Category Archives: student blogs

It Will Be Satisfied

Swamp surrounds the village, dirt little more than sponge, sopping up so much water even the slightest of us must strap net stretched across stiff wooden slats to our feet or else risk being swallowed whole. Too many have become meals, preserved in the muck for unsuspecting outside-dwellers to stumble across on one of their daring jaunts to our reaches.

It’s why we’re called the People of the Mud.

Big sister, unruly and untamable, always a donning a reckless sort of snaggled smile, became one such meal.

Hushed me in my hammock when climbing down from hers disturbed me. Told me, in a conspiratorial whisper, “It’ll be our little secret little sister, yes?” and vanished into the fathomless void our world is once nights descends. Her muck-shucks remained, I noticed at daybreak.

She never returned for them.

Blood, an elder in the hobbled hut stilted beside ours said when it was clear big sister was gone for good. The mud demands blood.

Mother and father said nothing in response to the elder. Nodded, yes, but kept their mouths sewn shut. I followed suit.

Said nothing when no vigil was held. Nothing when big sister’s hammock was filled not a year later by another child. Nothing when big sister’s muck-shucks were pried from my protective hold and broken. Remade, so carefully, for a smaller pair of pitter-patter feet.

Silence would mourn silence.

Would mourn a farewell never voiced. A farewell that can never be voiced. A closure, never found.

In the swamp, the mud is not the only thing that makes demands. That requires sacrifice. The water–there is ritual that must be performed before it will accept our dead.

Touch. We must bless the passed with one last memory of our touch. Must comfort them a final time, skin to muddy skin, or else risk their disgruntled spirit coming back with a vengeance for what it was denied.

Flesh swallowed by the murk without lasting comfort never satisfies.

Is never satisfied.

It slithers out of the murk and into your hut at night. Up into your hammock. Coils ’round and ’round you till its smooth, scaly touch is all you can feel. All you will remember.

It sneaks up on you while you’re muck-shucking. Watches you with beady eyes from the razory reeds, saw-tooth grass, biding it’s time till you tempt fate too close and then it is tusks through your soft tissue. Skin separated from skin. Cloven hoofs crunching bone so you’ll never forget.

It is a jagged-jawed maw lying in wait in the shallows’ shadows. Scaled hide shades of void and murk. Eyes dim until the moment mother leans too far for the laundry line and falls into the drink. Till father wades too deep into the drink to rescue her. Then, those dull eyes sheen blood-red. Like mine and baby sister’s reflection in the murk from our perch above.

Mud people? More like Blood people. 

Blood and bone and fleshy parts people. So easily made. Easier torn apart. Blood and bone and fleshy parts a delicacy our world delights in serving almost as much as it does in devouring itself.

After, when the red goes ruddy, Its eyes flat like night again, there is an acknowledgement. A looked shared between It and me. The world and me. Fully satisfied. Appreciative. Accentuated by a toothy, reckless curl. Gone in an instant, with a single thrash of its spiky tail, back into the murky depths. Finally able to rest.

Baby sister wriggles in my arms.

“Ma?” She mumble-grumbles, pointing a pudgy finger at the settling murk. “Da?”

Shhhhh….” I soothe her struggling, her searching, my voice less than pacifying from  long disuse. “It’s a secret.”

I glance down at the red streaks still swirling in the murk, the bone fragments floating like the broken bits of an old pair of forgotten muck-shucks. They weren’t forgotten.

“It’s our secret, yes?”

fullsizerender-1

Wrote this while I was pissed because I missed my train. Decided to make my frustration productive. Hope you enjoy~~

***Be sure to check out the Killing It if you do***

Link to Inspiration Tweet


Tagged: Killing It, mine, murder, netnarr, Networked Narratives, people of the mud, story, what do you think?

Shadow Girl Reflects IV: Immersed in the Chaos

When it comes to chaos and order, I find it fascinating how often ideas of each can be swapped to mean the reverse. For example, some people, like Howard Rheingold, dislike order because it places you in a routine, tells you where to sit and when to stand. It makes decisions for you.

But, there are many people out there, like one person in the studio visit with Howard Rheingold this past week, who see structuring forces as necessary–especially in formative years–and ultimately beneficial. They prefer having parameters. Makes them comfortable, not stifled.

And, when it comes to chaos, there are more divergent feelings towards similar concepts. Some see non-organization and a lack of structure and oversight as inherently incapable of producing anything meaningful or worth nurturing. More, they see it as scary or, as Howard said, risky. Chaos is uncontrollable, unmanageable and so cannot be allowed free rein.

Others, of course, find freedom in the chaos. Find space to explore something deeper and decidedly more ineffable when unfettered by the tenets of order. To them, non-organization is not scary. It is thrilling–exhilarating because there are no rules. You cannot be wrong in chaos. You just be.

Isn’t it fascinating? How easily what you take pride in, what fills you with fear can be quite the opposite to someone else? Kind of makes you wonder if there is any meaning at all here in order and chaos–if their meanings can vary so drastically. How can any sense be made–even if that sense is nonsense? Don’t know? Me either.

Sense or nonsense, let’s see what we can find.

Network Effect

It’s more than a little mind-boggling just how much content is out there on the internet. Perhaps even more mind-boggling is just how little we absorb from all of wanderings on the web. There are so many voices and stories out there and yet, how many do appreciate? How many do you?

Not nearly enough.

I believe the reason why my online experience and yours probably is shallow is because, despite how much connection the internet seemingly fosters, we are all disconnected in our own little niches. Far removed from reality because we don’t perceive the internet as being as real. There’s a disconnect between me and you, online, in large part because of our ideas of what the internet is–commonly, an escape, a dream space, a confessional that ceases to exist when the screen goes dark.

Though, I do think those ideas are changing these days. Still, you have the chaos/order problem–different perceptions towards the same phenomena. It not only disconnects/ distances us from each other by convincing us we’ll never understand each other, it discourages us from even trying.

But, is there anything being done about this?

Yes. Network Effect is a project meant to help others understand the underlying humanity of us all in the internet age. The simulation is meant to imitate the flux and overwhelming-ness that is the online space but in such a way that you realize how similar we all are in our complexities. How human we all are behind those dark screens. The internet is infinite but so are we.

2017-02-28.png

What struck me most was how the greatest times for posting about grief on Twitter were 7am & 7pm

Through incorporating outlets like news headlines and Twitter mentions, I think this project was able to inject that personal element online spaces seem to lack in their vastness. I loved the Twitter commentary and then the collections of words most commonly associated with the verbs you could explore the site through. I found that an interesting way to order the chaos–through us, usually such tiny blips.

