This Title Sucks

How can I keep coming up with different titles for my blog posts, when really the only one that fits 90% of the time is "Gosh I haven't updated in a while. Here's some news." That's basically what it all boils down to. Which means I'm not a very good blogger.

Tomorrow starts the newest round of Get Sparked! My partner and I have chosen to be partners again since we've found so much inspiration in each others' works and will be collaborating on hopefully many future projects. I'm excited! Though I've left writing a new poem for her to the very last minute as usual. I'm sure I'll be able to come up with something fantastic late tonight (if I can manage to stay up later than 9:00!).

On another strand, I'm a little more than half way through "Journey to the Centre of the Earth." I'm enjoying it immensely! It makes me sad to think that I nearly forgot how much I love reading. I used to be a voracious reader, but over the past few years that has definitely changed. So many other things to do that I feel like when I'm reading I should really be up doing other things. Having Caelyn to take care of doesn't help the cause for reading either. Reading has become a leisurely luxury that almost makes me feel guilty for doing it. How horrible! I must put time aside for reading, just as I've been putting aside time to crochet. Though crocheting is a little easier since I will have something tangible to show for it when I'm done. Reading? Not so much.

On yet another strand, I've paused my Insanity work outs to focus on what I specifically need to work on in order to pass the APFT that I have to take on the 25th. Push ups, sit ups, and a 2-mile run. I'm on course right now; I ran on the treadmill this morning and I'm feeling pretty confident about it. If I can keep it up I'll have no trouble passing.

And, last thing I figure I should mention... My diploma is en route! I checked the status and it was mailed yesterday, woohoo! I was an official college graduate as of January 31st, but it will be even more official once I have that all-important piece of paper in my hands. And my parents ordered a diploma frame for it (as a birthday present). It's on back order, but I'll get it eventually, and like I told my mom, my diploma won't go bad waiting for its frame.

Paper and Poetry

I'm going to keep this post short and to the point. I've had a lot on my mind the past week or so, between going upstate, getting me and Caelyn ready for school, and some propositions in regards to my writing (I will speak about that when things are more set in stone), I feel like I'm ready for a week of sleeping and not showing my face to the world at all.

The following is the response my Get Sparked partner created from the poem posted in my first previous blog post, Morning on Hoel Pond.

"Hoel Pond" Canvas made of handmade paper, made by the Artist, Gwynne Mason, kakishibu dye, silk paper, mixed media.

The following picture is the work of art that my partner sent to me, and then following the picture I'll post the poem that it inspired.

"He Said He Was No Longer Interested In Me" Handmade plant fiber papers, made and decorated by Gwynne Mason, mounted on a handmade silk tapestry, mixed media.

The following is the poem I wrote using this piece as inspiration.

Sea of Wanting

Shower of spring petals
dancing

Trees, flowers, adoration
growing

Silver sands of summer
enticing

Riding waves of desire
reeling

It was wonderful at first.
Everything was vibrant, colorful.
Life was full and then it wasn’t.
empty.
distant.
cold.
lost interest.

Shimmering autumn hopeful
shriveling

Threads that once bound us
unraveling

Snow-flecked winter winds
freezing

Break through fragile ice
sinking

Gone.

© Elizabeth Cordes, 2010

Reading and Writing

I probably should have added this to the end of my last post, but I didn't think of it until now. I took out a couple books from the library last week, none of which I've had the inclination to sit down and actually read yet. One is the first 3 books in a Manga series called Sand Chronicles. I started reading the first one AT the library, so I figured I may as well take out the next two; it was going quick. It's not a serious Manga, just some dipsy child love story or something, but entertaining. I already packed up my entire Love Hina collection (which I also haven't read yet) and sent it to the house, so I figured this would be a good fill in until I'm up there in August and can (maybe?) relax and finally read it. After all, they've only been lying around for 5 years now.

The other book I had taken out, Runaways, is, indeed, X-men related. But I don't really know that universe intimately, so I was kinda lost. Especially since the one I took out happened to be a compilation of issues 25-30. So not only do I not have any background on the universe, I am behind 24 issues. I read about 3/4 of it, but it wasn't able to hold my interest merely on the fact that I can't keep the characters straight.

Another I borrowed last week and haven't looked at yet is Watchmen. I haven't seen the movie, although I wanted to. I figured reading it would be more thorough than watching a screen adaptation of it. Caelyn will be with her father this coming weekend, so maybe I'll actually sit down and relax a bit to get these books read.

One more that I have lined up is To Kill a Mockingbird. In my mind, this one goes hand in hand with Catcher in the Rye, simply because I hadn't read either of them during my illustrious school career. Since I finally did read Catcher, I figured it was about time to read Mockingbird as well. I had the library put it on hold for me since someone else had it out. They called a few days ago and said it was in for me. I was going to pick it up this morning on my way home from the bank, but tomorrow is me and Caelyn's library day, so I figured I could wait one more day.

