Original Fiction Writers

closes eyes and pulls a random scene from her current WIP

2011-02-05T16:28:48Z

Caution, ideologically sensitive (it's a story of a man being forced out of the closet by an exboyfriend)

It was exceptionally early when the cabinet gathered. The component people were still trying to wake up when they arrived, most with caffeinated beverages in hand. Alexander watched his energy secretary carefully for any signs that he knew about the exposé made regarding him in the National Star, a tabloid known for being obnoxious and outlandish. A man was claiming to have been Phillip Toller's homosexual lover. If it were true, it would not be very surprising to Alexander.
Little things over the years Alexander had known the former professor and Physicist well had begun to add up when he had happened to be at a D.C. eatery and noticed Phil across the room. Phil had a guest with him at the time. It was Seren, that obnoxious singer the saurines had sent to reach out to the population of the United States. Alexander had turned away return to his conversation with Dulce and happened to see what had appeared to be a tender gesture on Phil's part. Phil had held Seren's hand across the table, not briefly either.
Those who knew Alexander best all realized he was observant, but few realized that he often saw much, much more than he spoke up about. He had kept what he had seen between himself and Dulce, they had both filed it away as an interesting tidbit.
Phil was sketching idly on his white legal pad now, and Saurine ears and a face were beginning to take shape. The door opened once more, admitting Press Secretary Aaron Whalin. He came into the room, harried and carrying a fair number of papers and folders. Alexander turned back toward the window, acting as though he had been taking a momentary pause from gazing out of the window at the scenery.
"Okay, if I get one more call about that tabloid article, I'll scream, and probably start kicking people," Aaron sighed.
"Address the issue with whom it may concern. Also, show him the article," Alexander sighed, still staring out of the window. "I doubt he has a clue that it's been published."
The cabinet members looked up, startled. All eyes fixed on Alexander. He shrugged, knowing that eyes were on him.
"Phil, someone, maybe an old enemy of yours either paid this guy to lie about you, or is this guy and is trying to get people to think badly of you," Aaron gave Phil the tabloid.
Phil looked the cover over. The main article was titled 'Member of the Bassett Cabinet, GAY?' Phil opened the magazine and paged through. He found the article and saw Will Wright, his ex-boyfriend, pictured there. There were also photos of the pair holding hands.
"I didn't think William would EVER stoop this low," Phil said after several minutes of stunned silence.
Phil's eyes burned with poorly contained tears. To think he had once been in love with this cretin. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he sniffed.
"Don't react the way he wants you to react, Phil. You don't want him to win this battle," Alexander said, squeezing gently.
"The problem is, none of this is lies, none of the pictures are fake!"
"I know, Phil. This was a confirmation of something I've suspected almost as long as I've known you. I didn't care about it when I asked you to sit in the cabinet because it has been proven time and time again to me that sexuality has no bearing on skill with a person's work," Alexander said. "You can't let him win this one. He's already hurt you once, I'll bet."
"More than once," Phil said, taking a tissue from the box that Education Secretary Karen Waters offered him. "What would you suggest I do?"

this scene is also a half-scene.

It's also a powerful moment of self-improvement for him, and it sparks a scene that changes his life dramatically.

He continues serving in President Bassett's cabinet, too.

In the name of... - Prologue

2010-12-21T20:12:46Z

First public quote (December the 1st 2305)

   ‹It has ended in the simple conclusion that, ignoring the individual particularities of each of us, we can be simply be shared in three social categories, according to our simple main intellectual and sensible traits, and I shall take the freedom of simply naming them as I wish, without any connection to any previous uses of the names, in order to make this observation notice as understandable as possible.
    The differences, as I already mentioned, are not based on color, gender, religion, education, orientation, or any other ways to categorize people as we speak for now… Of course, as I’ll mention accordingly, the categories that follow can be influenced in a certain amount by the freedom given to the children and teenagers to evolve in their own unique directions. Of course that a child forced at young age to get over their feelings, or education maybe, by any meanings imaginable, might pass at a category that he or she is not fit for. The child will live on, but his or her life will be miserable as he or she will grow older…
    Also, severe events in a developing person’s life can as well generate a leap between his or her original class and another.
As short as I can, I shall develop the main three classes that are far better described in the following chapters, so that the new terms will not create any confusion when they will be encountered in the text.
   Animas are what we know as common people, with simple and happy lives centered on their families, friends and own-good. They are more likely mesmerized by shows, noise, scandals, which gives them the right chimera to get their attention away from closer problems of their own. They are more likely to provide food and shelter to their children and, at some time, consider this is the most they can offer. You can meet them on the street, in flashy clubs and in crowds that score catfights.
    Humanes are what one would call ‘sentimentalists’. They are the kind of people that will pay attention to whatever happens around them and act accordingly.  They are the kind of people named by the saying ‘can’t see the forest because of the trees’. Of course they will eventually see the forest, but all way long, it’s the trees that matter. You can meet them most likely in jobs that require helping in any way possible, even though, that’s not a rule. Most of them are more likely to believe in the Divinity as well.
   Strentes are what one would call ‘eagles’ or ‘vultures’. I would call them over-viewers. They are the most capable of all classes to detach themselves from the problems they have to deal with and see the main picture. ‘See the forest but not the trees’, to be more precise. They are less likely to get attached to anyone or anything, even if they usually posses a large variety of things, being able to wield business with great agility and a certain capacity of over-viewing. Also, most of them tend to be quite eccentric even as they grow older and older. All of them love information and try to bring their own contributions to domains they like more, each in their own power.

    Of course, as I will probably mention again in the following chapters, Biology, Psychology, Sociology and the other connected sciences are NOT exact sciences. These are the sciences in which, if I’m allowed to quote a dear teacher of mine, ‘one plus one never equal two’…›

   Sigma closed the little agenda and sighed, staring at the old oak outside…

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I support comments and critics so go ahead! ^^

Story and art (c) JavaLeen (a.k.a. me) so don't dare steal!

