musings (and a story for David)
I'm having some trouble balancing school (term paper! Arg!), summer camp (panic! panic!), and odd tasks and chores with my sleeping habits (what habits?) and reading habits (compulsive is putting it mildly).
Heh. If you spell "habits" with two b's it's almost like "hobbits." Habbits. Habbitses. Here, habbit habbit habbit...
I love my new hiking shoes. Funny what a difference a half-size can make.
David, I've written more of our story. This part's a lot better, if you ask me-- I'm thinking of heavily editing/redoing/deleting the first bits I've posted.
*****
I don’t remember my mother’s face. I remember her hands-gentle-and her voice-soft. I remember a slow lullaby she sang, words in a language I never had the chance to learn.
And then she was gone. I’ll never know what killed her.
There are several truths that I’ve always known. The first is that no one cares about me. The second is that, while no one will help me, they are also reluctant to hurt me-and so I’ve survived, gang fights and stealing food and all else. The third truth is that most people hate me, but a few only with I didn’t exist-and those are the ones to stay near.
I’ve never met anybody else like me. I assume they must be out there-after all, I had to have a father, right?-but I’ve no idea where.
I’m the worst sort of street rat. Just enough education to realize what I don’t know, no past, no future. Nothing to lose.
I normally try not to feel sorry for myself. Sunny days always bring out the worst in me-and it’s even worse when it’s also windy. The cold wind whipped through me and the sun’s weak warmth beat against my eyelids, and if I’d known how I would have wanted to fly.
There was a small fire in the empty warehouse I slept in, a blanket-wrapped figure hunched over and holding trembling handss to the meagre flames. I ignored him as I knelt in my usual corner to start my own fire.
He’d go away soon enough, once he saw my wings. They always did.
Except that this one didn’t.
“Don’ bother wi’ that, boy. Come over ‘ere an’ share my fire.” He chuckled, a gruff, short sound. “Dn’ give me that look. I won’ bite ye.”
I eyed him warily. He was right, of course. No point in wasting wood. “You’re not going to scream and run away once I get there, are you?”
He laughed, and my suspicions doubled. Call me a cynic, but people just didn’t laugh around me. “Don’ ye worry, boy. I’ve seen much worse than ye.”
Which was no doubt true-I, too, had seen worse. So I sat down on the other side of his fire.
“Ye don’ talk like me, boy.” When I just shrugged, he continued, “ye’ve got a strange accent. Almos’ like singin’, if an old man like me knows anythin’ ‘bout such things.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I didn’t.
“Where ye from?”
Would the man never shut up? “Here.”
He chuckled again, and I swallowed back a wave of anger. “O’ course, o’ course. Who’d choose ta live ‘ere?” He gave me a surprisingly piercing look. “But why don’ ye leave?”
I blinked. “Leave?”
“Well, it’s clear ye’re not ‘appy ‘ere. So go some place else.”
“You’re crazy,” I blurted, and then couldn’t stop from asking, “and where would I go, anyway?”
He shrugged. “‘Ow’d I know? Just spread those wings o’ yer’s an’ fly.”
“You’re crazy,” I told him again, flatly. “I’m going to sleep.” I lay down, wings carefully spread away from the fire, wrapped my coat around myself, and closed my eyes.
And though I tried to sleep, it was some time before I succeeded.
***
But I couldn’t forget what the old man had said. Fly? Could I really? And where would I go, anyway?
It didn’t take me long to decide that it didn’t matter where I went-it would either be the same as here (because it certainly couldn’t get worse), or it would be better. Better might not happen, but at least I would have tried.
The problem, then, was flying. I’d never flown before, and I had no idea how to accomplish it. What if I crashed? Nobody would help me if I hurt myself, that was certain.
It’s possible that flying was outlawed after the Angel Wars, but I’ve never much been one for following the rules.
I started watching birds. How did they fly? Take off? Turn? Land? Then I started exercizing my wings-only at night, and only in my empty warehouse. It would be cold up high, so I scrounged and stole until I had layers of warm, form-fitting clothing-no sense wearing something that would catch the wind of get tangled.
And then I was ready. Excited, nervous, terrified, and ready. I waited for a warmer day, with a strong, steady wind. I picked the highest building and began to climb.
I had wanted to find the old man, thank him, but I hadn’t looked. He hadn’t given me anything, really-just reminded me that nobody would help me but myself. I wondered how often people actually followed his advice. Wondered whether I would have eventually decided to leave on my own.
To fly on my own.
I stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. It was a long, long way down, and my stomach dropped and my head swam, and I made myself look up, up into the blue sky and the bright sunlight.
I didn’t want to go down. I wanted to go up.
I needed to push off, glide a little, and then start flapping. I would circle high, pick the direction that looked most promising, and settle into a slow soar, gliding on the wind as much as possible.
I knew I could do it. I knew I couldn’t do it.
I spread my wings, savored the wind in my hair one last time.
And jumped.
*****
So David, whatcha think? Are you gonna keep up your end? Or should I write that too-- I've kind of started, since it was on my mind. Although I am having trouble with military titles. And... it'd be fun if you wrote some. Go with the whole "a little of my part, a little of your part" thing.
