So, recently I got the idea for a short story in my mind. Now, unfortunately for all you folks, I'm not going to be putting it up here yet. It's currently only a page and a quarter of handwritten words in a college ruled spiral notebook, so it's most definitely just a work in progress.
I will give a short idea of what it's about.
Now, those of you who've read my stuff know I'm really not one for kitchen sink realism, or anything even slightly resembling that type of writing.
I'm making an exception.
Now, I won't tell you why I'm making an exception, but I'll give you a hint of what's different about this type: how do you describe color to somebody who can't perceive it?
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
First part of a short story.
Yes. You heard me right. I'm actually writing a short story. Not a short story turned novel. But an actual short story.
Hope you enjoy it. It's very dark, moody and depressing.
“Get in there. And don’t complain or you’ll go without food.”
She was thrown roughly into the cell, its iron door slamming sharply and the dead bolt on the other side slipping into place. The man’s footsteps echoed down the hall until the opening and closing of another door, showing that he was no longer there.
She let herself breathe in harshly, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. Day in and day out, she was subjected to this torture. Hours upon hours of experimental injections, medical tests, physical trials… and the pain. The pain if the men failed to receive the results they wanted. The pain they subjected her to if she collapsed from exhaustion, took sick, performed inadequately… that terrifying pain kept her sane, but only just barely.
She pushed herself up and stood on both feet, taking in the usual sparse, worse-than-minimalist quarters she had lived in since they had taken her. A stainless steel bucket in the corner served as her toilet, forcing her to endure the scent as it festered until the bucket could not hold any more. That took about a week. Her eyes fell upon the inch-thin cushion that served as her “mattress”, the grimy foam pillow crusted with tears, the threadbare sheet she had used the whole time she was there. The cinderblock walls of the facility got dreadfully cold in the winter, but this was all she had. A single window up near the top, maybe half the size of a sheet of paper let in a sparse amount of light and the barest amount of fresh air.
Her eyes fell upon the wall that the door was set into. On the reverse side of the hinges, hidden by the door as it opened, several hundreds of small lines lay. Dozens of sets of four vertical lines with a single diagonal line through them, each completed set marking off every five days she had spent here. Hundreds of those lines covered that wall.
The grating of iron on iron, the squeaking of rusty hinges stole her attention back to the door. A gloved hand slid a small tray through a cutout in the iron door, a flap large enough for her three daily “meals” to go through, yet far too small for her to escape from. The tray contained her usual: a single piece of stale bread, two glasses of water and five large pills. Inside those pills were the remaining daily nutrients that the bread did not give her, optimized so that she would appear to be in perfect health, yet would not expend the same cost for food as the other humans in the facility.
She moved herself over to the tray, picking it up and seating it upon her pillow. She took the pills first, using as little water as possible and ending up with a cup and a half. She took the stale bread and broke it into various pieces, dipping them in the water to soften it up. She ate the bread slowly, trying to savor what little solid food she received each day and the bland, yet existent flavor it held. But all too soon she had finished it, and so she sipped on the water slowly, trying to make that last as long as possible, but eventually the cup ran dry as well. She put the tray on the floor, knowing the flap was only one way and that the scientists would take it in the morning.
Looking up through the window, her eyes fell upon the full moon, its complete image barely captured by the minute portcullis. It enraptured her, that lone white sphere hovering full in the sky, its milky rays falling to the world beholden to it. Was it as lonely as she? Did it long for company as she did? Somebody, anybody to talk to?
She sighed and lay down on the bed, her head falling down onto the pillow and messy blond locks splaying around her. She drew the sheet over herself and cast one more glance at the wall. There were currently seven hundred and twenty nine lines on the wall.
Tomorrow would be two years to the day since she had been abducted and brought here.
Tomorrow was her seventeenth birthday.
* * * * *
“Wake up, honey! It’s your big day!”
Bleary eyes opened to the world, and her hand came up to push her blond hair back from in front of her face. The clock on her bedside table read 9:47, and below the time, Saturday. She let a soft smile cover her face. Today was her fifteenth birthday, and she would be seeing all of her friends.
A quick shower and a change of clothes later, and she was wearing the blouse she had just bought the other day, a pair of jeans and a cute pair of flats. She looked at herself in the mirror, nodding in approval before she went down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to trip over her dog. As she arrived in the kitchen, she saw her mother working over the stove, cooking up pancakes for the family.
