It's over | WS

The time has come.
It's over now, all over.
My body is just too weary to go on
And, sadly (although expectingly)
my mind dropped off the world
a while ago.

Everything is whispering to me.
No, singing. They're all singing to me.
Wait...
It's, it's a... lullaby
Oh, sweet lullaby

But no!
I cannot end this now,
I must continue my trek
It cannot end here,
not like this,
not now!

The rooms moving a little,
My eyes, they're so sluggish
And I feel as though I'm trying
to walk in warm wax
Mmm...
So warm,
So comfortable..
So...

It's as if time is slowly along with me
The second hand on my watch is still
Maybe time is slowing for me
Letting me take a...
Moment..
Of...
Its...

Oh no...
It's... over...

ZzZzZzZx

Giggles | WS

So,
Where do you find happiness?
I asked
The little girl was looking up at me;
Seemed confused
It's right there
She said, pointing
Her face changed and she began to watch something very contently
A wicked grin flashed, excitement was displayed in every feature
She lunged for some imaginary something, letting out a squeal
Looked like she just captured a grasshopper
Pulling her arms in close she stepped to me
Look here
Whispering she pulled back her fingers to show me
Aww... I didn't get it
A little frown took over, she looked up into my eyes
Her expression again changed, excited again
Sitting now, legs crossed before her she watched something
Eyes and head would pivot back and forth
Like seeing a fish swimming
Darting in and out of view
I was curious, sitting facing her
I tried to follow the image too
Without warning she lunged for a spot
I missed it!
She exclaimed, eyes wide and searching
I think you're sitting on it, hurry!
Pushing me she tried to see under
No.. Not there.
The little girl sighed, sitting again. This time
she just sat and watched something in the air
Ooohh..
You could see the excitement again
She closed her eyes, biting gently on her lower lip
Waiting.
I watched her there for a few quiet minutes
Wondered if I should say something
Even peered into the sky, looking for what she saw
Giggling softly, the little girl fidgeted a bit, eyes still closed tightly
The air settled, time stood still
Time stopped without even noticing
The girl fell back, rolling with laughter and joy
You found me!

When I Write | WS

Next up!

When I Write..

I write when things just can no longer be held inside me, usually. Like dropping a bottle of soda and then opening it. The ideas are all fine, and sit in my head for any amount of time usually. I walk around with them, and shake it a little bit, just a bit, and it keeps me going. One day I'll 'drop' this mental bottle of soda and pick it back up. Fizzing and fighting to be free but it dies down after a couple second. Looks safe, huh? Turn the cap, and instantly, the contents spring their surprise attack and raid the outside world. The important time for me to write is after I 'drop' the bottle. If I don't at least begin to write about what I've been lingering on, it will settle out and be fine after time. I'm pretty amazed at how many ideas really could of taken off if I had stopped and wrote something when I get excited and find I drop the bottle. So, back to the real topic, I write after really thinking about something. It's just looking for some outside force, the drop, or hidden inner motivation to get me to put the ideas on paper. As of time of day, I'll have to say I write at night. Not necessarily because I enjoy doing it this way, but it's when time is abundant and most my worries have managed to settle in for a bit.
Wish I had some ending to this, but, I'm not writing a story, or giving an opinion.. I'm simply writing.

My writing space... | WS

I've had incredible writers block.. I've had the idea for draft three just simmering in the back of my mind for several weeks, and it's sadly, slowly, being destroyed by my lack of actually writing it and criticizing what work I have done on it.. So, wanted to post up the little exercises we did in class, hopefully it will help me clear my mind a bit.

My writing space..

