Writerly check in

Sometimes, if you recall, when I'm not busy running the vending machine downstairs dry of delicious M&Ms or painting my nails odd colors or being so angry that the lacquer dries on contact (this is very handy ladies and or gents), I like to dabble in writing.

But since school, which--ironically--requires writing, I've wasted most of that genius (and it is genius) on writing papers...papers...a few more papers...and a speech or two. I'm not sure why I write out my speeches since my memory is like a fine woven basket and I hate index cards.

In any case, 90% of my writing power goes to that then about 9% comes to blog entries, which is why occasionally I write like I'm not even trying anymore. It's coz I'm not. The anger comes pretty easily but the wordsy part, damnit, the words!

So I devote that other 1% to writing fiction for joy and that's too bad--not the 1% part, the writing. This one percent takes forever to trickle from my brain to my fingers to my keyboard and once it's gone I kinda forget about it. So I was looking through my files of things to finish and I remembered the last thing I was working on. I read it and wondered who would play such a cruel joke on me, then remembered I had started it about a few weeks ago on a rainy day.

It was a dreary day out, at least dreary in nature. The dark storm clouds were peeling back slowly to reveal the early morning sun, moving so quickly against the static blue sky I thought I might throw up if I looked any longer. The morning rain had made a swampland of the of the campus grounds, already stripped bare and dry by winter, it now dissolved into mush beneath my shoes. Even the concrete seemed wobbly as I crossed the platform to the great white marble steps of the library. I tried to nudge off some of the excess mud on the edge of the steps but then I’d walk into someone else’s muddy footprints. Wonderful.

It was everywhere. I wiped my feet off on the mat; more mud stained my white Polo tennis shoes. It was a disgrace. The working students at the checkout counter looked at me almost apologetically but in truth, I didn’t mind. I wanted my notes more than anything, then maybe a nap later.

I was so mad at myself for missing Calculus. It wasn’t even a good reason, I was more or less playing hooky. And I felt like a major dick—as big a dick as a five-foot girl could feel anyway. Fortunately I’d made one friend in that class, and I’d picked a good one. Good enough to answer my pleading, hokey emails promptly and agreeing to meet me so early, on such a grey day.

Man, that narrator IS a dick. A dick with nice shoes but a phallus nonetheless. Wait, this shit is in first person--auugh I remember that day! WHY WOULD I WRITE ABOUT THAT?

*headlap*

...Oh well I better finish it. Oh and I'm not five-feet. I'm five-foot one. Literary embellishment.

That's too conflicty, let's not discuss it

So, while I was working on revising my race & hip hop post I went off on a bit of a tangent and decided that, instead of bogging my taste of fame down with it, I just...made another post. Coz I do that! It's not very much, but really, you know what I'm tired of? Inconsistency.

I'm a lazy bastard and often times, admittedly, I don't like a lot of confrontation. SOMEtimes. Then there are sometimes I just don't care, like when it's something important to me. There are just some conversations that need to be had. So it annoys me a little bit (read: a lot) when folks try to wiggle out of conversation claiming it's "too divisive".

It's actually bigger than that though. When people decide to just flat out IGNORE issues because, as they claim, it's too conflicty for them. This is rather self-defeating and conflicts with the good ol' American way of individualism and bootstrap-y-ness. When you dodge things and suggest that if we just ignore them they'll go away, do you realize what you're saying?

Let's take our other favorite topic, queerness. I want to say homosexuality but I think queerness is more encompassing in this case. But let's start with gays. You have folks on either side--pro gay and anti gay. They fight. But have you ever heard the people that basically plug their ears and claim that it's way too divisive and we shouldn't even talk about it? I wonder if these folks can hear what they're saying, sometimes, and realize how stupid they sound.

"Divisive" is not an excuse. Everything is "divisive" one way or another and sweeping it under the bed like it isn't there is just self-defeating. The issue doesn't vanish, it swells like a wound. You probably didn't even know you had that wound until one day it gets infected and it itches and hurts, and suddenly you have to DO something about it or bye-bye limb, no? (Then of course you have the people that just say "Fuck it" and cut the limb off...soooo...)

It's a silly mentality. Nothing is just going to vanish into thin air because you say it is, but at the same time if we keep talking about it, it's not going to go away either. Until you fix it. So what to do, what to do...

Me, personally, I'm off to write more kinky short stories and eat. It's productive!

Let there be kink, sort of

Alright, Danz went to bed so that means its safe to talk shit about him. Well, not talking shit really, but I know he may or may not appreciate this in the morning. But he's already seen a great deal of it.

So it seems our boy has a little hero worship, and a while ago I threatened more or less to write some fanfiction *shudder* _{oh god} with him and one of his actor heroes. I couldn't do that with a straight face though so I dropped it. It was funny to watch him virtually sweat though.

Then I picked it up again, for whatever reasons, I've been extremely bdsm/kink inspired. Rather than start something totally new I just went back to this. And I still can't keep a straight face while writing it but now that he's gone I may just be able to finish it. What is it you say? Well shoot, read it why don't you?

It's still got some fanfiction-y elements, obviously, but really I'd think of it less as "fanfiction" and more fantasy gone extremely awry. Technically that's all fanfiction is, but you really have to remove any semblance of familiarity from this or I think you might actually go crazy. In short, I'm depraved and I don't care. If I ever manage to finish the whole thing I'll probably just store it in my writing journal, away from you good respectable readers, but for now have a taste of my sick vision.

_{Note: That intro was all in jest, I'm out to scar your mind.}

Warning: Man-on-man relations, kink, bondage, burning, typos, in-jokes


The throbbing noise of the disappointed and hysterical fans outside died in his ears as soon as he stepped in the room. The door shut behind him mere seconds after he crossed the threshold into the crimson-colored room, dimly lit and sparsely furniture. He cynically noted the blatant cliché, right down to the shag carpeting and faint scent of patchouli in the air. Even the lamps were draped. Was this a meet and greet or the set of a low budget 70s throwback porn? It was hard to say.

What set him off completely was the figure in the shadows, lounging on the strangely modernist, sleek black couch. He was swilling a glass of wine in his hand but looking wholly uninterested at the drink, and the bottle currently lying on its side on the table in front of him seemed to attest to this. But there were other things, like a half-heartedly open pack of cigars, a beautifully designed butane lighter, and a silver case with a European dragon carved on the front. Had he interrupted something? The thought made him a little uneasy as he walked across the room slowly as if on glass.

“Mr Craig?” he said gently. The man peeked up a minute with the sort of bored ennui he’d always imagined actors had for their overzealous fans. Or contempt at least, especially when faced with such a forced meeting. For the first time since hacking his way into this little contest he began feeling doubt, and what’s more, remorse. Could he turn back and leave now, and leave everything he’d ever wanted in the world?

Just as he began moving back, apologies already on his lips and head bowed, the man stood up, setting his glass on the table in the process. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and let out a sigh.

“So you’re the winner are you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Was expecting a girl,” Daniel said with a smirk. “They enter these things in droves, fucks up the results.”

“You’ve got male fans too, you know.”

“Right, of course…” Daniel folded his hands behind his back and began to pace. “What’s your name?”

“D—”

“Do you mind if I call you cheap bitch?”

The words died on his lips. His mind was reeling in outrage, a thousand insults bursting between his ears but only indignant squeaks fell from his mouth. He stared in wide-eyed horror as Daniel came at him far too fast, dressed in a white button down that he just realized was wide open, displaying his fine physique. Before he could make another move his wrists were bound in a fierce grip and he was staggering backwards and would have fallen. Instead he was barely kept on his feet by the painful force around his wrists, cutting off circulation to his hands. And then he was on the ground, thrown forcefully and out of breath. He tried scramble up but his fingers were entangled in the shag—it would have been comical if he weren’t so confused, and if it weren’t for the knee currently pressing down on his ribcage.