“Dear, would you mind going outside and grabbing the paper really fast?”
She nodded, smiled and went out the front door, looking down the driveway to where the paper was. But as soon as she bent down to pick up the paper, something rustled the bush behind her, and a heavy, strong hand placed a wet cloth over her mouth while another pulled her back. She tried to scream out, she really did. But the more she tried, the more tired she became. As consciousness escaped her, she couldn’t help but notice the cloth smelled and tasted funny, almost like it had been soaked in something…
She awoke with a start.
The morning sun streamed into her cell in a tiny beam, shining off of the dark iron door and directly into her eyes. She pulled herself out of the bed and lifted up the mattress, revealing a tiny fragment of iron. She took the fragment in hand and went over to the wall, making a slash through the last set of four lines on the wall.
Seven hundred and thirty days.
Two years.
And yet still she remained here.
She laid back down onto her bed, curled up in the fetal position, shivering and praying that somebody would come and help her.
That somebody would come and save her.
Hope you enjoy it. It's very dark, moody and depressing.
“Get in there. And don’t complain or you’ll go without food.”
She was thrown roughly into the cell, its iron door slamming sharply and the dead bolt on the other side slipping into place. The man’s footsteps echoed down the hall until the opening and closing of another door, showing that he was no longer there.
She let herself breathe in harshly, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. Day in and day out, she was subjected to this torture. Hours upon hours of experimental injections, medical tests, physical trials… and the pain. The pain if the men failed to receive the results they wanted. The pain they subjected her to if she collapsed from exhaustion, took sick, performed inadequately… that terrifying pain kept her sane, but only just barely.
She pushed herself up and stood on both feet, taking in the usual sparse, worse-than-minimalist quarters she had lived in since they had taken her. A stainless steel bucket in the corner served as her toilet, forcing her to endure the scent as it festered until the bucket could not hold any more. That took about a week. Her eyes fell upon the inch-thin cushion that served as her “mattress”, the grimy foam pillow crusted with tears, the threadbare sheet she had used the whole time she was there. The cinderblock walls of the facility got dreadfully cold in the winter, but this was all she had. A single window up near the top, maybe half the size of a sheet of paper let in a sparse amount of light and the barest amount of fresh air.
Her eyes fell upon the wall that the door was set into. On the reverse side of the hinges, hidden by the door as it opened, several hundreds of small lines lay. Dozens of sets of four vertical lines with a single diagonal line through them, each completed set marking off every five days she had spent here. Hundreds of those lines covered that wall.
The grating of iron on iron, the squeaking of rusty hinges stole her attention back to the door. A gloved hand slid a small tray through a cutout in the iron door, a flap large enough for her three daily “meals” to go through, yet far too small for her to escape from. The tray contained her usual: a single piece of stale bread, two glasses of water and five large pills. Inside those pills were the remaining daily nutrients that the bread did not give her, optimized so that she would appear to be in perfect health, yet would not expend the same cost for food as the other humans in the facility.
She moved herself over to the tray, picking it up and seating it upon her pillow. She took the pills first, using as little water as possible and ending up with a cup and a half. She took the stale bread and broke it into various pieces, dipping them in the water to soften it up. She ate the bread slowly, trying to savor what little solid food she received each day and the bland, yet existent flavor it held. But all too soon she had finished it, and so she sipped on the water slowly, trying to make that last as long as possible, but eventually the cup ran dry as well. She put the tray on the floor, knowing the flap was only one way and that the scientists would take it in the morning.
Looking up through the window, her eyes fell upon the full moon, its complete image barely captured by the minute portcullis. It enraptured her, that lone white sphere hovering full in the sky, its milky rays falling to the world beholden to it. Was it as lonely as she? Did it long for company as she did? Somebody, anybody to talk to?
She sighed and lay down on the bed, her head falling down onto the pillow and messy blond locks splaying around her. She drew the sheet over herself and cast one more glance at the wall. There were currently seven hundred and twenty nine lines on the wall.
Tomorrow would be two years to the day since she had been abducted and brought here.
Tomorrow was her seventeenth birthday.
* * * * *
“Wake up, honey! It’s your big day!”
