Summer Starts
Jun. 18th, 2004 10:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
farlaSchool is now unofficially out. Finally! I can spend days playing video games for twelve hours straight, sleep during daylight hours, screw with the computer, and, of course, write.
Speaking of writing, based on the response here and elsewhere, it seems like Ice's story will be the next one for me to write.
So, dear bored readers, here are two story bits. Anyone who points out a mistake or something that could be better gets a cookie.
"Damn vermin!" The man kicked it, hard, then walked away.
The child crawled over. She stared at it, entranced by the brilliant scarlet color of the blood, glistening like wet rubies in the dim light, and the shiny round black eyes staring outward, devoid of any emotion. She crawled closer, hanging over it. She had only seen the flash of tails and hind legs before, vanishing like the end of a worm sucked into the beak of a bird. Yet they were going to safety, while the worm was going to die. She didn't understand exactly how it could work differently.
She knew this one was hurt badly. She did not know, exactly, what it looked like normally, but she did know that its body looked wrong somehow. As she sat watching it, she became aware of small noises around her, scrabblings she recognized and had heard many times before, although she could not remember the first time.
"Hello," she said, not moving, still staring at the twitching rattata . "Hello. Is this yours?" She tried again, twisting at her voice, trying to find the sound they would react to. "One of yours? Is this one of yours?"
One of them, only one, chittered at her, angry but something else too, more that than angry, something else she didn't know.
"I didn't," she said, not so much a denial as a simple statement. Her voice was still twisting.
Chittering, more than one this time. Not warning, not danger, just...what? She didn't know what it meant.
"I think it's going to die," she continued, conversationally, trying to get the pitch and rhythm right. "I'm not sure. Is it? I'd think you'd know."
More chittering, purposeful. She listened, repeating the sounds over and over in her head.
...dying...something about that. The rattata was dying. But not an answer to the question, a...something. She...resentment, anger. Over...the rattata...dying? No, no, not...quite.
It was hard to tell, not a matter of only hearing a few words but of half-hearing them all. And even then, it was as if they had different meanings depending on something else. She felt frustrated.
The other rattata was saying – why she...killed it? No. Why she...didn't kill it?
"What?" she asked, trying to imitate the rhythm of the sounds. It chittered again.
Why she didn't kill it? No. Why had she and then not? No. Why she had...no. Why it was still alive? No. Why it was still alive when she had killed it?
The hidden rattata chittered a third time, almost the same yet different, subtly. Almost a demand.
Why she didn't kill it after she killed it? No, not quite, not at all. Why she...it...
She reached out and snapped the neck of the injured rattata, breaking it like a dry twig between her fingers. Why had she killed it and not let it die.
Silence, silence. She didn't know what they were doing or about to do, and she couldn't see them, because they wouldn't venture out even in darkness that should have hidden them from anyone's eyes. But – and this was something strange, something rare – she didn't feel like they were, or could be, anything dangerous to her.
“I heard you’re been causing trouble.”
She was sitting on a chair with her hands under her. She stared at him, her face blank. She didn’t answer. She could see he was supposed to be calm, unruffled, and could see just as clearly that he wasn't.
He was coming undone in front of her. She was doing something wrong, something strange, something that was unnerving him, slowly eroding his façade. She didn’t know what that was. What did he want her to do? She wanted to know. She didn’t want to cause something without realizing what she was doing.
“A lot of people are dead.”
How did he think she should act? What was he expecting, that she was failing to do?
Silence.
“We can’t just have agents killing each other, you know.”
She opened her mouth. “I explained this already,” she said again.
“How can you expect us to believe you?” the man demanded. His face looked as if it was a clay mask, thin cracks forming in it as he spoke. His voice was corrupting from his starting calm, becoming angry. Yet – not anger exactly –
“But you do,” she said. “That’s not what this is about.”
Crack. The man hit the top of his desk with one balled fist. His eyes were starting to open too wide. He was angry. Yet somehow, the anger was just…another pretense under his pretense? “You’re just a child! You don’t know anything.”
She was confused. “You’re…afraid of me?” she asked uncertainly.
There were lines on his face. “No,” he said coldly. “No, I’m not. Don’t try to–”
His voice was wrong. “Because you–” she started.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped. “You’re here because we want an explanation of what you think you’re doing. Because it seems you think you can just do whatever you fucking want.” His hand was shaking, behind the desk. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. His heart was beating too fast.
“You know I’m not just making it up. You know it isn’t unreasonable for this to have–”
“What’s unreasonable is the idea a brat like you could have known!” he yelled.
She stared at him quietly. What’s unreasonable is the idea a brat like you could have won!
He took a breath. She could almost hear him saying to himself, don't let a child get you upset like this. In a faintly strained but cold voice, he said, “I need a believable explanation.”
“There isn’t one,” she said, her voice soft, calm, but not working. Was there anything she could say? She didn't know. “I can’t think of an explanation you’d believe. Can you?”
“You’re saying – you just killed them?” He had the furrowed face of someone faintly surprised, not by the answer but by the response.
She shook her head, listening to the wood-on-wood scrape of an opening drawer. “No. I already gave the real explanation. You’re going to shoot me anyway.”
Eyes widened.
Bulged.
Fell.
Slice hopped onto the desk. {How long do you think they’ll keep ignoring this?} she asked. The sneasel bent to lap at the bloody stump.
“I don’t know,” the child said, watching the head stop rolling. “I don’t think anyone really cares. He didn’t.”
Not what you were expecting? A horrible waste of time that should never see the light of day? Too bland?
Speaking of writing, based on the response here and elsewhere, it seems like Ice's story will be the next one for me to write.
So, dear bored readers, here are two story bits. Anyone who points out a mistake or something that could be better gets a cookie.
"Damn vermin!" The man kicked it, hard, then walked away.