“As long as you’re in this room, we’ll call you D. You answer to nothing else. Don’t do anything unless I say so. Don’t even breathe.”

A strong hand wrapped around his throat, effectively cutting off his air. His eyes bulged as he clawed desperately at the hand around his throat, but he was quickly getting light-headed. His struggling slowed then finally stopped completely as time slowed and his vision became blurry. After what felt like several minutes, the hand was gone and Daniel no longer in his line of vision. He coughed and swallowed, his mouth dry and lined with cotton as he lay on the floor in a stupor.

“It’s good you’re putting up a fight,” he heard over his head, but the voice sounded miles away. “The past couple of nights have been too easy for my tastes.”

He heard a door open and for a fleeting moment hoped it was he exit, someone come to save him from this sudden lapse of madness. But no one came. Feeling stronger, he sat up and looked around him. His captor was at the end of the room rummaging in what appeared to be a closet of some sort. Daniel popped back into the main room and shut the black door behind him. In his hands he carried a red ball and his glare was mean and heavy.

“Did I tell you to get up?”

“You didn’t tell me to stay down either.”

Another smirk, this one more sinister. “That’s true. You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

Daniel crossed the room again and loomed over his victim. D could see that the ball had black straps hanging down from the sides and suddenly everything clicked in his mind. His mouth opened, prepared to let out a horrified scream of alarm, but he didn’t get much more than a gasp before the ball gag was shoved in his mouth, tied so tightly behind his head he could feel it cutting into the bridge of his nose. A second later and Daniel loosened the straps but not by much, and certainly not enough to make the situation any more comfortable. D still managed to howl around his gag, the sound forcing silvery strands of saliva down his chin.

Daniel gripped his victim’s chin and forced it around to look him directly in the eyes. “You can scream until your blue in the face, no one out there is going to come in and save you. In fact, please do scream, I want you to.”

Another muffled scream followed by a short burst of sobbing before D went completely limp. Daniel threw him down like discarded rubbish and went over to the walls. He began to strip the hanging lamps of their warmly decorated scarves. This didn’t improve the dim lighting of the room D noticed, not that it mattered at present. Daniel was coming back over to him and he numbly registered his wrists behind tied over his head. Then he was being dragged across the floor, his head just avoiding bumping into the steel legs of the table. His wrists were bound to the table, which was either very heavy or nailed to the floor; D couldn’t say which from his perspective.

The actor hovered over him now, cigarette lighter and cigar in hand. D blinked bemusedly at the objects, having a vague notion of what could be done with them but not making the connections in his brain. Daniel lit the cigar and took a long drag off it, staring his victim in the eye the whole time. When he was done he plucked the red ball from D’s mouth and hovered close to his mouth, exhaling. The smoke floated to his eyes and made them water, and the smoke snaking into his throat made him hack and cough. The ball snapped back between his lips, smacking his teeth and making him cry out in pain. Daniel smiled over him, a gesture that would have been described as winning or charming by the press, but in this context it felt so horribly hollow. That smile wasn’t for him, it was for his suffering.

Still smiling, Daniel nudged his captive’s shirt slowly, as if measuring the individual inches, feeling the lightly haired young stomach. His fingers crept on the flesh like a growing vine, making invisible etchings and nonsensical words as he went up. The shirt was pushed until it bunched neatly under D’s chin. Dark nipples peeked at him as he swiped his hands over them, carefully keeping the lit cigar out of the way. He pinched and rolled the nubs between his fingers, pulling them in short jerks. D’s breath hitched in his throat in horror, but something deep in his mind responded, more primal than the utter terror he was feeling right now. Against his will he let out a low moan, pausing in horror and hoping his captor had not heard.

The sly smirk signaled he had.

“Like that do we?” Daniel sneered, slapping his victim’s chest. The cigar briefly met flesh and D cried out in pain. It came down against but stayed this time to eat away at his flesh. His screams became louder but hoarser as Daniel made long, cursive strokes all across his chest. By the time he was done D had tears dripping into his ears, threatening to fill them with their salty remorse. Daniel merely laughed and finished the cigar off, then put it out in the hollow of his victim’s throat, eliciting another painful howl.

His hands returned to his captive’s nipples, squeezing them as if he’d bring forth milk or blood. D only clamped his teeth down on the gag in his mouth, determined not to scream this time. That, and he didn’t think he had it in him to make any more noise, it’d already proved quite futile now.

As if he’d read his mind, Daniel looked down with another charming but hollow grin. “You finally stopped screaming. That’s too bad, the best is yet to come. What shall we do next, hm?”

All Kinds o' Fur.

Yeeeeah I finally decided what story I'm going to craft for my kids! *faint* Now I just have to get busy illustrating & illuminating like a mad monk locked in a cell.

Anyway, the story I finally chose to mock up for my kids is Allerleirauh or All Kinds of Fur, or Catskin (english variant). The original story more or less is as such:

A king promises to his dying wife that he won't remarry until he finds a woman as beautiful as he is. This turns problematic when he realizes that the only woman equal to his wife's beauty is his daughter. The daughter does NOT want to marry her father, so she wishes for three dresses: one of gold, one of silver, and one white, and a coat made of samples of furs from all the animals in the kingdom. When the father gives her the dresses, she takes them and a golden ring and flees to the woods.

There in the woods she sleeps until a king from another kingdom finds her. She pleads with him and he eventually lets her stay in his castle to work in the kitchen as a maid.

Kay Nielsen, "Catskin"

It came time for that king to be married, so he has a ball. All Kinds Of Fur wants to attend the ball, so she sneaks out wearing the golden dress. The king fall in love with her and when the dance is over, she escapes and returns to the kitchen, trading in her gold dress for her coat of all furs. The next night the king has another ball and All Kinds of Fur attends, wearing the silver gown. She dances with the king and when the ball is over, she returns to the kitchen wearing her fur, and drops her golden ring in the soup for the king. The final ball All Kinds of Fur attends the ball wearing the white gown. The king slips the golden ring onto All Kinds of Fur's hand while she isn't paying attention and has the ball go on for a little longer...so that when All Kinds of Fur tries to escape again, she doesn't have time to change and tries to cover herself with her furs.

The ruse fails and the king finds her out; they get married and live happily ever after.

I think it's a nice story. It's not too involved and not too horrible, I can take out the whole...uh, incest part. I think it'll be pretty familiar, it's rather similar to Cinderella and a few other stories. I think it'll serve at least most of my purposes pretty well--I mean, the whole point of this IS to entertain, no? So hopefully my Little Heathens in Training will enjoy it.

Fairy tales & wrist porn, or: I do it for the kids

Danz was curious when I texted him to say that this other, other thing I'm working on now includes "wrist porn".

“Naturally child!” Zephrya’s face was its usual charming loveliness, which now made Annabelle more uncomfortable than her sudden mood swing. “You’ll sup with me, and sleep—in one of the guest rooms upstairs! Or anywhere you like! Oh…but you’re hurt!”

