Since I'm tentatively identifying as a Buddhist, I thought it would be interesting - since I'm kinda stuck on The Second Train (Anna is just not coming to me. She may not be my rightful train-owner) to write what I kinda think the afterlife is going to be. Not that I think this is what happens to every person, just that this is what Mary needed.
--
As I sat in front of the mirror, sitting on my feet, hands folded in a graceful way I never could've achieved in life, I wondered whether I would like myself at the end of all this. It's a lot more comforting, you know, to think of some other person judging the life you've led, weighing the stolen kiss with your not-boyfriend in sophomore year against the time you drove a few miles to get that homeless lady a decent meal instead of drive-though food, deciding whether or not- when it all comes down to it- you led a life that deserves to be rewarded. At least if you got thrown into Hell you could rail against the unfairness of it all, that there was something your judge missed, as if there are incompetent gods. But now...
I died on a Thursday morning, in a very ordinary way. I had just finished the sewing on a new outfit for a friend's grandbaby; a particularly tricky bit of fabric (damn thing kept pulling and I had to work for an hour to get the stitch straight) and was heading to the kitchen to grab a quick cup of coffee to unwind with. The new John Grisham novel had come out, and I'd just picked it up yesterday. So I went into the kitchen, weaving effortlessly around the kitchen's island and idly wiping a few crumbs from the morning's toast off the gray marble countertop, book under my left arm as I reached for the coffeepot with my right. All of a sudden, I get shooting pains down my arm and I'm on the ground. Only thing I can see is the book lying on the floor next to me, face-down and pages already bending in what will be a permanent way if I don't fix them soon. There's a weird tightness in my chest, a panicked fluttering that scares me in the moments before someone grabs me underneath the arms and hauls me up, setting me on my feet and turning me gently around. It's a nice-looking young man in a dark suit, not the scary kind of black but that soothing color you get when it's been through a few months of wear, that makes it feel like the person wearing it is normal and not likely to hand you a frightening piece of paper. He holds his hands out in that now-hang-on-a-second gesture you do when you know someone's going to panic, palms facing an angle somewhere between the floor and your knees, and smiles in a pleading way, begging me to let him get a word in first.
"Are you feeling all right?" he asks, brow wrinkling slightly. "That was pretty sudden."
"Thank you," I say, for lack of anything else. Too many questions are crowding my mind, foremost among them being Who are you? and What are you doing here? and How did you get into my house?, and I need a minute to figure out which to ask first.
"I know this is confusing," he says, "But it'll become clear in just a moment. If you'd just step over here," he says, gesturing to a spot on the opposite side of the kitchen. "Don't worry," he says as he moves over and stands beneath the kitchen clock, "This is disorienting to everyone."
"What?" I say, and instinctively back up, not sure I want to be near this person, this stranger in my house, and I'm groping behind me as I go, knowing the knife block is right next to the sink, and suddenly I'm standing inside my kitchen sink and there is a person on the floor in front of me and- oh. I'm on the floor in front of me.
"Oh."
"Yes," he says, with a patient smile, and crosses to me without any regard to the butcher-block-topped island between us, gently taking my hand. "You're dead, Mary. I know it's a lot to get used to, so let's just sit down for a minute and talk about it."
"Not in here!" I say, looking jerkily at myself. The way I landed seems to have opened my mouth, and now my tongue is hanging out slightly, making me look as if this is some stupid practical joke.
"No, of course not," he says. "Come, let's go to my office." He takes my hand and pulls me, unresisting, to the door that leads to my sewing room. He pauses to take out a key, inserts it into a lock on the doorknob that had never existed before, and opens the door into a bland-looking office. He leads me across the coarse green carpet to a chair, and has me sit as he circles around a large wood desk to another. Posted on the walls are a few posters of waterfalls and grassy plains, along with a calendar and a few pieces of paper tacked to a corkboard. The desk itself was polished to a mirror shine, and empty of everything but a full-service tea set and a nameplate that read, Ben Matthews.
---
...and I will have to finish this later, my bed is calling and I have to be up in around 4 hours.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Second Train - Metamorphosis
Yes, I know, been a few days since I've written anything. Believe me when I say it's been a hellishly busy past few days, and life just keeps getting crazier.
