Bits and Pieces left over on my hard drive...
My computer's having issues so I'm trying to clean off my hard drive.
“She left pieces of her life behind her everywhere she went. It's easier to feel the sunlight without them, she said.” ~ Brian Andreas
They were thinking about electing her for sainthood. The Saint of the People. A non-denominational show of faith.
A big load of bullshit.
PR put out by an administration floundering right along with churches that could not fill their donation boxes let alone fund their attacks on war, or abortion, or cloning, or whatever it was this week.
She was just some crazy woman with a propensity for small towns and helping people…or at least getting the credit for helping people.
Hell, the only reason they knew it was the same woman was because of the energy fields she left behind. Energy fields. Another load of bullshit, this time passing for science.
More accurate than fingerprinting…
Impossible to eradicate…
Rivulets of rain added a moving filter to the weak afternoon light that slipped through the stain glass windows of [i]Baise’s[/i], flashes of red, blue and purple dancing along the features of the customers. Soft laughter, words and the hiss of turning pages mingling with the rich scents of coffee, chocolate and the slightest hint of cigar smoke from the shop next door, easily teasing my mind away from the psychology tome I was attempting to read for the third time. It was an open invitation to take a break and listen to the stories of the lives being passed around me.
A story isn’t a story if it hasn’t been told, someone once said, not existing unless the words enter the atmosphere to steal a little part of the story teller for the ride. Human beings are walking stories, small and large events they have experienced or been told that make up the patchwork of their lives. Each time they pass on an anecdote, a rant, or even a kind tale, they assure their immortality by throwing out their passion, hope, sadness or anger to be absorbed by another. They live on through the turn of a phrase, the life lessons, and the fond remembrances repeated long after the physical body that once housed them has failed. It is in stories that the true immortality of humankind exists, not in science, but this has been forgotten in the race to break the mind and the heart down to quantifiable molecules and rules, nature vs. nurture. This antiseptic coldness pervades the form, spreading a fog of solitariness that restricts the voice of life as each person races along for answers they believe can only be found in a test tube.
It is a wonder that human beings have not forgotten how to communicate completely, but perhaps that’s why places like [i]Baise’s[/i] still exist. To remind and recapture those who are moving to fast of life, wrapping them in a velvet warmth edged in relaxation. It was the type of place that invited conversations between strangers while still providing a safe haven for those who needed to study or be alone with their thoughts.
Normally I had absolutely no trouble concentrating in my private little corner, ignoring the world, but today the very idea of studying was beyond me. Sighing in disgust I snapped my textbook closed, regarding it with suspicion and growing animosity. The counselor who had pushed me to take Bio-Psych to fulfill both my science and society credits must have been smoking crack.
Serotonin, dopamine…if this test wasn’t tomorrow I swear I would scream. Supposition after supposition passed off as fact when in twenty years they will have revised everything. [i]“It turns out we were wrong about the Calcium levels in the brain affecting synapses, but…”[/i]
Millions of former college students will rise up and rebel. Hell, I will lead them. Glaring down at my newly acquired enemy I decided this was going to be one of those books I burned. I mean, if they didn’t have it right to begin with…
“Hard subject?” a voice to my right inquired. I looked up to find that sometime during my struggle with the chemical analysis of the brain, the burgundy armchair to my right had become occupied. Dark eyes met my own pale gaze, the skin of his face pulled tight across his cheek bones before edging into the stained shadows that marked him as one that did not find comfort in his sleep. [i]Baise’s[/i] not only attracted the stressed, but also the lost.
I know, that was how I stumbled upon it originally.
My thoughts fluttered briefly to the before times before dancing away. Fixing my attention on the man before me I replied, “Not hard so much as brain numbing.”
“And here I thought Psychology was supposed to be illuminating,” he murmured with a shrug, sending muscles sliding beneath his thin sweater.
“You sir, have been sadly mislead,” I informed him mournfully. “No one in their right mind would believe such drivel.”
“Oh well, I must be one of those people in their left.” He nodded, as if this made perfect sense to him.
“Left?” Had I missed something?
“Left minds.” His lips quivered with a hint of a smile as I groaned loudly causing conversation to cease around us. The momentary weight of the coffee house’s attention tickled my skin before moving passed me to focus on my companion. His hands, which had been in repose just moments before, tensed on the arms of the chair, the lightness of his laughter fleeing his eyes to leave behind a haunted expression.
Interesting.