Jumping in... heads first

2010-12-20T18:04:36Z

LJ username: JavaLeen
Writing journal(s)/websites: javaleen.lj.com
Call me: Java
Current project(s):In the name of...' a three parts story about a wicked couple in a dictatorial future where people are divided into three social categories, and the fight between two of them.
'the NOAH line - Book 1- A story I've been writing and rewriting for 9 years already which I originally planned to write in my native tongue (Romanian) but I've recently realized there's no point to that... so I'm starting to rewrite it, better I hope, in english
Other short stories just random ideas I get while asleep. *whistles*
Genre(s): dark romance, sf, fatasy
Writing strength(s): you tell me XD
Writing weakness(es): descriptions... I loathe to read them if they're more than 3 lines long and I fail at whiting them miself...
Favorite theme(s): fantasy settings, theme challenges
Literary philosophy:
wuzat? O.O

Hello there!

2010-09-03T05:09:17Z

LJ username: Waterwidget
Writing journal(s)/websites: N/A
Call me: Soul, Soulie, Widgie
Current project(s): It doesn't have a name, but it has a voice. It's a sci-fi/fantasty/Sociological romp. Also a sort of fanfic to indulge my devil side. (characters are based on TV people)
Genre(s): I really hate cubing my writing into a box. but it generally has elements of sci-fi, fantasy, romance, and action
Writing strength(s): rich, in-depth characters, involving storylines, complexities beyond measure. (according to my former editor)
Writing weakness(es): my ability to write some of the most moronic run on sentences, never being satisfied, inability to know "hey you really need a comma there" (according to me)
Favorite theme(s): I don't play favorites.
Literary philosophy: several
You need to write it to be able to edit it. This makes National Novel Writing Month a very good idea.
You may think you're a pretty good writer right now. Come back to that writing 100,000 words later and you will realized you have reached new plateau.
Progress cannot be achieved without hard work.
and my all time favorite mantra:
None of my inventions came by accident. I see a worthwhile need to be met and I make trial after trial until it comes. What it boils down to is one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration.

Introduction

2010-08-01T19:50:15Z

LJ username: annabelle_lee4

Writing journal(s)/websites: Annabelle Lee's writing Journal

Call me: Annabelle, or any version/nickname thereof

Current project(s): A Friend for the Ocean, a historical alternate universe short story: A prince. An assassin. A mysterious visitor. Keep your friends close and enemies closer may just turn out to be more than good advice.

Genre(s): My usual is a mix of friendship/romance, more often than not there's a bit of everything else thrown in to make it interesting, fanfics

Writing strength(s): Grammar, spelling, general flow of words, descriptions, ?

Writing weakness(es): Sticking with a project all the way to it's end, ending a project in general, keeping things SHORT

Favorite theme(s): Being a strong-willed young woman, I like my characters to have that kind of attitude as well. Usually they have to prove themselves, or go through tough situations.

Literary philosophy: Not quite sure what this means but... Books are your friend. As is the English language. Both should be a part of everyday life.

The Road to Salvation- a multimedia serial story by Laura Cushing

2007-01-17T20:32:42Z

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, what paves the way to salvation?

Orville Deacon, the charismatic televangelist who hosts The Road to Salvation, has been embroiled in a scandal of epic proportions. Sex, drugs, and inappropriate use of donations - he's accused of it all. In the midst of the investigation, he commits suicide - leaving behind his wife Mary and their four sons - Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. The story is told primarily from the perspective of the four brothers as they search to redefine their lives in the light of their father's suicide, and his secret life they never knew.

This exciting drama, as told by Laura Cushing, will unfold through a variety of media - journal entries, newspaper clippings, audio clips, music, and photography.

Join us on The Road to Salvation- the story's just getting started!

The first installment is up, featuring music by Daniel Brummel and photography by Natalie and Yazzmin!

Artists, musicians, photographers, models, and voice actors still needed! If you want to do more than watch the show, please see this post for how you can contribute to our story.

originalit @ 2006-12-23T18:14:00

2006-12-23T05:30:42Z

LJ username: korinacaffeine
Writing journal(s)/websites: http://www.fictionpress.com/~KorinaBlack
Call me: Korina
Current project(s): "Olyver Wuhlf" --A slight spin-off of the Grimm fairytale "Little Red Riding Hood," though with a few unconventional themes and a man that isn't a wolf, but a tramp. (You can find it on my FictionPress account.)
Genre(s): The genres I generally do best with are romance and fantasy, though I like to expand on that from time to time. Sci-fi is always fun, too.
Writing strength(s): Spelling, grammar, detail, introspection (I suppose), and using my imagination to its fullest extent.
Writing weakness(es): Sometimes I have a problem with moving things along too fast. I've really got to work on prolonging things.
Favorite theme(s): Doing what the corresponding society to the story would deem "forbidden" or "immoral," and I do love to abuse my characters. I cause problems for them constantly, but, well, it's actually rather enlightening for me to write about the circumstances and how the characters manage to wriggle out of them.
Literary philosophy: I always get very into my stories, and that helps me loads. In my free time, I'll doodle pictures of the characters, or I'll scribble down notes for a certain scene that I want to try and fit in. Other than that, I try to keep things constantly changing. When a story stays in the same setting for too long, it bores me, so my characters are unusually...nomadic.

I'm glad I found this community, and I hope to have fun and learn some things along the way!

First Lines

2006-12-07T17:57:22Z

This would be the prologue of my NaNo novel I wrote this november (I did complete the challenge, no I didn't register for word count. Chris Baty pissed me off with his charity guilt trip, so I just completed the challenge on my own, and don't intend to support NaNo directly ever again).

Comments appreciated, the prologue takes the form of an epistolary.

The novel's title is Courage.

