Yesterday

A/N: I... don't really know where this came from. It's quite a bit more serious than any of my other pieces. Don't worry, it doesn't have any relation to my real life. :/




My watch says it's five minutes to twelve. Yesterday, I was sitting in my cubicle filing reports, glancing at the clock over the receptionist's desk, watching that sliver of a hand creep forward second by second. Yesterday I thought, wouldn't it be nice if I had a promotion so I could drink espresso while doing paperwork and all of this junk?

[Shaky breath.]

I still want the promotion, but I don't think it's likely anymore. I'll be lucky if I even return to my old job. I'll be lucky if I get out of this mess.

My watch says it's four minutes to twelve now. They hung it in front of me, so I could see how much time I've got left till the bomb detonates and freak out, or something. They're probably sitting behind a computer screen in a building four hundred miles from here, watching to seem me break.

I won't. I swear I won't. I won't let them see how terrified I am, even if I die.

But--I am terrified, and you know what's funny? I'm terrified of dying. Dying, can you believe it? Because yesterday, when I was crossing over the bridge on the way back from work, I looked at the railing and wondered what it'd be like to jump off. I read somewhere that jumping from a height into water feels like you're hitting concrete. And I wondered if my body would shatter like clay when it hit the water, and what it'd be like to be torn apart by the impact. Would it be quick? I hope it'd be quick. But then again, I wonder about the source of that information. Can anyone alive really verify that comment?

[He pauses, then seems to deflate. Nearly mumbling, he continues.]

I wonder... I wonder if Kate misses me. Probably not. Yesterday at seven I called her, left a voice message. Told her I loved her. Missed her. She hates all of that sentimental stuff, but I wasn't going to tell her that I'd thought of suicide because she'd left me. She'd probably laugh at me and say, "You thought I was leaving you? Stop worrying. Just because I haven't called you in a few days doesn't mean I dumped you. You're really overreacting, Peter." And I would nod and ignore the marks on her neck and the smudged layer of lipstick under the fresh layer.

Three minutes. Can't they hurry it up? The waiting is going to kill me.

Bad words. I know. All this tension--dead men've gotta make a bad joke, 'kay?

[A shaky, bitter bark of laughter.]

It's kind of funny (or maybe it's not), but yesterday I wanted to die. Today I don't. I'm tense, I'm shaky, I'm sweating, and I can feel the press of the bomb strapped to my back. Death is that close to me. Maybe I didn't want to die all along? Yesterday I really thought I wanted to die, because there was just no way to go on--I wanted to. And now.

Well. It's too late, now.

Two minutes. The wait is going to kill me. This wait... I can't think. I can't think anymore. The drops of sweat rolling down my face are making me itch. Or maybe I'm restless because of the bomb. I really don't know anymore. What do I know? I know that I am going to die. I am going to blast apart. They won't even find a body.

... I don't really want to die.

Yesterday night my mom called. Told me I needed to move on, told me in tears how Kate was taking away the son she loved, prayed for every day. And I, I told her to stop wasting her time telling me--

I hung up. What a son. I wish my last words hadn't been "Just stay away, Mom. I'm fine" because maybe I'm not. I'm not sentimental either, but times like these--well. I wish I'd told her thanks. Or "Love you." Or anything. So that maybe I'd have been the son she was so proud of. I wish I was.

One minute. I have one minute left to live. You see this in movies: the hero struggles till the last second to get out, and suddenly he does. But I've been trying for hours, and at this last second, I'm tired. And resigned. But I don't really want to die.

... forty-five seconds.

... thirty.

... fifteen.

...

Five. (Wish I told Kate I loved her.)

Four. (Wish I told all of the people who deserve it, thanks.)

Three. (Wish I had more time.)

Two. (Wish this wasn't happening.)

One. (Wish I--)

The second hand inches past the twelve. Ticks slowly down the side of my watch.

I'm not dead yet.

I hold my breath, chest tight and tense, waiting for the white-hot, burning, explosion on my back. But the hard plastic just shifts on my back, heavy and bulky and still intact. I wait, terrified, as the second hand keeps going. And it keeps going.

It keeps going?