And now onto the writing portion of my post here. The next NYC Midnight writing contest is coming up. Early registration ends July 8th, so I still have plenty of time to register early (and for cheaper), plus I got a $5 off registration code in my email. I kinda dropped the ball on the last one I was in, the Short Story contest. I waited til the very last minute, and didn't spend enough time actually working on it. It was mostly taken up by the actual writing of the story. I didn't do very well. It was a good story overall, but the execution was something to be desired. This next contest coming up is Flash Fiction. Every contestant will guaranteed to have 2 chances to write. And as with the last one, contestants are given a genre/subject (or genre/setting/object, I'm not sure which combo. But you're given some basic set-up like that), but no more than 1,000 words. Seeing as how in my fiction class last semester we had to stick to under 500 words for our short pieces, I figured I can really cook having 1,000 to work with.

It's not so much the work, though, it's the money. It's kinda pricey for a writing contest, but a lot of the same people are going to enter, and they have forums, and peer reviews and stuff. Which were infinitely more helpful (and entertaining!) than the actual judges' feedback everyone is entitled to. Which is also good. But I think for a lot of [us], the forums and camaraderie is what draws us back. I'm still thinking about it. I'll probably wind up entering; then at least I'll have something new and (exciting?) to blog about aside from my failed attempts at working out.

Books

Ok, I know when I've been cowed. It's hard to admit it, because let's face it, who actually wants to be wrong, but there you have it. I spoke 'in the moment' out of irritation and was wrong. On some things. Ok, most. I do know the importance of being well informed, I just forget to do it sometimes when emotions are running high. (Is that like excusing behavior because of PMS? Naahhh...) Thank you to those who pointed me toward some very informative articles without accusing me of ignorance. I promise I'll do better at looking for them myself in the future before wanting to write something, and then I shall wisely choose not to.

On to other news. I'm gonna leave politics well enough alone and stick to what I DO know pretty well: my personal life. I was at the library yesterday and picked up a graphic novel.. comic book..?.. Called Runaways: Dead End Kids. It's Marvel. I think the X-Men are in it. It looked interesting. I'll report back when I'm done.

And, in rummaging through three huge boxes of books last week, I found one that I had been wanting to reread for a few years, The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector. I don't think I was able to truly appreciate it the first time I read it, due to it having to be read for class. (Doesn't school always ruin the best books?). And speaking of books to read for school, has anyone read Ethan Frome? The other English class when I was in high school read this one, but not mine. I can't remember what WE read... But I recently borrowed an audio CD of Ethan Frome and actually enjoyed it. I can totally see how high school kids would be bored by it, but 10 years removed, I appreciated it. Of course, I could just be weird, because I also enjoyed reading Silas Marner which most everyone else has indubitably hated. Or at least disliked.

I have also just read Catcher in the Rye. I had never read it before. I can now say I've read it, and I'll leave it at that, lol. It was... ok... Again, I can see how, when it was first published, it was such a sensation and such a crazy story. But reading it today in the present, it's not all that shocking. The poor kid just wasn't into the whole college thing. Another one I have never read is To Kill a Mockingbird. I have it on hold at the library, so when that comes back I'll be sure to say a few words on that one as well.

Anyone know of any other "school cannon" reading that they have found interesting (or not)? I feel like there is a reason these books are read in school, and if I haven't read them, I'd like to, and find out for myself why they are still considered "classics." And, I suppose in some cases, I'll never know. :D

Get Sparked! Part II

Well, as usual, I procrastinated my butt off writing a response to the picture my artist-partner sent me more than 10 days ago now. But I finally got a moment to breath (it's been a busy week) so I sat down and busted out a poem. It wasn't as tough as I thought it was going to be; I think I work better with a tiny bit of direction rather than someone saying "Ok, write something. Anything." That kinda freaks me out, lol. And it helps to have even a tiny inkling of an idea, then most of it flows out pretty easily. Sometimes. But anyway, here is the picture my a-p sent me:

Toward a New Jerusalem, by Ann Marie Williams

Ok, did y'all enjoy that? And now here's the poem I wrote using this picture as inspiration (or something):

Castaway
by Elizabeth Cordes

The yellow orb, unmoving,
sits atop the unchanging sky
like a relic,
refusing to fall.
It is a castaway from our old world,
as we are.
It is nameless,
as we are.

The mirrored landscape
broadens before us
(jealous, mocking).
It has no history as we do.

At the end of our journey
lies a city.
It will not let us carry
the old into new.
Its dazzling reflection
blinds us,
turns us away.

We must leave
all that we are
behind us
before we may enter.