-----
Anna closed her eyes, savoring the smell of warm apple cinnamon tea, before carefully placing it on the coaster on her desk and opening her laptop. Having gotten into the program she was currently working on, she sighed heavily and dove in, fingers clicking rapidly over keys as the tea cooled and her braid came slowly unwound. Fifteen minutes in, Sara poked her head around the door and cooed, "Guess who has tickets to see Mystique tonight?"
"You, of course, or you wouldn't be looking so smug," Anna said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "Going with Mark?"
"Yup! Who knows, I may come back an engaged woman!"
"I'd say definitely, considering he asked you what your ring size was a few weeks ago."
"I knooowwwww!!!" Sara said, flouncing to the bed Anna had managed to cram in one corner. "What do you wear to your engagement?"
"Something pretty, not too fancy or he'll know what you're thinking about, but still attractive enough that he'll go through with it."
"Are you saying he wouldn't?"
"Of course not! Idiot, he's been in love with you for five years. Just stop thinking about it and have fun with the man you love. Be a little grateful that you have one," Anna said, smiling but pushing Sara in the side with her foot for emphasis.
"You'll find your own Mark eventually," Sara said, twining her arm around Anna's waist and lying her head on her roommate's shoulder.
"Ewwwwww..." Anna groaned. "I'd hurt myself."
"Whatever, he's amazing. Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
---
Okay this is dumb and I'm tired. Night, after one joke I may incorporate into the story - What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor? "Make me one with everything." HA!
-----
Anna closed her eyes, savoring the smell of warm apple cinnamon tea, before carefully placing it on the coaster on her desk and opening her laptop. Having gotten into the program she was currently working on, she sighed heavily and dove in, fingers clicking rapidly over keys as the tea cooled and her braid came slowly unwound. Fifteen minutes in, Sara poked her head around the door and cooed, "Guess who has tickets to see Mystique tonight?"
"You, of course, or you wouldn't be looking so smug," Anna said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "Going with Mark?"
"Yup! Who knows, I may come back an engaged woman!"
"I'd say definitely, considering he asked you what your ring size was a few weeks ago."
"I knooowwwww!!!" Sara said, flouncing to the bed Anna had managed to cram in one corner. "What do you wear to your engagement?"
"Something pretty, not too fancy or he'll know what you're thinking about, but still attractive enough that he'll go through with it."
"Are you saying he wouldn't?"
"Of course not! Idiot, he's been in love with you for five years. Just stop thinking about it and have fun with the man you love. Be a little grateful that you have one," Anna said, smiling but pushing Sara in the side with her foot for emphasis.
"You'll find your own Mark eventually," Sara said, twining her arm around Anna's waist and lying her head on her roommate's shoulder.
"Ewwwwww..." Anna groaned. "I'd hurt myself."
"Whatever, he's amazing. Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
---
Okay this is dumb and I'm tired. Night, after one joke I may incorporate into the story - What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor? "Make me one with everything." HA!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Second Train - Boarding Call
Nothing to add today other than dear GOD there are so many bones in the human body. And I got to hold the tonight :3
-
The second train came, speeding down the track, and with it came memories, thoughts, a sense of self. Instantly Rachel was out the door, determined that this time, this time there would be no passing her by. She ran as fast as she could, apron strings fluttering behind her, dress snagging on weeds as she raced down the gravel lane towards the only light, only sound there was in the world. She could feel unconsciousness behind her, loping along with a fox's grin, waiting for her to tire and be swallowed up again.
"NO!" she shrieked, keeping her eyes on the train as it whipped closer, and suddenly she was on a platform, and had a brief impression of cobwebs and a sign that read "Platform 1" swinging on one hinge before the train was on her, red engine bearing down. It was so beautiful and terrifying and amazing that she cried out in joy and terror, and leaped to it, seeing an open door yawning in front of her, and then a rebound off a wall, a tangible reminder that this train was not hers, would never be hers, that she had given up all such things when she decided to wait for Sam. But she was done waiting. Sam was on a train too, and when he got where he belonged he'd find her pulling up beside him.
