I Write Stuff, Sometimes

There's not much else to it than that. Usually just short stuff I think might sound cool in the heat of the moment. It's all first-draft, off the cuff words that are unrefined and rough-cut. Sloppy. • I also write fanfiction, occasionally •

[rhubarbes]

@geometrieva

More on RHB_RBS

[thewritingchameleon]

We were out of time. Tala tried desperately to get me to my feet, but I knew she knew... That...

The virus was attacking my optical infrastructure. All that fancy code was getting actively wiped right before my Ceyebs. Meant the regulator directory for all my primary autonomic functions was being wiped, too.

“Let go,” I grunted.

“W h ve ti e, Kh le !” her voice glitched. “Y u ust ee ”

Tala’s face started to dribble down her front like a cascade of color and digital flakes. The world around us fractured and I felt my heart stop beating. I couldn’t hear anymore.

“Your face is melting,” I said.

At least, I hope I did.

I’m cold.

[writing-ideas-inc]

Dialogue Prompt

“You didn’t tell me not to.” 

“ ‘Don’t put the cat in the supersizer’ seemed pretty self-explanatory to me!” 

–mod Gloria @gloriawriting

[thewritingchameleon]

The Supersizer—as my brother so tactlessly called it—shuddered and made noises it wasn’t supposed to. It ground against gears and whined an ear-splitting pitch that scared me. The fucking thing was going to explode with my god damned cat inside of it.

“Besides, why did I automatically do it?” my nephew egged on his father. (Smug little shit.) “Uncle Eric was the one who put Cesare in there.”

My husband watched in terror with my brother and I as smoke started to billow out of seamless cracks.

“I swear to god, I was trying to get him out of it! He flipped the fuck out and jumped on the keyboard before rushing inside.”

I didn’t even have time to groan let alone verify if his statement was true. (Since it was him, I was inclined to believe him. He was honest, true, and sweet, but he was always the epicenter of all mishaps anywhere. It had its charms...just not now.)

A roar bellows from the the closed gate that set off my maternal instincts. Cesare wanted to get out.

I just didn’t know how fucking big he would be.

[thewritingchameleon]

Enter Not the Holly Wood

Enter not the Holly Wood, Child That wretched place of monsters That dark place of stolen innocence That quiet place of discarded children

Tarry not the Holly Wood, Child Where thy notions of right and wrong      are cast into doubt Where thy way is murky and easily lost Where evil creatures will lead thee astray

Live not in the Holly Wood, Child That benighted place, why choosest there? Where hast thee gone? We have lost thee

[thewritingchameleon]

I remember the smell

It was acrid.

The ship reeked of machinery grease and jet fuel that was only made stronger by the sharpness of the cold Japanese February. Cigarette smoke swirled around the fantail despite the number of sailors that stood there, huddled into their own fowl weather coats. The black sea sat dead and dull and glassy across endless surface, churned only by the mass of the USS Ronald Reagan.

No...

That’s not right.

The sea wasn’t clear. It was choked with debris. Cargo containers pulled from the shore as the tsunami retreated from the Fukushima shoreline. Bits and pieces of houses. Shōji doors. Entire houses ripped from their foundations and cast into the sea. Fishing trawlers were turned upside down or just released from their mooring lines to gently bob in our wake.

The doll that floated by while my cigarette ate itself from my first draw, forgotten and reduced to the ash that fit so nicely with the carnage that was wrought.

I remember tossing the wasted New Port into the sea.

Flotsam.

Jetsam.

I even remember the god damned fucking doll.

Frozen in time.

I want it to stop.

[archillect]

[thewritingchameleon]

"The Titans danced in the light they created. The stars which bloomed around them were made of anger and pain, and people died from them. It was because of the greatest misunderstanding that drew these giants to duel. It was not long before I understood, child, that there was no power here. There was only the End."

— Unknown Viper pilot to her grandchildren

[thewritingchameleon]

Laundry

When does it stop being anxiety and start being nonsense? I've not folded more than eight articles of clothing before I feel that sudden flush in my veins and that tightening under my breast. There's so much more to do and I can't do...anything. If I fold one more sure, I'm going to die—even though that's absurd and that's not how dying works.

God. I can't stop it. And I feel stupid for it.

[thewritingchameleon]

A lot of people tell me how strong I am. I don't really understand. My wife's tried to tell me, explain the meaning in a way that doesn't pass over my head. But, I can't get it. All I feel is tired.

[thewritingchameleon]

I am tired

Of my place Of my pain Of my surroundings Of my unemployment

I want to leave like I used to See the world with warmth like I did

All I see is exhaustion In every movement, thought, and word I don’t want to move I don’t want to think I don’t want to speak

I want to sleep

[promptsforthestrugglingauthor]

Writing Prompt #117

The apprentice gulped, looking at the mess around her. They knew that they weren’t supposed to have tried that spell for a number of reasons, and knew that when Master came home.

[thewritingchameleon]

Her little brother was grinning, bloodied and bruised but alive. He was missing a tooth.

Master kept her eyes narrowed, lips flat and displeased. “What were you doing?”

