An assault on good LJ practice
So, according to matgb I don't post enough. With this in mind I thought I'd start getting all the usual LJ topics out of the way. I thought I'd start with a little light "Read my fic!!", following up with an whiny emo post about how LJ purges kill the words forever, leaving me dead inside.
Anyway, first off, we have a piece of fiction written the year draxar joined Exeter University, if I recall correctly. I was going through the 6GB or so of crap I salvaged off my previous computer (which now crashes something else every 3 seconds after booting to Windows ME, until eventually the kernel bombs. Damaged RAM, at a first guess). Seeing some small potential in it I went through and tried to plane down a few rough edges (it was written to have something to take along to a 'writers group' that, as it turned out, didn't appreciate critical observation). As with all of my fiction, which I write for the immediate pleasure of writing, I shan't be finishing it unless something incredible happens...
Untitled introductory section, ~2002
The air around me moves gently, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and spice to my nose as I kneel before my shrine. Reaching out I run my hands over the things I have collected. Today I feel the smooth facets of a crystal that someone once told me was a sapphire, the soft rub of a braid of hair my lover gave me before things changed, the bristling little touches of a cactus I have grown from seed. These things help remind me that life is worth living, a reminder I appreciate more with each day.
Pulling myself up from my kneeling position and into my chair I begin to massage my legs, painfully aware of what will happen should I forget. As I work the blood back into my limbs I listen to the air conditioning as it circulates the cool, scented air through my empty home and I wonder at the world around me, its rhythms and subtle beauty. Finishing my work I turn my chair and head towards the bathroom.
Each morning I do these things and I am thankful for the chance to experience the world again, the chance to feel the world around me and know that it is real. Reaching the bathroom I run my hands along the edge of the cabinet, opening it and finding my toothpaste. I pick up my brush from where I left it the night before, turn towards the fan and allow the air to ruffle my hair as I brush my teeth.
Later, I sit at my breakfast table and eat my scrambled eggs. I have mixed a few spears of chives into them today and I appreciate the delicate flavour this gives them. Though I find I prefer them with chopped ham and peppers these days. I’m grateful for the time I get to myself in the mornings, before the day has truly started.
People have told me I am brave for living as I do. They tell me they are amazed by how strong I am and by how much I have overcome. They tell me they can’t imagine how they would cope with a life like mine. I understand them but I wonder if they realise how bad the things they say might make me feel. Were I to believe that my life was the terrible ordeal they make it out to be I would be the cripple people believe me to be. Folding notes into my wallet, much quicker than sorting by size or texture, I prepare myself for the ordeal of the streets.
Later still, as I travel to work, I am painfully aware of the silence of the people around me. I am aware of the care they are taking to move around my chair and to avoid meeting my eyes. I know they avoid my eyes because people have told me that this is the case. Briefly I found this funny, I no longer do. Now I sit, surrounded by the sound of the Underground, and I wonder whether people realise they are even doing these things. I sit in self imposed silence, facing what I believe to be an empty seat so that people may more easily avoid my eyes.
“Do you want something?” asks a woman’s voice in front of me. I blink and stutter and panic for a moment. I didn’t realise she was there, I feel guilty for staring, not realising how silly this is, and for ignoring her. She has a lovely voice. “I… Err… I - I’m sorry Miss, I didn’t mean t - to be rude” I stutter, “I’m not staring, sorry. I didn’t know you were there.” I feel myself blushing and wonder if she can see it under the scars, wonder if she’d look past them to see it even if she could. I hate moments like this, when I actually feel lessened by what happened, think of myself as disabled. The thing I hate the most is that other people think less of me because of it; I feel I have let myself down.
“No, it’s fine.” She says, “I didn’t mean to startle you, you just looked… expectant, I suppose.” Her voice is light but low, I suspect she is trying to sound considerate and accepting. She just sounds worried and a little hesitant, like most people. Despite this though, I find myself glad for her rather blunt attempt at conversation. It’s been a long time since somebody spoke to me that did not either know me before this or spend most of the conversation trying to ask the question I have become too used to answering. Instead of moving mechanically through the same verbal dance I have been through a thousand times in this situation I am given a chance to actually talk to someone new. It’s almost frightening now, the need to think of an opening gambit, the need to bring something to mind apart from the conversation I have come to expect.