She pulled her apron off in a blind fury, and saw the caboose approaching. The gleaming handrails called to her, screamed at her, so she obeyed, whipping the apron around one and holding on for dear life as she was bounced violently against the back of the car, over and over again, as if the train itself were trying to dislodge her. God help her, it felt so good.
She managed to get a hand on the railing as the train rattled around a corner, swung helplessly for a moment, and got the other hand up, pulled herself up and over, and lay on the cold steel floor of the caboose, panting. She watched through the bars as the gray farmhouse pulled further and further away, and felt a sense of quiet jubilation. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet, rubbing her side and wincing at the pain of bruises blooming under her fingertips, and stared at the door to the compartment. It was imposing, black as coal with a design of black feathers threaded through bars, and great eyes stared blankly out at her from the door as she approached. "No use stopping now," she muttered. "Never was one for skulking around, and I'm certainly not staying on the back of this thing for the whole journey." Slowly, with an air of menace, she reached her hand out and grasped the handle.
Pain lanced through her as the handle immediately turned red, then white-hot, hotter than anything she'd ever known, and it was by sheer luck that she twisted as she shrieked in agony, falling through the doorway into-
Snow. A blanket of it covering a wide meadow ringed all around by slumbering pine trees, like nothing she had ever seen before. The air was crisp and clear, and small flakes gathered on Rachel's hair and clothes as she lay gripping her hand. Several minutes passed before she unclasped it, and experimentally opened her clenched fist. Smooth white skin faced her, rather than the blackened ruin she was expecting, and she couldn't help a sardonic smile escaping. She was dead, after all.
Looking around, she noticed two people standing on the other side of the meadow, nearly beneath the trees. She wasn't surprised no one had noticed her yet, as they were clearly locked in a heated argument. One stabbed her finger into the other's chest, making a forceful point, and the wind whipped around them as if trying to keep the peace, keep them apart.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" an angry voice said behind her. Rachel turned, and a few feet away stood a woman with mousey brown hair pulled into a ponytail, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a long nose. She was not someone that would stand out in a crowd, but the eyes behind the lenses were grass-green, snapping with intelligence and rage, and Rachel knew she was not to be underestimated.
"I don't know," she said, drawing herself up to her full height. "I was just stepping into-"
"Get out!" the other woman interrupted, and in a familiar move stabbed her finger into Rachel's chest. "You have no right to be here!" she cried, stepping closer and shoving Rachel as hard as she could. Pinwheeling madly, Rachel struggled to stay upright, when suddenly the snow beneath her feet was carpet and she slammed into a wall. The doorway she had just fallen through gaped open for a moment, showing a glimpse of whiteness and trees before swiftly rolling shut.
Having been knocked around quite enough for the moment, Rachel sat against the wall and looked at her new surroundings. On the wall above her was a small window, and along the hallway she could see other windows spaced at regular intervals. The wall facing her had a long row of sliding doors, with no ornamentation but a black number stenciled into them, and the carpeted hallway stretched to identical black doors at either end. She sat, rocked by the train, listening to the steady chugging sounds and gripping the carpet in her long fingers, and smiled.
She'd made it.
--
So there's more of The Second Train, which is officially my NaNo book this year. Hooray for making decisions!
-
The second train came, speeding down the track, and with it came memories, thoughts, a sense of self. Instantly Rachel was out the door, determined that this time, this time there would be no passing her by. She ran as fast as she could, apron strings fluttering behind her, dress snagging on weeds as she raced down the gravel lane towards the only light, only sound there was in the world. She could feel unconsciousness behind her, loping along with a fox's grin, waiting for her to tire and be swallowed up again.
"NO!" she shrieked, keeping her eyes on the train as it whipped closer, and suddenly she was on a platform, and had a brief impression of cobwebs and a sign that read "Platform 1" swinging on one hinge before the train was on her, red engine bearing down. It was so beautiful and terrifying and amazing that she cried out in joy and terror, and leaped to it, seeing an open door yawning in front of her, and then a rebound off a wall, a tangible reminder that this train was not hers, would never be hers, that she had given up all such things when she decided to wait for Sam. But she was done waiting. Sam was on a train too, and when he got where he belonged he'd find her pulling up beside him.