We refuse.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I'm not really thrilled with it, but I think it was good enough. I think I'll try again for the next one and maybe even spend a decent amount of time working on it! I almost feel bad that I shirked so badly after being so excited for signing up for it. Ah well.

Ocean Dreams

This is my initial Spark piece, sent to the woman they paired me with. She must now make visual art inspired from it! I call it "Ocean Dreams."

There is a long, luxurious hiss

as the sun sinks into the ocean.

The shimmering light

of the extinguishing beast

casts blood-red diamonds across the surface

and the waves lavish them on the shore.

My eyes half-lidded

from the hazy crimson dusk,

I descend to the beach

to collect the sparkling treasure.

I tie them together

on a bit of fishing line,

crimped and knotted.

But soon, as twilight descends

and the moonlight clears my vision,

I see that my diamonds are nothing

more than sea glass,

and my work is nothing

more than a tangle of garbage and broken shells.

I throw it to the ground

and watch it crawl away.

The fishing line is threaded

through the tip of a hermit crab’s shell.

My tangled dream drags along

behind its home, only to snag

on a wayward stone.

I watch it struggle a moment,

then turn away.

Get Sparked

There were a couple of things I wanted to mention in my last blog post, but only recalled them after I hit the "publish post" button. And now I can't remember what I did want to write about. So here's something new!

I almost forgot that I signed up for the Get Sparked May session, which will hopefully get some creative juices flowing. Artists are paired up, and we send an "inspiration" piece to our partner (be it art, poetry, fiction, whatever) and then have I believe 10 days or so to write (draw) a response piece. I heard about this through a comment Lauren Flax made on one of The Quixotic Jedi's posts. I think. I saw the link, checked it out, and voila.

In other news, I finished my professor's book, "How to Cope with Suburban Stress." I'm not sure I really enjoyed it. There were some enjoyable moments, but the focus on the pedophile was just too much for me. It's one thing to have one IN your story, to cause some conflict, but to get that personal with one...I just saw no need for it. Also, the climax was pretty much right at the end of the book, and I felt like there should have been more afterwards instead of it being the end. I guess you can't win them all. I read some reviews about it on Amazon, and one said "Ted Sacks is no Humbert Humbert" and another one said "Ted Sacks is definitely creepier than Humbert Humbert." I have not read "Lolita" myself, so I really couldn't say for sure on that front.

Next up on my reading list is "Tekwar" by William Shatner. I picked it up for $.50 at a library book sale last summer. Then I think I'll finally finish "Moby Dick." Then after that, I'm not sure. Possibly finish "Stranger in a Strange Land." I'm perilously close to the end of that one but I wasn't thrilled with how deep it got into religion so I stopped. I also have "The Left Hand of Darkness" cued up (Haven't read anything by LeGuin in quite a few years), and would like to try and get through "Jane Eyre" but that one is questionable.

5-pg Assignment: The Dreamers

So I guess since I posted my other stories, I'll put this one up, too. The assignment was simply to write a 5-pg story (double spaced), so about 2 1/2 pgs single spaced. Enjoy, I guess. :)


The Gypsies had arrived. There was no mistaking the clanging and hammering as they parked their wagons and put together the stands and tents. Morgan pulled his blankets up over his head in vain to try and block out the shouting and singing. He hated Gypsy season. Sure, he could buy quality silks and teas for his mother. He could barter for exotic woods to use in his father's carpentry shop. He even let himself enjoy some of the nightly revelry that went on around their great bonfires.

What he did not like was their "Exhibition of the Unnatural." It disgusted him: The white horse with a carved ivory horn strapped to its forehead. The woman with a beard which he could bet was only a beaver pelt. The desert vultures that they insisted were Harpies. The strong men, the contortionists, the fortune tellers, and all the rest.

A sharp knock on the front door forced Morgan up out of bed. "One moment!" He pulled on his pants and grabbed a shirt as he crossed the width of his modest-sized house. He reached the front and opened the door, revealing his best friend, Mari.

"Morgan! You really should have built closer to town." Her blustery auburn hair tickled his nose as she walked in past him.

"You say that every time you come here," he countered. "What brings you here so early?"

"Oh come on, Morgan. Please tell me you haven't been hearing them set up?"

"I couldn't sleep half the night because of all the racket."

"Well, I suppose that's what you get for living so close to the clearing, now isn't it?"

Her playful tone forced a chuckle out of him. It always did, no matter what the situation. "Yes, it's my own fault knowing full well that that is where the Gypsies pitch camp every year."

Her laughter danced around him like wind chimes. "Come on, and maybe we can catch a peek of the new beasts they brought with them."

Morgan groaned. "New? What more could they possibly pass off? You know I don't go in for that stuff."

