Buffy

21 | they/she | creative writing major | lunar lover

[writingsanjab]

Welcome!

My name is Buffy, and I'm here to share my passion for writing. My blog is a safe space for any weary travelers on the internet.

What I Will Not Tolerate:

Hate speech of any kind, homophobia, transphobia, racism, any religious hate, or AI.

My Interests:

Nuclear energy, writing, reading, the Earth, gaming, whimsy, and love.

My Favorite Shows/Movies:

Fallout, The Walking Dead, My Happy Marriage, Arcane, Avatar, and Sinners.

My Favorite Games:

Red Dead Redemption (One and Two), Avatar: Frontiers of Pandora, Fallout 4, and Minecraft.

My Favorite Books:

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Animal Farm, Fahrenheit 451, and War.

[writingsanjab]

My Take on AI

I'm a creative writing major in my university. It has honestly been shocking with the way my professors approach this topic. In my personal opinion, AI has no place in our society.

To begin, all professors must put out a syllabus for every class they have. Usually, at the very bottom, there is a type of disclaimer about AI. As students, we are not allowed to use AI on our assignments at all. It is only permitted to be used in the "brainstorming" phase of an assignment. I find this to be the main time that you actually need to use your brain. It's literally in the name.

Why is it okay to not think for ourselves in the very beginning of a project? I have yet to understand an answer. I have spoken to my professors, and they don't like AI either. They think giving people a "responsible" way to use AI will make them not use it on the assignment. I don't think this is true, but teachers and professors are losing steam to fight this plague on our planet.

I have an intercultural communications class, and the first assignment is how to use AI to study cultures. I find this to be very unnerving. I was shocked and appalled. The arts is the number way to understand a culture. Historians look at things that have been painted, things that have been written, the dyes that they use, the language, and the stories they tell to better understand a group of people. How dare you spit in the face of all those people?

Since I have a brain, I will refuse to do it. If I have to take the 0 I will. AI should not permitted in educational spaces. AI should not be permitted for use by people. Data centers should not be built on the ground. It is destroying the Earth, destroying human connections, and destroying life as we know it. I will not lose my integrity or look back on my morals to make a decent grade in the class.

[writingsanjab]

white horses

Run

Through the

Forest when 

You hear the tide 

Caressing the shore.

You 

May see

A sign there 

Among the ripples:

Watch closely for it.

There!

The sand

Beckons them.

They leap and jump

Only to be pulled back.

Try

As they

Might, the tide

Brings them back home.

The white horses love 

The shore, yet they

Must come back 

To their 

Waves. 

I wanted to work on syllables. It gets tedious for me when I write poetry and have to think about that. I also love the symbolism of the white horses in Greek Mythology as well as The Last Unicorn.

[writingsanjab]

Writing Emotions

Writing is catharsis to me. Verbal words often fail me when I want to express my feelings, so I keep a journal to write them down. When I am writing something on paper, I can feel myself begin to work through my emotions. Why do I feel this way? Where is this emotion coming from?

Anger is the safest emotion for me. All the other ones feel vulnerable, too raw, too real. I can keep them safe by sharing them on paper. I always recommend journaling to everyone I meet. Some people like to share verbally, but sometimes, it is best to let your emotions stew. That sting needs to leave before talking.

In writing in general, it is better to show an emotion. For a writing exercise, pick an emotion, write a scene, and never name that emotion.

Some examples:

"Their blood boiled just beneath their skin, and a jagged line formed the seam in their lips."

"The trees in the clearing pressed into the group and caged them in. A sheen of mist clung to their skin. The forest was oppressive."

Most importantly, writing is supposed to be fun. Be experimental. Think about your reader. A lot of blank space on the page will keep their eyes moving. Short and choppy sentences build tension. Longer sentences and dense paragraphs will slow them down. Become your character in that moment. See what they see, feel what they feel. Make everything dramatic.

Understanding visual art helps as well. Think about how you like to describe things. When you go outside, what takes your interest first? What sense is strongest to you? That is your strength. Wield it. Depending on how you describe a setting, like linking it to certain words that bring emotion to your reader, you can really fine tune the experience of reading that piece.

[writingsanjab]

Preternatural

Zaul entered the room. He quietly crept forward as to not rouse his parents from sleep. He kneeled in front of the brand new Sony Trinitron KV-1216. The screen was blocked out in different colors, and ‘NO SIGNAL’ mocked his desire to watch something. He adjusted the antenna until he could see the images of the program coming in and out of the waves. He huffed and moved it to the sweet spot. 

The screen showed a room that sent a flush of goosebumps up his arm. There was nothing in the room at all, and the video was from a surveillance camera. He was interested in horror as much as anyone else, and without his parents here to warn him about the dangers of going to Hell, he could watch whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. 

Zaul moved closer to the curved screen. He could hear the constant buzzing of the static energy that felt like fuzz on the glass. The energy clung to his skin, curled around the atoms that made up his person, and pulled him in. Unable to scream, he just watched with wide eyes as his body was sucked into the television. 

He opened his eyes into the room. He could see the blinking red light in the corner from the camera that he had just been looking through. Zaul thought he could feel the faintest static in his limbs and between his organs, but otherwise he felt the same as he had before.

“What the fuck?” he cursed quietly.

