scene

He lurched back and forth with the heavy head of the flashlight, not knowing where or what to swing at. His eyes were open but unfocused. I tried not to think about how vulnerable he looked. If I died here, I had no doubts he would die too. I threw all my weight against the net, pulled back, tried peeling my hands or feet away; all with no results. There wasn’t even a rattle from the net holding me in place. I could move my head but that was it. There was a small metal box on the wall that looked like a fuse box. It might work.
“You’re fine professor but I got stuck. Can you feel if there are any more bullets in your gun?” I shouted. It was dark but I saw him switching hands, moving carefully. The gun clicked as the chamber was opened and bullet by bullet he checked.
“I think there are five.” He stammered.
“There is a fuse box over to the top left, professor. Your top left. If you put the gun and the flashlight together, I can tell you where to shoot. It might release me then.” I explained. He slid the chamber back into the six-shooter and cocked it. I didn’t get a chance to help him aim; I got distracted. The net began to vibrate. I glanced around and in the semi-darkness to my left, I saw blue glowing dots. It moved closer. Dozens of electronic, blue, metal eyes watched me from the head of a robotic spider thing. Inching down the net towards me, I could hear a faint clicking sound. “Oh god…”
“What is it?”
“Aim up and to the right…a little lower, he’s coming down.”

Idea for an intro to a story based on Bailey's symposium

My parents were the fighting type. Not the loud screaming and tossing blame like dishes type but the silent, cold, using my brother, Liam, and me against each other type. When I was younger I never really knew that that was what was happening. I felt cherished. But as the years went by, father came home less and less. He was a soldier; I guess that made it easier to stay away. When I was eleven, he sent my mother a letter saying that he wouldn’t be returning again. I cried and mother focused her joy on the one child that hadn’t seen enough of his father to miss him.  They celebrated.

My mother wasn’t good at letting things go. The joy faded out quickly and within a few weeks she was unhappy and angry again. She drank more and spoke less. Over time, I became the reason for her unhappiness. It might have been that I missed my father too much; maybe I looked too much like him. Whatever it was, I learned quickly to stay outside as long as I could and to stay quiet when hunger forced me to come home.

Playing Card People

I wrote this for an application to show my writing skill. I don't know if it's very good, but if you read this could you let me know? I wanted to test it out here to see if it's good enough to submit.

Oh, I was given a choice of 5 topics so I included the topic I chose, so you'll understand.

 (Untitled)

4. With respect to the nature versus nurture debate, compare and contrast the roles of intrinsic and environmental factors in human development.

Parents in this day and age have the luxury of being able to know the gender of their child long before that baby is born. Some parents can even weed out the offspring that might hold genetic anomalies and possible debilitating diseases. Likewise, parents can give their babies over to be raised by others in more prosperous homes if they choose to. With the ability to genetically and environmentally improve the life of the child, the question of nature vs. nurture must be considered.

There is absolute evidence that many psychological problems stem from child abuse or poor environment and upbringing. Abused children that pass that abuse on to younger or more defenseless children and children that direct the abuse inwards and become self-annihilators, these are mere shadows of the many unfortunate possibilities that lie before children in horrendous upbringings. Many of the most notorious murderers and malevolent maniacs were raised in conditions like these. And tragically there are thousands and thousands of children subjected to this torturous lifestyle and victimized every year.

Of course, the fact that genetics play a vital role in the person that baby will become is undeniable. There are many cases of identical twins separated from birth that have the same habits, dispositions, and even favorite foods. That provides legitimate reasoning that some things really are written in our genetic code. Some these genetic disorders, however, can cripple children from birth, make them suffer intensely throughout their lives, or simply die within hours of their birth. These disorders can sometimes be detected in prenatal scans and thorough fertility consultation.

Both sides balance out their lacks with blaming the other side. What the nurture side can't explain becomes genetic anomaly, what the nature side can't explain becomes poor diet or irresponsible raising. Yet, with technology constantly advancing, our knowledge of what corresponds to what on a double helix chain is also advancing. With the fields of social-work and psychology also expanding we may, eventually, come to a complete and fully functional way of raising children. But we may never understand just what balance of which can make a killer and which can make a self-sacrificing altruist.

