lead and gold

Viola Log: Mold & Ribs

2008-03-23T00:52:56Z

OK, getting this thing up to speed on where I am. RIBS – proper ribs.

I had already made a rather unorthodox set, which was very unprettyful and icky and so on and so forth. So we opted into making new ones.

MOLD

First thing was getting the mold done, upon which the ribs would be, well, molded. I still had that old one I made way-back-when, but the problem was that it wasn’t thick enough – the mold has to be the same height as the ribs. So I staplegunned a block of wood onto the back of my nice mold and traced it on a combination of the bandsaw for the broad curves, and the scroll saw for the tight curves.

Something peculiar that even you killer awesome string players probably didn’t know is that one end is actually slightly higher than the other, usually by about two or three millimeters. Or rather, it’s supposed to be: Strobel really emphasized this but some of the other violas I’ve looked at don’t have that difference. But whatever… So we detached our staples, glued in some shins to get it to exactly the right height on each end, stuck in some new staples.

The new block of wood was still a bit big in some places—I didn’t do a perfect job cutting it out—so I had to do some filing to make it just-right, and also to get the excess shimness off. Wait, did I just right shimness? Anyway. It’s very important that the ribs are exactly vertical, else the stress will just tear it apart. So I fussed over this for a long whiles.

Something else peculiar about the ribs that you probably didn’t suspect is that there’s actually large solid blocks of wood on the inside. Weird, huh? I mean, the instruments seem so hollow… Basically, these blocks hold the various strips of wood that make up the ribs together and keep the whole thing from flying apart from teh stressness. The grain has to be going a certain way and such to maximize teh strength. And that typo is very cliché. We used this nice smelling redwood for the blocks anyway.

Cutting out the blocks required mah best friend, the scroll saw:

And then, because I suck at the scroll saw, sanding the curves smooth on the side thingy *can't remember proper name* of the belt sander:

Here’s basically where they’re positioned against the mold (before we inserted them, obviously.)

After that, I cut out the space where the blocks were supposed to go on the mold, and inserted them with a bit of hot glue. (Hot glue, because they have to separate easily from the mold further down the line.)

RIBS

So we’ve got this mold. The next step is to get the wood for the ribs prepped.

Mah uber-awesome supervisor has a friend who makes fancy guns, and he gets the scraps. So when I presented him with my boring hickory sticks, he was like, You can’t use that… and then he showed me his stash of flame maple boards. Absolutely gorgeous stuff. Very glad he let me use it (though in his words, “If you don’t use it my wife will use it for firewood once I’m dead.” So. :P)

First step was to get make some strips out of the boards. These strips had to be incredibly thin – about a millimeter thick. It was an absolute miracle that the tablesaw didn’t make plucked feathers out of the board.

Here’s what they looked like when they were all cut. SHINY. Except it’s harder to tell the shinyness because with flame maple… the whole point is that it’s like a flame, when it moves the colors change and that’s what makes it so awesome. Obviously, the picture isn’t moving. But I’m sure you can imagine.

Next step was to sand them down so they were 1) smooth and 2) even thickness. This… took me a long time. I did a fair bit by hand, which would suck up three, four hours at a shot, but even the stuff I did on the belt sander was pretty time consuming. So that… was a lot of work, especially since I had to prep enough while we were in the experimental stage.

Here, basically I’ve got gloves on so I don’t sand my fingers off if my hand slips, or at least so I get fair warning. I also have a heavier board on top of the strip itself so the strip stays flat and sands evenly. And LOL, I look so fat in this pic. Baggy sweatshirt + baggy dustjacket=fatness. Vanity asides,

As thin as the strips are, they can’t just bend to those tight curves. To make them more pliable, traditionally luthiers have just steamed the bajeezus out of strips. However, we did some experimenting, and we discovered the magic formula: part steaming, part soaking.

What we rigged up for a steamer basically amounts to a camp stove, a pot, a sheet of aluminum, and a lid. SCREW YOU LUTHIERS, with your 1000$ setups!

And to soak the wood… filled the sink with lukewarm water. Here’s some random strips soaking in the tub, looking gorgeous.

However, we just wanted the surface to be damp, not soaked. So we dried them a bit:

So, again, this took a fair bit of experimentation to get to this step, but once we finally had everything figured out, full steam ahead. Oh Christ, I did not mean to pun. *headdesk* Anywaaaaaays. The two convex curves were the easiest, and didn’t require many clamps. Used plain old gorilla glue to attach the strips to the blocks. And... voila.

After we felt bold enough to take the clamps off… one of the glue surfaces immediately snapped. Fortunately, the wood on either side wasn’t damaged, and the strip mostly kept its shape. So, had to file the glue off either side:

And reglued. Went well.

The convex pieces were absolutely monstrous. Took us… so many tries, so many strips, to get it too work, for all our steaming and soaking and everything. But we got it eventually! And it’s actually more even a curve than it appears in the pics. *pokes at* Anyway. Mostly we just used patience, bending them a few millimeters more at a time, and then we also cheated and shaped some blocks to help us press in, plus socks to more evenly distribute the pressure. (Socks are amazingly useful. If don’t believe me, go read Monstrous Regiment.) Anyway.

After we had all this done… the next step was cutting off all the excess. Absolutely terrifying process. I felt like the whole thing was going to explode in my face the whole time while I was sawing. (The tension shows in my face, no? :P) Used a dikon blade. Best thing the Japanese ever came up with, imo. I mean, sawing a delicate 1mm piece of wood under a lot of tension with few glue joints… and pulling it off? Very cool.

And then, once the excess was mostly cut away to the proper height, had to sand what I had missed.

We haven’t actually done some of the finishing touches on it – like getting the points perfectly shaped. For that matter, we haven’t even taken it off the mold yet… but this is how all the pieces looked at that point.

I’ll post stuff with neck, fingerboard etc. later, since right now I’m feeling the mighty powerful urge to go for a run in a strange city and getting thoroughly lost. Ooh, how emo of me.

10 Qs and a to-do list

2008-02-18T03:14:54Z

Saw this on Mozzie's, figure it'd be a good thing to ask myself as well. Ten philosophical questions I ought to be asking myself, or at least, I need fresh approaches to.

1. Ethics of suicide. Ten seconds, go.
2. At what point does always blaming yourself for everything become merely the inability to accept that some things - some people - are truly out of your control?
3a. When I stand at the edge I'm honestly no longer looking backwards; does this make me a true atheist, or just a fool?
b. On the way there, why would I allow myself to make so many promises, why do I reach out at all?
c. Does b. mean that I don't actually want to?
d. Does c. mean I'm every bit as awful as I think I am?
4. How much of memory should be allowed to be a perceptual lie?
5a. How can I socially treat an individual as a product of their choices?, yet
b. yet politically as the product of their environment?, and
c. emotionally as a product of their own head?
d. Seeing that a-c brings me to a ridiculous impasse, how do I force one coherent theory for dealing with people out of all that?
6. If I truly hate no one, do I truly love anyone?
7a. How much of me is mental illness, how much of me is "personality"?
b. How much of either should I be trying to fix?
8a. How can negative capability be morally... correct?
   b. How can it be morally correct to desire that state?
   c. How can it be morally correct to not desire that state?
9a. Why can't I accept that there are infinitely high energy states and just... move on?
b. Why do I have a ridiculously elaborate theory about how the universe is hyperbolic on short scales,
c. thus allowing conservation of energy to work for black holes given a.?
d. Why is scheming for new ways of overturning well established cosmological concepts my absolute favorite thing to do when I'm bored?
10. Why can't I accept the idea of immortal souls?
11a. Why can't I accept the idea of a beginning? (Big Bang, "moment of death", etc.)
    b. Why must I believe that the universe/laws always existed?
12. Why can't I accept the idea of infinitely small points strung together to form a continuum of... anything?
13. Why is this longer than my established ten seconds, really?

Went a bit over. And I think if I was in a more rational mood I'd have more cosmology up there, since those are more generally my concern, but it's hard enough writing in complete sentences at the moment. And I'm looking at those now and it's like LOL philosophy, right. But whatever.

Things to do before I let myself sleep tonight:

1. Read 100pgs of art history text, through early Japanese.
2a. Write coat!fic for Whilily's 3-meme.
   b. Find myself a new coat downstairs.
   c. Spend no more than 15min angsting over current location of old coat.
3. Dump photos so I can stop fixating on all the ones of a particular.
4a. Write calc essay.
   b. Download LaTeX, so next week I can just use that for my essay of dealing with the idiocy of Word's "insert mathematical symbol" function.
5. Hook up my sound system again so I don't have to deal with the annoyingly tinnyness of Iris (iPod), which does not let me crank the bass way up, and subsequently makes most metal absolutely unbearable for me to listen to, which is sad because I feel like listening to loud anti-musical noise at the moment.

Hehe. Right.

Symmetry

2008-02-07T15:40:23Z

Edited!version of FH's Xmas present, brought to you by teh snowiness of Michigan weather. AF fanfic, Insangeline with a side order of Arty. Notes at bottom.

Symmetry.

He doesn’t like her blue dress. He never did, he’d much rather have it burned, replaced with something else, like periwinkle or lavender, something soft and warm and motherly. He remembers looking up from her limp arms and seeing her face, that catatonic-catastrophic blankness that belied the little wet tears that fell on his fat baby shoulders as he lay there, cradled in merciless blue.

But he remembers all kinds of things. For instance, he remembers that the two hundredth and seventy fourth digit of pi is nine, he remembers that it took him six thousand five hundred and fifty six brush strokes to perfectly duplicate his former view of the womb, and he remembers that he liked the pecan pie he ate when he was one year four months five days six hours eight minutes nine seconds old.

Such things are only helpful for the purpose of distracting from the helpless past. He does not want to remember how Father smelled that time, one of the times he made Mother cry, that rancid sharpness of old vodka, or how Juliet once held his white fingers in her gold ones and told him not to play piano while she was watching her wrestling, crushing so hard that tears were squeezed from his eyes, or how the falling snow had disappeared into the green of the ground and how it had felt upon his face, futile points of sharpness, needles to sew the sky and land together but they break upon him and it didn’t seem right.

He doesn’t want to think of these things. That is why he has his numbers, periodic tables and variable star periods.

Mother does not have numbers.

She has a blue dress and she has her memories and that is too much for her. Sometimes she just sits in the tired grand chair by the window and watches the road, He’s coming, he said he’d bring me diamonds, I don’t want diamonds but I don’t tell him that, sometimes she walks through the garden with her flowers and she tells Butler what to grow, I want blue roses, can’t you get me blue roses?—what about black?, sometimes she lays in the center of the bed and she says she’s not going to wait any longer, He never comes, never could, it’s not his nature and I wouldn’t love him if he ever made me happy, that’s why he never comes, he loves me, sometimes she refuses food and drowns herself in water, or tries to but can’t because she’s less than human, she’s an animal and she wants to survive but she doesn't know that. When he has her stopped with numbered chemicals she curls into a blue ball that would not be moved, all the birds are gone because of you, please, they’re all flying away without me, please…

Most of it she makes to do with Father. She recalls his flaws with aching sharpness, and his traits with flippant clarity—and both with a tender resignation that makes him turn away and retreat into his numbers: one in three attempt suicide to escape Them, one in ten succeed and pass it on to their children—

—but when?

She’s sitting in her chair. Her face is to the window, the symmetry perfect: ghostly reflection and ghostly perception, looking inwards from a lush green world and looking outwards from a verdantly troubled conscience. She creates and she does not wish to create: she does not want to be God of her own lonely world in her head any more than she wants to be part of the lonely world of God, any more than she wants to wear her blue dress and sit by the window staring into horizons that are not the ones that he would see, unless—unless he were to look closer—

Their faces, father and son, so similar. He closes his eyes. She touches his face sometimes, and though she says nothing he can only draw away, pretend that her pain was the pain of a mother and not its reflection across an axis different than that of father and son.

Even with his eyes closed, he can see her: the world lacks all color but for her, how she sits there waiting for the world to end, she sits there and she’s wearing her blue dress, and it is the color of his eyes.

~~No, I'm not completely certain that the 274th digit of pi is 9.~~

I had some brilliant way to fix this and make it perfectly coherent that occurred to me about a day after I sent this off to FH. But then I couldn't find the time to fix it and I promptly forgot what it was that I was going to do to make it really click. As is... I think it's "getable" if you squint at it, most of it is in the diction and minute structural things, but... meh. Could be a lot better. I like the opening and the ending, but the middle is just not right. Wide open to concrit, as usual. Most of what I did was diction stuff anyway.

I sorta want to post a recording of this, because... it's more of an oral story, how the rhythm and the sounds work out. Dunno, though.

Oh; Angeline's characterization was vaguely inspired by Regina Spektor's song Lady, fuzzy saxophone and all. (It was more obvious in the first draft, which was about ten times longer and had flashback sequences and stuff. I sorta-kept some of them, but all they really did was take up space with descriptive writing to set moods, so. Plus... it sorta evolved. Which is a good thing.)

Lady lights a cigarette, puffs away, no regrets,
takes a look around, no regrets, no regrets.
Stretches out like branches of a poplar tree,
she says, I'm free,
sings so soft as if she'll break,
says, I can sing this song so blue
that you will cry in spite of you...