I don’t recall feeling frustrated by the time-limit imposed upon my exploration of the site. Many things in my own life right now are running on schedules I only have minimal control over. So, I’m unfortunately used to it.

Not to sound too sentimental, but I think the time limit made me treasure what I discovered more. Like, I appreciated what I was able to get out of the experience–that greater sense of personal connectedness because there was only so much time to explore and so much content to sift through.

Definitely recommend checking out.

Studio Visit

Honestly, I don’t even know what to say about last week’s studio visit. Howard and Mamie were just full of so much insight that provided such a wealth of rich, meaningful discussion.

Particularly, I guess, I enjoyed what Howard had to say about the public sphere–how it can affect public policy and create change because it is the voice of the people. That story he told about the woman who didn’t give up on searching the polling booth’s codes until she cracked it and then how it spread online was just amazing. To me, it was such a great example of the potential the public sphere has now that it can operate in an online space.

Check it out! (I will get to Vialogues hopefully soon. It was Shadow Girl’s birthday weekend this past one. I was a little busy. Sorry)

Alchememetrix

(Really, when will Death come??)

Speaking of the public sphere, working with gifs and memes this week helped me come to this realization that memes and gifs are expressions of this/our public voice. Referring especially to the more well-known ones, they have this ability to say something we can immediately understand and connect with. Like it or not, there are lots of gifs and memes out there that are meaningful to the public audience.

We relate to them! They make us laugh! Provide an outlet to express frustrations or to reveal absurdity. (Read more about that here.)

Honestly, there is a kind of reveling in the chaos that memes and gifs engage in. But, also, a kind of ordering of it–putting it into a context with certain connotations. At least, I felt like that was the case while I was creating my memes and gifs this week.

Creative Enterprise

This week, the third installment in my Living Dead Girl series–inspired by this tweet— went up. It’s about Necromancers, Reapers, and death 🙂 Ghosts and mythos and magic abound. So, totally feel free to check it out and let me know how you’re feeling it.

Part I, Part II

My other stories so far include:

Bone Girl

Bone Girl .V

Wasteland Girl (Check the comments section, too, on this one)

Hopefully one more by tonight….~~~

(All can be found under the Killing It tag–and you can find a list of frequently used tags in the navigation bar at the bottom of this page. Just click the little “Up” arrow in the right-hand corner.)

All loosely networked narratives, I know, but lots of fun I think 🙂

Final Thoughts

This week, I think I received some valuable insight on how to navigate online spaces more meaningfully. To navigate the chaos. To see chaos as something that can be cherished instead of spurned. Hopefully, I can keep that in mind when I go wandering on the web. The internet could definitely use more acceptance. More appreciative practice all around. The public sphere certainly needs a constant influx of new voices in order to remain healthy and effectively functional.

As for sense vs. nonsense, does it matter? Think the answer to that question says more about you and your context than it does about either of those notions.

Links

Daily Digital Alchemies

Video I find compelling when it comes to thinking about truth, the public sphere, and online spaces

Catch you on the flip side!

 

 


Tagged: digital storytelling, gifs, howard rheingold, Mamie rheingold, netnarr, network effect, Networked Narratives, personal, studio visit, thinking out loud, weeklies

Shadow Girl Reflects IV: Immersed in the Chaos

When it comes to chaos and order, I find it fascinating how often ideas of each can be swapped to mean the reverse. For example, some people, like Howard Rheingold, dislike order because it places you in a routine, tells you where to sit and when to stand. It makes decisions for you.

But, there are many people out there, like one person in the studio visit with Howard Rheingold this past week, who see structuring forces as necessary–especially in formative years–and ultimately beneficial. They prefer having parameters. Makes them comfortable, not stifled.

And, when it comes to chaos, there are more divergent feelings towards similar concepts. Some see non-organization and a lack of structure and oversight as inherently incapable of producing anything meaningful or worth nurturing. More, they see it as scary or, as Howard said, risky. Chaos is uncontrollable, unmanageable and so cannot be allowed free rein.

Others, of course, find freedom in the chaos. Find space to explore something deeper and decidedly more ineffable when unfettered by the tenets of order. To them, non-organization is not scary. It is thrilling–exhilarating because there are no rules. You cannot be wrong in chaos. You just be.

Isn’t it fascinating? How easily what you take pride in, what fills you with fear can be quite the opposite to someone else? Kind of makes you wonder if there is any meaning at all here in order and chaos–if their meanings can vary so drastically. How can any sense be made–even if that sense is nonsense? Don’t know? Me either.

Sense or nonsense, let’s see what we can find.

Network Effect

It’s more than a little mind-boggling just how much content is out there on the internet. Perhaps even more mind-boggling is just how little we absorb from all of wanderings on the web. There are so many voices and stories out there and yet, how many do appreciate? How many do you?

Not nearly enough.

I believe the reason why my online experience and yours probably is shallow is because, despite how much connection the internet seemingly fosters, we are all disconnected in our own little niches. Far removed from reality because we don’t perceive the internet as being as real. There’s a disconnect between me and you, online, in large part because of our ideas of what the internet is–commonly, an escape, a dream space, a confessional that ceases to exist when the screen goes dark.

Though, I do think those ideas are changing these days. Still, you have the chaos/order problem–different perceptions towards the same phenomena. It not only disconnects/ distances us from each other by convincing us we’ll never understand each other, it discourages us from even trying.

But, is there anything being done about this?

Yes. Network Effect is a project meant to help others understand the underlying humanity of us all in the internet age. The simulation is meant to imitate the flux and overwhelming-ness that is the online space but in such a way that you realize how similar we all are in our complexities. How human we all are behind those dark screens. The internet is infinite but so are we.

2017-02-28.png

What struck me most was how the greatest times for posting about grief on Twitter were 7am & 7pm

Through incorporating outlets like news headlines and Twitter mentions, I think this project was able to inject that personal element online spaces seem to lack in their vastness. I loved the Twitter commentary and then the collections of words most commonly associated with the verbs you could explore the site through. I found that an interesting way to order the chaos–through us, usually such tiny blips.

I don’t recall feeling frustrated by the time-limit imposed upon my exploration of the site. Many things in my own life right now are running on schedules I only have minimal control over. So, I’m unfortunately used to it.

Not to sound too sentimental, but I think the time limit made me treasure what I discovered more. Like, I appreciated what I was able to get out of the experience–that greater sense of personal connectedness because there was only so much time to explore and so much content to sift through.

Definitely recommend checking out.

