around my throat.
It is twenty feet away. I should be able to see what it is wearing, perhaps a color or two, maybe even a rough facial impression. Yet all that is visible is just this vague and poorly lit form. Ten feet away now. I can see it's eyes. I can see two holes where eyes should be. A pale yellow light leaks out from them, but that light fails to reveal anything.
I am stepping back now, at the same speed it is stepping forward. I bump into a car and send my hand out behind me to find... anything really. My arm twists behind me as I keep facing forward, not willing to let this thing out of my vision. To my mild shock, I do find something. Something long, smooth, and wooden with a handle. I grab it and charge the few feet between me and the figure.I am holding what seems to be a police baton, but again I am not willing to look to closely at anything other than the figure. I swing at it's head. It falls to it's knees, so I hit it again. The weapon connects with the skull solidly, the impact jars me from my hand to my shoulder. The sound is oddly muffled, like something far away. I keep swinging. I swing until my hand is numb and I am dripping with sweat. I swing until my shoulder burns and I cannot breathe. I swing until I feel something crack beneath my blows, and the figure falls still. Then I run.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
First Real Post
Well this is mildly terrifying, but I had better do it now and get it over with. The following is one of my very first attempts at writing. It's a description of a dream I had about a decade ago.
******************
I no longer remember how this dream started, I assume it started with the usual mess of imagery, nonsense and memory that makes up most of my dreams. I do remember I was traveling through a city with a group of friends on foot. We stopped under and elevated train track beside a moderately busy road. I remember a boy's arms around my waist holding me back from traffic, I think we were on a particularly narrow shoulder or sidewalk. I was looking out across the damp, grey street at a building that had caught my eye. Unlike the rest of the standard urban construction around me, it was skyscraper sized, blue, and cylindrical. More like a tower than any sort of modern apartment or office building. I was struck my an intense sense of recognition. I know this building. I leave my friends without explanation and walk across the street toward it.
I am in the lobby facing a reception desk. It seems the middle of the tower is hollow, an empty cylinder inside the larger exterior cylinder. Stairs spiral up along the wall. I've realized this is an apartment building. I also realize that I used to live here, but the details of exactly where and when are just beyond my reach. But I am absolutely certain that this used to be my home. Somewhere in here there is a space that I belong in.
There is a man sitting behind the desk, wearing some sort of bellhop uniform. I ask him if he knows me or knows where I used to live. He does not, but he suggests I go upstairs and ask some of the residents. So I start to climb the stairs, getting several hundred feet up before I find a floor that I feel I might have lived on. I am hoping my random choice will lead me where I want to go.
I am now in a cavernous hallway. The light is odd, dark and green. The ceiling is 15 feet over me, the floor at least twice that in width. It stretches on into darkness. There are doors on my left every twenty feet or so, the wall to my right is blank. On the carpet by the blank wall I notice there are toys. Blocks, bears, something that might be a Fischer Price Ferris wheel. It is very dimly lit, so I can just barely make them out, but after trying to see the toys for several seconds I notice some sort of small movement. I see that the toys are moving, but no one is in the hallway with me. It is as if invisible children are playing with them, or the toys are playing themselves, drawing from memories of children's play. Instead of the usual sounds that accompany children's play, there is only silence.
As I walk through the building, I can almost remember what I am seeing. Every new sight is expected, everything achingly familiar. I cannot, however, pull up where my apartment is, what floor it is on, or even what the interior looks like or when I lived here. But I am certain that my forgotten home is here, somewhere.
I start knocking on doors, mostly being greeted by just the silence. After a few attempts, one finally opens, spilling out a brighter shade of green light out. The door only opens a foot or so, and behind it stands a strangely withered old man wearing a sweater vest. I cant tell if his skin is green, or if the light just makes him look green. He quietly informs me that he doesn't recognize me, but he suggests I go downstairs, to a room under the lobby, and ask the people I find there. Apparently they are the people who know about everything that goes on in the tower. He closes his door, leaving me alone in the grimly lit hallway.
I decide to keep looking around on the floor before heading back down. I find a door that looks like a janitors closet, or maintenance room. It opens up a small empty room, the walls are white, the floor is white, and even the light itself is bleached and dead. Ten feet up the back wall there is a small window that looks out on an overcast sky. More notably when I open the door I am not only struck by the air that rushes out to meet me, but an overwhelming sense of rage, fear, and misery. I am utterly repulsed and horrified by this space. I close the door, back away and resolve to try to forget that I ever opened it.