"I know, but please? For me?" Her feet stepped ever so lightly across the room and she took his hand in hers. It was warm, despite the chill of the morning that had come in behind her when he had opened the door. Morgan could never refuse Mari.

"All right, Mari." Morgan tried to sound reluctant, but Mari's smile left him no room to argue. He got up, put on his boots, and followed her outside.

The two friends made their way through the trees, around the outside edge of the clearing. They could see all the Gypsy men, women, and children, in their brightly dyed clothing, helping to set things up before the townsfolk started arriving.

"This better be quick," he warned Mari, who was a few steps ahead of him.

"Just keep up," she answered. "They always keep the good stuff way in the back until nightfall, don't they? It's only a bit farther." True to her word, at the far side of the clearing were the covered wagons. Some were the homes of the actors, and others were covered cages that held the animals. Larger ones sat at the tree line, and smaller ones extended beyond into the forest. As they crept closer, they could hear whinnying, growling, and clawing from underneath the bright red and yellow canvases.

With every last Gypsy busy with other things, Morgan and Mari had no trouble approaching the closest wagon to them. Morgan hung back, but Mari lifted up the corner of the canvas to peer underneath. "Oh, the unicorn had a foal!" Mari exclaimed as quietly as she could. Morgan rolled his eyes, but bent down to look with her.

"They don't even have their horns on yet," he noticed.

"Well, they'll be unicorns tonight," Mari tried to defend them. "Don't be such a spoil sport."

"I'm not."

"You are. Let's see what's in the next one." Mari stood up and listened at the next wagon before trying to peek. A low grumble issued from inside. "I think this one is the tigers."

"You're not going to look at them?"

"No." Mari shook her head and shot Morgan a lopsided grin. "I don't like teasing animals that could eat me."

"Good point. What's in the next one? It looks kind of small." Although Morgan would never have gone there of his own accord, Mari's enthusiasm was catching. Mari was right behind him as he reached a hand out to pull the curtain aside. The canvas draping it, unlike the other bright colors on the other wagons, was pitch black. He hesitated. Mari gripped his arm.

"What's the matter? Are you scared?" It was that playful tone again. Morgan, in one fluid motion, threw the curtain aside and spun to face Mari, letting out his best monster-growl to give her a bit of a scare. It had the desired effect: Mari jumped back and gave a shriek before dissolving into giggles. She was about to throw a punch at his arm when her focus suddenly shifted to what was inside the cage.

Morgan followed her gaze and stood, as she was, staring in disbelief. A young woman was lying on the floor of the cage, her eyes closed, her arms curled up to cradle her head as she slept. Her skin was pale as ivory, and her scant clothing was a stark white. Her gold-spun hair flowed down over her shoulders and onto the floor. Her most striking features, though, were that her body seemed to be emitting a soft white light, and that sprouting from her back were two large feathered white wings.

"That can't be real," Morgan breathed out. He walked forward and gripped the bars of the cage as his eyes searched the dark corners of the enclosure. "Mari, she's not glowing. It's just some weird trick. And the wings… they can be made up to look like that. Dove feathers, I've seen them in festivals over at Dirkholme. It's all made up."

Mari stood beside him. "I don't know, Morgan. Look closely." Morgan glanced at the woman in the cage, then looked at the woman beside him. He saw Mari's blue eyes twinkling in the pale glow, and he saw her mouth parted open in a smile. Her whole face was awash in true wonder. "She's an angel, Morgan."

Morgan wanted to look back at the alleged angel, but he couldn't look away from Mari. He had always known that he loved her, even since they were kids together playing in the forest behind their parents' houses. He liked to think that she loved him, too, but she was a dreamer. And he was, well, not. She believed in the fantastic, in the unknown, while he was a realist. He didn't waste thoughts on what he couldn't see or touch for himself.

He felt the warmth of her body next to his, and saw in her expression that she would say she believed. She would speak of it as if it were real, just like she spoke of the unicorns as unicorns even without the horns strapped to their heads.

Morgan spoke gently, almost unwilling to break the silence. "Mari, let's go before someone finds us here." Mari looked up at him. Her expression had not changed, though her eyes were full of unfallen tears.

"Have you ever imagined something so beautiful?" she asked him.

"No," he replied simply. It was the truth. He didn't think of things that didn't affect his every day goings-on. She turned from him and began to walk back the way they had come. They went on in silence for a while until Mari stopped and turned to him.

"Do you believe in anything you can't see with your eyes?"

Morgan thought for a moment before he replied. "No, I don't think so. It wouldn't do me any good if I did, would it?"

Mari sighed and looked down. "I suppose it wouldn't."

Morgan could tell that he hadn't produced the answer she wanted, but he wasn't sure how to fix it. He reached out and took her hand in hers. "You've always told me about your fantastic dreams, ever since we were little. Do you dream of angels?"