I don't know where the time's gone. Every second feels like a halted moment in time, slower than it's ever been before. I'm barely breathing now. It's like standing on the top of a cliff and putting out your foot to step off; it's like the moment you creak past the top of the rollercoaster and you're staring at the two hundred feet you haven't dropped yet. I don't think at all. I just watch that hand climb up my watch's face again, up to the nine, up to the twelve...

I keep waiting for something, anything, almost wishing the bomb to detonate already and just get it done with, but. It keeps going. I hardly dare to breathe now, hardly dare to feel the glimmer deep down of hope.

Time keeps passing, I know, but I don't feel it. The watch is still there, the bomb is still there, I am still there--even though none of us should still exist. I should be dead but I'm not--

[He fidgets, unable to decide how to act--those expecting death cannot always deal with life.]

Like a sudden burst of thunder someone booms behind me words--after it sends my strained heart into a pounding fury and me into a startled jump, I swallow breaths of air. The sudden noise was there and then it was not, leaving me wondering, terrified, if it was only my imagination. My mind is racing; is someone behind me? I don't remember there being an intercom, but there must have been--what did it say, I can't remember for the life of me the thing was so suddenly--

I try to backtrack. Was it a man? I think it was--what did he say? I think he said 'hello?'...

"Hello?" It definitely was a man's voice, curt and firm and staticky; then he says more softly, like he's leaning away from the microphone: "Doesn't seem like anyone's in there, sir."

"H-Hello--" But my voice is barely a hoarse whisper. I try again, rasping air out until it almost hurts. "Hello!"

"Good heavens. The man's still in there. Someone, Carol--get a team in there pronto." The man pauses, then continues in a more reassuring tone. "Just stay there. We'll get you out in no time."

Staying? Here? No time? I'm bound in ropes, of course I'm not going anywhere--and time, I've been here for hours and hours; "no time" will really be no time at all. Relief and hysteria and the ridiculous of it all slams into me like a freight train. I'm not going to die? I'm not going to die. They're going to get me out in no time. I'm not going to die.

I'm not going to.

The doors to my little room burst open behind me as policemen emerge like flies, swarming in. Someone fiddles with the bomb for seconds as all of us hold our breath, then cuts the rope that's bound me for how long? and pulls that **** bomb away. They're talking to me, I can tell, but standing up suddenly fills my limbs with jelly and my head with bricks. Someone lifts my right arm over their shoulder, and another one takes my left; I have only a split second to snatch my watch from the hook it's hanging on.

Time passed so slowly before, but now it's flying by. Before I know it, I'm walking to a policeman's car outside of the building, hanging onto a policeman with one hand and holding my watch in the other.

[He stops abruptly, though.]

"Sir?" the policeman looks at me curiously. "We should get you to the hospital right away."

I know that, but an irresistible thought occurs to me. "Hang on," I tell him, then move before he can stop me.

Walking back a few steps, I pull out my watch and without a look at it, toss it in a garbage can on the side of the hallway we'd passed on our way out. The watch was expensive but I've never felt more wonderful; I will never have to stare at that thing again. Walking away from that room, that bomb, that watch, and that building is glorious.

Yesterday I was determined to die; but now. Now, I think I'll live.


[The End]

Um. Hi? Update.

It's been a loooong time.... and I really don't have an excuse this time! Le gasp.
I like art and writing equally, so sometimes I'll have a writer's block and start drawing, or sometimes I'll have an artist's block and just write... I've kind of been doing a lot of art lately. Um.

But. I figured that since I'm going to Iowa and all, I should probably start writing more... XD My entire sample was school-related stuff and some miscellaneous stuff from NaNo. Oh. And speaking of NaNo, I didn't end up using that plot (see previous post). I don't know why I can never pick a plot and stick with it. Sigh.

Maybe I should keep practicing on short stories?

Anyway. I need to do some more writing, so look for some soon.

NaNoWriMo novel synopsis!! Finally!

Nievre is one of the naidra. That means she's half naiad, and half dragon. But what's more important is that she's naturally superior to those humans--after all, they can't do magic, can't fly, can't spit fire and in general, can't do anything at all. So what's the harm in having a little fun at their expense?