The silence stretched between us, me studying him over the edge of my coffee cup while he let his eyes wander about our surroundings, never focusing for very long on any one object. The woman around us sent him inviting glances which he ignored either through obliviousness or long practice, but I could tell their focus was affecting him because every once in awhile he would peek at the entrance measuring the distance between his position and escape.
Objectively speaking, I could see why they were staring, not that I would be leaving Logan for him any time soon. The skin of his face was a warm gold despite his apparent fatigue. Add that to the bulging muscles, five o’clock shadow and dark hair scraped back from his face he looked like a model from a bodice buster romance, physically capable of ridding his lady of that corset in five seconds or less-or her money back-guaranteed. Beefcake will only hold a girl’s attention for a moment though, a momentary “what if?” before the idea of dealing with someone with a bigger cup-size becomes a reality.
No, the stares of the female half of the coffee house did not linger because of his looks, although that might have been the original drawing point, but because of the sense of melancholy that edged his figure, weighing down his shoulders, shadowing his eyes and forming fine creases in the skin of his forehead. It was clear that this man had experienced deep sadness, and every woman in the room wanted to be the one to ease it in some way.
I didn’t need a psychology textbook to tell me that, I was quite familiar with the urge myself. His posture mirrored Logan’s when I had first met him, the figure of a man who had lost all he had loved and himself in the process. Just as Logan had just a few years before this man had struck up conversation with me not to flirt, or to even talk, but for the sheer need to have someone confirm that he was still there, still alive, still visible. I wondered how long it had been since he had made the attempt to speak to anyone, for any reason, other than necessity. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had truly acknowledged his presence, acknowledged him.
Title: Haunting MacBeth
Author: Linsey
Summary: I suppose this would take place around Departure.
A/N: Just some strange quirky thoughts I had running through my brain as I was writing Hello Again that really had no place in that story. So here they are, blame their context on the book of Shakespeare’s tragedies.
[B]Tess: Murder most foul…[/B]
The actually killing is easy, with a brush of the mind, a flicker of power, and like that, snap, he passed from the living to the dead. Takes mere seconds really, it’s the aftermath that’s hard. Feigning sympathy and sadness when you really want to cry out, [I] it’s better this way, you’ll see in the end. I’m only making it easier to leave.[/I]
They don’t see though, they never will, they don’t understand. I was the one that created the new Alex that Isabel fell in love with and I was the one that took him away, but I did it for them. Now Isabel you have the perfect memory, an image of love unmarred by reality. You won’t become disenchanted and disillusioned as his eyes turn to other girls, you won’t have to suffer the pain of him kissing you but thinking of someone else, suffer the pain of my life, my reality.
And Max, dear Max, I ignore the transgressions of your thoughts because I know that I will always be your Queen, the mother of your heir. I did it for you too. I did it to show you the way home, the meaning of your destiny. I am helping you gain back the throne that is rightfully yours, the people that are rightfully yours. What is one innocent life if it is sacrificed for the safety of thousands, the safety of a planet?
We do not belong here. This planet is not our home, something Michael always knew until Maria clouded his mind. But look how quickly she left you Michael, how quickly she turned her back on you when it came down to choosing between human and alien. For all her professed love, she chose to stand with humanity and reject what you innately are. The Earth doesn’t understand you, doesn’t treat you like the powerful man you once were. On Antar you were a General, a man of the people, here you are a just a piece of trash from a trailer park, a boy from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. To return to Antar is to return to the respect that is your due, to stay here means to die the death of a poor man, empty and unremembered.
I did this for us, all of us, so that we may return to that greatness that is our due. We must accept the role that was preordained, the role of saving our people. In the end Alex’s death will be justified, you will see. You have to see, the end always justifies the means.
* * * * * *
[B]Max: What, will these hands ne’er be clean…[/B]
When I remember Alex, I don’t see him laughing and playing the guitar, I see him covered in blood, the same blood coating my hands. I see him still and cold and dripping crimson red, a red so deep that it’s penetrated my skin, embedded in my hands. I know that it is not really there, I know because I’ve spent hours scrubbing with harsh soap and hot water, scrubbing until my own blood wells out, but the stain will not bleed free. It remains a malignant shadow sunk into the flesh covering my palms, a reminder that not only did I fail to save Alex, but by denying the truth of his death, denying the truth of his murder, I became an accessory.
Although it was Tess’s murderous ambitions that brought his death upon us, I carry the guilt for not stopping her, for not realizing what was going. And so the spot will remain, not only on my hand, but also on my soul, a reminder that I have failed both as a King and a friend. You cannot physically scrub your soul clean, [I]what’s done cannot be undone[/I], no matter how much you decry the stain.