Little wet tears on your baby's shoulder...
Little wet tears on your baby's shoulder...

Viola Log: Carving Back

2008-02-05T01:22:03Z

Mixed pics & video, with explanation whatnot inbetween.

Basically, since cherry is such a hard wood, it sands extremely slowly - the spruce was like butter relative to this. So, I had to go the old fashioned way with a hammer and chisel...

This is really early on in carving out the inside.

Still, from working in the sci oly closet at school. (This was while I was sick, mum didn't like the idea of me doing anything resembling work... so I had to sneak around to actually get stuff done. Which meant hiding out at sci oly during exam week.)

Video of the carving the outside. (Coincidentally, this was also one of the happiest days of my life, but that's another story entirely.) It's... extremely tedious work, and I had perpetually bruised thumbs that week. Went by a lot slower than the inside, it felt.

BUT THAT ALL CHANGED.

Supervisor came up to me while I was banging away at the board at the shop one day and asked me why I wasn't using a power chisel...

It's hard to describe my enthusiasm for the power chisel. It actually went by at a bearable speed! And such control, and I didn't have to bruise my thumbs all the time anymore, it was... urgh. Amazingly fast...

[Error: close lj-embed tag without open tag][Error: close lj-embed tag without open tag]

Vid. (The excitement had sorta worn off by this point. But still!) The board's moving around - I had it clamped at an angle, and the surface was very uneven due to the fact that it had basically been chewed at. (I got smoother... eventually.) But obviously, a lot faster and less painful and less tiring than chiseling by hand.

Arguably... too fast. I wasn't nearly as careful with the grain, and cherry cracks so easily, let alone the fact that I chose a knot at the center of mine just because it would be "pretty"... so I got a nasty crack. :P

Clamped that crack together after filling it with apoxy. (The paper is waxed, so I don't, you know, glue the clamp to the viola. I don't think it's very kosher to play viola with a big steel clamp attached to it.) I've actually got this piece all sanded now and... well, the apoxy's the same color as the wood, and it's not that conspicuous. Still... it's a crack, and whenever I was sanding around that bit I was just filled with an ARGH THAT CRACK SHOULDN'T BE THERE I'M SUCH AN IDIOT sort of feeling. :P

I'll do the bit about sanding the thing... later. It looks pretty, though. *pets*

hair pins

2008-01-20T03:08:01Z

Her hair is loose, tangled, knotted.

She places in hair pins to keep it all tidy, arranging it into aesthetic forms, those pleasing to the eyes of others. They always fall out after a few laughs, but she does it anyway. What’s the awkwardness of falling pins to those few moments when you are as beautiful as the rest of them?

She glances into the mirror; something scared and calm is staring back, then turning away as she goes out the door, out the door and into his line of sight.

Briefly, she wonders who she’s putting her hair up for.

.
wish I knew

'hair pins',

100drabbles

Viola Log: Prepping Back Piece

2008-01-19T03:02:13Z

…OK, I’m done for the day on updating viola stuff, I swear. (Not that anyone actually reads this.)

My flame maple piece went missing in the depths of the shop, which made me exceedingly Sad. But! Since it was a nice piece, I got compensated with basically my choice of wood in the shop. Vair spiffy. They recommended cherry (which I’m quite partial to, good cherry has a sort of pseudo-flame… plus it has that gorgeous natural rose color.) Cherry isn’t commonly used for backs, but I pestered a couple of luthiers via email and they said it would work, so I went ahead with cherry. It was actually quite stupid of me, but I won’t get to that for a while. At any rate.

The board that I got my piece from was huge – it took three people to hold it level to the miter saw (one of whom you can see) so I could cut a manageable piece from the end. Seriously, it goes on for a ways out of the pic still, and it was so thick… such a big, beautiful board isn’t that common, and the whole thing was definitely worth more than my flame maple. :P So I’m very grateful that they let me use a piece of it.

More cutting it down to size on the table saw. That thing scares the hell out of me, and those roller-dohickeys that are supposed to keep the board from flying away from me were really jerky due to a lack of grease. :P But admire my baggy Reed sweatshirt, if you will. ^.^

To save on time, I planed it to get it to the minimum thickness possible. Dorky picture of me waiting for the planer to spit my board back out again.

Once I had my board all pretty, I traced the outline onto it. It looks asymmetric to the rings from here, but it’s really not. *pokes at the picture* Anyway. It’s nothing like the front piece, with the tidy straight lines… this is going to have an almost whorled effect once it’s all carved out, and you can’t tell from the picture but between all those lines there’s a sort of iridescence and the color changes… it’s quite beautiful. I think I actually prefer it to the flame maple, when I compare it to the back of my practice viola.

And no, that’s not a crack in the wood, that’s just a little sliver where the planer jumped. Not relevant anyway.

Now to cutting it out.

The bandsaw at the usual shop broke, and I was getting impatient for it to get fixed, so I pestered the sci oly coach until he arranged for me to work at the school shop (which has no omniscient supervisors and the variety of tools is pathetic, but it had what I needed.) Bit of a shock going to a shop that was clean, well lit and heated, though. Didn’t even need to wear my scarf in there. :P

Anyway, opted for the scroll saw instead of the bandsaw this time around. It was very different to use… the bandsaw pulls the wood down, so all you have to do is move the wood around. But the blade is a lot thicker, so you can’t be nearly so precise. The scroll saw, on the other hand, goes up and down so you have to press down in addition moving the wood around relative to the blade… but it’s much more precise. It’s a tradeoff. I think I prefer the bandsaw, just because I’m on the smaller side and it’s harder to press down on stuff.

Plenty of pics; person I borrowed for taking pictures was having fun with it. XD Even have a little vid, if folks are interested.

Near the beginning. My hair’s doing something funny there. *pokes at it*

I find this picture to be very amusing, I’m not sure why. I think I was blowing off the dust, but I can’t be sure. Cherry wood does smell very nice, though.

It’s not that interesting, but I figure that if you’re reading this then you have to be pretty bored. Cutting, staring at board, adjusting speed settings, cutting more.

More cutting of wood. That cut I’m doing - you can’t do that on a bandsaw. When I was cutting out the front, I had to basically make lots of little perpendicular cuts on the bandsaw and then snap off the little pieces, then do a lot of sanding by hand to fix it. Scroll saw, one smooth cut. Vair cool.

And finishing it off at that dorky little knob at the end.

The job I did on the scroll saw is obviously imperfect – I cut a mm or two wide anywhere where it was delicate – but I got very close, a lot closer than I did on the bandsaw. Now to sanding.

The first thing to sand was all the broad curves using the belt sander. Pretty easy.

Getting the really tight curves is harder to do. For the front piece we had madea jig and just attached it to the drill press; we couldn’t find the old one, so we made a new one out of a bit and wrapping a piece of sandpaper around it. Turn it on and presto, perfect for getting those tight corners.

I still couldn’t at everything with this, so I did a little work with a file by hand. No pic of this at all, it took less than ten minutes, so I guess it doesn’t matter too much.

Not the prettiest pic, but whatever. Finished, and ready for carving.

Viola Log: Convex Side, and Teh Crack of Doom

2008-01-18T23:01:49Z

*feels the need to be constructive*

It’s a slightly different drill for the convex side. I’m deathly scared of the metal grinder, chisels (basically anything that cuts with any amount of speed), so I just used the same sander at 120grit the whole way through this. It’s not bad, it’s just... slow. Just a couple of pics of this process.

Ah, the good ol’ days when I could just cantilever the slab without fearing it would break... Very early in the sanding process, working in the shop.

Here’s what it looked like after… oh, I dunno, a couple of hours. It goes very slowly, but it’s better than fucking it up by going too fast. So whatever. Also, I discovered how hard it was to photograph curved surfaces, when I was trying to show the progress on the thing… I haven't figured out the trick of it yet, so none of them are particularly revealing, sorry. :P

Eventually I got it nice and thin like that on one end, though obviously there’s still a way to go. (Sorry about the glare, I didn’t have time to adjust the settings really, seeing that all I did was plop the camera down and set a timer and hope it wouldn't fall.) You can see the shiny dust and stuff though, which I think is neat anyway. Working in the garage.

I happened to look up at the right time in this one. Look like a dork, don't I? :P That’s working the other side than the previous.

(Yes, that is actually a safe way to clamp it… on the underside I had a block of wide that took the pressure off a bit.)

And… yeah. :P I was respectably close to being done with this piece, just a few more hours of fine sanding to get the curve right, but then it... broke. I don’t remember how I had it clamped, but I must have done something stupid, wasn't careful or wasn't listening to supervisor's advice or whatever. So yeah. That’s how it broke. *still feels awful about this*

Anyway, with my super!fantastic!omniscient supervisors helping me out and making sure I didn't glue the damn thing to the table, I got it glued back together. It being a nice, clean break almost down the center helped things considerably. Had to sand off the excess glue; in fact, after that little incident, decided to finish it entirely by hand, since I was terrified of breaking it again.

For some reason I can’t find my finished!front pic. *pokes self* Another thing to dig out of Esther, since I know I have a respectable pic somewhere. *thinks she left her external hard drive downstairs... somewhere* Anyhow, that bit’s all done. Yayz.

.

I'll do more when I'm feeling a little more enthused. I'm way behind on this, though, I'm more than half done with the backside now...

Really out of practice now, too. Barely played at all this month. *guilty*

'a new start'

2008-01-09T02:25:43Z

100drabbles 'a new start'

She thinks of times beneath a tree, things drawn in the leaves: the peace of forests in the ruins of Babel. Maybe.

The high rich ache behind her eyes, the trip of her fingers when she tries to speak, the smooth delete as she changes her words to keep herself quiet. She fails, as always.

Consideration. She’s barefoot but she likes the feel of concrete aggressing her soles, wet to the ankle and getting deeper.

Programmed. People left at midthought. Selfish for it, she doesn’t want to care. Her breathing is the sigh of a plane falling into the sea.

Viola: Jigs, Cutting Front & Sanding Concave Side

2008-01-03T14:04:19Z

I'm finished with the front now. ^.^ Later today I'll be working with one of the supervisors to pick out what wood to use for the back and to fix the bandsaw (which I don't want ripping out my throat while I'm cutting the back out.) There's still a bunch of pics on my camera, including the ones of the break... I'll do halfish now, halfish later, since there's a lot to log about and I don't want to spend the rest of the morning on this.

I don't even know the dates for when I did all this work - I don't think they're going to kill me for not having them, but that stuff's all imbedded in the pictures if people are all that interested in particulars.

I feel really stupid for having done so little during the fall. I mean... yeah, I was busy, and there was hospital whatnot and family whatnot and friend whatnot but... well, that stuff's still going to be there this winter, and I still have a lot of work to do. :P So I'm really going to have to pick it up.

Without further ado:

Oooh, look, I have hair.

First thing I had to do was cut out the jigs. There's five total, two on each side and one in the center, that reflect the shape of the curve of the viola. I had to be really careful when I was cutting them out because I wanted both sides of the cut to be usable, so I'd have a set for the concave side and the convex side. Used the bandsaw for that.

*headdesk* I should have pictures of my complete jigs, shouldn't I? Will put that in the next log.

Now for the actual wood. Because teh piece wasn't quite wide enough, I cut two chunks off the board. To make a stronger joint between them, I used a router. Here's the bit:

And here's me using it:

I was a little aieeeeeeee using it because the router just sounds malicious. It's like... like across between the Thinny and a horde of killer bees. If that makes any sense. Anyway.

Then I glued the two sides together. It was pretty cool, it probably would have stuck together just fine because the router created a really tight joint, but glue's always a good idea. Took aaaages to set. People were getting exceedingly peeved at having a big board sitting on the dining room table dribbling glue all over.

*pokes at folder* For some reason I don't have any pics of me cutting it out... I probably just forgot to put them in the folder. *pokes at self* Will root around in my camera-dump folders later for that. Used the bandsaw for that anyway.

Much freaking out at the bandsaw later, that's what I ended up with. Obviously it's not quite it - there's some sanding to be done to do some smoothing out of the edges - very slight, though. That line around the edge is where the purfling would be, and the marks are where the various jigs go. Oooh, and the wood! You see those lines? Those aren't the growth lines. Those are sets of growth lines. The wood is awesome old growth. A lot better than the stuff in the viola I'm practicing with. Plus, it smells yummy. *thinks all wood should smell yummy* (Why I took this picture on my couch, I have no idea.)

That's a grinder usually used for sharpening metal. The supervisor was like, Oh, it'll cut the wood like butter! which made me go, Um, I don't want the viola to melt... (That's doing the concave side.) I was really really freaked using that thing, since... well, that's how I had to do it. Standing, bracing my foot on a big rock, basically using my whole body to press and move the wood. It's hard to describe how it felt using that thing. I mean... I'm not a big person. The wheel was moving really really fast and it's basically these big metal bristles and I'm trying to hold the wood really tight so it doesn't go flying to the floor while trying to be somewhat precise with it. It took me several days to really get the rough done because it'd leave me so physically tired.

You also get a fine view of the shop I slave away in. XD It's actually quite nice. Homey. Reminds me of my room.