He flinched at his own voice because it repeated back to him in this room. Zaul examined his surroundings because he would not let himself go insane, and it actually sent a thrill through him. The room was not spacious. The walls leaned towards him, and, peculiarly, the ceiling was slanted to the right, so it threw him off balance. On the walls, Zaul could see where the wallpaper was peeling and turning brown at the edges. The markings on the wallpaper were extremely faded, but he could still see the bead-like pattern. The corners of the room were intensely dark, and there were no spider webs despite the stagnant air. He dragged his fingers over the wallpaper, marvelling at how tangible it was.

He silently stepped out of the room, and the hallway was not better. The ceiling was flat, but it extended far beyond what should be feasible. The more he tried to rationalize it, the more an ache formed in the back of his skull. It looked exactly like a one point perspective drawing with how dramatic and false this was. He made his way down, testing the doorknobs as he went. A lead pit was settling in his stomach, but his cheeks were hurting from his smile.

All his life, he had been controlled. His parents told him what to do and when to do it, but this experience was distinctly his own. He was in control here, and all his actions were his own. Even with the tightening in his throat, he couldn’t help but be ecstatic. 

Static buzzed in his ears the closer he got to one of the doors. It was the only door that looked different than the others. The doorknob was gone, and he knelt in front of it. The smell of dust and mildew hit him, and it was thick in the air. This felt real all of the sudden. Unease bubbled in his gut because this wasn’t fun anymore. Everything in him blared for him to leave, to run, to get away. He pushed against the door anyway. 

The door creaked open loudly. Still, the room was the same as the others. The energy between his atoms vibrated faster. He scratched his skin like he could claw it out. Zaul wasn’t even paying attention anymore. The yellowing lights dimmed, the static in his ears got louder, and a little blinking red light started up in the corner of the room. 

“NO SIGNAL.” a robotic voice said, the tone jumped and lowered in pitch. 

The voice had the same tinge of static as his ears. Zaul could feel the stare of something penetrating his back, and it set the static alive in his body. He turned around slowly. His heart beat against his ribs, and his shoulders rose to his ears. It seemed to stare into his eyes now, and the figure had no eyes, no mouth, no nose. It didn’t look like anything except for mist and would flicker like someone was flipping channels on the TV. It held no distinct shape. A PSA alarm started to emanate from it. 

“...EVACUTE NOW.” 

Zaul didn’t have to be told twice. His body sprung into action before his mind could catch up. His legs burned as he ran down that never ending hallway. Some of the doors were open now, and he could see people with static in their eyes. They were holding their ears. He didn’t want to stay in this world any longer. 

He turned towards a room. He thought the door looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. His gut had reacted to it though, so he trusted it. Through the door must be his home. The fuzzy feeling of electrons curled around his hippocampus. 

He inched into the living room, taking extra caution not to wake up his parents. The TV was on, showing blocks of color. He really wanted to watch his horror movie now that he could. He adjusted the antenna, but he felt an urge to touch the screen. He could hear the buzzing, and it reflected within him. He turned to the side, and there was static in his eyes as he dissimilated into the TV.

Here is a suspense or thriller short story I wrote. I'm not sure where this one falls in genre, but I hope the build up works. It's difficult for me to read suspense because it doesn't really work on me. I tried to emulate a kind of liminal space here.

[writingsanjab]

human?

Function isEmpathyHuman (doYouFeelAnother As Boolean) As String

Declare doesItBelongToYou , isItYours As String

Define humanity As String

Declare yourPersonIsReal As String

Define yourUnderstandingOfSelf As String

Declare yourUnderstandingOfOthers As String 

If youCanFeelThePainOfAnother = True Then

isItYoursToBear = waitForUserInput()

isItYourPain = waitForUserInput()

isItEvenTheirOwn = waitForUserInput()

Else If youCanFeelThePainOfAnother = False Then 

areYouEvenHuman = inputNotRequired()

whatIsYourExperience 

That _

Is _

So _

Much _

More _

Real _

01101101 01101111 01101110 01110011 01110100 01100101  01110010

End If

Exit Function 

A poem I wrote in VBA. I am not a computer programmer, but I did some research and consulted someone in IT. I absolutely love the "End If". I'm not sure why it speaks to me so much, but it does. Does anyone know why I can't tab on here? I even tried to use spaces, but it didn't work.

[writingsanjab]

art?

A glimmering forest, full of life, one must retrace.

Is it existential to think like this?

For one to know their place,

One must always know the antithesis.

Is it existential to think like this?

Skyscrapers in bolstering squares, one is part of many.

One must always know the antithesis.

Behind flickering screens, one is morphogeny. 

Skyscrapers in bolstering squares, one is part of many.

Is that any way to live? 

Behind flickering screens, one is morphogeny. 

One must strive to survive.

Is that any way to live?

One must be themselves else they are nothing.

One must strive to survive.

Do not be autonomous. One is something. 

This is a pantoum I wrote.

[writingsanjab]

warmth?

Easing off me, the warmth of her eyes lit every nerve in my body.

Lightning cascades down her arms and her stomach, worshiping her body.

The curve of her cupid’s bow was perfect to slide over,

But her hands, oh her hands, they cradled my body.

I have never known a softness such as this. 

Her passion, her agony, changes me. This is her body.

I love the way the Earth leaves impressions on her. 

Sloping curves, light and dark scars, the wrinkles beside her eyes are all my body. 

Two souls fused together. I have never been known in the way she knows me. 

I want to cut myself in half, just to give her some of my body. 

There is an ache deep inside of me like a gaping wound she carved out. 

I will have her, and she will have all of me, my mind, my soul, my body.

This is a ghazal I wrote. This is a lesbian poem.