Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

LJ Idol 9, Week 9: Keep Calm and End This Meme

vaudy — Mon, 19 May 2014 22:14:56 GMT

Does anybody else miss the days when Frank, the LJ mascot, was having a romance with Meme the Sheep? Okay, so in actuality, I barely even read those things and thought they were kinda dumb, so I guess what I miss is LJ's heyday, before it became this desert wasteland of ONTD and people who will never leave because they shelled out for permanent accounts. (And some other stragglers, I would say like me, but that's not accurate, because I almost never post. I just come here keep up with the holdouts on my f-list. And do LJ Idol.) Meme the Sheep is just a sort of silly symbol of the wider LJ community that the powers-that-were tried, however weakly, to foster.

I despise Facebook, and I can't hardly say anything in 140 words, much less 140 characters, so Twitter's out, and I'm on Pinterest, but I don't really get it.

I sort of use Google+ the way I used to use LJ: a place to blather about my day or something that's on my mind, in brief or at length, and at least my actual, real-life, people-I-actually-like-to-talk-to friends are on there and put up with my blathering. Though instead of memes and quizzes, my friends are more likely to post articles, or link to Cracked.com or TV Tropes. And since unlike That Other Site, I don't have any family members or professional peers in my circles, I can be candid, like I used to be here, where I am anonymous.

I miss the other friends. The online-only friends who I'm sure are on That Other Site, but it's not the same because people interact differently there.

And even LJ Idol, which when I first signed up, back in Season 8, isn't really about what LJ used to be about. When I write for Idol, I have to have some kind of point to make. I can't just blather on. I have to impress people. It's fun, and it's good practice, but it's not what I liked about LJ, even if my LJ usage was always sporadic, at best.

And even though Gary has been doing his absolute damnedest to make people feel guilty about leaving, I find I'm rather calm about it. I don't regret giving it another try, but this wasn't a good time for me to do it, and it's not getting any better. You'll see me around here and there in the Green Room, and depending on how early or late Gary rolls out Second Chance, maybe I'll see if I can give Idol more attention then, but for now, thanks for reading and commenting, and good luck!

LJ Idol 9, Week 7: No True Scotsman

vaudy — Mon, 28 Apr 2014 23:52:02 GMT

“And you call yourself a geek.”

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, and I don’t need your permission to do so, no matter how many movie quotes I fail to recognize, or what my geek number is (pretty low, actually).

The thing is, no one can tell you what you are or aren’t.

For years, I didn’t consider myself a gamer, even though I spent a significant amount of my free time playing computer games. But I wasn’t a gamer the way my brother was a gamer; I played a combination of casual games and more “hardcore” games, and never played the newest games, because my computer was always too outdated for them (still is). I’ve always been more than a casual gamer, but less than a hardcore gamer, and I didn’t/don’t have a good name for what kind of gamer I was, so I didn’t make it part of my identity. Then I had a friend in college who found out I liked computer/video games, and insisted that I was, in fact, a gamer. I immediately resisted the label (labels are dumb, anyway), explaining all the above reasons ad nauseum, but he didn’t care.

I now occasionally call myself a gamer, but I still don’t really think of myself as a gamer. Gaming is an important part of my geek identity, but it’s not an identity I claim in its own right; it’s more like a convenient shorthand (which is really what a lot of labels boil down to in the end, isn’t it?). But what’s crucial here is not whether I meet some sort of gamer qualification, or whether merely playing games, of any type, regularly as a hobby makes me a gamer, it’s whether I choose that identity for myself. My college friend couldn’t force it on me, however hard he tried, though he did make me think more about how and why I choose my identities, and that's a valuable thing.

So, I’m a geek, right? At least, I claim a geek identity. To a certain extent, contrary to what I just said, this was initially forced on me. I was a nerd because my classmates said so, because I liked weird things, and I wasn’t very good at social interaction. But now there’s a whole community of people who not only have a shared experience of *cough* mean kids looking down at them for liking sci-fi, or Dungeons and Dragons, or whatever. They also have those interests in common that were once so different.

I read a lot of sci-fi and fantasy, especially fantasy. But it took me something like five years to finish the Lord of the Rings because it bored me to tears. I’m not especially into superhero comics. I didn’t get into D&D until adulthood, but I love it now. I cut my teeth on Star Trek: TOS reruns. I’ve never watched the updated Battlestar Galactica.

I’m not trying to board the Geek Train because it’s suddenly become cool to be a geek. I genuinely like a lot of geeky things. Not all of them, and I make no bones about that. My brother (who frequently questions my Geek Cred) and I had a discussion about the aforementioned “geek number” thing and its limitations. If you take the quiz, it asks things like (I’m paraphrasing, forgive me) “Have you seen all of [insert Geeky TV Show here].” What, because I kind of lost interest in Star Trek: DS9 after a few seasons, I’m not geeky enough? I actually enjoyed Voyager a lot, but I still didn’t see all of it. While we’re at it, a lot (A LOT) of Star Trek fans disliked Voyager, and look down on fans who like it.

Whose standards shall we judge by?

Oh look! It's not an LJ Idol post!

vaudy — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 18:30:37 GMT

Though it is tangentially writing related. I know a lot of people on my f-list are big readers, and a fair few are fantasy/sf people, so I wanted to share this:

Crossed Genres Magazine Kickstarter

It's a small sf/fantasy magazine from a publisher (of the same name) that actively encourages submissions by and about underrepresented people of all types (you can read more on the Kickstarter page, but for example, I just purchased a science fiction anthology titled Fat Girl in a Strange Land). (Their novels and short fiction collections are a little looser in terms of genre, but the Kickstarter is directly geared toward funding the magazine.) They have only a few days left, and few thousand to go to meet their goal, so in addition to supporting them directly, I wanted to spread the word. This is the sort of thing we need more of, especially in SFF.

LJ Idol 9, Week 5: Build a Better Mousetrap

vaudy — Mon, 14 Apr 2014 23:31:25 GMT

Marc double-checked everything in the van to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Two tents, sleeping bag, air mattress, extra sleeping bag because someone always forgot theirs, duffel bag, and cooler filled with ice and pop. The empty cooler, waiting for food, sat on the driveway. Satisfied, Marc went back inside to wait.

Leslie arrived first.

"Coffee?" Marc asked as he led her into the kitchen.

She replied, "That sludge you drink? No thanks. But maybe I can make you some real coffee." She smirked and drew a small metal and plastic cylinder out of her tote bag.

“What is this thing?” Marc asked. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a French press!” replied Leslie.

“Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“You’re the worst, you know that?” She snatched the French press out of her brother’s hands. “Here, let me show you.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bag of coffee she’d ground that morning and spooned some into her press. Marc eyed his sister dubiously as she went about heating up the water and explaining the ideal temperature and steeping time.

“When it’s done,” she said, “you push this plunger down to keep the loose grounds out of the coffee when you pour.”

“I have an electric coffee maker, “ said Marc. “I put all the stuff in, push a button, and it beeps when it’s done. I don’t need some newfangled contraption that makes me work for my coffee.”

"It’s not newfangled!" Leslie scoffed. "It’s been around for . . . I don’t remember, actually, but longer than electric coffee makers.”

"Ah-ha!" said Marc, "I always did say that you were regressing, Sis."

Leslie rolled her eyes. "Hmph. Innovation isn't always an improvement, you know. Besides, you can't take your electric thing glamping."

"Glamping? Is today International Confuse Your Brother Day, or something?"

"Glamorous camping. You know, like, enjoying nature, but still having creature comforts like fluffy pillows and hot showers. And good coffee."