After I got that rough done, it was on to working with a fine sander. At first, it was nice. "Ooh, I don't have to brace my whole body to use this sander!" But... it went very slowly. I think we used 120grit, but I can't quite remember. *puts on "to figure out" list* I spent many an hour in mah garage with that thing, sanding down millimeter by millimeter... but at least it allowed me to be precise. *shrug*

Because I'm lazy I have better things to do, I'll come back to this later and log the... *drumroll* CONVEX SIDE OF THE FRONT!

!!!

2007-12-17T22:33:07Z

I GOT INTO REED!

AND I'VE GOT A FULL SCHOLARSHIP1

*dies*

This Is For The Muffins

2007-12-06T00:15:09Z

My calc teacher brought in muffins for our last day of calc... bad idea. :P

.

This is for the muffins
that I ate in class
for since I had no puffins
I prob'ly shall not pass

because when there is a muffin
I really cannot think
and so I need a puffin
to eat them all (with drink.)

And here I sit with muffins
that I eat with glee
though I need a puffin
if I shall be free

for with these yummy muffins
my mind will surely go
but where are all the puffins?
(I think my stomach knows.)

.

Isn't it bizarre how the best you feel all day is during a math class? and that it involves airplane personifications of your classmates and a radioactive-looking bottle of Jones Soda and a lime green notebook and banana nut muffins? My time of day, I suppose.

Type 1a Supernovae - Essay

2007-12-04T02:36:00Z

A disclaimer before anyone gets into it: due to the complete idiocy of my instructor, I have been banned from using the verb "to be" in any form for any reason - including quotations, idioms, helping verbs, etc. (Amongst other words also, but none are quite so annoying.) Each word on his "banned word list" ducts me one point, no exceptions. Considering I don't want to be failed on account of not playing his ridiculous little game that supposedly prepares us for college essay writing, I had to write it like this. Sorry. I have to get at least a C on the paper to even graduate, and it's like half my grade for this particular class, so... :P

I haven't done too much editing on it. I still have to go through still and add in all my citations (I typed this mostly from memory :P) A lot of the phrasings are pretty convoluted, forced by his "guide to better writing", and I don't know if it's even possible to fix some of them. Also, I know this is pretty technical stuff (he might fail me for doing a topic of relative complexity compared to, oh, the history of baton twirling, knowing him *kicks*) so pointing out any places where I could try and be clearer and stuff would be really helpful also. (I cut about 500 words of the more technical yabbering already. :P) I don't really expect anyone to be able to correct any of this, but if anyone *coughs* FH! *coughs* has any suggestions as to things I might have omitted or should mention... that'd be sweet too.

I'd love you forever if you could add suggestions in any way. Seriously. Like... I'd-bake-you-cookies-and-write-you-bardic-odes love you. Not to mention a "edit an obscenely long essay of mine free" card. :P It's due Friday, so there's a week if you can find the time.

Version 2.0, edited one early Thursday morn. Wouldn't mind more concrit, but this is probably what I'll turn in. I'll run around and thank peeps later, what with the cookies and bardic odes and all.

Without further ado:

Type 1a supernovae number among the brightest, most spectacular explosions in the universe. They have proven important in virtually every topic within astrophysics, from determining distances to distant galaxies to calculating the rate of expansion of the universe to discovering the triggers of star formation. Though in many ways the phenomenon of the type 1a supernova remains an enigma, scientists have also come closer and closer to understanding the mechanisms and consequences of these explosions.

The current theory explaining the mechanisms that cause type 1a supernovae proposes that the progenitors orbit in a common binary system. One star must have evolved to become a white dwarf, a hot, dense, but rather small star that fuses hydrogen and helium in its core. The companion star in the binary system varies greatly, potentially any main sequence or red giant star, as long as the white dwarf can accrete matter from it. ‘Double degenerate systems’ refer to binary systems consisting of two white dwarfs; ‘single degenerate systems’ refer to binary systems with only one white dwarf (Koester 54).

The white dwarf slowly accretes matter from the companion star as they orbit each other. As the white dwarf becomes more and more massive, the core heats up due to the increase in gravitational pressure. Eventually the core becomes hot enough to fuse yet heavier elements, a point called the Chandrasekhar Limit at 1.4 solar masses.

This “deadly stellar tango” appears unstable as the white dwarf approaches this limit. For example, RS Ophuichi, a potential type 1a supernova in the making, has flared up several times in the recent past. Theoretically, these flares occur when the “thermonuclear flame has swept across the face of the star without quite catching hold” (Pease).

Most white dwarfs never even reach this point: perhaps summing the masses of the two stars results in less than the Chandrasekhar Limit, or perhaps the stars drift apart and no longer accrete matter from each other. Regardless of the reason, type 1a supernovae have proven exceedingly rare. Out of all the trillions of stars in a Milky Way-size galaxy, perhaps one type 1a supernova in 500 years will grace the skies (Leibundgut 184). Fortunately, from Earth we can observe billions of galaxies from the furthest reaches of the universe, so generally scientists observe about 200 supernovae in any given year (Leibundgut 180).

Once the heavier elements have begun to fuse in the core, the white dwarf explodes. The star quickly rises to maximum luminosity by almost half a magnitude per day for up to twenty days (Leibundgut 185). Type 1a supernovae briefly outshine even their parent galaxies, which typically consist of trillions of stars. Observations of type 1a supernovae during the rise to maximum have proven rare because while the stars remain dim and thus inconspicuous, astronomers rarely have telescopes pointed at the right patch of sky. However, the occasional happy coincidence has allowed for a few early peeks at type 1a supernovae.

After maximum magnitude, the luminosity begins to decline in a characteristic curve. After about 150 days, the star has dimmed to about five magnitudes below peak brightness, often disappearing entirely into the haze of the parent galaxy (Leibundgut 188). Due to the near impossibility of observing such dim, distant objects, observations past that point remain virtually nonexistent. No remnant appears to remain: the star, after one great flash of light, becomes nothing more than scattered gas and photons slipping through the cold silence of space.

However, many observations challenge this basic theory, exceptions that scientists can only hazard guesses at as to the explanations. These especially worry astrophysicists, who often depend on type 1a supernovae observations to calculate distances and universal constants, because many of these exceptions do not appear immediately obvious as such.

Some explosions display the same light curve as the typical type 1a supernova—but appear to two to three times the theorized maximum luminosity (Shiga, Preuss). It seems unlikely that explosions with the same emission lines and the same shape and the same duration as type 1a supernovae would somehow form in any other conditions, so most scientists consider these a new variety of type 1a supernovae.

Most scientists agree that because these explosions appear brighter, it would merely mean that the progenitors had had more mass to explode with. Thus, the circumstances must have allowed for the white dwarfs to surpass the typical Chandrasekhar Limit, leading scientists to term these stars “Super-Chandrasekhars.” Observations that the ejecta from these explosions generally have low kinetic energy, meaning more gravity pulling inward, support this (Preuss).

One theory explains this circumstance by suggesting that the white dwarf rotates quickly enough that centripetal acceleration in part counters the gravitational pressure upon the core. This would allow for more accretion of mass before reaching the critical limit (Preuss). However, why a white dwarf might rotate at such high velocities remains anyone’s guess.

Another theory suggests that, instead of slowly accreting the required mass, the two stars collide, resulting in a net mass greater than the Chandrasekhar Limit. Binary systems where the stars orbit close enough to each other for this to occur only account for 2-20% of single or double degenerate systems (Koester 54). However rare, such collisions could account for some of the exceptions, in particular type 1a supernovae originating from globular clusters. Astronomers already suspect that a class of stars, termed ‘blue stragglers’, found those compact clusters may originate from white dwarf collisions (Murphy).

Yet another theory suggests that these explosions merely look like type 1a supernovae, actually exploding as ‘disguised’ versions of type II supernovae. This explains the extreme brightness. However, the reason for such extreme distortion of the light curve remains unexplained.

Astrophysicists have also noticed an age paradox amongst type 1a supernovae. White dwarfs typically form in old stellar populations; the complete absence of ‘simple’ elements, such as hydrogen and helium, and the strong presence of more ‘processed’ elements in the spectra strongly support this (Leibundgut 196). Type 1a supernovae, however, find themselves more commonly observed in younger elliptical galaxies than in older spiral galaxies. At that, type 1a supernovae also appear to have a preference for the intermediately aged star-forming spiral arms (Leibundgut 184). To say the least, scientists scramble for an explanation. Why would younger white dwarfs supernova more commonly? Does the differing proportion of heavier elements in the core between younger and older stellar populations have anything to do with it? Might younger binary systems structure themselves in a way that makes them more likely to accrete matter from each other? Some astronomers even suggest that the type 1a supernovae that originate from older populations could classify as a different type of supernova entirely. Few convincing theories have emerged from such anxious questioning, which will hopefully change soon.

Some type 1a supernovae display hydrogen lines in the spectrum. Hydrogen should have fused into heavier elements by the time the luminosity peaks. Indeed, the lack of hydrogen has proven one of the most reliable indicators of type 1a supernovae, considering most objects in the known universe contain this most common of elements. Some theories suggest that the hydrogen comes from the lighting of a circumstellar envelope during the explosion. However, considering the great age of white dwarfs, all significant circumstellar matter should have accreted onto the star by that point (Leibundgut 198). Other theories suggest that the explosion of the white dwarf might have triggered another explosion in the partner star, which might still have hydrogen. However, the dynamics of the companion star during the explosion remain relatively unknown, and that the companion star could burn enough hydrogen to interfere with the spectrum of the actual supernova seems unlikely.

Many type 1a supernovae display small, peculiar variations that have no apparent cause. Some display a ‘second maximum’ 21-30 days after the first in which the infrared spectrum peaks, but many do not. Of those that do, some appear to ‘plateau’ instead of displaying a more standard curve (Leibundgut 187). Some explosions with type 1a supernova curves appear to have no host galaxy, essentially making them random explosions in the emptiness of intergalactic space (Hecht). Some explosions have asymmetric ejecta patterns, others spherical, and others still bipolar. Some have displayed x-rays in the spectrum, which according to theoretical calculations shouldn’t even occur during the explosion (Siegfried).

Still more remain simply unknown. The dynamics of the companion star during the explosion remains unobserved in practice and unexplored in theory. Differences between the possible companion stars—whether the progenitor exists in a double or single degenerate system—remain unanalyzed in respect to the final explosion. What happens one, ten, one hundred years after the explosion remains unknown. The fate of the remnants of the white dwarf and the companion star seems lost in the haze of obscurity. The precise mechanism of the thermonuclear detonation has never had a successful computer model that can match observational data (Leibundgut 199).

Scientists struggle to answer these questions, often frustrated by their powerlessness. Like the rest of the human race, they suffer this paltry rock that sits eternities away from these fascinating objects. Indirect study remains the only thing possible for astronomers. However, the answers should become clearer with the passage of time, which should provide some satisfaction.

New technology, particularly advances in telescopes, will help astronomers see more, and the data that they glean will improve in quality. Basically, the bigger the telescope, the better; larger telescopes can take in more light, which results in more detailed observations to greater distances. Space-based telescopes have less interference from the atmosphere, resulting in clearer, sharper images, and can also observe wavelengths that the atmosphere otherwise absorbs. As those two qualities become more prevalent, the data with which scientists work will become better and more abundant.

Further empirical analysis will also help. As scientists find more and more trends between different type 1a supernovae, they can create a more precise picture of what a ‘standard’ type 1a supernova should look like. Also, empirical analysis can find patterns between the variations, which will help scientists identify different varieties of explosions and begin working out the explanations for those. Such separations will keep the data as pure as possible for the calculation of universal constants.

The mere passage of time, however, continues as the best way to ease the questions. As astronomers observe more and more type 1a supernovae with better and better telescopes, empirical analyses will reveal new correlations that fresh generations of astrophysicists will pour over. Perhaps this requires a bit more patience than what current scientists can satisfy themselves with, but they have a vast universe full of questions to try their hands at answering. No scientist could ever claim to feel bored.

Astronomers have little reason to feel bored about type 1a supernovae quite yet, however. Type 1a supernovae have become an important study focus in astrophysics. The measurements gleaned from observations have many different uses, and these explosions have also proven important to not only the creation of life but perhaps even the extinctions of the past—and future.

Due to the sheer radiation output from the explosions, they have proven detectable at distances greater than with any other single object. Combined with the uniformity of the absolute magnitude at maximum luminosity, they make for perfect distance indicators. Type 1a supernovae have proven especially useful for calculating distances beyond the range of more close-to-home, like Cepheid variables or trigonometric parallax.

In particular, type 1a supernovae measurements have helped scientists determine the rate of expansion of the universe. For example, type 1a supernova 1997ff occurred nearly 11.3 billion years ago, yet due to its great distance its light only arrived at Earth a few years ago (Preuss). The distortion of its spectrum, along with the spectra of other ancient type 1a supernovae, has allowed scientists to determine that during the time of the initial explosion the rate of the expansion of the universe decelerated. Once compared to the distortion of the spectrum of more recent type 1a supernovae, scientists have concluded that the expansion of the universe now accelerates. The repercussions of this conclusion has caused drastic rethinking of the nature of dark matter and energy—another hot topic in astrophysics today.

