YeahWrite Summer 2014- Crack in the window

The green bar completes its journey across the monitor. The screen illuminates the room, the only other source of light being the thin rays that filter through the paper blinds. Outside, the sun is setting. Despite the relatively cool air, I am sweating. The air is tense. My muscles ache from exhaustion. I control my breathing to be as quiet as possible, knowing it is useless. Security will be here soon. The comforting pressure of a 9mm gun on my left rib helps me to keep a cool head. A strange thought pierces the surface of my mental stream: How many 16 year olds have infiltrated tight security compounds over the course of espionage’s relatively short history?

Hurried steps echo in the corridor. A short moment of silence is interrupted by the mechanical click of a loaded firearm. A nervous voice is muffled by the wooden door, the crack of a radio following the stereotypical “Over!” A message of completion appears on the screen before me. The data transfer is over

.
Just in time…

I snatch the USB key from the computer and stuff it in the inner pocket of my suit. The door explodes behind me as I burst into a sprint. The blast of a shotgun erupts from behind. I hear the burning metal pellets whistle by my skull as they crash into the window before me, cracking it. My job thus made easier by my pursuers, I dive elbow first into the glass obstacle, and fall through it. The still, artificially fresh air of the office gives way to the dry summer wind. Thirty floors of empty air separate my falling body from the hot pavement.

After a few seconds, I pull the strap hidden under my suit, releasing a parachute camouflaged within. My velocity is reduced abruptly. Overhead, voices shout in anger. I hear the explosions of a familiar shotgun crack through the evening sky. A quick glimpse downwards allows me to estimate to about 15 seconds the remainder of my fall. I take my small gun from its holster and quickly shift my weight forwards, making the parachute dip back. My line of sight now clear, I aim the deadly tool up towards my assailants, and pull the trigger. The recoil of the gun doesn’t help my muscular exhaustion in any way. One of the men’s silhouette tumbles back into the office, a scream of pain accompanying his fall. Once the distance between my feet and the pavement is reduced to about 6 feet, I cut the strings of my parachute and let myself fall to the ground.

A Porsche 911GT3 pulls up, the new girl, Sam, at the wheel. “Where on earth did you find THAT!?” I ask, a little startled by the beautiful German supercar. “Does it really matter? Get in here now!” She replies, her voice barely understandable because of the engine’s steady purr and her heavy Russian accent. I collapse onto the passenger seat, exhausted, and let the muffled roar of the engine drift me away from reality, and into sleep, as Sam’s expert driving gets us far away from any possibility of pursuit.

Man, who knew being a spy was so tiring? They forgot to mention that in James Bond…

…………………………………….ISPY//w//..MYLITTLEEYES……………………………………………………

Stereotypical spy story for this week, also the sequel to this post. I decided to write in present tense this week, as a sort of experiment. And sorry for letting my petrol-head ways show in this post, but if you’re going to escape, might as well do it in style right? Consider yourself lucky. I could have talked about the 3.7L, 475 break horse power V6 in AGONIZING detail for anyone who’s not into that stuff… But I held it all in. That’s dedication right there!

 

YeahWrite Summer 2014-Nightime Runaway

I burst forwards, using the trees as leverage. Movement behind me. I turn around in mid air and release a wave of magical heat, vaporizing the vegetation, illuminating the night with deadly flames. I turn back around to face the right direction, ignoring the movement in my peripheral vision, renewing my momentum with the nearest branch. Screeches of rage erupt from the flames behind me. Shivers crawl up my spine. I mustn’t let fear take over. Focus! Focus on the trees before you, not the shadows behind!

Tree. Right foot on the branch, left foot forwards. Eyes spotting for the next stepping stone. Burst of energy through the right heel. Left foot anticipating the next branch. Arms stabilizing the jumps and ready to fire death upon anything that gets too close. Spot. Land. Jump. Repeat.

How long I ran? Who knows? I came down to a stop when the trees did, at the edge of a cliff. It was too dark to see the bottom. My exhaustion could be heard in my breath. Soon, shadows landed around me, four colourful dots in each silhouette’s face. Their long arms nearly reached their feet. Their strange necks twisted around as they observed me. These things had haunted me, manipulated me ever since I escaped their lair, down in the depths of the earth. Then again, I had stolen something from them. Now they had cornered me, at the edge of a cliff, so far from civilisation that none will hear me scream. They waited, patiently. I spat a cuss, realising the predicament I was in. Slowly, I reached inside my pouch and took the artefact out. I laid the mysterious stone on the ground before me, the green runes eerily illuminating the grass.

One of the SoulEaters roared out of what seemed like satisfaction. The creature straight across from me stepped forward and grabbed the stone. I didn’t stop however and kept walking towards me. I tried to move away but I was paralyzed, held in place by a cold, invisible hand. It stopped before me. It rose the stone up to its mouth and breathed on it. The stone vaporised, revealing a bright green light within, like an emerald star encased a body of rock, floating in the monstrous palm of the creature. I shut my eyes.