The apprentice muttered something and looked at her pigeon-toed feet.

“What?”

There was acid in the question, full of disappointment and seething rage that had yet to boil to the surface. The teenage girl felt the blood drain from her face as she stared on, knowing that what was coming wouldn’t be pleasant. But, to speak a lie or to mutter again would be less than ideal. For her or her brother.

“We… I…”

“You what?”

“…I…”

[thewritingchameleon]

Backyard Twilight

It's actually cool, right now. The sun's dipped beyond the horizon and left Aimee's new residence in a pleasant breeze that was unusually soothing for the Louisiana Spring/Summer transition period in March. The clouds were painted in industrial orange from the streetlights, the sky behind it a fading cyan into violet. I can hear the highway almost ten blocks down the street with its constant, hiss-like roar. Children claim to have beaten one another in whatever game they played a block down and away from the highway. Despite the garish properties from each individual thing, together they feel like home. Ashley's told me to sit down because of my back. She's grateful for all I've done already, but knows my limits better than myself. Aimee's at work, toiling away in a dusky library doing a librarian's work, so Ashley offered her time in cleaning what Aimee's brother had destroyed almost two months before. And, I in turn, offered my brawn to my wife. It's important to her—me, as well, now—that Aimee have a place to herself. She'll go crazy, otherwise. Just like her mother. But, even if I'm here in the decrepit back yard of a friend's house, making sure my stupid back doesn't seize because I don't know my own limits, there isn't a place I'd rather be. Ashley's here. And that's all that matters.

[thewritingchameleon]

Silver Head

Silver adorns my head / Those hairs a little silver thread / In which my years / Do not reflect my dread / The time I've spent / Swirling in that scent / The one that spells out fear / On all the time I've lent

[betterprompts]

“What, it’s a sticker? Stickers aren’t dangerous,” he insisted, a bead of perspiration rolling down his forehead.

write something!

[thewritingchameleon]

“Fuckin’ idiot,” I murmured, thumbing the safety on my revolver. “Those are Pyotr’s.”

But, Timbo knew that. His eyes didn’t get any wider, his face didn’t change. He was trying his hardest not to get caught, but he was already done. I’d found him.

“They’re not,” he tried again.

Timbo’s eyes flickered a second, trying to get a connection outside of his little hideaway. We were too deep, too far in the ironworks plant. The metal was fucking with his connection outside. The droplets continued from his forehead down his nose and into his eyes. He tried to bat them away with quick, fluttering eyelashes. His lip finally gave way into a taught frown.

“Did you think you would get to sell them? Everyone knows that this is the top-grade shit. No one would have bought them.”

“Look, man, these aren’t Pyotr’s. You know me. You know that I wouldn’t steal from Pyotr.”

I leveled the revolver in his face and cranked back the hammer. I choked down a welling sob and the tears in my eyes. Despite the world around my eyes bluring, the user-interface in my vision was clear. It annoyed me.

“I thought you were better than this,” he croaked.

I gritted my teeth and hugged the trigger with my middle finger. It was hard to ignore the impulse-twitch of my missing trigger finger.

“Me, too.”

[thewritingchameleon]

“I wait for my human. They are out there. They smell of food and smoke and fire, but they are nice. I love them. I enjoy how their arms and one leg purr like I do. How their eyes flash as if they were in the dark even in the light. Their voice is smooth and they talk to me often. I do not understand, but then again they do not understand me. They are bloody sometimes, so I worry. I hope the other humans do not hurt my human. I miss them. I want them to come home.”

- A Cyberpunk’s Cat

[writeworld-blog]

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

[thewritingchameleon]

Who is this man?

I recognize him from another time.

Another place.

Another person.

I don’t know him, now.

His eyes.

They frighten me.

[thewritingchameleon]

In the Autumn of 1904, I found Theodore.

He was… Well, he was Theo. He was handsome. He was charismatic. He was frighteningly intelligent. He was strong. He was simply Theo.

I had never understood my feelings toward the fairer sex, mostly because I had felt nothing but a certain level companionship that does not bear fruit. Their beauty was not lost on me, but I was never moved by their grace or their smiles or their aforementioned beauty. I was nineteen and still considered a raucous boy while also maintaining the status of a man: a queer sentiment to be certain. My general disinterest in finding a woman was chalked up to this quizzical oxymoron; a wandering nomad, if you will.

I was always far too aloof to solidify a proper response. No, I was much too interested in other things such as my poetry or boating or navigating the New York countryside, much to my parents dismay. “You are a X!”

As if that would be enough to sway my wanderlust.

But, when I met Theodore, I was somehow taken away. To this day, I believe that it was his flashing, mischievous smile that did me in. It was what lured me to him.

I had escaped the City and found a nameless lake surrounded by orange and green trees. There was a lone row boat floating away from the shore. At the dark sand, gently caressed by wind-blown water, stood a tall man. He enjoyed the shade of an orange-tinted oak. A pair of oars lay abandoned at his feet. I had not seen his face. All I could enjoy was the brown suit with a stiff, white collar peaking from his broad shoulders. His black hair was tousled and messy in the most devil-may-care way.