She pulled her apron off in a blind fury, and saw the caboose approaching. The gleaming handrails called to her, screamed at her, so she obeyed, whipping the apron around one and holding on for dear life as she was bounced violently against the back of the car, over and over again, as if the train itself were trying to dislodge her. God help her, it felt so good.
She managed to get a hand on the railing as the train rattled around a corner, swung helplessly for a moment, and got the other hand up, pulled herself up and over, and lay on the cold steel floor of the caboose, panting. She watched through the bars as the gray farmhouse pulled further and further away, and felt a sense of quiet jubilation. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet, rubbing her side and wincing at the pain of bruises blooming under her fingertips, and stared at the door to the compartment. It was imposing, black as coal with a design of black feathers threaded through bars, and great eyes stared blankly out at her from the door as she approached. "No use stopping now," she muttered. "Never was one for skulking around, and I'm certainly not staying on the back of this thing for the whole journey." Slowly, with an air of menace, she reached her hand out and grasped the handle.
Pain lanced through her as the handle immediately turned red, then white-hot, hotter than anything she'd ever known, and it was by sheer luck that she twisted as she shrieked in agony, falling through the doorway into-
Snow. A blanket of it covering a wide meadow ringed all around by slumbering pine trees, like nothing she had ever seen before. The air was crisp and clear, and small flakes gathered on Rachel's hair and clothes as she lay gripping her hand. Several minutes passed before she unclasped it, and experimentally opened her clenched fist. Smooth white skin faced her, rather than the blackened ruin she was expecting, and she couldn't help a sardonic smile escaping. She was dead, after all.
Looking around, she noticed two people standing on the other side of the meadow, nearly beneath the trees. She wasn't surprised no one had noticed her yet, as they were clearly locked in a heated argument. One stabbed her finger into the other's chest, making a forceful point, and the wind whipped around them as if trying to keep the peace, keep them apart.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" an angry voice said behind her. Rachel turned, and a few feet away stood a woman with mousey brown hair pulled into a ponytail, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a long nose. She was not someone that would stand out in a crowd, but the eyes behind the lenses were grass-green, snapping with intelligence and rage, and Rachel knew she was not to be underestimated.
"I don't know," she said, drawing herself up to her full height. "I was just stepping into-"
"Get out!" the other woman interrupted, and in a familiar move stabbed her finger into Rachel's chest. "You have no right to be here!" she cried, stepping closer and shoving Rachel as hard as she could. Pinwheeling madly, Rachel struggled to stay upright, when suddenly the snow beneath her feet was carpet and she slammed into a wall. The doorway she had just fallen through gaped open for a moment, showing a glimpse of whiteness and trees before swiftly rolling shut.
Having been knocked around quite enough for the moment, Rachel sat against the wall and looked at her new surroundings. On the wall above her was a small window, and along the hallway she could see other windows spaced at regular intervals. The wall facing her had a long row of sliding doors, with no ornamentation but a black number stenciled into them, and the carpeted hallway stretched to identical black doors at either end. She sat, rocked by the train, listening to the steady chugging sounds and gripping the carpet in her long fingers, and smiled.
She'd made it.
--
So there's more of The Second Train, which is officially my NaNo book this year. Hooray for making decisions!
More young Franny - the Tale of Grimer's Peak
Blaaaaagh rereading yesterday's post makes me want to eat my hands. So I can't write anything that robotic again. But anyway here's more from that. Probably just as robotic, btw, really need to get back into that Austen-ish style.
After dinner, Uncle James and Edward retired to the drawing room as usual. Edward had been insisting on this as of late, saying that since he was now of age it was high time he was allowed to have a smoke of an evening with his father. This time, however, James held his arm out for Franny to take.
"Really?!?!?!"
"Well, you are an Earthshaker now, after all," he said, placing her hand on the sleeve of his scarlet dressing gown. Edward, ahead of them, looked back and grinned at the pair.
"Does that mean she gets to hear one of your war stories, father?"
"Well, maybe not one of those quite yet."