Studio Visit

Honestly, I don’t even know what to say about last week’s studio visit. Howard and Mamie were just full of so much insight that provided such a wealth of rich, meaningful discussion.

Particularly, I guess, I enjoyed what Howard had to say about the public sphere–how it can affect public policy and create change because it is the voice of the people. That story he told about the woman who didn’t give up on searching the polling booth’s codes until she cracked it and then how it spread online was just amazing. To me, it was such a great example of the potential the public sphere has now that it can operate in an online space.

Check it out! (I will get to Vialogues hopefully soon. It was Shadow Girl’s birthday weekend this past one. I was a little busy. Sorry)

Alchememetrix

(Really, when will Death come??)

Speaking of the public sphere, working with gifs and memes this week helped me come to this realization that memes and gifs are expressions of this/our public voice. Referring especially to the more well-known ones, they have this ability to say something we can immediately understand and connect with. Like it or not, there are lots of gifs and memes out there that are meaningful to the public audience.

We relate to them! They make us laugh! Provide an outlet to express frustrations or to reveal absurdity. (Read more about that here.)

Honestly, there is a kind of reveling in the chaos that memes and gifs engage in. But, also, a kind of ordering of it–putting it into a context with certain connotations. At least, I felt like that was the case while I was creating my memes and gifs this week.

Creative Enterprise

This week, the third installment in my Living Dead Girl series–inspired by this tweet— went up. It’s about Necromancers, Reapers, and death 🙂 Ghosts and mythos and magic abound. So, totally feel free to check it out and let me know how you’re feeling it.

Part I, Part II

My other stories so far include:

Bone Girl

Bone Girl .V

Wasteland Girl (Check the comments section, too, on this one)

Hopefully one more by tonight….~~~

(All can be found under the Killing It tag–and you can find a list of frequently used tags in the navigation bar at the bottom of this page. Just click the little “Up” arrow in the right-hand corner.)

All loosely networked narratives, I know, but lots of fun I think 🙂

Final Thoughts

This week, I think I received some valuable insight on how to navigate online spaces more meaningfully. To navigate the chaos. To see chaos as something that can be cherished instead of spurned. Hopefully, I can keep that in mind when I go wandering on the web. The internet could definitely use more acceptance. More appreciative practice all around. The public sphere certainly needs a constant influx of new voices in order to remain healthy and effectively functional.

As for sense vs. nonsense, does it matter? Think the answer to that question says more about you and your context than it does about either of those notions.

Links

Daily Digital Alchemies

Video I find compelling when it comes to thinking about truth, the public sphere, and online spaces

Catch you on the flip side!

 

 


Tagged: digital storytelling, gifs, howard rheingold, Mamie rheingold, netnarr, network effect, Networked Narratives, personal, studio visit, thinking out loud, weeklies

Dream Girl

“Let’s go to our happy place.” Mommy would say when Daddy’s voice began to hit a certain octave–somewhere between a beastly bellow and a rumbling growl. It bounced off bone. Broke bone–when a slur accompanied it. Sometimes when it didn’t.

Mommy told the nurses I was clumsy–a topsy, turvy tot falling head over teapot. Lost in my own little dream land. The nurses never looked as convinced as Mommy did.

Hospitals were frequent but transient haunts, us hollow-eyed phantasms in advance mourning for the identities we’d hastily shed once clear of the emergency room’s sliding glass–don’t catch your doppelgänger’s eyes–doors. Make-believe Mommy and dream-clumsy daughter, a match made to burn.

Mommy ignited first. Led by example.
Shot herself up with liquid fire then drew my bath like a matchstick drawn across its box. Asked me to jump into the flames. Pretend I was a molten mermaid. Hold my breath till it was true. I’ll help you, my dreamy girl. Help you dream.

I don’t recall who helped me out of the tub. Breathed for my little lungs until they realized they were not gills and magma burned going down. Woke me. Some neighbor, maybe.

Not Daddy.

No, he was out cold in his la-z-boy parked in front of the TV set, lost to whatever place existed behind his icy blues. Dream land or darkness. Happy places aren’t given, dreamy girl. They’re created.

“Whaddya wan’?” Daddy grunted when an ee-em-tee in midnight-blue finally nudged the bulky shoulder he was using as a drool rag. Then, when he was informed told Mommy injected enough heroin into her veins to burst into flames went sleepy-bye like she wanted and asked if he knew about her prescriptions–for dis-ah-sea-ation?–in the medicine cabinet why, he muttered, “Crazy bitch” and rolled over.

I was taken away for a while.

Poked and prodded at hospitals. Questioned in white-on-white offices by white-on-white docs. Tossed like a hot-potato from one home to the next till finally returning to Daddy.

“Ya look like yer ol’ lady.” He says when we see each other again. Takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “Crazy as her too, I hear. Freakin’ out the fosters at e’ery turn.” Another swig. A head shake. “Ya go goddamn gaga in that bathroom like her and you’re gone, capiche?” I nod when it’s clear he’s waiting for it. “Good. Just had it remodeled.”

Only the tub was replaced, I discover.

Swapped for one with less dingy porcelain. Less attempted-murder-successful suicide.

It’s a blank slate. A white page reflected in the mirror above the sink. Don’t stare at your doppelgänger. It’s what got me booted from the last foster home.

(There’s only you, the docs said.

Mommy never liked docs. Dreamless, unhappy types, she said.)

Once Daddy leaves for his nightly bar crawl, my evenings are spent lying in the tub, legs stretched till toes find the lip of the drain, arms crossed over my chest as if I were in a casket instead. Sometimes, I add water–up to my neck how Mommy preferred.

Usually not.

Just me and my dreams–Mommy brushing my hair back, her fingers twitching in staccato against my scalp…. Daddy dragging me by the hair, throwing me into the tub and locking the door…. Slurred shouts and muffled screams…. Me staring at my reflection, a captive companion…. Mommy lowering me into the water that last time, Let’s go to our happy place….

It’s all fragments. Phantasmagoria. Lucid dreaming.

I will doze, though. Fully. Especially when there’s water. Warm and inviting, it lulls me. Sounds safe and familiar, its lapping at my skin whispered secrets. Nonsense babble reminiscent of Mommy’s bath-side chatter.

Tonight, I wade into an accidental slumber.

The tub was empty when I got in. Now, as I am jolted awake, water is chin-high and beginning to overflow, trickle down porcelain to uneven tile in trails that slowly creep towards the doorway Daddy looms in.

A door screeching on its hinges, slamming to a halt against drywall. That’s what woke me. Not dreamed screams.