I head back down the stairs in the middle of the tower, through the lobby and down some more. I arrive in a dark, ill defined space. I cannot see the walls around me or the ceiling. In front of me I can see a fireplace and mantle. Between me and this, the only light source, is a semi circle of overstuffed chairs. Most of the chairs are occupied, but the dark seems to cling to the occupants. I cannot see their faces, only their outlines. They sit in silence.
I walk until I am in front of the fireplace and facing the chairs. I ask if these people know me, or know where my home is. They say they do recognize me, I used to be one of them. I even had my own chair. But they say I will have to find my misplaced home on my own.
After this point, the dream fades from this weirdly solid place back into standard dream fuzziness and confusion. I never found my apartment, and I am not certain I want to know what is in it if I do.
******************
I no longer remember how this dream started, I assume it started with the usual mess of imagery, nonsense and memory that makes up most of my dreams. I do remember I was traveling through a city with a group of friends on foot. We stopped under and elevated train track beside a moderately busy road. I remember a boy's arms around my waist holding me back from traffic, I think we were on a particularly narrow shoulder or sidewalk. I was looking out across the damp, grey street at a building that had caught my eye. Unlike the rest of the standard urban construction around me, it was skyscraper sized, blue, and cylindrical. More like a tower than any sort of modern apartment or office building. I was struck my an intense sense of recognition. I know this building. I leave my friends without explanation and walk across the street toward it.
I am in the lobby facing a reception desk. It seems the middle of the tower is hollow, an empty cylinder inside the larger exterior cylinder. Stairs spiral up along the wall. I've realized this is an apartment building. I also realize that I used to live here, but the details of exactly where and when are just beyond my reach. But I am absolutely certain that this used to be my home. Somewhere in here there is a space that I belong in.
There is a man sitting behind the desk, wearing some sort of bellhop uniform. I ask him if he knows me or knows where I used to live. He does not, but he suggests I go upstairs and ask some of the residents. So I start to climb the stairs, getting several hundred feet up before I find a floor that I feel I might have lived on. I am hoping my random choice will lead me where I want to go.
I am now in a cavernous hallway. The light is odd, dark and green. The ceiling is 15 feet over me, the floor at least twice that in width. It stretches on into darkness. There are doors on my left every twenty feet or so, the wall to my right is blank. On the carpet by the blank wall I notice there are toys. Blocks, bears, something that might be a Fischer Price Ferris wheel. It is very dimly lit, so I can just barely make them out, but after trying to see the toys for several seconds I notice some sort of small movement. I see that the toys are moving, but no one is in the hallway with me. It is as if invisible children are playing with them, or the toys are playing themselves, drawing from memories of children's play. Instead of the usual sounds that accompany children's play, there is only silence.
As I walk through the building, I can almost remember what I am seeing. Every new sight is expected, everything achingly familiar. I cannot, however, pull up where my apartment is, what floor it is on, or even what the interior looks like or when I lived here. But I am certain that my forgotten home is here, somewhere.
I start knocking on doors, mostly being greeted by just the silence. After a few attempts, one finally opens, spilling out a brighter shade of green light out. The door only opens a foot or so, and behind it stands a strangely withered old man wearing a sweater vest. I cant tell if his skin is green, or if the light just makes him look green. He quietly informs me that he doesn't recognize me, but he suggests I go downstairs, to a room under the lobby, and ask the people I find there. Apparently they are the people who know about everything that goes on in the tower. He closes his door, leaving me alone in the grimly lit hallway.
I decide to keep looking around on the floor before heading back down. I find a door that looks like a janitors closet, or maintenance room. It opens up a small empty room, the walls are white, the floor is white, and even the light itself is bleached and dead. Ten feet up the back wall there is a small window that looks out on an overcast sky. More notably when I open the door I am not only struck by the air that rushes out to meet me, but an overwhelming sense of rage, fear, and misery. I am utterly repulsed and horrified by this space. I close the door, back away and resolve to try to forget that I ever opened it.
I head back down the stairs in the middle of the tower, through the lobby and down some more. I arrive in a dark, ill defined space. I cannot see the walls around me or the ceiling. In front of me I can see a fireplace and mantle. Between me and this, the only light source, is a semi circle of overstuffed chairs. Most of the chairs are occupied, but the dark seems to cling to the occupants. I cannot see their faces, only their outlines. They sit in silence.
I walk until I am in front of the fireplace and facing the chairs. I ask if these people know me, or know where my home is. They say they do recognize me, I used to be one of them. I even had my own chair. But they say I will have to find my misplaced home on my own.