May 15, 1996

I will not hear another word of your sniveling, presumptuous begging, Richard. You are not and will not ever be in my will, and I will thank you to forgo further mention of the matter in future correspondence.
You have always been a lazy, unmotivated dullard of a boy. I have no desire to reward your lack of ambition, your inane pursuit of diversion at all costs, and I will not enable future attempts of yours to leech off society.
You would do well to change your ways, Richard. You have the potential to be a bright young man, and should you discover a way to motivate yourself into the day-to-day commitment of pursuing a career, this brightness would do you an immeasurable credit.
As it is, you simply squander your inarguably underdeveloped talent for speaking on begging and playing upon the guilt of others to sustain you in your indulgences.
You will exhaust yourself this way, Richard. People have a need to protect themselves, and rarely will they long suffer the depredations of a parasite who brings no good into their lives. I urge you, find yourself a job, begin supporting yourself, and do yourself far more good than hopes of profiting from my demise will.
I bear you no ill will for your ridiculous comments, Richard. I am beyond even being disappointed in you, at this juncture. Do not, however, mistake my tolerance for endorsement. I will not change my decision, and you will therefore put thoughts of it out of your mind.

In love, but no affection,
Your mother
October 14, 1998

I did receive your letter, Richard. I was unable to reply because I was having further difficulties with my condition. An ongoing battle with anemia is one of the side effects of my treatments, and I suffered a severe fever just after your letter arrived as well. I am chagrined that this illness was able to interrupt my decision to respond to you.
To answer your question, yes, I did indeed go into remission shortly after your last letter. I do not forgive you for what you said, because it simply does not matter, son. I have been fighting a battle with metastatic cancer for years now, my boy, and it will take more than a few cross words from a naïve young man to cause me grief. Put it out of your mind and do not let it trouble you.
My health is not improving. I will die from this cancer someday, Richard. My remission was temporary, and I suffered a relapse last year. This too has been put into remission, but I harbor no illusions that it will remain this way. If it does, well and good. If it does not, I am prepared.
I am pleased you have resumed contact, Richard. I had feared you would squander yet another opportunity to better yourself, and that would have grieved me. You are ever my son, and I will not cease caring about you or wishing for your good fortune.
Edward has asked about you, incidentally. He makes noises of forgiveness to me, but I can tell he has not let go of what you said in that letter. He is very protective, and thus takes umbrage on my behalf. I ask that you do not contact him at this time, Richard. What you do is of course your prerogative, but on his behalf I believe that this would be an inappropriate time to bring up old indiscretions. I believe his wife would agree, with their first child on the way.
You express dissatisfaction with your job, and I find this amusing. When last we spoke, you had no job, so you must understand that I find it humorous that the first mention of this employment is that you dislike it; Humorous, but not unexpected.
This is not the job for you, my son. You are not suited to retail work. Your mind has ever loved a puzzle, and I do not mean the puzzle of making sure the UPC codes on your inventory match those on the shelves.
That is the price you must pay, my son, for your prior mistakes. I do not speak out of malignant feelings, but out of a desire to educate you. Learn why you are where you are, and should you ever escape, you need not return.
I am tired, Richard, so I will end this letter here. Do continue to write.

In love,
Your mother

October 27, 1998

I was so pleased to receive the good news, Edward. Twins, an amazing thing to be sure. I look forward to speaking with you and Melissa when you next visit, but do not rush. I will not have you distressing that sweet child with your worrying. I am quite fine, if more tired of late.
When you do come, please bring your cherry pie. I have noticed that I can taste fruit without the metallic aftertaste again, and I am eager to enjoy that wonderful dessert again. You’re a grand cook, Edward, and your wife is a lucky woman.
I look forward to seeing you again, Edward. Say hello to Melissa for me. I would write her a letter myself, but I am tired and have work to do before long.

Affectionately,
Your mother

December 3, 1998
Thank you for the book, Richard. I quite enjoyed the way miss Zimmer-Bradley presented the Arthurian Myth-cycle, an innovative and enjoyable novel to be sure, I am chagrined at having skipped it for so long.
I am immeasurably pleased that your literary taste has not been diminished by time. If there was ever anything we truly shared, it was a love of the written word. Enjoy the gift I have enclosed, it is a collection of poetry your father gave me, and I know you will enjoy it. In particular, I would like you to read poem eighty-seven. E Tenebris is brief, but I believe it is one of Wilde’s very best, and perhaps a bit topical, I am not ashamed to confess.
I believe you should accept your manager’s offer for off-duty tutoring in management. While I do not think you of the temperament required for retail, the fact remains that it is your current state, and only option for the time being. You will not long survive as a wage slave in your area, and of course you should pursue any option to truly better yourself. Willfully remaining in relative poverty when the chance to improve your circumstances would be stupidity of the highest order, and I hope you have moved past this point.
I would not worry about this girl you are seeing. You are not in a position to make long term commitments, so it would be unfair of you to lead her along. Do yourself and her a favor by ending things early. This is, of course, the advice of an old woman seven hundred and fifty miles away, so take it as you will.

Please, Richard, call me sometime.

In Love
Your mother

February 11, 1999

Thank you for the flowers you had delivered, Edward, they are most lovely. I kept them here for a day to get the scent properly about the room, and then I forwarded them to the children’s ward, the young ones could do with a bit more colour in their lives.
You are to be commended on completing your first successful year as a business owner. Bear in mind that my offer to purchase CafeHaus and make it a part of the family business proper still stands. I believe that with our logistical backing you would find many of your difficulties resolved, and that we could do with a proper storefront, as it were, rather than relying on so many unrelated distributors to move our product.
Do not feel compelled to do so, however. Running your business independently will be a magnificent learning experience for you, and should you remain successful, you will of course need answer to no one. Should you not, you will have learned lessons necessary to succeed anew in the future.
Also, I understand why you have not made it out here to visit as yet, do not think of apologizing for choosing to remain with your business during an unexpected busy season. Your first duty is to your family, and that business is your livelihood. To apologize for recognizing these facts would be demonstrate a particular disregard for reality that would ill suit you, Edward. I admit I still look forward to that cherry pie, but it can most certainly wait.

In love
Your mother

February 14, 1999
Richard, I had thought this matter settled. I am not in the practice of giving anything to anybody who has not earned it. I will not give you a job in the company, you must earn a position if you actually wish it.
I built this business from a floundering money-sink into an actual source of profit, from which much of our family’s success has been derived. I will not squander a vital position on someone whose sole talent has thus far been skating by on a bare minimum of effort.
If you want to work for me, Richard, demonstrate that you have earned the position.
I am disappointed by your request. You continue to evidence a lack of any genuine learning, and it appears lost on you that continued questioning only drives you further from my consideration.