Daddy stumbles forward, his steadying hand thrusting the door backwards again. Bang. The weight of the water soaking my clothes, my skin, finally hits. No going goddamned gaga in the bathroom.

A stream licks the toe of Daddy’s boot, darkening the leather. I shiver. The water is cold.

This is gaga.

“Whad di’ I tell ya, girl?” Daddy slurs, drifting closer. Bracing himself with his other hand on the edge of the sink. “Whad I goddamn warn ya?”

Daddy,” I scramble to my feet, fighting drag, knees knocking each other. So cold. “A pipe must’ve burst–”

“Not in ma new goddamn bath!” Daddy pounds his fist down on the sink, its echoing thud consuming this tiny space. “You’re as crazy as her!”

“No, Daddy!” One leg makes it out of the tub. A bare foot finds tile. So, so cold. “I was jus-t-t-t…” My teeth chatter. I’m too, too cold to think of a good excuse. “lying down. Like I said, a pipe has to have burs-t-t-t-”

Crazy!” Daddy careens towards me. A fist finds purchase in my hair–tugs. Hard.

 Out of the tub, I’m lifted the rest of the way then thrown. My hip clips the sink, my head, the mirrored glass above. Something cracks. Belatedly, I wonder what ever happened to the medicine cabinet? Then, the pain catches up to me and I can’t think of anything but.

It’s more of a burning, scalding sensation that begins at the crown of my head and works its way down, my face–the left side–my neck, my shoulder, hip–goddamn–all the way to my toes. Did I say I was a little chilly earlier? What I meant was so numb, so wholly freezing that I feel like I’m on fire. Roasting alive. Magma in my veins.

Let’s go, dreamy girl.

Something warm and thicker than water trickles into my eye–the left one, gazing dead into my double’s eyes. They’re red and slashed across the middle. Crazy. They look crazy. Below, a grin is also slashed.

To our happy place.

My double lifts a shaky hand. Traces a crack with its trembling finger as if searching for an opening. Success!–I guess. Her smile sharpens, shattering what glass remains with its pointiness. With her fist.

There’s only you.

There is. Only me. I push myself off the sink, ignore the sting in doing so. The crack and pop. Only my happy place. The one Daddy’s perched on the edge of, leaning temptingly over, trying to plug a dam that can’t be fixed. Not now.

Water sheets across tile, pooling in dips and missing spots. Icy hot. I barely feel it. The step or two I take toward Daddy. Hardly registers. I feel nothing.

She drowned, you know. A nurse said to an ordely when they thought they were out of white-on-white earshot. The girl’s mother. Enough dope in her system to kill her but that’s not what did. Woman drowned. And, the girl… she was found in a bathtub. Unconscious but unharmed. Some water in her too but other than that…. Suspicious, ain’t it?

No.

Mommy wanted to go to a happy place so she did. Needed a little help getting there, maybe, but it’s what she wanted. What she deserved. Rest, finally.

Another step. I feel nothing but awake.

Mommy wanted to sleep. To dream. I never did. There were only nightmares when I shut my eyes. Screams devoured by slurred shouts, breaking sounds till silence. Peaceful pain but pain nonetheless. Searing, red-hot pain.

There were no dreams. None. No happy places–till I made one.

Last step.

I close the distance between where I stand and where Daddy leans. He’s got one meaty hand jiggling the tub’s faucet back and forth, the other reaching down for the drain, water up to his shoulder.

“One thing, goddamn it.” He grumbles. “Asked ya not to do one goddamn thing. An’, how difficul’ was it?” A hard yank of the faucet’s knob. A slurred curse. “Back to the fosters’ with ya! Hell, the crazy house!” He shakes his head. “Whad di’ I e’er do to deserve this….?”

I widen my stance, place a steady foot on either side of Daddy’s bent legs. Flex my fists. Brush glass shards off the one.

Another none-too-gentle yank rips the shiny knob off its shinier faucet head. It hits porcelain with a sharp, poignant clank. Daddy begins to turn my way.

“Hope you’re happy–” I will be.

The rest of Daddy’s speech becomes garbled, half-sputtering half-ineffable disbelief. He’s not used to receiving this kind of help. Giving it but not getting it. But, I want to do for him like Mommy tried to do for me. Like I did for her. Daddy’s given so much, he deserves this.

A shiver runs down my spine. Blood scorches beneath my simmering skin.

Thrashing is easily calmed with a few swift meetings of bone and porcelain. There goes the finish. Nothing was ever said ’bout anyone else going gaga in the tub.

Mommy didn’t struggle. Breathed like she was a molten mermaid herself.

“Don’t ya want to be happy, Daddy?” I push down until porcelain keeps me from going further. Thrashing lulls into twitching. “Don’t ya think ya deserve to be?”

Slowly, twitching ceases, fades into stillness entirely. My hold doesn’t loosen till the bubbles stop rising, though. Guess he did think so. Or, he stopped fighting it.

I rise and back away from Daddy. When my hip finds the pointy edge of the sink again, I realize how sore I am and, also, that the water has stopped. There’s only painful silence. Reddened eyes glance at Daddy in his/my happy place. Peaceful pain.

My blood cools.

I face what’s left of the mirror and stare at my reflection. For the first time, I see what Daddy saw–Mommy.

“Happy?” I ask.

She nods, flashing me a smile I gladly return.

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Hope you enjoyed~

***You can find more of my delightfully disturbing stories under the Killing It tag ^.^***

Tweet that Inspired this Story

 

 

 

 

 


Tagged: abuse, abuse mention, digital storytelling, disturbing, don't like don't read, Killing It, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, story, storytelling, suicide mention, twitterbots

Gif in the Alchememetrix

(I want to die. The title of this post alone should make clear why. I deserve it.)

When I think of memes and gifs, sprinkles come to mind. Miscellaneous. Extra. Tasteless–sometimes… And, usually always unnecessary.

But, oh, so delightful.

That little dash of pizzazz to brighten your day. Put a teensy smile of your face. So superfluous but so pleasing. Appreciated because they are not necessary.

Now, though, it seems sprinkles are becoming a necessity. No longer little pick-me-ups but the only bright spots in these swampy dark and uncertain times. They provide an outlet for our frustrations and fears, a tool to expose hypocrisy and good ol’ fashion duplicity, and a means to escape all of the above through laughter and jocularity. Memes and gifs are now more plentiful, widespread, and diverse than ever before–which allows them to be both a grounding force and one for dissociation.

Wow, never thought I’d meditate so hard on memes before.

Anyway, all that said, let’s get to the garbage pieces-de-resistance I created.