The temperate, for the perfect atmosphere, has to be bordering that line between warm and simply neutral. It's incredibly difficult to achieve. You either have to have it be just a bit cold and then be bundled a bit, just enough to fight off the cold and add that angel soft touch of warmth, or it has to be naturally just about that warm, can't have the sun right on you, or it will end up heating to just a bit too much.
Depending on the time of day I tend to change what type of light sources I enjoy. For example, in the morning I really love just the natural light that often will spill under your curtains. The earlier times give off practically a blue light, and when it gets a little brighter it gently warms. During the afternoon, when the suns high and everything is bright, I usually let it light fill ever bit of space. Any lamp I have it turned on, curtains are open. The white walls seem to be as smooth as anything, the light fills any impurity. Later, when the sun starts to yawn, I start to become fond to just a single, tiny lamp that I own. Tiny might be a little off, but the light it gives is. A shinny, silver, touch lamp, the kinds that have different intensities. I tap it twice, giving it the 'medium' affect and it gently beams down. The silver shade captures what light races to the ceiling and instead keeps it all flowing down. The single light source gives everything a direction. Shadows are defined, made from the existence of light and solid as iron. The best is when you have a pencil, and you're writing on simple notebook paper. The important aspect to this is the top of the pencil, how shard the shadow looks. The pencil is the tree, and the shadow shows where it would fall if a figurative lumberjack came along and ended the pencils life. Can see the past and present, right there. The paper is important too, I mentioned simple notebook paper, but if you have some drawing paper it's magnificent. In my own opinion, perfect drawing paper gives your pencil extra drag and it has irregular ridges and valleys that are all pretty much invisible when you're just looking at it. But when you add this light, the direction of the rays, you watch the paper revel all it's hidden secrets. Dragging a pencil though the valleys gives me an omnipotent feelings, I change the paper, add to it in some ways while destroying it at the same time. Creation.
We are in the technology age though, and I only rarely end up pulling out a pad of paper write solely on it. I do use one because I cherish the style and history of it, but only for jotting notes and developing things when I need a break from the ever glowing screen. Most of my writing occurs were I am now. Typing is enjoyable. I would say I type roughly seven to ten thousand words a day. Some days I'll only get a very little bit, but other days I just keep moving my fingers, and words race out of my electronic friend non stop. Most of the words are sadly not where I'd love to see them spent. As much as I enjoy writing stories, or speaking my opinion in papers and such I tend to type out purely as a form of communication. Either IMing friends, writing long emails, papers, notes, random babble.

Seeing as I'm getting way off topic.. I stop this here.

Hear Me | WS

Tip-toeing through hustling rooms

Enduring everything that once was, that is.

I’ve lived in these rooms all my life.

Sight is my interaction.

#

A mirror reflects the future though me.

This person in silver darkness

Tells me everything,

While confirming nothing.

#

Hello; they can’t hear me.

Can’t understand what is unspoken.

How are you; I’ll never truly know.

Answers are my speculations.

#

Shyness would be an understatement;

Shaky as so many leaves in the wind.

I think I know every answer,

But I dare not test my voice to ask.

#

What if I’m right?

I’m afraid I may.

Tattoo, Bar code | WS

For me, a bar code represents that something is generic. Bar codes are used in many systems to keep track and categorize different items. The items are all alike, the failed attempts were disposed of during creation, and only the true copies are left to remain.

For several years I've wanted to obtain a bar code tattoo over my chest. I came into this world with a bar code, even if it isn't present on me; we all do. Middle class, lower class. My parents both had their problems, they started to tell me about them a few years ago. Kind of amazed I'm sitting in a dorm room right now even typing this for a college class. Where would I be if I had been a copy of my parents?

Growing up in a small town that, to me, was like a black hole. People die there. They get old, move there, or they grow up there and just can't make enough impact on the rest of the world and become sucked back in. I again wore this bare code of sorts, I was marked for being a small town kid, from a little high school and little else. Still amazes me to be sitting here like I said. But now, what if I can't make it? Sink back to that black hole? As scary as it sounds, I can feel it pulling on me.

Even today I carry another set of codes that are seen clearly on me. For a long while I was instantly tagged as a typical pot head. Amazing, seeing as when presented with the drug I wouldn't have a clue if it was true or just some grass. People saw me as a certain person the moment they saw me. I had already been categorized even if was done incorrectly.

The bar code, for me, had a dual meaning that in someways contradict each other. For one, it would represent that generalization and assumptions that are placed, printed, on me. Every time I looked to it, think of it, or anything like that I could be reminded that I do not want to live up to their assumptions. I am a person. I am an individual. This would be a constant reminder to myself to be just that, myself, and not be what others might think I should be. On the other side, I accept and acknowledge that I'm very similar to most people. We all breath air, don't we? I walk the same streets anyone else is entitled to walk. Furthermore, I have a belief that everything happens for a reason. The number that would make up the meaning of the bar code would be different numbers making up parts of my birth date, and other numbers that are said to be specific for myself. I enjoy researching horoscopes, and numerology, and other various ideas that pertain to the uncontrolled aspects of your life, such as date of birth and the number of vowels present in your name. For the time being, I know not of what numbers I'd like to compose my tattoo of, but for now, I merely know that I will someday live to betray and portray my bar code. For me, it's almost a ying yang type symbol, only straighter.

Character One | WS

Rachel; (OLD VERSION)

5'7". Light blue eyes with large bouncing curls of brown hair. Large curls, not the small stringy stuff. Starts by wearing all white wolf fur. Pure white with black linings on the hood, cuffs, and trim of the coat. Higher dark hiking boots.

What's special about this character?

Her past?

Family?

What is her personality like? Flaws?

