Finally, a true freewriting...and a discovery!!
I FOUND IT!!! I've been searching for an acoustic radio station in iTunes!! Icarus radio!! I'm soo psyched. It rocks.
(Btw, If you're interested, here are the topics that are covered in this freewrite... just in case it encourages you to read it...
We end with: Braithwaite, blue smoke, blue mist, blue..., Victor Creed, Rell, Vaughn, Hando, Icarusradio, racism, Disturbed, spunky acoustic women with fiddles, Mr Connolly and his class, Irish immigrants, System of a Down, cynicism(, and the possibility of), Taylor Kitsch/Gambit, thinkers, Logan's blood, reggae, Miramaz sterios in the living room, Riddick, Raine, shiner vision, typos, and foggy vision
...not necessarily in that order)
I'm in heaven. Music soft and slow hovers and gatheres around me like smoke as it swirls out of the two speakers. Its blue, blue like the button of light, the hollow glow coming from just above the knob. I stare into it and I lose myself in the velvet softness. The calm comfort. I'm at peace; I'm alone, but at peace.
The door is open, and the bugs me, but I let it be. A test on my OCD. Part of me tugs at it. The door's open. The light's on. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it. On and on and on. But the music holds me back. The blue seeps through my clothing, my blue nautica hoodie and khaki pants - now everything is tinted blue, much like Riddick's vison. Blue though, like Raine's. Not magenta, blue.
The song has changed now. I don't know who is playing, but I don't care. I don't care that I just wrote three typos in the last two sentances. I let it be and keep writing. That's all that matters. That I keep writing. I can fix the typos later. That can be edited. But this is a freewriting. My brain needs to be clear, cool, calm to think of what I'll write.
I'm reminded now of Braithwaite, and what he said about writing. How you must train yourself to think perfect writing. But I don't think the way he thinks. My words have purpose, but I think while I write. It makes me better. I can follow it. Revisions come later when I find a way to better things.
"Perhaps you already think that way..." A figure is in the corner of the room. I haven't decided who's voice it is yet, but the corner radiates darkness, despite the torchere that illuminates the little room. He's picking at his nails with a knife.
Victor maybe? No, he doesn't care that much for what I write. "nnecessary frivolities," he would grunt. The figure snickers and walks stalks toward me. The knife is away now, and it IS Victor.
He rests his hand, open on the back of my neck, claws falling around the sides. He doesn't squeeze, they're just there, like a warning. They tighten and release to the pulse of the reggae that my father plays in the background. It must be loud out in the living space; the music is penetrating through the door.
It slaughters the cool blue I had. Oh well.
Victor leans in, snatching my attention out of my self-pitying, and stares at the screen. "Abbs, I'm hurt. When are you gonna write about me?" He tries to look innocent, but there's too much of a trick in his eyes, and I know better. His claws tighten as he reads that last sentance.
"I wrote a chapter about you already." I keep my reply formal and brisk. Rell popps up in the corner adjacent to where Victor radiated out of. She looks as if she's going through Logan's blood transfer... She's all huddled up in the corner, scared as usual. Sweat has dampened her features and-
Victor tightens his hand around my neck and the claws go in, drawing blood from the pink muscle. "Focus. On. Me." Its a snarl in my ear, commanding.
I don't look at him... I'm making it a point of not looking at my characters today. I'm just the thinker. I think of the scene and its happening. Like Braithwaite said, 'The world needs thinkers...'. Well, here I am.
Victor frowns, seeing he won't get a reaction - I'm not scared of him - and goes over to play with Rell. Really, its mean of me to do it, but I wanna play out the scene. It'll be fun to describe Victor. Besides, I always have fun with Victor.
...Mmmmnn I don't like the music. Lemmie change it. I like this station better - Native Americans have funny accents... I like it.
Victor stalks closer to Rell. His fangs are showing, he's got that look on his face like he's going to enjoy reding her limb from limb and piece by piece. Rell looks up at me in horror that I would do that to her - rather, let him do that to her. I just smile. Do I really look like I can stop Victor?
"No, but you can conjour someone who can..." Vaughn is lounging in the same corner Victor was only minutes ago, also picking with his fingernails. His hair's longer...but I haven't decided just how long. A crew cut doesn't work for the image, and neither does Taylor-Kitsch-Gambit hair... (*shudders*). I settle with a close Victor cut. The eye patch is off too... This is befor the accident.
"I won't let you stop him Vaughn. He'd kill you; he isn't some shit Blue - he's immortal and you're not." I snap back. Just because I'm not interacting with him doesn't mean I can't hold him back.
Victor is watching the exchange very closely. (The System of a Down is leaking into the room now. I'm gonna have to change the station again... it's annoying me... too upbeat. I'm reverting to cynicism...<.< - changed to Icarusradio) The odds of him getting beaten by a puny human like this Cpt. Vaughn are low... as in 0.
...and here's where I lost my train of thought.
Victor, Rell, and Vaughn fall into the ether and the blue smoke is back. It hangs in the air, turning maroon when my father's rock seeps in by the door, and I'm reminded of the smoke rooms and politicians deciding Republican nominees... I'm reminded of Connolly's class and steriotypes of Irish-immigrants.
And the racist thoughts that sometimes take me.
Naturally I reject them - Hando scoffs in the corner, "Just accept who you are already." I sigh, and turn to face him. So he baited me, okay. I'm game with that.
"Hando, we've already had this stupid conversation. There's no white blood in me!" I roll my eyes and turn back to the computer screen. Some spunky woman is playing on Icarus, a fiddle in the background of the song. It doesn't mesh well with the electric guitar and drums of the distrubed from my father's Miramaz.
"Well then, I guess we're done here." His face is contorted. "Spick." Its spat as he to disovles into blue mist. But the smoke from earlier is gone. The music from Icarus is too upbeat and ... spunky for smoke and mist. Oh well, just because I liked the imagry doesn't mean I had to like the songs that were playing. And yes, imagry is now officially a word.
Fuck Braitwaite and his language. I'm not that bad of a writer - I don't use 'cool' that often, and never in my writing... I'm different that the culture he discribed in his crap talk today...
There's laughing again - the room is once again filled with the smoke as a slow song comes on. I haven't decided who the character is again...
Damnit... this isn't going anywhere. If I can't conjour a scene properly, I'm just going to give up... The damn thing has taken me 45 minutes as it is...
...whatever....
We end with: Braithwaite, blue smoke, blue mist, blue..., Victor Creed, Rell, Vaughn, Hando, Icarusradio, racism, Disturbed, spunky acoustic women with fiddles, Mr Connolly and his class, Irish immigrants, System of a Down, cynicism(, and the possibility of), Taylor Kitsch/Gambit, thinkers, Logan's blood, reggae, Miramaz sterios in the living room, Riddick, Raine, shiner vision, typos, and foggy vision
...not necessarily in that order.
If you have any questions, please refer to the List... ~Abby