I realise I have been thinking too long. I have returned to sitting in silence and staring through her. I feel even worse this time since she has made such a friendly gesture. I’m too flustered to be clever. I tell the truth. “I’m sorry, Ma - Miss,” I say, unsure how to address her, “I’m not used to people trying to chat to me on the Tube, most people seem to avoid me.” I can’t believe what I have just said. Surely she thinks of me as very pitiful, the poor lonely man in his chair, oblivious to the world around him. I’m furious with myself. Worse, I hear her laughing at my words. Her voice is an irritating throaty chuckle; it makes me want to do something, anything, to shut her up.
The Tube train slows down slightly. It is approaching a corner, coming into West Hampstead. A few moments pass before the irritating mechanical voice informs the other passengers of the impending crush as yet more mindless management drones try to pack their bodies into too small a carriage. This saves me from having to speak for a little longer. I’m thankful for the chance to rein my anger back. Yet I feel I’ve let myself down again. I should not be angry at other people for what happened. And I have no right to be indignant at what I suspect people think of me. By assuming the worst of people I am guilty of everything that I suspect them of. I tell myself these things whenever this situation arises, then call myself a fool when people prove my suspicions right time after time.
As I wait for the carriage to come into the station I hear her rise to standing and take a few steps towards me. I’m briefly worried as to what she is doing. Half formed ideas rush through my head. Perhaps she is coming over to place a ‘comforting’ hand on my shoulder, as so many other people do. Rarely, I am actually comforted by these empty gestures. Usually, I find them insulting. She saves me from yet another round of introspection and worry by lowering herself into the folding seat in front of my chair.
As I sit wondering why she does this I catch a curl of her scent as it swirls around her. I smell the vaguely medicinal, herbal scent of some commercial shampoo, the stale smell of dust from the folding seat tickling my nose and, beneath the other smells, the crisp scent of her skin and her sweat; she doesn’t wear any perfume. I can’t believe I am noticing these things. I wonder briefly what she might look like but find I have trouble forming a visual image. I think more in terms of what I still know, scents and sounds; space and textures.
The press of people washes around me. They are making room for even more office workers trying to be at work on time. A few people jostle my chair. I hear them turn to apologise then feel their eyes roll across me before they hurriedly turn back and try and move a little further away. I am used to this happening daily as I travel to work, for nearly an hour each day I sit alone in a crowded carriage and listen to the Underground.
“You know, you’ve got about the only comfortable seat on the whole carriage” Her voice comes from that much closer to me than before. Again I am a little startled by her bluntness but find I appreciate her for it. She isn’t trying to avoid the subject, nor does she pity me. For once I was wrong and I find myself letting a little of the tension I hadn’t realised I was holding slip away. I’m strangely comfortable talking to this unusual girl. “Well, It’s not like I have a choice of seats, is it?” I let a chuckle escape my lips as I speak. I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be casual about what happened before. It’s strangely liberating.
I can hear the smile in her voice as she replies. “They give that model out as standard, then?” I find this rather funnier than I should. My chair was an expensive ‘gift’ from my previous employers. Most likely an attempt to stave off legal proceedings. Whatever their reasons for giving it to me it is a very good chair. They tell me it is a very nice, two-tone metallic blue-green. It’s very light and very responsive, easy to control and use. “What, this thing? Bottom of the pile, I reckon. There’re people out there with engines in theirs, that’d save me half an hour on the Tube, at least.” I hear her laugh again, this time with much less apprehension. She has a charming, throaty laugh that makes me wonder how old she might be, whether she realises how coquettish she sounds.