“Ah?” Annabelle looked down and remembered her wrist. It still ached and had swollen to where her arm resembled a log fit for the fireplace. She winced at the pain, but inwardly shivered at the intensity of Zephrya’s gaze upon it. “It’s…it’s just a little sprain,” she said, folding the hem of her jumper around the wound. Before she could say anything else, however, Zephyra was kneeling before her, taking the wounded wrist and latching her lips onto it and gently sucking. Annabelle felt her whole body twitch, her face heated, and she squealed at the pain. But also something else, spreading over her like a warm blanket, traveling lower into pubic region, that sacred space. She wet her lips and unconsciously began hastily jerking her arm back and forth in the mouth of this lady below her. Abruptly the warm mouth vanished and next Annabelle heard a tearing sound. She gaped in shock when she realized Zephyra had torn off a piece of her long, flowing hair. The lady wrapped the strands around Annabelle’s wrist and patted it, grinning again.

“There now, that will help it heal.”

“So would a bandage,” Annabelle muttered under her breath. In the interest of not offending her gracious host, she kept her thoughts to herself.

Yeah, there is a point to that randomness...

Speaking of fairy tale bastardization, I'm trying to do a book for the Kids I Tutor. As I mentioned I've got my new watercolor set and plenty of cheap cold-press (well, 11 pages and an excess of sketchbook paper)...but since I'm doing this in my own time, it's taking a lot longer than I want.



For one thing, I have to find a fairy tale/folk story. How is that hard? Well, in a way it's too easy. There's innumerable stories out there for me to tell & illustrate. I'm looking at specific ones though because I want them to be constructive. Not necessarily moralistic but something we can talk about and pull from later. I also want it to be something at least sort of familiar.

So! I look to Andrew Lang's fairy tale books. I tried my collection of Grimm fairy tales but a lot of those just didn't meet the criteria, other than being familiar.

The other problem is format. What do I want to do? Do I want to draw pictures and put together stories for the kids? Or write something up and read it aloud. I'd let them draw their own damn pictures but I don't think their teachers would much like that...I think they're jealous because I'm awesome.

Anyway, I may be over-thinking it too much, I should probably just do it. I mean, for whatever reasons, as I've stated before fairy tales & folk lore are just kinda my thing...plus, I really do have an image of awesomeness to uphold. I ain't relinquishin' my title for shit!

Hiding my faith in the rain

So I'm walking around the house with a headache, raising the light bill with my seemingly uncontrollable habit of flipping light switches on and off. I'm bored again and I really need a bath. Did I mention my head hurt?

I see a new sight on the kitchen floor: a big ol' roach. I turn the kitchen light on and apparently I stun the creature because it pauses near my foot. We're waiting for each other's next move. I grab the broom which is laying against the deep freeze that we do not use, and the roach scurries a bit but ultimately--a bit resignedly if insects could feel--it pauses again in the light.

"Hiii~" I declare in a sing-song voice and slap the insect down. I shuffle it under the trash can because I'm tired of our little insect pest, and my freakin' head freakin' hurts. It's then that I notice the trashbag in the middle of the floor.

I have no idea what it is with my mom and leaving trash bags that need to be taken out in the kitchen. I can understand her wanting to wait until sun up, I do this as well because our neighborhood is truly untrustworthy. But still, the sun rose at about 6 and if she didn't want to take out the trash it's not like I wasn't dancing in the living room to Madonna with a pair of scissors.

So I go in the living room and slip on my battered shower shoes, or flip flops as they work now, and I take the trash outside.

As soon as I open the door I am absolutely battered by wind. It had been blowing the trash can & recycle bin against the house all night. I saw it bend trees to ground level and nearly lift up the roof of our neighbor's shack in their backyard. But the wind dies down almost immediately as I step off the porch as if I'd used my wayward Jedi powers. At least it's warm outside even if the sky is about a shade off Payne's grey and the clouds are promising an annoying drizzle at least.

I take my time strolling to the trash can since it's right next to the house. I throw the bag inside the bin which is almost as tall as I am (which isn't much of a feet since I'm uh, about 5 even on a good day) and notice something in mom's car. I walk around to the little silver Hyundai and notice it's a bunch of flowers from her job. Her job at the Tennessean. Her job that she hates.

How interesting, I think to myself as I circle around the car. The thought hits me that if the cops were to do their seemingly hourly patrol and saw me walking around the car like a potential hit, I'd probably be screwed. At the very least I must have looked awkward to that car that turned right at the four way stop.

I take my time going back inside before coming back in. Rain, when it clearly doesn't want to rain, irritates the hell out of me. I can't figure out why my head hurts still but I figure it's a combination of all the sugar I've consumed and my odd habit of seeing how long I can hold my breath at random. I've been up 12 hours officially at 9:00 AM and I might as well attempt to stay up the rest of the day. I don't want aspirin. What to do, what to do...

Yeah, that really was an extended weather report. Gotcha, gotcha.

Wars & Little Girls pt. 2 aka iWritesometimes

Well, in this previous post I talked about this weird ass i-deer I had involving Cold War history and little girls. Actually, you know, the early phases of the Cold War is probably one of my favorite periods of US history. I don't think I mentioned that but it is. I also realize that Sir Winston didn't have much if anything to do with the whole Cuban Missile Crisis/Bay o' Pigs fiasco but damnit I couldn't help myself.

Anyway, I also threatened excerpts to illustrate what I was talking about, so once again you can file this in the expansive "What the fuck is Xands going on about?" category.

In other news, holy shit I actually finished something not school related. I am elated!

Wisteria & Joanna discuss the Cuban exiles:

Wisteria jabbed a thumb behind her in the general direction of three girls. One, the tallest girl, had jet black hair slicked into a whip-like pony tail that trailed halfway down her back. The second, a few inches below the tallest girl, was dressed in something that resembled an elaborate bridesmaid dress, cream colored with frilly lace about the sleeves. She looked horribly uncomfortable in the noonday sun and had trouble keeping up with her comrades. The third girl, the shortest of the trio, wore a simple black polo shirt with white shorts and tennis shoes. Her hair was cut in an unfeminine bowl shape and her general appearance was most un-girlish.

Joanna looked at the girls then back at Wisteria. “They’re…”

“Exiles, yes. They used to hang around Fidelita but they just stopped...” Wisteria sucked on her candy thoughtfully a moment, recalling information. “My sources said that they stopped liking her one day, when she started talking about wars between the classes and how she wanted to build the playground from the bottom up. She has a new vision, they said, and she wanted to keep all their money and property so they fled to this side. But they claim they can drum up support for a takedown of Fidelita and her little gang, a lot of them are unhappy too.” Wisteria looked over longingly at the far right side of the playground. “Yeah right…she’s giving out free popsicles…”

Joanna rolled her eyes and gave a last weary look to the three exiles. She shrugged and kicked at Wisteria’s shoes. “Wisty!”

Fidelita runs her business:

“I train my soldiers to be resilient…” Fidelita muttered. She licked the popsicle in her hand, letting the tip of it rest against her tongue, before looking at it with disdain and dropping it on the floor. “We gave you everything you could ever want, and now you will pay.”

The two girls began spinning the wheel faster and faster, running around gleefully and laughing. When they could go no faster they dropped the wheel, the metal thudding against the ground and sending the girl upwards. She landed painfully on the rusty imprints and cried out. The wheel was slowing but not stopping and the plastic ties that bound her to the rods were digging into her wrists. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the wheel began slowing, then it finally came to a stop when Fidelita slammed her Mary Jane clad foot on the edge.

“Get her up.”

She also doesn't travel without her girls:

“I’d have preferred this meeting alone?”

“I know you would have,” Fidelita said, offering a smirk of her own. “I go nowhere without these two though. Josefa, Ernesta, show Nika how we do business.”

Josefa punched her fist and cracked her knuckles while Ernesta merely cocked her hip and rested a hand on it. Nika didn’t like these girls and their over confidence, but in a way she admired them for standing up to her. Most of the playground cowered in her presence with the exception of these girls and the two powers on the west. With a single shoulder shrug, Nika turned around and led the three girls up the hill.