Measurements from type 1a supernovae have proven useful for the study of a wide variety of other topics and structures within astrophysics. For example, the interstellar medium can distort the light emitted by the explosion. This gives astronomers a chance to study the structure of the interstellar medium, which otherwise seems almost impenetrable to scientific study (“Flashes from the Past: Echoes from Ancient Supernovae”).

In the words of Evele, “We oughta thank supernovas because they made life possible.” Little seems truer. During the course of the explosion, hydrogen and helium fuses into heavy metals that could not otherwise exist in the universe—such as iron, found in virtually every living being (Koester 53). Almost all of the technology we use depends on these elements, from automobiles to refrigerators. The powerful shockwaves from the explosion may also trigger the collapse of nebulae and thus cause star formation. Without a star to heat the planet, a few twiggy proteins in the primordial soup would never have even had a chance to evolve to the complex creatures that might eventually read this paper.

However, scientists have correlated nearby supernovae explosions with some extinctions on Earth, including the one that ended the reign of the woolly mammoth (Krotz). The radiation output from a supernova explosion could easily kill anything within its immediate star system (Evele). The human race appears protected by not only a nice thick atmosphere, but also millions or billions of light years of distance from the explosion. If a star exploded near our planet, however, neither our amiable atmosphere nor our current technology could save us from certain extinction. Fortunately supernovae remain a rare event, and the stars that do show some potential for a supernova event probably won’t go for another few million years, which gives the human race ample time to think of defense (or escape) mechanisms.

Type 1a supernovae have become and will remain one of the most critical subjects of study in astrophysics today. Not only have they proven important to the dynamics of the universe, but they have also made themselves useful for human understanding of other objects of interest. Though many problems remain with the current theory, scientists have also gotten closer and closer to understanding the intricacies of these fantastic explosions.

'auction' drabble

2007-12-02T19:20:50Z

Here be a drabble born of nothing more than being chained in a garage sanding myself a viola and the wind blowing snow and dust into my face and my fingers freezing and my Stevie Nicks CD deciding to skip and drinking way too much tea this morning.

'auction', 100drabbles

.

The heart, auctioned to the highest bidder—

—some offer flowers that freeze on a day of snow.

—some offer the slickness of a leather couch in the dark.

—some offer chocolates too sweet for the embittered tongue.

—some offer conversation dulled by their idealistic day.

—and some, some offer the hope of happiness to come.

The highest bid is always hope, but what is it but that gold that turns to lead once held in the hand, presented with the lazy whisper of perhaps and taken away with an unapologetic smile?—yet the heart is always exchanged with joyful tears…

?!

2007-11-23T19:09:54Z

The last segment of writing I did was basically an soc during a performance of Rach 3. So, I started writing with the beginning of the first movement, and I stopped by the end of the third. Taking just that bit, I wrote 2636 words. My recording of Rach 3 is ~42 min. I was composing at ~63 words per minute. *pokes brain* I'm a little scared to read it.

ROTFL

2007-11-19T11:26:43Z

The sad thing is, this sorta reminds me of some people at my school.

Cobblestones & Mountain Dew

2007-10-30T18:18:24Z

Cobblestones and Mountain Dew

...quite a contrast. Hard to believe I wrote these within two hours of eachother. :P

Both look like I had ingested something suspicious before writing though, no?

100drabbles 'cobblestones'

:i

She runs, she runs like the wild zephyrs that taunt the poet at the desk, she runs like the shadows in the corner of the sane man’s eye…

Her feet slap against old cobblestones; and maybe it’s just in her head but she can almost her heart echoing against glistening steel and soaring cranes.

She runs like the cirrus that slip overhead to herald the horizon thunderstorm, she runs like the last flickering lightbulb in the stranger’s basement…

There’s something waiting for her in her mind, something ready to drown her in darkness: but not now, not while she runs…

i:

I missed the bus I usually catch coming back down from the hospital, which is a connector to another bus I take to get home... and I dunno, I didn't feel like waiting ten minutes, so I just started running. I think I actually beat it there, traffic was pretty bad... though my knees ache a bit, cobblestones *hurt*. Wrote this on the bus home anyhow. I felt a bit funny. :P

Ode To A Mountain Dew (Written During Calculus Class)

:i

Today you find your every action slowing

and the speech of others strangely slurring;

a narcoleptic urge is quickly growing,

your vision like a bad picture is blurring.

Pinch yourself to try to stay awake

as each blink becomes a tryst with sleep

forbidden for your teacher’s ego sake,

but on you sly temptation creeps…

…but in the corner of your closing eyes

you see a gleam of fairest yellow-green;

Chernobyl-fluid is drunk with hyper cries,

upon your face a smile is now seen!

Mountain Dew has surely saved your day

(though you’ll likely fail anyway.)

i:

...I got bored during calculus. You can't blame me, the class is stuff I've already learned and I had taken a two hr calc midterm earlier that day, for a grand total of four hours of calculus... I had bought a 'dew to keep me awake, and... this is the product? I dunno. We (me and another dual-enrolled girl) were arguing in heated whispers about which variety of Mountain Dew was better, and I just announced that I was going to do a sonnet about Dew, and... I got this. *headdesk*

(I like the premise. I just think that it sucks. I should have had a second bottle... what would you call the muse of 'Dew? I think "Chernobyl" would be brilliant...)

OK, maybe I'm still in a funny mood. *pokes self*

NaNoWriMo 07

2007-10-24T23:16:10Z

Right. thewhitelily has one of these, so I will too, since I need to organize my thoughts on all this anyway.

Last year, basically all I did was have Scene A and Scene B, and I spent the duration of the month writing how A became B. And... it worked. I can go back and read it, and the level of organization presence despite my being largely unaware of what I was writing while I was writing it, with no real planning beforehand... it's a bit startling. I think I've got structure programmed way deep into my head or something.

And... I won't get into the subject matter much here. The basic premise was picking at how all the worldviews of all the people I know don't work, and so I'd kill them all off. And... it's a bit disturbing to read, even now. I've shared the novel with a grand total of two people, and I think that's how it's going to stay. It's... so intensely personal. If I become a world-famous writer, maybe it'll get published after I die. *laughs*

My theme for this year... is less ambitious, but more clichéd. Basically, I want to do something in the differences between stable and unstable relationships. So, I'll have a neutral male A, an unstable female B, and a stable female C.
Basically.

Structurally, what I'm going to do is borrow some scenes from a previous short I've written about A+B, which will comprise the first third or so once I've got it fleshed out and adapted and stuff. A+C is going to be the middle third, and then A+B/C is going to be the final third, with the choice of C and the subsequent death of B ending the novel.

And... on a personal note. I am B. People like me... I know myself well enough that I'd be a terrible wife and an even more terrible mother. That's not the kind of lifeI can have. And I don't think I can ever really be completely happy. There's always going to be an existential crisis, there's always going to be doubt and angst. Moments, feelings? Sure. And... I can be content with that, I think. Take the average and it comes out to zero.

This is a way I can consider these types of relationships, come to conclusions regarding them, come to terms with myself... this is why I really write. To deal with issues. To cleanse the mind. NaNoWriMo gives me the excuse to do it in a longer format, to look at multiple facets of issues that normally can only hold my attention for a few hundred words, to look at things as a whole as opposed to a very small piece...

Anyway. Of course there's going to be other things in the novel - pure romance would be so boring - but those are just vague ideas in my head right now, and I'm planning on keeping it that way I'm going to ignore whatever I come up with if I do, and I'll confuse myself, and it won't be pretty. Minor characters will introduce themselves to me when they feel it is appropriate to do so. To rush them would only result in some scalding hot tea being dumped over my head.

As far as scheduling... I managed it pretty easily last year. I think I'll just do the same things: get up at 5, write until 6, then go to school; write snippets between classes and then type them up at lunch; and if I still don't have 2K by that point, write between dinner and bed. I'm really just using existing slack time, so grades etc. don't suffer. Though I don't think I'll be able to do too many write-offs this year, alas: I've been avoiding IM since I only have a few minutes here and there to do net stuff, and if I'm bogged down with conversations I can't get anything done. Which is a real pity, since a lot of folks depend more on IM than LJ (Mozzie, BK, Michael...) But this way I can keep my shiny A+s at least.

And... well. It will be a good excuse to get away from RL friends. "Sorry, not going to lunch today, working on my novel." I need some time away from them. Sometimes I talk to them and it... hurts to listen to them. I mean... sometimes it's a comfort, just to see how relatively normal people function, but lately it's been more of an irritant than anything. Add in social politics and some nasty hormone messes and if not for my dislike of worrying people I'd just as soon stay away.

Ah, NaNoWriMo, you save my sanity...

The Child

2007-10-13T19:09:51Z

I forced myself to do a bit of editing. This piece is really just a collection of aphorisms, but it’s something different from my norm. *shrug*

100_original 'children' (table)
originally fifty_flashes 'adult' and 'child' (post)

The Child
Rachel Chevalier

:i

THE ADULT must understand that they are so only by agreement with others like themselves; but THE ADULT is really only THE CHILD with simpler ambitions. THE CHILD, after all, is ever the eldest in age…

THE ADULT knows black from white and left from right and right from wrong, whereas THE CHILD cares only for colors beyond shades of gray, the bright and the vivid in every hue, splashed across the face and scrawled across the mind, regardless of presumptions of aesthetics, for THE CHILD knows naught but the self, for that is all one can know, and even—that—

THE ADULT does not care for differences but similarities in friends, and in enemies similarities are not seen except in the carnival mirror; THE CHILD, on the other hand, never assumes stability in similarity. Indeed, THE CHILD delights in the company of contrasts; whether or not they are merely in the mind is not THE CHILD’s concern.

THE ADULT cares only for who and how, and THE CHILD can only comprehend what and when; yet THE CHILD only considers why.

I basically mashed two old flashes together, scrambled them up a bit, tried to get something philosophical going.

Obviously I’m not talking about lollipop-sucking children here, but a philosophical concept of the eternal child; and the adult is one that doesn’t bother with philosophy or even with proper thought, that considers oneself already grown and not requiring of change or improvement or doubt. And so this contrasts the two…

...maybe. I don't know if my idea of a "child" and an "adult" really get across, so concrit/discussion about the topic would be much appreciated. :-) Oh, and the aphorismness. I'm never going to be Wilde, but I can try for a bit of wit, right?

To Our Departed, Dearly

2007-09-29T20:18:15Z

Polished version of the fifty_flashes ‘funeral’ (original post here.) Using for 100_original 'ends' (table.) Edited while in Alaska, with some minor bits added today.

To Our Departed, Dearly
Rachel Chevalier

:i

Drive alone: the road winds to gray and narrow oblivion, and though others have followed this road before, pilgrims even if they did not know it, no one follows you, and you follow no one. You’re the last drop of the leaky faucet dripdripdrip, finale of the flood drip-drip-drip, trickling down the road that winds to nowhere drip—drip—drip—

Walk alone: the crinkling path curls through yellowed graves and tired trees, no care but for the wilting remains of ephemeral deluges. Such consideration for the absent is foreign to most, but for you it’s become a housewife habit: for your weekly dose of the spiritual, instead of a godless Church you visit a soulless cemetery… but your decades of honoring the dead are coming to a close with your own imminence: and who will bring you wilting roses decades from now?

Stand alone: how many times before have you stood watching the indifference of the grave, praying for a voice, praying for a choice? Helplessly, habitually, you leave your sacrifice to draw an answer from your own mind: your first offerings had been red, red as the blood that had never been spilt, he had wanted an end but they pursued a means drawn out so cruelly intricate with its wires and tubes it should have been murder; then yellow for those moments that had managed, those moments that glimmered the soft gold of hope, the sweet gold of a promise that everything could be alright, that everything could be okay; but then white in the long trail of bell curve mourning, white as the world that killed him more surely and slowly than the cancer, white as the world you fled in favor of the very substances that send you to it too soon, white as the world they’re bringing you to tomorrow…

Weep alone: for there will be no one to weep for you.

I think a fair bit of this is drawn from my Philosophy of Death & Dying class last spring. Most of it wasn’t proper philosophy at all, but philosophical discussion of today’s issues, not a series of abstracts like philosophy is generally taught… which though I would still like to take a class in, if only to work out the philosophy of suicide, I think that class was more useful for the society we live. Dying today is nothing like dying a hundred years ago, which is what all are traditions and customs are still arranged for. We aren’t ready as a society for these long, painful drawn out deaths, and we still cling to this idea that this… just horrendous way of dying is better than just a quick death. Death is the ultimate evil, avoid death at all costs. Well, fuck you, sometimes death is a hell of a lot more preferable to that kind of physical and emotional pain. If I had terminal cancer and I had six months to live and those six months would be in a bed on morphine drip, I’d off myself on the first opportunity. That’s not living until death, that’s dying until death, and I don’t see the point of standing for it. Some people say, Well, we’re not forcing you to take extraordinary measures to save your own life. Well, guess what, you are if ‘extraordinary measures’ doesn’t include sticking you in a bed full of tubes and wires to force feed & hydrate you, since if you try starving yourself out of your misery, 9/10 times the doctors will take it upon themselves to declare you incompetent. But, er, anyway. One aspect of this is those long deaths that are terrifyingly ill-managed in his country.