"Oh, please tell me one! Please please please!" Fanny cried, eyes alight. "You know Edward will tell me one if you don't."
"Like hell he will, if he knows what's good for him," James said comfortably, "But if you like I'll tell you about Grimer's Peak." At Franny's happy nod, he chuckled and led her to his seat, pulled as close to the roaring fire as possible. Franny sat at his feet, Henry padding over to lay his head in her lap with a soft sigh.
"There was a lad name of Robert Grimer who was a second-grade Earthshaker," he began. "At that time, the firsts and the seconds were rare, so when ol' Boney came across the first time, they flew him from front to front, as a major source of muscle. See, Grimer was best at raising earth, so whenever he was around they had him fling a company of Frogs a few hundred feet up."
"But that must have been exhausting," Franny said, eyebrows furrowed. "Wouldn't it have made more sense have him destroy commanders or supply trains, or even use him as defense?"
"Ah, you're your father's girl, all right. But no, y'see, there was no way for the airboys to fly him over to the trains or command, since Boney had all kinds of air support, and defense would be less practical than using him to incite the fear of God in the French."
"I suppose that makes sense."
"Of course it does. Would you fight if you thought you'd be hundreds of feet in the air in the next few seconds?"
"Of course not," Edward interjected, from the lounge where he'd been pretending to read a novel.
"Now," James continued, as if the debate had never occured, "You don't know this, Franny, since you've only begun learning, but second- and first- grade Shakers can move earth when they themselves aren't standing on it. With practice, and some ability, it's actually possible to shake from the air. And, of course, this is better from a tactical standpoint, since it's damned harder to find a man on an airship than it is to find one on the ground." Franny nodded. "This Grimer chap was on the Apollo - good ship she was, a prime beauty until she got shot down in the Battle of ______. There was a prime gale brewing that day, and they couldn't take down sail fast enough. She rolled, and Grimer fell out. In a state of panic, he did what Shakers do best - he called the earth to him to break his fall. Problem is, he called it too fast, and he only got a thin needle coming at him as fast as he could manage. Speared him right through the heart, they say, though I think it's a fairy tale."
"Isn't!" Edward interjected. "They even left him up there as a lesson to the other Shakers. You can see it if you fly close enough."
"Nothing of the sort. Get the smallest craft you can and the engine vibration would still crumble the spire to the ground," James said authoritatively.
"Well, wouldn't removing his body do the same thing, then?"
"Hmph. You may have a point, lad, but I still don't believe he's up there."
--
This totally counts as a Wednesday post, since I have not yet gone to bed. Also, told you it was going to be crap. But it could not be - just need to update (down-date??) the language to the proper time period, get the story of the Napoleon Wars right so I can mess with it, and learn how to describe things better. Yeaaahhhh....
After dinner, Uncle James and Edward retired to the drawing room as usual. Edward had been insisting on this as of late, saying that since he was now of age it was high time he was allowed to have a smoke of an evening with his father. This time, however, James held his arm out for Franny to take.
"Really?!?!?!"
"Well, you are an Earthshaker now, after all," he said, placing her hand on the sleeve of his scarlet dressing gown. Edward, ahead of them, looked back and grinned at the pair.
"Does that mean she gets to hear one of your war stories, father?"
"Well, maybe not one of those quite yet."
"Oh, please tell me one! Please please please!" Fanny cried, eyes alight. "You know Edward will tell me one if you don't."
"Like hell he will, if he knows what's good for him," James said comfortably, "But if you like I'll tell you about Grimer's Peak." At Franny's happy nod, he chuckled and led her to his seat, pulled as close to the roaring fire as possible. Franny sat at his feet, Henry padding over to lay his head in her lap with a soft sigh.
"There was a lad name of Robert Grimer who was a second-grade Earthshaker," he began. "At that time, the firsts and the seconds were rare, so when ol' Boney came across the first time, they flew him from front to front, as a major source of muscle. See, Grimer was best at raising earth, so whenever he was around they had him fling a company of Frogs a few hundred feet up."
"But that must have been exhausting," Franny said, eyebrows furrowed. "Wouldn't it have made more sense have him destroy commanders or supply trains, or even use him as defense?"