In this story; what does she add to it?

Conflicts? Interests?

Describe her in three words;

--------------------------------------------------------------

Rachel; (NEW VERSION)

5'6". Blue eyes, darker near her retina and lighten outs quickly as it rushes to the boarder of it. Large bouncing curls of dark brown hair that cascades down to just a bit below her shoulder blades. Large curls, not the smaller. Tends to be dressed in white, closely fitting clothing that accents her fit body. Carries a belt with various pouches.

She's a high tier torture based about ten years from the present. Unsure of her connection with anyone for the time being, but in any case she would be a part of an extremely secretive and faraway base. The station, however, would actually be near a small town community that has little idea of what goes on over head. Rachel often looks down to the town in hopes of going some day for a reason she really has no idea about. She deals with some of the most important people in the world at the time. In this future there are nearly an uncountable amount of global 'players' that govern much of how the world is run. Using torture, a form of questioning and methodology that had practically gone extinct for so very many years has come around is used here at several different levels depending on the importance of the case.

A display of rank for the tortures here is their outfit, and with Rachel's being so white it is a display of her perfection in the art. Using mostly chemical means for torture, along with very precise tools meant to extract pain to a near unbelievable amount and also be capable of bringing a person from the steps of the underworld. The lower rank a torture is the darker their suits will be as to make the blood thats shed seem less apparent.

She holds a very scary perspective on life and death. She, of all people, know how close you can get and how little it takes to push a person too far; life is an extremely fragile thing. In that sense though, she plays with it often, always looking for new ways to get a person just a hair closer to meeting their fate and then taking them back. Obviously, she is so desensitized to death. Could easily end the lives of millions if that was reported to be her "duty" and never look back on it. With this feeling comes one of her major personality traits and that is her childish enjoyment with torture. Loves seeing their reaction. It's a passion to her, it's how she gets a kick out of life.

One of her biggest flaws is how accepting she is of so much. Like a child. Why is the sky blue? Well, someone told her it was that way, and she blindly accepted it. Every day she takes pills, at this point in life the idea of eating and indulging in such things has become an activity for the superior, it's far cheaper and more affective to digest pills that act as little generators in their stomach by using the energy in the acid to continually make nutrients for the body. Along with these pills she takes a memory suppressor unknowingly every day that is specially created to remove ideas of her past. The reason for this is part of her training, many potential tortures are released because the pill does not adequately hide all the underlying subconscious memories that may conflict with what they have to do to the people.

Describing her in three words
Playful, Deadly, Lost

Spell Form

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Amenti quite plainly and with firm confidence in her stand on the subject. A long drawn out sigh was followed by moments of silence as the two continued to stare at the recreation of the spell form on the deep mahogany desk. The fireplace crackled softly and the candles were on there last stretches before the wicks would be used up. Along with the spell form draw meticulously on a weathered piece of paper sat tall stacks of ancient books the two had been reading through. Some were in their native tongue while others had to be translated very slowly and carefully by their trained skill in such arts. Other charms and trinkets of magic lay haphazardly over the desk, they all had something in common, they were each unique and worth fortunes.

“It must, it has to,” blurted the in the room, his brows drew together, his look seemed to be half trying to convince himself while the other half simply dismayed the possibility.

A long slender finger tapped 3 distinct lines on the spell, “these can’t be, they contradict the principles of binary spell casting. And here,” her finger traveled to a small circle sitting outside of the whole spell form, “this can’t be as well. See how it’s completely detached? It’s another false that would mean there is a space beyond the veil in which this, here,” she tapped a similar circle that was encased in lines and runes, “is present at any one time. To say that there is a place, or object that is identical in everyway somewhere in this world, and the world past the veil is like saying there is no veil at all. Once through the veil into the underworld, the rules change, but the great wizards told that no one thing can be reproduced outside the veil that is already within it.” Amenti Stood straighter and admired her point of view. It was true, the spell had functions within it that would be considered impossible, but Kai knew from experience that the rules change once you cross into spell forms and rune casting.

“You’re forgetting though. This.” A skilled finger lightly followed one of the lines that had been encasing the circle Amenti pointed out. “Inverse. The function states that no two objects or places can exist within the veil and out of it at the same time, but if the caster were to do this, simply invert the function, it no longer becomes the same object. It’s important to note, however, that when the object is inverted, it should lose all its current properties and be given a new set of ‘rules’. But, again, just because it’s inverted doesn’t mean its roots can’t be traced back.”

“What would be the point of that? It makes no sense!”