And yes, I have read Tuesdays with Morrie, and recently (last week), before anyone tells me I ought read the other viewpoint. I'm all for patient choice on the matter. I don't think doctor's should off terminally ill patients because it's "in their interests" or whatever. If the patients want that kind of drawn out death, sure, but they shouldn't be given the impression by our society that there's some kind of shame in not wanting life-however-painful. Just.... GAH.

The other bit, more cleanly, is how ignored cemeteries often are. There’s a cemetery I pass on my way to the bus stop (to get to uni); you don’t see many people stopping by and dropping off flowers, unless they departed recently. Which I find vaguely unsettling. You don’t need to pine after someone who’s died, but shouldn’t you at least put up a flower to their memory on the anniversary, at least, remember the good bits, the lessons learnt? And what's with fake flowers? They look terrible. How's that for artificial. They just fade in the sun and fray at the edges. Real flowers wilt...

I've only had a couple of people on me at this point in my life, and certainly not someone intensely close like a parent or a best friend, but… well. I’d be one of those people dropping off flowers every year, even if I moved an ocean away. I have to remember. That’s why I put everything into writing, so if I lose memory I can still recall by finding the day and the mood…

Well, anyway. Um. My rambling was longer than my story, that's kinda pathetic on my part. Concrit? Especially on the title, I can't stand the title, but it's the only thing I've been able to think of.

recent flash whatnots

2007-09-29T19:54:14Z

Stuff from recently. Nothing that interesting, though there's two I'm partial to potentially expanding.

I walk. The occasional crush of leaves punctuates the soft padding of soles on asphalt; few, but more to come. My shadow disappears into the trees. The indigo sky flecks the spotted gold and green of the leaves, colors so different they blend in checkerboard minutia.

I walk. And then—a sudden impulse makes me look up, and I see them, the crooked V of geese, their bellies red and black, bleeding with the sunset, falling across the teeth-gaps of sky between the trees.

I still, listening, until their dire nasal warnings fade into the sound of an autumn wind, scattering those firsts leaves of fall around my feet, my shadow longer than a moment ago—

i:

I had this. I was about to head out to play tennis with some friends last night, and I was in the driveway and... there was that. That moment. I scribbled this down on the ride to the tennis courts. It was rather startling. Had me in a funny mood at first.

fifty_flashes
table

'together'

The trees are the shade of algal sheens on a pond; the sky, a reflection on milk. Though you stand, your thoughts are not still, moving like the tired wind that stirs the leaves into the sigh of autumn. What is this?—

—peace? No—

Your dreams are slack between the present and future. Things may or may not happen. Words that might once have made you weep are mere whispers in the silence: you bear them.

The dreams still, a soft knot at the center of you. Curves within curves, Gordian in every regard but intensity. It sits there, it can be touched, it can be considered, so intangible, so very strange? Feel the impossible, breathe it in. You are quiet for it.

Watch. They move, leaves on the wind. Even the colorful are weary, watercolor stains on curled paper. The peace seeps into your mind, bleeds into your mind. Watch one leaf stumble, two cling, three dance. They are all the same. You can’t drift, not like them, the weight of your world so heavy upon your shoulders.

Feel them slip by your hands, across your cheeks. The wind tugs gently, lukewarm, bath of passivity. Drown in it. Watch them tumble, could you ever catch them?—could you ever hold one for yourself? That one, there, it has already gone so far, and with the next whisper of wind it will leave again. Watch it in the sky, softest gold against palest blue. No weight upon it but the whim of thought.

You cannot hold it in your hand, any more than you can hold a feeling in your heart.

The sun is strange upon your face; isn’t it shining?

i:

Wrote this while waiting for the 6th hour bell to ring (didn't go out that day.) Ironically, the closest window offered a view of mowed glass and the opposite wing of the school. Funny mood and stuff. There's not really a... core to it. But I like this, honestly. I think I nailed how I was feeling at that moment on the button. But... it's not something I'd edit and rework.

'remember'

As sharp as the sun in winter, as sweet as the song in the silence—

Hold the moments in your hand. Laughing with the water and the sun and the wall and the boy. A smile across the room, glancing at you and then turning downwards but that smile, it’s still there. The face in the morning, surrounded by others but it makes you feel less alone somehow, the crowd isn’t so terrible with that inclusion. The still moments of mutual thought when all seemed less than a word, less than a sound. The helpless laugh, he’s happy and that’s something to you even if it wasn’t you that made him so, even though you know you could never. A face in the dark, is that him?—let us see. Long, for a sweetness he does not need, but nonetheless desires from another.

We are strange creatures. A smile, a laugh?—little more than thoughts. Yet how they beg—

i:

Shit. Won't do anything with. There we go for the unrequited. I'm thinking, however, I could make something interesting on a related theme; I felt very inspired after my first viewing of The Hours about an hour ago, some of the moods in there I might have to use in my NaNo, or in future longish shorts anyway. (Speaking of which, Woolf frightened the shit out of me. I could so easily see how I could turn into that, it was just... terrifying. "Say it, 'I'm getting better', say it to me.")

'sleep'

Eternal sleep, the trick of things to come—

You watch. He is unaware of himself: the honest, open smile, the awkward movements of his hands, the creases in his brow. So blind. Asleep, surely, he cannot know the world—

You feel life in your hand: clutching at your wrist, the almost painful pulse you can feel, you can see. Are you not awake?—are you not aware?—

Yourself. You are the only thing you can even know. You are—why is that not enough?—

—why must there be others?

They sleep. They can see your mind. The baby in the tree, the man in the moon… Fables. Ideas. They know you better there, in your mind.

They may be weary, but they have eyes wide open—

i:

Mleh. *shrugs*

'alone'

They’re laughing.

It’s the old game. Fall, trust, faith that they will be caught.

They all stumble. They smile, laugh, toss the word faithless with a note of pride.

His turn. Crossing arms, closing eyes. He falls; he stumbles but she catches him anyway. Laughter. He’s too busy smiling to thank her for faithlessness in faithlessness.

It’s hers. Eyes wide open, hands limp at her sides. She falls, faceless creatures blurring above her—

—and their laughter roars as she hits the ground with the dull slap of cloth on linoleum.

There are tears in her eyes. He accounts them to the blood in her hair; someone else gets the ice.

i:

I actually have an expanded version already written (obviously not what I'd post here yet for a final, haven't let it molder nearly enough), posting the raw since that's what fifty_flashes wants, but this... is something I could definitely use. It'd make an excellent core for a short I think, this situation and the moment of epiphany. (And Mozzie, if you're bothering to read all these, this is the raw of the spot of prose I was considering adding to my Brit Lit II project.) But yeah. I like this. (No, this isn't autobiographical except in the sense I was translating a mood I was feeling at the time to a different scene.)

A Treasonous Mirror

2007-09-23T20:10:28Z

I am feeling very much relieved that my Brit Lit II prof moved teh due date for that killer poetry project to Thursday. I doubt I'm going to come up with anything decent by then (I've hit 1K, but only one of them really fits in with what we've been studying thus far) I... still have a while? Right. :P I might post the poems later, just to see if people can shred them enough that they're salvageable.

Been procrastinating all afternoon on my AP French project (Vietnam, where everyone hates the French), translated an old piece I wrote in German. To reiterate on the notes for that, I have no idea where I lifted the concept from; I just know it's not mine and I'd much appreciate anyone who could help me give credit where due. Also, I had to muss with phrasings and such to get it to translate "well", take that as you will, asides from the normal "blegh, I sucked three months ago" fixerupper thing. Concrit, enough foreshadowing as to the "identity"?

Methinks I'll also use this for 100_original 'enemies' (table.)

When you smile, they look away. They all do.

They’re so afraid—

It’s because of the Bully. They fear him, and they fear for him: such a strange, starving boy, hungry but not for their lunchmoney surely, he should have been sated long ago… always with those fists of his, tyranny triumphant in the cries of the weak and the smile of the strong.

He will never stop. How could he? He can’t even stop himself.

He’s not just stealing their lunchmoney, after all: he’s stealing their childhood, the childhood he’ll never have…

Your fists clench. You hate him, you hate him you hate him you hate him you—

You open your eyes, and see him there, there, right in front of you: the Bully.

You move without thought.

Hit him.

Without hesitation.

Hit him harder.

You can’t stop yourself—

harder

You shudder to a stop, and fall.

The shards of the mirror are scattered around you.

You are the Bully.

recent flashes & drabbles

2007-09-23T03:05:30Z

Some random flashes and stuff from recently. Haven't been writing too well, though I'm partial to two in here.

The grass moves. I breathe the air, and something of the peaces gives me this calm to write:

Do I wish this?—I stare across a primary succession, the trees, mere saplings, as tall as the grass. I do not know. The page craves the pen, but it is I that allows them words. I could live with a hunger, but a hunger grows before it dies, a hunger cries out, a hunger crafts obsession…

Do I wish this?—the wind is warm, the sun is gold. Am I happy in this disobedient whim, in this willful mood? There is a sky but no heaven. I love the taste of autumn. I see his face and not another’s; I taste a freedom I should not have. If one can need, I merely want. I don’t think he could understand. He could be here: I sit and the grass is soft. He may have his eyes open, but he is either blind or cruel. I am calm, but I know that it is not always so. See my mind?—I hurt it yesterday, to make this stop.

Do I wish this?—I cannot see past the wall of tangled trees. I’m something I can’t understand. Yellow flowers and green leaves. The aspen is so afraid. Where could he be but elsewhere?—of course. A hunger is not so important: it is merely a voice, not that thing that kills you. But a voice will leave you mad if stilled from words.

Do I wish this?—I could walk away. He has feet as sure as I. The forest is so close. I can see—

i:

This... I don't know. I didn't feel like dealing with the general noise of RL friends, so I just went outside. Then felt like shit for the duration of lunchtime.

'happiness', fifty_flashes

table

—that thrill as sharp as birdsong when he’s smiling and it’s so hard to breathe—

—that suffocation in the springtime air thick with the scent of flowers—

—that scent of the pink-yellow tiger lilies received at the corner shop with snow in his hair—

—the flurry you slip through hand in hand on streets where no one dares walk—

—on the stage with the dozenzome best and brightest, the medals around the neck heavy but the honor makes you light, all beyond anyone’s dreams—

—drowned you do not know what it is you do but intoxication makes you do things you will not remember and shouldn’t regret but the moment’s all that matters, no?—

—because you’re standing there and though you won’t see her for an eternity the independence is still a thrill as sharp as birdsong—

I like this one, inexplicably. It... won't make sense to any one person, since I don't think I've told any one person about the various events detailed here. Well, maybe Demie. Maybe? Blegh. I feel vaguely fuzzy when I read this. Obviously it's missing a few ('and so they stood in gloried May/considering the fountain wall') but it's got some of the... happier things in my life. *laughs* No shit.

'love'

The cell, square; but chairs steal from the simplicity, as does the uneven sprawl of stands. Papers with black lines strewn, leaves on the trees, inexplicable as they struggle to describe the subjective experience.

New, new in many respects except the only one that matters. It rests there, sweetly so, beneath your chin, extending outward with those graceful curves and lines.

Brace yourself against the air—

The first sound resonates not in the instrument but in the heart: feel it in the delicate bones of the chest, the force of the sound more likely to break you than break the instrument you hold in your hands.

Bow shifts, fingers move, scale, first scale, guided by childish stickers and the sound, the sound is far from perfect, far from beauty, but it is sound, not merely in the air but within you… for you are the sound, you are the music that will come with time.

i:

Viola, obviously. My poor RL buddies have been subjected to my rambling on the matter. This is poor treatment of the topic, but I wrote it after the first hour I had with it. "Authentic". I'll do something nice later, some whatnot with parellelism and the like. (Oooh, and Gussiki & Gracie, before I forget: I got a shoulder rest from the orch.. It made it slightly less painful to play, though I think I prefer playing sans? Input perhaps?)

'talk'

They speak, listen:

Slamming lockers punctuate the slurred obscenities of the thick-necked and thick-minded. The pale bug-eyed awkwards with their backpack stuffed for the day, theirs open and close without a word but for the sorry for every one they touch. The geishas snap at all who intrude upon them and the magnetized mirror; some are exposed to the hairspray contaminants, others to their tinny twanging voice Like OMG—

Heads above the lockers; except for the tall whose shoulders turn them to Goliath shadows, and their thudding voices melding to simple disharmony. False hair, lightbulb heads, drift in schools and incorporate any outside that walks too slow or fast. They laugh. You draw. The noise, so difficult to separate the sounds to melodic parts, no symphony is this…

Slumped hyenas. Their laughs make their faces twist with primal thoughts.

Some sit, like you, some look in from the outside, some fear the sound—

—and others seek to rise above, rise against, vulgarities superficially projected at the world. Others, crimped hair and strawberry lips they want to be gloried goddesses and though all goddesses turn to petty pagans with time, they don’t care…

Happiness the high false voices, even these who think black is the sad color, those who wear it with pride. Hear. Can they?

