Monday, November 7, 2011

Of TD's and MV's

Here's the new story, if you're interested:

Comments allowed, editing (for obvious reasons) not so much!

An Aside

Lifting of the veil, curtain, what have you. (While I sit on a toilet, stealing wifi, sapping my laptop's battery.)

I thought the idea of an existential story was interesting. Unfortunately, the inner workings of someone who can't die aren't as interesting as I'd initially hoped.

There's no arc there, or there isn't one I have a hold of any more. Originally, I had an arc.

The most recent (as of this post) nanowrimo emails had a clever idea, which I am going to use to start a new story. The author suggested writing a list of 25 scenes that are "worth" about 2,000 words. So here we go.

  1. An introduction of the dragon (TD): description, it's first conscious moments, its first realization that it isn't human <-- some sort of conflict with a messy resolution. (gas station, fire breathing)
  2. An introduction of the main villain (MV): description, a day in it's lab, an explanation of its goals. 
  3. An introduction of the random element (RE): description, normal day to day existence. This day-to-day must have an interaction with . . .
  4. An introduction of an unconscious version of the villain type (UVVT). Voice/Tone must remain neutral and tied closely to RE's perspective. But colorless.
  5. RE glimpses into TD after #1. Chases for a while, runs into MV.
  6. MV captures RE; RE escapes mid-process.
  7. RE has a reverse reaction to MV's process, has to deal with UVVTs. 
  8. RE and TD meet, connect, TD disappears, leaving (blood stains, bodily fluids, claw, tooth?) behind
  9. MV and TD meet, lies are told, RE ''saves'' TD
  10. MV destroys a large chunk of (what's left of) RE's normal life
  11. RE fails to save last chunk of their normal life
  12. RE internalizes #8 
  13. RE searches for both MV and TD
  14. ^
  15. RE fails to find either, and moves to california, visiting an estranged family, who introduce him to some burners, get him a part time job.
  16. TD meets a burner, who directs it to california
  17. MV arrives days later, kills the burner and heads after TD
  18. TD travels to in california, in the process, learns to control which aspects of itself it exposes to humans, how to breathe fire, and how to . . . 
  19. RE restarts his life, has a drug trip, learns to control his output, too.
  20. RE and TD run into each other at a bar // one night stand alerting MV to their location, before they split again
  21. MV recruits UVVTs and follows the trail of lit burners
  22. TD arrives five days before the burn, begins to search for the others
  23. RE arrives three days before the burn, begins looking for TD, meets the others
  24. MV arrives two days before the burn, hunts for TD, stalks RE
  25. The burn and its aftermath

Thursday, November 3, 2011

The First and Second Times I Died on Purpose.

The fifth time I died, it was exploratory, and it was on purpose.

I had an inkling, from the third and fourth times I died, that something wasn't quite right with the way my body handled death. The first three times, those were all pretty, forgive the term, light ways to die. That is, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that I would have lived through them. But that fourth time. That was a heavy, uncomfortable death.

So, there I was, about to die for the fifth time in my life. I was standing on the top of the white-flaked-paint, wooden announcer's booth of the local high school. It was a full moon, and, so high up, there's always a breeze. Behind the Stadium was a forest, intentionally undeveloped land, because such stuff existed, way back in the late 1990's, and around this faux verdant dwarf woods was a fence with barbed wire on the top. Ostensibly, this fence was to keep critters and hooligans away from the school children, but fences always work both ways.

Anyhow. I must have stood on the edge of that roof for a goodly few minutes before I managed to step off. I caught the fence with my spine, which snapped and spurted on the barbed wire. I was cut mostly in half. I drooped down the two sides of the fence, and lay there. It did not hurt.

I awoke feeling refreshed, and well rested. "Holy shit!" I breathed. "I gotta try that again!"

The second time, I must've fallen and spun too many times, or something else, because the next thing I remembered was agony, and a hospital bed. I managed to break both my legs, an arm, most of my ribs and my spine, but I was still breathing. Well, I breathed, still, may be a better way to put it. I was on life support, according to medical records, for seven months before my body died and I reset.

The First Time I Died (as related to me by my parents)

I was two. The sun was shining, and I stuck a fork in an electrical socket. I was not a smart baby. I jammed the fork in the socket, which was just under an open window --it was late May, and the day was warm-- and flew across the room, slammed into the cabinet holding the "good" china ware, and fumped to the ground. My hair sizzled, my mother dropped the glass she was putting into the cabinet (it shattered, but she always wore slippers) and dashed to my side. As she tells it, I lay there, smoking, hair sizzling, not breathing for a moment. Then, the smoking and sizzling stopped, and I opened my eyes and jabbed forward with the fork again. My mother cried, yelped, and hugged me to her wet apron, and my father, when he heard the news laughed and said, "Devil's luck, I tell you." My father was a math teacher at a community college. He and my mother made a good couple. As you'd imagine, they're dead now.