They always put too much hope in their "Chosen One" and their "heroes." Ridiculous, really. But that's going to stop. Nievre is going to teach them a lesson.

How?

By appointing the lowliest, weakest, unlikeliest hero herself.

"Congratulations, bean. You're the new Chosen One."

"Huh?"

two feet of stone

“Tell me, Romeo,” she says through the hole. “Is it customary for that side to eat fish?”
“Raw?”
“Raw, cooked, burnt. Take your pick.”
“We have it in sushi. An Asian food. It’s basically rice and other stuff in a little roll, wrapped in seaweed. Sometime fish is in it. Don’t you have fish?”
“Not lately. People who eat fish get sick. I think it’s the pollution. Sushi sounds interesting. Does it taste more like fish or more like rice?”
“Um, well, only sometimes it has fish. Sometimes it’s other things, too.”
“Hm,” she says. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. Nice summer days like these, when it feels like we’re the only two people in the world, make the two feet of stone between us like nothing.
“It’s good,” I tell her. I hate fish, but she loves it. “I’d pass it through the hole, but...”
“Maybe you can throw it over,” she suggests, laughter in her voice.
“Over a thirty foot wall? You’re joking! It’d probably get stuck at the top. I won’t throw some measly sushi just so the birds could have a feast. Maybe you can make some, instead. I’ll tell you how.”
“No thank you,” she says lightly. “We don’t have any rice for it, anyway. We don’t have anymore Asians here, not since the last Purge, and no one knows how to grow it.”
“Oh.”
We fall silent. The wind rushes past me, whipping through the branches and trees in the orchard. I wonder if she’s feeling the same wind. Probably not. Up above, the artificial sun beams brightly with some fifteen thousand LED light bulbs. The sun provides the light, the generators make the heat. It’s always warm and breezy on this side of the Wall; it feels like we’re living on a tropical island all year round, except for the holidays. The sun’s programmed to cool down a bit then, and the generators make snow. We always have white holidays.
“How’s the weather over there?” I call through the hole.
“Boring,” she replies promptly. “It’s quite dreary. Gray skies and foggy. Can’t see the sun anywhere.”
I look up at my own sun, still shining as brightly as ever. Beyond the top of the Wall, I can see just a strip of dark grey sky, almost like an extension of this stone Wall. If you’re high enough, it looks like someone’s cut the sky in half and painted one side black, and one side blue.
It’s not fair that we who live under the blue side have every luxury available, while those under the black side of the sky live in fear and poverty. What did I do to deserve this, and what did she do to deserve that, besides being born in families on opposite sides of the Wall?
“Hard to believe people used to have both sunny and grey sky, isn’t it?” she says.
“Hard to believe this wall didn’t always exist,” I reply, wincing at my harsh tone.
I can’t help it. It’s all I can think of these days.


“It’s your birthday next week, isn’t it?”
“Thursday.”
“Maybe I’ll hop on over and give you a birthday kiss.”
“Don’t be stupid. Only officials are allowed through the Gate, you know that.”
“Sheesh, Romeo. I was just joking.”
“My name’s not Romeo, Jen. It’s Al. Stop calling me that.”
“And my name’s not Jen, it’s Juliet. Sheesh, Romeo. What’s up with you these days?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve only been a pessimist for these past two weeks. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Just leave me alone, okay? Can’t you stop shoving your nose into my life?”
“Gee. Fine. If it’s like that, I’ll leave you alone.”
“Fine!”


I don’t return to the wall until my birthday. Somehow, turning sixteen isn’t as exciting as it should be. I invited just about half of my school, but the whole party feels wrong. It feels like someone’s missing. A girl whose face I don’t know, who calls me Romeo, who lives on the other side of the Wall.
As soon as I can get away without anyone noticing me, I run to the orchard, to that spot next to the bench no one knows but me.
“Jen?” I call. “Jen!” I’m almost panicking. What if she isn’t there? What if she doesn’t come back? “Jen!”
“Hey, Romeo,” she says, and I think my heart skips a beat in relief.
“Hey,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to blow up at you--I’m sorry. I just--”
“Hey, it’s okay,” she says. “We all have bad days, right? Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m going to stop being your friend or anything. Oh, and happy birthday, Romeo. Have a wonderful sixteenth and don’t forget to eat some cake for me.”
“I won’t. It’s chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries.”
“Yum.”
“Can I still have that kiss?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
Though it’s hard, cold granite and a small hole I press my lips against, I can almost feel the press on the other side. At that moment, we are the only two in the world. Two feet of stone is nothing. I’m the luckiest person in the world.
“Happy birthday, Romeo.”
“Thanks, Juliet.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”