I was fighting the dread rising within. Be logical. If it wanted you dead, you’d be dead! Then why keep you alive? Logic. Fear. Hope. Fear. Confidence. Fear…. Fear.

The familiar tingle of magical runes on my skin interrupted the mental ballet. The creature’s palm was next to my abdomen, the green light illuminating my doublet. Before I realised what was happening, the green star traversed my clothes, phasing through my skin and logging itself within me. A wave of excruciating pain crashed on my body. I heard myself scream. The invisible hand let me go soon after. My legs refused to obey my brain, and I fell to the floor. I saw the feet of the SoulEaters vanish. I wanted to scream, to move, but my muscles shut down, as if the pain had fried my nervous system. My eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. They shut despite my best efforts. I was drifting away from reality. The last sensory stimuli I remember came from my ears. “Am I dying?” a shaky, girlish voice said.

No. It wasn’t death. Dreams of terrible creatures chased me through my mind. Memories that didn’t belong to me flowed into my mental river. I saw a boat through a familiar explorer’s eyes. I saw a boy through the eyes of a mother. I saw a house through the eyes of an architect. I was somehow conscious of memories of those that had fallen prey to the SoulEaters. That green light gave me the collective knowledge of hundreds of people, as if I had a sensory library within me, one I could access at will. I was painfully floating back towards reality when I became conscious of the green star’s second gift: I felt a huge, distant reserve of dark power stored within my abdomen. I was focusing on it when the rising sun forced me out of the nightmare.

I realised the ground below me wasn’t grass but sand. The eerie silence of the mountain gave way to the quiet harmony of waves on a beach. The star within me produced a name: Egora, thousands of miles from where I fell unconscious.

::……………..PoWeR//PURPOSE//………………TOOL//VeCtOr.of.WILL//::……………………………………..::

Hello yeahwrite! For those of you not familiar with me (and the many of you who probably forgot), I am running a fantasy series on this blog. This is part three. You’ll find the previous part here, and the whole thing here. Thank you for stopping by, I hope you enjoyed! As always, your thoughts, criticism, and opinions are welcome.

PS: For those who remember the comment section of pt 2, yeah, I’m gonna make this character a girl…

PSS: Bookworm is gonna be at least less active, and at most completely absent from the blogosphere for the next two weeks. She’s out in what some people call “nature”. It’s a strange place where things happen without human intervention or wifi. Crazy right? So you guys are stuck with me for a while… Take that as you will.

PSSS: Isn’t it supposed to be PPS and PPPS, as in post post scriptum, and post post post scriptum?

PSSSS/PPPPS: If you are still reading, congrats! You have just received the Dwagon Seal of Awesome. Now you can brag in the comment section.

 

Lost Either Way

I’ve been pulled into many situations against my will these past two years. I seem to have a knack for getting into trouble and then getting back out again but, standing with my hands flat on the table, partly hunched over it I know there’s no getting out of this one.

“I can’t.”

But that’s not enough, he needs an explanation. So he looks on trying to spook my thoughts out and onto the table. Or at least that’s what he looks like, I doubt he was really trying to do anything like that.

“This is suicide, there’s no way I’m getting out of this.”

“There are many ways you could get out”

“Then send someone else!”

“I can’t because no-one has your skill”

“Tryst could easily do it and get out”

“No she’s good at lying, we want you to tell the truth the way you know to and besides he already knows Tryst”

I mumble “she could do it”

“Would you really take that chance?”

He knows I would never put Angel in such danger myself even if he has done it countless times. And had he not known my fidgeting and hand wringing would’ve given it away. I’m a rather bad lier and I suppose that’s just as well because I hate to lie.

I let the table support me so that he won’t see me tremble; he can already see my indecision, he doesn’t need to see my weakness.

“I am not like you or your soldiers or spies or whatever you want to call them, I can’t get through this stuff easily, I can’t kill and it’s bad enough having to stun people with a gun they think will kill them-”

“Oh I’m sorry did you want a nice colourful one with a sign that says ‘don’t worry I can’t kill you anyway’?!”

“No.”

“Then get ready for your mission. You can assemble a team to go with you if you want.”

“But if I fail they die too. So actually you’re just allowing me a team because you know I won’t take one with me.”

“I thought you knew better; even if they don’t go in with you you can have a team that follows you with comms and a tracker who could look up anything you need to know and tell you where to go. You could also have an extraction team in case you can’t get out.”

“That place is a fortress that’s why you didn’t want a big team to storm in in the first place! The extraction team wouldn’t get past the front door.”

“Then don’t have one.”

“I can’t do it”

“You have to.”