Fidelita, Josefa & Ernesta discuss a potential US invasion:

“Ernesta,” Fidelita called wearily.

“I trust her about as much as you do, but she’s right,” Ernesta said bluntly. “With her little projects we’ll soon be in control of the playground.”
“It’s not about control, it’s about ideals,” Josefa grumbled. “What’s the point of being in control when your vision is so strongly compromised? And what about this so called US invasion?”

“That, I do not doubt her on,” Fidelita muttered. “You don’t send spies to enemy lines for no reason.”

“They don’t have the man power, or the Tinker Toys,” Ernesta said with an eye roll. “To stop a US invasion all you must do is say ‘No’ to them.”

“In any case, let us get the troops and our pens ready. We have waited for the Motherland to come to us, and now the Great White Hope will soon be at our doorstep. And we will let them in and their only reward will be tea and Nyquil.”

That whole "uprising"? Didn't work:

As Joanna, Lindy, and Wisteria exited the restroom they heard a shriek. Lindy and Wisteria ran towards the sound, with Joanna lagging behind as she was carrying Roberta on her back and what they saw horrified them.

The three exiles were tied to Fidelita’s dreaded Merry-Go-Round and the thing was spinning fast. Fidelita’s cackles could be heard all down the playground as could the screams of the girls. Joanna paled at the spectacle and covered Roberta’s eyes.

“Wow, can’t be gone five minutes ‘fore disaster strikes,” Lindy said.

Ernesta gets the last word:

Nika’s head snapped up at the biting accusation. Her jaw clenched and she prepared to stand, but ended up only griping the table in indignant fury. Ernesta looked down on her a few moments more before suddenly swinging around and swiftly making her way back up the hill. Near the crest she stopped and spoke without turning around.

“As your last remaining willing ally in this, let us know when you decide,” she said, then vanished up the hill.

Wars and little girls

So, finals are coming up this week, ergo Xands is obviously going to need something to do so she doesn't have to study and pass her classes.

Uhh.

Anyway, I was quite inspired by a lecture my history Prof R gave today (which I seriously have to talk about in another post) to write what would almost be considered fanfiction. Long story that one.

So I decided to delve into something called moe anthropomorphism or basically giving life & characteristics to a non-living object or concept. Countries, weaponry, operating systems. Anything can be cute by throwing on a dress & big eyes! Like everything from Japan right? Except so less creepy.

So we're talking about the Cold War and for some reason Prof R mentions the sexual tensions between the USSR and America. I, still taking notes, go *blink blink* and this idea forms in my head.

It goes like this. I combine the events of the Bay of Pigs Invasion & the Cuban Missile Crisis and put them on the playground (aka the World). Then I took the major players (and Winston Churchill) and made them adorable little girls. The Cold War will be Kinder-ized.

The way I'm handling it, it's more of a humorous concept but I've seen similar ideas handled in a semi-serious manner. It's an interesting concept to play with, reducing world powers to children...suddenly everything makes sense no?

I'm actually nearly done writing it since it's a little one off, I'll try to post excerpts from it without freaking out you gentle readers out there sense there are some situations in it that have me counting up my Bail Reserve money. But now, a little character list.

Good Guys:

Joanna Kennedy: Representing John F Kennedy/USA
Joanna's a happy go lucky little girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders--literally. Beneath her happy facade she hides a more insecure, indecisive side of herself. Between trying to decide whether to invade Fidelita's side of the playground and what to do about Nika, Joanna is a very stressed little girl that relies on the advice of her little sister Roberta, Wisteria, and Lindy Johnson. She also consults with Izzy Eisenhower but the two of them are pretty estranged.

Roberta Kennedy: Representing Robert Kennedy/USA
Roberta is about 3 years old but very wise. She presides over her sister's relations with Fidelita to free up her sister's hands to deal with Nika. Unfortunately, because she's not quite up to making full sentences yet, her words are sometimes misinterpreted...

Lindy Johnson: Representing Lyndon B Johnson
Lindy also advises Joanna but in contrast to the subtle Wisteria Lindy is loud, opinionated and sometimes forceful. She deeply resents Fidelita and wants Joanna to steer way clear of her.

Wisteria Churchill: Representing Great Britain/Winston Churchill
Wisteria is a somber, wise cracking little girl full of sage advice. She tries to advise Joanna more subtly and encourages her to make the right decisions. She's way more leery about Nika than she'll ever be about Fidelita and frankly doesn't see her as much of a threat.

Izzy Eisenhower: Representing Dwight Eisenhower
Izzy's no longer controller of the Western portion of the playground and she's fine with that--she just wishes Joanna would run things her way. She doesn't converse much with her successor except on the issue of Fidelita; Izzy has mixed feeling about trying to over throw Fidelita. She also doesn't like Wisteria at all.

Bad Guys:

Nika Khrushchev: Representing Nikita Khrushchev/USSR

Queen of the Biggest Monkey Bars on the playground and ever expanding, if everyone doesn't outright fear Nika they are at least wary of her. Nika has a plan for the whole playground if everyone would just play along, especially the Western half. Nika frequently tries to compromise with her nemesis Fidelita but the two just can't seem to see eye to eye on anything. Most of all, Nika wants Fidelita's portion of the playground to build more of her giant monkey bars. But what exactly are they for?

Fidela "Fidelita" Castro: Representing Fidel Castro/Cuba
Fidelita is a head strong little girl and probably the most vicious on the playground. She doesn't tolerate traitors and prefers fight to diplomacy most of the time. She knows what Nika is up to but Fidelita has plans of her own and isn't about to let Nika mess them up.

Ernesta Guevara & Josefa Fernandez: Fidelita's crew, her diplomatic end and her force end respectively. Fidelita trusts these girls with her life--although lately she's been trusting Ernesta less and less. Ernesta seems more interested in being peaceful with Nika but Fidelita would rather not.

Even further than I can take

Well, I try to stray from emo-ness in my blog entries and talk about substantial things, and I really want to, but schoolin' is currently driving me up a damn wall and over it.

It seems that I won't be able to make my Mockingbird entry before the deadline, which ironically enough frees me up to do MORE things...sigh. That doesn't mean I want to stop writing it because it's become something personal to me--maybe too personal.

My English class...sucks. Not enough to make me switch majors but I never do research right. Ever, apparently. It's not that she's too harsh or too strict, I just wish she'd remember that most of us have more than one class to fucking take this semester. I'm getting really annoyed with her piling work on us, and she's really helpful but I've never learned anything by having heaps of work dumped on me at a time and I never will, and all it does is irritate me! I like my teacher, she's pretty nice and kind, but I may be telling her to fuck herself in so many words pretty soon. This was an old tactic I used my last two years of high school...a lot. Basically it involves me just standing by my work grade or no grade.

Now obviously this is a foolish move to make at any grade level but at college level, with my money riding on this shit it's more so. But..yeah, seriously, she needs to go in depth about these assignments. Sometimes when you've got your whole class confused, it could just be us; then again, maybe it's you. Maybe it's all of us! But this is really ridiculous, the assignments are so simple they turn out to be really difficult. I could just go see about it during office hours but when do I have fucking time?!

I can't stand this. It always feels like my hard work is for nothing when it comes to school...

And now, excerpts!

The day started off with orange juice and a newspaper. A sure sign that the week would be askew, breaking my ritualistic habits like that. I’d never started off my morning with the paper before—orange juice, sure, but the paper was usually reserved for the afternoon. I’m glad I did though, or else I would have never learned about my professor’s death.