“It’s almost fall over here. Why don’t you come on over for a picnic?” she asks.
A while ago, I might have scoffed at her suggestion. Now, I laugh. “Sure, why not? I’ll bring cake.”
“It’ll be grand,” she says, and I can just imagine a dreamy look in her eyes. “We’ll have a barbecue. Ribs and fish and cake. How’s that? And sushi, we’ll have sushi. You’ll have to teach me how to make it. You can bring your guitar, and I’ll sit and listen. And it’ll be wonderful--you have to see the valley in fall. When the trees turn red and orange, it’s beautiful.”
Something in her little speech pulled at my chest. Something that made my heart squeeze. “Juliet?”
“Hm?”
“Do you really think we’ll ever...?”
She doesn’t reply for a while. “Maybe,” she says quietly.
I lean against the wall, feel the warm stone against my side, and listen. My ears catch a fierce howl of the wind, far away, on other side. Nothing like the calm rush of the wind here. Though I’m warm, the slightest shiver runs up my spine. It’s a harsh world out there. And here, I look up at the sun, and everything is perfect. We have everything, they have nothing. What are we doing except hiding out in our little city, leaving the rest of the world to die? It’s disgusting.
Once upon a time, I thought this was the norm. Of course the sun shines every day, of course it’s always warm and breezy, of course my family has a mansion, of course I can go buy candy and throw all the parties I want. Of course--until I met Juliet. And then I realized how fake my life was. It’s amazing how much my world has shaken up because of her. The rest of the Capital needs people like Juliet.
“How about I come over there?”
“What?”
“I’m not joking. How about I come over there? Permanently.”
A moment of shocked silence passes. “You’re joking. You’d give up everything you have to come--over here?”
“Yeah. Look, Jules. I want to be with you. I love you.”
“You know how many people would literally kill to be on that side? Why would you want to give up your life, you family, your friends, to be with--with me?”
“Is that hard to believe?”
“We haven’t even seen each other.”
“And we never will, if I don’t.”
“They won’t let you do it. No one’s ever done it before.”
“It’s because no one’s tried. Of course they’re not going to let people into the Capital--but they’ll probably let people out of here.”
“You’re crazy. That... that you’d give that all up to be with me.”
“I don’t think I’m crazy. Actually, I think I’m saner than the rest of the people in here.” I smile, and I can feel her smile on the other side, too. “And you’re worth it, Jules,” I tell her firmly. “A life without you... I can’t live that. I can’t live life without you. I know that sounds cliche, but it’s true. Jules... you are my life.”
“Romeo,” she says, a tremor in her voice. I think I can hear her crying.
“Jules?” I ask, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“Romeo,” she says. “You’re my life, too.”


Two populations, under different skies, living in a world split in half.
We’ll be the first to break the wall.

Heroism has gone Commercial

Just an excerpt. Will probably continue this... I like the idea. It's from a prompt at the NaNo boards, from the famous Adopt-a-Plot thread:

"Heroism has gone commercial. There's really no such thing as real heroes any more. They're all just paid to go around and stop evil villains and save the princess and so on. But, to do this, they need villains to endanger the population. As such, the NVA (National Villain's Association) was formed..." (RoboPhantom)

-

“The name's Nix,” Nix said, and stuck out his hand.

“I'm Klaus,” the other replied, taking it. “Why are you named that?”

“Don’t blame the kid, Klaus. My mom liked Star Trek, decided to name her kid something spacey. Besides, half of the time people don’t even use my name.”

“Why not?”

“You’re pretty curious for a kid,” Nix said, giving him a wry look. “It’s because the other half of the time they call me ‘The Black Deceiver.’”

“‘The Black Deceiver’? The villain? Really?” Klaus frowned. “Didn’t he die two weeks ago?”