Your mother

February 26, 1999
I will confess, Richard, I had not expected you to respond to my letter given our past difficulties with this issue. Yet not only do you reply, you offer a genuinely acceptable alternative to the scenario I was expecting.
I accept your proposal, Richard. I will help fund your move here, and begin the paperwork to secure you an apartment. There will be an internship waiting for you in the marketing department when you arrive.
I cannot stress this enough Richard, you are taking a tremendous risk. This internship will be unpaid, and you will be responsible for maintaining your own standard of living in every sense. I will not help you with rent, I will not pay for anything at all beyond the money that will bring you here to make this effort.

I look forward to seeing you, Richard.

In Love
Your mother

March 8, 1999

Yes, Melissa, Richard will be moving to Chicago and I will be permitting him to serve in the company as an intern. I had not expected I would need to remind Edward of all people that I am answerable to myself and no other in conducting the affairs of this company. Do not let Edward bring you into this affair, my dear, it is not nearly as important a concern as your two children. Edward and Richard’s troubles go far beyond this one issue, and you would do well to remain aloof from the matter and let them work it out when Richard arrives.
You are a truly wonderful woman for Edward, and you have done an amazing job helping him with his work and his efforts with CafeHaus, but you must remember that you are not simply there to help him. Most importantly, you must make Richard remember this.
Speaking of your children, I heard that your latest appointments went well. My best wishes are ever with you, Melissa, and I so look forward to seeing my grandchildren. Bring the ultrasound pictures when you come, I would appreciate it dearly.

In love
Agathe

NaNoWriMo stats

2006-11-02T17:43:14Z

According to Word I have written 7,641 words of Bad Case. Which means that I have started NaNoWriMo with a bang.
It was actually pretty easy. I wonder if I will be able to keep it up.

NaNo Journal

2006-11-02T09:23:09Z

This is nikcool .
This is my NaNo Journal. Feel free to add!

I hope I finish this year!

The Institute, Part 1

2006-10-24T12:19:53Z

Because my muse is an evil muse, I bring you part 1 of another new story

It all started with a nightmare. Alan Creason sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in the darkness. He stared blankly at the red numbers of the clock on the dresser across the room as they glared out 4:59am. Desperately, he followed the mental exercises his shrink had given him last week, to slow his breathing and follow the retreating threads of terror into his sub-conscious. He almost had a grip on the dream as the clock flipped over to 5:00 and Alan Jackson started to wail about the Chattahoochee river. Country music, the only thing guaranteed to get him out of bed.

Alan gave up on chasing his nightmares and swung his legs out of the bed. He made is way easily through the darkness of his bedroom and into the adjoining bath. He flicked the light on and stared at himself in the mirror. A weekend's growth of beard clung to his face like a blanket of moss on a treetrunk and almost concealed the gauntness of his cheeks. His eyes were gray, the same gray as the sky right on the edge of a hurricane, and heavily bloodshot from lack of sleep. He ran one hand through his military-short hair and reached for his razor and the shaving cream.

It seemed like he never slept anymore. The shrink attributed his insomnia to attempts to avoid the dreams. Every night, another dream, another nightmare, another heart-pounding moment of clarity as he woke, before he lost the thread of the dream and forgot everything. The dreams always seemed important, but they always slipped away before he could gather his thoughts.

He found himself staring in the steam-covered mirror, razor poised beneath his hawkish nose, his face less than half shaved, and wondered how long he had been lost in thought. He hurried through the rest of his morning ablutions and dressed for work.

The city stirred around him and people swarmed into the streets like ants as the sun rose. It was five blocks from his apartment to the office he worked in, but he preferred to walk instead of take the bus, even though his route wasn't through the best neighborhoods in town. A couple of the blocks he passed through were considered the territory of one gang or another, but mostly they left him alone. People tended to avoid confrontations with him, intimidated by his size and the way he carried himself. Four years out of the military, and he still walked like a soldier. His eyes scanned everywhere and missed nothing.

At the corner ahead of him, the WALK light turned on. He continued his measured stride down the sidewalk and started to step into the intersection.

"Wait," he thought. "This seems really familiar..."

"Of course it does," he answered himself. "You walk this way every day to work."

Alan shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts and pulled his foot back onto the sidewalk.

"Hey buddy, move yer fucking ass!" a man said from behind him. He turned to face him and felt a rush of wind from behind as a car ran the red light and barreled through the intersection. The man muttered imprecations at both Alan and the driver that ran the red light, then left him behind as he hurried across the intersection. Alan stood there, shaken by his near brush with fate. Why was this so familiar, he wondered. Had he dreamt it all before?

On an impulse, he changed his routine and headed around the block and crossed at the next intersection. There was a twenty-four hour deli on that side of the block, and he decided to stop in and get some breakfast.

He wandered through the deli, people-watching as he looked for something appetizing. The Korean family that ran this deli kept a hot buffet line down the center of the store, stocked with breakfast and dinner foods, but everything looked too greasy for his tastes. Alan caught a glimpse of a skeevy looking punk that looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. The punk was dressed in gang colors, but they were wrong for this block. Alan tensed up. Something was wrong here. Time seemed to slow down for him and in his mind-eye he saw the punk pull a compact and lethal-looking sub-machinegun from under his coat and start to wave it around. He heard the punk scream something and watched in horror as he gunned down the Korean woman behind the counter of the store before he turned the gun (Uzi, he thought. It's an Uzi!) on the other occupants of the store and pulled the trigger.

Alan felt something inside him snap as his vision cleared. Only seconds had passed as he watched his waking dream parade around inside his head, and he knew he only had moments to live remaining. He turned down the aisle and leaped as the punk reached under his jacket. Four years of infantry training and line combat came back to him as his reflexes took over, and he slammed into the back of the punk and knocked him to the ground. An Uzi sub-machinegun skittered across the floor as Alan pounded his knee into the punks side and wrapped him in a choke hold.

