Dear Mother and Father,
I haven't left Der Hut des Jaeger since Thursday evening. Strangely, I'm beginning to feel a trifle lonesome, although I do spend so much time by myself no matter what. Last month, at least, I had all manner of fantastical mirages to keep me company. I've been using the time to improve Squeezy, so that now it's at the point where it can move on its own when I set it down on the floor. Still, Squeezy is not an intelligent lifeform and isn't quite what one would call "company", no matter how wonderful a pillow it makes.
Tonight will most likely be the most hazardous night of the year. I wonder how all my friends are doing. Is Mrs. Lowey safe when she "shifts between planes", or will she accidentally end up in some Elder Thing's lair? Will Miss Dreamscape defeat the sea monsters? Are Miss Gearbox and Mr. Bayn safe from said sea monsters? How is Miss Blackheart managing her magical powers? Has Mr. Paine gotten himself into any more trouble? Is Miss Corryong's life as perfect as she is? Does Mr./Miss Bermann have everthing he/she needs?
I wish there were someone I could ask about all this. In fact, some of those things I should have just asked on Thursday, if I had been able to think of it with so many people around.
I imagine you two are still safe, as Boston was never one of the more aetherically unstable parts of the world. Do enjoy yourselves, whatever you may be doing!
Love,
Your Shaqad
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Back to square one
Dear Mother and Father,
I'm back to where I "started", so to speak: I'm spending the night in that little tavern in Winterfell. I did miss the gingerbread, I'll admit, though of course that isn't why I'm here. A girl from Steelhead gave me a copy of the Landmark I'd dropped earlier, so I had a chance to go back again--to someplace that wasn't Steelhead nor the middle of nowhere. I took that chance, and it felt like returning home.
The place was quite crowded this time, and the aether could barely handle all the projectiles in motion! Some of the people I was so glad to see again I could hardly stand it (though I composed myself!), and some people were here whom I had never seen before, most of the latter category being close to my age. But they weren't like the Boston children who look at me strangely no matter what I'm doing. They were very polite and courteous, and the girl who gave me the Landmark was all in all very sweet. I think there is an actual chance of making friends my own age!
I got to sit next to Mr. Captain Veles this time--not that that means anything to me or anyone else, of course. It's just a minor observation.
The theme this time was Halloween, and if you remember my reasons for running off on the lovely Steelhead folks, you will know that Halloween is not a good theme for me to hear about at this point in my life. Indeed, I had intended to just stop by for the poetry slam and then follow somebody home to find secure lodging, but after a steady stream of unsettling poems, I decided not to go anywhere after all. (Nobody reacted helpfully to my inquiry about being taken back to America. If only...)
One thing of note that separated tonight from every other night was that I had found a poem. I didn't read it, of course. Somebody else had a poem by the same author, and I would have felt strange drawing attention to myself anyhow. It's this poem by Mr. Lovecraft, the only writer I know of who ever expressed interest in little Dunwich, and it's called Hallowe'en in the Suburbs:
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
And the harpies of upper air,
That flutter and laugh and stare.
For the village dead to the moon outspread
Never shone in the sunset’s gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
Where the rivers of madness stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.
A chill wind blows through the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
Spreads sleep o’er the cosmic throne,
And looses the vast unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and plain
That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
Sprung out of the tomb’s black maw
To shake all the world with awe.
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
Shall some day be with the rest,
And brood with the shades unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
Of horror and death are penned,
For the hounds of Time to rend.
It's most dreadfully gloomy, perhaps to an even greater degree than the poems that did get read tonight. Instead of that one, I found myself repeating near-silently to myself the little rhyme the parson in our first neighborhood used to say sometimes.
The stars have got aligned again:
It isn't if, but merely when.
The hills may roar, the earth may shake,
But we've got hope no power can break,
For patterned stars and shattered minds
Can never touch the Love that binds
Our souls to God upon His throne,
Though in the flesh we stand alone.
So hold Him tight throughout the night;
His grace will hold us strong--
The whip-poor-wills can't bear you any place you don't belong.
So don't you ever tremble at the wonders in the sky:
For we know at the end of things, Death itself shall die.