Therefore, an awareness and vigilance of both must be the upmost important factor in the breeding of future generations. Here's an example: Think of a playing card, on one side is the face of the card and on the back is the deck's pattern. This is kind of representative of the human condition. On the face we have nurture, we can recognize the Q for Queen like we could recognize an abusive or loving home. On the other side is nature, the mysterious pattern of the deck that represents the unreadable, indecipherable genetic code embedded into every person. There is no card without two sides. Similarly, in humans there is no person without genetics or without a history. We must see both sides to know whether a particular card belongs to a certain deck or suit.

A new idea!

For the first time in years I finally had an idea for a new story. I guess the Lamott 3000 words a day thing actually helped me jog my brain into a creative process. Well, anyways, here it is. (I might read it for the symposium)

Backfire

I squinted at the letters. The more I rearranged them, the less sense they seemed to make. Despite spending a fortune at this school to learn how to rearrange my letters, they still looked weird. But I never was a very good speller anyways. Everything I tried looked wrong on the paper, wrong when I tried it aloud, and wrong when my workshop class tore it apart letter by letter. They had every right though, their spells were better than mine. They had better ideas. It still hurt. I’d read all the books they read, done all the exercises they’d done, and mastered the itty-bitty rules of where to place your pauses and stops just like they had. But I couldn’t even compete with them.

My new spell was going to prove them wrong. Or, so I convinced myself. I’d gotten the idea for it when I was standing in line for the Public Port on my way home for class. It occurred to me that the one spell that no one had written was making a person. Of course it broke one of the rules, energy cannot be created or destroyed only blah, blah, blah. But sometimes rule breaking worked. Like in Christina’s spell last week, she used a triple A followed by a x, but there was no backfire. It was the prettiest trans-morg spell I’d seen a student create. She changed a rabbit to a human with clothes and back to a rabbit with only fur. It was smooth and only had a few glitches. (Let’s just say that the clothing was not gender friendly and if he were a real human, he would have been very embarrassed.) 

13 explosions, 22 strangely formed corpses, and one brainless golem later I was nearly ready to give up. I knew that the wording was perfect and I’d tried nearly every hand gesture I could think of, from flipping the bird to thank you. The misspent energy from my previous spell failures clung to my skin and made my antsy, cranky, and wired. Some people exercised and some meditated, but I just danced the feeling away. I turned on my SCAMP with a flick of the wrist. It was a song I’d never heard before. It had a heavy beat and the sound of clapping and I could imagine lasers and the nons dancing to this in the no-magic clubs. I let the music infect me and released the energy before it could build bad luck.

Before you start criticizing, I know I shouldn’t have been dancing. I know what could happen if a speller loses control and moves in the wrong way while saying the wrong thing. I know it. But nothing bad had happened when I danced before so I was just overconfident and stupid, I guess. And it hit me hard.

I read a really good poem in a company newsletter

Always More Than You Know

Like the other guy’s story

Or what he used to be like

When he was younger

Cherished by his mother

Or what people do in their own homes

away from public eyes.

Where the other shoe is located,

mate to the one forlorn in the middle of the

free-way

Or how that man came to be unconscious,

sprawled across the hallway

blocking the way to your officetel door

or what happened to him when you left

thirty minutes later

and there was no sign of him.

Or how that man, a different one

came to be homeless –

How the stray became the stray

and if it prefers to be astray

Or how the bears in the zoo became toothless -

or those women found themselves for sale

behind glass display cases -

as if that were any kind of choice.

Or of how other foreigners came to be expats here too,

and who you will be when you return home.

Aclipse Company Newsletter

Story Lack

I hate writer's block. Previously i even broke up with it, only now I think it's stalking me.

So, as part of my daily butt-in-seat trying to write even if I can't, I wrote this.

It has no name though...