An Introduction

Look, I am a retard. Seriously. I am not like you, I am, painfully, different. "But," I hear you say, "You're speaking eloquently enough, you're clearly writing a memoir of sorts, which shows a certain level of awareness." To which I respond, sure, but I'm still handicapped. Here's how I'm handicapped, there's the premise. And, skipping ahead a moment, here's the gist of this, my memoir: this is an existential tale, nothing more, nothing less --nothing. Karma, though, that's a thing. Rebirth --> death --> rebirth. And on. And on. I know this, because, well --I know this. I cannot die. I'm missing that integral component. For me it goes: Rebirth --> Aberrations happen all the time, and I am one of those wonderful freaks. This is not to say, for instance, "Wah." This is to say, things are in motion now, and I don't know, for a change, how they're going to end. So, I'm putting this out there, out here. So, I'm putting this here, because I think maybe, existentially, there's a lesson in my life.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

tag page

“You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” ~ C.S. Lewis

Friday, August 5, 2011

During contractions, some discomfort may occur

Weirdly, the power went out almost immediately after the president announced the dissolution of the United States.
"We can stay here, or we can go save our friends."

"What're waiting for, then?" she said, and grabbed her car keys and the gun safe.

The first time I killed someone was in a friend's galley kitchen. We arrived to open doors, and car alarms and street fires. I circled around the house, and came silently up the kitchen stairs behind him, he: tall, short hair, and a baseball bat, in the middle of an argument with our friend.

"I want your water, and your bread." He said. "Or I'll kill you."

My friend shook his head, wordless, a limp arm between him and the invader, who took a swing (clatter of pots and plates, breaking) and charged in behind it. I flung open the kitchen door. He turned around and I shot him in the face. His head and brains coated everything in that small space.

First words I said were, "I'll clean that up, just give me a second."

"You shot a man, man."

"It was him or you." I replied, "And it's a judgment call, and you're more important to me than him." We stared silently at each other for a minute or so, before I added, "And now I need a hug, and I will talk about this moment once more, then never again."
The second time took two actions.

I pulled the trigger.

I snapped his neck. You see, we needed to conserve bullets.
The third time, it was callousness that saved me. We were both walking toward the co-op, and I stepped on a piece of glass, which broke underfoot. He turned, but I was already drawn, and, there's no "riding the trigger" for me, quirk of my weak hands, I pull or I don't; so with a boom, down he went under our pale moon.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

"This porch, this deck. These drinks and trees. These things are more real than anything else you will experience."


They stared at the angel, hand in hand, as it's gigantic figure slowly sank beneath the tide's onrush.


She dove, teeth gritted, eyes open behind her sunglasses; fists connected and the volley ball arc'd up, to be windmill slammed down for a point by her teammate a moment later. She helped her up, "Good save," she said.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

"I can't feel my feet any more."

"That's okay, we can replace feet. Just make sure your fingers and ears don't go numb on you. Those are much harder to replace."

"Why is that?"

So he explained to his daughter the simple history of nerve reintegration, and how balance was a mechanical issue, but touch and hearing were a spiritual issue, and harder to recreate.

He said, "Some people get lucky, and have their replacement fingers or ears work just fine, but it isn't a risk I want you to take."

"Can you rub my ears, please, then?" She asked.

And he smiled, and he did; secretly hoping he wasn't pressing too hard with his unfeeling hands.

Monday, July 18, 2011

They shook hands, smiled at each other with good intention, but neither saw the other, ever again.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

The storm picked up, and her French window curtains booga-booga'ed at us, the candles blew out. Thunder rolled through the true beatnik throwback apartment, rattling our wine glasses.

She asked, "So, what universe would you live in?" Lightning blinded us, hid me from her infinite, unreadable eyes.

Monday, July 11, 2011

She tried to coax the manatee from the ledge of the empire state building.

"No," he said, whiskers waving in the wind, "I have polyps, I will die like this instead."

Friday, July 8, 2011

He awoke three years later, gaunt, freshly shaven. The nurse smiled at him, avoided conversation about families, focused on how glad she was he was finally awake.

"Am I, though?" He asked.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

"Your pants are too tight!" she yelled with a smile; strobe lights catching her plush sneer-to-grin in broad strokes. He laughed, too, the both of them jumping to the beat, her body a collision of scintillating, stolen, late night pay per views from his teens.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

He patted me on the back. He said, "Good job, there," nodding toward the ICU.

Monday, April 25, 2011

And against the winter sky, there was an orange and oak color fur
coat, in a hurry, on a snowy day with the hood up, hands in
pockets; walking clip clop right across the ice patch, under a bridge
in a pair of traditional five inch tall Japanese clogs. These shoes
are flat boards of light wood, with the toe straps in
clash-with-the-coat red.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

"Well," he said. "That was easier than I'd imagined."

She looked at him, gaunt eyes haunted by what they'd just done. "Speak for yourself." she spat.

They walked to his car in silence.