He left the room before I could answer. Angel would’ve given her life without hesitation, she would’ve followed her orders and she would’ve gotten out all alone with no team at all yet here I am trembling despite leaning on the table, tears slowly smashing against the glass surface. Knowing that I alone could do this. I’m not a soldier, even less a spy, I’m a coward. It’s kept me alive so far. Sure I’ve been through a lot but I’m still terrified of dying and afraid of being hurt, it’s human nature and unlike most people here I can’t suppress it. And when I’m that scared I can’t move which hardly makes for a difficult target. My skills (though not that developed) lie in hiding, waiting and persuasion. Angel taught me a little self defence too though I’m still useless against the people here (except for a few scientist that never go in the field but that doesn’t count).

The table is useless against my trembling now and I hate seeing the tears fall almost like rain splashing over my hands so I put my back against the wall and slide down it until I take up very little space and I cry silently but breath a little heavily.

I’m not a hero, I’m not strong, I’m not brave; I’m weak and cowardly, maybe my only redeeming quality is that I’m smart, and even then that’s not much compared to some people. I can’t face this. I can’t face this alone and yet anyone who comes with me dies and I can’t let that happen either. I’m a bad excuse for “the only one who can save us now” whoever said that was highly over exaggerating. Either that or the world was doomed from the start. I’m the flaw here. If anyone here had half what I had they’d put it to a better use when I would just cower in a corner wishing it all to be over but no, it’s people with strength and courage and a license to kill (that part I don’t envy) who could get in but not do what needs to be done and then there’s me, who could perhaps manage to make it work but I’d have practically no way in and definitely no way out. I have to sacrifice myself for the good of all and no matter how I see it or try to think of it I can’t bring myself to face it. These past two years I’ve been avoiding the truth but it’s hard to do that when it’s staring you in the face and this is one of the hardest of truths and I just can’t deal with it.

Will the world die? Or will I be able to sacrifice everything I have and then even my life, to make it go on a while longer? I wish I were a proud martyr. But I’m not.
I’m lost either way.

 

…..••••••……..•••••…….••••••……seasofemotionwashingoveryou…..••••••••……..••••••…….

This kind of maybe follows another post (can you guess which one?)
Ok, being optimistic (hoping people actually read this that is) I’m guessing you either haven’t been here before or you forgot everything you read here already (which I don’t blame you for) so here it is: Pick A Side
Anyways I’m always glad to to get feedback, good or bad 😉

For those of you who did remember it (or who just read it) I know I said I wouldn’t be writing any more of this… I lied… I meant it at the time but now I’m not so sure… you may or may not see something related to the adventures of mysterious Tiger again, I don’t know, I guess we’ll all find out!

 

The place that life did shun

Where have all the flowers gone?

For winter’s been and done,

What have all the people done

To make such beauty run?

 

It is because the flowers know

That people burn and kill,

The war and devastation show

That coulors suit us ill.

 

The sun starts to fades away

To leave us in the dark,

Such creatures don’t deserve to stay

Lighted by a spark.

 

The flowers bleed their sorrow and hurt

For Man has pierced their shield:

Their brothers laid down in the dirt

Under the poppy fields.

 

………….•••••••••••………..•••••••••……..••••••••………•••••••……..•••••…….••••••…..

 

I’m sorry this had to be so sad and I’m not sure I’ll be uploading this to the grid, I’ll probably find something more fun

Ok scrap that I wrote something I liked a little more but it was way too long (over 900 words) and I didn’t have the heart to cut it that much so I’m going to cheat by adding a link if you want to see it but feel free to ignore it. Here it is

Feel free to comment on anything you see should you choose to roam around this blog (I even encourage you do so) even if something is months old it’s always nice to get new feedback or even just appreciation (or depreciation but with reason). Also if you want to participate in a friendly prompt or prompt me (or us, I think DragonSpark would be happy to give it a go) do so, go ahead 🙂

By the way I’m leaving for two weeks on Friday so don’t be offended if it takes me a while to answer, I promise I’ll answer you when I get back.
If you read this far thank you for bearing with me as I rambled on

 

YeahWrite Summer 2014-It’s a rough job…

“The shifts are demanding. Around 7pm-7am, knowing the starting hours vary depending on the day. You have to start the job at the exact assigned time, not a second earlier, not a second later. Everyone has to be in perfect harmony. We’re more synchronised than a orchestra of Swiss watchmakers.

Not only are the shifts hard, but the job itself is hard too. You are expected to be brilliant all the time. You don’t get brakes, not even to go to the bathroom. It’s a job that will anchor you in place for sure.

We’ve got nobody protecting us. We don’t have a union, politicians are always trying to cut our budget, and the media doesn’t give a crap about the real, hard working folks out there.