Dr. Lourdes, or simply Lourdes as he preferred, was my World History professor. Ol’ Lourdes was found last night, the paper said, in one of the dumpsters on the side of Bledsoe Hall to the east. A female student was throwing out some very late night trash—so she said—and heard something thumping rhythmically against the side of the dumpster. She tried to put it off to the wind, she says, but the thumping was so powerful she just had to take a look. So she whips out her cell phone and by its pale light she saw a blood-stained foot hanging from the side slot where Mister Murderer—that’s what I called him—had so haphazardly thrown him, tapping in time to some invisible tune. The poor girl dropped her phone and ran back to Bledsoe screaming, well, murder.

“Mangled” the paper said, mangled over and over. It struck me as a good word to use; “mangle” can conjure up all kinds of nastiness. And nastiness this was, downright sloppy. The paper also described it as “overkill”. Ol’ Lourdes had a startling sixty stab wounds in his stomach, chest, back, and legs. If that wasn’t heinous enough his neck was broken and both his legs had been damn near severed from his body, and on top of that his ankle was shattered, which the doctors said probably accounted for the thumping. It was like it wasn’t even attached to his leg anymore it was broken so bad. His scalp had been ripped from his head and his eyes partially gouged, that piercing hazel glance now mush hanging from his sockets like so much yolk. It occurred to me, halfway through the article, that this person not only wanted Lourdes to cease living but to suffer the whole time. And personally, I kind of hoped they would never find him, crazy bastard.

Finishing off my orange juice, I grabbed my cell phone off my dresser and reset my alarm. In light of these events I assumed, I think correctly, that class was cancelled; ergo I could catch another hour of sleep.

...

When my alarm beeped again it was noon. I stretched a minute, shaking off that good sleep then set about putting on some clothes and just making myself decent for class. I was rolling on some rather pungent deodorant when I noticed the tiny crack in the mirror over the sink. It was at the bottom, near the metal rim in the right-hand corner if I recall correctly. The mirror was old—the whole damn room was old—so I didn’t think much of the fracture, especially when I was in a hurry to make it to my English class. I checked myself again and looked at the crack a moment longer, then got my books and backpack and headed out the door.

... I took the stairs to get to the first floor from my third floor room and made it out the door in about as much time as the elevator would have taken. When I finally made it outside, warm air startled me after being cooped up in my cold dorm room most of the weekend. I was pretty grateful even though I knew I’d be sweating like the devil in about ten minutes. The walk to my second class of the day would have been so much easier coming from the Hilling building where the late ol’ Lourdes was located. From my hall, Mercer, it was about a fifteen minute day trip if I walked fast enough. And quickly I did walk as I didn’t leave myself much time to dally while slowly getting ready in the morning. About ten minutes later I began to see the big, round brick and marble building over the horizon, looking surprised to see me so soon with its glass doors propped open and most of the windows flung open to let in a little late autumn air. Briskly I strode into the building, up three flights of stairs then around a narrow hall to my English lit class with Dr. Kline.

...

“That’s right,” she said firmly, and I knew she was talking to me. I looked down at the five question quiz. It wasn’t long and the questions wouldn’t be too hard. But I was still recovering from Ol’ Lourdes’ massive, four-page test on all five chapters we had covered thus far. Lourdes was known for his frustratingly difficult tests, but I was known for my tenaciousness when it came to tough teachers. His test, however, seemed to have broken my spirit and several other people in the class as we all scratched our heads and balled up our scrap sheets. It occurred to me that I might never know how badly I did on that test.

BRAAINSTORM *thunder*

That was too easy.

I finally downloaded the FreeMind software! Yay me! And I haven't left the library in an hour. They will close on me. Buttons!

I don't think I've ever actually tried "mind mapping". I used to hate brainstorming when I was a kid because it was for pussies and I was too awesome (check out my elementary school ego!). I'm not even kidding when I say that by the way, I seriously had an ego when I was a kid. Everyone does, but I went beyond normal "bratty & spoiled" and straight to "MWAHAHAHA I'M SUPERIOR!" because my parents & teachers made the mistake of always doting on me. Fortunately/unfortunately I got a painful reality check in elementary school...

Anyway. I'm still awesome, it's just that brainstorming can be awesome too now. Especially when as of late it seems I've developed reverse ADD.

*moves things around* As someone once told me, I'm such a kid :P nyah. But no, really, this isn't all that bad. I need to stop being so afraid of punkification. For all I harp on people about being open to new ideas and shit I surely am not.

I'm bout done reading Mourning Becomes Electra by Eugene O'Neill. I love plays sometimes more than fiction/novels & what have you. I should talk about it! I also have more good news about my tutoring. I should talk about that too!

*storm storm*

I've been trekking around all day abusing the free Wi-Fi and just...thinking. I really need to find the public safety building before too long...it'll be dark soon I think.

Yawn-inducing tales of excitement

Hey, I put a Creative Commons stamp at the bottom of my blog. Check it out! Now I can be the one doing the suing for once! Hee, I know it doesn't quite work like that but I can dream. I know it's kind of the "in" (?) thing to do now but it's more of a support thing...not that it's bad to protect some of my shit.

Today I was reading a paragraph I'd written for an upcoming thingamajig (that's what I call them now, damnit) and I realized several things: A) I don't really do settings anymore B) I'm kinda starting to lose my voice and C) Mark Twain is in my head.

A) I don't...do settings. I've noticed lately that unless I'm somewhere in the far off future like my sci-fi thing, I don't really...describe places anymore. I think that's part of what gives some of my stuff that unfinished feel now, it's always so vague as to where I am. What state? What city? What country? I hodgepodge scenery too much--composite places I've been but never saying WHERE the hell my characters are or where the plot takes place. And...that's...kinda important *pause* don'cha think? I think I've been doing it for a while without really realizing it--that's also why it's so damn hard for me to describe places because even I don't know where I am! I'm working on that.

B) I've been being way too hard on myself lately all things considering, and it feels like I'm starting to lose my artistic voice so to speak. I think I got paranoid and just lost my nerve, applying too many "rules" of writing to myself too strictly. And it's fine to experiment but it feels like I've been "experimenting" so much it's not ME anymore. I've actually had this issue before, it usually just turns out that I need a break and some flat soda.

C) You know when you're reading a story--yours or someone else's--and you get that narrator's voice going on in your head? Is it yours? For me, for some reason it's...Mark Twain. Or what I perceive him to sound like anyway. Sometimes its Garrison Keillor (Prairie Home Companion) because he has that kind of smooth, relaxing tone. Even when I'm reading something exciting and action oriented.

Speaking of wish, I wonder if I can get NPR in this room...I kinda miss all the weekend shows.

I'm gonna start using this FreeMind software Dharma Keller recommended to me in another post...I've heard of it before and heard it was good, but I think it was too much of a blow to my awesomeness for me to take *die* Can I get some five year old to beat me with paperbacks? But I have to wait until I have some decent, proper internet *eye rooooll* Ohhh~

By the way, I start tutoring some time between this week and the next. I'll talk more about it in another post because, I assume, it'll be interesting :D

LONG LIVE THE NEW FLESH

I feel like my eyes are getting worse...I've been using my glasses more often lately. I usually only wear them a few hours of the day but it becomes a hassle taking them on and off so I just leave them on. It's weakening my eyes! Oh nooo...

To curb my boredom, my appetite, and give me more reason to not study shit (what? I don't have classes until Wednesday) my brain said "You're going to take every random ass dream you've ever had and write it out!"

"But I don't wanna!" I protested. "Some of that shit isn't fit for human consumption."