//giphy.com/embed/jHMHGQDayd572

via GIPHY

~~or the #netnarr Twitter stream on Wednesday nights~~~~

(video I used to make the above gif)

First, these are the ones I created in class last Wednesday night from this video. They could use a little finessing her and there but, for a first attempt at making gifs, I think they pass. Didn’t think too much about relating them to Howard Rheingold and his philosophies this time around. (Just my own existential dread and disillusionment with the state of democracy or lack thereof in my country 🙂

//giphy.com/embed/u7eN6UIMCVvVu

via GIPHY

Did get around to Howard Rheingold’s philosophies in my next round of memeing. (God, is there any form of the word meme that doesn’t sound like death approaching??) Actually, I had a lot of fun combing through the studio visit for meme-able–Honestly, don’t you hear death coming??–expressions from Howard. He is very, delightfully expressive. A human sprinkle.

All of the below memes were made using imgflip and my own creativity. Two were made from screenshots I took and two from images provided by imgflip that I personally find delightful.

So, on the topic of Order, here’s what I came up with:

Time stamp

Make your own

Couldn’t resist~~ (I think we all know this is Jack Nicholson from The Shining, right?

Make your own with the “Here’s Johnny” meme

And, on the topic of Chaos:

Time stamp

Make your own

Howard Rheingold was like, “No….???”

Origin 

Make your own Persian Cat Room Guard/Confused Monkey meme

Lastly, some all-in-good-fun, self-depreciating memes of myself ;P

1ke8c2 1ke33n

What Makes Me HaHa (self-titled)

Recognize the sigh? It’s from last Wednesday night’s other activity–the human graph. I found it hilarious. (The header image from this post is a third companion to these. Link to the song reference in the header image.)

‘Fraid there’ll be no links to creating your own versions of this one. Shadow girl–and her sister *cough*–is the only one allowed to meme herself. She’s sensitive…. ha haha ha ha haha….

So, that’s it for this week. I’d close with a La La Gif but I couldn’t get it to work–disappointing :/ From looking at their bug/request list, it seems like that’s a running problem.

Anyway, home you enjoyed exploring this–shudder–Gif in the Alchememetrix. Hopefully, I will never have to utter that phrase online or in public again 🙂


Tagged: alchememetrix, gifs, im dying, memes, netnarr, Networked Narratives, when will my suffering end

Living Dead Girl III

Part I, Part II

Deadwood’s sole flower shoppe used to be Moses’ Roses–the liveliest place in town.

Then, Moses Redding passed away.

Peacefully in the night. I know because he came to our window, hollow-eyed and with a red, red bloom in hand. Nana put it in a vase on her nightstand, beside her citronella candle. It wilted by morning.

Cerese Redding, Moses’ wifewidow, came around next, a similar bloom–only slightly wilting–woven into her graying hair. She approached Nana and me in the grocery store, though. Not outside our window, gray as the strands streaking through her tresses. As the stones dotting out lawn. In a weary voice, she made a confession and a request.

“Everything I touch dies.” Ms. Redding explained. “And, I’ve been left a flower shoppe. You see my dilemma, yes?”

“Call that no-good son of yours back home.” Nana suggested. “He inherited his father’s green-thumb I do recall.”

“Aaron says he can’t come.” More like won’t. Horse’s ass. “It’s the middle of derby season.”

“Too bad.” Nana hummed, the sound not a bit sorry. Her eyes moved from Ms. Redding’s disgruntlement to the fading bloom tucked behind one ear to, lastly, the short list she held in her hand. She seemed to weigh what was written against the weight of our basket. We’re short some herbs, I think. Sage. Rosemary. Salt, too. Always.

Ms. Redding caught my eye.

“I was actually wondering if you were still looking for work, Thana.” Still…? I don’t remember looking in the first place. Before, I can say as much, Nana speaks up.

“That she is.” Nana ignores my betrayed look. Hands me the basket she’s apparently deemed less wanting than me. It’s heavy. “What did you have in mind?”

“Part-time.” Ms. Redding’s answer is immediate. “Just someone to tend the flowers. Keep the greenhouse clean–Green. Thana could stop by after class. Have Sundays off if she stopped in on Saturdays.”

“I’d like her home before dark.” Before the dead come out to play.

“Of course.” Ms. Redding agrees. “No one makes late-night flower runs.” Save your late- husband. I swallow a smirk.

“Then your worries can end.” Nana elbows me. “Right, Thana?” Her dark gaze dares me to defy her. Ms. Redding’s expectant, hopeful gaze to deny her.

“Right.” I sigh, letting the bulky basket in my grip finally drag me down.

“Oh, thank you so much, Thana!” Ms. Redding beams. “You won’t regret it, you’ll see! Oh, you’ll love the flowers….especially in the spring! Moses had the place lookin’ like a veritable paradise….”

“It’ll be good for you.” Nana nudges me as Ms. Redding disappears down an aisle. “To see the other side. How it lives. Might find you prefer it.” I won’t.

I did.

In the flower shoppe–formally renamed Xanadu at my request–there is peace. Quiet unsettled only by the gentle but steady hum of the greenhouse’s generator. No screamsNo nails shrieking across glass. No Nana.

They stay away, the hollow-eyes, from the shoppe. Can’t or won’t go near the place. Near me when I’m inside, surrounded by the day’s vivid blooms. They’ll stare–as they ever–but they keep their distance. Like moths circling a zapper. A citronella candle. Not too close or they’ll fry.

When I arrive at Xanadu this morning, I find the shoppe already open, stained-glass door swung wide. I’m not that late, am I?

Hesitantly, I approach. Early hours are mine. Have been mine since I stopped attending classes last semester. No one ever keeps me company, not even Cerese. She used to, right after her husband….and then Nana…. But, not lately.

Besides, the shoppe doesn’t even officially open for another hour.

“Hello…?” I call, peeking around the shoppe door’s baby pink frame.

“Thana!” Cerese. The sound of her hobbling across the shoppe’s weathered mahogany floors summons me fully inside. The clubbed foot of a recently and reluctantly acquired cane stops me from proceeding further.

“You’re early, Cerese.” Why? I swat her cane out of my face. Cerese lowers it with a huff, revealing the answer to my unasked question in the process.

Two finely clothed figures–a man and a woman–stand by the register. The woman admires a dahlia that seems to be reaching for her, perhaps to offer itself as a compliment to her similarly hued ensemble. The man looks at nothing, obviously bored.

“They were here at dawn.” Cerese huffs. “Banging on the door till I came downstairs and let ’em in. Relatives of yours?” She looks from the couple’s silvery locks to mine, from their dark, dark gazes to mine. “Didn’t think you had anyone else.”