“She left pieces of her life behind her everywhere she went. It's easier to feel the sunlight without them, she said.” ~ Brian Andreas
They were thinking about electing her for sainthood. The Saint of the People. A non-denominational show of faith.
A big load of bullshit.
PR put out by an administration floundering right along with churches that could not fill their donation boxes let alone fund their attacks on war, or abortion, or cloning, or whatever it was this week.
She was just some crazy woman with a propensity for small towns and helping people…or at least getting the credit for helping people.
Hell, the only reason they knew it was the same woman was because of the energy fields she left behind. Energy fields. Another load of bullshit, this time passing for science.
More accurate than fingerprinting…
Impossible to eradicate…
Rivulets of rain added a moving filter to the weak afternoon light that slipped through the stain glass windows of [i]Baise’s[/i], flashes of red, blue and purple dancing along the features of the customers. Soft laughter, words and the hiss of turning pages mingling with the rich scents of coffee, chocolate and the slightest hint of cigar smoke from the shop next door, easily teasing my mind away from the psychology tome I was attempting to read for the third time. It was an open invitation to take a break and listen to the stories of the lives being passed around me.
A story isn’t a story if it hasn’t been told, someone once said, not existing unless the words enter the atmosphere to steal a little part of the story teller for the ride. Human beings are walking stories, small and large events they have experienced or been told that make up the patchwork of their lives. Each time they pass on an anecdote, a rant, or even a kind tale, they assure their immortality by throwing out their passion, hope, sadness or anger to be absorbed by another. They live on through the turn of a phrase, the life lessons, and the fond remembrances repeated long after the physical body that once housed them has failed. It is in stories that the true immortality of humankind exists, not in science, but this has been forgotten in the race to break the mind and the heart down to quantifiable molecules and rules, nature vs. nurture. This antiseptic coldness pervades the form, spreading a fog of solitariness that restricts the voice of life as each person races along for answers they believe can only be found in a test tube.
It is a wonder that human beings have not forgotten how to communicate completely, but perhaps that’s why places like [i]Baise’s[/i] still exist. To remind and recapture those who are moving to fast of life, wrapping them in a velvet warmth edged in relaxation. It was the type of place that invited conversations between strangers while still providing a safe haven for those who needed to study or be alone with their thoughts.
Normally I had absolutely no trouble concentrating in my private little corner, ignoring the world, but today the very idea of studying was beyond me. Sighing in disgust I snapped my textbook closed, regarding it with suspicion and growing animosity. The counselor who had pushed me to take Bio-Psych to fulfill both my science and society credits must have been smoking crack.
Serotonin, dopamine…if this test wasn’t tomorrow I swear I would scream. Supposition after supposition passed off as fact when in twenty years they will have revised everything. [i]“It turns out we were wrong about the Calcium levels in the brain affecting synapses, but…”[/i]
Millions of former college students will rise up and rebel. Hell, I will lead them. Glaring down at my newly acquired enemy I decided this was going to be one of those books I burned. I mean, if they didn’t have it right to begin with…
“Hard subject?” a voice to my right inquired. I looked up to find that sometime during my struggle with the chemical analysis of the brain, the burgundy armchair to my right had become occupied. Dark eyes met my own pale gaze, the skin of his face pulled tight across his cheek bones before edging into the stained shadows that marked him as one that did not find comfort in his sleep. [i]Baise’s[/i] not only attracted the stressed, but also the lost.
I know, that was how I stumbled upon it originally.
My thoughts fluttered briefly to the before times before dancing away. Fixing my attention on the man before me I replied, “Not hard so much as brain numbing.”
“And here I thought Psychology was supposed to be illuminating,” he murmured with a shrug, sending muscles sliding beneath his thin sweater.
“You sir, have been sadly mislead,” I informed him mournfully. “No one in their right mind would believe such drivel.”
“Oh well, I must be one of those people in their left.” He nodded, as if this made perfect sense to him.
“Left?” Had I missed something?
“Left minds.” His lips quivered with a hint of a smile as I groaned loudly causing conversation to cease around us. The momentary weight of the coffee house’s attention tickled my skin before moving passed me to focus on my companion. His hands, which had been in repose just moments before, tensed on the arms of the chair, the lightness of his laughter fleeing his eyes to leave behind a haunted expression.
Interesting.
The silence stretched between us, me studying him over the edge of my coffee cup while he let his eyes wander about our surroundings, never focusing for very long on any one object. The woman around us sent him inviting glances which he ignored either through obliviousness or long practice, but I could tell their focus was affecting him because every once in awhile he would peek at the entrance measuring the distance between his position and escape.