"Shiit, look at that dude that wrote Fight Club--Chuck Pala-whatsit. Do you think that guy gets any sleep?"

"...Noo...?"

"Alright then!"

So, I think the last piece of cult cinema I watched fully (not counting what I just finished, In the Realm of the Senses--it's barely "cult") was Videodrome, the Cronenberg film about how TV is going to kill us all eventually.

Unfortunately I think that movie broke my brain more than I would have liked and I've been slightly obsessed with what concepts I could garner from it. Aaaaand then I started writing. And then things got bizarre but I feel good about them. So two packs of dry ramen later I'm drooling in front of my laptop wondering A) why is my period late; B) where are my pants; and C) Vista makes funny chimes.

Hm, hm, hm...I'm also nursing something about a younger man falling for his ex-boyfriend's 60-something year old father and incest. Shit, why not these days? Get me the Sangria soda!

They Used to…Pt 2a

Little long for a full chapter, so I broke this one up into 2, fairly readable parts :P

I have fun with the new country names in this. There aren't many country names because this story is set so far in the future that the sun is cooling (I'd imagine near red giant phase--and yet somehow humans have survived the radiation) and there aren't 7 continents anymore. because they either broke up or disappeared completely..rather, there are more islands and 3 big continents and only a few major countries now thanks to wars and what not. Shit, it could happen *shrug*

I've been looking for more ways to at least hint on all this IN the story without making it overly social and long. The thing I'm not really having fun with is city names for some reason.

I also realized that since I can do blogs from Word 07, the font I use carries over to my blog and...well, my font is apparently really tiny. So that's fixed.

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Alex and Travis traveled down the street, Travis padding silently on his bare feet, Alex squeaking along in his Solars. Travis sighed at the noises, feeling slightly embarrassed but his discomfit was outmatched by his excitement. Being the offspring of two fairly wealthy parents, all his life Travis had received nothing but the best, most innovative technology money could buy. Unfortunately, this was not the case once he'd left his home world for Earth after college. Instead, he had spent the past three years living in relative squalor thanks to his inability to hold more than $2 Earth Currency, instead perpetuating an illusion of luxurious living to the folks at home. Adding insult to injury, his parents had sent him off to live in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods on the continent. Surrounded by uppity, nosey, tattle-tale neighbors with at least three personal robots per kitchen, Travis had been feeling the pressure. Alex was the only one who knew about Travis's situation and thankfully kept it quiet. But once Travis had started raving about owning a personal robot, Alex had his doubts and worries about his friend's motives.

"Are you totally sure about this?" Alex asked for about the 500th time that month. "Totally sure?"

"Damn right," Travis said cheerily. "I've never been surer."

"You sure?" Alex continued, oblivious to his friend's displeasure. "I don't see why you need a robot anyway. Why not get a task manager like me? Those are expensive."

Travis looked mildly aghast. "You mean—like that old thing? Never! Besides, what could I do with a task manager that I couldn't' do with a personal robot?"

Alex gave light sigh. "Travis, you really should just tell your parents the truth. Even if you can afford to buy the robot, how you gonna keep up with it?"

"Alex, Alex…" Travis said condescendingly, as if explaining to a child. "These robots will take care of themselves. They're those re-processed things, little to no upkeep. The ad said so."

"Re-processed?" Alex raised both eyebrows. "You know what those things are right?"

Travis stopped and thought a moment. "No, actually I kinda don't. I just know they're pretty cheap."

Now it was Alex's turn to be patronizing. "Travis, re-processed robots are…uh, how do I put it…they're—they're people."

Travis's face turned blank. "Excuse me?"

Alex spied a bench and began walking for it; Travis followed behind him, the blank look still on his face. Alex tried scaring away the three feral pigeons off the bench, but when they simply scowled at him he sighed and sat next to them. Travis sat on the other side of the trio and craned his neck.

"So, re-processed robots are what?"

"Re-processed robots are people, like I said." Alex swallowed and glanced at the pigeons before continuing. "Um, they were people anyway. Sometimes police take criminals, Jane and John Does, or anyone they just need getting rid of and enhance 'em with robot parts. You know, scramble their memories to make them useful, turn them into cyborgs."

"…That sounds like some straight Phillip Dick shit," Travis said flippantly, much to Alex's dismay. "Come on, the BusPad is lit."

"Travis," Alex said firmly. "Those things are dangerous. Unpredictable and unstable. They have a lifespan of like a year!"

"Then I'll buy a new one when it goes nuts."

Alex sighed as he and Travis stepped onto one of the five large, square BusPads. The pad was red for boarding and a few minutes after Travis and Alex got on, the pad turned green and a ring of light zipped up their bodies, vaporizing and teleporting them to Danube City, fifty miles away.

10 Mistakes Writers Don't See

But can easily fix :P

I've seen lists like this before; you see them in books sometimes and just kinda...circulating around. I literally just randomly came across this list and was ready to pass it off as a "GOD I KNOW ALREADY" deal. The thing about reading these "common mistakes" list is they're usually damn lengthy and kinda boring. And tend to kinda run together.

I liked this list a little more because it's long but it makes a point and gets to it, goes in depth without becoming horribly dry, it's pretty concise, gives fair examples of what to do and what not to do, and actually brings up a couple of common mistakes that I never thought of before (but now it's soooo obvious). For example, flat writing. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty guilty of both flat writing and exceeeeessive prose. I am the master of passive voice. Lately I've been finding more of a compromise between balls-out ridiculous metaphors and "working man's prose".

I took a good look at this list and read it, gave it some thought, and went back into my current story and began editing in earnest. And indeed it is easy to fix a lot of these common errors and when you see them it's like "DUH how did I miss that?!"

Ah, I'm really glad I found this list :D

They Used to Make 'Em Like That

Haha, that isn't the real title but I figure it was funny enough to be temporary. That's another thing I'd like to do, not take my shit so damn seriously anymore.

Anyway, here goes my first serious attempt at sci-fi/speculative fiction. I remembered yesterday, this isn't exactly my FIRST attempt, but my first attempt was more of an exercise in geekery so it doesn't count *shrug* this one is just as geeky but at the very least more thought out.

So here we go. Me and Word have resolved our differences and all formatting errors are fixed I think. I love being successful.

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Alex was abruptly startled from his dreams by his alarm clock.

"Wake up, Mr. Lo," the sultry female voice beckoned. "It's time to get up, Mr. Lo."

"I hear you Darla," Alex groaned as he sat upright. He rubbed the sand from his eyes, stretched, and gave a big yawn. His alarm clock—an old DRL-30 mobile task manager, to be precise—skittered off the nightstand on its spider-like metal legs and onto the floor. A pair of voluptuous, glossy pink lips fizzled onto the metallic screen and smirked. The clock scrambled up the bed and up Alex's body to nestle on his chest.

"Let's see what we've got here." The lips vanished and were replaced by a short to-do list with each completed task marked by a green X. "Sleep 'til six. Brush teeth. Brush your teeth Mr. Lo!"

Alex nodded and swung his legs over the bed. Darla rolled off his chest and onto the floor with a crash and a light "ouch". Alex stood and padded his way to the bathroom with Darla scuttling behind him, nearly getting caught in the door as Alex swung it shut.

Soon, Alex fell into his routine. He brushed his teeth and shaved with Darla prompting him. He ran a comb through his dark, glossy hair, just enough to get out the tangles. He dropped in his liquid contacts, blinking the excess moisture away before the remains hardened into a flexible, gel-like substance on his eyes. Alex blinked again to make sure they adjusted to his vision; satisfied he left the bathroom wearing only a bath towel draped around his waist, with Darla resting on his shoulders.