Nix snorted. “Die? Is our acting really that good? Sorry to burst your bubble, Klaus, but no one dies. No one dies. The last time someone even came close to dying was in ‘76, when some stagehand had one too many glasses of beer and fell into the lava pit reserved for Sugo the Swindler. And he just got away with juice in his lungs.”

“Juice?”

“Mmhm. Juice, the stuff you see in the lava scenes. Some mix of ten different chemicals and red food dye. Stings the eyes like crazy and tastes like puke, but otherwise harmless.”

Klaus looked suspicious.

“So, if villains don’t die... so what happens?”

“Only the names die. The people get recycled. ‘The Black Deceiver’ is my last name and my most favorite, since I got to land a good one on Heero the Magnificent’s nose. They still use computer effects to touch his nose up. But I’ve also been ‘Felix the Unlucky,’ ‘Smitty the Bandit,’ Don of ‘The Demon Duo,’ and a couple of no-name villains you probably wouldn’t know.”

Klaus’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have thought ‘The Black Deceiver’ would be the same person as ‘Felix the Unlucky’...”

“Start thinking it, kid,” Nix said, ruffling the kid’s hair. “There are a whole bunch of villains out there that are actually played by the same group of people. Just don’t tell anyone, yeah? I lose my job if they find I let the word out. Can’t have the public’s delusions crash yet. This hero-villain stuff stinks, but it makes good money.”

“Who gets paid more, heroes or villains?”

Nix snorted. “What, you want to be one? Heroes, of course. But that’s only because the NHA gets paid billions because of all the action figures they sell. The NVA, not as much--I mean, who wants to buy figures of Sugo the Swindler?”

Klaus grimaced.

“Yeah, exactly. Bit ridiculous if you ask me. A villain does more work than three heroes combined, mostly since they keep dying. Heroes just have to stand there and look pretty. But who do the people like?”

“The heroes.”

“That’s right, kid. The heroes.” Nix paused. “At least, until now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s going to change. And I’m going to be the one to do it.”

Here comes NaNo 2010...

Yeah. Still trying to decide what I'm going to do. :P School has bogged me down, but I'm willing to undertake the challenge again, even if that means more late-night sessions of writing and coffee. Lots of coffee. And tea and cookies. Yum.

I haven't decided for sure yet, but I think I want to do an anthology of short stories, most of them based off of the NaNo plots I've collected here and there. Of course, all of the plot givers get their short stories :)

Well, it's just an idea. I'm still not completely sure I don't want to do a novel.

What are you all doing for NaNo, if you are doing it? (And if you aren't, why not? :D http://www.nanowrimo.org)

Did a meme/survey thing... wanna give it a try?

1. Introduce yourself?

Hi, I'm insanity. I mean, Misamiera. At least, that's my pseudonym, my code name for my writing exploits. I'd like to think I'm old enough to be an adult, but much of what I do is childish. I'm not an adult yet physically, which is fine by me since it's probably not that fun, anyway. (But then again, I've never been one.) I'd like to one day travel around the world and eat real Chinese food from China and real Swiss chocolate from Switzerland. I'd also like to actually finish a novel one day, too. One of these days.

2. Describe Madness

Madness? What's there to be mad about? Madness is acting any way you want in your own little world, regardless of social standards; madness is letting your mind run free with ideas.

3. Describe Insanity

It's madness, only to the extent that people can't even follow what you're thinking anymore.

4. Describe the difference between Insanity and Madness

Like I said: insanity is a brand of madness that's gone so far that people can't even begin to understand you anymore.

5. Do any of these descriptions apply to yourself? Why, or why not?

Well... that's a hard question. Aren't both of those opinions? The sane man says to the another, "You're insane." And yet, the "insane" person thinks that he is sane, and the other man is insane.

I don't think I am; I much prefer staying down here in earth.

6. Tell me about your all-time favorite Fantasy book.

I have so many favorites, but I'll choose Lord of the Rings. It's not a classic for no reason. Tokien's imagination has not led to just a book but an entire world which any fan can venture into. He's done so much work with Middle Earth. I love venturing into the world and imagining my own scenarios.