It's strange, since I know his theology is entirely heretical next to yours. Why did I even retain that poem in my memory? I guess it's not uncharacteristic of me to recall irrelevancies above things of import.
Yet, I really do need a lot of comforting right now. I'm squeezing Squeezy right now, and it's helping a little, but not to the point where I'd be interested in going outside.
The Jaegerpeople were joking about eating brains tonight, but I know they wouldn't really do it. They're such a lovely bunch, and if they wanted to go on a brain-eating spree, they would have done it by now.
Did I mention thatMama Valdy Miss Dreamscape was here? She had things she needed to urgently focus on, though, so she barely got to interact with anybody. On the bright side, she doesn't seem obviously upset at me. Of course, either way it's best to keep my distance. If she really is upset, that could be dangerous. If she still likes me by some miracle, I oughtn't test her patience. That would be like collecting all the most beautiful glass Christmas ornaments in the world and taking a bath in them.
You know, I'm a bit worried about the Steelhead citizens who aren't Jaegerpeople. What if someone like Miss Gearbox, who gave me the Landmark, were gone tomorrow due to a head-stealing alien attack? I think I would feel rather guilty.
I'm glad at least you're safe back home in Boston where there are no monsters.
Love always,
Your Shaqad
I'm back to where I "started", so to speak: I'm spending the night in that little tavern in Winterfell. I did miss the gingerbread, I'll admit, though of course that isn't why I'm here. A girl from Steelhead gave me a copy of the Landmark I'd dropped earlier, so I had a chance to go back again--to someplace that wasn't Steelhead nor the middle of nowhere. I took that chance, and it felt like returning home.
The place was quite crowded this time, and the aether could barely handle all the projectiles in motion! Some of the people I was so glad to see again I could hardly stand it (though I composed myself!), and some people were here whom I had never seen before, most of the latter category being close to my age. But they weren't like the Boston children who look at me strangely no matter what I'm doing. They were very polite and courteous, and the girl who gave me the Landmark was all in all very sweet. I think there is an actual chance of making friends my own age!
I got to sit next to Mr. Captain Veles this time--not that that means anything to me or anyone else, of course. It's just a minor observation.
The theme this time was Halloween, and if you remember my reasons for running off on the lovely Steelhead folks, you will know that Halloween is not a good theme for me to hear about at this point in my life. Indeed, I had intended to just stop by for the poetry slam and then follow somebody home to find secure lodging, but after a steady stream of unsettling poems, I decided not to go anywhere after all. (Nobody reacted helpfully to my inquiry about being taken back to America. If only...)
One thing of note that separated tonight from every other night was that I had found a poem. I didn't read it, of course. Somebody else had a poem by the same author, and I would have felt strange drawing attention to myself anyhow. It's this poem by Mr. Lovecraft, the only writer I know of who ever expressed interest in little Dunwich, and it's called Hallowe'en in the Suburbs:
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
And the harpies of upper air,
That flutter and laugh and stare.
For the village dead to the moon outspread
Never shone in the sunset’s gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
Where the rivers of madness stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.
A chill wind blows through the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
Spreads sleep o’er the cosmic throne,
And looses the vast unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and plain
That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
Sprung out of the tomb’s black maw
To shake all the world with awe.
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
Shall some day be with the rest,
And brood with the shades unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
Of horror and death are penned,
For the hounds of Time to rend.
It's most dreadfully gloomy, perhaps to an even greater degree than the poems that did get read tonight. Instead of that one, I found myself repeating near-silently to myself the little rhyme the parson in our first neighborhood used to say sometimes.
The stars have got aligned again:
It isn't if, but merely when.
The hills may roar, the earth may shake,
But we've got hope no power can break,
For patterned stars and shattered minds
Can never touch the Love that binds
Our souls to God upon His throne,
Though in the flesh we stand alone.
So hold Him tight throughout the night;
His grace will hold us strong--
The whip-poor-wills can't bear you any place you don't belong.
So don't you ever tremble at the wonders in the sky:
For we know at the end of things, Death itself shall die.