"But laying your head on rocks is part of the charm!"

"As if you don't already have an air mattress packed in your van."

"Well, yes, but I still get to wear my rattiest clothes and not shower for a couple of days and not get judged for it."

"That's what you think. Claire and I totally judge you."

Another voice came from the front door, making Marc and Leslie jump. “Oooh, judging Marc is always fun!” Their sister Claire appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Sorry,” she continued, “the door was open, so I let myself in. Is that a French press? Nice!”

“Oh, not you, too!” Marc groaned.

Leslie asked, “Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please!” replied Claire.

Leslie got a couple of mugs out from the cabinet. “Marc?”

“I’m fine with my sludge; you girls go ahead.” Marc took a sip from his own mug. “So, Claire, are you in cahoots with Leslie on this glamping business?”

Claire raised an eyebrow and answered, “What the heck is glamping?”

***

Marc sat at the picnic table in the fading sunlight, contemplating Leslie’s centerpiece--his parent’s dented old percolator, filled with fresh flowers. He and Leslie had cooked most of the dinner, so Claire was cleaning up with the help of a cousin and his wife, while the rest of the cousins were playing horseshoes nearby.

As he sat, he could see Leslie sashaying back to the campsite from the showers wearing a strappy blue sundress. He lifted his coffee cup to her in greeting as she approached the picnic table.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

Marc grinned before answering. “The coffee is excellent. The dress is ridiculous.”

LJ Idol 9, Week 4--Nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent

vaudy — Mon, 07 Apr 2014 23:50:41 GMT

“Do you know the story of the oak and the reed, dearest?” The old woman lifted her granddaughter’s chin with one finger to look into her eyes.

Mia shook her head and snuffled, wiping the back of her hand across her wet cheek.

“Ah, now, the oak was proud, and boasted about his great strength. He mocked the little reed because she bent with the wind, while he remained straight and tall. But then one day, a mighty storm blew in, and the oak who would not bend could not stand against the gale, and he broke. But the reed bent under the wind, as always, and she survived the storm.”

Mia frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

“What indeed?” replied her grandmother. “Just think about it for a little while, sweet pea.”

***

“Hey, new girl!”

Mia looked up. It was Cori, the queen bee of fourth grade. “Yeah?” Mia replied.

“Those cookies look really good.” Cori smiled and sat down next to Mia.

“Yeah, my mom made them. She says there should always be something to look forward to on Monday,” Mia said.

“Wanna sit with us at lunch today?”

“Sure!”

“Well, if you give me your cookies, I'll save a spot for you."

Mia held out one of her cookies. “Okay, I’ll share with you,” she said.

Cori giggled. “What am I gonna do with one? I share everything with Taylor and Billy, and that’s not enough to go around. I need all of them. I mean, you probably get to have more at home, right?”

Mia hesitated. The cookies were all she’d get to eat until lunchtime, but Cori was the first kid at this new school to pay her any attention.

“So, are you gonna be one of the cool kids, or not?” Cori asked.

***
“I’m so glad you finally made some new friends, honey!” Mia’s mom said.

Her dad said, “All she needed was a little time. Isn’t that right sweetie?”

Mia ducked away as he reached across the table to ruffle her hair.

“Maybe you should invite this Cori over after school one day,” her mom said as she passed the salad. “It’s not too cold out yet--you can play outside for a while, and she can stay for dinner if she wants!”

Mia shrugged. “I dunno . . .” she mumbled.

“Why not?” her mom said. “You used to have Nikki and Riley over all the time.”

“These kids are cool, but they aren’t Nikki or Riley,” Mia replied, staring hard at her mac and cheese.

“Sweetie, I know this move has been hard on you . . .”

“Just let her be, hon,” her dad said. “She’s made the first step; now let her go at her own pace. She had years of friendship with Nikki, and she’s only known Cori for a couple of months.”

Mia’s mom pursed her lips.

***

Taylor winked as Mia handed over a brownie. “Nice. You always have the best stuff, Mia.”

Mia watched her move to the next row, collecting tribute. She glanced at Mrs. Patterson, but her nose was buried in her gradebook. Cori sat at her desk, examining the booty Billy had collected from his side of the room. Mia imagined having Cori at her house, pawing through her toys. Going home with her favorite Barbie.

“You’re lucky,” whispered Andrea from the desk behind.

“How so?” Mia turned around and raised an eyebrow.

“Your mom only gives you junk food once a week, right?”

Mia nodded.

“And Cori let you in the group, anyway. She usually doesn’t bother with kids who don’t bring treats every day.” Andrea glanced down at the carrot sticks on her desk.

“Yeah, I guess I’m lucky, then,” Mia said.

At lunchtime, Mia carried her tray over to her usual table. Cori was already there, parceling out the treats she didn’t want to some of the other kids.

“Hey, Mia,” Cori said. “I got these chips from Micah, but I don’t feel like potato chips today. You want them?”

Mia scanned the other tables before answering. “No, thanks,” she said. “If you really don’t want them, why don’t you ask Micah if he wants them back?”

The whole table fell silent. Cori’s mouth opened and closed, and Micah’s face turned bright red.

He said, “You can do whatever you want with them. I didn’t want them, anyway.”

“Hey, aren’t you gonna sit down?” Taylor asked nervously, picking at Mia’s brownie.

“Nah. I think I’m going to sit by Andrea today. Enjoy the brownie.” Mia marched over to the corner table where Andrea sat with Luis and Blake.

***

“I’ve been thinking about the story you told me last time I was here,” Mia said, cuddling with her grandmother.

“Oh? And did you figure it out?” Grandma replied.

“I think so. It’s good to be like the reed, and be able to bend instead of break when things get hard.”

Grandma smiled and said, “That’s right, sweet pea. We have to be flexible, because we can’t always have things our way.”

“But Grandma . . .”

“What is it, dear?”

“I think sometimes you can bend too much,” Mia said.

Grandma nodded. “That’s true. The reed bends, but she always gets back up.”

“I think maybe it’s okay to be like the oak, too. You just have to know the difference between when to bend and when to stand tall.”

***

On the first day back from Winter Break, Mrs. Patterson introduced a new student, Sunny, to the class. At snack time, Mia got up from her desk to sit by her.

“Sunny, right?”

The new girl nodded.

“I’m Mia. Hey, are those oatmeal-raisin cookies? They look really good! Did your mom make them?”

“Yeah. She stays at home, so she bakes a lot,” Sunny replied.

“My mom only bakes on weekends because she works. She gave me a lemon bar today. I’ll split it with you, if I can have a taste of your cookies.”

LJ Idol 9, Week 2: The Missing Stair

vaudy — Mon, 24 Mar 2014 23:17:48 GMT

Janny’s nose had been stuck in her book since she sat down in the bus to go home. Her parents had installed a keypad lock, so instead of fumbling for keys at the front door, Janny simply transferred her book from right hand to left, without so much as glancing up, so she could punch in the combination, and switched hands again to take off her backpack just inside. She went through the living room, into the kitchen, and to the freezer, dodging furniture and stepping around her little sister’s toys as though she had second sight. She cut open the package of her pocket sandwich with scissors so she wouldn’t need two hands.

When the microwaved dinged, Janny didn’t wait two minutes for her snack to finish cooking; she grabbed it and a paper towel and went back through the living room. She rounded the corner to the staircase, and lifted her foot up to the first step.

A moment later, she tumbled down onto a field of grass.

***

Tel did a quick headcount to make sure no sheep had wandered off while he was intent on his spell. Then he returned his attention to the shimmering square of light before him. He couldn’t make out much beyond it, just dim shapes that didn’t look too different from the boulders dotting the pasture. He waited for something else to happen.