"Call the police!" he shouted at the Korean woman as the other customers in the deli screamed and ran out.

The police were quick to respond. They asked him how he knew about the gun and he lied to them. He said he saw the gun under the punk's jacket as he walked by him in the aisles. The Korean woman behind the counter met his eyes. She knew he hadn't been anywhere near the punk until he had started to pull the gun, but she wouldn't say anything. Alan could tell that the cops thought he had held something back, but they couldn't prove anything. The paperwork and the questions went on for hours before they let him go. He was late for work.

He drifted through the day on autopilot after his boss reamed him for being late. Alan didn't even try to explain that he had just saved several lives, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. After work, he took a cab home and walked up the stairs to his apartment. The events of the morning stood clear in his mind. The intersection, the foul-mouthed man who would have been hit by a car, the Korean deli and the punk with the Uzi. He moved his thoughts around like pieces of a puzzle. They all fit together perfectly and formed a picture of glaring red numbers that said 4:59am.

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and got out the card his shrink had given him last week, when Alan told him about the dreams. The card had two words and a phone number printed on it. Alan picked up the phone and dialed the number, then listened to it ring twice.

"Hello, thank you for calling The Institute. How can I direct your call?"

Léan and Chaed

2006-10-23T00:16:10Z

Living with Chaed could be excrutiating sometimes. Settling into bed night after night with her lying barely a meter away from me; watching her exit the shower stall and towel off after a long day of work; trying to forget how long it had been since I'd touched a woman, trying to think of anything else - anything at all - so she wouldn't scent any trace of desire from me. I had no right to desire her. She was very generous to choose me for a roommate and I'd've been scum to expect more from her.

Once Tagaghà began to talk to me, it was easier. While Chaed was at work, he and I gradually became friends. When I started feeling horny, focusing on him made the urge fade.

But, man... my period of involuntary abstinence was quickly approaching two years. Two years! The very thought made me want to grab the first woman I saw and rip her clothes off.

And that woman, of course, now that Oihail had dumped me, was always Chaed. Chaed was quite attractive, too. She reminded me of Vóu - er, Petty Officer Ciesìl, I mean - a little powerhouse of a woman. Her scent was earthier and her fur was shorter and downy to the touch, and she was younger. Also, she didn't outrank me. It was safer to lust after Chaed than after Vóu; at least, while we weren't living together. However, we were in it for the long haul. The Vigilance was on the other side of the galaxy, meaning I wasn't going anywhere. Not unless I screwed up and she kicked me out.

However, if she noticed my struggle, she didn't let on. When she came home exhausted from a long day at work, I was the one she talked to. Tagaghà hardly glanced up when she entered the apartment, so absorbed he was in his private world of airy music and contemplation. I'd often just be waking up from a midday nap, and Chaed would sit on the edge of the bed and smile at me. Never touch me; just smile.

"How'd your day go?" she'd ask.

It was a silly question. My daytime activities amounted to a whole lot of nothing. Chores or shopping, occasionally, but more often just a walk in the park and a lot of time waiting for Tagaghà to say something. Chaed's question, of course, was the one she wanted me to ask her.

So I did. "Quiet," I'd say. "How was yours?"

With a groan, she'd launch into the day's tirade. After a while they all started to sound the same to me. Management politics. But Chaed needed to vent, so I let her vent.

Tagaghà never joined in or paid us any attention. We'd hand him a plate for dinner and he'd devour his meat in silence, then lay the plate on the floor for one of us to pick up for him. Every evening, the same thing. Routine governed our lives.

In fact, the first evening the routine was broken was the evening Chaed came home to find Tagaghà and me covered in blood and gashes, desperately trying to patch ourselves up and doing a poor job. I'm sure the whole apartment complex heard her scream.

originalit @ 2006-10-17T15:11:00

2006-10-17T20:11:28Z

Hello,

I am helping the moderator of a fun and interesting little community 100drabbles promote and encourage potential members.

All submitted drabbles should be original fiction, no fan fiction, please. There is also a challenge for any interested participant[s] to post 100 drabbles in 100 days.

Would it be inappropriate for me to request that the mods affiliate with our little comm?

Cross posted to originalit, originalficfest and 100drabbles

Léan and Tagaghà (just because)

2006-10-10T23:37:28Z

"Technology comes with a price," Tagaghà said, breaking the usual dull silence that dominated our days.

I stared at him, astonished. That was the most intelligent, coherent thing he'd said since I moved into his apartment - far beyond what I thought he was capable of. Hadn't his chemical brain damage turned him into a vegetable? He still looked the part, sprawled unmoving on his chair. He still smelled the same.

"What?" Tagaghà spat at me. "You sniffing me out for drugs? Hah! I'm not on anything. The trihydroxethyline was enough, thanks."

"No, I--" What do you say to that? What do you say when you've roomed with a guy for two weeks and suddenly learn he can talk? And the first thing he says to you is confrontational? I'm not good at confrontations. If I fight back, I might fight too hard.

Tagaghà grunted and twisted his mouth into somewhat of a grin. "It's all right, Léan. You thought I had a bad case of mental mush, right? And I do, yeah. All the tests say so. But that wasn't why I've been phasing out."

"Oh," I said helplessly.

"Well, it is why," Tagaghà continued, frowning. "What I mean is, I'm not a complete imbecile. I lost some faculties, yeah... but... how much of me is left? I keep wondering."

"I don't know," I said.

"You liked me better when you thought I didn't say much, didn't you?" he asked.

I had no idea how to respond. My whole sense of him had shattered within seconds, and I admit I was shocked. The realization that he knew what had happened to him disturbed me. This whole time, I'd wondered, and now that I knew, I wish I didn't. So, in that context, he was right - I did like him better when he seemed oblivious to his own condition.

"No," I said. "I don't... it doesn't matter to me."

Tagaghà laughed derisively. I'm pretty sure it was a derisive laugh. It certainly wasn't a 'laughing with you' laugh. "Oh good. With expectations that low, I won't disappoint you."

"That's not what I meant!" I tried to stay unflustered, but I never was real good at that. If Tagaghà was anything like me, he was sick to death of people questioning his worth, and it would kill me to be guilty of that myself.

