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writing spam continuuueeed
So I am leaving Kieden's personality much the same as before. He is (was) a highschooler, so he is allowed to think too much! Rusty is slightly older and is too embarrassed to think as much as Kieden. Yes, I am holding out on offering too much background information, but I have left hints (in which I pretend I am a good writer who knows how to drop hints)! Fragmented timelines are fun. :>
LJ is being a butt, so rant from the first post here:
FC's an episodic anthology type story, and I've written a couple of shorts. I-I guess I can share them here? It'll be a mess of different media--comic pages to children's book pages to just plain drabbles. I'll probably make a Blogspot for it or something OR CODE MY OWN (if I ever find a server to leech off of). Welp, I LIKE TO PRETEND I CAN ACTUALLY WRITE. 8Db
FALSE CYCLE
======================================
"Rustel: Unpleasantries"
Playing the harmonica lets me tune the world out. The cursing, the insults, the spit, the train conductors (those prudes), the taste of stale and rotting food, the brown tint of my water, the women, the men, the children, the patter of rain, the boom of thunder, the whistle of the wind--it's all very unpleasant.
I think of my sister then, of the telegram of hers I didn't read and never will, of the lack of couriers (our dear, dear couriers) in these faraway parts of the country. We are lost and the chances of ever knowing again the open arms of our loved ones are slim.
This city is especially frightening. The stone brick towers rise so high, and the deep salty waters draw so close to where I stand. An old withering man sits on a bench, sucking at his toothless gums, pasty hands fondling the tip of his cane, watching me as I watch the thick lapping waters. My reflection is haggard, and I am thankful for the distortion the rippling waves provide. He grunts, sniffs, clears his throat to attract my attention, and when I finally give it, tells me a boy a couple of years my junior did the exact same thing just a few days prior. He says I look like I miss something, that the boy looked like he wanted to miss something, and that we both looked lost. Smugly, he half smiles at me and cocks an eyebrow from that same half as though the other half of his face refused to move. It could of course.
Lately, people have taken it upon themselves to inform me of such things. A boy that somehow reminds them of me, a boy I tend to inadvertently imitate from time to time. It would be my dread to ever meet him. The old man begins to describe him to me. I am uninterested and do not wish to think on such things. I can play the part of the bitter foot soldier, my reflection is proof, so I allow myself to be rude. I play my harmonica to drown the old man out (he is complaining now), to dispel my wonder. My memories sing sweet hollow comforts to my ears. I miss my unpleasant home so terribly.
======================================
"Kieden: Travel worn"
My bike is beginning to rust. The next Moving Day train isn't due until next, next week. The mist is getting thicker, and the air is getting colder, and it's not helping my bike any. It's fall--no, it's almost winter, isn't it. The last town was submerged. I don't know what resources I could possibly gather from there. And besides--that thing in the water--I--
What do I do with this guilt? I could have prevented her death. Or should I have? No food, almost winter--wouldn't she have died anyway? Was her death the more merciful of the two? Is drowning better than starving? Did she die quickly? Did she inhale water right away, or did she fight? Did she discover right before she died that she really wanted to live? She was alone and she looked so tired and weak, so she must have lost people dear to her. If so, was she so bent on meeting them again that she ended it quickly instead? Would that make it ok for me to have left her there when I knew she'd die? There's no way she could be alive now. I was the last person she saw, and I left a terrible impression. I feigned apathy as I left her...or did I? Regardless, I acted out of turn. I should have done better.
I feel as though I should die to make up for it. Maybe she doesn't want to see me again. Maybe seeing me again would ruin her happy reunion with her family. It sounds nice, dying to make up for it. I feel guilty, and death feels appropriate. It doesn't help that dying now would be a simple task. Is drowning better than starving? In the freezing cold, is death easier?
I thought I would lose these thoughts now that I've left my home and grown up some. I guess not. If I fall asleep here, and if I die, I'd be all right with that. That would be the easiest of deaths, right?
The fog lifts and the sunlight peeks through the gray veil of clouds. It shines over the waxy red leaves that have gathered about me. The bark of the tree is cool and moist with dew--my hair also. This scene is too pleasant for me. In the distance, I can make out the vague silhouettes of tall buildings--much like the submerged towers of the town previous, except they appear better maintained. Probably, the city is inhabited.