Bleary eyes opened to the world, and her hand came up to push her blond hair back from in front of her face. The clock on her bedside table read 9:47, and below the time, Saturday. She let a soft smile cover her face. Today was her fifteenth birthday, and she would be seeing all of her friends.
A quick shower and a change of clothes later, and she was wearing the blouse she had just bought the other day, a pair of jeans and a cute pair of flats. She looked at herself in the mirror, nodding in approval before she went down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to trip over her dog. As she arrived in the kitchen, she saw her mother working over the stove, cooking up pancakes for the family.
“Dear, would you mind going outside and grabbing the paper really fast?”
She nodded, smiled and went out the front door, looking down the driveway to where the paper was. But as soon as she bent down to pick up the paper, something rustled the bush behind her, and a heavy, strong hand placed a wet cloth over her mouth while another pulled her back. She tried to scream out, she really did. But the more she tried, the more tired she became. As consciousness escaped her, she couldn’t help but notice the cloth smelled and tasted funny, almost like it had been soaked in something…
She awoke with a start.
The morning sun streamed into her cell in a tiny beam, shining off of the dark iron door and directly into her eyes. She pulled herself out of the bed and lifted up the mattress, revealing a tiny fragment of iron. She took the fragment in hand and went over to the wall, making a slash through the last set of four lines on the wall.
Seven hundred and thirty days.
Two years.
And yet still she remained here.
She laid back down onto her bed, curled up in the fetal position, shivering and praying that somebody would come and help her.
That somebody would come and save her.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Finally... Another Post
People, people, people...
When you read my blog, you're supposed to leave comments. Yeah. You see that little button at the bottom of my post? With a pencil next to it?
Yeah. That's the button.
For the love of all that is good and (not) holy.... PRESS IT!
No matter what my opinion on the government is, there is one thing about any government that I can’t deny, and that is their remarkable ability to tie up loose ends.
And it was that remarkable ability that saw the three of us sprinting through the forests, desperately running away from lights, guns and helicopters.
I could hear Sam and Aurora’s strained panting beside me, the rasping sound of each other’s breathing being the only thing keeping any of us conscious. We ran for our freedom, our rights, our lives, ran as fast as we could, ignoring the painful and near-impassable terrain racing by underfoot.
The gashes on our legs and feet, tokens of the razor-sharp stones littering the ground didn’t matter to us.
We couldn’t have cared less about the splinters imbedded in our arms, leftovers from the debris-filled explosions of the forest’s trees.
The rain pelting us every second might as well have been a misting for all the attention we paid to it, despite our shivering and drenched bodies.
None of it mattered. At the moment, only one idea, one single ephemeral thought was important.
Escape.
A minute burst of light off in the distance.
A figure tackling me to the ground.
A bullet erupting through the stone that I had just been in front of the moment before.
And I realized that had it not been for Sam and her reflexes, my head would be nothing more than a spatter of red and grey gore on the landscape.
Phantom bullets. They were a new invention that had entered the scene not five years ago, revolutionizing the field of warfare. Nobody understood how they worked, not even the manufacturers. Only their creator—The Musician—understood the mechanics behind what made the projectiles act the way they did.
But as for what properties they had… that was plainly evident.
Phantom bullets phased through inorganic matter and dead matter, and only caused any physical damage to living creatures. One minute you’re sitting in a steel-walled room, sipping tea, safe and secure. The next? You’re dead in a pool of your own blood, a quarter-sized hole punched through your heart.
If those were being sent at us, the game had been taken to a whole new level. Despite that, we kept running.
We had no other choice.
The dense woodland that had sheltered us from aerial assault was thinning fast. I looked over to Sam and Aurora on my right, only to see the latter with a hand over her left eye and mumbling to herself.
She was the only reason we hadn’t been captured or killed yet.
We erupted from the woods and were greeted by the sight of a suspension bridge spanning a hundred yard long canyon that would be the death of any who fell in. We had only just begun crossing when I heard a bullet skim past my left ear and graze Sam’s shoulder.
They’d caught us.
I turned around to face our pursuers, my arms spread wide in a feeble attempt to protect the girls. An entire firing squad erupted from the trees, guns trained on me and laser sights tracing my thin frame. In vain, I focused on my right eye, only to be dismayed when nothing happened. The drugs may have worn off on Sam and Aurora, but they had probably given me a double dose.