“Stupid Spellmaster thinks I ‘don’t have enough potential to train’,” he said to a passing ewe. “He’ll see. He’ll come back for his stupid spell book, and when he sees what I can cast, he’ll have to take me away from here.”

He watched the portal intently for several minutes, but nothing happened. Tel flung the stolen spellbook on the ground, scowling at a lamb nudging him for attention.

Then he heard a high-pitched “Oof!” and the sound of someone hitting the ground. He turned back toward the portal, but it was gone. In its place was a girl, a little older than Tel, wearing strange clothing and a startled expression.

***

“Where am I?” Janny said, raising herself to a sitting position.

Tel shrugged. “You’re here.”

Janny raised her eyebrows. “Here,” she repeated.

Tel nodded.

“Okaaay. How did I get ‘here’?” Janny picked up her book and frowned, picking at a bent corner of the cover.

Tel grinned. “I summoned you!” he said. He picked the spellbook. “Well, maybe I didn’t summon you. But I made the opening that you came through!”

“Like, with magic?” Janny’s face lit up as she asked, book forgotten again.

“Yup!” replied Tel. “I’m a Spellcrafter! Or at least I would be, if Master Rilta had picked me to train.”

“Do you have a name, Spellcrafter?” Janny asked.

“Telna. Tel for short.”

“I’m Janice. But everyone calls me Janny.”

“Hey,” said Tel, “aren’t you going to ask me how to get home?”

Janny looked at Tel for a long moment. “You said there’s magic here. Why would I want to go home?”

LJ Idol 9, Week 1: Jayus

vaudy — Mon, 17 Mar 2014 16:40:01 GMT

I see that my boss has come in for the day, so with a big smile on my face, I sidle into the Service office, where he’s sitting at his desk. In my best Perky McCheerful voice, I ask, “Would you like to know how my morning has gone?”

He side-eyes me from his computer, taking in the scan report I’m holding close to my chest. “Not when you put it like that,” he replies, but he turns to see what I have for him.

“So, 142 was over $20, 143 was over </em>$80</em>, and 144 was short $500”

These are our service desk drawers. My boss is . . . not pleased.

“Lottery scanning is all over the place,” I continue, handing him my scan report. “I’ll let you take a look at the numbers while I get Western Union.” I bounce out of the office, still smiling.

Just as my Western Union report is printing, the last one I need to check for discrepancies, my boss comes out of his office to the service desk, flailing and going on about “why is it so hard to push the right buttons on the screen for lotto?”

I continue to smile. In fact, I am barely holding back giggles. I was not laughing an hour ago, when I had to count each one of those drawers twice, to make sure my totals were correct, not to mention double-checking that I didn’t somehow miss a cash drop for the $500 drawer and having to emerge from my Cave of Solitude (also known as the cash office) to make sure some stray bills didn’t get stuck behind in a register drawer. All of which set me behind in my workflow. I had some interesting things to say an hour ago, most of which aren’t really work-appropriate. But there’s no one to hear me back there.

But now it’s hilarious. The Sunday morning service desk crew also finds it pretty amusing, since neither they nor I were working the desk the day before--the day I’m balancing for--and we all agree that it’s really not that hard to push the right buttons.

I can only control so many things. I can’t control whether or not people at the service desk who are not me push the right buttons when they sell and redeem lottery tickets. I can’t control whether or not a cashier makes sure a tax-exempt slip has the customer’s exempt number written on it, or whether someone made a mistake loading instant tickets into the lottery vending machine. I can’t control whether the full-time cash office person emails me the postal inventory so I can update it.

And ultimately, these things aren’t even my problem. They’re my boss’s problem--all I do is discover them. The worst thing that happens to me is that it takes a little longer to finish my work, which, yeah, I've been up since 3:30am, and I'd rather not stay any longer than necessary, but I still get paid by the hour.

So when these things I can’t control happen, I can either rant and rave and clench my fists, and have a bad day, or I can laugh at all the crap the day throws at me and have a good day.

Today, I had a good day.

LJ Idol 9, Week 0: Introduction

vaudy — Mon, 10 Mar 2014 19:00:32 GMT

It is halfway through the first quarter of my 8th grade year, and my family has just moved. My new school has “electives” for junior high. I have been placed in Creative Writing, which is a disappointment because I enjoy writing, and I’d really like to be able to take the class for a whole quarter.

The teacher explains to me that the class is working on writing an eight-page story. But she’s concerned that it’s unfair to ask me to do the same assignment, because the rest of the class has had all quarter, and I, of course, only have half that. So she gives me an alternate assignment: make a list of 25 things I like about myself. I make an easy start: I’ve always been one of the “smart kids,” and smartness is what I get praised for the most by pretty much everybody, so I’ve come to define myself by it. It goes on the top of the page.

Then I stare at the paper. And stare at it. And stare some more, becoming increasingly miserable until finally, I raise my hand, and the teacher comes over, and I say I’d really rather try writing the story, even though I don’t have as much time.

I write a story about animals in the woods, a favorite motif of mine. Not only do I finish the eight pages in half the time as everybody else, I write almost twice as much and have to pare down, because my starting definition of “page” includes both sides, and at some point, I realize nobody else is writing eight double-sided pages. I get an “A” on my story. I walk away happy--but not really. That “25 things I like about myself” is still hanging over my head.

Because, you see, I have always been terribly shy, and consequently have long since been labeled a “nerd,” and I’ve come to define myself by that, as well, and having to face the fact that I don’t like myself is perhaps even more painful than not being liked by others.

That eighth grade experience is now a distant but vivid memory. In some ways, I have come a long way. I can see the irony of being able to write that story in that amount of time yet not like myself enough to make that stupid list. I am able to recognize and give a name to the source of the dark, nasty thoughts that have haunted me throughout both adolescence and my adult life. I've even had periods where I felt pretty good, and didn’t have those thoughts so much. I’m still terribly shy, but manage to find ways to relate to people; I even work in retail, and many people wouldn’t even guess that I’m secretly terrified of them. (It helps that there’s a “script.”)

In other ways, I am still that sad 13-year-old who doesn't understand why she’s sad. Being able to recognize those dark thoughts and feelings as depression doesn’t make me not feel them. It doesn’t stop me from having days when I am convinced my friends secretly hate me. It doesn’t stop me from getting into cycles where I feel like a failure, stop trying because “there’s no point,” and then feel bad for being a failure and for not trying. It doesn’t stop me from saying to myself, “Wow, could you be any more of a downer in your introduction?” But this is who I am today. It might not be exactly who I am tomorrow, or next week. Each day is its own challenge.

As for that “stupid” list, I can’t number the times I’ve thought about whether I could write that list today, and even that I maybe ought to try, as an exercise in learning to love myself. Most of the time I put it from my mind, because I’m horribly afraid that I still couldn’t do it, and I don’t want to have to deal with that. But who knows? Maybe, if the topic is right, it’ll become an LJI entry of its own.

vaudy — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 02:48:49 GMT

I'm sure I will live to regret this, but I'd regret not doing it even more. :)

LJ Idol, Season 9, here I come.

If you want to play too (do eeeet, it's the last one!), sign-ups are HERE!

vaudy — Tue, 12 Nov 2013 17:25:12 GMT

So, I know that I'm an inveterate LJ lurker even in the best of times, but I have been in moving limbo for a while, and I haven't had internet for three months. Did I miss anything?

SCI, Topic 4: Here to Help

vaudy — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 00:35:21 GMT

Listen to me.
I’m here to help.

I’m here to warn you.
I’m here to help.