It's strange, since I know his theology is entirely heretical next to yours. Why did I even retain that poem in my memory? I guess it's not uncharacteristic of me to recall irrelevancies above things of import.
Yet, I really do need a lot of comforting right now. I'm squeezing Squeezy right now, and it's helping a little, but not to the point where I'd be interested in going outside.
The Jaegerpeople were joking about eating brains tonight, but I know they wouldn't really do it. They're such a lovely bunch, and if they wanted to go on a brain-eating spree, they would have done it by now.
Did I mention that
You know, I'm a bit worried about the Steelhead citizens who aren't Jaegerpeople. What if someone like Miss Gearbox, who gave me the Landmark, were gone tomorrow due to a head-stealing alien attack? I think I would feel rather guilty.
I'm glad at least you're safe back home in Boston where there are no monsters.
Love always,
Your Shaqad
Regarding this blog
((Okay...I guess I haven't had much luck hand writing my blog entries, either. How many media have I attempted this in so far? Okay...let's see...with this format, I guess I can sprinkle the illustrations among typed-out text. Will that be okay? I guess if typing works out for everyone else...))
((Here goes...))
((P.S. This is my first entry on the blog. I've dated things according to when they happened to my character rather than when I wrote them.))
((Here goes...))
((P.S. This is my first entry on the blog. I've dated things according to when they happened to my character rather than when I wrote them.))
Monday, October 25, 2010
Flash Fiction [third person]
((Okay, I don't think I'm going to submit this to Canolli Capolini's Flash Fiction contest thingy, but I did want to see if I could get this entry a)done and b)within the 600-word limit, since I'm usually the most verbose creature in the world. I may have broken Second Life TOS by quoting Miss Dreamscape directly from a private log, but it's only one in-character line and I don't think she'd mind too much, in spite of the bleh quality of the context. Here's what I came up with.))
It was funny to think that Shaqad had once been afraid of locomotives. Here she was riding one of her own free will for the second time, and fear was the last thing on her mind. Actually, that last part was strangest of all: Her first trip was to hide from a monster, which was still there. But this time...this time she was going to make lemonade from life's lemons.
"Mirage Mother," she said to the hypnogogic hallucination beside her, "do you think my real parents will like the new me?"
"Don't be silly," the hallucination replied. "We are your real parents."
"Speak for yourself," said the hallucination of her father. "I still say it was the milk man."
The first hallucination rolled her eyes.
Shaqad took the unfinished construct head out of her unreasonably voluminous pocket. "I did the best I could," she whispered.
"The seams are very messy," remarked Mirage Mother. "It's hard to believe it's your best."
"It's a decent first try!" Mirage Mrs. Lowey offered.
(Meanwhile, the only other passenger on the train who actually existed got up and discreetly moved to another car.)
"I know I could do better," Shaqad decided, trying not to let her imagination's words impact her, "but this is really very urgent. This needs to be sewn onto my body before it gets unusable, and the Sparkpeople still need to give it a nice brain--"
"You shouldn't always rely on other people!" interrupted Mirage Father.
"Oh, but Father, you know how I am with machines! I'm doing this for you. I want the new me to be perfect. She--I'll be part construct and part clank, better than what nature did! I'll be clever and talented and"--here she locked eyes with her "mother"--"friendly and charming and graceful, and everyone will love me!" Shaqad took a deep, wavering breath. "Even you."
"It dun make senze, though," said Mirage Valdyr. "Forst hyu run away from der monster, und then hyu run right beck to it to keel hyuself?"
"Oh, but I'm not killing myself!" exclaimed Shaqad. "I'll only have my head replaced! The King of the Whippoorwills just said to 'Go home'. He didn't say how much of me."
She gazed out the perpetually reshaping window at a grove of trees that was playing ball with an uprooted rosebush. A solitary farmhouse stood nearby, slowly melting onto the grass.
"I wish the mirages would stop," she remarked.
"Well," said Mirage Mother, "it's as the Whippoorwill said. God punishes children for staying up a week past their bedtime."
Shaqad sighed, then smiled brilliantly. "The new me won't do such silly things. I bet she won't even have nightmares."