I looked up from the computer screen dejectedly. I knew I was supposed to write, I knew it cold. So why couldn’t I do it? It was like someone was gradually letting the air out of my potential and each word I typed got more archaic. I had no clue what I was saying.

“So Audrey, will we be reading that book of yours any time soon?” My friend Gabe joked. He had an open gaming manual by his keyboard and an anime chat site open in the window. I gave him a halfhearted smile.

“You never know.” I answered. The truth was that I knew. Never. That’s when he’d see my book, never. I would never finish it. Hell, I couldn’t even start it. Without another word I logged off the computer. It was an off-hour and I had better things I could be doing than faking my future writing career. I grabbed my coat and backpack and hurried out of the business office. Aside from the library it was the only place with computers. But I didn’t want that now. I never wanted to look at another computer screen again. Ever.

“Audrey, how’s the book coming?” Mrs. Sheldon asked cheerfully. I shrugged.

“Not bad, I just have to keep plugging away.” I nodded. She gave me a bewildered smile before patting my shoulder awkwardly.

“Well whatever works, I guess.” Not that I’d expect her to understand. She’s a math teacher. To her it was merely words. To me, well… I hadn’t gotten that far. I turned down an opposite hallway. Not that I didn’t want to talk to her anymore…but, well, I just didn’t want to talk to her anymore. I wanted to sleep. I had a history project next period and I needed my strength to make-believe my way through it. I could lie my way through anything and did, most of the time.

“Audrey, have you finished the next chapter? I can’t wait to find out what happens to Brin.” Mr. Davis clapped his hands together eagerly. My mind screamed furious insults.

“Yeah, I’ll bring them tomorrow.” I lied through gritted teeth. He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“I hope she finally beats Kalhid.” He suggested. “It would be about time.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” I countered. He sighed and stopped at the copy room.

“Just don’t forget to bring it this time, you always forget.” He shouted at my back I turned with a wave.

“I’ll get it to you.” I promised. I turned back around. “Just as soon as I write it.” I muttered to myself. I waited for one more question about my book. That would be the last straw. I quickened my steps. I’d be safe in the art hall where the only questions would be, ‘can I borrow your red?’ I grinned inwardly. Yeah, I’d be safe there.

“Audrey!” A voice cried out behind me.

“For the love of god!” I screamed and barreled ahead.

Jealousy and Second-Hand Stories

I was thirteen when I decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life writing stories. Everyone told me that it was too young to know for sure what you wanted to do with the other 50-60 years of living. Up until about 2-3 years ago, I really thought that I was the one in the right. I knew what I wanted and life was simple and I wrote everyday for hours and hours and I had everything figured out. But that was then. In the fall of 2007 I became an International Peer Advisor for the Asia University America Program, where I worked with a lot of Japanese students. Then I went to Japan. The whole time my mind was occupied with which conjugation is best for the emotion I was trying to express or my lesson plans for teaching English.

I started to think that if I stopped writing, it wouldn’t kill me. I might not even miss it. But I kept pursuing the Creative Writing major in order to just graduate sooner and get back to Japan. Somewhere in between the past progressive conditional form of “to sleep” and learning how to make my own character lunch box with heart shaped rice and eggs with faces on them, I lost my ideas. They slipped away while I was sleeping and I dreamed them away like you sweat away water. I not-so-modestly believe that I can still turn a phrase and come up with a decent metaphor, but I can’t think of a story that’s mine.

I have now finished reading all of Alan’s posts and I was jealous. Sincerely jealous. It seems like all the runaway ideas, not necessarily mine but all of the other ideas running around loose, have crawled up into Alan’s brain through his ear and laid to rest there before hatching into wonderful ideas that he puts into stories.

I am not sure where to go from here or how to make the ideas I shoved down and forced away return. I’m not sure if me still being a writer is a possibility anymore. I’m a 23 year old English major with a love for reading and no originality. I think if you dissected anything I’ve written within the last 2 years, you’d find that I spent the better part of all my writing just rearranging or latching on to other better writers’ words.

I’m very sure that my creativity has died of natural causes. Not quite sure that’s it’s reversible…