Objectively speaking, I could see why they were staring, not that I would be leaving Logan for him any time soon. The skin of his face was a warm gold despite his apparent fatigue. Add that to the bulging muscles, five o’clock shadow and dark hair scraped back from his face he looked like a model from a bodice buster romance, physically capable of ridding his lady of that corset in five seconds or less-or her money back-guaranteed. Beefcake will only hold a girl’s attention for a moment though, a momentary “what if?” before the idea of dealing with someone with a bigger cup-size becomes a reality.
No, the stares of the female half of the coffee house did not linger because of his looks, although that might have been the original drawing point, but because of the sense of melancholy that edged his figure, weighing down his shoulders, shadowing his eyes and forming fine creases in the skin of his forehead. It was clear that this man had experienced deep sadness, and every woman in the room wanted to be the one to ease it in some way.
I didn’t need a psychology textbook to tell me that, I was quite familiar with the urge myself. His posture mirrored Logan’s when I had first met him, the figure of a man who had lost all he had loved and himself in the process. Just as Logan had just a few years before this man had struck up conversation with me not to flirt, or to even talk, but for the sheer need to have someone confirm that he was still there, still alive, still visible. I wondered how long it had been since he had made the attempt to speak to anyone, for any reason, other than necessity. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had truly acknowledged his presence, acknowledged him.
Title: Haunting MacBeth
Author: Linsey
Summary: I suppose this would take place around Departure.
A/N: Just some strange quirky thoughts I had running through my brain as I was writing Hello Again that really had no place in that story. So here they are, blame their context on the book of Shakespeare’s tragedies.
[B]Tess: Murder most foul…[/B]
The actually killing is easy, with a brush of the mind, a flicker of power, and like that, snap, he passed from the living to the dead. Takes mere seconds really, it’s the aftermath that’s hard. Feigning sympathy and sadness when you really want to cry out, [I] it’s better this way, you’ll see in the end. I’m only making it easier to leave.[/I]
They don’t see though, they never will, they don’t understand. I was the one that created the new Alex that Isabel fell in love with and I was the one that took him away, but I did it for them. Now Isabel you have the perfect memory, an image of love unmarred by reality. You won’t become disenchanted and disillusioned as his eyes turn to other girls, you won’t have to suffer the pain of him kissing you but thinking of someone else, suffer the pain of my life, my reality.
And Max, dear Max, I ignore the transgressions of your thoughts because I know that I will always be your Queen, the mother of your heir. I did it for you too. I did it to show you the way home, the meaning of your destiny. I am helping you gain back the throne that is rightfully yours, the people that are rightfully yours. What is one innocent life if it is sacrificed for the safety of thousands, the safety of a planet?
We do not belong here. This planet is not our home, something Michael always knew until Maria clouded his mind. But look how quickly she left you Michael, how quickly she turned her back on you when it came down to choosing between human and alien. For all her professed love, she chose to stand with humanity and reject what you innately are. The Earth doesn’t understand you, doesn’t treat you like the powerful man you once were. On Antar you were a General, a man of the people, here you are a just a piece of trash from a trailer park, a boy from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. To return to Antar is to return to the respect that is your due, to stay here means to die the death of a poor man, empty and unremembered.
I did this for us, all of us, so that we may return to that greatness that is our due. We must accept the role that was preordained, the role of saving our people. In the end Alex’s death will be justified, you will see. You have to see, the end always justifies the means.
* * * * * *
[B]Max: What, will these hands ne’er be clean…[/B]
When I remember Alex, I don’t see him laughing and playing the guitar, I see him covered in blood, the same blood coating my hands. I see him still and cold and dripping crimson red, a red so deep that it’s penetrated my skin, embedded in my hands. I know that it is not really there, I know because I’ve spent hours scrubbing with harsh soap and hot water, scrubbing until my own blood wells out, but the stain will not bleed free. It remains a malignant shadow sunk into the flesh covering my palms, a reminder that not only did I fail to save Alex, but by denying the truth of his death, denying the truth of his murder, I became an accessory.
Although it was Tess’s murderous ambitions that brought his death upon us, I carry the guilt for not stopping her, for not realizing what was going. And so the spot will remain, not only on my hand, but also on my soul, a reminder that I have failed both as a King and a friend. You cannot physically scrub your soul clean, [I]what’s done cannot be undone[/I], no matter how much you decry the stain.