"It's okay," he grunted, making me feel sillier still as we lapsed into an awkward silence. Or maybe it was the same old silence he and I spent day after day in. His music wafted and flowed through the apartment, some mellow string-instrumental piece. I began to wonder whether moving in was a mistake. I'm not very good with people with delicate personalities. Shut up! I know I have one myself. That doesn't mean I'm any good dealing with other people's.

After a while, he sighed and said, "You don't know me very well."

"I'm aware," I replied, hopefully without sounding terse.

"Let me tell you, then." Tagaghà paused and sniffed at me for some sort of reaction, but I genuinely wanted to know, so I only listened. He continued. "There's not much to tell anymore. Most of it's stopped being true. All I am now is a nondescript guy with nothing. I keep poking myself mentally to find out if I'm an empty shell. But I'm not! Not unless I allow myself to be. There's enough brain left in me to become a real person again. And I think I want to. I'm just having trouble deciding who that person should be."

"Maybe going outside sometimes would help," I suggested.

"Yeah, I think so." Tagaghà nodded. "That's why I went and played games with you in the park. It wasn't much of a start, but it was something. I've gotta do more, though. I can't just be a guy who plays children's games."

I didn't know what to tell him. My stint at career counseling went badly and I was reluctant to try it on him; it seemed like asking for trouble.

"I'll think of something," he muttered. "Maybe the answer is somewhere out there in the city."

"Maybe." I don't particularly enjoy wandering around cities. However, he didn't know me any better than I knew him, and there'd be time to explain it to him later. I suspected this would end up like everything does - the other guy gets so wrapped up in his pursuits that I essentially get forgotten.

And what do you know! I was right.

originalit @ 2006-10-09T20:35:00

2006-10-10T03:37:53Z

LJ username: thisisironic
Writing journal(s)/websites: ironyislove
Call me: Emilie
Current project(s): NaNoWriMo 06'
Genre(s): Action/Adventure
Writing strength(s): People say my dialogue is good.
Writing weakness(es): Fluidity to the stuff I write.
Favorite theme(s): Redemption, purgatory and all of that.
Literary philosophy: One of the general rules I give myself is that the character's have to be realistic. Nothing is out of character as long as the motivation behind whatever they do/say is realistic. If the motivation isn't there, then it's OOC and that's a bad thing. Also: Character before plot. The story serves the people, not the other way around.

Hello,

2006-10-09T21:07:30Z

LJ username:thoraru
Writing journal(s)/websites: (see above)
Call me: Aga
Current project(s): NaNo '06
Genre(s): Mostly fanfiction
Writing strength(s): Just writing itself I think, considering that English isn't my first language. It's Polish
Writing weakness(es): See above. Sometimes my grammar structure gets a little off because I find myself trying to literally translate Polish into English, however it's happening less and less.
Favorite theme(s): Romace, Fantasy
Literary philosophy: Writing is like making love. Don't worry about the orgasm, just concentrate on the process.

I learned about this community on NaNo's website and decided to join since sometimes I have a major problem with following through with my writing projects. I have also signed up for NaNo.

My username there is: Vilandra

Hey, there!

2006-10-05T06:00:51Z

LJ username: beli_mawr
Writing journal(s)/websites: (see above)
Call me: Ellie
Current project(s): NaNo '06
Genre(s): It depends very much upon what mood I'm in. Mostly, historical... sometimes current era.
Writing strength(s): I've been told that I can capture a character's "voice" reasonably well.
Writing weakness(es): Starting. Until I "find" my first line, I can't write anything else.
Favorite theme(s): Mystery. Suspense.
Literary philosophy: It'll all sort itself in the end.

Found this through a post on the NaNoWriMo forums; thought I'd join. Currently working on getting ready for my second year of November Insanity (aka "NaNo") - lots of ploughing through text-books about the period in history that I'm hoping to (planning on) writing about, character development and cross stitch to relax me. Please note: I use the term "relax" very loosely!

Anyway, that's me. Pleased to be here/meet you all. Look forward to participating...

NaNo!

2006-10-03T04:00:50Z

If you joined up for http://www.nanowrimo.org/ this year, let us know your username here - we can friend each other.

Charisma is my username there too.

My writing journal for NaNo will be tequila_sunset

hello!

2006-10-03T03:54:12Z

LJ username: wellowned
Writing journal(s)/websites: shadows_of and drowning!Ophelia, my website mostly, you'll find me at my website.
Call me: morgue. or riyo. or ashe. i'll answer to all of the above.
Current project(s): nanowarmup. it's scary as all get-out. and harder than i thought. i'm off to nanowrimo soon, no plans yet... so fun.
Genre(s): romance, angst, some fanfic
Writing strength(s): i'm a poet. and i love flash fiction. and i'm a grammar/spelling nazi.
Writing weakness(es): can't write a long fic to save my life. i run at 1/5 of what i should be writing in details.
Favorite theme(s): love, love lost, etc.
Literary philosophy: get to the point! the frills are nice, but we want the meat.

Broken/fixed - Cwm. Fsau Léan

2006-10-01T18:05:58Z

Yesterday my roommate and I played the old children's game, predator-and-prey, in the park for five hours straight.

The military provides me with housing while I'm on liberty. I'd hoped to get an apartment to myself, but there aren't enough units available. At least they let me choose my own roommates. Anou Chaed is an old friend of mine from boot camp; fortunately for me, she and her brother Tagaghà ended up in a three-person apartment and were required to fill the third spot.

Chaed is an accountant in S&R, the only one of us with steady employment. As a gunship crewman, I'm gone for a year at a time and then spend six months doing nothing. Tagaghà used to work in coolants research, but the gases fried his brain and now he's listed as disabled. He usually doesn't do much. Just sits in the apartment, listens to music, and grunts at you if you bother him.

Sometimes, however, he gets restless. He paces from the bed to the kitchen and back again, and he'll do it for hours. I'm always afraid to say anything to him. If I knew him better, maybe it would be easier. Sometimes he asks me how I am - usually when I'm feeling lousy and I'd prefer not to talk. He must do that on purpose - his timing is far too consistent. But when I allow him to start a conversation with me, it never amounts to much. I'm fine, me too, nice day, uh-huh, and that's as far as we get.