Just then, the subway train came to a stop in the middle of Steelhead. It took Shaqad, in her sleep-addled haze, almost a minute to notice, but when she did, she gathered her things and rushed out.
Unfortunately, the door frame in her world was melting; she misjudged what to hold onto and fell spectacularly onto the cobblestone.
"Ach! Are hyu hokay, Mizz Ashbourne?" cried Mirage Valdyr.
And then her world came apart at the seams. It was a quote from her memory: A real quote from a real person, and that gave it power. Where were her defenses? Tears came; she permitted them.
"Get up, Little Lady! You're embarrassing me!" Mirage Mother scolded. But that no longer mattered, for her world was undone. In this strange new universe, quite possibly, she was not okay. Even more strangely...it mattered.
Less than an hour later, she had stumbled into a warehouse full of soothing mint and cried herself to sleep. She awoke two days after that, having shed all her plans and waking dreams.
She never found the construct head again.
It was funny to think that Shaqad had once been afraid of locomotives. Here she was riding one of her own free will for the second time, and fear was the last thing on her mind. Actually, that last part was strangest of all: Her first trip was to hide from a monster, which was still there. But this time...this time she was going to make lemonade from life's lemons.
"Mirage Mother," she said to the hypnogogic hallucination beside her, "do you think my real parents will like the new me?"
"Don't be silly," the hallucination replied. "We are your real parents."
"Speak for yourself," said the hallucination of her father. "I still say it was the milk man."
The first hallucination rolled her eyes.
Shaqad took the unfinished construct head out of her unreasonably voluminous pocket. "I did the best I could," she whispered.
"The seams are very messy," remarked Mirage Mother. "It's hard to believe it's your best."
"It's a decent first try!" Mirage Mrs. Lowey offered.
(Meanwhile, the only other passenger on the train who actually existed got up and discreetly moved to another car.)
"I know I could do better," Shaqad decided, trying not to let her imagination's words impact her, "but this is really very urgent. This needs to be sewn onto my body before it gets unusable, and the Sparkpeople still need to give it a nice brain--"
"You shouldn't always rely on other people!" interrupted Mirage Father.
"Oh, but Father, you know how I am with machines! I'm doing this for you. I want the new me to be perfect. She--I'll be part construct and part clank, better than what nature did! I'll be clever and talented and"--here she locked eyes with her "mother"--"friendly and charming and graceful, and everyone will love me!" Shaqad took a deep, wavering breath. "Even you."
"It dun make senze, though," said Mirage Valdyr. "Forst hyu run away from der monster, und then hyu run right beck to it to keel hyuself?"
"Oh, but I'm not killing myself!" exclaimed Shaqad. "I'll only have my head replaced! The King of the Whippoorwills just said to 'Go home'. He didn't say how much of me."
She gazed out the perpetually reshaping window at a grove of trees that was playing ball with an uprooted rosebush. A solitary farmhouse stood nearby, slowly melting onto the grass.
"I wish the mirages would stop," she remarked.
"Well," said Mirage Mother, "it's as the Whippoorwill said. God punishes children for staying up a week past their bedtime."
Shaqad sighed, then smiled brilliantly. "The new me won't do such silly things. I bet she won't even have nightmares."
Just then, the subway train came to a stop in the middle of Steelhead. It took Shaqad, in her sleep-addled haze, almost a minute to notice, but when she did, she gathered her things and rushed out.
Unfortunately, the door frame in her world was melting; she misjudged what to hold onto and fell spectacularly onto the cobblestone.
"Ach! Are hyu hokay, Mizz Ashbourne?" cried Mirage Valdyr.
And then her world came apart at the seams. It was a quote from her memory: A real quote from a real person, and that gave it power. Where were her defenses? Tears came; she permitted them.
"Get up, Little Lady! You're embarrassing me!" Mirage Mother scolded. But that no longer mattered, for her world was undone. In this strange new universe, quite possibly, she was not okay. Even more strangely...it mattered.
Less than an hour later, she had stumbled into a warehouse full of soothing mint and cried herself to sleep. She awoke two days after that, having shed all her plans and waking dreams.
She never found the construct head again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)