As Theo turned from the water, an expression played across those full and dark lips that sang a resigned exasperation. His eyes smiled, those emerald orbs shimmering dull in the light borrowed glinting off of the water. His nose was narrow, long, and strong with high and attractive cheekbones of a foreigner. A strong jaw framed his dapper features and came to a chin with a soft point and cleft. His skin was like copper.

“I’ve lost my boat,” he called out. His words were deep and like silk to my ears. Each syllable drew me to his side with an awkward smile playing across my mouth.

“It would appear so,” I replied once I stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

We watched the oarless row boat drift further and further into the center of the lake. I felt my heart hammer against my chest. I couldn’t speak or bring myself to look at him.

Once I found the courage in myself, I turned my eyes to him and felt the air escape my lungs in the most sudden of ways.

He was watching me. Dear God, how those emeralds shined.

“I’m Theodore,” spoke the man I loved. “And you are?”

“Earl,” I croaked ever-so-elegantly.

He smiled and nodded. Theodore’s eyes refused to leave mine for what felt like an eternity, and with each passing second I knew that I would drown in those perfect, ocean-deep emerald eyes.

Chopin does things to me. I was working on calculus for a test coming up soon when “Berceuse in D flat - Op.57” performed by Vladimir Ashkenazy and was overwhelmed by the need to type this out. Listen to the piece while you read it and you should understand what I saw.

“Still Boat,” by Elizabeth Osborne

[writeworld-blog]

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

[thewritingchameleon]

My brother said that when I had this dream, it was my brain was trying to make sense of the implant that I’d installed. It’s one I’ve been having for years, now, every since my first wetware installation.

A boat and a red buoy.

I guess it’s my brain trying to keep one little refuge from my constant upgrading and additions to my cerebral network. It’s weird. The dream would be just that, a boat and a red buoy, floating in an endless sea. Sometimes I would be there, standing on the water as if it were glass. Sometimes I wouldn’t be. Either way, I would stare at the water and the boat and the buoy and that’s it.

I wish I could get there.

I wish I could go to that peaceful place.

But, now, all I can do is hold my brother’s warm, dead body and stare down the barrel of a .45 and wonder if its going to hurt. Strange.

Strange.

Pahk.

[imperialchameleon]

Gate, Thy Name Is Sleep Apnea

Sleep apnea is like a locked gate. You look through the bars, knowing that there’s fun to be had. You can see it. Feel it’s effects on the particles that make up the air around you. Taste the pressure differences because of that particle displacement. It is there.

But you don’t have a key to the lock. No one else needs it. Hell, they can walk right through the chainlink fence because its not their problem.

I can see glimpses of other people locked out of that world of fun. It’s hard to tell since they’re forms are all fuzzy. I don’t want to make assumptions about other people’s problems, but it’s something I can spot sometimes. We’re all there, just on the edge. People are beckoning us to come join them. Activities flaunting themselves at us with their merriment machines turned to full blast. It can be anything. For me, from hanging out with friends to being able to accurately do higher math and physics problems. I can reach through the bars and caress them with my fingertips, but thats it.

Learning takes forever, and isn’t guaranteed.

Getting out of bed takes forever, and isn’t guaranteed.

Forcing yourself into the shower takes forever, and isn’t guaranteed.

Drinking coffee takes forever, and isn’t guaranteed.

Shit place to be, if you ask me.

“Aren’t you being treated?” I get asked this a lot.

No, I’m too poor. My wife just started a new job and we’ve gotten a new insurance plan, but up until now sleep studies and copays have been an unbearable financial burden on our lives.

I can’t work. I’m too tired. At my second job (a gym) after the Navy, I actually had to go home a few times because I was falling asleep on the counter. Sometimes, I even had to call in and let them know I was too tired to drive. I get benefits from the VA for my sleep disorder and hearing loss, and that does provide a nice chunk of the income, but I feel useless. I can’t do anything that I’m supposed to do as an adult. My wife tells me that I’m not a burden, but it’s hard to understand and feel that.

God, if it wasn’t for her, I would be a sleeping mass of flesh, deteriorating meat, and self-loathing. Wouldn’t you hate yourself? Not being able to do anything because of a body too exhausted to even move your leg to be more comfortable. Being out of control of your life because your sleep isn’t refreshing.

There’s medication waiting for me. Stuff that’ll allow me to be awake feel human again. I just don’t get to have it, yet. My insurance wants to dissuade my doctor from prescribing it to me first. Money makes everyone’s world go ‘round except mine. I don’t blame my neurologist, but I do; he’s busy and only visits his office twice a week. He never takes calls. Never calls back when I leave messages. He reminds me of an ancient bird physically and mentally where he stalks around leaning forward with a craned neck and an attention span that lasts only twenty minutes. He needs to tell my insurance to go ahead and let me get my medication.

“When can you come out and play?” asks my world around me.

Soon, I hope.

[thewritingchameleon]

I wrote this earlier. Just felt like it needed to be said.