I can almost feel the shocked looks we are getting from the rest of the passengers around us. Not only are we being sociable at an ungodly hour of the morning, we’re being terribly un-PC. Well, she is, anyway. As far as I can tell you’re allowed to be politically incorrect as long as you’re in the minority.
Anyway, first off, we have a piece of fiction written the year draxar joined Exeter University, if I recall correctly. I was going through the 6GB or so of crap I salvaged off my previous computer (which now crashes something else every 3 seconds after booting to Windows ME, until eventually the kernel bombs. Damaged RAM, at a first guess). Seeing some small potential in it I went through and tried to plane down a few rough edges (it was written to have something to take along to a 'writers group' that, as it turned out, didn't appreciate critical observation). As with all of my fiction, which I write for the immediate pleasure of writing, I shan't be finishing it unless something incredible happens...
Untitled introductory section, ~2002
The air around me moves gently, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and spice to my nose as I kneel before my shrine. Reaching out I run my hands over the things I have collected. Today I feel the smooth facets of a crystal that someone once told me was a sapphire, the soft rub of a braid of hair my lover gave me before things changed, the bristling little touches of a cactus I have grown from seed. These things help remind me that life is worth living, a reminder I appreciate more with each day.
Pulling myself up from my kneeling position and into my chair I begin to massage my legs, painfully aware of what will happen should I forget. As I work the blood back into my limbs I listen to the air conditioning as it circulates the cool, scented air through my empty home and I wonder at the world around me, its rhythms and subtle beauty. Finishing my work I turn my chair and head towards the bathroom.
Each morning I do these things and I am thankful for the chance to experience the world again, the chance to feel the world around me and know that it is real. Reaching the bathroom I run my hands along the edge of the cabinet, opening it and finding my toothpaste. I pick up my brush from where I left it the night before, turn towards the fan and allow the air to ruffle my hair as I brush my teeth.
Later, I sit at my breakfast table and eat my scrambled eggs. I have mixed a few spears of chives into them today and I appreciate the delicate flavour this gives them. Though I find I prefer them with chopped ham and peppers these days. I’m grateful for the time I get to myself in the mornings, before the day has truly started.
People have told me I am brave for living as I do. They tell me they are amazed by how strong I am and by how much I have overcome. They tell me they can’t imagine how they would cope with a life like mine. I understand them but I wonder if they realise how bad the things they say might make me feel. Were I to believe that my life was the terrible ordeal they make it out to be I would be the cripple people believe me to be. Folding notes into my wallet, much quicker than sorting by size or texture, I prepare myself for the ordeal of the streets.
Later still, as I travel to work, I am painfully aware of the silence of the people around me. I am aware of the care they are taking to move around my chair and to avoid meeting my eyes. I know they avoid my eyes because people have told me that this is the case. Briefly I found this funny, I no longer do. Now I sit, surrounded by the sound of the Underground, and I wonder whether people realise they are even doing these things. I sit in self imposed silence, facing what I believe to be an empty seat so that people may more easily avoid my eyes.
“Do you want something?” asks a woman’s voice in front of me. I blink and stutter and panic for a moment. I didn’t realise she was there, I feel guilty for staring, not realising how silly this is, and for ignoring her. She has a lovely voice. “I… Err… I - I’m sorry Miss, I didn’t mean t - to be rude” I stutter, “I’m not staring, sorry. I didn’t know you were there.” I feel myself blushing and wonder if she can see it under the scars, wonder if she’d look past them to see it even if she could. I hate moments like this, when I actually feel lessened by what happened, think of myself as disabled. The thing I hate the most is that other people think less of me because of it; I feel I have let myself down.
“No, it’s fine.” She says, “I didn’t mean to startle you, you just looked… expectant, I suppose.” Her voice is light but low, I suspect she is trying to sound considerate and accepting. She just sounds worried and a little hesitant, like most people. Despite this though, I find myself glad for her rather blunt attempt at conversation. It’s been a long time since somebody spoke to me that did not either know me before this or spend most of the conversation trying to ask the question I have become too used to answering. Instead of moving mechanically through the same verbal dance I have been through a thousand times in this situation I am given a chance to actually talk to someone new. It’s almost frightening now, the need to think of an opening gambit, the need to bring something to mind apart from the conversation I have come to expect.