Who am I?
I’m the alarm bell.
The warning voice.
The voice of reason.
Listen to me.

I’m here to help.

I’m here to warn you.
When you’re doing something foolish.
Something risky.
Something new.

Something outside your comfort zone.

I keep you safe.
I’m here to help.

You’ll shoot your eye out.

They’re all gonna laugh at you.

I’m here to warn you.
To keep you safe.
Safe from yourself.
Safe from failure.

Listen to me.
I’m here to help.

Listen to me.

This entry was written for Second Chance Idol, Topic 4: Nothing Good Will Come of This.

LJ Idol, Exhibit A: Week 4: Ultra Deep Field

vaudy — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 01:58:11 GMT

Jennet ran her hand lightly across the uncut grass, letting the soft blade tips tickle her palm. She stretched out on the small patch, breathing in the scent of the soil and letting the artificial light warm her skin.

A soft series of beeps signaled the end of her required thirty minutes under the UV lights. She drew in one more deep breath and sat up. In one movement, she hooked her jacket with a finger and swung her legs over the side of the raised bed.

Outside the door of Greenhouse B42, Jennet paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer lights of the corridor.

“McPhee! I haven’t seen you in a while!” Jennet turned at the familiar voice, hoping she wasn’t blushing.

“Henry! How are you?”

“M’okay. Getting ready to catch some rays. Wouldn’t mind some company . . .” Henry gave her a lopsided grin.

“Actually, I just came out of there. I have organic chem in about ten minutes.”

“Aw, that’s too bad, maybe another time?”

Jennet nodded her assent.

“Hey, Jenn, if you ever need help in organic chem, let me know. I’m still assisting Prof. Garza; you can usually find me in her lab when I’m not in class. I’ve had three classes with Ben-Ari, so I can give you some pointers for how to deal with him.”

“Um, thanks! I’ll do that.” Jennet suppressed a giggle and waved at Henry as he stepped into the greenhouse bay.

Henry Carroll had TA’d Jennet’s xenoanatomy class, but her pre-vet program didn’t overlap with astrobiology much past the first-year courses. She could probably count the number of actual conversations she’d had with him on one hand, and they were all about anatomy.

But he knew who her organic chem instructor was.

Jennet didn’t really need help in organic chem, but she would at least need a refresher on today’s class, since she didn’t hear a word Prof. Ben-Ari said.

~

“How’re the cows?” Henry tucked a small blossom into Jennet’s hair. Over the past eight months, Greenhouse B42 had become their favorite.

“Changing the subject, huh? They’ll be okay, I guess. We had a to quarantine a small part of the herd, but that seems to have halted the spread. The other herds haven’t been affected.” Jennet pulled away from Henry and focused her gaze on the enviro-control panel on the wall, nearly hidden by a trailing ivy.

“I’m coming back, you know.” Henry leaned over and brushed his lips against her temple.

“I don’t know, actually,” Jennet said, darting him an angry look. “Anything could happen down there. The atmosphere could be toxic; the fauna could be more dangerous than the initial probes indicated. There could be disease.”

Henry sighed. “You know what I mean, Jenn. And it’s not like our lives are risk-free on this ship. Just last month a whole deck lost life support for an hour. Hader’s parents were caught in that--they barely made it. Besides, this planet may be what we’ve been searching for. This is why our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents have lived their entire lives on the Andromeda. This expedition could change everything, and I have a chance to be a part of that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hard as she tried, she couldn’t quite suppress the quiver in her voice. “It’s just-- it’s a little scary, you know? This is all we know. Nobody alive on this ship even remembers Earth.” She twined her fingers with Henry’s, and he pulled her closer to him.

“That’s not true--there’s still the cryos.”

“They don’t really count. Not until we know for sure they’ve survived the stasis.”

“Can’t you just imagine, Jennet? Someday, we could lie in an actual meadow under actual sunlight, not a lousy ten-by-ten bed of grass and wildflowers under artificial UV lights.”

Jennet giggled. “Maybe we can even stay there longer than thirty minutes!”

***
Author's Note: This sketch is part of a concept that's lived in my head for quite some time now. I guess I've just been waiting for the right moment to let it out.

LJ Idol, Exhibit A: Week 3: Busted (Shenanigans!)

vaudy — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 19:48:09 GMT

“Really honey? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. “

“C’mon, mom! What’s summer for if not to stay up really late and sleep away the morning?”

“Well, for starters, I expect your chores to get done, sleepover or no.”

“I’ll get ‘em done! I still have all day.”

“Oh, you better bet you’ll get ‘em done. So, did you have a good time? What did you do all night?”

“Just watched creepy movies and pigged out on junk food. You know, usual sleepover stuff.”

“Really? Then why didn’t anyone pick up the phone when I called?”

“. . . You must’ve called when we were out. Jamie’s parents took us to that one theater that does the late-night horror flicks.”

“Funny, Jamie’s dad didn’t say anything about that when he called me last night.”

“Maybe he just forgot to mention it?”

“Mm-hm, like maybe you forgot to mention that Jamie’s parents were out of town last night? Seems they were under the impression that Jamie was staying with us.”

“. . . “

“Was it a fun party?’

“. . . yeah.”

“Good. ‘Cause that was your last one for a long time.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Now, go put your things away. There’s a list of extra chores on your bed, since you’ll have lots of time at home this summer. I suggest you don’t waste any time getting to them. And since you didn’t tell me the truth when I gave you the chance, I’ll be thinking of a few more shortly.”

***

JamieDodger: so they took my phone, i can't go out, and i can only use the computer for an hour a day

SuprGoalie23: My mom's changing the wifi password daily. My chores have to pass inspection before I can have it.

JamieDodger: omg ur mom's hardcore

SuprGoalie23: Yeah. Hey, did she call ur house the night of the party?

JamieDodger: uh no? we don't even have a landline anymore.

SuprGoalie23: Are u kidding? She totally tricked me!

SuprGoalie23: She asked me why we didn't answer, and I made up a dumb excuse.

JamieDodger: we were busted anyway.

SuprGoalie23: Yeah but she piled on extra punishment cuz I lied.

JamieDodger: that's some bs. hey time's almost up i gotta go.

SuprGoalie23: l8r

JamieDodger: c u

LJ Idol Exhibit A: Week 2: Throw Back the Little Ones

vaudy — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 18:50:30 GMT

~~F-list peeps: I'm still working on this, but I'm posting now so I can edit and hopefully link to the entry thread from work. Feel free to comment on the WIP if you are so moved.~~

Apologies, I was five minutes late getting back from lunch when I finished, and I forgot to delete this header.

“Oh, honey, you don’t want that one. . . “

“But Mommy, it’s so tiny and cute!” .

“How come it’s not feeding with the other puppies?” her older brother asked.

“It’s the runt. Sometimes there’s one puppy that’s littler than the others, and its brothers and sisters won’t give it room to eat. A lot of times they don’t even make it.”

“What if we took it home now? We could save it!” Said the boy.

“Yeah!” the little girl said, her braids bouncing as she jumped. “We could give it a bottle like a baby!”

Their mother sighed. “It just doesn’t work that way, sugar. And I don’t want you to pick a puppy that might not survive long enough to bring home, even if the breeder hand-feeds it. Now, what about that one with the big, brown spots? That one’s pretty cute, too . . .”

Spike watched the humans for a few minutes more before he darted out from his vantage spot under the bush and headed back to the abandoned coyote den under the train tracks. Most of the animals were napping just outside the den, as usual, but this was no problem for the agile tabby. He slunk between the sleepers to the best sunny spot, where, Maizie, a collie, lay, and batted her in the nose.