"Ah, you're your father's girl, all right. But no, y'see, there was no way for the airboys to fly him over to the trains or command, since Boney had all kinds of air support, and defense would be less practical than using him to incite the fear of God in the French."
"I suppose that makes sense."
"Of course it does. Would you fight if you thought you'd be hundreds of feet in the air in the next few seconds?"
"Of course not," Edward interjected, from the lounge where he'd been pretending to read a novel.
"Now," James continued, as if the debate had never occured, "You don't know this, Franny, since you've only begun learning, but second- and first- grade Shakers can move earth when they themselves aren't standing on it. With practice, and some ability, it's actually possible to shake from the air. And, of course, this is better from a tactical standpoint, since it's damned harder to find a man on an airship than it is to find one on the ground." Franny nodded. "This Grimer chap was on the Apollo - good ship she was, a prime beauty until she got shot down in the Battle of ______. There was a prime gale brewing that day, and they couldn't take down sail fast enough. She rolled, and Grimer fell out. In a state of panic, he did what Shakers do best - he called the earth to him to break his fall. Problem is, he called it too fast, and he only got a thin needle coming at him as fast as he could manage. Speared him right through the heart, they say, though I think it's a fairy tale."
"Isn't!" Edward interjected. "They even left him up there as a lesson to the other Shakers. You can see it if you fly close enough."
"Nothing of the sort. Get the smallest craft you can and the engine vibration would still crumble the spire to the ground," James said authoritatively.
"Well, wouldn't removing his body do the same thing, then?"
"Hmph. You may have a point, lad, but I still don't believe he's up there."
--
This totally counts as a Wednesday post, since I have not yet gone to bed. Also, told you it was going to be crap. But it could not be - just need to update (down-date??) the language to the proper time period, get the story of the Napoleon Wars right so I can mess with it, and learn how to describe things better. Yeaaahhhh....
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Franny the Earthshaker (NOT THE TITLE OF THE BOOK)
Cause that would just be silly. Basically, I got the idea for this one kinda piecewise, combining my love of steampunk, the Napoleonic Era, and a few books/webcomics/songs I drew inspiration from. As such, the plot is also in pieces all over the place and I keep adding characters and situations as I research the period, but it's still all my baby and I love it love it looooove it.
Anyway. Was listening to my favorite writing music today (this) and the emotion that I got from it led me down some weird passageways, from a cowboy to a dance floor to person falling, and from falling I turned to Franny's story and got this.
Franny flexed her fingers and concentrated. It had been difficult when the glove slid off, the smooth leather slipping off her delicate fingers. But her uncle James had just chuckled, and Mr. Pimms had been dispatched to the manor to fetch some ribbons to tie around her wrists, holding the two together. She'd twisted her wrist this way and that, admiring the contrast of the bright pink and shiny leather, and the way they fluttered in the spring breeze, until her uncle had harumphed loudly.
"Come on now, gel. Haven't got the time to be fussing over fripperies all day."
"Yes, uncle," she had said, and assumed a loose stance as she had been taught.
"Do you remember the position?"
"Yes." She flexed her fingers into a claw, then twisted her wrist so her palm was pointing toward the sky, and stared intently at the small patch of ground Mr. Pimms had ringed with stone. Thinking as hard as she could, she raised her hand over her head, making a dramatic twisting gesture as she did so. Nothing happened.
"Did you use your head or your feet?" James asked, grinning. Her crestfallen face reminded her of his own the first time he'd tried to use his father's glove. "Remember what I told you now, Franny. Picture a line from your feet to the ground and feel the connection inherit in it." Franny nodded, her face flaming. Edward had told her he was sure she'd do it first go; how embarrassed he'd be if she couldn't do it at all!
She squared her feet again, this time closing her eyes and transferring all her thoughts to her feet. It wasn't hard, seeing as they'd been practicing in the courtyard for hours and her plain brown boots were wet through. She reached further and felt through the soles of her shoes to the earth underfoot, softened by the previous night's rain. She imagined the feel of it, good solid dirt that broke into thick clumps under your fingers, and felt an odd shuddering sensation run up her spine and back again. Seeing this, James nodded, though Franny couldn't see him.