"Yes," Mari answered without hesitation. "Do you?"

"No."

"Oh…"

"I don't need to dream of angels or other things because every night I dream of you."

They walked back in silence, hand in hand, a smile on each of their faces.

Dumped

My "comedy" story for my Writing: Fiction class. The 4 of us on for this week's assignment had to write a funny story despite its sad subject. The other stories in the class were NOT funny... at least this earned me an "A." Enjoy!


Humpty Dumpty looked up at the fizzling neon sign above the door: The Mother Goosed. He sighed and entered. Humpty sat at the bar and waved over The Butcher, of men-in-a-tub renown. “Hey, what’s the Tuesday night special?” he asked the burly barkeep.

“Two dollar Cow Jumped Over the Blue Moon til ten.”

“I’ll take one and keep ‘em coming.”

“You got it, Egg Man,” the Butcher replied, filling up a tall glass with the cheap brew. “Just remember I’ll be cutting you off before I have to roll you out of here.”

Humpty snorted and took a long draught, but choked and nearly sprayed the bar down as a hand clapped him hard on the back. He whirled, tears in his eyes and beer leaking out his nose, only to see his best friend, Jack, standing there grinning at him.

“Hey! Never see you around here during the week. What’s the word, Humpster?” Jack sat next to his friend and waved the Butcher down for two more beers.

Humpty wiped his eyes and blew his nose loudly. “Humpster? I wish. More like Dumpster now.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “What? You mean Bo-Peep dumped you?”

“In a word, yes. Peter Piper whisked her away, so she dropped me like a fried egg. Pushed me off the wall. Kicked me to the curb.” Humpty couldn’t go on.

“Wait, she’s going out with –“ Jack looked surprised, but was interrupted as all the King’s horses and all the King’s men came filing in. That was the last thing Humpty needed, he knew. They were always giving the egg trouble for having to get glued back together every fortnight or so.

One of the horses noticed Humpty’s countenance and laughed. “Hey Humpty, why the long face? Hahaha!”

One of the men poked Jack in the ribs. “Jump over any candlesticks lately? Hope you didn’t burn anything! Hahaha!”

Humpty was in no mood to joke back, but Jack stood up and gave the man a challenging push. “I’ll have you know that Miss Muffet is quite fond of my tuffet and very appreciative of my nimbleness.”

The man raised his hands in mock defeat. “Whatever, tough guy, at least she didn’t dump you for a pickled pepper,” he said, turning his aggression back to the sad mess of an egg. Humpty broke out in fresh tears at that admission, and the Butcher stomped over to break up the trouble.

“All right, move along now, or you’ll have to put yourselves back together after I’m through with you!” The horses and men grumbled, but took the Butcher at his word.

The Butcher leaned over the bar and patted Humpty on the shoulder. “Eh, don’t worry. Happens to the best of us, ya know?” While comforting Humpty Dumpty, though, he noticed that Jack had sat back down and was starting to snuffle as well. “Oh no. Not you, too?”

Jack nodded. “I just said that stuff to get them to leave us alone. Truth is, Muffet did leave me for a pickled pepper!” The Butcher rolled his eyes and served the two recently-dumped men another round.

“I always knew I hated that Peter Piper. We both got trumped by his peppers,” Humpty said between sniffles. The two friends commiserated until the Butcher cut them off and Jack had to roll Humpty Dumpty home.

Lost Soul

Jack sat at the bar just inside the entrance, his tired shoulders drooping over his usual gin and tonic. The metallic clank of footsteps out in the hallway grew louder then stopped as the door opened to admit another patron. The ghostly blue light just outside illuminated Jack's dirty blonde hair drooping down from underneath his ever-present brown Stetson and past the collar of his dirt-stained jacket. But it mostly illuminated the dirty. Everything about Jack was either drooping or dirty, and most things were both. The other regulars at the bar figured that Jack hadn't always been this way, but most wisely kept silent about it. The younger boys sometimes made up stories involving a pact with the Devil. The older men sometimes chuckled at that, but under the dim flickering lights, they told similar stories in hushed tones.

"One more, Charlie," Jack said from underneath the Stetson. He rarely talked, and even more rarely looked up, and Charlie was glad for it. Old Jack had grown on him, but there was still something eerie about his deep gruff voice and his piercing blue eyes that were as pale as a guppy's. When the bar was busy Charlie could generally shrug it off, but on quiet nights like this he couldn't help but wonder what had happened in Jack's life to get him to this point.

"One for me, too, Chal," said another familiar voice. Thomas had come in and propped himself up in the seat next to Jack. Charlie chuckled.

"You got it, Tom. Two for the duo."