“Kai Boudreau,” a voice boomed from the sky. The droning sound of helicopter blades heralded the metal behemoth’s descent from the sky. The glare of spotlights blinded me, forcing me to shield my eyes with my arm. “Surrender yourself and your companions now and no harm shall come to you.”
I glared defiantly into the light; I hadn’t lost the will to resist yet.
“No.”
“So be it. On my mark!”
A final laser sight appeared on my chest. But they wouldn’t see me cower. I would never give them the satisfaction.
“Fire!”
I shifted slightly to the left.
A bright flare erupted from the side of the helicopter.
And the bullet ripped through my torso, a spray of blood following its trail from my body.
I coughed once, my lifeblood oozing from my throat. And as I felt a tugging on my arms, the world went dark once more.
When you read my blog, you're supposed to leave comments. Yeah. You see that little button at the bottom of my post? With a pencil next to it?
Yeah. That's the button.
For the love of all that is good and (not) holy.... PRESS IT!
No matter what my opinion on the government is, there is one thing about any government that I can’t deny, and that is their remarkable ability to tie up loose ends.
And it was that remarkable ability that saw the three of us sprinting through the forests, desperately running away from lights, guns and helicopters.
I could hear Sam and Aurora’s strained panting beside me, the rasping sound of each other’s breathing being the only thing keeping any of us conscious. We ran for our freedom, our rights, our lives, ran as fast as we could, ignoring the painful and near-impassable terrain racing by underfoot.
The gashes on our legs and feet, tokens of the razor-sharp stones littering the ground didn’t matter to us.
We couldn’t have cared less about the splinters imbedded in our arms, leftovers from the debris-filled explosions of the forest’s trees.
The rain pelting us every second might as well have been a misting for all the attention we paid to it, despite our shivering and drenched bodies.
None of it mattered. At the moment, only one idea, one single ephemeral thought was important.
Escape.
A minute burst of light off in the distance.
A figure tackling me to the ground.
A bullet erupting through the stone that I had just been in front of the moment before.
And I realized that had it not been for Sam and her reflexes, my head would be nothing more than a spatter of red and grey gore on the landscape.
Phantom bullets. They were a new invention that had entered the scene not five years ago, revolutionizing the field of warfare. Nobody understood how they worked, not even the manufacturers. Only their creator—The Musician—understood the mechanics behind what made the projectiles act the way they did.
But as for what properties they had… that was plainly evident.
Phantom bullets phased through inorganic matter and dead matter, and only caused any physical damage to living creatures. One minute you’re sitting in a steel-walled room, sipping tea, safe and secure. The next? You’re dead in a pool of your own blood, a quarter-sized hole punched through your heart.
If those were being sent at us, the game had been taken to a whole new level. Despite that, we kept running.
We had no other choice.
The dense woodland that had sheltered us from aerial assault was thinning fast. I looked over to Sam and Aurora on my right, only to see the latter with a hand over her left eye and mumbling to herself.
She was the only reason we hadn’t been captured or killed yet.
We erupted from the woods and were greeted by the sight of a suspension bridge spanning a hundred yard long canyon that would be the death of any who fell in. We had only just begun crossing when I heard a bullet skim past my left ear and graze Sam’s shoulder.
They’d caught us.
I turned around to face our pursuers, my arms spread wide in a feeble attempt to protect the girls. An entire firing squad erupted from the trees, guns trained on me and laser sights tracing my thin frame. In vain, I focused on my right eye, only to be dismayed when nothing happened. The drugs may have worn off on Sam and Aurora, but they had probably given me a double dose.
“Kai Boudreau,” a voice boomed from the sky. The droning sound of helicopter blades heralded the metal behemoth’s descent from the sky. The glare of spotlights blinded me, forcing me to shield my eyes with my arm. “Surrender yourself and your companions now and no harm shall come to you.”
I glared defiantly into the light; I hadn’t lost the will to resist yet.
“No.”
“So be it. On my mark!”
A final laser sight appeared on my chest. But they wouldn’t see me cower. I would never give them the satisfaction.
“Fire!”
I shifted slightly to the left.
A bright flare erupted from the side of the helicopter.
And the bullet ripped through my torso, a spray of blood following its trail from my body.
I coughed once, my lifeblood oozing from my throat. And as I felt a tugging on my arms, the world went dark once more.
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