Maizie jumped up with a yelp. “What was that for?”

“We’ve got another one, boss!” Spike said, flipping his tail back and forth.

“So you have to wake me up with your claws?” Maizie pawed at her muzzle.

“Sorry, boss.”

“Hmph. Right, then, what have you got?”

“Cocker spaniel litter, maybe three weeks or so, not far from here. Red Stumpy found out about them through the Squirrel Network and alerted me a little over a week ago, but I saw them outside today for the first time. Several groups of humans were looking at the puppies. There’s definitely a runt--can’t get in to nurse, poor little thing.”

“And the humans?" Maizie asked.

“The humans in the house seem okay--they’re bottle feeding the little guy--but the none of the others showed any interest."

Maizie rested her snout on her front paws. "All right," she said. "I don't think there's any cause for alarm yet. Continue watching the litter; let me know if there's any change. I’ll get the crew ready, in case we need to move quickly.”

Several of the other animals in the den were already awake and listening, but they waited for Maizie’s signal--a series of three barks. There was a flurry of shaking and stretching, and within a minute Maizie was surrounded by a motley assortment of wild and feral animals.

“Spike has reported from the Little Tree section. We need to prepare for a possible new addition--a puppy, cocker spaniel. Raccoons, I need you to check the kibble supply. You might need to go to the Big Place--they throw out bags all the time.”

“But the rats . . .” one of the raccoons started.

Maizie interrupted with a great woof. “The rats are smaller than you, I’m sure you can take them on. Get a big group together if you have to. Some fresh bedding would be nice, too, bits of blanket, towels, whatever you can find. It’s been a while.

“Berda, Farlo, I’d like you to dig a new burrow in the den.” Two badgers nodded their assent. Maizie turned to a red fox. “Gree, I’ll need you for the snatch, if it comes to that. Don’t range too far for a few days.

“Felines, get in touch with some of our outliers. If we bring in the puppy, we’ll need some extra patrols for a while. Dogs, spread the word to the Taken In. Find out what they know about the litter and the humans--and use the Squirrel Network to find out if any of our friends have had a litter recently. Feral or Taken In, it doesn't matter. Anyone who might have milk. Go.” Another series of barks, and the group scattered.

“The puppy isn’t doing so well.” A week had gone by, and the whole group was in council. Spike sat on a fallen tree trunk so everyone could see and hear him. “The mother is rejecting him entirely, and the humans are worried.”

“We’d better take him, then,” Maizie said. “Who else has a report for me?”

Skittles, a tortoiseshell, spoke for the Feline Patrol. “We found about a dozen solitaries willing to help patrol for a few weeks.”

Next, a small mutt chimed in. “I talked to Fizziwig in the dog park! His humans took him to the vet and he heard about the puppies there. The runt’s name is Doodlebug. The vet says there isn't anything they can do if he refuses to feed."

"Thank you, Lulu. That means milk is a big priority. Where are we on that?"

Chester, a lab mix, spoke up. "There's only one litter I've heard of, boss, but you won't like it."

"Well?"

"Larina."

A couple of coyotes at the back of the group yelped.

"Larina isn't one of us anymore!" one said.

Maizie bowed her head. "It’s true my nursemate has grown proud since founding a pack with her own kind. I fear she may not remember her friends."

The meeting was interrupted by a howl from within the den. The group fell into a hush as the Matriarch, a coydog, padded out.

"If Larina has forgotten where she came from, then we shall remind her. She will talk to me. Have Grey Stumpy arrange a meeting."

They met at night, at the border of Larina's pack's territory. Maizie and the Matriarch didn't know what to expect, so they brought Jinka the bobcat and Rollo, a German Shepherd who had been Taken In, but could jump his fence if he wanted to get out. But Larina came alone.

The coyote stood tall and proud as Maizie approached her. "You wish my help?" she asked.

"We are bringing in a puppy from Little Tree. He is very young, and hasn't been feeding well. He is in great need of milk if he is to survive. We have heard you have a new litter."

"Many pups do not survive. I have lost a number my own now. It is the way of things."

"Do you not grieve those lost pups? Would you not have them survive if you could save them?" Maizie asked.

"The strong ones survive." The coyote shrugged.

"How can you have become so cold?" Maizie asked.

The Matriarch appeared by Maizie's side. "You were not one of the strong ones, yet you survived with our help. Or have you forgotten that you suckled at my teat instead of your own mother's?

"You are one of us. You would not be what you are now without the very help we are asking of you. In fact, I remember you brought a pup from your first litter to protect him from his brothers and sisters. He is with us still."

Larina hung her head. "Very well, Matriarch. I will do this for you. Send word when you have the pup, and I will come." She turned and loped away into her territory.

"The humans have stopped bringing Doodlebug outside with the other puppies," Spike announced. He, Maizie, and Gree were the next yard over from the house.

Gree the fox yelped her disappointment. "How will we get him now?" She asked.

"One of the raccoons will have to do it," Maizie said. "Spike, you said there's a basement window with a hole in the screen?"

"Yup. I'm sure we can widen it enough to get in and out."

"Send a squirrel to fetch the coons right away."

It was a tense wait, but finally the pup was in paw.

"He is awfully tiny," Maizie said. "Send for Larina; this is going to a tough one."

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

LJ Idol, Exhibit A: Week 1: This Is My Life Now (Am I Crazy)

vaudy — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 00:39:48 GMT

The morning sun warms my bed. Eyes still closed, I listen for the familiar bustle of the bakery downstairs; Father pulling the first loaves out of the oven, Granny chatting with an early customer.

When I can no longer deny the silence, I throw back the covers and examine my surroundings. Someone has left a clean shift and robe on the foot of the bed, but instead I put on the soiled, torn skirt and tunic I fled my burning village in.

***

There are about a dozen others, dressed in the same robes I found on my bed; the youngest is about ten, the oldest in his thirties. All “divinity students,” hiding in plain sight. All at different levels of ability and training. I do not speak to them.

The priests tell me I must learn to control my gift, even if I choose never to use it again. That’s what they call it--a gift. They warn me of possible accidents caused by the gifted who do not seek training, and tell me that many people are afraid of people like us.

People like us.

***

I dream. I am a little girl, and Grandfather tells me my favorite story: A witch is stealing men away from the village. She sucks out their souls to power the spell that keeps her young and beautiful, and then puts the soulless bodies to work as slaves. One day, she sets her sights on a handsome farm boy, but he sees through her. He pretends to be seduced by her, but instead, with the help of his true love, tricks her into casting the spell on herself, which releases the souls she has gathered over the years. Without her magic spell sustaining her, the witch withers and dies within minutes. The clever farm boy is proclaimed a hero.

I look up at Grandfather. “Can magic ever be used for good, Grandfather?”

“What a foolish question, child! Magic is an unnatural force--even when someone thinks they can harness it for a good purpose, it ends up twisting their minds, and they change.”

Grandmother gives Grandfather a look I don’t understand.

I wake up. Yesterday I learned how to use magic to heal the broken wing of a bird. That didn’t feel evil. I felt the same surge of power I felt after that soldier stabbed my mother--that didn’t feel evil either. Just . . . different.

When I am going to become evil, I wonder, and will I even notice that it’s happening?

The priests call it a gift.

***

It is quiet in the classroom today, everyone intent on their own exercises.

One of the boys conjures a ball of light in his hand and tosses it toward the ceiling. He catches it, and tosses it again. The others start to turn and look, and another boy grins and holds his hands out. The first boy tosses him the ball. One by one, everyone joins in. Even the priests.

I stare in horror.

How can they be having fun?