“I don’t.” Cerese tilts her head–weighed down by its usual bloom–in confusion. “There was just Nana.” Always just Nana. I gesture to the couple. “I’ll take care of them. You can go back upstairs.”

“Tell your guests for future reference,” Cerese points sharply with her cane at a festive poster in one of the shoppe’s large, front windows. “we don’t open till 9.” With that, she hobbles up the scant steps half-hidden behind a recent–honestly, monstrous–delivery of hydrangea.

“Well,” The woman turns to me, releasing the dahlia from her attention. It flutters to the floorboards, dead. Sucked dry. “she was a delight.”

The man snorts, pale lips curling downwards with distaste.

“Frail thing’ll be another pair of empty-eyes outside your window in a year, Thana.” He says, then, crooks a toothy smirk. “If that.”

“What do you want?”

“Harsh.” An almost pout. Another dahlia picked for inspection. “How long has it been?”

“Not long enough, Hel.” I can’t help but snip.

“Very harsh, Thana.” Hel shakes her head, picks at a spiky petal. “And after all we’ve done for you?”

All you’ve done for me?” My voice seems to echo in the tiny room, bounce off innocuous blooms. Hope Cerese is back in bed by now. “Does that include you rejecting me from the Circle?”

Breathe, Thana. Think of the flowers.

“Not I.” Hel has the gall to look offended as she continues plucking spiky petals. “You know those things are decided by vote. Majority rules and all. It just didn’t rule in your favor last time ’round. Sucks, huh?”

I watch a falling petal disintegrate in mid-air–draw in a deep breath–before I respond.

“Leave.” A shakier exhale than I’d like. “Please, leave.”

“But, we haven’t told you what we want yet.” Hel pauses in her plucking. “Well, we haven’t told you what the Circle wants yet.”

“I don’t care.” Just leave–me, Ms. Redding, the flowers–alone.

“That makes two of us.”

Three.” Gar growls from Hel’s side where he stands–scowling–sentry, kicking at splinters with the toe of his boot, watching empty air devour petals with vague interest. They’re not enough. He’d tear my petals if he could get away with it.

“Pardon,” Hel lets another fading petal meet its fate. “three.”

We stare at each other, all our fathomless eyes each their own black holes trying to suck the other into oblivion. Unfortunately outnumbered, I must relent first.

“Fine.” I bite. “What does the Circle want?” Not me.

“Not you.” Another toothy smirk slashes across Gar’s severe features and I fight not to flinch. He didn’t read your thoughts. Can’t. He’s just an expert on how to hurt. Like the rest of the Circle.

I clench my fist. Sidle closer to the monstrous hydrangeas. Their fragrance is suffocating. Breathe.

“Had any peculiar encounters with a Reaper, as of late?” Hel inquires, ignoring my discomfort. Selecting another poor dahlia for defrocking. “Maybe seen one skulking where it usually doesn’t?” A charged pause. “Where it shouldn’t?” My graveyard.

I school my expression into one of intrigue before it can betray me or my thoughts again. A surreptitious glance confirms the inky feather in my hair out of sight, safely hidden behind one beastly bloom.

“Reports from the far reaches have been coming in,” Hel runs her nail along a spiky petal, searching for its base before slicing. “figured I’d visit the lonely place I know to check their validity.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“We’re used to it.” Hel releases what’s left of the abused bloom in her grip. This one hits the floor with a faint thud. I can’t hide the flinch it summons. “The Circle asks you remain vigilant, nonetheless.”

“Can do.” For them when they can’t won’t for me. Of course.  Harder, I clench my fist. Feel neatly trimmed nail cut through skin.

Before the smell of blood can provoke another of Gar’s too-toothy smirks, I motion my uninvited guests towards Xanadu’s usually more-inviting door. They arrived so early, though, the welcome mat is still rolled up beside some ferns. Shame.

Hel inclines her head slightly my way, a silver strand of hair escaping from its place behind a pale ear. She makes to leave but stops in the midst of the action. Seems to ponder something then cut a glance from me to the bouquet she’s been pilfering pillaging from.

“On the house.” It was going in the trash anyway.

Hel grins. Gestures for Gar to grab her loot. He obeys with haste, clutching the sorry batch of flowers close as he follows on Hel’s heels. Good boy.

I receive a parting glare as he and Hel disappear out the door and into morning’s honey-thick fog. When I can no longer hear the patter of their steps, I finally unclench my fist, wincing only slightly as blood flow returns. Four half-moons weep rose-red.

Sighing, I walk around the register. Open the drawer where bandages are kept. It’s the only one that doesn’t screech when pulled from its home. Too many thorny stems, too little patience.

Skillfully, I wrap my palm in gauze. Concentrate on the task. Ignore the weight of the feather woven in my hair. Ignore the dying dahlia on the floor. More, the blooms grey and wilting closer to the steps Ms. Redding enviously vanished up earlier. Their keens and knells, too close to the wails outside my window.

There are no monstrous flowers. Not here. I lied.

Only monstrous people.

A monstrous girl

and her victims.

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Till next time~~

***Really love the direction of this series.***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Tagged: Bot Prompts, labour of love, living dead girl, mine, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, story, storytelling, twitterbots

Shadow Girl Reflects III: Reciprocity here, there, how about everywhere???

So, this week has been an experience. A learning one. A fun one. All of the above.

There was a decent abundance of hands-on activity that went on this week. A lot of play and experimentation with interactivity. Sound, mainly. But, it certainly can add a lot to a story, can’t it? Both the audible kind and the written equivalent. It’s an injection of life– noise, beats, rests, silence, rhythm.

Enough waxing poetic,though. Let’s get to the highlights!

Creative Enterprise on the Rise

It’s one thing to talk about the shapes networked narratives take and a whole other thing to actually be a part of the shaping. Even in some small way. This I found out early in the week.

First, some framing.

For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been writing short stories here inspired by bot nonsense. You can find all of my work thus far under the Killing It tag. Fair warning, they’re all a little….unsettling. A bit disturbing. Were you really expecting anything else???

Anyway, this week’s story, a quaint, little apocalyptic nightmare check it out, inspired its own AU in the comments section. Perhaps AU is a bit of an understatement? Overstatement? Must consult @dogtrax to get a better answer. He’s the one who began this creative enterprise within a creative enterprise enigma.

To me, we networked a narrative. Collaborated to extend meaning. To meditate on meaning, really. How much of it can really be interpreted by a machine? And, what about the author’s intent–how much can they impose to shape understanding? How much can readers re-claim in some way? I felt like these questions were explored through the creative act here of storytelling.