Kai smiled warmly at her frustration, he knew the feeling well and enjoyed watching her mind slowly turn the ideas behind her blue eyes. “To send information, of course. After the second war, remember how the Three started trying to bring back the dead? This was when they first realized that no object can be present both in the veil and out of it. The bodies, the people they tried to bring back to life, were never what the original person was like.” Kai turned from the conversation and walked to the tall dark bookshelf, moving objects and papers as he searched the shelves. Retrieving a very old, well kept book, he slowly paced back to the desk as he read. “I quote; Attempted one of the Ren he’Da. A young solider, Nydul Serev, first rank of the Dracona Army was assassinated while protecting the Shrine. A poison was slipped into one of his meals and night after was found decease where he slept, the assassin was..”

A story that I've played with for a while now. My motivation is to work towards making something like a "spell form" seem it could almost fit into the real world by describing it and it's terms. The form of speech is also essential in this attempt because it is very much like a math problem, mathematics requires a certain language and this is no different. A fun challenge.

Duty | WS

-- Published this post for the sake of having it out there. Total WIP (Work in Progress).

The torturer stood straight, looking out to the city below. Silence's only company was that of the heavy breathing from the prisoner laying lamely on the floor. To the abused man this woman was his last link to the world of the living and also the one that held the key to the door of eternal death. Mentally, she slide her finger along this key as she slowly pulled her lower lip through her teeth, pondering if she should finally release the hold and let this man part to the afterlife. With an almost childish feel she giggled as she let the mental image of releasing him drop.

The sound of dripping water began to mesh with the mans breathing. He was starting to recover from the last 'questioning'. The prisoners name meant little, so little that he was referred to as cell 18. This was a dungeon that consisted of 25 of these such rooms and were reserved only for the use and containment of highly prized information contained in human vessels. The tortures name meant so much it wasn't even spoken; it evoked fear to a degree that's never known until you become her prisoner. Vespette, better known in short as Vesp, was this such woman. A specialist in torture. A weapon.

Vesp turned quickly and within two steps closed the distance between herself and the man that now had managed to struggle to his knees. He blinked slowly. By the looks of it he might have more of his blood across the floor then beating in him now. His eyes moved slowly, dully, like a person would that knew the sun would never rise again.

-----

A single tear rolled down her emotionless face slowly, occasionally stalling as if it were looking back from its origin, curious as to why she didn't show more feeling. Blink. Again, her face showed emotionless but the temperature of her skin rose sharply, making quick do to the slight moistness left by the tear as it departed from her chin. Blink.

Her name was Rachel though not many knew her by this name. Many, many more knew her as Vespette. She peered out of her tiny circular window into the surrounding city. With pure concentration she turned her head back toward the door and gave a single nod. The solider standing there returned the gesture and quickly left the room with two servants close at hand. The sound of a bolt sliding to place on the other side was all that could be heard; it rang throughout the small dungeon. Chains where a common wall decoration here, along with a small pile of incredibly old hay and a shallow dish that carried a little water. In the center of the room was a chair, made of cold stone carved from the floor itself with a weary man in rags. His head was slouched to the side; there was no energy left in him, only a glimmering hope that one day it would all end.

As Rachel turned to her prisoner he made a struggled attempt at looking in her eyes. She quickly averted her view to a rake of different utensils and took a few meticulous steps towards it. Once she was sure his gaze dropped back down she again stepped closer with a vial of dark liquid that had a blue haze about it.

"You already know what I'm going to ask. Please. Answer," she whispered to him. After removing the small cork from the vial she let a single drop land on his dirty hand. Instantly his skin began to rupture and bleed as the fluid tore into him. Suddenly full of energy he kicked his head back and let out a heart wrenching scream. The pain was so intense his rags would contort and shift as his muscles fired independently under them, attempted to wrench themselves from his own body and the pain. Air came to him in sharp frantic heaves that slowly dulled into deep panting as his hand stopped rupturing. Tears flowed freely from him and he slowly rose his shaking hand toward her only to be stopped by the chains that held him. Still, he tired, pushing against the chains with whatever power he had left. The last of his strength quickly shifted to nothing more then a jerkier hand. His entire body shivered and his eyes were held tightly shut.

The gentle resonance of her voice helped him slowly open his eyes. Rachel could only look with a shield of imaginary confidence in what she was doing. That her actions were justified. She turned back to the window, taking a few steps and angling her face so she could see her reflection in the void-like window. She has a calm, collective look on her face, with eyes that appeared like they could of been a sign of sure death. She hated it. The look, the feelings she was holding deep in her. Hated it. Some say it's a strong word to use; hate, but this was against everything she was.


