Evidence:
This is also incredibly sad.
Sorry.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Old stories
Very little of my old material has survived. I know I'm not alone among those who write who over-analyze every phrase the second it's written. I hate my old stuff. This is with good reason. I am not the same person who wrote all that dorky shit in Intro to Creative Writing.
Writing alone, however, doesn't really do it. I am a different person now because I not only wrote, but submitted. I endured the criticism of my peers. I have little good to say about institutionalized education, but this is one thing I do appreciate. You must participate, not just quietly scribble and squirrel it away.
There's more to it, of course, but a writer is often forged in ridicule, embarrassment, and perceived failure.
In this spirit, I've decided to dust off some of my older pieces. Most of them are between one and two years old, as everything else has likely been lost forever.
Sheets of printed paper and text documents can be trashed, deleted, forgotten. There's a refreshing sort of permanence to publishing like this. It's harder -- perhaps impossible -- to take it back.
Writing alone, however, doesn't really do it. I am a different person now because I not only wrote, but submitted. I endured the criticism of my peers. I have little good to say about institutionalized education, but this is one thing I do appreciate. You must participate, not just quietly scribble and squirrel it away.
There's more to it, of course, but a writer is often forged in ridicule, embarrassment, and perceived failure.
In this spirit, I've decided to dust off some of my older pieces. Most of them are between one and two years old, as everything else has likely been lost forever.
Sheets of printed paper and text documents can be trashed, deleted, forgotten. There's a refreshing sort of permanence to publishing like this. It's harder -- perhaps impossible -- to take it back.
Untitled I, Chapter 1
"Oh no. No no no no no no no."
Billy has never killed anyone before. There is the click of plastic on pavement as the murder weapon drops from his hand. Whoever this guy was, he never even got the chance to put on a proper shocked expression before he died. There he lies, still wearing a smug half grin and vacant stare like he's looking right through Billy at something far more interesting. Well, he's staring with one eye, anyway. Most of the left side of his face is covered by that smoking crater.
He's young. At least, he looks young. You never can tell with these guys. He's hairless, and his pale skin looks sick in the oily streetlight filtering into the alley, but his build says this was once the body of a lithe, active man. He's wearing the same gray jumpsuit they all wear, with the same sideways figure eight on his forehead.
What was he doing down here? Billy wonders aloud to no one in particular, pretending for a moment that it matters. Billy's mind is beginning to recover from the shock of his first manslaughter offense, but each second some new horrific detail stands out and is announced by an increasingly unpleasant tightening sensation in his chest.
He is standing over the dead body of an immortal. In a neighborhood like Billy's they are practically legendary. The procedure to transform a normal human being into a partially synthetic is invasive, time-consuming, and most of all, expensive. As a result, it is only the extremely wealthy who undergo the transformation. Everyone believes they'll get there some day, though.
Billy looks down at the gun, hesitates a moment before he picks it up. It doesn't mater. It's covered with his fingerprints, and registered in his name. His stomach turns again. It's almost weightless but still unwieldy with the careless lack of ergonomics that is the trademark of discount products everywhere.
The laser pistol was a gift from his mother. He didn't want it, but she wouldn't take no for answer. She said it was a rough neighborhood and he should carry some kind of protection. The irony is lost on Billy who is trying not to hyperventilate.
He manages to calm himself. No one else saw this happen. The guy was out in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.
Billy jumps, startled by a high-pitched wail coming from behind and above his head. He turns to face it, reflexively shielding his eyes from a blinding spotlight. Between the deafening notes of the alarm, he can make out the rapid click-click-click of an computerized camera.
A different flash of light and the alley is silent again. The floating machine crashes to the ground in a heap of smoldering circuits and melted plastic. Billy is up and running.
Billy has never killed anyone before. There is the click of plastic on pavement as the murder weapon drops from his hand. Whoever this guy was, he never even got the chance to put on a proper shocked expression before he died. There he lies, still wearing a smug half grin and vacant stare like he's looking right through Billy at something far more interesting. Well, he's staring with one eye, anyway. Most of the left side of his face is covered by that smoking crater.
He's young. At least, he looks young. You never can tell with these guys. He's hairless, and his pale skin looks sick in the oily streetlight filtering into the alley, but his build says this was once the body of a lithe, active man. He's wearing the same gray jumpsuit they all wear, with the same sideways figure eight on his forehead.
What was he doing down here? Billy wonders aloud to no one in particular, pretending for a moment that it matters. Billy's mind is beginning to recover from the shock of his first manslaughter offense, but each second some new horrific detail stands out and is announced by an increasingly unpleasant tightening sensation in his chest.
He is standing over the dead body of an immortal. In a neighborhood like Billy's they are practically legendary. The procedure to transform a normal human being into a partially synthetic is invasive, time-consuming, and most of all, expensive. As a result, it is only the extremely wealthy who undergo the transformation. Everyone believes they'll get there some day, though.
Billy looks down at the gun, hesitates a moment before he picks it up. It doesn't mater. It's covered with his fingerprints, and registered in his name. His stomach turns again. It's almost weightless but still unwieldy with the careless lack of ergonomics that is the trademark of discount products everywhere.
The laser pistol was a gift from his mother. He didn't want it, but she wouldn't take no for answer. She said it was a rough neighborhood and he should carry some kind of protection. The irony is lost on Billy who is trying not to hyperventilate.
He manages to calm himself. No one else saw this happen. The guy was out in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.
Billy jumps, startled by a high-pitched wail coming from behind and above his head. He turns to face it, reflexively shielding his eyes from a blinding spotlight. Between the deafening notes of the alarm, he can make out the rapid click-click-click of an computerized camera.
A different flash of light and the alley is silent again. The floating machine crashes to the ground in a heap of smoldering circuits and melted plastic. Billy is up and running.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A brief introduction
Yes this is a journal blog. It'll be as aimless and meandering and silly as they all are, I expect. I don't feel that I have to justify creating this space to you or anyone else. The bulk of my published work on the internet is focused and well-organized, and so I don't consider this to be a particularly grievous affront to my belief that these kinds of blogs are always at least a little self-indulgent and pointless.
In fact, I'm not so sure that's necessarily bad, anymore. My thoughts tend toward the chaotic at the best of times, it's just that my attention to detail and weird complex about organization require that I spend hours and weeks revising, formatting, and re-imagining. This can be an advantage, but I feel that it can also stifle the creative process somewhat.
To be honest, I also wanted to try out this design idea.
However, this is more than just a place to record my non sequitur ramblings and display two days' worth of photoshoppery. I also plan to use it as the umbrella under which I shall organize my other projects. You can access these by clicking on the icons to the right.
In fact, I'm not so sure that's necessarily bad, anymore. My thoughts tend toward the chaotic at the best of times, it's just that my attention to detail and weird complex about organization require that I spend hours and weeks revising, formatting, and re-imagining. This can be an advantage, but I feel that it can also stifle the creative process somewhat.
To be honest, I also wanted to try out this design idea.
However, this is more than just a place to record my non sequitur ramblings and display two days' worth of photoshoppery. I also plan to use it as the umbrella under which I shall organize my other projects. You can access these by clicking on the icons to the right.
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