I realise I have been thinking too long. I have returned to sitting in silence and staring through her. I feel even worse this time since she has made such a friendly gesture. I’m too flustered to be clever. I tell the truth. “I’m sorry, Ma - Miss,” I say, unsure how to address her, “I’m not used to people trying to chat to me on the Tube, most people seem to avoid me.” I can’t believe what I have just said. Surely she thinks of me as very pitiful, the poor lonely man in his chair, oblivious to the world around him. I’m furious with myself. Worse, I hear her laughing at my words. Her voice is an irritating throaty chuckle; it makes me want to do something, anything, to shut her up.
The Tube train slows down slightly. It is approaching a corner, coming into West Hampstead. A few moments pass before the irritating mechanical voice informs the other passengers of the impending crush as yet more mindless management drones try to pack their bodies into too small a carriage. This saves me from having to speak for a little longer. I’m thankful for the chance to rein my anger back. Yet I feel I’ve let myself down again. I should not be angry at other people for what happened. And I have no right to be indignant at what I suspect people think of me. By assuming the worst of people I am guilty of everything that I suspect them of. I tell myself these things whenever this situation arises, then call myself a fool when people prove my suspicions right time after time.
As I wait for the carriage to come into the station I hear her rise to standing and take a few steps towards me. I’m briefly worried as to what she is doing. Half formed ideas rush through my head. Perhaps she is coming over to place a ‘comforting’ hand on my shoulder, as so many other people do. Rarely, I am actually comforted by these empty gestures. Usually, I find them insulting. She saves me from yet another round of introspection and worry by lowering herself into the folding seat in front of my chair.
As I sit wondering why she does this I catch a curl of her scent as it swirls around her. I smell the vaguely medicinal, herbal scent of some commercial shampoo, the stale smell of dust from the folding seat tickling my nose and, beneath the other smells, the crisp scent of her skin and her sweat; she doesn’t wear any perfume. I can’t believe I am noticing these things. I wonder briefly what she might look like but find I have trouble forming a visual image. I think more in terms of what I still know, scents and sounds; space and textures.
The press of people washes around me. They are making room for even more office workers trying to be at work on time. A few people jostle my chair. I hear them turn to apologise then feel their eyes roll across me before they hurriedly turn back and try and move a little further away. I am used to this happening daily as I travel to work, for nearly an hour each day I sit alone in a crowded carriage and listen to the Underground.
“You know, you’ve got about the only comfortable seat on the whole carriage” Her voice comes from that much closer to me than before. Again I am a little startled by her bluntness but find I appreciate her for it. She isn’t trying to avoid the subject, nor does she pity me. For once I was wrong and I find myself letting a little of the tension I hadn’t realised I was holding slip away. I’m strangely comfortable talking to this unusual girl. “Well, It’s not like I have a choice of seats, is it?” I let a chuckle escape my lips as I speak. I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be casual about what happened before. It’s strangely liberating.
I can hear the smile in her voice as she replies. “They give that model out as standard, then?” I find this rather funnier than I should. My chair was an expensive ‘gift’ from my previous employers. Most likely an attempt to stave off legal proceedings. Whatever their reasons for giving it to me it is a very good chair. They tell me it is a very nice, two-tone metallic blue-green. It’s very light and very responsive, easy to control and use. “What, this thing? Bottom of the pile, I reckon. There’re people out there with engines in theirs, that’d save me half an hour on the Tube, at least.” I hear her laugh again, this time with much less apprehension. She has a charming, throaty laugh that makes me wonder how old she might be, whether she realises how coquettish she sounds.
I can almost feel the shocked looks we are getting from the rest of the passengers around us. Not only are we being sociable at an ungodly hour of the morning, we’re being terribly un-PC. Well, she is, anyway. As far as I can tell you’re allowed to be politically incorrect as long as you’re in the minority.