20 March, 2013

(inconsistency at its finest)

I am an incredibly inconsistent person. I put the blame on my star sign. I am a Gemini, born on a Wednesday (a day ruled by Mercury...where do you think 'mercurial' comes from?), and I was born in the year of the tiger. To make it even worse, I am a right-brained individual.

Messy, chaotic, idea-guy.

Everything I have ever known, everything I have ever been, all lines up to prove this. Even before I knew anything about star signs or left-brain/right-brain thinking.

I am willing to admit, however, that after I found out about that, I may have been subconsciously going out of my way to perpetuate this line of thinking, but where's the whimsy in that? Part of the self that is me is being a whimsy magnet.

Magnate also works, I suppose.

I can't help it. I try and try to create order and be logical, but it sounds bizarre to my ears when coming from my mouth. Also, there is a (rather large) part of me that enjoys flitting from one thing to the next. I like being a jack-of-all-trades, despite the fact that it doesn't truly help when trying to pick a path.

Like becoming an author. It takes long hours, dedication, lots of time and effort. To craft a good story requires focus, something I have in high demand, but short supply.

(I'm also currently fixated on the fact that I just discovered the existence of an avocado of the month club; I don't want to put anything about it in my works. I hate when I become fixated on stupid things. Maybe I could find some humor in it.

Okay, I think this tangent has gotten out of control.)

So, uh, where was I? Something about focus...oh, well. It's gone now.

...

Oh, right! I need to find a method of writing even when I don't want to, to keep on going, be dedicated, et cetera. I suppose that's why I created this blog, to help me find my focus and to get those stories out as they come to me, while working on the big one.

Hah, wish me luck, as I just may need it.

14 March, 2013

Traesten & Ginevra (part one)

In the predawn hours, silence reigned in the tent of the pilus prior Traesten Mezzocentesimo. It didn't matter what was going on outside, for all he cared for was finding his focus, his achieving a state of being purely in the moment. He knew it was crucial to hear in his mind the pieces falling into place, akin to the tumblers of a safe's lock lining up.

Slowly, the din on the other side of his animal-hide tent faded away, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. After a minute of hearing only his heart pumping, he began envisioning defenses being put up around him in the form of shields constructing themselves and hovering around him, waiting for others to be built so they could interlock and provide no easy target.

"At the gate of dawn I stand. Hecate, on either hand, guard me with your magic power, guide me through the crossroads hour. From the beauty of the night to the glory of the light," he muttered in the process of building his protection from the oncoming day.

As he finished chanting, the seams between his envisioned shields flashed with a brilliant purple light and then faded, leaving behind one seamless shield wholly encompassing him. Opening his eyes, Traesten found himself feeling refreshed and full of energy and vigor.

Rising from his kneeling position in front of his altar, he began assembling his armor, crafted especially for him when he attained his current rank. He reflected on this as he dressed, thinking on his wife and their future.

"Ginevra! Come here, I need you!" he called, unable to reach the final straps in his armor. Almost immediately, the fair-skinned woman entered the tent, allowing some of the noise to spill in.

"Yes, my pilus prior? To what end can I be of assistance?" she purred, slinking up to Traesten.

"There's no need for formalities when it is just the two of us, my love. Also, I need help tightening these straps--my arms can only be twisted so far."

"Well then, why didn't you say so, my Traesten?" Ginevra glided behind him, flame-colored hair trailing behind her. As she helped him into his armor, Traesten began laying out the battle plan. The sooner he had it laid out, the sooner it would be implemented, and the sooner they could all go home.

It didn't take long for Ginevra to finish, she had a strength that betrayed her frame, and was one of the reasons Traesten fell for her. She never verbalized an agreement about something just to satiate an ego, a fact that had almost gotten them in trouble many times, but he was proud of her ability to never back down, and he knew that his troops realized that there could be no one else for the youngest man to ever achieve his military status.

As she smacked him on the shoulder to indicate her completion, he turned around, cupped her face in his hand, and looked into her emerald-green eyes.

"You are the source of my strength, my hope, and my future. The sun shall perish before my love for you, Ginevra."

"Don't stand here gushing to me when there are asses that need kicking, my petal," she smirked. He laughed.

"Right, then," Traesten said, putting on his helm. "A kiss for luck?"

"Always." After a kiss lasting longer than others of the usual good-luck variety, Traesten proudly walked out of his tent, Ginevra on his arm.