Thomas smiled and glanced at Jack, but Jack tipped his head the other way and only grunted. 'The Duo' was something Thomas called himself and Jack, though he knew Jack wasn't amused. He was the only one who could elicit any kind of conversation out of Jack, even if it usually consisted of one-word answers and guttural noises while he did most of the talking.

"Last one already, Jack? It's still a little early for you yet," Thomas noted. He could always count on Jack being there from 4PM to Midnight. Every day.

Jack grunted in response as he reached a hand out for his fresh drink. He was such a permanent fixture in the bar that Thomas had to wonder what Jack had been doing for a living. He once tried asking Jack outright with no luck, and even the old men could only say that they thought he once worked in law enforcement. No one could even tell him exactly how old Jack was.

When regular conversation didn’t work, Thomas resorted to pushing all the buttons he had discovered in the two months he had known Jack on the Hashmark.

“That can’t be your last, Jack, it’s not quite ten yet, they haven’t shut off the lights. Don’t tell me you’re gonna nurse it for two hours, or are you suddenly afraid of the dark?”

This drew another grunt from the old man, but this time he turned his head and trained his pale eyes on the dark-haired youth.

“You know nothing of the dark.” His words were so low that Thomas almost didn’t catch them at all. Thomas held his breath as Jack slowly pushed his chair back and stood up with a creak. Like everything Jack did, it was with an unhurried purpose. He left his half-finished drink on the bar, set down the credits he owed for the night, and deftly strode out, the door clanging behind him.

Almost imperceptibly, the other patrons in the bar momentarily turned their attention to what had happened. Thomas skimmed the room, then shrugged, as baffled by Jack’s actions as the rest were.

“I probably shouldn’t follow him,” Thomas commented to Charlie, after gulping down his drink.

“Probably not,” Charlie agreed, but the look in both their faces said otherwise. Normally, neither would have thought twice about following Jack, but abnormal behavior makes one think abnormal thoughts.

Jack walked down the hall, his hands deep inside his jacket’s pockets. He had spent the last quarter of his life tracking down a renegade alien and, thanks to many well-served years on the Galactic Force, had finally found her residing on the Hashmark, the most outdated colony still in existence. It didn’t really surprise him. Living in an orbiting station around Jupiter had once been an outrageously posh thing to do back in the 23^rd Century, but giant advancements in space technology left the Hashmark almost completely abandoned only a short century later. Now it served more as a waypoint for lost souls, degenerates, and those having nothing else to live for, than as an upscale mining community.

The rusted bolts in the walls were just one more reminder for Jack of how long he had actually spent looking for the elusive Ru'anite. The last time he had frequented the Hashmark, everything was shining with the brilliance of new beginnings for the human race and he was a newly appointed undercover agent for the Galactic Force, solving alien kidnapping cases.

Jack strode his usual path to the Level 34C Docking Bay. He entered through the large double doors, the mechanisms that open them screeching and whining against the years of disrepair. He calmly took the hundred paces toward the edge of the dock, no longer amazed at the radiant view of Jupiter out the panoramic space-glass paneling. Jack pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket, and a lighter from the back pocket of his pants. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag.

This had been his ritual every day for the last four years. It didn't bother him. It had taken him twenty three years to finally get there, so a few more didn't make much difference. Ru'anites were reclusive, not travelling often, or very far, from their homeworld, but all that he managed to catch up with told him the same thing: That Lina'i was the one he needed to see. They were kind and wanted to help, but for some reason the process was impossible to reverse in humans unless attended by the same Ru'anite that had caused the disconnection. The last one he had spoken to told him he was very lucky that Lina'i was still travelling. She had lived a long life, and once she went back to Ru'an, she would want to reconnect and give up existence. Jack always figured he was also lucky that all Ru'anites were so sensitive on the subject of souls, and for that fact only Lina'i was willing to help him.

The clanging and scraping of the double doors startled Jack out of his nightly reverie. He spun around, quicker than he had moved in a long time. He spotted Thomas, frozen in the doorway, probably startled that it had made so much noise.

"What's your business, boy?" Jack called out to him, none to kindly. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, threw it to the ground and pressed it with the toe of his boot before striding angrily toward his intruder. He didn't take his eyes off Thomas, and perhaps that was why Thomas didn't just turn around and run. He felt trapped, unable to break away from that pale gaze. Before his muscles could obey his mind, Thomas felt Jack's hand grab the front of his shirt, push him out into the hall and up against the wall.

"You been spittin' nonsense to me for two months, boy. What do you think you're gonna get outta me? Huh?" Jack accompanied his questions with a few rough jerks, Thomas' head banging against the wall behind him. Thomas tried to wait out Jack's anger, but his training kicked in. One foot rose swiftly and hit Jack in the groin, effectively doubling him over. One hand shoved Jack back while the other drew a hidden sidearm from inside his jacket and trained it at Jack's head.