***

My clothes are gone. I always put them in the corner when I undress. They aren’t there. I have thrown the covers off the bed and flipped over the mattress. They aren’t there. I knock over the bedside table. There are no other furnishings in the small chamber, nothing else to look under.

So I scream.

When the priests come, I scream louder. They do not try to stop or comfort me. One priestess brings a small chair and sits in the room with me, and the others leave. I will find out later she is there to make sure I do not harm myself.

***

My clothes lay at the foot of the bed, alongside the novice’s robes that have been there since I arrived. They have been cleaned and mended.

I look at myself in the small mirror on the wall. The bruise covering my left cheek is fading, the cut across my temple nearly healed. In my repaired clothes, I almost look normal, but I don’t know what normal is anymore.

I go to the refectory. The ten-year-old boy comes and holds out his hand, and I let him lead me to the table with the others. A girl, a little older than me, speaks to me.

“Before I came here, I got in a fight with my little brother. He was playing with my things, and broke something special to me, and I was so angry. I reached out to grab the pieces from him, and-- and a flame just-- it just burst out of my hand.” Tears streamed down her face.

Another student, a young man, says, “It happened that way for most of us. We all know how hard it is, we all know the stories, and what people say about magic. But we have each other here, and we all believe in doing what good we can with our gifts until we can live openly in society.”

A dozen hands reach out to embrace and comfort me as I weep.

***

I’ve been here two months. The priests have determined that I’ve learned enough control that I can, if I wish, leave the monastery, suppress my magic, and live a normal life, whatever that means. Or I can stay, and continue to learn.

I don’t understand why I’m here, why soldiers destroyed my village, why I don’t even know if my family is still alive. Why I can use magic. Perhaps I never will. But this is my life now; I have to learn how to live it.

I reach for the novice’s robes.

LJ Idol Exhibit A, Week 0: Here I am (Introduction)

vaudy — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 16:57:17 GMT

I am many things.
I am some things all the time.
I am other things only at times of my choosing.
I am yet more things only when I have to be.
I am a few things temporarily (I hope).

I am a Daughter. I only have one parent left; I still--always--grieve for my father, stepfather, and stepmother.
I am a Sister and a Step-Sister.
I am a Granddaughter. Only one grandparent remains as well.
I am a Great-Granddaughter. My last surviving Great-Grandmother died over ten years ago. But that doesn't matter.
I am a Niece.
I am a Cousin.
I am a Friend.
I am an Employee.
I am a Coworker.
I am a Patient.

I am a Cook.
I am a Baker. They are not quite the same thing.
I am a ~~Knitter, Spinner, Weaver, Embroiderer~~ sod it Fiber Artist.
I am a Choral Singer.
I am a Reader.
I am a Writer.
I am a Gamer.
I am a Nerd.

I am a Drow Rogue.
I am a Zabrak Soldier.
I am Tarnum, the Immortal Hero.
I am a Berserker and an Engineer and an Embermage and an Outlander.
I am a Hufflepuff.

I am a Cashier (and a Service Desk attendant and a Service Coordinator).
I am a College Graduate.
I am a Master of Library and Information Science. And I cling to that, even though I still don't, and fear I may never, work in that field.
I am a Caregiver.
I am a Procrastinator.

I am a Pagan.
I am a Skeptic. I am quite sure those do not cancel each other out.

I am a Person Like Any Other, with hopes and fears, sorrows and joys, pet peeves and idiosyncrasies.
I am a Person Unlike Any Other, with my own hopes and fears, sorrows and joys, pet peeves and idiosyncrasies.

I am me, for good or ill.

I am.

Oh, why not?

vaudy — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 04:36:47 GMT

I'll bite, and give LJ Idol, Exhibit A a shot.

A small holiday wish

vaudy — Sun, 23 Dec 2012 01:52:51 GMT

If you can't have the best Christmas, have the best Christmas you can.

(I was absent for a while, and I've been lurking for a while. I really should explain one of these days. But love and hugs to everyone, especially those of you who've been having a tough time.)

Idol Finals: The Impossible Choice

vaudy — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 16:31:25 GMT

So much for "I'm gonna start posting more on LJ again!" Well. There is still a Life Update of Doom I ought to do, if anyone's even still reading, that's over a year overdue. But for now, more LJ Idol!

I haven't posted a damn thing since I was eliminated, despite my good intentions about Home Gaming, and now it's the finals, and the last two writers standing, whipchick and notodette, have been called upon to make a case for both themselves and their opponent. Both are outstanding writers, and both make an excellent, though very different, argument. I have until tomorrow to choose between them, and I'm not sure it's enough time to make that decision.

If you've followed Idol at all this season, even if it was just while I was competing, I encourage you to read both entries and vote for your favorite. The poll is open to all:

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/603806.html

And even if you haven't followed Idol and don't care a whit about the competition, I urge you to read the entries, as well as alycewilson's thoughtful Home Game entry. What these ladies have to say applies to so much more than an internet writing competition, and have certainly given me some food for thought. They are well worth your time.

LJ Idol, Week 24: In Your Wheelhouse

vaudy — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 00:57:36 GMT

The centerpiece of my personal altar space is a dish that I made long ago in a community college ceramics class. It’s really ugly, so I keep it filled with polished stones and shells collected at various times and places, a couple of pagan-y trinkets, like the tiny goddess figure I bought for a dollar somewhere (I’m a poor pagan), and a few items precious to me. One of these last items is a penny.

It doesn’t look like much: it’s smooshed out thin with a bit of a curve to it, almost like what you get out of those vending machines you sometimes see at amusement parks, where you insert a penny and a couple of quarters, and it spits the penny back out at you imprinted with some cartoon character. Only this penny is completely smooth. And more than a little dirty.

***

In 2001, I took a trip to visit my dad, who lived in northern Arkansas. I hadn’t seen him in a few years, since we had both had moved away from Chicago in different directions, and I didn’t have extra money for traveling. But I was working full time, and we had agreed to split the cost of a flight so I could afford the trip.

Alongside the usual activities for an Arkansas trip--visiting the extended family, taking a boat out onto the lake, and staying home to play with the cats--we went to this little train museum-y thing. (You might think twenty-five years working for Amtrak would turn a guy off trains for life, but not so with my dad.) They had a working train that guests rode along a stretch of track while the “conductor” talked to us about the history of the place and the train we were on--appropriately for my dad and me, an old commuter train from Chicago. I think the place was a former station or rail yard for a defunct rail line, as they also had a working roundhouse that we got to see in action.

Before we got to ride the train, though, we had to wait for it to arrive from the other end of the track. When it was approaching, my dad and a number of other men (clearly other train fanatics, as they all seemed to know what they were doing) took pennies out of their pockets and put them on the track. I wasn’t really sure what they were up to, but I remember Dad saying something about having to get it on the track right, or it would just fly off when the wheels hit it.

The train came, and passed us, and came to a stop at the wheelhouse. My dad stepped up to the track to collect his penny, and he gave it to me. It was flattened out smooth, with a bit of a curve, and covered with black marks (well, those may have been there before). If you look really closely, you can still see the image of the Lincoln Memorial on the reverse of the coin, but otherwise it's not even recognizable as a penny.

I used to carry it with me, in a zippered pouch that I kept in my knitting bag to hold assorted small objects. But for the last ten years or so, it has lived on my altar, representing my memories of my dad. To anyone else, it's not even worth the one cent it originated as, but to me, it's priceless.

LJ Idol, Week 23: The Weak Force

vaudy — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:58:55 GMT

I am sitting in my living room with my grandmother, watching The Doctors. I am thoroughly horrified.