12 March, 2013

(unable to sleep)

The conclusion to Brenda's story can wait. It's exactly 202a as I write (type) this out on my phone, like most of my other blogs, and I cannot seem to fall asleep, so here's an honest-to-(your deity) blog.

Earlier today, I was helping The Mechanic fix the brakes on my SUV. Well, I was mostly watching, since I know fuck all about cars, but I helped when I could. During a point where I was feeling particularly useless, I sat on the tailgate of his truck and immediately zoned out.

I began getting swarmed with memories of the early years, when my mum and I first moved to this city. If I recall correctly, it was just before my fifth birthday, and I remember feeling perfectly split down the middle as far as how I felt about it.

On the one hand, I wasn't too concerned about making new friends, because I wasn't too keen on people my own age anyway. Obviously there were exceptions to the rule, but for the most part, I felt fine with not knowing too many people.

At the same time, I was moving so far away from the two exceptions to that rule. A set of twin boys. My first friends. We bonded over Thomas the Tank Engine and when the first Power Rangers movie came out in theatres, we would run around saying the villain's name in a more exaggerated tone than he said it at one point: "Ivan OoooOOOOoooze." We were the cool kids.

(Ed. note: It doesn't have the same panache in text format. You really need to hear it said.)

Anyway, I was so sad to leave them, but at four years old, I didn't really have much say in the matter. Mum says "We're moving," I say, "Uh, okay," even though I'd rather have spent every single day with the two of them. Unfortunately for me, I don't really remember too much about that time in my life.

-their huge living room with train sets everywhere
-sitting at a coffee table with our Thomas the Tank Engine toys
-playing in/near a creek doing the Ivan Ooze bit
-playing in their front yard with a different kind of train toys

Within a week of moving here, I met another set of twins. My first exposure to boy/girl twins. They were (or are, really) five years older than I am. They and their father made me feel so incredibly welcome in their apartment across the street. I never met their mum, and I often dreamed of their dad and my mum getting together, but that never happened.

The next few years were absolutely incredible. I remember them initiating contact and just being so cool. They invited me over and introduced me to the Ninja Turtles movies. I again wanted nothing more than to spend every second of every day with them.

To be so readily accepted by total strangers, and at such a young age, despite the VAST gulf in our developments at the time simply blows me away, despite the significance having been lost on me back then. I began thinking of them as my older siblings. Sort of. I wanted to be so much like him when I grew up, and I wanted to be with her when I would eventually be old enough to do such things as dating. She was the first non-mum girl I was ever interested in.

(Also, I remember them fighting over who got to spend time with me at one point, early on.)

Being older, I seem to be able to recall some more memories with this set of twins, all of them I look back on ever so fondly.

-he taught me how to open a can of soda without popping the tab
-the look on her face when he was poking at me about my infatuation with her
-she made me look her in the eye during the TMNT movie and made me promise to tell them if we watched something I wasn't supposed to
-he helping me with my spelling homework, and the feeling of pride we shared when I finally realized I could spell "apartment"
-somehow getting spaghetti sauce on my forehead when they invited me over to dinner

All of these memories, and so much more, ran through my mind while The Mechanic fixed my brakes. I started crying. But then again, I'm also a big softie. I just couldn't help myself from reflecting and realizing just how much I've missed talking to them. All four of them.

I'm only in contact with her. Sort of. We're Facebook friends and maybe we haven't been the best of friends, but then again, so much time has passed and we're all so wildly different than we were back in those times, but I think I want to try to be her friend again.

Some things never change, though. I'm still obsessed with trains; I sometimes catch myself saying "Ivan Ooze" in the same manner; I still think of her while watching any of the live-action Ninja Turtle movies, and I still sometimes open a can without popoing the tab.


(I can also still spell apartment.)

08 March, 2013

(Brenda, part 2)

Three hours later....

The appointment time was quickly approaching by the time Brenda stopped crying. She didn't actually care, but if she didn't make it on time, then her sponsor would come to her house to see all of the empty bottles littering the floor.

The jail time that would follow suit would be far too much of a hassle. She needed to keep up appearances that she was okay while getting blackout drunk almost every night. It helps me, she would rationalize to herself. After imbibing enough to make lesser people vomit, I'm the life of every goddamn party I go to.

Most importantly, it helped her to forget being abandoned. Again.