They advertise forces they cannot understand even with all their education. The thin and thick alike wear Abercrombie & Fitch, Aeropostle, Nike, Led Zeppelin Pink Floyd Linkin Park Hello Kitty Megatokyo—

Football tonight: the purple herd hungering and they feed on the moment with convenient pride. Colors. Is someone happy, carnival, masquerade?

False colors. White, black, yellow, red. Why?—or is it why not. They’d like to forget the streaks. Saplings in the hedge. Prune—imagine, the quiet? It’s outside the doors; but you don’t believe that.

Recognize.

i:

Basically, I sat out on a windowsill and watched the change between classes, over the lockerbank. It's... well, I get real bugfucked with too much noise/color/movement, and it was very disorienting to watch. I just wrote this in the few minutes I had before I had to bugger off too. It's very disorganized, just flashes of description. I think it could be something interesting, though, if organized and prune of weird whatnots.

'think'

The waiting. Can you see her? She sits, her pencil making the slow, slight movements of someone in a daze. She does not watch what it is that she writes: she knows, without looking, without comprehending. Her eyes intent on everything. Her mind is intent on nothing. Her heart intent on one thing. She watches them all, her face smooth and stoic, despite the color to her clothes she is as green as life, as gold as dawn. Sometimes her brow creases, as if seeing a doppelganger or a ghost: and for a moment there is a light there, recognizing, dreaming. This she loves, she bears the crowd for that is a swallowsong sweetness, in seeing the face she sees in those half-dreams between life and sleep…

..does she dream her life away? Perhaps. But at the very least, she is not dedicating her life to mere thought.

i:

*laughs* Irony, eh? Dumb writing.

'piece by piece' 100drabbles

Piece by piece we grow apart

I stand alone, but where are you?—not in my world anymore, surely, not in my world, not in my world for I’ll leave it too one day, I’ll leave even this—

I stand alone, I stand alone, how is it that I breathe? Look into my eyes and tell me that I’m strong.—You can’t do it anymore, can you? You can’t even see these scars—

I stand, I stand, I—stand! How long can broken legs stay steady, how long can a broken heart keep beating?

Piece by piece we fall apart.

i:

Blegh. No comment, other than I've written better on this particular. Funny how the closer you are to someone, the harder it can be to write about them.

Inheritance, IX

2007-09-21T00:44:37Z

Yeah. I'm giving up on editing it. There's all kinds of holes left; if you could nag me about them, I'll try and get back to them somewhere between working on my stupid 30min French presentation in French on Vietnam, where everyone hates the French. Oh, and did I mention I need to have 1K of poetry by Monday for a Brit Lit II? You'd think that'd be easy, but the only poetry that comes out is shit about unrequited love and watching people and it's so fucking annoying to read.

So, yeah. Here's the last section. Notes at end. Try not to eat the computer screen.

IX. A Most Enviable Wedding

After Artemis arrived in his own time plus several months, he started out through the dungeons with the full intention of attending the wildest party since the one following his first Nobel Prize. He had never thought Richard Dawkins capable of breakdancing before that fateful night…

His reminiscing was interrupted when he caught sight of a door ajar. He considered if for a moment: it was one of the ones he had never ventured in, there being plenty of other cells to contain his experiments within and this one being of no special significance.

Curious, he peered inside, and was startled to find an array of bowls along the cell walls, filled with liquids in hues such as ‘ruby rose’ and ‘scarlet seduction’.

What have you been getting up to down here, Butler? he wondered idly, but his mind was already turning back towards the wedding at hand. All thoughts on the strange cell had ceased by the time he had climbed the stairs.

Though his clothes were a little worse for wear—wrinkled due to particular activities—he found himself not caring. They’d be more than a little wrinkled by night’s end, he could guarantee that.

Though his parents had been married with all pomp and circumstance in the grandest cathedral Ireland had to offer, in the times since Fowl weddings had been held in the smaller, though still sizable, Manor chapel.

When he had found his way there, he creaked the door open. Everyone had already filed inside. He scanned the assembled crowd, searching for certain and particulars and then noticing that Izzy and the bride were already at the alter. Timmy was standing there, looking up from the podium. “Are there any objections?” he asked, his broad smile indicating he didn’t think objections possible in this most perfect of pairings.

You didn’t think a lot of things possible, he thought, and slammed the door open. Considering the all-enveloping lives of the Fowls, it was a small wedding, a few hundred or so of the Fowl’s closest contacts from both the human and fairy worlds. All of them turned to stare at Artemis, gone for months without a word and striding down the aisle like he had just discovered the Theory of Everything for the second time. “I object!” he cried out, while memorizing the looks of shock for some deathbed laughs.

Artemis took the podium from his father. “Pardonne-moi,” he murmured to the speechless patriarch, “but I really must.” And then he turned to the crowd. Before they found their tongues, he started again. “Tell me, do you think you really know the bride?” No one spoke, but the faces of a few were registering something like the outrage of peasants readying to mob Frankenstein. To speed things up, he continued, “I beg pardon, but I need to break a certain tradition here—”

Before she could react, Artemis tore the veil from the bride’s face.

He hoped that the cameras were recording this—

Instead of Juliet ready to karate-chop him into chop suey, an outraged Missy stood, swaying dangerously on what were undoubtedly extra high heels.

“Missy?” Izzy breathed, staring. “Where’s—”

Artemis returned to the podium, his broad grin not endearing him to anyone. “Anyone want me to explain this, anyone? Well, you do, whether you’ll admit it or not, because besides Missy I’m the only one who knows where Juliet is, and can the wedding honestly continue without her?”

Angry mutters rippled throughout the crowd, but no one spoke out.

“Excellent.” Artemis beamed more happily than his fourth grade English teacher, and just as condescendingly. “Now, it has been clear to me for years that my granddaughter—stepsister?—that Missy is a classic histrionic personality; in less accurate terms, a drama queen, seeking attention through risky and rebellious behavior. And for years she has gotten away with it because she is, after all, a Fowl, and Fowls are expected to be a bit strange in the head. Undoubtedly, she feels a bit overshadowed by her illustrious family, but anyhow—it’s not that she’s evil but that she can’t stop herself, drama is a habit ingrained so deeply into her that she doesn’t even realize what she’s doing.

“Her first real infraction was on her first visit to Haven, where she came in contact with a certain dashing elf that I shall leave unnamed; within the course of a few hours, she had managed to get herself pregnant—”

An elf stood in the audience, his face pleading. “Missy, I—”

Artemis recognized it as Trouble Kelp; a collective roar rippled through the audience as they, too, recognized their esteemed Commander. This time, they would not settle: they stood as a wave and the noise rose and the accusations flew—

In the back of the chapel, someone closed the doors, only to dramatically open them again, a thunderclap loud enough to cause pause. A troop marched smartly forward: on close inspection, they appeared to be a motley collection of teenagers and twentysomethings. The aisles were still clear, and they inhabited the middle third.

The one who had opened the door stepped forward, grinning broadly. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but we’re fans.”

What little control the crowd had had shattered with their arrival: and the teenagers scattered into the crowd.

As they scattered into the crowd, Artemis stared, completely and utterly taken aback. Was no one interested in how he had figured it all out and the life lessons he had gleaned last night forty years ago?

Was no one interested in what he had to say?

And to think that outside of his family people fought to hear his every word…

So he continued anyway. They’d listen.

“Missy is, as I said earlier, a case I have observed closely, being her grandfather—no, uncle—wait—”

As he tried to puzzle out the family tree, one of the teenagers managed to transplant herself at his right shoulder. He stared for a moment, then asked, “How did you—”

“You’re not the only genius in the world,” she remarked cheerfully, inspecting his face. “See the one in the tuxedo?”

Artemis followed her pointing hand and saw what appeared to be a deflated penguin held firmly by each arm by Precious and Potch, who were now grown up and very keen on any male who knew words longer than three syllables. “Yes?”

“He read through your books—I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re by this chap called Eoin Colfer—and drew diagrams, plans of penetration, the whole shebang, along with her—” She pointed at a blonde currently scaling the stonework, presumably for a better view of the chaos “—who did the general breaking in bit, what with pitfalls and boobytraps and all.”

It occurred to him that he was supposed to be the one explaining what a clever person he was, not some teenager undoubtedly with more hormones than brain cells. So he turned back to the podium, though with some dismay he saw that the audience, in its general brawl, had spilled out into the hallway and beyond.

Scowling, Artemis continued anyway. “Missy selected her tragedies well. These victims of who—”

“—whom,” the girl corrected.

“—whom I speak are selected by a simple equation to determine the maximum amount of angst she can derive from the fewest possible relationships…”

Elsewhere…

Izzy staggered out the hall, having somehow wrenched himself free of the hysterical Missy. His only thought was for Juliet—Missy had said something about the dungeons before she had run off—

He brushed his way through the crowds, past both the vertically and horizontally challenged, through members of Council and Parliament, through businessmen and burglars and pixies and politicians and yuppies and yetis—

—yetis?

He whirled around. A giant blue yeti appeared to be walking down the hallway. On closer inspection, it appeared to another one of those strange teenagers dressed up as a giant yeti.

But those teeth looked awfully sharp for a costume…

He blinked and turned back to the matter at hand. He was at the stairwell now, and he flew down the stairs entirely forgetting how Holly had once broken her neck doing this and had made him swear never to run down the stairs. Izzy hadn’t really seen the point of this, since the blue sparks could fix anything, and as far as he was concerned, people ought to break bones every once in a while to keep them humble.

Izzy had never actually been in the dungeons of Fowl Manor before, having spent most of his childhood wreaking habit on the collection of Grecian urns upstairs. He was very surprised to find an ample zoo of different bug species scattering at his approach; he had always thought his father to be quite anal regarding insects, probably having to do with having far too many of them eating his textile experiments.

There were many cells, but not all of them seemed to be in a state of disrepair: one, ajar, revealed what appeared to be a giant silver egg in a room of gleaming white. Another seemed to contain an ample supply of very shiny weapons.

“You’re a bit late,” Juliet said.

He whirled around, almost slipping on the algal slime. Juliet stood there wearing only some complex lingerie and what appeared to be a belt of mixed Neutrinos and knives. “Juliet?!”

She grinned broadly. “For a genius, Missy is pretty stupid. Didn’t think a Butler would have ever learned to pick locks.”

Izzy smiled, but his mind had wandered elsewhere: in particular, somewhere the Victoria’s Secret commercials didn’t show.

Juliet saw the look on his face, and laughed. “Later. For now, I have to do some hunting.”

“For Missy?”

Juliet’s grin broadened, Cheshire style. “See that open cell there?”

Izzy followed the barrel of her gun and saw one; broken bowls and red smears were scattered in the area around the open door, along with a puddle of white cloth…

“I’m hunting creature.”

And, with only a wink at the thoroughly confused Izzy, she sprinted up the stairs.

Rhododendron, for all her mother’s flaws, was a remarkably well adjusted toddler, cute, precocious, and well-behaved…

…as long as she got what she wanted.

As soon as Holly had abandoned her to the crowd, apologizing for the approaching death of her mother, she had broken out into hysterics. No one in the crowd really noticed the screaming child, most of them involved in screaming matches of their own with whoever was closest.

So when she was picked up by a strange woman, she immediately quieted. Once people had noticed her, it meant that she had broken them down. In that state, they would give her whatever she wanted.

She pointed. “Pony!”

The woman followed Rhododendron’s pudgy hand and frowned. “Foaly? Isn’t he your godfather or something?”

“Pony,” Rhododendron insisted stubbornly.

The woman sighed, silently cursing her motherly instincts. “Only because I want to talk to the pony boy too.”

The woman waded through what little crowd separated them from the pony. When they arrived, she seemed very happy—not at the pony, but at two other females.

“Your hat is wrong,” one female informed the pony. “It’s supposed to look like it came out of a trash bin, not out of a Prada show.”

“Totally uncharacteristic,” the other female agreed, her pencil flying furiously on her sketchpad. She stopped briefly to glare at a person who bumped her.

Rhododendron was delighted to note that he was a pony, plus some. She gurgled her pleasure at the woman.

The pony narrowed his eyes. “I am trying to attract the attention of a particular Mud Maid. As I understand you females, you like males with a sense of fashion. Berets are fashionable. Ergo, I turn everyday tin foil into a work of art.”

All females present giggled. Rhododendron liked it when the pony scowled. “Think he’s talking about Kitty?” one asked. “I thought she was—”

“You know where she is?” the pony demanded.

“Yeah, I think so.” The woman shifted Rhododendron to her other hip. Rhododendron found this position very uncomfortable, and she still didn’t have the pony. She began to cry.

One of the other females suddenly grinned. “How’s this, we get to sketch you with the bawling baby on your back, we’ll tell you where Kitty is. Deal?”

Before the pony could say anything, Rhododendron found herself plopped onto the pony’s back. She gurgled and grabbed a fistful of the pony’s hair. She liked ponies.

Holly had no consideration in regards to Artemis—as far as she was concerned, he deserved to have his grammar corrected after leaving without a word for months—nor to Izzy, presumably playing at chevalier as he searched for would-be bride.

She had the very clear intention of killing Missy, and adding her to her collection of goblin hides.