We’re never appreciated either. One flicker of failure, and any passer-by will be cussing at or about you. Nobody ever compliments us, even if we’re the one lighting up the city. Dogs sometime urinate on us for Christ’s sake! And don’t even get me started on the pay.

It’s a hard job being a lamppost…”

::…………:…………//HIKARI-SUPAKU::::…………………..alwaysrememberthethingsyoudon’t::..

I wasn’t planning on posting anything to the first supergrid this week, as I had already posted something for the Moonshine, and because I was traveling. The idea for the post above came to me while observing the city lights as the plane was taking off. So here is my humble homage to a piece of infrastructure we often forget.
Up next, traffic lights!! 😆

 

Why write?

I’m relatively new to WordPress, and one of my favourite things about blogging has been comments. I love to read, write and answer them. Recently, we were awarded a Liebster (not incredibly prestigious but still sent shivers through me when I saw Sue Blake’s comment). So we did the whole Q&A and nominated some bloggers we liked. One of my nominees was a girl whose blog I had just recently started to visit regularly, the amazing SJ Paige. During the ensuing comment chit-chat, she briefly mentioned her motivations for blogging. This seemingly casual remark caused a surprisingly big reaction within my brain. Why do I blog? Why do I spend countless hours in front of my PC screen telling stories of mages, secret agents, and spaceships?

Rationality gave me the answer. “You accepted your friend’s invitation and challenge to join the SpeakEasy” it declared, “after which you realised you could learn how to write better from these people.” Yes, but why do I feel this urge to write more? Why am I addicted to all sorts of feedback, comments especially?

Analytics then spoke up. “It’s a form of human interaction. You’re a human being (a bloody teenager at that). Evolution has wired you to pursue social interaction. It’s how you’re gonna meet a mate to further ensure the continuation of the human race.” Ok, but then why are the most satisfying comments tips, advice, constructive criticism etc… Why am I so proud when I put the final period on a post, one that outshines the tingle of satisfaction I feel when I hit “publish”? Why do I feel like a kid in a candy store while surfing through WordPress?

Dead silence from Analytics and Rationality. Well Ramble, it’s just you and me.

The way I see it, two possibilities stand out. Either I’m a lot more of an attention seeker than I originally thought I was, or this is what artists feel when they create a piece of art, or at least something that goes beyond the status of words on a piece of paper (Don’t have the pride or notoriety necessary to call myself an artist… in public… yet).

I feel like we all have an inner need for attention. We all need some sort of proof that we exist, that we are more than the sum of our actions, that we transcend the status of mere animated physical body. Maybe that is how Evolution makes us pursue human interactions: by making us addicted to them, being the most efficient and visible testimony to our existence (how it affects the life of others). Maybe it’s just a quirk produced by our overly complex brain. Maybe the machine in our heads has a desperate need to verify the reality perceived by our senses, to make sure it has a place in it.

Then again, this inner need for attention wouldn’t answer the whole question. It might justify the glee I feel when I see the high five comments on the SpeakEasy posts, and even part of the immense satisfaction caused by the comments with reactions in them (every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Here is a reaction caused by my action. My action is capable of causing a reaction, therefore it is real, and therefore I’m real). It doesn’t, however, explain the sheer pride I feel when surfing around on WordPress, knowing I’m part of that big machine. It doesn’t explain the satisfaction of finishing a post, or even that of having a good idea for a post.

That’s when the whole “artist’s pride” theory comes in. Again, I’m not calling myself an artist. I’m a teenager who happens to know how to use a keyboard. I have no qualification as a writer other than an unfinished high school education. Except quality doesn’t matter in this equation. The point is that it’s a creation, something my brain made from a set of electric impulses. Somehow, that simple fact makes us proud. Proud that we have created something. It doesn’t matter that it won’t make us rich or famous, what matters is that it is a contribution to a community (WordPress), and to a culture (the internet’s blogosphere). And that is a beautiful thing.

This pride does explain my urge to come up with new ideas, new stories, and new worlds. It explains my fascination for this community and my happiness to find my humble posts contribute to it. Is this artistic drive within all of us? Is it only due to yet another brain quirk? I have no idea. Do you?

Which one of these is the fuel my brain feeds off of when writing? A mix of the two probably. Which one is dominant? Are they fundamentally linked, and thus, impossible to separate? Am I an attention whore or Picasso?

Here is another question: Was Picasso an attention whore?

 

Patricia’s Q&A

One of my recent nominees for the Liebster, Patricia Riviera, wanted my answers to the questions she asked to her own nominees. My oversized ego immediately said yes!

1. What writer most inspires you?
I would say Isaac Asimov. I love his scientific approach to fiction. It’s driven my high school literary analysis, thus making me the nightmare of some of my literature teachers. The ones that didn’t like science anyway.