This means, of course, another day on the road. This means, also, that I should have led that girl out of that decrepit little room. She could have lived. I kick up my rusting bike and roll it alongside me, as I traipse toward that little town. I allow her memory to weigh down my footsteps. Life goes on. And I will let it.
LJ is being a butt, so rant from the first post here:
FC's an episodic anthology type story, and I've written a couple of shorts. I-I guess I can share them here? It'll be a mess of different media--comic pages to children's book pages to just plain drabbles. I'll probably make a Blogspot for it or something OR CODE MY OWN (if I ever find a server to leech off of). Welp, I LIKE TO PRETEND I CAN ACTUALLY WRITE. 8Db
FALSE CYCLE
======================================
"Rustel: Unpleasantries"
Playing the harmonica lets me tune the world out. The cursing, the insults, the spit, the train conductors (those prudes), the taste of stale and rotting food, the brown tint of my water, the women, the men, the children, the patter of rain, the boom of thunder, the whistle of the wind--it's all very unpleasant.
I think of my sister then, of the telegram of hers I didn't read and never will, of the lack of couriers (our dear, dear couriers) in these faraway parts of the country. We are lost and the chances of ever knowing again the open arms of our loved ones are slim.
This city is especially frightening. The stone brick towers rise so high, and the deep salty waters draw so close to where I stand. An old withering man sits on a bench, sucking at his toothless gums, pasty hands fondling the tip of his cane, watching me as I watch the thick lapping waters. My reflection is haggard, and I am thankful for the distortion the rippling waves provide. He grunts, sniffs, clears his throat to attract my attention, and when I finally give it, tells me a boy a couple of years my junior did the exact same thing just a few days prior. He says I look like I miss something, that the boy looked like he wanted to miss something, and that we both looked lost. Smugly, he half smiles at me and cocks an eyebrow from that same half as though the other half of his face refused to move. It could of course.
Lately, people have taken it upon themselves to inform me of such things. A boy that somehow reminds them of me, a boy I tend to inadvertently imitate from time to time. It would be my dread to ever meet him. The old man begins to describe him to me. I am uninterested and do not wish to think on such things. I can play the part of the bitter foot soldier, my reflection is proof, so I allow myself to be rude. I play my harmonica to drown the old man out (he is complaining now), to dispel my wonder. My memories sing sweet hollow comforts to my ears. I miss my unpleasant home so terribly.
======================================
"Kieden: Travel worn"
My bike is beginning to rust. The next Moving Day train isn't due until next, next week. The mist is getting thicker, and the air is getting colder, and it's not helping my bike any. It's fall--no, it's almost winter, isn't it. The last town was submerged. I don't know what resources I could possibly gather from there. And besides--that thing in the water--I--
What do I do with this guilt? I could have prevented her death. Or should I have? No food, almost winter--wouldn't she have died anyway? Was her death the more merciful of the two? Is drowning better than starving? Did she die quickly? Did she inhale water right away, or did she fight? Did she discover right before she died that she really wanted to live? She was alone and she looked so tired and weak, so she must have lost people dear to her. If so, was she so bent on meeting them again that she ended it quickly instead? Would that make it ok for me to have left her there when I knew she'd die? There's no way she could be alive now. I was the last person she saw, and I left a terrible impression. I feigned apathy as I left her...or did I? Regardless, I acted out of turn. I should have done better.
I feel as though I should die to make up for it. Maybe she doesn't want to see me again. Maybe seeing me again would ruin her happy reunion with her family. It sounds nice, dying to make up for it. I feel guilty, and death feels appropriate. It doesn't help that dying now would be a simple task. Is drowning better than starving? In the freezing cold, is death easier?
I thought I would lose these thoughts now that I've left my home and grown up some. I guess not. If I fall asleep here, and if I die, I'd be all right with that. That would be the easiest of deaths, right?
The fog lifts and the sunlight peeks through the gray veil of clouds. It shines over the waxy red leaves that have gathered about me. The bark of the tree is cool and moist with dew--my hair also. This scene is too pleasant for me. In the distance, I can make out the vague silhouettes of tall buildings--much like the submerged towers of the town previous, except they appear better maintained. Probably, the city is inhabited.
This means, of course, another day on the road. This means, also, that I should have led that girl out of that decrepit little room. She could have lived. I kick up my rusting bike and roll it alongside me, as I traipse toward that little town. I allow her memory to weigh down my footsteps. Life goes on. And I will let it.