Posts Tagged scraps

[scrap] Rouss.

May 27

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There’s some places that just make you afraid to be in.

The club definitely qualified. My stomach trembled as I sat in the parking lot outside.

The name was not printed on the outside, and the anxieties started there.

Well, of course you could tell from the people going inside that it was obviously the place.

The anxieties continued, of course, with the people going inside.

There’s no way I could go inside, really. This was the point where I generally gave up, turned around, and drove home.

I shut my eyes, and breathed.

There was a knock at the passenger-side window. I opened my eyes and a supremely unattractive older man was there, cigarette in his mouth.

I reached out and locked the door. He got the hint and moved on.

That is not going to be me, I am not going to be that—

I looked at the door of the club again and more absolutely unattainable and mystifying people were going in.

I gave up, turned around, and drove home.

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[scrap] Ruffitt.

May 25

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Now, a lot of people don’t know about Cardo. His actions are everywhere, but his presence tends to stay hidden.

He changes things.

Sometimes people notice. Sometimes they don’t.

Little nudges, bigger tweaks, major changes in the making of universes, all to sate his unending urges.

Which, don’t get me wrong, would be just fine, if that was what they wanted. But the systematic rape of world after world—I can’t let that go.

So we’ve been hunting him. A long time.

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[scrap] Mitch.

May 25

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The part that bothered me most was the dreams.

The dreams weren’t mine.

Now, a lot of the random thoughts that flicker through a sleeping person’s mind are indistinguishable from the white noise to me—those thoughts are off limits, I guess.

But when the sleeping mind puts together something like a narrative—a chain of thoughts, not just scattered ones—those I pick up. Whether I wanted to or not, at least within a certain range, the dreams of a living mind spread out like tentacles, stretching out, latching on, draining into me.

And I felt bad about it, because to the waking mind, those things are personal. Sure, some people share their dreams—but even if they don’t self-censor, they do fail to remember.

It’s weird how coy the sleeping mind is with the waking one when it’s so brazen in its broadcast.

Not to mention, dreams can be some pretty weird stuff.

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[scrap] Toby.

May 25

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What do you do on rainy days?

When it was just me, well—there were a lot of games of pool in the student center when there were people, and a lot of sitting outside watching it when there wasn’t anyone.

Today was a day for sitting outside, and I watched students go back and forth, fending off the weather as they rushed between classes.

I sat back, ignoring the groan of the chair under me. Rainy days are sleepy days. I know I slept till evening, when thunder started rolling in as well…

As darkness accumulated I gave up on the rain and went home to sleep.

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[scrap] Mařa.

May 24

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Previous | First

Sometimes it gets to be too much, and you just have to take a break.

It’s all right if they see that you have to go out back to collect yourself, to keep yourself from crying.

They say it’s understandable, though they don’t actually understand the reason.

Some people’s fates just can’t be improved, however hard you try.

You know who they are.

And some days they all come in together.

It’s hard to take.

Not crying is actually the easy part—there’s one easy fix, which is to find a target.

Sadness is holding on to pain.

But sadness with a target is anger.

So I took a break, sometimes, to be properly angry. There was a dumpster behind the shelter that had many a dent in it from my bad days.

Usually I made sure there was no one around before taking out my frustration. I thought I had that day, as well, but while I was waling away at the dumpster a soft voice came, saying, “Excuse me, miss?”

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[scrap] Micah.

May 22

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The act of putting pen to paper was always a comfort. Of course I had a laptop, and most of the work done at the station was digital, but this was important enough that I made sure to make room for a notebook in my meager personal items weight allowance.

I had filled the notebook over halfway already, so I was trying to ration out the experience. I was getting used to the computer for homework, for taking notes, and for writing stories—though that last was a tough one. You get used to the speed you write, and the way your thoughts go faster, piling up behind the pen, waiting to come out, ordering themselves appropriately before it’s their turn to come out. And then you sit down at the computer, the thoughts come at the same speed, but it’s slower than you can type, so you constantly feel you’re working yourself dry, reaching for the next word—and then when it comes it may not even be the right one—well, that’s how it went for me, anyway. My remedy was to try thinking faster, and sometimes that worked… well enough for first drafts, anyway.