I got a real kick out of interacting with Kevin. There was an essence of the unexpected in our exchanges. I never knew where he was going to lead/leave me. And, I assume he felt the same? I feel like what we did is something many larger scale networked narratives hope to accomplish–functioning reciprocity. Appreciation for appreciation. Story for story.

I appreciated exploring story with Kevin this week.

Sound & Silence

Speaking of appreciation….

Our main activity this week asked us to listen. Listen and appreciate. Savor the sounds that so easily disappear into the background, relegated to white noise. Accepted as a given.

In my post about this, I connected the idea of listening to caring–we listen only to what we care about it. Perhaps, I went off on a little tangent/rant… But, I was really struck by what Radiolab host, Jad Abumrad, discussed in this video–the idea that listening to others and then imagining with them can facilitate empathy which can have real world impact. It is something that Dr. Zamora definitely talks much about and she seems to really want to believe it. And, so do I. Like I say in my post, this is such a beautiful and optimistic idea. Something worth exploring more.

I think the affordances of incorporating sound into a digital space make it well worth the investment.

Blackout

And, at last, we arrive at last week’s in-class activity. Blackout Poetry.

I could not make a coherent–in sense or aesthetic–story out of any 3 or 4 posts from the network. 2, though, could make a poem. Look see here. Actually, I kind of turned this exercise into an extension of my aforementioned creative enterprise. Which, in layman’s turns, means I veered off from the task. Litte bit. Sorry. Not really.

Anyway, don’t check out that link if ritual/serial murder and implied cannibalism bother your sensibilities. That’s the disclaimer. Maybe it should come before the link….? Nah. Nobody freakin’ clicks them anyway.

Kudos to Stephanie for supplying the other half of the poem I pieced together ^.^ It’s much appreciated.

And, here’s my contribution:

img_4565

Flesh dreamed monstrous, dreamed somber, faceless vultures, abandoned skeletons, splendid demons of yesteryear, patient gargoyles.

It’s probably much appreciated that I wasn’t allowed to pick the theme for this exercise either.

I really enjoyed this activity and hope to be able to incorporate some idea of subtraction in order to form meaning to my work. Something I played around with in the Elit piece I made last semester was sound and taking it away. Silence and how it manifests or is made to manifest is a big area of interest for me. So, I’m totally game to play around with what meaning I can discover via what I don’t say.

****

As always, the Links:

Daily Digital Alchemies

@dogtrax–blog

Catch everyone on the flip side!


Tagged: netnarr, personal, weeklies

Learning to Listen aka “How can the Bar be this Low and You’re Still Tripping Over It?”

Hearing, I believe, is one of the senses most taken for granted. Listening, subsequently, a skill most under-developed. Relegated to a secondary concern. An afterthought. Oh, I should’ve listened…. It’s an unfortunate development in and of itself but what it seems a symptom of is perhaps even more troubling/upsetting.

We don’t listen to each other because we don’t care about each other.

We have been and are being conditioned not to care about each other. Not to believe that everyone’s voice is important. That everyone’s story is worth listening to. Worth appreciating.

Listening in this age is an under-developed skill by design. The structures and powers that be benefit from our disengagement with the world and with each other. They secure their power and retain their privileges through our apathy.

Because of this, those of us who make an effort to listen and respond to what we hear become dangerous. Liabilities. Targets to discredit and criminalize at all costs.

Because listening is not just listening. It is turning sounds into story, transforming tones into the tangible. Into a foundation. For what? Empathy–ancient but awesome magic.

In this video, Radiolab co-host Jad Abumrad discusses the affordances of working in an audible medium. Chiefly, he talks about listening as being a tool for co-engagement and co-authorship–imagining story together. Which, he believes, paves the way for empathy. Or, at the very least, leaves a place for it. To grow. To be built. To live.

And, what a beautiful and optimistic idea this is–that through dreaming together we can create a better world. We can care better for each other. We can care at all. (It makes my heart want to pull a Grinch….)

It sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Which is exactly the response the powers that be want us to have. Jaded and disillusioned (applicable terms to describe most of my–bad— high school poetry coincidentally enough…)

Anyway, tangential rant over. For now.

Let’s talk about some podcasts! Well, one podcast. The Truth one I eeny-meeny-moed. You’re Not Alone. It was an experience.

Full disclosure, once upon a time, I used to listen to Welcome to Nightvale. A very popular podcast another member of our Alchemist Network–Masooch–talks about at length in this post. Check it. There are lots of links for you to explore.

So, that’s my only reference point for podcasts. A little bizarre but usually very plot-driven. Lots of ear candy–musical interludes, ample sound effects. I mean, in an audible space, everything becomes a sound effect, even silence. It’s strategic.

I found all of these preconceptions to be useful or to hold true while listening to You’re Not Alone.

In this podcast, listeners are introduced to a character to named Jared, an Afghanistan war vet suffering from PTSD. His condition seems to manifest in a cacophony of disembodied voices that follow him around, mocking and taunting him, trying to provoke him to do bad things or think bad thoughts. This portrayal kind of reminded me of what paranoid schizophrenics report experiencing. In fact, people suffering from both schizophrenia and depression are advised to maybe skip this podcast. And, I think the warning was well-warranted and very responsible of the creators.

At times, it could be incredibly overwhelming to listen. The voices kept coming, one after the other, steady whispers that turned into a deafening drone. Jared’s own voice was sometimes muffled by these voices–while the character he is interacting with sound perfectly clear to listeners. I thought that was very clever and it effectively communicated how Jared hears himself–as almost muted in the maelstrom. Every word a fight.All of this noise, too, contrasted well with the quieter, calmer moments. It instilled more meaning in them, to hear how much must be silenced in order for a scrap of calm.

The voices never really go away though. We see this at the end, when Jared is performing for his friends. The voices harmonize with him. Perhaps, they are more pacified? But, their repetition of the titular phrase still seems wholly taunting. Maybe that’s my jaded-ness speaking, though. The end of this podcast just seemed bittersweet to me.

Overall, I did feel that this podcast illustrated what Mr. Abumrad was talking about very well. Through audible means, a sense of empathy and compassion was created here. I felt for Jared. Wanted him to have a better ending. A more satisfying answer to his problems. It bothered me that I felt he didn’t get what he deserves–and, see, that’s evidence I care about him, that he has value to me. In order for someone to deserve better, they must first deserve something at all to you. Quite the concept, apparently. That latter thing.

 

I guess I digress.