Jack coughed and groaned, looking up, thoroughly surprised at the young man, and the barrel of the gun. "What are…"

"Galactic Force, Jack," Thomas said steadily, his unarmed hand flipping open a billfold displaying the gold seal of the Galactic Force. Jack bowed his head and held up his hands, palms outward, admitting defeat. Thomas deftly put his gun away and offered his hand, which Jack took and stood up.

"All this time, you.." Jack started, but Thomas stopped him.

"I don't know everything, Jack," Thomas said. "But I know enough. Enough to have tracked you here and enough to know what to try and get you to say. But you didn't. You're a lot tougher than Admiral Jenkins made you out to be." Jack growled and turned his back to the boy. Thomas followed him back to the edge of the dock where Jack lit another cigarette, as calmly as he had the first time.

"I guess I'm getting' sloppy in my old age, if they sent an upstart like you after me," Jack said, glancing at Thomas.

"I actually didn't expect your age to show so much," Thomas conceded. "You were what, twenty-six, twenty-seven when it happened?"

"Twenty-nine."

"So that would make you…"

"Hundred and seven," Jack muttered, "but who's counting?"

Thomas gave a low whistle. "And you don't look a day over sixty five," he said, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work, so Thomas got to the point. "Why are you here, Jack? Since you obviously don't look like you're twenty-nine now, does that mean you're not," he paused before finishing, because the idea still seemed so ludicrous to him, even though he had read all the research that Sector 4 had given him, "immortal anymore?"

Jack took one last drag and then flicked the cigarette butt out over the dock. "Humans should never mess with alien voodoo," Jack said in answer. "I'm tired of talkin'. If you want to know more, come with me."

Jack strode alongside the dock, Thomas close on his heels, toward a large warehouse area. On the far wall of the storage space there was a door that probably once led to an office of some sort. When Jack stopped outside of it, he gave a series of short knocks, waited a moment, then he pushed the door open. The inside was dark, hot, and humid. Thomas had to guess that a separate climate control device had been installed to achieve such a radical difference from the rest of the station. There were puddles on the floor underneath where the moisture was dripping off the walls. At the very back of the room, on a small stainless steel table, a light inside a glass vial illuminated the only other occupant.

"Jack, you brought company," the figure said as it stood up. Thomas gasped at the humanoid alien's height, towering over them by at least two feet. Its skin was waxy and pale, a grayish-blue, and it wasn't clothed except for a sash around its chest and a loin cloth. What startled Thomas the most, even after looking at countless pictures of Ru'anites, was the face. The eyes were shaped like human eyes, but they were much too large, taking up half of the face area, and completely black. No whites, no iris, no pupil. The nose was merely a small bump below the eyes, and the mouth was no more than a two inch wide slit.

"I apologize, Lina'i," Jack said. He walked toward the alien and sat in the only other piece of furniture in the room, a small chair draped with a plastic cover. Lina'i sat, leaving Thomas to stand. "It looks like they finally found us," he said.

Lina'i nodded and turned her eyes on Thomas, looking him over before turning back to the light on the table. Thomas looked closer at it and started to put two and two together.

"Is that?..."

"What you think it is?" Lina'i finished his thought. "Yes. It is Jack's soul. I have been trying night after night to reconnect them. Humans are exceedingly difficult to work with." She did not look at Thomas as she spoke, but at Jack instead, who was slumped, defeated, in the chair. Thomas slowly drew his gun, but wasn't sure where to point it first.

Jack spoke, his eyes on his own brilliant soul. "Humans are greedy and spiteful, jealous of the Ru'anites' ritual of soul splitting, and resulting immortality. But the problem is that they live peaceful lives, and we like to kill each other."

Thomas' grip on his gun tightened. He knew the story by heart. Jack had been assigned to uncover a rash of alien kidnapping cases, all involving Ru'anites. What they discovered was that the soul splitting ritual could be performed on other species. Instead of shutting it down, the Galactic Force kidnapped their own Ru'anite and forced her to tear soul from body to create a legion of immortal warriors. What they didn't understand was that immortal is not synonymous with invincible. Instead of fixing the problem, they destroyed the evidence, like any good human government agency did.

Jack had been the only one to escape with the Ru'anite.

"It took years to recover my soul," Jack explained. "Then it took me twice as long to find Lina'i. When the body dies without the soul, the soul is lost forever. It can't find its way to the afterlife without the aid of the body."

"I have postponed my own journey to help Jack," Lina'i continued for him. "We merely have to touch our soul for it to reconnect, but to give Jack a peaceful end is much harder. Not having a soul is harder for a human, too," she commented. "The body still ages, but at a much slower pace."

Jack looked up at Thomas finally, his eyes pleading. He knew what Thomas had come to the Hashmark to do. "Why'd you wait so long to do this?" Jack asked honestly.