So the last things that still went in my notebook were the journal entries; things I didn’t want just anyone to see over my shoulder. As far as my friends were concerned, I wrote in code; of course explaining to them about dragons and their languages was out of the question, and elaborate lies would only be asking for trouble.

Anyway, today was a journal day, and as usual there was really only one thing to write about: the boy.

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[scrap] Scratch.

Apr 10

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I passed through the crowd under the cover of invisibility.  I wasn’t sure yet, exactly, what I could do with this power—all the obvious options seemed to be nefarious ones.

Invisibility is a villain’s attribute, isn’t it…

If I don’t intend to eavesdrop—if I don’t intend to peep—if I don’t intend to steal… after a point it just gets to be… just about the experience of passing unseen, not the utility.

It was a powerful, lonely feeling.  No eye contact, no being spoken to—like not even sharing the same space with the crowd—we were ghosts in each other’s space.

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[scrap] Rouss.

Mar 1

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Everyone I meet who keeps it secret, I ask them why.  The reasons are always the same—fear of losing something, or more specifically losing someone.  Family, friends, church, one’s job—those are the big ones.

And I don’t really understand any of those.  Either people will understand—which you would expect at least from true family and friends—or they won’t, and reject you—but if they would reject you if they knew, how would not telling them help?  At best it is a sustained lie of omission;—at worst it’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing, living among the pack, praying every day the disguise doesn’t fall off—you don’t need a life like that.

Those discussions usually end in fights, especially when I say hiding just legitimizes the idea that it’s something that has to be hidden, in their eyes.

And yes, I know it’s hypocritical—they’re human, I’m not, and they don’t know it and I can’t tell them.  But it’s not because I’m afraid of losing them—I’m not even afraid of being hurt, as I know some are.

I don’t even know what it is, really.  I guess I’m just a liar.

And sometimes they ask me—if they’re still talking to me after the first blowup—what my reason is.

I’m not concerned about my family; I can’t imagine them pushing me away.  And friends, well… nothing to lose there, really.  The job is certainly not an issue; as an actor, the stereotype half expects it.

And I’ve made my peace with God.

What gets me, I guess, is that I don’t feel sure.  If I knew it, knew it for certain, I wouldn’t have any problem saying so—but I don’t know it, I don’t feel it deep down, I still have that part of me that wonders deep down if just maybe I haven’t met the right kind of person yet, maybe I could still end up choosing differently.

And that’s why I don’t tell people—not because I’d rather live a lie, but more because I’m afraid coming out might be one.  The world around me would change, and I don’t think that I’d be able to change it back if I needed to.

So they’re afraid of losing others, and I’m afraid of losing myself.

Of course, they’re farther along than I am at this point; they’ve already worked through their denial phase, or so they tell me.

I try to imagine my future; either way frightens me.

And so the ones that stuck around after the fight give up here, and tell me I’m not ready.

And I’m left alone in my bed as always.

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[scrap] Toby.

Feb 4

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I took up most of the bench in the hallway as I sat studying, waiting for class to start—or at least, for the previous one to end.

Alithia sat next to me, deeper in the chemistry book than I was getting. Nobody else was waiting, though plenty of people were passing back and forth.

Just her being there made it hard enough to study, regardless of how badly the textbook explained valency.

Long brown hair over her shoulders, feet bare—sandals stowed in her satchel—comfortably rather than fashionably dressed—she takes life so naturally, the way she wants, and the world warps to fit her—in a way it never would for me.

I put the book down.

People started pouring out of the classroom.  When the doorway had cleared, I nudged Alithia’s shoulder and got up to squeeze my way into the classroom, into one of the tiny chairs.

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[scrap] Mařa.

Dec 30

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Previous / First

This one’s also a bit more rambly than I’m fond of…

I don’t like to generalize.  It’s too easy to generalize—to say, I helped a lot of people—but then it stops being meaningful.

You help one person, concrete and specific, and that’s great… You help a lot of people, —well, it’s a lot, just one lot, no matter how many are in it; and it’s hard to be excited about an abstract category.  Humans and demihumans alike have trouble with scale.

So I can’t talk to you about a lot of people.  Even ‘one person’ is a bit abstract.  I’ll talk to you about Jevin.

When we’d first met, it’d already been a horrible day for me…

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