 

Extra

***Kind of unrelated and a lot disturbing–great way to start a sentence–but the podcast reminded me of this story I read online a while ago. It’s one of the few that’s unsettled me and I still can’t actually click on the image attached to the story. I like to think I’m pretty unflappable but this is just one that really, well, disturbed me. It’s not audible or anything but I think its theme runs in the same vein as the podcast. Hope you enjoy ^.^***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Tagged: "SCULLY!!", digital storytelling, how i feel listening to the news, I'm scully by the way, justlistening, MULDER, netnarr, Networked Narratives, not wanting to believe, personal, thinking out loud, xfiles

Bone Girl .V

Flesh dreamed monstrous

beasts. Dreamed somber, faceless

vultures, abandoned

skeletons, splendid demons

of yesteryear, patient 

gargoyles.

Incredible beasts still

call, in the morning. But

only briefly, abandoning

scandalous actuality.

Tweet, tweet….

Ba-dump.

Mama bird was first a baby bird herself. A fledgling, picking at bones brought to the nest. Mama’s Mama bird was an excellent hunter. Proficient collector of Nature’s provisions. And, not a scrap ever went to waste.

Want not, baby bird. Mama’s Mama bird was ever-squawking. Nature always provides.

Mama’s Mama bird taught her everything she needed to know. How to search and skulk. To lure. Catch.

Then, how to use. How to prepare. Preserve. Get to the bone.

The wait, Mama bird tittered, thumbing a bony groove, makes it earned. You’ll understand soon. Good things come to those baby birds who wait. Savory things. 

Mama learned well how to wait. To be patient.

In dreams, she struck. Like the vultures she watched when Mama bird left the nest to stock up on reading materials.

Awake, she held her Mama bird’s bowl steady, the pound of the pestle harmonizing with another rhythmic beat in her young ears. She handed chips and fragments over for reading, performing her own in her head. Good thing Mama bird never touches me like she does the bone.

Blood older, she wove Mama bird’s ligaments for her, tight around the crone’s bony limb. Tighter still around her flabby neck.

Mama’s Mama bird was a good teacher. Good provider.

Too good, perhaps. Or….

Perhaps, Mama bird should’ve read her bone better.

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Mama provided.

***I know I wasn’t supposed to add text to this task. My bad. The poem I was able to piece together though reminded me of a pieced-together–er, well not anymore–character and I just had to write. Hope it doesn’t take away from anything. You can read the poem and the proceeding narrative as separate pieces if you prefer ^.^ Kudos to Stephanie as well!***


Tagged: blackoutpoetry, bone girl, Bot Prompts, Killing It, mama provides, netnarr, Networked Narratives, personal, storytelling, what do you think?

Wasteland Girl

Fog thick like honey but not half-so-sweet clogs the air.

Is the air.

Without a respirator, it would coat my throat, crawl down the black hole between my bony clavicles to cloy in my lungs. Convince me to claw at my chest till the pressure had an escape route. Ten routes to be exact.

Our atmosphere was the first to go.

Corroded by uncensored contaminants. Ignited by the bombs. I fell asleep beneath a burning sky, lulled by Mother’s staggered breaths. By Papa’s sniffles. He gave Mother his respirator. Choked before he began to claw–thank god for small favors, we were told.

The water went next.

Rivers ran dry. Oceans evaporated overnight. Brooks boiled in their basins. Tongues licked lake beds for every. last. drop.

                                                               drop.

                                                                             drop.

Some wells survived. Shut up tight before the blasts became white noise, a circadian hum. Burrowed deep into the bowels of bunkers that long-outlived their irradiated occupants.

Mother and I managed to commandeer one. Before marrying Papa and moving to the city, Mother grew up on a farm. Knew how to wield an ax. Cut clean. Came in handy.

She made me handy. In case anyone returned for their missing pieces. Made me hardy. At personal cost, perhaps.

She succumbed to the smog, like Papa. Gave me the respirator she wore when I broke mine. Careless child, Mother said, trading our masks. I ground my teeth. Bit my tongue. Thought I could still taste Papa’s final exhalations on the interior of my new protective gear.

What did that make her, I wondered, for raising a careless child? For misplacing her respirator in the first place? My answer came swift, like the bombs.

It made Mother dead.

Me, alone.

Mean.

I should’ve been nicer.

The farm was a cold, bitter place, Mother told me while teaching me how to wield the ax. Froze things. Windows shut. Truck doors in place. Blood. During slaughter, it became a solid, crimson sheet of ice across the fields. Bright, red slivers into dark trails as far as the eye could see. Like how the sky looks now, she remarked after my first clean swing. Time to colour the fields, followed the next.

Maybe….maybe, I could’ve been nicer if I wasn’t taught to be so hardy. If Mother wasn’t. If Papa were.

This world gives as good as it gets, though.

It got Papa and Mother.

Now, it has me.

Wind whips across the withering wasteland stretched before me, ruffling what few patches of green stubbornly remain, stinging skin. Overhead, clouds a sickly off-white– almost-muddyruddy-brown streak across the sky. On-and-off they’ve spit.

At the moment, acid rain falls in gentle drops across the still plain. Good thing I covered the well earlier. Each drip seems to sizzle upon impact, eroded dirt rising like embers.

In the distance, several shadows. Lumpy, lopsided blobs just peeking over the murky horizon. Further out, ruins rise like knives, jagged and rough but pointy enough to tear through honey-thick fog. Remnants of a church, I believe. Eastern Orthodox according to the slightly domed spikes. Dead spires, Papa rasped not long before the end.


The blobs grow bigger. Become more than vague impressions. A figure with a crutch under one arm. No other arm. Another hobbling on stumps. One dragging itself along. I grip the hilt of my ax, knuckles out. Widen my stance. A baleful breeze tugs at the strings of my Mother’s hand-me-down respirator.

Time to colour the fields.

Deceivingly cool drops graze what daring flesh is exposed. They burn. I don’t wipe them away. Let them slide down skin. Keep my hold tight around Mother’s legacy. Inhale my inheritance. Every bitter particle.

Shadows creep ever nearer. Dingy clouds dye the sky deep red. A sheer sheet of blood.

Time to colour.

My hands heavy with the weight of want. Mother’s. Papa’s. A careless child’s. A suffocating world’s.

Time.

It is not safe here.

That, I promise.

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Attribution:

@str_voyage

Tweet inspiration

Sound snippets ~cool site. check it out. (not sure if there’s a better way to embed sounds on WordPress *free of upgrade charge*… :/)

***All my short, sweet, & disturbing stories can be found under the Killing It tag ^.^***


Tagged: a strange voyage, Bot prompt, Killing It, personal, story, storytelling, wasteland girl