The child crawled over. She stared at it, entranced by the brilliant scarlet color of the blood, glistening like wet rubies in the dim light, and the shiny round black eyes staring outward, devoid of any emotion. She crawled closer, hanging over it. She had only seen the flash of tails and hind legs before, vanishing like the end of a worm sucked into the beak of a bird. Yet they were going to safety, while the worm was going to die. She didn't understand exactly how it could work differently.
She knew this one was hurt badly. She did not know, exactly, what it looked like normally, but she did know that its body looked wrong somehow. As she sat watching it, she became aware of small noises around her, scrabblings she recognized and had heard many times before, although she could not remember the first time.
"Hello," she said, not moving, still staring at the twitching rattata . "Hello. Is this yours?" She tried again, twisting at her voice, trying to find the sound they would react to. "One of yours? Is this one of yours?"
One of them, only one, chittered at her, angry but something else too, more that than angry, something else she didn't know.
"I didn't," she said, not so much a denial as a simple statement. Her voice was still twisting.
Chittering, more than one this time. Not warning, not danger, just...what? She didn't know what it meant.
"I think it's going to die," she continued, conversationally, trying to get the pitch and rhythm right. "I'm not sure. Is it? I'd think you'd know."
More chittering, purposeful. She listened, repeating the sounds over and over in her head.
...dying...something about that. The rattata was dying. But not an answer to the question, a...something. She...resentment, anger. Over...the rattata...dying? No, no, not...quite.
It was hard to tell, not a matter of only hearing a few words but of half-hearing them all. And even then, it was as if they had different meanings depending on something else. She felt frustrated.
The other rattata was saying – why she...killed it? No. Why she...didn't kill it?
"What?" she asked, trying to imitate the rhythm of the sounds. It chittered again.
Why she didn't kill it? No. Why had she and then not? No. Why she had...no. Why it was still alive? No. Why it was still alive when she had killed it?
The hidden rattata chittered a third time, almost the same yet different, subtly. Almost a demand.
Why she didn't kill it after she killed it? No, not quite, not at all. Why she...it...
She reached out and snapped the neck of the injured rattata, breaking it like a dry twig between her fingers. Why had she killed it and not let it die.
Silence, silence. She didn't know what they were doing or about to do, and she couldn't see them, because they wouldn't venture out even in darkness that should have hidden them from anyone's eyes. But – and this was something strange, something rare – she didn't feel like they were, or could be, anything dangerous to her.
“I heard you’re been causing trouble.”
She was sitting on a chair with her hands under her. She stared at him, her face blank. She didn’t answer. She could see he was supposed to be calm, unruffled, and could see just as clearly that he wasn't.
He was coming undone in front of her. She was doing something wrong, something strange, something that was unnerving him, slowly eroding his façade. She didn’t know what that was. What did he want her to do? She wanted to know. She didn’t want to cause something without realizing what she was doing.
“A lot of people are dead.”
How did he think she should act? What was he expecting, that she was failing to do?
Silence.
“We can’t just have agents killing each other, you know.”
She opened her mouth. “I explained this already,” she said again.
“How can you expect us to believe you?” the man demanded. His face looked as if it was a clay mask, thin cracks forming in it as he spoke. His voice was corrupting from his starting calm, becoming angry. Yet – not anger exactly –
“But you do,” she said. “That’s not what this is about.”
Crack. The man hit the top of his desk with one balled fist. His eyes were starting to open too wide. He was angry. Yet somehow, the anger was just…another pretense under his pretense? “You’re just a child! You don’t know anything.”
She was confused. “You’re…afraid of me?” she asked uncertainly.
There were lines on his face. “No,” he said coldly. “No, I’m not. Don’t try to–”
His voice was wrong. “Because you–” she started.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped. “You’re here because we want an explanation of what you think you’re doing. Because it seems you think you can just do whatever you fucking want.” His hand was shaking, behind the desk. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. His heart was beating too fast.
“You know I’m not just making it up. You know it isn’t unreasonable for this to have–”
“What’s unreasonable is the idea a brat like you could have known!” he yelled.
She stared at him quietly. What’s unreasonable is the idea a brat like you could have won!
He took a breath. She could almost hear him saying to himself, don't let a child get you upset like this. In a faintly strained but cold voice, he said, “I need a believable explanation.”
“There isn’t one,” she said, her voice soft, calm, but not working. Was there anything she could say? She didn't know. “I can’t think of an explanation you’d believe. Can you?”
“You’re saying – you just killed them?” He had the furrowed face of someone faintly surprised, not by the answer but by the response.
She shook her head, listening to the wood-on-wood scrape of an opening drawer. “No. I already gave the real explanation. You’re going to shoot me anyway.”
Eyes widened.
Bulged.
Fell.
Slice hopped onto the desk. {How long do you think they’ll keep ignoring this?} she asked. The sneasel bent to lap at the bloody stump.
“I don’t know,” the child said, watching the head stop rolling. “I don’t think anyone really cares. He didn’t.”
Not what you were expecting? A horrible waste of time that should never see the light of day? Too bland?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Re: Grrr...it has to be in *three* parts
Date: 2004-06-24 12:47 am (UTC)She, in turn, is confused because she sees several layers of emotion and pretense, because she truly has no idea why he's bothering to talk to her when it doesn't seem like he wants her answers (or why he's bothering to pretend to be calm if she can tell he isn't), and because she's still struggling with the idea of fear.
And the clay mask...like a lot of the story, it's mildly surreal. It starts off like a metaphor, but the second half of the sentence makes it sound as if she's literally watching him start to crack apart. She starts to get mild visions/hallucinations when she's with the rockets as a child because there are too many psychics around. In this case it's not really definite if it is or isn't, but it's basically just indicative of how the man is starting to lose it.