Look, look! Some original fic! Rejoice, my many minions!
Heh. If you spell "habits" with two b's it's almost like "hobbits." Habbits. Habbitses. Here, habbit habbit habbit...
I love my new hiking shoes. Funny what a difference a half-size can make.
David, I've written more of our story. This part's a lot better, if you ask me-- I'm thinking of heavily editing/redoing/deleting the first bits I've posted.
*****
I don’t remember my mother’s face. I remember her hands-gentle-and her voice-soft. I remember a slow lullaby she sang, words in a language I never had the chance to learn.
And then she was gone. I’ll never know what killed her.
There are several truths that I’ve always known. The first is that no one cares about me. The second is that, while no one will help me, they are also reluctant to hurt me-and so I’ve survived, gang fights and stealing food and all else. The third truth is that most people hate me, but a few only with I didn’t exist-and those are the ones to stay near.
I’ve never met anybody else like me. I assume they must be out there-after all, I had to have a father, right?-but I’ve no idea where.
I’m the worst sort of street rat. Just enough education to realize what I don’t know, no past, no future. Nothing to lose.
I normally try not to feel sorry for myself. Sunny days always bring out the worst in me-and it’s even worse when it’s also windy. The cold wind whipped through me and the sun’s weak warmth beat against my eyelids, and if I’d known how I would have wanted to fly.
There was a small fire in the empty warehouse I slept in, a blanket-wrapped figure hunched over and holding trembling handss to the meagre flames. I ignored him as I knelt in my usual corner to start my own fire.
He’d go away soon enough, once he saw my wings. They always did.
Except that this one didn’t.
“Don’ bother wi’ that, boy. Come over ‘ere an’ share my fire.” He chuckled, a gruff, short sound. “Dn’ give me that look. I won’ bite ye.”
I eyed him warily. He was right, of course. No point in wasting wood. “You’re not going to scream and run away once I get there, are you?”
He laughed, and my suspicions doubled. Call me a cynic, but people just didn’t laugh around me. “Don’ ye worry, boy. I’ve seen much worse than ye.”
Which was no doubt true-I, too, had seen worse. So I sat down on the other side of his fire.
“Ye don’ talk like me, boy.” When I just shrugged, he continued, “ye’ve got a strange accent. Almos’ like singin’, if an old man like me knows anythin’ ‘bout such things.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I didn’t.
“Where ye from?”
Would the man never shut up? “Here.”
He chuckled again, and I swallowed back a wave of anger. “O’ course, o’ course. Who’d choose ta live ‘ere?” He gave me a surprisingly piercing look. “But why don’ ye leave?”
I blinked. “Leave?”
“Well, it’s clear ye’re not ‘appy ‘ere. So go some place else.”
“You’re crazy,” I blurted, and then couldn’t stop from asking, “and where would I go, anyway?”
He shrugged. “‘Ow’d I know? Just spread those wings o’ yer’s an’ fly.”
“You’re crazy,” I told him again, flatly. “I’m going to sleep.” I lay down, wings carefully spread away from the fire, wrapped my coat around myself, and closed my eyes.
And though I tried to sleep, it was some time before I succeeded.
***
But I couldn’t forget what the old man had said. Fly? Could I really? And where would I go, anyway?
It didn’t take me long to decide that it didn’t matter where I went-it would either be the same as here (because it certainly couldn’t get worse), or it would be better. Better might not happen, but at least I would have tried.
The problem, then, was flying. I’d never flown before, and I had no idea how to accomplish it. What if I crashed? Nobody would help me if I hurt myself, that was certain.
It’s possible that flying was outlawed after the Angel Wars, but I’ve never much been one for following the rules.
I started watching birds. How did they fly? Take off? Turn? Land? Then I started exercizing my wings-only at night, and only in my empty warehouse. It would be cold up high, so I scrounged and stole until I had layers of warm, form-fitting clothing-no sense wearing something that would catch the wind of get tangled.
And then I was ready. Excited, nervous, terrified, and ready. I waited for a warmer day, with a strong, steady wind. I picked the highest building and began to climb.
I had wanted to find the old man, thank him, but I hadn’t looked. He hadn’t given me anything, really-just reminded me that nobody would help me but myself. I wondered how often people actually followed his advice. Wondered whether I would have eventually decided to leave on my own.
To fly on my own.
I stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. It was a long, long way down, and my stomach dropped and my head swam, and I made myself look up, up into the blue sky and the bright sunlight.
I didn’t want to go down. I wanted to go up.
I needed to push off, glide a little, and then start flapping. I would circle high, pick the direction that looked most promising, and settle into a slow soar, gliding on the wind as much as possible.
I knew I could do it. I knew I couldn’t do it.
I spread my wings, savored the wind in my hair one last time.
And jumped.
*****
So David, whatcha think? Are you gonna keep up your end? Or should I write that too-- I've kind of started, since it was on my mind. Although I am having trouble with military titles. And... it'd be fun if you wrote some. Go with the whole "a little of my part, a little of your part" thing.
Look, look! Some original fic! Rejoice, my many minions!