2. Do you write/blog for yourself or for others?
As of writing these words, for myself. It’s strange, but writing fiction is fun. Writing is a key part of the modern world, so practising it is also constructive, time well spent. Besides, our humble corner of the internet doesn’t attract enough people so that my sole drive for writing becomes that traffic.

3. Who is your favorite visual artist of all time?
Not sure if this fits your question, but it’s Ian Callum, the design director of Jaguar, as in the car. I consider the car as a piece of visual art, in some cases. Jags are beautiful pieces of human ingenuity and technical proficiency. He’s responsible for making them aesthetically pleasing, might I say impressive.

4. If you could learn a new language, which would it be? How would you approach it?
I think Russian is the most beautiful language ever. It would have to be that. As for the “approach”, take classes I suppose, until I’m good enough to go to the country and learn by living. However, I’m not sure I want to stay in a country with the politics and economics of Russia. Then again, I only get the over mediatised political incidents. I wonder what it is really like to live there.

5. What is your biggest phobia? What is your biggest dream?
Easy question, unfortunately. My biggest fear is failure. My biggest dream is success. If that doesn’t fit the bill, I’m scared to death of hornets (I lived in the south of the US), and I’d love to go ‘round the world in a sweet car. Like an Aston, or a Nissan GTR.

6. Assuming you believe in reincarnation, who do you think you were in a past life?
I’m probably the least religious person on earth but I’ll play along. Given that I live a life of relative peace, I’d say whoever I was, he/she wasn’t a bad person. Maybe a merchant of the Renaissance? That would be cool.

7. What mythical creature most represents your personality, and how?
Dragons, duh! I love heat, I hate cold, I love meat, and I have a borderline scary love for chimney fires.

8. If you could invent something to improve the world, what would it be?
A way to safely stabilize the plasma of a nuclear fusion power plant (Nerd alert). That would mean clean, practicaly infinite energy for humanity. No more use for Petrol, cheap electricity due to abundance, spread of access to the damn thing etc… I’d be great.

9. Would you rather: Be a recognized, acclaimed writer in your lifetime, or Remain unnoticed until your death in which then your words will live and be studied forever? Explain why.
I’m not sure if my words are worthy of the honour that is eternal study. I’d rather use my influence while alive to draw attention to things that need it (flaws of the classical educational system, lack of interest in politics, and the classics like world hunger and wealth distribution. I’d add sexism and racism to the list, but a  white teen would probably get accused of doing it for the attention, thus minimalizing the problem and shifting attention away from it in the media. People love to bash on people that do selfless acts that they themselves do not). Bessides, I don’t want all the students of the future to damn me for their bad grades, or the teachers to look for some kind of meaning in every thing I’d write.

10. Tell me about your perfect dessert.
I’m really not a foodie. Anything that contains chocolate will do just fine.

If you don’t know the rules of the Liebster, then you are either new to WordPress (in which case, thank you for flying with air DragonSpark during you discovery of this strange new world) or your incredible skill has catapulted you to fame before someone could nominate you. Either way, the rules are on top of our post concerning it.
For the practicality of the award, I won’t be nominating anyone new.

 

Speakeasy 169 – On the Outside

He had already been living on the run when she met him on an old town where Order was slightly more relaxed than in other places. But she despised Them all the same. Everybody did in every place that wasn’t Free. And everyone had a different idea of what free was. No one ever knew, they had never been told. The Free did not contact the enslaved; in fact these people didn’t even have a name to categorise them. Not even people. For others, they were: Them. Those out there we rarely heard about. The imperfections of our perfect world, hidden in the shadows, doing all the dirty work, or left Outside to die, or become enslaved by the Order. That was all there was: Outside and Inside. There were no windows, just an unreachable barrier that separated the two. They were worlds apart. The Unnamed, as they called themselves, had chosen this wisely as not only their caste was unmentionable, but most of them had no name, as they had been thrown out at an early age because of an imperfection: A missing limb or a malformed one, a misplaced organ, heart condition, cancer, mismatched eyes. Anything that was below their standards. Unsurprisingly, after a while the Outside was not so sparsely populated anymore.

Walker had come to her town with another, older boy but he had been found. Dreamer’s Walker had escaped and found her accidentally by hiding in the same place she did when the world got too real. Of course at ten years old she wasn’t fully aware of the reason, she just instinctively left when the invisible weight on her skinny shoulders was top heavy. He was Walker because he travelled; the boy with him was also Walker. They didn’t have names so they gave each other names. She was Dreamer. The names they had categorized people. A smart No-name would stay that way, or at least not give away their names too easily, but children are unaware of such silly things as they would see them, so they exchanged names and two days later Dreamer ran away with Walker.

Dreamer then became one of the few with more than one name. They travelled together from village to village, not lovers but instinctively kin and by the time they were 15 they got caught up in some trouble. By that time they were a little less knowledgeable about the world but it could be argued that they were not less foolish for they were at the age when the young mind thinks idealistically and everything is possible.