After Izzy had abandoned Missy at the alter, Missy had disappeared into the crowd, and everyone in the crowd appeared to have decided to take the moment to settle their personal vendettas against one wedding guest or another, following her lead in disposing of Juliet. Opal was explaining to her daughters (at gunpoint) that the penguin boy was mummy’s plaything, not theirs, why don’t they run along and seduce Mulch; who was busy pickpocketing Artemis like he had always fantasized about; who was speaking hysterically at the podium while a girl corrected his grammar…

“Thirsty, ma’am?”

Holly turned. A young woman was balancing a tray of champagne flutes; however, the murky gold liquid was certainly not champagne.

“I don’t drink spirits,” she said, turning back to the chaos at hand.

“Non-alcoholic,” the woman pressed on cheerfully. “Now, I can’t promise it won’t intoxicate you in certain aspects…”

Holly turned back towards her, curious despite herself. Bubbles glimmered like rising gold. “What is that, precisely?”

“Jus de guilleret.”

Holly blinked. “…perky juice?”

The woman smiled brightly. “Ouioui.” And then, leaning in covertly, “Have you seen Foa—”

“OH MY GOD IT’S HOLLY!”

Holly whirled around. What appeared to be a girl with a giant butterfly net was running towards her, looking as if she had spotted an ivory-billed woodpecker in Central Park.

Holly snatched a glass and gulped it down. It tasted like God.

With a backwards merci, she set off at a sprint away from the fairy hunter.

Frond, Artemis had the weirdest fans—

Artemis was approaching insanity the way e^x approaches infinity.

“My son-in-law—no, father—he’s always considered—wait, wouldn’t he be my stepfather since—but I am born out of wedlock—”

“—was—”

“—but it doesn’t make any sense since there’s paradoses—”

“—paradoxes, nothing fancy—”

“—and creating myself would be just one but I was born nine months after the visit and—”

“It has to do with me.”

Artemis looked up, startled. At the door was arguably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with raven-black curls and vivid sapphire eyes…

She walked through the crowd, slicing it like a hot knife through butter. Her scarlet blouse fluttered in an unlikely wind. “Remember me, by chance?”

Artemis stared. He would remember someone who looked like that.

She had reached the podium; she leaned over it, her face inches from Artemis’. “Daddy.”

Artemis stumbled backwards. “No,” he breathed, “no, no no no no—”

Her scarlet lips curved into a smile, and she leaned on the podium. “Oh, yes. You see, brother—I’m only different from you in one regard, and that’s that I’m better that you are.”

Artemis took another step back, hitting the wall. “You’re—”

She stepped around the podium, predatory. “I’ve been waiting decades for this moment—I’ve been in the dark oh-so-long, all on my own, but my chance finally came—one of your darling relatives opened my cell by accident—they never wanted me, you see, our false father just wanted a son, but our mother, she wouldn’t have anything to do with adoption. So they locked me in the basement, had Butler pop by and feed me whenever you weren’t keeping him too busy. But I’ve been busy too… weaving my clothes from cobwebs, breeding my cosmetics from slime molds, learning martial arts on the faces of stones… Oh, I’ve been waiting for so long…”

Artemis gulped. The girl next to him had disappeared, undoubtedly terrified of the beautiful woman. “I see. Well, if you missed a feeding, I believe that Butler is around here somewhere—”

Faster than he could blink, the woman had him pinned against the wall. “I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I set an ambush for him—he thought the two of you would finally have that tryst he’s been aching after for all these years—so happy he didn’t even see it coming—”

She was leaning inward. Artemis was so busy feeling awkward that he didn’t notice the people making their way towards him—

“Know what I want to do first? I mean, before we make a fantastic return to organized crime.” Her eyes had closed, her lips parting.

“Eh, no, not really—”

“STOP, in the name of the fandom!”

The woman whirled around. Artemis slipped to the ground, stunned; but not before looking right into the eye of what appeared to be a large blue yeti. Behind it, the troop of teenagers stood, most trembling. One of them appeared to have even stolen a tarnished set of knight’s armor.

The woman’s stilettos tapped the floor impatiently. “Why? I’m just fulfilling my destiny.” Then she laughed; as beautiful as Für Elise. “And why are you trembling? Afraid?”

Artemis watched as simultaneous grins spread out over the faces of the assembled teens. “Of you and your zillion-and-one blackbelts?” a boy with particularly sloppy hair asked. “Never. Since we’re not trembling in fear… we’re trembling from perky juice.”

The woman shifted; nervous, or readying for attack? “Perky juice?”

The boy grinned. “Hell yeah. Skit?”

A girl in a frilly pink dress stepped forward. She looked vaguely insane; but asides from that, she wore a bandolier that appeared to be stuffed with silver sporks. “Ready when you are, Skeet.”

He grinned broadly, drawing his spork. It sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. “Let’s beat the shit out of some Mary Sue.”

By the time Izzy caught up to Juliet, she was looking quite distraught.

“Some stupid yeti got to her before I even had a shot,” Juliet lamented, slumping down in an empty pew. “Gobbled her right up.”

“Her?” Izzy ran a hand through his hair. “Can you explain—”

Juliet looked up at Izzy. “Why don’t you go chat with those young people?” she asked bitterly. “I’m just a Butler. I don’t know anything.”

There was little doubt who she was talking about: on the stage near the podium, several young humans were clustered around what he suspected to be his father, chattering excitedly.

Though not bold, Izzy was curious enough that he walked up the one closest to him, a twentysomething woman in white. She stopped chattering with a long-haired male and turned towards Izzy as he approached.

“Er, I was wondering—”

“—what we’re all doing here?” She smiled brightly, smoothing down her white jacket. “Well, it’s a complicated question and I don’t think we have much more time here and really it won’t matter anyway, but I’ll do my best.”

“We’re fans,” said the long-haired male, uncorking a bottle and taking a swig from it. As he did so, he seemed to shudder all over; it was either very bad champagne or very good something. “Huge fans. Gi-normous fans.”

The one in white nodded. “Well, anyway. We’ve been watching your family for a long time now, and we thought it was time we stepped in and corrected things. Put them to right.”

Izzy blinked, startled. Granted, the business with Missy was rather nasty, but was it really that bad?

“Not that there’s anything wrong with you,” she said quickly, seeing the look on his face. “It’s just that—well, it could be better. It’s Artemis’ fault, really, we’ve tried pairing him with all sorts of people and it never seems to work. When we had him with Minerva, he even managed to plunge the world into nuclear winter after they bickered about who had to do the dishes. Ally thought it was delightful—” She jabbed her thumb at the girl who had climbed up the wall, who was now yabbering excitedly at anyone who would listen. “—but the rest of us weren’t too keen on the whole apocalypse thing, especially with the internet dead.”

Izzy stared. “You’ve been playing with the time continuum? My father—”

“—is every bit as bad as we are, no matter what alternate universe we catch him in,” she said. “But we clean up our messes, after all; and we do have lives outside of this, however strange it might sound, so it’s not like we do this all the time. No pun intended of course.”

Izzy saw the blue yeti out of the corner of his eye; and the yeti saw him. He looked away hastily, afraid it might eat him too. “And—what was it that you did here, precisely?”

The woman laughed. “Well, this particular timeline had the unforeseen consequence of creating a Mary Sue. Though we’ll play along with all that Angeline-Opal nonsense for a while, we really can’t abide a Mary Sue. Technically, your father is a Gary Stu, so it’s only logical that he would create a Mary Sue, but Artemis is male and that makes all the difference. So, we created a little war band to destroy the Mary Sue before she seduced your father and made it quite difficult to fix the timeline, what with them mucking about on Mars during the Third Interplanetary War and all.”

“I see.” Izzy frowned. Sparkling sporks, questionable beverages and blue yetis sounded like silver crosses, wooden stakes and holy water to him. “But you said—you don’t have much more time here? Are you leaving?”

The woman nodded. “Well, yes, in a matter of speaking. We sent Gussiki—he’s the one in the tuxedo, had a marvelous go at convincing Opal to convert to Linux—to get our time machine all programmed for the next try.”

Izzy paled. “So—when you leave—you’re just going to—”

She snapped her fingers. “Change it all!” Then she saw his expression and softened. “I wouldn’t worry. You’ll probably exist in the next universe, in one form or another. Your father is absolutely terrible about contraception—ah, here’s Gussiki now!”

The one in the tuxedo—‘Gussiki’—walked towards the group. Izzy noted lipstick stains in some… interesting places. “I programmed in what I believe will be Artemis-Butler, but no one gave me a time for when Artemis was to have his grand revelation, so I had it at twenty—”

Mixed cries of protest were emitted, including from who Izzy was startled to note was his own father.

Gussiki held up his hands. “Feel free to change it. I might be sitting this one out anyway—”

Another cry of protest. The female in the Lolita dress ruffled his hair. “Bullshit, honey.”

Gussiki looked slightly flustered but he stopped his protests. “I parked it by the Bentleys, shall we?”

They seemed to find agreement, and began filing off the stage and out the door. As ‘Ally’ passed, she leaned over and giggled. “You don’t exist!”

The woman in white turned and waved as she went out the door. “Nonsense, you still have a few minutes,” she said, smiling. “Make the best of them!”

When they were all gone, Izzy turned to face his father, who was already walking towards him quickly. “Father, I—”

Artemis grabbed him by the arm and broke into a jog, dragging his son besides him. “We don’t have much time; no pun intended, but if they continue that mad game of theirs and modify the timeline anymore I believe the space-time continuum will be rendered so unstable and so short as to be incapable of sustaining life. Think of it as—”

“—taking the radius of a paper wad as opposed to the width of a sheet of paper,” Izzy finished, and smiled at his father. “You’ve told this all to me before, Father—they told me you broke your own rules?”

Artemis gave his trademark scowl. “Only once.”

As they turned down into the stairway, Izzy laughed. “In this universe, but at any rate—it was to impregnate yourself. Father, shouldn’t that be impossible, given—”

Artemis rolled his eyes. “I know it’s difficult for you to believe, but as it turns out—my equations are better than your equations, seeing that whereas you merely prove time travel to be possible, I prove it to be not paradoxical.”

In the basement; now at an all out sprint, towards the gaping door where the time machine loomed, they barely had breath to speak. “An egg? You made your time machine into an egg? Why not something classy like a police box?”

“Police boxes aren’t classy, they’re scruffy,” Artemis shot back as he unlocked the time machine and opened the door. “A silver oblong object at least has some ambiguity as to its purpose—”

“—it’s a giant egg,” Izzy countered, climbing in. “It looks like someone trying and failing to be modernistic. Honestly, how can you go wrong with classy? Classy never goes out of fashion.”

“Like our clothes,” Artemis said, smiling slightly. “Slacks and collared shirts.” The doors closed, the controls gleamed. He hesitated. “What century do you think they’re from?”

Izzy considered. “By their slang, I would say early 21^st, so born late 20^th. Why?”

Artemis smiled his plotting smile. “They said they had real lives. If we want them to stop meddling, I say we should pay those lives a little visit.”

Izzy’s eyes widened in delight, and then he, too, smiled; the two of them were nearly indistinguishable from each other. “Shall we?”

Yeah... that's it. *pokes it* I got almost!everyone in there - I think the only people I was missing in the end were Michael and Gracie. And I kinda had something planned for Gracie, and maybe I put it in actually?- I can't keep this story straight. But yeah. Um. Mozzie was horrendously out of character, I don't think Whilily's that cruel (honest), and for some reason Linwen is motherly. Oh, not everyone's by name? Like the two artists were supposed to be Tera and Schizy (that scene really sucked. It should have been better. Thanks to FH for helping me come up with the idea for that one anyhow), BK's just some random dude who found some tarnished armor (or did I forget that too? GAH this fic is eating me alive.) And... um. Um. Umum. I need to go reread my emo sonnets from the past week to see if anything's salvageable. Er.

Inheritance, VII-VIII

2007-09-15T03:51:43Z

I'm feeling like shit right now, but here I go. One more scene after this, but it's the longest by far (4K) and it's going to be longer by the time I'm done editing.

And... yeah. Don't freak out about paradoxes and stuff just yet, please? I swear, I have a rational justification. Just... wait?

VII. Unrevealed Revelations

Artemis had gotten used to the subtle angst of Butler: the droop to his shoulders, the linger to his step, the lines to his face—but most of all, how he would no longer meet his Principle’s eyes.

There was no solution to the Missy scandal, seeing that Holly had long ago insisted that cameras leave personal rooms, and due to the unusual nature of mud fairy DNA (fairies and humans not possessing the same number of chromosomes, leading to unpredictable adaptations by the blue sparks) they could not test the parenthood of Rhododendron. He did his best to ensure Butler’s happiness, providing a constant stream of personal jobs for him, jobs that kept him close, jobs kept him needed; but Artemis still felt like he was failing his old friend in his time of need.

So when Artemis found himself confronted by a red-eyed Butler the morning of Juliet’s departure, he put it off to a combination of the Missy affair and yet another set of farewells with his beloved younger sister.

He clapped his bodyguard’s shoulder. “She’ll be back in no time,” Artemis assured him, turning back towards the hallway. “I’d be willing to bet that she’ll even find someone out there that splits coconuts better than you, eh?”