Thomas saw that the hardness he had seen in Jack's eyes the past two months was just a cover. He looked now and saw emptiness, a darkness that would never recede.

"Because I kinda like you, Jack." Thomas hesitated for a moment. "But I can't disobey orders."

Jack and Lina'i looked to each other, and both closed their eyes, resigned to their fate. If it wasn't Thomas, it would be someone else before long.

"I'm sorry, Jack…"

No one was close enough to hear the two gunshots. Thomas left the bodies there, lit by a single soul lost in the darkness.

Writing: Fiction, Assignment 1

While I'm waiting to get my confirmation email from NYC Midnight, I thought I'd share a piece of 'sudden fiction' that I wrote for my Writing:Fiction class I am taking this semester. The assignment was to write a story, around 500 words, about "how I cheated to win the debate competition." I went a little over on the word-count, but I really don't think he's going to be counting. It turned out less than 2 pages double-spaced, so that should be good enough. Well, here it is. Enjoy.

Serious Business

I'm in the nurse's office, waiting for my mom to come get me. They think I have a broken nose. That's not so bad, because Mikey is in the principal's office. It all started last week. I thought third grade was going great until our teacher, Mrs. Goldsmith told us we were going to have a class debate.

"The class will be split into two teams," she said. "Gregory, you'll be spokesperson for the platypus, and Michael, you'll be spokesperson for the giraffe. You'll have some class time each day to work as a team and come up with all the reasons you think your animal is the most interesting." Why did she pick me? Didn't she know how scared I am to be in front of people? My class has at least twenty kids!

I thought we had good reasons why platypuses were better than giraffes, but every time I looked at Mikey, my stomach hurt. He's the biggest bully in school. When I saw him looking back at me, it made my heart thump so loud I was sure I would get sent into the hallway for making too much noise.

At lunch I watched Mikey drink his carton of chocolate milk. I always have plain milk, and I wondered why my mom couldn't put another ten cents in the envelope so I could have chocolate milk, too. I hated Mikey. All the boys were his friend, and he picked on all the girls. And he drank chocolate milk. Every day.

I woke up this morning feeling awful about the debate, but then a great idea popped in my head. Mom was yelling, but I ran back into the house to grab some medicine out of the bathroom. She sometimes gives me some when my stomach is hurting really bad, and I then I have to use the bathroom a lot. But it makes my stomach feel better.

At lunch when Mikey got up to get a napkin, I poured half the bottle into his chocolate milk. It was chocolate-flavored so I knew he wouldn't notice. I never moved so fast in my life, but I did it without him seeing!

After lunch, the debate started. I felt so nervous, but then I looked at Mikey and saw him doing a funny wiggle behind his desk. He talked good, and everyone was clapping and cheering, but then all of a sudden he ran out, saying something about not being able to wait. I saw Mrs. Goldsmith shake her head and she told Katie that she would have to take Mikey's place. It looked like Katie was more nervous than me.

I won by a landslide. But then Mikey came back in, walked right up to me and said, "You are gonna get it!" He started to make that "I have to run out of here real quick" face again, but before he did, I was on the ground and my whole face hurt.

There was lots of yelling and people running around after that, and Mrs. Goldsmith pushed a tissue on my nose. "I always knew that boy was trouble," I heard her say while she helped me to the nurse's office.

Mom is gonna keep me home for three days, and I got the prize for winning the debate. A broken nose was totally worth it.

NYC Midnight SSC

Well, sometime last week I entered a short story contest. (http://www.nycmidnight.com). As it was my first ever contest, I probably shouldn't have gone for one with an entry fee, but I was feeling impulsive and went for it. My assigned genre/subject was Sci-Fi/Undercover Police Officer. Quite a challenge for someone who has never written anything even resembling sci-fi before. And in the end, it wasn't REALLY sci-fi except that the setting was in a nearly-abandoned space station orbiting Jupiter. How creative.

Staying within the 2,500 word limit was also tough. I could have made it much shorter, but would have had to leave out a LOT of details. I could have done a better job with the details, but then I would have been double over the max. After all was said and done, I think I came up with a decent story, maybe not quite expertly rendered (after all, I procrastinated til the very last moment, submitting with only an hour and 40 minutes before the deadline), but the ending surprised me, and that, I think, is an important aspect of story-crafting.

When a character starts off bland and mundane, but then perks up and surprises me as I am writing a scene - That is what reminds me why I love writing so much.

I just wish I hadn't saved all the actual writing til the very last moment. I would have had more time to cut and polish an otherwise diamond in the rough. And believe me, it's very rough. It will most likely take a miracle to advance to the second round, but my sense of accomplishment is great enough that I may try and find other contests to enter (some with no entry fee, ha!).