But this morning... I don't know. Maybe I felt guilty for not trying harder - I'm very aloof, too, I admit. Chaed hardly pays any attention to him, but I got to thinking, what if he's lonely?

So when Tagaghà started pacing, I asked him, "Do you want to go to the park with me?"

And he said yes.

That in itself was somewhat unnerving. I go to the park to escape from him; well, from everything, really. It's pretty empty during the heat of the day. I just grin and bear it, bring some water with me, and camp out in some shady spot until the crowds start showing up. The isolation of space starts to feel comfortable while I'm out on deployment, and when I return to Origin, I get confused unless I'm able to seek out a similar sense of isolation.

This whole city full of people! I watch them from a distance and they all smell alien to me. I don't get too close. And now suddenly one of them gets close to me, and I don't know how to respond. I don't even know how much of his faculties have survived toxic chemical exposure.

After today, I still don't know. Tagaghà followed me down to the park, and I intended to show him one of my favorite spots to sit, but as we passed the seasons sculpture he laughed and ducked behind it. When I chased him, he dodged me and dashed up the nearby hill. At some point we switched and he chased me, and so on. Then he wanted a beer, which seemed like a questionable idea to me, but we bought beers anyway and drank them alongside the waterfall. With a good buzz going, it only felt right to resume our game. So off we went.

Five hours. Sheesh.

It was a lot of fun.

I wonder if he's up for some more today. I'll even buy the beer this time.

Flash Fiction Exercise

2006-09-28T18:20:55Z

Hello all,

Sorry for the late response. Here is my take on the Flash Fiction exercise.

Title: Autumn Nocturne
Author: schadenkatze
Word Count: 761
Prompt: something is broken and something else is fixed.

The brittle leaves crunched beneath my feet as I walked the overgrown path through the woods. I could see well enough by the full moon that is when there were no clouds obscuring its light. The breeze whistled through the few remaining dry leaves still clinging to branches and I caught a whiff of apple cider, heavy with cinnamon. The thought of a cup of warm sweet cider nearly distracted me from my destination. Shivering, I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt tighter and stuffed my fists deeply into the pockets. I walked deeper into the woods, anticipation as well as the chill increasing my pace.

Amelia waited for me, cold and frightened, and I was positive she would look radiant in the moonlight. Taking the girl had been, pardon the pun, child’s play. I watched the house for several nights, learning the family’s routines, completely unobserved. Following their nightly habit, had Amelia bathed and tucked in by seven-thirty, after a well-balanced and nutritious family dinner, an hour of television and good night kiss from Mommy and Daddy.

Funny, last night, Mommy and Daddy did not insist that Amelia say her prayers, I guess they were in too much of a hurry to watch the movie Dad had brought home.

Too bad. Perhaps if Amelia had prayed for protection hard enough, I might not have grabbed her after all.

No matter; thirty minutes later, I climbed the trellis on the north side of the house; broke the lower left pane of her bedroom window, snatched the sleeping princess and left the neighborhood within fifteen minutes.

Only problem was, by the time I reached my secluded shack here in the woods and settled down my darling cherub princess, it was far too late to have any fun with her. I had to get back to town and be seen, secure an alibi, so to speak. I was too excited to sleep, for obvious reasons, so work today was agonizing, time seemed to stand still and dinner with my folks was no better. However, I had no choice but to keep up appearances. Impatience and inattention to details always leads to disaster.

Finally, it was dark enough for me to leave my apartment. I chose to walk, since I had parked on the street. Someone might notice my car’s absence, not to mention the loss of a prime parking space.

Drawn back from my musings, I was sure I had heard someone behind me in the woods. I stopped and turned slowly, looking at the ground as if I had dropped something, rather than alert any possible predator that I was wise to their presence. Fucking clouds had drifted in again, preventing any moonlight from assisting me in my search. I turned again and picked up my pace. Listening so hard, I could hear my own heart beat, I considered turning back a hundred times . . . but I simply could not wait to be with Amelia any longer.

Suddenly, I heard a low growl . . . I swear, the word that came immediately to mind was ‘menacing’. Before I’d barely registered the thought, something leapt out of the trees and carried me to the ground, snapping and snarling. I threw my arms up to protect my face and heard the bones in my left arm break as the thing sunk its teeth into my flesh. Before I lost consciousness, I was sure I had been attacked by a werewolf. My last thought was sadness for Amelia, dying alone in the woods without me to love and care for her.

Later, when I awoke in the hospital, I learned it was merely a dog, and not a werewolf that ravaged me. The family dog, brought home the day Amelia was born. Bridgett, an incredibly huge mastiff that thought of Amelia as her very own pup.

It turns out that the sheriff had called for state police assistance but they had no officers to spare just then. They suggested using dogs to track the child until federal agents could arrive and take over the investigation.

So, I here I sit, in county lock up, awaiting trial. My court appointed attorney says that because of Amelia’s age, she falls under the category of ‘tender years’, making her kidnapping a capitol offense. I told him not to object if the prosecutor presses for the death penalty. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life in prison. So far, here in county, none of the other prisoners know who I am. I doubt I would be so lucky in prison, even if I was allowed a solitary cell away from the general population. I have heard all the lurid tales of what happens to sex offenders behind bars and have no desire to experience any of it first hand.

Mexico Can't Wait

2006-09-24T22:59:03Z

I stood in the middle of the deserted street, shading my eyes from the oppressive sun. Only a few squat buildings remained - bricks crumbling, wood weathered.

"Maybe this isn't the place," Jules said, glancing about as he got out of the van.

Mac shook his head. "According to the GPS , this is - or was - the place."

I took the postcard out of my pocket. The Chihuahua's paper face, still mocking-cheerful under a comical sombrero, stared back at me.