Had Artemis bothered to check Butler’s reaction, he would have seen a stricken face following him down the hallway, his eyes now the color of a sunless winter sky.

Breakfast passed as uneventfully as breakfast could in the Fowl household; but at least Holly no longer upturned the marmalade over Artemis’ head when she wished to express her displeasure at his latest criminal scheme.

When Juliet went to go, they all said their byes as cheerfully as they could manage—but for one.

Izzy stood in front of the door. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said quietly, and went down on one knee.

Artemis stared. The smile on her face was like the one from his dream—

And suddenly, the pieces fit.

While the farewell gathering quickly adjusted to one of congratulations, Artemis slumped against the wall, his breathing accelerating. ‘Bloody stupid’ was the least of the adjectives he was applying to himself.

If Holly ever—

Distantly, he heard a laugh, someone explaining him. “Just shell shocked.”—Holly, had to be Holly, she always thought she knew him so well but she doesn’t, not if he could—“His son, after all, none of his were expecting it but really, Izzy’s not much older than we were—”

And then—as if to justify the abruptness of the courtship—

“We had the most amazing night,” Izzy explained, not ashamed but exuberant. He was bold, bolder than Artemis ever had been. “It was the only thing I could do—you have to understand how I feel now—”

They all did, of course.

Artemis most of all…

Artemis had a little secret, and it had nothing to do with who-slept-with-who:

Izzy had not been the first to refine the temporal equations: shortly after the Limbo incident, Artemis had seen the potential of time travel as a tool for correcting the timeline in slight ways, the death averted, the fortune saved. He knew the danger of such actions: he could only responsibly manage it for small time scales, nothing more than a few days into the past. But wouldn’t it be worth it…

So he had refined the equations in secret until they were precise enough to engineer the time machine, allowing refinement to remain a challenge for future prodigies: they would enjoy the test of genius, and the difficult task of refinement would perhaps encourage them to use it only responsibly.

Artemis had of course been startled to discover that his own son had refined them at the tender age of eight—not even a prodigy was responsible at the age of eight—but altogether pleased. He had decided that he would betray his secret later, once his little boy had grown up—once he had married—

Artemis rubbed at his face. He had not cried in years…

He was in a secret part of the Manor, a part that only Butler knew everything about, the vast dungeons underneath. More than wine was stored down here: most of Artemis’ futuristic toys were built and used in the silence of the dungeon cells, though truth be told he had not even been in most of the rooms. Butler had deemed them safe and secure, and that was good enough for Artemis. He only opened a door when he needed more space for his latest experiment.

But sometimes he wondered…

It was a simple-looking device: a round silver pod, egg shaped, with two seats and some controls. The engineering had all been quite elegant: when it had come down to it construction had taken less than a year. No spinning crystals or strange roars needed or desired: just the gentle hum of the nuclear reactor.

He settled into the chair, sighing. He felt old.

He wanted a simpler time, any time. He didn’t care… just sometime when his father wasn’t also his son-in-law, when his sister (or granddaughter) didn’t try to seduce his son (or his uncle), when Butlers could be Butlers and didn’t have to wrestle away their life for the sake of their sanity, when it was just Artemis and Holly, sweet and simple, just a couple, a Tahitian beachhouse and all the coconuts they could crack open.

And a Butler, of course. Artemis doubted he could survive without 24/7 white glove service.

But he couldn’t have that here: his very family was tying him down with a net of responsibilities, marriages and affairs and business and children…

Solution?

Go to a time where he didn’t have a family.

There were other Hollys in the world, surely…

He spun the dial, not even looking at the date, and pressed the start button.

As the world as he knew it disappeared around him, he wondered if the lack of sleep had anything to do with this.

I had better sleep now…

IX. Unconditional Love

He woke hours later (or, more accurately, -351402 hours later) with a pounding headache and a little ribbon of drool on the right side of his mouth.

Fortunately, he had prepared for this. After wiping the drool from his mouth—he supposed he should be fortunate he didn’t vomit and fry out all the controls—he pushed a brown button. Moments later, a cup of hot tea popped out of a compartment in the dashboard. No time machine could be complete without caffeine. Talk about jetlag…

Sipping it, he smiled. He felt better already.

Once he deemed himself sufficiently caffeinated, he turned on a flashlight and opened the door.

The room he was in was filthy, the walls dripping with algae slimes and the floor covered with a faint dusting of rat feces. He shuddered. Must be before my time, he reasoned, stepping over a dead rat and making his way to the cell door.

Fortunately, it wasn’t locked. The rest of the dungeons were as dark and dirty as the room he had arrived in, even the wine cellar.

Definitely before my time.

Artemis made his way up the stairs. He was dressed well enough that he could be mistaken for a long lost relative, and if worst came to worst he could reveal his identity. After all, family was family for the Fowls; it wouldn’t matter where or when they had come from.

The Manor seemed unchanged: but it wasn’t as if the décor would ever be anything different, with its luscious Persian rugs and pale Grecian urns and scowling oil paintings.

Artemis was about to date the security cameras when a shadow was cast over his on the carpet: he turned around, and saw a young woman with curly brown hair and a white floral summer dress standing there, looking bemused.

“Another bastard?” she asked.

Artemis blinked in surprise. “I would rather not think of myself in those terms, no.”

She laughed; it sounded like wind chimes, delicate and spontaneously melodic. “‘Loving accident’, then. Would you like some tea?”

Whatever the time, his host certainly knew how to brew good Darjeeling.

They took tea in the library, which, sans the computer, was little different from how Artemis had left it. It could be 1870 or 1970: he had been unable to tell.

Eventually she set down her tea. “Why are you here?” she asked bluntly.

“Family troubles.” He replaced the cup on the tray. “You?”

She smiled. “Guest of the family,” she replied. “But you—not quite at home anymore?”

Artemis sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. The tea, plus an unusually beautiful and elegant young woman, put him at ease. “Things have gotten far too complex for my taste,” he said. “Everything has gotten so thoroughly distasteful. Sometimes, I wonder at the depths they’ve brought themselves to, they’re—they’re so sordid, and though there’s decency it is all the decency of a soiled glove…”

For a moment he sensed that she was watching him, deciding, weighing things in her mind. “Family,” she began slowly, “isn’t ever about the relationships within it, however unpleasant or complex.... Individuals may come and go like flies, and some you swat at when they come too close, some you watch from a distance as they make their lazy circuits around the room, some you don’t even notice since you’re so lost in yourself… but you’re all in a room together, and however much flies may disgust you sometimes they’re—they’re part of things too, you just leave them be and they just do their own thing and you do yours. See, that’s the wonderful thing about them, there’s this mutual agreement that’s really not there for the rest of the world, they never do any real harm to you…” She looked up and smiled. “It’s unconditional love.”

However unusual the metaphor, Artemis found himself nodding along. Suddenly, all his affairs seemed quite silly: love was love in all its shades of gray, platonic to passionate, and if they overlapped—who cared?

So he leaned forward and looked the young woman right in the eye. “Tell me, have you ever heard the tale of the unicorn?”

Satisfied that he now knew the origin of certain mysterious stains on the library carpet, he made his way back to the time machine.

He had a wedding to crash, after all.

recent drabbles & flashes

2007-09-13T01:35:13Z

Posting a bunch of smaller things I've been doing lately before there's too much of a backlog. Commentary's thin, feel free to ask for more, I've got notes in the notebook. *yawns*

100drabbles, 'busted'

:i

The coffee, too hot, requires a wind.

Outside, smiling and laughing. Autumn wind and summer trees. Brisk, classes and air. The world races past, but taut between the two of you is a world of your own. Words fly, arms swing, and occasionally a smile lingers past the pun—

—and then it shatters at the door. snap, picture, ain’t they cute? So tousled, don’t tell me it was just the wind. You, me, mall: you’re dating now.

Friends need a laugh; you’ve had your fill and it makes you sick with more, but sometimes the escape is worth the nausea.

i:

:P

No comment.

write_away cross'

:i

They stop and stare, but do not care:

Some lodge stale gum in the ridges of the bark, the pale pastels checkerboarding

Some carve their current crushes ad a heart as if something of their chic might rub off on the obsolete; or something of its venerability on the naïve.

Some stand with their hips swayed and their hands slung in their jeans and that ghetto snap slurs, “That it?”

Some look round as if those unadorned with symbolism might be what represents the greater good, as if it had intruded, as if it had invaded something sweet and old and it was not old enough for truth.

Some smile and whisper to the trees what they would not to a confessor, what they would not to anything but something more than a soul: a symbol

Some—

—perhaps.

i:

Maybe-maybe. Crosses are pretty symbolism, and the picture prompt was interesting (even if no one else seemed keen on it.)

'flighty'

:i

The bird in hand that never flies will one day take on the skies

Breathe, and be.

He holds you there, still but not: his hands move, his heart runs, a clockwork boy in a clockwork world. His words however loose are known and spoken: algorithms to trap and keep a girl—

The bird in hand that knows one song will one day then right this wrong

Breathe.

Flitting, you’ve been carried within your yellow cage, you’ve been brought to places you’ve never known but again, the redundancy tires with its minute variations on a theme but here you are: you sing and you sing of desire and of the dating game and you pray for a difference.

The bird in hand that does not weep will be banished to the deep.

Burning it and burning all, the sudden rage in which the bird beats itself against the cage it once flew within. It sees—these other birds, beautiful, because they are all things that do cry out when they are taken by the hand for they are free, they are free!—but not desiring this even are soon found in the cage where a strange song sings that only the birds can understand.

i:

Mleh. I wrote this at the lunch table. Surprisingly enough, not a single mention of magpies.

fifty_flashes

table

'heirloom'

:i

The boy swayed, the father stood.

“Ours,” the anachronism murmured. “Ours.”\

The boy blinked slowly. The pale woman and the fat infant seemed to smile sadly in their silent serenity.

“She’s sad,” the boy said.

“No, she’s not,” the father explained patiently. “She’s honored.”

“Why isn’t she here?” The boy stared, hungry for something he couldn’t understand.

“She’s in a painting.” The father seemed annoyed. “Botticelli. No one is sad with Botticelli. An aristocrat’s artist…”

“I am too,” the boy whispered; the father refused to hear.

i:

I think this would be a good core for a short. Definitely more expanded than this. Later...

'memory'

:i

A curse that does not pause for day,

that darkens every word you say,

that flickers in the shadows fey,

and even chills the gloried May.

It breaks the mind after the heart,

the thought that ever stands apart,

the song that always seems to start

when eyes turn from tragic art.

The image one will but recall:

in springtime now the leaves will fall

I stand here silent!—will you but call

mem’ry from its endless hall?

i:

Yeah, a poem. :P Um. No comment, really. Hate it when bad memories interrupt the present, you know? Kinda boring, won't do anything with.

'eyes'

:i

Blinded by the world, she can only see when she sits at the piano and allows herself her eyes—

The emotions that run high and fierce smooth to notes plucked in chords and cadenzas, something that could be repeated with the miracle of composition had she the desire to live in redundancy: and this she does not, this bird does not circle but soar…

And so the notes fly, here the strain of Für Elise and there the cry of Vocalise, fear and rage and ecstasy are in sight, twist the melody to anxiety, rise towards with the slow grand crescendo in the minor, or fall with the day to pianissimo depression. Here she can even sew what she is not, the simple melody that will never be drawn to fugue nor fallacy, it will never need a procession of chords nor desire harmony…

For when she sees through the eyes of the piano, she sees the world entire.

i:

This is a fun idea, I really need to do something with it. I mean.... it's PRETTY. Er. Wow, this is completely the inappropriate language to comment about this in, but it is. It's a pretty idea, and I like pretty ideas, and it's pretty writing and I like pretty writing. So, it is Marked For Revision.

'magic'

:i

Bipolar cells take in the sight and translate photons to another energy, electric impulses, sending them flying along in an endless, flawless game of telephone, and it among millions of others translate the electric to an image held in union, translated in turn to connotations and implications, that line the fine brow of wealth that there the clear eyes of health—all held within a mesh of the chemical and the fireworks, chain reaction doppelganger serotonin the thrill as sharp as a song and now to tell your cheeks to warm and your hands to sweat, dominos that tell you that all will be alright just make sure those vocal chords get the message—

Is this web no less magical than a mystery we call love?

i:

Er, how's shitty? :P I like the idea, but 1) I need to refresh my memory on how sight actually works and 2) there's better ways to say unweaving the rainbow makes it prettier.

'meditation'

:i

Breathe, and be—

Rage shudders through you, your throat caught with the raw power of a human soul. You could run—you could run away, deeper into suburbia and deeper into catharsis, you’re running and you don’t even understand why.

Breathe, and be—

You’re flying; but they’re following, strange shadows that call themselves thoughts, that declare themselves concerns, you can’t escape but then neither can they, they’re doomed to follow just as you are fated to fly.

Breathe, and be—

The thudslap of footfalls herald the passage of wrath, taking you, controlling you, killing you, the street is before you and the world is yours.

Breathe, and be—

Even if you can’t feel yourself with the scream of wind, you know here at least you exist; here at least, you can breathe.

i:

Mleh.