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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Stitches? Fuck that. I'm fine!

To-do list, current.

Slowly but surely, things progress.

Lots of things were going on in SF this weekend. I took part in none of them, because I needed some me time. Saturday I spent finishing off my first cycle of Digital Devl Saga; gods, how lovely Kazuma Kaneko's designs are. I need to finish another cycle of the game, before I go out and get the second one.

Sunday, I cleaned house, bought groceries, wrote, and then headed over to writer's group with Don, Athena, and Trey. While attempting to salvage someone else's mangled attempt at decorking a wine bottle, I managed to compound the error by handling a swiss army knife very stupidly and putting my index finger along the handle on the inner side of the hinge; force overcame the blade's locking function, and I bled all over the place like a retard, which made poor Athena wail horribly despite my assurances that, well, it's only blood. I hope I didn't fuck up the carpet too badly.

Just for fun, here's a little piece of Ballad of the Korgan. I've settled into a comfortable rhythm with it, churning out a couple pages every couple of days. At this point, I'm completely unsatisfied with my own prose, and this passage will probably end up edited out of all recognition when I revise. But I'm enjoying myself with it nonetheless. Saturn return has left me with determination, and a level of focus that I lacked previously. I will not die with all my stories untold; I will not wither at a 9 to 5 job without making the effort to be heard. All of it, even what I just said, is just empty sound and fury now. But in time, I vow, it will be more.

(Yes, I'm full of myself. But I believe in Naruto's way of the ninja, here, and I won't go back on my word.)

[begin excerpt]

She travels the flitways cloaked in blue, weeping for the end of all ages.

A single mote floats by, ephemeral and real, dizzy and drunk on impermanence. Cushioned by its own fragility, it rides the wind from gust to gust, and it is not alone. It dances with its brethren millions strong. A rain of ash falls upon the Twilight City this night.

At the end of all things, the sun hangs red and proud and old in a sky that no longer remembers our names. The Last City has always been a wonder of crystal and light, of air and imagining and song built up into bridges and towers, walkways and gardens. Reveries made real. Immense, and in more ways than size alone might measure, for its' foundations lie in mind as well as time, and it's bounds are the very limits of that which can be conceived. Perhaps it should be thought of in terms of allegory as much as a literal place; the fact that it resembles a city at all reflecting the fact that we are children of cities, and at the limit of human imagining, we dream of cities still. Its' spires scrape the very stars, and reflect celestial light that perhaps we thought to outshine, to surpass, to exist beyond.

Oh, how beautifully it burns.

A single mote floats by, ephemeral and real, and dies upon the cheek of a girl not out of her teens.

She is whipcord thin, and her short cropped hair adorns a head that moves with the surprised freedom common to those who are used to more weight. A thin golden corpse, a single blonde dreadlock lies uneasily around her collarbone, a necklace hung in memory of a proud mane. Yet the straightness of her back, the lack of compromise in eyes of seafoam green, these things bear no evidence of anything short of pride. The crystal walkways bear her along at a speed such that you or I would recognize her little more than the flicker of a headlight past a night-shrouded windowpane, but it is too slow. The city burns, and the hounds are coming, and here at the end of all things, there is nowhere left to run.

A tear hits the surface of the flitpath, curved in space, curved in time, the only form of transportation needed at the horizon's horizon, though not the only one used. The paths create a map through the city like a circuitboard, bringing unit to unit, person to person at synaptic junctures. The people are the thoughts and dreams of the last city itself, and they walk upon the flitpaths unafraid at speeds beyond conception. Nothing is more than a few steps away, which is just as well, for a few steps can determine the course of a life.

As the path shatters beneath her, the girl strangles a sob and tucks, knees flexed, shoulders testing the vibrations of the air, mind furiously liquid, waiting to adapt. In a shower of crystal blue, shattered fragments of a dream machine, she lands bird-light upon an onyx dais, a queue of sorts where those who travel the flitpaths might be held for an instant of continuity, before moving to wherever it is they need to go. The fact that she can land on it, and stop, as the scarless surface lies cold beneath her, indicates that the path is broken at one end or the other.

[end excerpt, (c)KB 2005]

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Breath-taking. Like a gasp at something beautiful.

Hopefully, one day soon, it will be more than just a gasp. Merci for the critique you sent; reply's in your mailbox.

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