"Feliz Cumpleanos," I said, though this was my twenty-fifth birthday. I wasn't the teenager I'd been the day the card arrived. I didn't turn it over to see the message; I didn't need to. I'd read it so many times, hoping that there'd be something there I missed - some love between the lines, some clue as to where she'd gone. There never was.

Finally though, here I was in Mexico. It had all come together - the time, the courage, and resources to make it here. Finally. To this town, where the postcard was sent from shortly before my seventeenth birthday. To this town that was now little more than a ghost. I walked away from my friends and towards what had obviously been a cantina of sorts.

"Let him go," I heard Jenny say softly from behind me, cautioning Jules and Mac to give me my space. I appreciated that.

The sagging building still had some broken bottles inside, and a cracked mirror behind what may have once been a bar. Now it was a collection of rotted timber, bent at strange angles like a wooden hybrid spider. If there was any place in this shitty former town my mother had likely spent time, I was guessing this bar was it.

I stared in the mirror trying to conjure up her image - her standing here, a drink in hand, when this place was full of local color and life. But all I saw was me - my own face, weary and dirt-smudged from the reflection and the road. I'd chased my mother's ghost for so long - too long, really. Long enough that I'd forgotten how to see myself clearly. I had to admit it to myself.

"She's gone," I announced to the broken chairs, and holey walls.

"I don' know why she left," I said to what remained of the ceiling.

"She isn't coming back," I said, softer now, to a stain on the rotting floor. "And it doesn't matter."

I looked up at my own face in the mirror, and repeated it, to myself - watching my mouth form the words. "She's gone, I don't know why she left, she's not coming back, and it doesn't matter."

I smiled, and my reflection smiled back. I felt weightless as I walked towards the doorway. The postcard, still in my hand, was the only thing that still felt heavy. I looked down at that long-hated-dog, and tore the card in half, right across his neck. He seemed less smug disembodied like that. I found a nail in the doorframe and tacked up the torn card- right between the Chihuahua's eyes. The other half I folded and tucked into my pocket - it didn't make me feel any less light.

I walked back towards the van - towards my friends who were like my family- smiled and waved to assure them all was well.

"Are you alirght?" Jenny asked anyway, taking me into her arms as soon as I reached her.

"Never better," I said, and meant it. I kissed her forehead, then tugged Mac and Jules into the hug for good measure. "Man, I love you guys."

"We could try asking about her in the next town," Jules said, certain that I was having some sort of breakdown. "We can keep going.."

"Hire a detective, maybe..." Mac said.

"No, it's alright. I'm alright. I'm done," I said. I opened up the driver's door to the van, and settled into the seat. "I found what I was looking for."

I turned the key in the ignition. "Let's just go home."

Introduction Post

2006-09-19T04:01:11Z

LJ username: lorata
Writing journal(s)/websites: lorata
Call me: Lora
Current project(s): The novel version of the short stories Experiments 9 and 10 with piig, which we plan to publish. My original series (here), which has spawned far beyond my original intent for it. A small collaboration series with altis. An alternate speculative universe of my original series (currently stalled, but with occasional unrelated one-shots to keep my foot in).
Genre(s): "Realist" fiction, I guess? My characters exist in a non-fantastic universe.
Writing strength(s): Character voice. I've been working on it for ages and think I'm starting to get the hang of it.
Writing weakness(es): Speculative fiction. It's something I adore reading, and I try writing it every so often just because I love it so, but no dice. I also am terrible at coming up with new plots and characters for stand-alone universes; minor characters for existing ones also don't exist much.
Favorite theme(s): It depends on the story. I love playing around with preconceptions of gender and sexuality. My main original series started out as an attempt to show that gay relationships don't have to be tragic, short-lived, based on sex, etc., like so much mass media seems to suggest.
Literary philosophy: I'll get back to you on that one.

I'm currently working on what the heck I'm doing for this year's NaNo. Guh. @__@

Flash Fiction

2006-09-18T21:47:39Z

Flash fiction
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Likely coined by James Thomas, Denise Thomas, and Tom Hazuka in their 1992 anthology by this name, flash fiction, also called "sudden fiction," "micro fiction," "postcard fiction" or "short-short fiction," is a sub-genre of the short story characterized by limited word length. There is no "official" or exact word limit, but flash-fiction stories are generally less than 2,000 words long, and tend to cluster in the 250- to 1,000-word range. Occasionally, stories under 1,000 words are categorized as "Flash" and those 1,000-2,000 are described as "Sudden." Regardless, "Traditional" short stories range from 2,000 to upwards of 20,000 words in length, and tend to cluster in the 3,000- to 10,000-word range. A good rule of thumb is that a short story (flash, sudden or traditional) is meant to be read in one sitting, unlike a novella or a novel.

Flash fiction differs from vignettes in that the works contain the classic story elements: protagonist, conflict, obstacles or complications, and resolution. However, unlike a traditional short story, the limited word length often forces some of these elements to be unwritten, that is, hinted at or implied in the written storyline. Ernest Hemingway's six-word flash, "For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn." illustrates this principle taken to the extreme.

Flash fiction has roots going back to Aesop's Fables, and practitioners have included Bolesław Prus, Anton Chekhov, O. Henry, Franz Kafka and Ray Bradbury. The Internet has brought new life to flash fiction with its demands for short, concise works. Ezines are a ready market for flash-fiction works; however, many print magazines publish them as well. Some markets that specialize in flash fiction include SmokeLong Quarterly and Vestal Review.

One type of flash fiction is the short story with an exact word count.

Resources:
Fiction Factor - Writing Flash Fiction
Flash What? A Quick Look at Flash Fiction
Flashes on the Meridian
Vestal Review, a flash fiction magazine
Writing flash fiction using bubble diagrams
Ten Reasons to try Flash Fiction

Exercise: Write a flash fiction of 500-1000 words in which something is broken, and something else entirely is fixed.

originalit @ 2006-09-15T07:22:00

2006-09-15T12:23:05Z

Hey, gang

Since it's only six weeks until the National Novel Writing Month, and I'm an OCDer, I was wondering if people here are planning to sign up?

If so, I thought it might be cool to link writing journals and support one another, crack the whip, so to speak.

[cross posted to originalficfest and originalit)