Don’t, Warning said. Stop
looking at me that way.
Above her there was an orange haze
in the sorrow black sky.
The roof at her feet,
the sidewalks beneath,
the pale, watery street light
was all grey. It was so hard
not to look at him. In what way?
Inhale. Exhale. She tried to hide
inside of her lungs, where she knew
it was warm and her rattling heart
was simply a rowdy, inconsiderate neighbor.
There’s a version of me
resting inside of you. I,
I can see it. He clenched his fists,
leaned forward to inspect her. But your eyes
are not mirrors. They don’t reflect,
they build. They nail me in
a coffin made of your hope. Where
I would be happy to die,
if death was as easy as suffocating
on your own nobility.
But I’ve been watching.
The tips of her fingers pressed
into the numb, useless muscle
of her arms. She wasn’t really there.
She was mist, and there was nothing,
nothing for her to hold. I’ve been
watching you for so long.
I know you better than
I’m not selfless. I’m not
kind. I’m not. I’m not
going to save you. I can’t
love you the way Wolfram does.
Heavy, that name was so heavy.
It weighed her down. She coalesced
around the love she’d taken
for granted, and used, and broke.
And every night he’s with me
I know I’m his consolation.
Warning’s voice cracked. The maw
inside of it was dark.
They both stumbled. But
he knows exactly what he’s settled for.
You don’t have any idea
who you desire.
You, she said.
The atmosphere stretched
thin across the roof.
Because you can’t have one.
You have to take both.
And the infinite men
pressed between them.
This morning on my drive I decided to listen to the Once Upon A Time (In Space) album by The Mechanisms. (I’m not going to rehash the story, but you should totally listen to it, because it’s double rad.)
As a result I’ve spent the better part of today thinking about how a character could continue to live in a world that had been ravaged by clones of said character. Where would they go? What would they do? Would they find a small town and squat, letting the locals learn about who they really are? Would they travel far and wide as an activist, telling their story and rebuilding? How do they even begin to cope with the scale of destruction that is associated with merely their face? Is the only way to cope to actively butt up against that prejudice and fear?
In related news: I really wish I had the talent/resources to make a music video to ‘Rose Red’. It’s all black and red in my head. Black armor, black smoking buildings, red hair, red blood, fire glow.
This is why I never get anything done. I become too preoccupied with stories that aren’t mine. Welcome to KL’s brain today! Please have a seat, it’s going to be a bumpy flight.
Oh, oh friends. I have to write a 25 word bio for this anthology and I have no idea what’s relevant. I just want to be like:
When Lara Eckener isn’t writing she works in a library by day and stalks rooftops by night. She wears sensible red combat boots for both.
gonnagetrealfarkid replied to your photo “Planning out my writing for the next year. Gonna force myself to be…”
I’ll adopt one of yours if you adopt an art project of mine because WOW NO MOTIVATION AT ALL.
Oh, yes, absolutely! I’ll kick your butt if you’ll kick mine.
I was talking to a friend over twitter today about how to stay accountable. I have this LJ comm that I was using a few years ago to help people be accountable for their art, but I’m not very good at running things so it always petered out before the end of the year. And I’m a member of various writing type groups that handle being goal focused, but they’re mostly about the big picture. I need small picture help. Like a mail tree or a monthly Skype chat with other people who want to be held accountable for their work.
I’m just not sure how to wrangle it or who would even be interested in such a thing.
Right now I have the schedule on my own projects scattered so that at any given time I have permission to write on a few different things. Ideally each week I’ll have completed a task on at least two out of three possible projects: 2,500 words on a short story, a chapter of a novel, or a superhero poem. I just really need to train my focus. On a lot of things really.
Maybe 2014 will be the year of focusing.
You are thinking entirely too much about this story idea and in the transhumanist future you would like to call OEM humans ‘squishes’. It’s a silly name, but that hasn’t stopped you before. Also, it’s developed kind of a negative connotation, but they’re taking it back!
You cannot leave the things
that warm your blood
on the table to be sold.
and ancient hopes
are heavier than gold.
Even Midas, when he so much as
reached out for the bleeding,
left them no more than empty
I’m having trouble finding inspiration for something new. I’m hoping that if people just throw some random things at me that something will stick. Words, names, scenarios, things, images, links to something interesting you’ve read or seen—basically anything that might jog a notion from my brain would be helpful! So, any thoughts?
Throw some ideas at my friend, guys, since apparently I can’t just strong arm her into writing me stories about Transhumanist dating sites.
In which Renee Montoya is rapidly becoming my favorite in spite of the stiff competition:
The first man crossed his arms and took a step toward Dick. Dick responded by taking a step toward him in return. Dick had the upper hand, as he was fully dressed with his baton sitting on the bench behind him. He didn’t want to fight these men, but he’d seen enough disagreements turn into battery in the last year and a half. Nothing anyone who joined the force after the occupation did would ever make them a part of the old guard, and that line was starting to creep backward across men who had also spent four(?) months hungry and injured and not knowing what to do. He thought that the men resented having to have been saved by the Batman even more than they resented him for doing the saving.
The door behind him banged open and the first man uncrossed his arms. “Montoya!” he shouted. “Did you not see the little man on the door?”
Dick whipped his head around to see Renee Montoya standing in the doorway, taking up as much room in it as she could for a relatively small-bodied woman. Her hands were on her hips and her feet were spread, anchoring her there.
“Even if I hadn’t, I can see three now. Put some god damn pants on and go home, Hertz,” she barked. “And you, Grayson, come with me.”
The two men sneered and shared a look. Dick knew that as soon as the door closed behind him they’d be on about how whipped he was by a woman. How he couldn’t be a real man. If it had been any other female officer they might have started before the door was closed, but they knew well that Renee Montoya could land both of their asses in traction on the practice mat, so they held their tongues and merely watched as Dick collected his things and clicked the padlock on his locker before following after Renee and letting the door swing shut behind him.
“I didn’t need saving,” he said, walking closely at her heels and hissing into her ear. He followed her away from the locker rooms, across the main detectives floor, and down another few tight turns in narrow hallways.
She gave him a quick, dismissive look back. “I didn’t know you were getting yourself into trouble in there, son. I don’t have a supernatural gymnast sense that flashes whenever you do something stupid. Which is just as well, because I’d never get anything done for spending all my days apoplectic over you not being able to shut your damn mouth. No, this is something else.” She stopped at the dark end of a blank white hallway lined with deep grey metal doors. She gestured for him to go in first, so he opened it.
The room was an interrogation room, but it lacked the typical room-width two-way mirror. The ceiling tiles were also different, which made him believe that the room might not even be mic-ed. “What is this place?”
“It’s where we leave impulsive young men to die,” she said, but when he looked up she was smiling at him. “Please sit, Mr. Grayson.”
“You really don’t have to stand on ceremony,” Dick said. “I have totally seen you drunk and dancing on an actual table.”
“A real gentlemen would never mention such a thing,” she said.
“Fair enough.” He pulled out the chair and sat opposite her at the wide, beige Formica table. “What’s this about, Ms. Montoya?”
“I’ve been given an assignment and Gordon said I could choose whichever men I wanted to help me. Even promoted me to detective.”
“Congratulations!” Dick said. “I’d have brought beer if I’d known this was to be the world’s smallest party.”
“No one can know I’m a detective. That’s part one of the assignment.”
“Alas,” Dick said. “Is part two that we don’t talk about the assignment?”
“It’s like you’ve done this before,” she said.
“I’m a natural.”
“Natural pain in my ass.” She laid a folder out on the table between them and flipped it open.