"Don't forget to dress, Mr. Lo," she said, the lips reappearing on the screen.

"Already ahead of ya," Alex said. He clapped his hands and his wardrobe drew up from the floor in front of him. It was a slender mahogany wood box that compressed and expanded according to the amount of clothing. Alex pressed his hand under his chin and contemplated for a moment on what he should wear. It didn't matter much since this was one of his rare days off, he could choose what he wanted.

"What do you think, Darla?" he asked even though he already knew her answer.

"I love that royal blue sweater," Darla answered. Alex smiled; he wasn't sure why Darla was so crazy about that sweater. It was a nice color but it was very thick and itchy and only suitable for the bitterest winters.

"Let's try a…yellow shirt and jeans. And Solars," Alex said as he headed for the closet. Darla gave a disappointed sigh.

"But it looks so good on you," she said. "And yellow is so…blah."

The interior of the closet was empty except for a pair of circular pads at the bottom. Alex stepped onto the pads, dropped his towel, and stretched his arms out. A few seconds later a gentle blue light drifted lazily over his body, forming his shirt and jeans as it wafted down; his Solars were formed last, a pair of dense, white sneakers with five inch platforms supposedly capable of withstanding temperatures as hot as the Sun's surface. In theory at least, no one had ever actually tried walking on the Sun with them or even walking in them in temperatures exceeding 100 degrees Core. The light disappeared and Alex stepped out the closet, gave another stretch, and scratched his side.

"What's next, Darla?"

The to-do list replaced the lips on the screen again and green Xs ticked off the finished tasks. "Brush teeth. Dress. Travis, Mr. Lo."

"Huh?" Alex scratched his head. "What am I meeting Travis for?"

"Shall I call him, Mr. Lo?"

A rapping on the bedroom window caught both their attentions.

"No need," Alex said as he went over to open it. "I can just ask…"

Alex threw the window open and a burst of sunshine hit the floor. A moment later the light was literally swallowed up as Travis stepped through the window. He wore a black and white striped shirt and white cargo shorts that contrasted starkly against his skin, which was the color and density of a healthy eggplant. Travis was part of a small group of natives from a distant solar system orbiting Phoebus, a star twice as massive as the Sun. The system consisted of three planets—Castalia, the third and farthest from the star being the only one inhabited by anyone who would have anything to do with the denizens of Earth. However, as some shady and heavily biased evidence suggested, the only reason for this was that Castalians are capable of absorbing the yellow light of the Sun, making them walking black holes intent on slowly killing everyone and everything on Earth by depriving them of sunlight. Needless to say interactions between Castalia and Earth had been extremely limited.

"Alex, nice to see you didn't forget about me."

"Actually," Darla interrupted. "He did."

"Darla!" Alex yelled, gently kicking the clock away. He looked over at Travis sheepishly. "Okay, maybe…you could remind me what we're supposed to do."

Travis cocked his eyebrow and made a groan of disapproval. "You forgot. Our super-special big important day?"

"No! …Yes."

Travis threw his hands up and sighed. "Man, you said you'd come with me to buy a robot! Remember, Circuit City half-off stock sale?"

Alex thought for a minute and abruptly slapped his head. "Oh my Gosh that's right! I was supposed to go for moral support."

"Yes! You got it!" Travis clapped with joy and stretched his arms out at his sides. "So let's get going! I want to go before all the good stuff's gone." Travis's eyes drifted down to Alex's shoes and he scoffed. "Please don't let me be seen with you wearing those things."

"What?" Alex kicked at the ground, making a soft squeaking noise. "My Solars? I love 'em, they're so comfortable."

"Yeah, but they went out of style when the Sun started cooling off years ago dude," Travis said matter-of-factly, rolling his eyes. "You're going to need some RGs soon. Does anyone actually think they could walk on the Sun with those?"

"I've never tried." Alex gave a wide, toothy grin and jabbed his hands into his pockets. "Well, I guess we better get gone. Darla, watch the house 'kay?"

"I always do…" Darla said, her silky voice trailing off as she watched her Owner and his funny-looking friend exit via the window. Somewhere in her AI core, she wondered why they just hadn't taken the front door.

Fiction time again

At least I hope so!

First off, me and Microsoft Word 07 are really having some damn issues. I think I might just get rid of it and go back to 03. This is like too much grief ~_~ it's pretty neat superficially but on a working level it's just damn ANNOYING.

Maybe it's just me though...I've been having some stupid formatting problems suddenly *shrug* but enough of that for now.

I'm about ready to try this whole story posting thing again. I've sat down and gotten actually-actually serious about writing something and completing it. I've accomplished a few goals actually, including: Not getting ideas all mixed up, keeping things simple (I don't really need social commentary in everything, do I?), and keeping things relatively short. So here I go...

I don't have a concrete title yet (I'll think of one!) but the story I'll be posting over the next couple of days is pretty much my first venture into Sci-Fi. I like reading science fiction but I hate trying to write it--my mind doesn't work like that. I like science but I'm not the most technical person. I'd actually call this more just speculative fiction (yeah it's almost the same thing but...yeah :P). But...you know, let's just call it sci-fi and not worry about particulars right now.

It's the story of Alex Lo, your ordinary Chinese-American living on the Continental Republic of the Americas. He lives pretty simply and comfortably, works a decent job and hangs out with his best friend Travis "Traveesh O'ctchnor" Smith, an alien from a distant solar system.

Travis is in a bit of a bind today, he wants a personal robot. Even though he can't afford one, Travis is pretty addicted to gadgets--it doesn't help that he's under pressure from his rich parents and richer neighbors. Despite Alex's protesting, Travis goes off and buys a re-processed robot--which are notorious for flying off the handle at any given moment or time, which isn't that surprising considering they usually consist of parts from serial killers and other nefarious criminals.

Antonio, in his former life, was a notorious outlaw from the United Nations of Cuba, Florida, and California (this is like part of a long, oooold side joke). But as a personal robot, he does fine enough. Dishes, windows, floors--however, his duties certainly didn't include stalking Alex around, alternating between trying to kill him and trying to fuck him. Travis's robot has already flown off the handle, but is this just a dangerous malfunction or is there POSSIBLY some other underlying cause? Or maybe, even 2000 years into the future, you can't trust a 50% sale.

Yup, I'm hoping it will be funny. It'd be more funny if Word stopped fucking with me, but I make due with what I can :P as Travis says at some point, "This sounds like some straight Philip Dick shit," and it really does. But I'm having fun with it, for once not trying to be overly original and ground breaking. I've accepted that sometimes you've...gotta walk on the firm, established land before you go trying to break it. Get it? Analogies...

Well, here goes nuffin' special. I think I'll start posting officially tomorrow, give me time to think of a damn title.

Mucha en escribiendi (warning: baaad, bad Spanish)

Oh my Spanish is so rusty! That's supposed to be "More on Writing". Haha, I am taking Spanish again soon...you'd think after 2 years I'd have learned something eh? But as my dad says, it takes 4 years to tie your shoes soooo~

Uh, anyway, I figure my future posts (at least for a week) should focus more on my writing. Or just writing in general. I did a few afro-centric and...other posts because those are just part of who I am, but I feel like I neglect the author sometimes. Like...a lot. Like when I don't finish anything.

I took the leap and am officially, for now, majoring in English at East Tennessee State University. Yeah! I've wanted to do this my whole life, and I'm shooting for creative writing emphasis (we have concentrations too, but after my gen ed year I'll have to see about that...) and a possible women's studies minor? We'll see again...they talk about the possibility of changing your major in college, but I'm a stubborn bastard so I'm in it to win it as they say :P

Hmm, I'd like to start posting stories in here again. I get so horribly distracted. And did I say finishing? God I can't stand finishing (maybe that's why I can't). I just want things to go on and on forever and ever but of course it can't...I'm totally going to start working on completion from now on. Starting has always been easy for me, but ending? Ugh.

