It's Not Even About the Movies

I tend to have more eccentric tastes when it comes to entertainment,along with basically everything else. This individuality, for lack of a more meaningful word, has always been a point of pride for me. I never wanted to be just another one in the crowd.

BUT, THERE ARE CONSEQUENCES

I am alone. My interests are not likely to overlap with those of the people around me. The qualities I seek in friends are often absent, and refusing to compromise on those things makes an absence of people as well. I can't even fit in with my own family. I can't honestly say if I've ever truly felt like I belonged.

I sometimes ask my family to watch something that interests me. Sometimes, they assent. That then counts as paying their dues for the next month or so. Never mind how many times I watch their shows. Shows that cause me ACTUAL anxiety (Aren't disorders grand?).

Most of the time, it's not about this or that show. It's about showing that you care enough to try to watch something I like. To learn about what interests me. Instead, I feel like they have their own vision of who and what and how I am, and it doesn't matter what new things I show them. I'll always be the same. The difficult one. Always doing the opposite. Always being passive aggressive.

You want to talk about passive aggression? Let's talk about how I spent the first half of the day feeling miserable and guilty and ashamed, and at night, after it seemed that the peace had returned, I am reminded of how different I am. How much of  burden it is to figure out what I want. How I'm given every opportunity to share my interests, but I never take it. It's always my fault, my mistake, my baggage.

Maybe it was "the perfect day" for some of us, but it sure as heck wasn't for me.

So...

I never said it would be 30 consecutive days! XP

Anyways, I think today I'll sketch some characters that have been dancing around in my head.

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Shay (gift)  Rapp (dark-haired or raven-like) [working name]

Occupation: Trash collector (Residential Driver)

Age: 27
Height: 5'6"
Complexion: slightly darker than Rashida Jones
Frame: Sturdy, but muscular
Style: 90s comfortable (not always for the best)
Ethnicity(?): Black/Hebrew

Family: Moderate relationship. Sister- - 2 years younger, successful journalist; Brother- 5 years younger, grad school for psychology (closer)


Education: High school diploma, some college (History & Biology)

Basic career path: Graduated from HS -- Attended College out of state -- "Nervous Breakdown" -- Grey area -- Started working for WM @ 22

Interests: Forensic History, writing, Stocks


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Carter Reid

Occupation: Police Detective

Age: 32
Height: 6' 0"
Complexion: Pale. Irish pale. And a ginger too!
Frame: Lithe, lean, dancer-esque?

Family: Twin sister, stay at home mom and web designer. Parents, divorced, but amicable (provided they don't need to interact)

Basic Career Path: Grad. HS -- Entered police academy (19) -- college part time w/ tuition reimbursement -- Bachelor's Degree in criminology(?) -- Made Detective at 30

Interests: Dance, social justice, being a Maker

30 Day Challenge

If you read the title, congratulations, you already know I'm going to attempt a writing challenge. Everyday, for a month, I am going to write SOMETHING on here. It might be short, it might be stupid, it might be deep, it might be fictional.

So, for all the nobody who reads this, let it begin:

2:00 AM Friday, 3/20/2015

I wish I could write, but I'm dried up
like the Nile
River turned to blood
but I'm dying
There's no oxygen
No inspiration
No reason to recreate what I'm feelin' because
there's just
nothing

There's no Rushing this creative process because it's
all blocked up
there's no progress, just pain
nothing to gain, just praying for rain
on these empty fields

this empty feels
too familiar, I'm sick of seeing it
too much repetition of old lines
I'm sick of reading it
So scared of life I've forgotten how NOT to hide
I'm sick of fleeing it
but when I don't, all that fills me is
nothing


Technically that was cheating, because I wrote it a few days ago, but YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! So, I'm using it anyway.

Half-hearted NaNoWriMo

When she awoke, the apartment had been reduced to a black scar on the building's facade. Light bathed the destroyed scene, a soothing balm in the wake of terror. Her clothes were in tatters, but she hardly notices as all she knew was the shadow of her living nightmare. Her mind, still pulsing with a frenzied adrenaline told her to run. Anywhere. Quickly. And so she did.