After this point, the dream fades from this weirdly solid place back into standard dream fuzziness and confusion. I never found my apartment, and I am not certain I want to know what is in it if I do.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Writing While Waiting in Queue
Specifically, I am waiting in queue in Star Wars: The Old Republic to join a random group in a flashpoint. I promise to some people that last sentence is in fact written in English. I should also apologize now for the future post that is going to be all about online gaming. Make that posts. I have many opinions, and few people in my life willing to listen to my rants and rambles for the 14th time.
So what should I write about tonight? There is a fairly large pool of emotions and thoughts floating around in my head. Some of it I am saving to write in a physical journal. Because yes, it's too scary to put creative writing of any sort on the internet. Wait crap is this creative? whatever. I know what I mean. That's good enough. I could write a list of all the things I wish I was doing right now (cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, finish knitting a hat, cleaning) but I seem pretty committed to procrastinating. It's much more fun to sit around feeling guilty than just doing whatever it is I'm guilty about not doing. Obvs. I could write about how I am feeling weirdly creative right now. I have pictures in my head almost ready to be painted, a board to be colored once I find the right board, a hat I am knitting, and a couple ideas for writing taking shape. I don't usually have that many urges to create at one time. I'm usually more likely to be pulled towards one type of art at one time.
I could sit here and list all the profoundly dumb character names I am seeing in my game online. ("Nytdreamer" ha oh god) I could mention that I use far too many parentheses when I write. But I'm actually ok with that, it's as close as drawing arrows pointing to related but slightly off topic concepts as I can get with a keyboard. Sometimes I won't write about something because I feel I couldn't properly explain without drawing a diagram.
Oh here we go, an idea. I think I know why I am writing a blog. Besides from the fact that I've been sleeping weird and therefore have no one to talk to and too many words in my brain. I think it will be good for me to write even stupid shit like this on a daily basis. It's been so long since I've been in school I'm starting to worry my brain is atrophying away. And I suspect using my brain and expressing myself will also help keep the depressions away. So there. A reason to be doing this that doesn't feel utterly stupid. Now I just have to decide if and who I want to read this. Ugh, gross. It's so far just a diary, so who the hell do I know that might possibly want to read my diary? I think I will wait until I have more interesting things to post. Like short stories, or art. ooo Hey, I could post pictures of art I make! And then write out all the things about my art that I hate!
Ok fuck, I need to do something productive ish. I'll go unload the dishwasher. That probably won't kill me. Probably.
So what should I write about tonight? There is a fairly large pool of emotions and thoughts floating around in my head. Some of it I am saving to write in a physical journal. Because yes, it's too scary to put creative writing of any sort on the internet. Wait crap is this creative? whatever. I know what I mean. That's good enough. I could write a list of all the things I wish I was doing right now (cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, finish knitting a hat, cleaning) but I seem pretty committed to procrastinating. It's much more fun to sit around feeling guilty than just doing whatever it is I'm guilty about not doing. Obvs. I could write about how I am feeling weirdly creative right now. I have pictures in my head almost ready to be painted, a board to be colored once I find the right board, a hat I am knitting, and a couple ideas for writing taking shape. I don't usually have that many urges to create at one time. I'm usually more likely to be pulled towards one type of art at one time.
I could sit here and list all the profoundly dumb character names I am seeing in my game online. ("Nytdreamer" ha oh god) I could mention that I use far too many parentheses when I write. But I'm actually ok with that, it's as close as drawing arrows pointing to related but slightly off topic concepts as I can get with a keyboard. Sometimes I won't write about something because I feel I couldn't properly explain without drawing a diagram.
Oh here we go, an idea. I think I know why I am writing a blog. Besides from the fact that I've been sleeping weird and therefore have no one to talk to and too many words in my brain. I think it will be good for me to write even stupid shit like this on a daily basis. It's been so long since I've been in school I'm starting to worry my brain is atrophying away. And I suspect using my brain and expressing myself will also help keep the depressions away. So there. A reason to be doing this that doesn't feel utterly stupid. Now I just have to decide if and who I want to read this. Ugh, gross. It's so far just a diary, so who the hell do I know that might possibly want to read my diary? I think I will wait until I have more interesting things to post. Like short stories, or art. ooo Hey, I could post pictures of art I make! And then write out all the things about my art that I hate!
Ok fuck, I need to do something productive ish. I'll go unload the dishwasher. That probably won't kill me. Probably.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
A new thought
So tonight Ethan suggested something that had never occured to me. He suggested I try writing horror of some sort. I actually think that might be a good idea. Except I haven't written fiction since was oh....14? It was pretty terrible, too. But I suppose nearly all 14 year olds write terrible fiction. I have never been able to write well about anything... well, happy. The best writing I do is usually describing some terrible event and emotional impact. Or just something emotion neutral but descriptive. I think I might give it a shot.