Our Dreamer and Walker understood more of the world they lived in and its workings, and they would stir unrest in the villages they went to, they would rouse anger in the villages they stopped at, and they would incite the people to rebellion in the villages they left.

Eventually they were reported in one such village and found before they could leave. Dreamer got caught and Walker ran away. She loved Walker dearly as a brother, they had travelled alone together for five years and knew nothing or no one better than each other. She never got to tell him how much she loved him. The next day at the stocks in front of everyone she said nothing but thought it so loud that she convinced herself he had heard it. She died with no regrets and Walker never knew. He could only guess and hope she felt that way because it was the way he felt for her.

Though they were the same age, he had always acted the older brother, protecting her. But it still hadn’t been enough. And he hated himself for that.

And Walker walked alone while Dreamer dreamed above. A lone wolf crying out to the moon. Wolverine. And suddenly, he had a new name.

………*……*………….:…:………:………..DEMDOTS………………………??……….?….

The owner of this blog, B00kworm, is currently somewhere in England, with no wifi and a weak phone signal. It took her three tries to send this to me, one hour for me to type it all up, and god knows how long for her to write 600 words ON HER FREGGIN PHONE! Just barely making it on to the speakeasy Grid. GG bookworm!

 

DragonSpark Speakeasy 169- Isolation

She woke up to a dull, grey, lifeless sky. It was as if the sun refused to cast its warm light upon the inhabitants of the quarantine zone. As for the birds, they’d been the first source of food to expire. How long had it been since the army had set up the particle field? Months? Years? It felt like eternity to her.

“Think of the devil!” She spat, as two white ships flew overhead, their hydrogen fusion core spiting neon blue flames from the reactors, looking for an excuse to drop fire and death upon the already broken remnants of a glorious city. She got up from the mattress, letting the two devils fly away. If she were to look in a mirror, she would see a face covered with dirt, dust and soot, she would see a girl dressed in a ragtag armour of leather and steel. Before the quarantine, she had been unsatisfied with her looks. It was the only thing she regretted. Now however, looks were meaningless. What mattered was strength, cunning, and food. Always food. After the appearance of the particle field, stores were raided. Then, birds were shot. The sewer rats were becoming rarer and rarer lately. Soon, people will stop caring what animal the meat comes from. “Good thing I’m skinnier than most!” She declared out loud, then laughed despite herself. Was she going crazy? Probably. She stepped out of the sewer pipe that housed her small home, and out into what used to be the city’s canal. Before her was a valley of concrete, rust, and broken glass. Several colons of black smoke rose to meet the grey sky.

The army said they created the field to keep a pandemic in check. Thing is, there never was a pandemic. She knew the real motives were political, but couldn’t be bothered to know the details. She had more important things to do. She left politics to those with too much time on their hands.

She headed downriver, battle knife strapped to her back, hoping to find rats. Three kilometres and two decomposing dead bodies later, she found another sewer pipe. She stepped into the darkness, allowing her eyes to get used to the obscurity. She drew out the battle knife. Her steps were slow, steady, and quiet. Her breathing was controlled and deep. All her senses were alert, waiting for the slightest sound, the slightest shift in the air, the smallest of movements. The field had turned her into an efficient killing machine. After what seemed like a long time spent walking in the sewers, she heard a distant sound, like a distant beep. She froze. Where did it come from? What was it? Silence and darkness were the only answers she got. Did she imagine it? The possibility seemed more and more likely when beep! There it was again. A regular sound. She followed it until it lead her to a locked door. What to do? Someone might be waiting behind that door with a gun. Or it might be a food stash. Or a weapon stash. She put her right ear on the door and listened. No sound came from inside. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing apart from the increasingly ominous beep. She took a deep breath, backed away from the door, and slammed her shoulder back into the obstacle. It didn’t budge. After three attempts, she felt the top hinge crack. After five, the door was giving in. On the eighth shoulder slam, she fell into a bright room, screaming briefly, the door falling beneath her. After the dust settled and her eyes adapted to the sudden light, she finally found the source of the beep.

Before her was a large, white, rectangular box. On top of the box were two dials with two key slots. In between the dials was a screen, with a timer. On the flank of box facing her was the army’s crest. Next to it was a set of symbol she recognised from her university’s physics course. Nuclear hazard. Explosive content. She had found a nuke. A big nuke, by the looks of it.

Panic rose in her. This thing will turn the city into a crater! Even if she survived the initial blast, the radiation would put her down in a matter of weeks. Thoughts of death and suffering flowed through her mind until a new kind of thought emerged.

What happens if you detonate a nuke next to a particle field?