"Fuck him. I don't need him. Or anyone, for that matter. We're all born to die alone!" She climbed up the counter and started toward the bathroom, determined to prove to him that she could live quite easily without him.

Getting ready wasn't as painless as she had hoped it would be. The one time they brushed their teeth together had cemented the image in her brain. She saw his visage in the mirror standing beside her, and almost yelped in surprise, before squeezing her eyes shut and turning away from the mirror.

Once that ordeal was overcome, she stripped and gingerly stepped into the shower. The scalding water was bliss, but she barely had the strength to wash herself, so her hair wound up half-washed. She didn't care in the slightest, deciding on a low ponytail and a hat. The middle of winter was secretly her favorite time of year for exactly this reason.

Ignoring his ghost when it arrived to caress her like he used to during their showers, Brenda did the bare minimum to be able to say she washed up. Despite the brevity of washing, it was another hour before she was back out of the shower and in her room, deciding what to wear. It wasn't difficult: jeans and a t-shirt. No socks, no underwear, and a bra only because she didn't want lascivious stares.

"Right. Life sucks, then you die. Let's get this train wreck out of the way, so I can come back here and get proper shnockered."

As she stalked through the house, eyeing each empty bottle strewn about on the floor, Brenda became more and more apprehensive. Her gut was telling her not to leave the house today, but it had already been four days since the last time she saw the outside world. Or was it five? Fuck it, who the fuck fucking cares, right?

Passing through the front door turned into a trial all unto itself, for the gut instinct seemed to almost turn into a sense of dread at the thought of leaving her house. The door was open, and she patted herself on the back for even getting that far, but it wasn't enough.

Summoning all the strength she had, she went to the other side of the room, faced the open archway, steeled her resolve, and ran, eyes closed and chanting "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!" as she barreled into what felt like, to her, a brave new world.

07 March, 2013

(side story)

The clock started chiming downstairs, echoing through the house. It always played a peaceful tune that gradually got louder as it continued on. It was programmed that way many years ago, for the original owners, a delightful old, married couple, both had heart issues, and did not want to be startled. Now, though, it had been passed down through the family for generations until it finally found it's way to the home of Brenda Guðsdóttir.

Brenda had thought the clock a work of absolute beauty when she first laid eyes on it. She knew that it would one day be sitting in her den, the only spot on the wall that wouldn't be consumed by the bookcases that housed every single story she had ever loved in her thirty-something years.

Presently, she was rousing from a deep slumber, the deepest in months, content in the knowledge that she would be back in the comforting darkness of her room soon, albeit not soon enough. All she had to do was meet with her sponsor in the middle of the afternoon, and at least appear to have been busy during the beginning of the day.

"I can handle that," she murmured, still wiping the sleep from her eyes. "It's only six hours."

Sitting up, she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror on the other side of the room and groaned. Her hair was a mess. She couldn't recall the last time she had properly washed it. She didn't care, either. There are only two people with any potential to give a damn.

"Or," her reflection began, "there were two people. Now there's only one, and she's contractually obligated to. You chased the other one off." Brenda barked a furious, wordless shout at the mirror and turned away, keeping her eyes low, so as to avoid the judgmental glare of her cat perched on the end table.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and felt several stabs of pain in the bottoms of her feet. Cursing, she drew her feet back and peered over the edge to find a shattered wine glass on the floor. It was almost enough to make her start crying again, despite swearing tears off quite loudly to the neighbors the night before.

Several minutes later, she wrapped her throbbing feet with a pair of socks, mismatched, and adjusted her four-sizes-too-big nightshirt as she gingerly stepped out of the bedroom. Her cat hopped down and followed. After several steps, she couldn't expend the effort and just began shuffling her feet through the pain. Right now, all she could think about was coffee, and maybe spiking it with something.

"No," she sighed, "she'll know. I'll be lucky if she doesn't find out about last night." Brenda paused as she arrived at her coffee pot. Staring up at her from the counter was a printout of an email he had sent. A sob lurched up through her chest and escaped from her mouth, but died shortly, turning into practically a snarl.

In a rage, she snatched up the papers and began tearing them apart. All the while cursing the man, no, boy, who had sent it. How dare he leave me? After everything I did for him! After...after everything.... She dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around her stomach, as scraps of paper fluttered down around her.

She eventually slumped over to curl up on the floor, fingernails digging into her sides.