I'll actually do a whole post on that. I've noticed about actually getting towards that finishing point, my new laptop has actually helped quite a bit. I think it's the quick accessibility, for one thing, and the fact that it's MINE so I don't have to worry about taking anyone else's space up or anyone spying on my writings... not that I keep the darker stuff or whatever on the home PC, I'm just a private person when it comes to my own literature.

But anyway, my goal for...I guess the end of this year and the beginning of the next, is to work more on completion. Here goes nothin' :/

The norms.

I made a post a while ago in which I kinda sorta touched on my own identity and how I feel about it. And that post was really messy, but I think I can safely talk about it now without getting horribly confused or frustrated...

First off, identity. I don't think I'm having so much an identity "crisis" as I'm having an identity awakening. We all go through--or rather, we all HAVE to go through that period where we discover who we are. For some of us this happens sooner than later...to me, it's never too late and never really too early to find out who and what you are.

But, what does all that mean? Is that who you are to people around you, or who are you to yourself? What do you mean to friends and family, and what do you mean to yourself? For me, I thought the question was so simple several years ago, and even recently. I knew who I was and what I was. Unfortunately, I realized, I only knew pieces of my own identity but had never really put together the grand picture. And I could say who I am to other people, but not to myself.

To my family, I'm a daughter, niece, half-sister, aunt, sister-in-law, cousin and even though my grandparents are deceased, I'm a granddaughter. I occupy all those roles, all noticeably female right? Well, I'm a girl too.

Which brings me to the world and society at large: what am I? What can they see in me? I am black/African-American, not that tall (damn genes), a glasses-wearer, stocky (or as some would put it, overweight :P) and short-haired since I cut most of my hair off. And that is what I am, or what I feel I am, to others. But notice those are just physical characteristics, what do these people actually know about me? Even my family and even close friends. Does my outside appearance really tell all there is to know about me?

Do they tell I'm an atheist despite living in a mostly Baptist/Christian household? Do they tell about my sexual preferences (aka my queer-ness), my thoughts and feelings? Do they suggest I'm an English major with hopes of being an author and maybe not broke? Could people just guess who I like to hang out with looking at my clothes?

The answer is no. My outside appearance doesn't necessarily say all that. I can make myself "say" that to others if I choose to, but I don't. And why? Am I afraid of not being vocal?

And that kinda takes me into the question of what I identify myself as being. I've noted recently how much I don't like talking about myself. I mean, I've always known but I REALLY hate talking about myself. I didn't realize how much until recently. It's just really hard. I feel sometimes it's really vain and I'm like a little mouse, so I hate that stuff.

To me, I am black, and happy with being black but not the general perception of "black". A female that's kinda starting to be happy being female, but not necessarily with the perceived "female role". I'm exploring my sexuality little by little after living in a bit of a repressed household for so long (I've settled on just "queer" for now) and I'm an atheist. And I can say all these things, but what exactly does it mean? These are all the pieces to my puzzle, and I'm still kinda rearranging them and getting the big picture straight.

And that's my philosophical talk for the day.

The Revolver

Is another one of those stories that stood out to me in my Bedford literature anthology :P

It was written by Emilia Pardo Bazán who's an interesting person. An early Spanish feminist writer, critic and journalist who aspired to be more than just a housewife. She grew up wealthy and well-educated, unlike most women in her time. And instead of relying on her husband and laying up in the kitchen having kids, she became a writer! She was pretty notable in her day but I think she's still kind of obscure (at least in America), despite the acclaim she received. It kind of goes that way sometimes...

But anyway, I stumbled upon this interesting story...I can't even tell you when. It was more of an accident than anything. The plot is a little difficult to explain because it's a bit of a short frame story, but it's about a young widow telling her life story to an older widow in a bath house. She is suffering from heart problems and can't go long without gasping for air, and hopes the spa will cure her.

This young widow--who is named Flora--has had...quite the life. She married young to a much older, wealthy husband who, like all older husbands for some reason, begins to harbor a violent jealousy towards his younger wife. He cuts her off from her friends and monitors her every move like a prison warden, even watches her expressions closely for signs of unhappiness. It's kinda creepy how obsessive this guy gets, and it grows worse and worse each day; Flora becomes unhappier and unhappier until one day, her husband takes her to the bedroom and displays to her a gun hidden in the dresser--the titular revolver.

He basically promises to shoot her should she do any wrong upon him (think adultery or trying to leave him), and from that day on she lives in fear of the man, a prisoner in her own home. For 4 years the girl is taunted by the gun and the cold steel haunts her dreams, until one day her husband is thrown off his horse and killed. Yeah, just like that he dies of an internal injury. Of course upon his death, Flora realizes that she still loved her husband.

The kicker, however, is the fact that the revolver? It was never loaded! All this time she had been afraid of an illusion of power.

This story is very interesting to me, mostly because of the symbolic revolver. It gives such a short story so much depth and so many layers; the gun represents the oppression of the female, the power of men over women. Patriarchy, my book says. The gun is also--kinda obviously--a phallic symbol, masculinity.

The fact that the revolver was empty as well is the perceived power that men have over women (or think they have) and I thought Bazán was pretty clever and a little sneaky for weaseling that in. It's subtle but not so subtle that you don't catch on--I wonder if it was so obvious to the readers in her day? I wouldn't doubt it, these aren't exactly new thoughts.

A little more puzzling, however, is the bullet wound in the widow's heart. To me it signifies that in a way she'll always be under her husband's control, even now that he's dead. You could even argue that it represents her love for him, even after the torment he put her through. Like the revolver there's no clear cut answer, and that's how symbolism in a story, I think, should be handled. Your reader doesn't necessarily have to come away with a clear perception (of course, the general gist of what you're going for should be clear).

Another thing I kinda picked up on after another reading was the fact that her husband died of an internal injury, and now Flora has a "bullet wound" in her heart. I didn't think it was much at first, but now I think that's a very interesting allusion if you choose to take it that way...

But anyway, in all, I find this a really interesting piece of feminist work. And great writing in general, complex yet coherent and concise and never dizzying or confusing (all those Cs). I wish I had some kind of text link to it but all the copies I can find on the internet are either in the original Spanish or not the full story (like discussions). Ho hum :/

Paper writing, or: Being Your Worst Editor!

Well, I'm currently down with a neck injury :P so to keep myself occupied because I can't do...anything, I got some paper, a pen, and actually started WRITING! Duh. And drawing a little.

Anyway, I've noticed that when I actually "paper write", there's a big difference compared to when I type up something in Word. For one thing, I admit I get a little lazy when I use Microsoft Word, since there's spellcheck, a thesaurus, and all that good shit that comes with the programming.

When I'm paper writing, though, I suddenly become the World's Bitchiest Critic: I obviously don't have all the tools I do on the computer so it's like starting over from scratch almost; I write all over the paper with corrections and I usually end up re-writing the page like 3 or 4 times. Not to mention pens running out and stuff :P it's a loooong process. And in the end I'll say to myself, "Great I'm gonna type this up!" And I change it AGAIN! And by the time I'm done doing all that re-writing and editing and correcting the last thing I want to do is see my story again...X(

I don't think I'm the only one that does this but I didn't really think about the big difference until yesterday afternoon. I actually think I should paper-write more often, it's good for remembering the basics of grammar and English and it's really kinda fun.