……….SOME…..m…e…n….JuStWanNaWaTcHtHeWoRlD…..🔥……………crazy:dots…

So I remember reading some awesome post-apocalypse posts a few weeks back, and I remember making a mental note to try my hand at it eventually. Except I also made a mental note to redo sci-fi, because I wasn’t satisfied with my first  attempt, so I figured “let’s do both!” Dunno if the whole thing blends well, but it was fun to write.

Fun fact: Adrift was my first contribution to this blog, and this here is my tenth, but also the first I post with my own Gravatar (Instead of BW posting it for me), and, as you all know, the last before the Speakeasy’s summer break, so I guess this post is a little special to me. It’s a testimony to the progress I’ve made as a writer and a person, partly thanks to the SpeakEasy.

B00kWorm, thanks for dragging me into this gin joint!

As always, your comments and opinions are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!

 

Liebster Award :D

So we both (imabookworm and DragonSpark) got nominated for the Liebster Award by Sue Blake who is a great writer we “met” on the Speakeasy challenge. We’d like to start by saying thank you!
This is so cool I never thought I’d actually get an award! I knew I’d never win the speakeasy but I still managed to get nominated through it (well through someone we know from there) how cool is that?!
Anyway, the show must go on:

The Rules *dramatic music*:
1. Link to the person who nominated you
2. Answer their questions
3. Nominate new blogs for the award
4. Ask them 10 new questions
5. Let the nominees know they have been nominated
6. Smile

Actually I just added that last one it’s not an official rule but it’s cooler if you do 😉

Our (awesome) answers to the (awesome) questions asked:

What has been the most enjoyable or interesting aspect of writing your blog?

imabookworm:
I mainly write stories or poems for challenges, I like having to work with the prompts, pushing myself and trying new things and I’m always glad to get feedback, good or bad, because it helps me improve and get that much closer to being a better writer 🙂
I’m also glad to meet new people with similar interests to me and sometimes a similar mindset. I like meeting someone, knowing very little about them and then discovering them as I read them and comment.

DragonSpark:
Well that’s an easy one. The part I enjoy the most is the period of time (Usually on Sunday mornings) straight after I read the Speakeasy weekly prompt. I usually spend it with a cup of warm coffee in hand, alone in a usually quiet kitchen (I sleep in on Sundays, leaving the rest of the family plenty of time to breakfast), my mind hard at work, trying to solve the challenge that has been set before me. It crafts a basic plot, set in a crafted world with crafted characters. It’s kinda like trying to make a face with PlayDough. You make out the rough edges, then you refine it, change things you dislike, modify them. Sharpen the chin. Draw out the nose. Raise the cheekbones. It’s a fun, enjoyable way to spend the morning, especially knowing it will bring interaction with veteran writers as the week progresses.

Which fictional character’s blog would you most like to follow?

imabookworm:
If Legolas and Gimli from Lord of the Rings had a blog (similar to what I have with DragonSpark) I would definitely follow it! 😉

DragonSpark:
Hum… I’d have to call it even between Indiana Jones, Lara Croft (Tomb Raider), James Bond, and Tony Stark… I would love to get a glimpse into the core, intimate personality of these epic characters. I’d love to read Lara’s opinion on modern politics, Tony’s answer to Speakeasy prompts, James’s ramblings written on a cloudy evening and Indiana’s review of the latest Michael Bay movie. If you HAVE to put one on top, it’s Lara, followed closely by Bond.

If you were a superhero what special powers would you have and what would be your cool superhero name?

imabookworm:
I would like to be able to heal people. My superhero name might be something like Blue Dawn or Spark or maybe just Blue. I don’t know… I’d wear blue of course. And have blue hair 😀

DragonSpark:
As far as the power goes, I’d want to control and be able to materialize things from pure energy. Kinda like a cross between Green Lantern and Sam Temple from the “GONE” novels. Except my energy wouldn’t be green. I’d rather gold…. Or maybe crimson red. As for the hero name, I’d probably keep DragonSpark.

What makes you feel sentimental?

imabookworm:
I often cry for nothing except that I don’t want to cry and I then get angry at myself for crying so I don’t think that counts.
I don’t know. I’d say mainly a good book, then it could be a good film with not-too-cheesy sentimental bits in it like Hunger Games (and the books are amazing if you haven’t read them). And House M.D… The rare parts when House is not being his usual miserable self or when there’s something wrong with Cameron. I started watching that this summer.
Also: dawns and sunsets, beginnings and ends…

DragonSpark:
I guess anything that reminds me that time is passing by. A sunset over a calm sea. The remains of a car overgrown with grass on the side of a dirt road. The movement of clouds playing with sunlight. That sort of thing.