"Go on, then."
She nodded, still holding the thought of earth in her mind, and slowly opened her eyes. Placing her hand in the proper position, she slowly, ever so carefully, raised it, and in front of her, the ground rippled and rose, in a perfectly straight line, until it reached the circle. Her hand shook and the strain began to show on her face, but Franny held the position until the small circle rose as well, then clenched her fist. The earth fell in soft showers back to the ground as she raced toward her uncle, who swept her up in his arms and spun her around, laughing madly.
"Ahhh, who says a girl can't earthshift?!" he shouted in her ear, and heaved her to his hip. "Come on, then, let's go tell your cousin."
Gotta go see Scott Pilgrim again; I'll post more of this when I get back.
Anyway. Was listening to my favorite writing music today (this) and the emotion that I got from it led me down some weird passageways, from a cowboy to a dance floor to person falling, and from falling I turned to Franny's story and got this.
Franny flexed her fingers and concentrated. It had been difficult when the glove slid off, the smooth leather slipping off her delicate fingers. But her uncle James had just chuckled, and Mr. Pimms had been dispatched to the manor to fetch some ribbons to tie around her wrists, holding the two together. She'd twisted her wrist this way and that, admiring the contrast of the bright pink and shiny leather, and the way they fluttered in the spring breeze, until her uncle had harumphed loudly.
"Come on now, gel. Haven't got the time to be fussing over fripperies all day."
"Yes, uncle," she had said, and assumed a loose stance as she had been taught.
"Do you remember the position?"
"Yes." She flexed her fingers into a claw, then twisted her wrist so her palm was pointing toward the sky, and stared intently at the small patch of ground Mr. Pimms had ringed with stone. Thinking as hard as she could, she raised her hand over her head, making a dramatic twisting gesture as she did so. Nothing happened.
"Did you use your head or your feet?" James asked, grinning. Her crestfallen face reminded her of his own the first time he'd tried to use his father's glove. "Remember what I told you now, Franny. Picture a line from your feet to the ground and feel the connection inherit in it." Franny nodded, her face flaming. Edward had told her he was sure she'd do it first go; how embarrassed he'd be if she couldn't do it at all!
She squared her feet again, this time closing her eyes and transferring all her thoughts to her feet. It wasn't hard, seeing as they'd been practicing in the courtyard for hours and her plain brown boots were wet through. She reached further and felt through the soles of her shoes to the earth underfoot, softened by the previous night's rain. She imagined the feel of it, good solid dirt that broke into thick clumps under your fingers, and felt an odd shuddering sensation run up her spine and back again. Seeing this, James nodded, though Franny couldn't see him.
"Go on, then."
She nodded, still holding the thought of earth in her mind, and slowly opened her eyes. Placing her hand in the proper position, she slowly, ever so carefully, raised it, and in front of her, the ground rippled and rose, in a perfectly straight line, until it reached the circle. Her hand shook and the strain began to show on her face, but Franny held the position until the small circle rose as well, then clenched her fist. The earth fell in soft showers back to the ground as she raced toward her uncle, who swept her up in his arms and spun her around, laughing madly.
"Ahhh, who says a girl can't earthshift?!" he shouted in her ear, and heaved her to his hip. "Come on, then, let's go tell your cousin."
Gotta go see Scott Pilgrim again; I'll post more of this when I get back.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Transcription for The Second Train
A friend and I are working on a series of novels where a couple, separated by death, are attempting to be reunited. Those that choose to move on after death are sent to Heaven or Hell via a train that travels through Limbo. Each compartment of the train is a different significant memory from one's past, and when you're done moving through the train, you'll arrive at your final destination. Sam, the male half of the couple, is on a train when Rachel, who chose to wait for him rather than move on and thus was banished to Limbo, sees him. She can't catch his train, but the next time one goes by, she remembers seeing him again and manages to board this one (which is, of course, not supposed to be possible). By doing that, she puts her own memories on board and they get mixed up with the person's that this train really belongs to, and they are stuck wandering through both lives until a solution can be reached.