Horror is my favorite genre of fiction. I love in book form, games, movies, whatever I can get my hands on. I've read far too many SCP entries, watched a large amount of student films on youtube, read most all of Lovecraft. I should be clear about what kind of horror I like, because I can be kinda picky. I hate bloody gross out stuff, and there's nothing more disappointing than finding out the monster is actually human. I know blah blah humans like horror because they know humans are the worst of all whatever. It's boring as shit. Humans do awful things to each other all the time, I'd rather spend my time thinking about something that isn't real, that isn't predictable, that doesn't have motivations or mental disorders. That sort of movie (usually a movie) relies on making you physically uncomfortable. They show slow shots of weapons being pushed through flesh, eyeballs being extracted, etc. It's cheap and easy. I adore movies that make me emotionally or spiritually uncomfortable. Ghosts, when done right, make me want to crawl backwards though whatever I'm sitting in and cry. I want something unknowable and inhuman. Zombies and vampires have been done to death, but aliens can be fun, as can demons. (demon themed entertainment can slip into torture porn, so I have to be careful about that) I want something older than humanity itself, or something we all thought was a myth to be real. I want reality as we know it to be challenged.
But still I haven't written in years. So I think I'll start by writing down dreams and memories. Just to practice descriptions. Then I might start elaborating on dreams, adding in memories, or tying multiple things all together. I'm not the sort of person who walks around constantly creating stories and characters and such, so I don't really know how this is gonna work. But what the hell, gives me something to do.
Horror is my favorite genre of fiction. I love in book form, games, movies, whatever I can get my hands on. I've read far too many SCP entries, watched a large amount of student films on youtube, read most all of Lovecraft. I should be clear about what kind of horror I like, because I can be kinda picky. I hate bloody gross out stuff, and there's nothing more disappointing than finding out the monster is actually human. I know blah blah humans like horror because they know humans are the worst of all whatever. It's boring as shit. Humans do awful things to each other all the time, I'd rather spend my time thinking about something that isn't real, that isn't predictable, that doesn't have motivations or mental disorders. That sort of movie (usually a movie) relies on making you physically uncomfortable. They show slow shots of weapons being pushed through flesh, eyeballs being extracted, etc. It's cheap and easy. I adore movies that make me emotionally or spiritually uncomfortable. Ghosts, when done right, make me want to crawl backwards though whatever I'm sitting in and cry. I want something unknowable and inhuman. Zombies and vampires have been done to death, but aliens can be fun, as can demons. (demon themed entertainment can slip into torture porn, so I have to be careful about that) I want something older than humanity itself, or something we all thought was a myth to be real. I want reality as we know it to be challenged.
But still I haven't written in years. So I think I'll start by writing down dreams and memories. Just to practice descriptions. Then I might start elaborating on dreams, adding in memories, or tying multiple things all together. I'm not the sort of person who walks around constantly creating stories and characters and such, so I don't really know how this is gonna work. But what the hell, gives me something to do.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
A thing that won't leave my head
It seems fairly often I wind up with a thought that is somehow stuck in my brain. I figure writing it out might be a good way to get rid of it. So the thing that has been bothering me lately is that I have no idea how to respond when people ask how I am. You'd think after 26 years of interacting with humans I would have this figured out, but oh no. Every time I pause in confusion. I know I am supposed to just say "good" regardless of the truth, but I hate lying. Ha oops wait, that is a lie. (thus a double lie?) I work very very hard at keeping my lies as minimal as possible. I hate being caught lying when I don't want to be. Plus it's amusing to tell people the bald truth and watch them squirm. Which is also a cause of confusion when people ask me how I am, I first have to establish what I actually am, a thing I spend a lot of effort trying to not think about. Then I have to decide whether I need to lie, then I have to decide if I want to lie, and then I have to decide if I can just give them the simple approximate truth. I usually wind up stating a physical fact rather than emotion. (hungry, tired, needing coffee, etc) That way I neither lie nor say something that would complicate a casual interaction. (hung over, miserable, suppressing panic, wrestling with old trauma, obsessing over my own failures, etc)
Oh good lord I do over think everything, don't I? I should really give up and just say "good". It's not about how I actually am, it's just a social ritual. Right this minute if someone asked how I was I would most likely respond with a hearty "Fuck you, that's how I am." But that's only because I've been awake all night, and sleep deprivation makes me belligerent.
Oh good lord I do over think everything, don't I? I should really give up and just say "good". It's not about how I actually am, it's just a social ritual. Right this minute if someone asked how I was I would most likely respond with a hearty "Fuck you, that's how I am." But that's only because I've been awake all night, and sleep deprivation makes me belligerent.
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