Pick a favourite lyric from a song?

imabookworm:
Oh how to chose?? There are so many good songs with good lyrics!
I like Coldplay and Muse lyrics, this however is from neither of those:

“And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am”

Goo Goo Dolls – Iris

DragonSpark:
“And I was thinking to myself “this could be Heaven or this could be Hell””
The Eagles “Hotel California”

What was the last movie or TV show that made you laugh out loud?

imabookworm:
I have a very bad memory >.<
At the moment it’s the film festival so cinema tickets don’t cost much. Yesterday it just so happened that we had a word of the day and said word was “genuinely”. So we went to see X-men: days of future past with my brothers and at one point the bad guy says “genuine” and me and my brother looked at each other like “genuinely” and we burst out laughing.
I’m pretty sure we also laughed at the “French” people in the film who sounded anything but French (I mean seriously, no one in France actually speaks like that that’s just in movies).
The evening we saw Edge of Tomorrow with our parents and it was funny, it’s not a very funny kind of film but there are funny moments. I don’t want to spoil it for those who want to see it but I’ll just say this at one point Tom Cruise is like “… when we get to Lyon” and I’m like okay they’re going to Lyon. Ten minutes later I think back to it: wait he said they were going to Lyon, but they’re already in the north of France and they have to go to Germany… Why the hell are they going to Lyon?! (Because Lyon is in the south of France)

DragonSpark:
Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones always cracks me up, however I read the books so that probably doesn’t count. It would have to be The Simpsons then.

When was the last time you did a little dance of joy that probably looked a bit embarrassing?

imabookworm:
This morning when I caught a Pokémon… it’s always so stressful, the ball starts moving and you’re like please don’t come out please don’t come out! …So when you end up catching it you’re pretty happy…

DragonSpark:
Exams finished for me last week. When I got home, the house was mine. I really hope nobody had a camera in my room when I realised I was on vacation.

What do you like most about where you’re living now?

imabookworm:
I’m tempted to say the wifi, my electric guitar or maybe just the fact that I live in a house where there are no noisy neighbours (except for this morning). Otherwise it would be its proximity to three different train lines. I’m sorry that’s not very romantic :p
I used to live in a flat where I could see the sunset from my room (on the 5th floor so I had a good view) every evening so I miss that.

DragonSpark:
Tough one… I’d say it’s my room. It’s like my cocoon. That AND it’s the coolest place in the house (because I decorated it!).

Is there anything that you just don’t get? (E.g. “I just don’t get video games/Twitter/UGG boots… I mean what’s that all about?!”)

imabookworm:
Hmmm… Let me make a list:
People who wear makeup all the time
Guys who shout all the time but never have anything interesting to say
Twitter. It sounds kind of boring: tons of people telling their life with a limited amount of letters so you can difficultly get much meaningful stuff
People’s obsessiveness with flappy bird
People’s obsessiveness with candy crush (I had that game but it was more annoying that anything else)
And the list could go on…

DragonSpark:
Yea, on a more serious note, the one thing I don’t get is homophobia. People say isn’t “natural” and yet there are many animals that do take part in homosexual activities. People say that it’s a threat to families and children, yet many gay and lesbian couples raise their children better than straight parents. Don’t even get me started on the whole “it’s an abomination to God” thing. I’d make a lot of people mad. If you can’t stand the thing, well don’t go to the Gay Pride, don’t socialise with gay people etc… What if someone you know well makes his/her coming out? Well either you’re a true friend/family member and you keep on loving and accepting them for who they are or you act like a selfish five year old and reject them or try to change them.

And finally…
With the 2014 football World Cup now in its knock-out stages, can you make a prediction of the result in the final? (N.b. it’s a perfectly acceptable answer to say “I’m really really really not interested in football!)

imabookworm:
I’m going to say France for the sake of it because I’m French. Apart from that I don’t really care sorry 😦

DragonSpark:
Well, I hope France can make it but Germany is probably gonna kick our butts. So I’d say either Germany or Argentina will win the cup.

 

Nominated Nominees:

Renada

Tinkerbelle96

Abhilasha S

Patricia Rivera

S. J. Paige

 

Our questions to them:

What’s a good book ending/ what’s the best book ending you’ve read?

What’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever done or that has ever happened to you?

What is/would be (if you had one) first on your bucket list?

If you could change one thing in the world what would it be?

What time period would you live in if you had the choice (“now” and “the future” are not valid answers) and why?

You’re stranded on a desert island with four books, two movies, and an album. What are they?

If you could play any role in any movie, what would that role be and why?

You can go on a three week road trip. Where are you going and what’s your ride?

It’s the best day of your life. What happens?

You are stranded on a desert island with a box (of any shape or size). What’s in the box? (The answer can’t be the same as the desert island question above)

I figured you might have gotten tired with the “why do you blog?” (either DragonSpark too or he just didn’t think about it) but if you want to answer it as a bonus question feel free.

I meant to post this two days ago but I wasn’t quite finished and life happened (unexpectedly I must say, I wasn’t expecting it to appear before Tuesday) so sorry for the delay.

Tadaaa!