I've already written a few things in a notebook I keep around, so for today's post I'm writing these down just to get them in here. Tomorrow is all new stuff.
Thought 1 (and the intro to the book):
A plant shriveled quietly on a windowsill as she sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window at the nothingness outside. Something was important, once. What was it? Where was she? Consciousness returned for a moment, screaming and flapping as it broke apart the bars of its fleshy prison, and for a single beat of time her hands clenched the tablecloth, turning it blue with the force of the memories streaming into her, in a wave of light and sound and feeling-
The gates crashed down.
The hands relaxed as the tablecloth slowly faded into an indeterminate shade of gray.
She sat,staring at the plain of gray grass that stretched to the gray mountains that silhouetted the gray sky, and was unaware that anything had happened. This cycle had repeated 31,462 times, and Rachel Forscythe still sat, in a place where time had no meaning, and stared out the window of her gray farmhouse.
Until the day the second train passed by.
I'm wondering if I should cut this second one. Giving the woman a miscarriage seems so cliched, and the way it came out I might just make it about the death of her father.
Thought 2:
She sat in the bay window, staring out at the rain as she cradled a cup of tea in her fragile hands. A hospital bracelet dangled from one wrist, though the date was several days old. She hadn't cried, and was beginning to doubt she ever would. All liveliness had drained out her with the body of her little boy, and she simply soaked in the light mist of melancholy every rainstorm brings, noticing- but not caring- when Sam padded in to tuck a shawl around her shoulders.
A cup of tea had been her go-to for years. At 7, when her father had thrown out every scribble of hers except the floral watercolors, she had retreated to her room with a cup of tea, and sulkily read several (also forbidden) novels until the following morning. When told she couldn't marry Sam, she had calmly gotten herself a cup of tea, drank it, and began packing her bags.
That's it for now. More tomorrow.
I've already written a few things in a notebook I keep around, so for today's post I'm writing these down just to get them in here. Tomorrow is all new stuff.
Thought 1 (and the intro to the book):
A plant shriveled quietly on a windowsill as she sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window at the nothingness outside. Something was important, once. What was it? Where was she? Consciousness returned for a moment, screaming and flapping as it broke apart the bars of its fleshy prison, and for a single beat of time her hands clenched the tablecloth, turning it blue with the force of the memories streaming into her, in a wave of light and sound and feeling-
The gates crashed down.
The hands relaxed as the tablecloth slowly faded into an indeterminate shade of gray.
She sat,staring at the plain of gray grass that stretched to the gray mountains that silhouetted the gray sky, and was unaware that anything had happened. This cycle had repeated 31,462 times, and Rachel Forscythe still sat, in a place where time had no meaning, and stared out the window of her gray farmhouse.
Until the day the second train passed by.
I'm wondering if I should cut this second one. Giving the woman a miscarriage seems so cliched, and the way it came out I might just make it about the death of her father.
Thought 2:
She sat in the bay window, staring out at the rain as she cradled a cup of tea in her fragile hands. A hospital bracelet dangled from one wrist, though the date was several days old. She hadn't cried, and was beginning to doubt she ever would. All liveliness had drained out her with the body of her little boy, and she simply soaked in the light mist of melancholy every rainstorm brings, noticing- but not caring- when Sam padded in to tuck a shawl around her shoulders.
A cup of tea had been her go-to for years. At 7, when her father had thrown out every scribble of hers except the floral watercolors, she had retreated to her room with a cup of tea, and sulkily read several (also forbidden) novels until the following morning. When told she couldn't marry Sam, she had calmly gotten herself a cup of tea, drank it, and began packing her bags.
That's it for now. More tomorrow.
The beginning of a new chapter, hopefully where chapters are written.
Not too long ago, a friend of mine started a blog of her own where she, and I quote, "attempt to do at least one little sketch a day, no matter how awful, for my own good." I really got inspired by that, so from here on out, I will attempt to write, just a bit, every day; be it a poem, short story, dialogue, anything. Something will get written. And since it's the first of November, this will also be a place where I attempt NaNo for the second time (the first having failed miserably). Now onward, to the writings!
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