Now, despite the stories I’ve heard from my mom and her siblings about breaking of chairs and chasing with knives, I know my grandmother as a gentle soul. Soft-spoken, caring, good-humored, and, well, generally everything a grandmother is supposed to be. I am a little bemused at us watching a talk show together featuring segments about butt implants, female ejaculation, and toenail biting. Life is strange.

Grandma is nearly ninety years old, now, and while she’s pretty healthy for her age, she simply can’t do what she used to do anymore. Various of her children and grandchildren have been going to her place for the past several months to clean, do her shopping, take out her trash, get her mail. And now she’s staying with us for a bit after a short hospital stay because she’s gotten very shaky over the last few months, and she’s too weak to take care of herself for the time being. (Would you believe that at not-quite-ninety, she has lived independently until a week ago?)

But this suddenly frail old woman has a power that I’m not sure anyone else has: she binds our family together. It’s not just the way the family rallies to take care of her when she has a health problem, like this past week. She’s really the only connection some of the extended family have with each other. We gather at her house on holidays and get together for her birthday, but though we love each other and enjoy one another’s company, we don’t see each other much outside of her influence.

Grandma’s still far from her deathbed, but my mom has already been worried about whether or not the extended family will be as close once she’s gone. Mom and my aunt have always been quite close, but my uncle’s family and mine don’t have a lot in common--we are very far apart on the political and religious spectrum--and already almost never get together aside from family gatherings.

Perhaps my grandmother’s influence will continue to keep us together even after she leaves us physically. We’re not a fighting family; we get along regardless of our differences, and that bodes well for us. But only time--hopefully a lot of it--will tell.

In the meantime, my grandmother has another, quite unexpected power. She can get me to sit and watch a gross, quasi-medical talk show, so I can get my writing done while making her dinner.

LJ Idol, Week 22: The Straw that Stirs the Drink

vaudy — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 23:02:42 GMT

My partner this week was _messy, whose Bridge entry can be found here. Our pieces are pretty standalone, but the connection maybe be clearer if you read hers first.
______________________________________________

“What a great photo!” Marie, the office manager said, looking at Debra’s new desktop wallpaper. ”Did you take that on your trip?”

“Yep. Australia. Mom and I went to this fantastic beach with cliffs overlooking the ocean. I took tons of pictures.”

“Wow. I hope someday I get to travel like that.” Marie sighed. “How did you get such a perfect life, Deb?”

Debra laughed. “Perfect? I hardly think so.”

“Let’s see,” Marie said, “you edit books for a living, you have a great downtown apartment, and you’re always taking these fabulous trips! What more could you want?”

“Someone to share it with? I have a lot of great things, but they’re just . . . things. I need to share them with someone to, you know, bring it all together and make it meaningful. A husband and a family, like you have.”

Marie snorted. “I’ll trade you,” she said.

“You don’t mean that!” said Debra.

“Mmm. Maybe not. But I do envy your freedom, sometimes.”

***

Debra played absently with the straw in her empty glass while she tried to flirt with the handsome stranger next to her. She wanted to order another drink, but she was rather hoping she could get him to do that for her. Marie had tried to set her up with a bachelor buddy of her husband’s, but he’d stood her up. So Debra did what any red-blooded, single, thirty-something woman would do--she sat at the bar and waited for a likely target.

When the man with the Australian accent sat nearby, she figured she had an easy-in.

“I took a trip to Australia earlier this year,” she said.

“Is that so? How’d you like it?” he replied.

“Oh, I loved it! We--my mother and I--we flew into Sydney and stayed there for a few days, and then took a little driving tour along the coast. It was just gorgeous--I’ve never seen anyplace like it!”

“Yeah, Sydney’s a great city. I lived there for a few years with my ex-wife.” Debra noticed that his smile suddenly didn’t reach his eyes anymore.

She started turning her glass around in her hands. “Does she still live there, or did you both move here before you split up?”

“No, I came here by myself. Fresh start, you know?”

“Do you have any kids?” Debra wanted a family, but she wasn’t sure she wanted an insta-family, even if it made her feel a little shallow.

The man stared into his drink. “We, er, we had one. A daughter. But she died . . . very . . . suddenly. It tore us apart.”

“Oh. I’m--I’m very sorry to hear that. What was her name?”

“Nina,” the man replied.

Debra didn’t know what else to say then, so they sat in silence for a minute. Debra opened her mouth to finally say something, but the man started up from his seat.

“I had better get going. I’ve got to be in the office early tomorrow.”

“Right, of course.” said Debra. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”

The man smiled, almost a real smile. “Yeah, you too, maybe I’ll see you around.”

After he was gone, the bartender looked at Debra questioningly and gestured toward the glass in her hand. Debra shook her head and pushed the glass away. She gave a cursory glance around the bar, but she didn’t feel much like flirting anymore, so she left a twenty dollar bill on the bar and left.

***

“He didn’t show?” Marie said. “I’mma kill ‘im. You take cream, right?” She held up a single-serve creamer cup.

“Not today--I got a latte,” Debra replied. “With extra whipped cream. Anyway, it’s okay. Blind dates aren’t really my thing. And I met this really cute Australian guy at the bar, but then I found out that he got divorced because his daughter died, and . . . you know. What do you say after that?”

Marie cringed. “Oooh, yeah, that’s pretty awkward. Man, I don’t know what Tim and I would do if anything happened to the kids.”

“I guess I always thought that once I got married and had a family, that everything else would sort of fall into place. Happily ever after, you know? Not that I have a bad life, but . . .”

“Yeah, I get it,” Marie said. “You’re not the only one. Damn fairy tales.”

“I never thought about all the ways it could fall apart afterward. That stuff’s only supposed to happen to other people.”

“Everyone has to learn at some point that there isn’t any one thing in life that makes everything else work. We’re all just muddling along.”

“It would still be nice to have someone to muddle along with,” said Debra with a sigh.

“I does make some things easier,” said Marie. “But it can make other things harder.” She grinned. “You don’t have to spend your whole paycheck on kids’ clothes that’ll only fit for a week!”

Debra had to laugh. “I guess you’re right. We all have something someone else envies, right?”

“Right.” Marie nodded. “But you’re totally going back to that bar to see if the Australian guy shows up again, aren’t you?”

Debra chuckled. “Maybe.”

_______________________________________________

Author's note: I have never sat in a bar and flirted with single-looking men, despite being a red-blooded, single, thirtysomething woman.

LJ Idol, Week21: Bridge

vaudy — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 00:59:10 GMT

They were everywhere, it seemed.

I wrote a paper about homelessness once, in high school, after my parents split and mom and us kids had to move in with Grandma and Grandpa. I remember getting up one night to find Mom crying over the bills, and being afraid that we would have to start living out of our car. But things had gotten better after that, and I just didn’t think about it much anymore.

Until I moved to the city.

In the city, there was always someone. On my way to class, on my way to work. Someone sitting against a wall with a sign propped up next to them, or walking down the aisle of the subway car, telling their story to anyone who was awake, or working a street corner, hand held out. Most people treated them as part of the landscape, paid them no more mind than the pigeons crowding the sidewalk.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t just walk past like I didn’t see them. Even if I had nothing to give, I had to look them in the eye and say “I’m sorry.”

The kids were the worst, I guess because they were so close in age to me; it was easier to imagine our places reversed. I wanted to help, but I couldn’t give money to every person who asked. At some point, I decided that I would give whatever change I had in my pocket to the first panhandler I saw for the day. Some of my friends called me crazy for giving anything, but I thought it was fair. I didn’t have much, but I had a roof over my head and knew where my next meal was coming from. I could afford to lose a little pocket change every day. I rarely saw the same people in the same place twice in a row, so I was always helping out someone different.