Street blended into street until she was forced to take to the alleys, hiding from the blazing cacophony of the world. Her strength seemed to ebb and flow, first pushing her forward towards and unnamed destination, only to suddenly disappear, leaving her clinging weakly to the nearest rusted trash cans. All the while, she continued moving, guided by some internal compass that promised safety.

Eventually the city faded into the protected forest that had been its pride and joy. Her shoes had traded the grate of concrete for the soft crushing of leaves and grass, though she never would have known it. Delirium had long since taken her beyond conscious control, pulling her ever forward guided by instinct alone. Brown, green, purple, red. Streaks of color that barely registered were her only signs that she was not yet dead. And when the desperate spirit that had possessed her finally allowed her body collapse under the weight of her exhaustion, she faded into an iridescent nothingness and dreamed.

Tired...Again

I am...tired. Of life, liberty and everything.

I've felt alone, Abandoned. I've admitted my pain.  I met a man today who told me he was emotionally dead inside. And then, I realized, I was looking into the mirror.

I want to write more, but instead, there is a yearning in my wrists, for the skill of metal and the dance it can do across the thin membrane of my skin, freeing my blood to escape and release the poison that lies within.

Don't Want To Call You

I don't want to call you baby
because I don't love like a child
I'm not going to spoon feed you my story
or clean up your messes
I'm not going to hold you when I'm hurting
and lose sleep over your demands
I don't want to call you baby
because I don't want to love you like a child

I won't call you sweetie
Because sugarcoated nothings will still mean nothing
promises dipped in chocolate will still cause cavities
space between us filled with lies and rot
lollipop lies still make me sick
sucrose saturated statements
soon made profane by the pretense of affections
delicious confections made sour

NaNoWriMo 2014-Day 1

I'm doing it for real this year! The topic? Well, I'm sort of still working on that. Basically, it's about a heroine whose powers lie in the manipulation of basic laws of physics (i.e. Newton's Laws).

_____

Blackness jarred by violent bursts of light. Each one creating larger fissures in the quiet sanctuary. The blackness stretched to cover the gaps that each pulse created until it could no longer bridge the chasm. A loud tearing sound ripped the blackness apart and threw its occupant into an explosion of color. And color, in this world, meant pain.

Desperate to escape the feeling of anger fueled knuckles digging into her body, Akara tried to force her mind to return to that distant place where feeling could not exist, but it could not. Hot tears, broken pleas, saliva and blood mixed in an ancient concoction of misery.

He had lost control again. Yet, in this moment, neither one of them considered his inevitable apology or the fact that he never meant to do the things he did. All they could see if the flare of his rage and the reactive bursts of pain that exploded over her skin.  The overlap of bruises created an artificial tapestry over butterscotch skin, documenting regrets as well as any tattoo.

Akara's brain clung to whatever vestiges of sanity had survived the most recent attack, collecting those pieces for what little protection they could provide. Her breath, ever weakening, told the tale of her pain and, blow after blow, sang as a testament to her sacrifice.

It was not the first beating. Not the worst beating. But Akara swore to herself that it would be the last.


One fist followed another until, as with the first burst of life in an engine, a something burst inside Akara. Power long contained flowed from ancient storehouses, only multiplying in intensity once released from its prison. The being within Akara awoke to defend its temple, roaring defiance at all who would seek to destroy it. The small apartment that had once confined Akara's life to a barely livable space had ceased to exist, consumed in the flames of the unnatural flame that began to consume all that was temporal.

The Other Side of the Finish Line

I did it. I've completed the task set to me. I have run and crawled and jogged and slide my way through the race, and I have crossed the finish line. And on the other side...?

Nothing.

A stark emptiness. Sepia tone scenes empty of the so called support that was promised on the other side. The color has faded, the celebration momentary, and now I find myself alone. I am tired, and there is no rest. I pant in thirst, yet the promised springs of freedom have dried up at my approach. The fruits of my labor, once pledge as a feast to reward my struggle, have shrivel and burned in the harsh sun of this desert.

I did what everyone else wanted, what was supposed to be "best for me," and now, I am abandoned. Tears uncried are now unwanted. Hands once extended to offer assistance now burrow into pockets and close into fists.

I have fought the battle and find myself alone on the battlefield. The sole witness to land scarred with shrapnel and painted with the blood of innocents. And I, the solemn flutist, must play a song of mourning and carry on alone.