It also helps that there are three fantastic movies, too. *grin*

7. Give me names for characters, ones you havent used yet. 2 for a boy, 2 for a girl.

(This includes First and Last names.)

Karr Ashwood and Quint Netherfield for male names. Anmerlyn and Alix for the girls. Don't know why I made last names for the males and not for the females, but somehow I can't just say "Karr" anymore. I have to say "Karr Ashwood"...

8. Your all time favorite song, and why?

I've got so many favorites the list could run ten pages, but one of them I'd have to say "Set the World on Fire" by Britt Nicole, which is a Christian song (and I'm Christian). It's mainly because of the lyrics, which remind me of the Great Commission. Ah, but I could go on and on...

9. Your Rolemodel, and why?

Probably my mother. I know that's weird in an age where teenagers often complain about their parents and their restrictions, or are closer to their friends or others than their parents, but I've got a classical perspective. My family is really important to me; we stick together--even though friends may come and go, your family's always there. My mother has always been my best friend and guide throughout my life; I may sound biased, but she's a wonderful, caring person and a great Christian with her own experiences and such. Whenever I don't know what to do, I ask my mom. And she always gives me wisdom.

10. a sentence that you will always remember? (motto, life lessons...)

It changes as I read different things that remind me of different sentences, but at the moment, it's a quote: "If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I'd spend six hours sharpening my axe." It's by Abraham Lincoln.

11. Give me a sentence or minimal 10 words, containing the word ‘breaking’

It's not the sound of the door creaking or the desperate wail of ghosts upstairs that frightens her; it's the sound of her own heart breaking...

12. Give me your opinion on radio stations. (atleast 5 sentences.)

I don't listen to the radio that often, but I do think that they're a great invention. It's nice to have music on in the background as I do my work or drive in the car. Of course, like anyone else I wish I could fast-forward the commercial breaks or skip annoying songs, but that's what mp3 players are for. Besides, when can you switch channels and listen to completely different music, check the traffic or weather report, or even political commentary in a split second? It's useful to have a radio, and I hope we'll never eliminate them in our quest for new technology.

13. Describe light to me (Atleast 100 words.)

Some have argued that light is an absence of darkness, but I don't agree with this. Light is a force in its own. Metaphorical or literal, it's something that breaks through darkness, giving insight or sight into something formerly unknown. Light generally carries a sense of positivity; it brightens and gives comfort. It’s taking the blindfold off your eyes and seeing everything you never saw, or couldn’t see, before. It’s discovering something new, realizing that your life isn’t (or is) as bad as you thought, or coming to the knowledge that you aren’t the only person in the world; it’s opening your eyes.

14. Describe music to me. (atleast 100 words)

Music is creativity; it is, and always will be, an expression of our character and who we are and so much more than that. When we play music, we sing a song so sweet no lyrics can ever fit; or when we play music, we rage and rant feelings speaking can never say. When we listen to music, it tells us something old, or something new; maybe a feeling of nostalgia or inspiration, sorrow or joy. The person composing music is no different from the writer or the artist, since they all express their feelings and thoughts in their arts. Life becomes dull and dreary without the creative arts. Music is important to humanity.

15. Describe pain to me. (atleast 200 words.)

Pain. It's what you feel when you're broken inside. When everyone's disappeared. When no one listens. When the world seems to fall to pieces, and all you can do is stare. When the shards of your heart dig deeper into your chest. When someone stabs you, and walks away. When life doesn't seem so important anymore. When everything is raging all around you, and you feel like you're the only one standing still--and for that, they say you're insane. When wretched feelings grip your heart with icy fingers and squeeze. When you're trying to keep breathing, keep filling your lungs with air, and you're up to your neck in water. When you trying to reach for the heavens and end up drowning in the sea instead.

Pain is what you feel when your best friend leaves you. Pain is what you feel when someone dies and a part of your heart is ripped out. Pain is what you feel when you’re too dry to cry, too tired to live, and too powerless to do anything. Pain is what you feel when it hurts, deep down, like a worm eating at the edge of a hole in your heart. Pain is what you feel when the birds won’t sing, the sun won’t shine, and the earth won’t move.

Not hard, is it? Prove yourself to me, they’re simple questions.

Good luck!