Today it was a skinny red-haired boy standing at a street corner. He could have been my little brother.

****

“What are you doing?” My new roommate, Cheryl, came in to find me putting together baggies of food, just a can of tuna--the kind with a tiny fork inside the lid--and a granola bar, and a little piece of candy.

“I’m making care packages.”

“Oh-kay. Dare I ask for whom?”

“For some of the kids who hang around work sometimes,” I said. “I know some of them are homeless; I hear them talk about it when I bring them their burgers and stuff. I figure I could bring one of these to work once a week or so, and pick someone different to give it to, you know?”

Cheryl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, Ashley, it’s sweet of you to want to help people, but I think there’s a better way. One of my TA’s this semester works as a counselor at a youth shelter called Darwin House. He talks about his job all the time. They give food and clothes to homeless kids, and take some of ‘em in to help them get on their feet. Maybe you could volunteer there.”

I thought about it for a moment and said, “Maybe you’re right. It’s worth a shot.”

“Good. His name’s Isaac. I know I’ve got his office hours written down somewhere around here . . . .”

****

I started volunteering at Darwin House once a week. Mostly I worked at the front desk, greeting people, answering the phones, and taking messages for kids who may or may not have been in the shelter (we weren’t allowed to say). Sometimes I helped out filing paperwork. And I learned a lot.

I learned that a lot of these kids find their way to the Pit--a sort of tunnel under one of the overpasses. And a lot of these kids will come in for sandwiches or clothes, but they refuse any other help.

One day, I was doing some filing in the office while another volunteer, Eric, was working the desk. A kid came in and had a violent outburst, because he couldn’t get in touch with someone who had previously come to the shelter. He was loosely associated with the Pit.

Isaac somehow managed to talked him down and brought him back inside. His cubicle wasn’t far from where I was doing the filing, so I got to hear him give The Talk--the one where he tries to convince kids that they need to help themselves in order for us to help them.

"There's this girl who keeps coming in," he said. "She always tells us that she wants help turning her life around, but she wants us to do all the work for her, and if we insist she makes some changes herself, she goes right back to the street. You can only do that so many times before we say, 'oh, you again?' You have to be serious, or we won't take you seriously.

"Before you burn the first of many bridges, I want you to ask yourself if you're ready to take care of business. If you are just looking for a place to crash, you'd be better off going back to that cement tunnel under the freeway overpass, because that bridge is the only bridge you can't burn. It'll always be there."

"I get the point," the kid replied.

The next week, the kid came back for help signing up for a GED course, and I changed my major from English to Social Work.

________________________________________________

Author's Notes:

1) It's an intersection week! My very first one, and my partner is cheshire23; her topic was "The Straw that Stirs the Drink," mine is "Bridge." You can find her entry here.

2) This story is an adjunct to cheshire23's Runaways series, based on The Runaway Game, a choose-your-own-adventure story that puts you in the shoes of a runaway teen. While I make references to characters, places, and scenarios in the original story, and in cheshire23's series, my main character is my own, and reflects a few of my own experiences in encountering the homeless.

LJ Idol, Week 20: Open Topic

vaudy — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 19:11:41 GMT

There’s a joke that’s been floating around for . . . who even knows how long? I’m sure you’ve seen it in one guise or another: “Some people have issues; you have a subscription.” My favorite variation expands that to “lifetime subscription,” and my favorite target for the line is, of course, myself.

I was thinking about that one day when I stopped short and said--yes, aloud--”But it’s really true, isn’t it?”

You see, I suffer from depression. I was officially diagnosed with depression about ten years ago, but the thoughts and feelings and behaviors that I now recognize as part of my depression have been around since I was in eight grade, over twenty years ago, now. Some of them--self-esteem issues, in particular--I have had even longer.

Depression, for me, is a lifetime subscription. I sure as hell didn’t order it, but it comes anyway, and I pay for it with pieces of my life.

How many hours have I lost hiding in a computer game, or a book, playing or reading numbly just to avoid facing my life? How many potential friendships have I missed because I could not reach out? How much money have I lost on impulse buys, trying to make myself feel better, or on late fees when I couldn’t motivate myself to get something paid on time?

I am very functional. I get up in the morning. I take care of my most essential self-needs, shower, clean clothes, reasonably presentable hair. I go to work every day, and I work hard. On my better days, I put in more effort--a little make-up, a cute hair ornament--but some days, all but the most basic of self-care falls to the wayside.

I am also very good at putting on a veneer of cheeriness; I always have been. I can smile and laugh when people are around. I hold in the tears until I’m alone. As a teenager, I didn’t want my family to know I was miserable, because I couldn’t explain why. At work, it’s always seemed best to just keep up a front. Often, it’s enough to get me through the day, but it can also be exhausting.

Even when I’m feeling pretty good--or those rare occasions when I’m actually happy--depression is a specter hanging over me. I’ve been seeing these commercials over the past several months, for some new medication for depression. They’re animated, with a voice-over, and each one features depicts a person’s depression as some visible object, like a shape-shifting grey blob that follows a woman around, becoming a ball and chain, or a hole to fall into. The thing about these commercials is even as they depict the speaker as getting better, and going about normal life looking all happy and everything, the depression is still there, over to the side. The grey blob is still following the woman around, just, you know, farther back. And that’s my experience with depression. Even with treatment, you can still have rough days, and you know even when you’re feeling okay that you have to be on your guard, lest it take hold again.

You might feel better, but you haven’t canceled the subscription.

It can’t be canceled; it can only be managed, which is so difficult when you’re in the thick of it. There are times when I recognize what’s going on, but feel powerless to stop it. Or times when I know what I can do to feel better, but I can’t make myself do it.

Mine is not the only lifetime subscription. Some lifetime subscriptions are mental, others are physical; some are apparent, others are invisible, or easily hidden. They are not something to be ashamed of (even considering the role shame plays in my own case), but they need to be recognized sometimes. And if I joke about my depression--and I do, still: realizing the truth in the lifetime subscription joke actually increases the appeal--it is only because in making light of it, I lighten the burden, however briefly.

LJ Idol, Week 19: Et tu, Brute?

vaudy — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 17:51:06 GMT

There she walks, alone, where they used to walk together. Across the empty field opposite the playground, around the fence, along the wall of the preschool that serves as the back boundary of the schoolyard.

As she walks, she watches. She watches the cool kids, who stand in groups closer to the school building, talking about uninteresting things like boys, or clothes, she imagines. And particularly, she watches the blonde girl that used to wander the outer reaches of the schoolyard with her, playing their own games that the other girls were “too old” for and making up stories about their silly animal characters. She wonders what the blonde girl talks about when she hangs out with the cool kids now. Certainly not My Little Ponies, or her family of “Rockin’ Robin” characters.

And she doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t have to be alone. There are other kids at the bottom of the schoolyard hierarchy, and they would talk to her, but none of them can make up for the best friend that abandoned her without a word. So she’d rather just be alone.

I wish I could talk to her. I wish I could tell her. Tell her that her erstwhile friend over there with the cool kids is as unhappy as she is. That she’s only there because her mother pressured her to try to be more popular. That this will only last a few weeks.

If only I could tell her that she and the blonde girl will actually be fast friends well into adulthood. That in twenty-five years, she will be constantly collecting little gifts for the blonde girl’s children, that those kids will call her Auntie and send her pictures in the mail that they drew for her.

If only I could tell her, maybe she would feel less hopeless and alone right now.

But I can’t.

And she doesn’t understand.