Comments from me to me;
The character is flat. Following a plot and not the people it has in it. Develop both characters.
Note for improvement; Pre-this add in a case where Rachel goes about her 'average' torture routine. During her encounter with the person in this story there needs to be a better impression that she has meet this person before. Create that tie. For the part after this show a deeper connection when shes alone. (Possibly shine a little light on her newest prisoner?) Then back to an 'average' day for her?

Her name is Pain | WS

She's like a pill that comes with different side affects; each unique to the individual. Some take the safe road and avoid her part of town. Something about the way she works through your body scares you. Makes you shiver just thinking about the initial feeling, first touch. A needle, piercing your flesh, slides through your muscles, into more tissue. Cold steel kiss with a promise unlike any other; Pain.

Others.. well, become engulfed in her presences, indulge in her misunderstood personality. The delicate but direct way she moves her body, coursing through your being. Thump-thump.. thump-thump. She can dwell in your mind making sure you thinking of nothing else but her. You don't usually mention the affair to others, but you love it. Some find that when Pain comes she brings a few friends: excitement, adrenaline, adventure. Never know when she'll stop. You're out of breath but you crave more. On your knees and completely in her mercy. Your hearts screaming for an end but she whispers that it's only starting, and you smile; Pain.


Many describe pain as a feeling. Some might even note it as an emotion, like being happy or sad. I don't see pain as being that way. It, she, evokes emotion. Like a catalysis. We're the chemical compound and depending on our mood, personality, and circumstance emit different out comes when she's introduced to our equation. Pleasure, reality, panic, worry, lust. Pain is real. You can see someone portray sadness, but what do you see when someone is in pain? It depends. Often, she will make you squeeze your eyes tight and cause your muscles to strain to hold back the screams. Other times, she works her magic a little slower and your face starts to pull a bit, and that since of worried hopelessness is splashed across your features as time slowly, ever so slowly, ticks by while she increases the fire. And even others start to feel the corner of their mouths curl a bit as your heart beats a little fast.. and fast. Your mind begins calculating how much you can take; she just keeps watching, smiling, continuing until you've had your fill, or too much.

Some fear her more then anything else. Her uncontrollable and unpredictable nature at times is just too much. Some love her and the games she plays. Always wanting a little more and she's always happy to make you reach that next level. Either way, she feeds off the energy that's pouring from your thoughts. She is never far, and always ready. Have you ever stopped and realized what you could of just done? Ever caught yourself before you hit the concrete? Or remember to change your razor blade before shaving? That tiny shiver of realization that sweeps over those that notice is her lush, warm lips.. You avoided her this time. Be weary though, or maybe excited, because there will be many more chances to feel her fangs.

Her name is Pain.

V U L | WS

I'm confused.
Seriously.
Is my heart skipping or hesitating? What's this music I feel?
There's no sound but I still feel the vibration twisting through my existence.

Up.. down.. up.. down.
My head bops.
Shoulders start to shiver a bit and a snake crawls down my spin.
Deeper breath.. In.. out.. out.. out..
Locked. The pools of my soul dwell in hers.
I can't leave.

This is new to me. Very new.
Verifying my feelings is so difficult; discovering hers is even harder.
Do they mesh? Am I just dreaming? Do I really want it to be more?
The way she moves, talks, and gives me that glance; beauty.

Every day I talk. Each time I want to ask what she thinks.
But I'm worried.
What if? What if not?
Just too pretty for me, but these feelings won't stop bugging me.

She would never go for someone so variable as me.


(Note from me; This is experimental formatting.)
--->(Note2 from me; Wow.. This is crappy. Don't read this one. Seriously. /goes to find a grave)

Immortality | WS

-- Published this post for the sake of having it out there. Total WIP (Work in Progress).

It is possible to imitate immortality, because if your memories are preserved, you are preserved.

Everyone knows about self preservation, right? It's why we're all so weary of death and passing away. It's also easy to see how, usually, wealthier people tend to fear the end to a greater extent then would a poorer man. The reason? They realize all the things they've accumulated over their life time ends the moment they do. You take your last breath, and then what? Your items go to family, or auction. Your name is erased from many lists at this point and added to the obituary and your tome stone.

What do we really leave? I'm one human of what, 6 billion? 1 of 6,000,000,000. And the number grows daily. Numerically I'm equivalent to 0% of the population (Usually in math when talking about large numbers incredible small numbers lose their value and become 0). Every action I make is irrelevant, every life I influence makes no difference. If there was ever a real example of the definition of hopelessness, this would be it. For the sake of making this all just a tiny bit worse, I'm pretty sure our galaxy (Note that I said galaxy, not solar system) is probably only 1 of hundreds of trillions. If you look at it that way, you could almost safely say that anything the entire human race achieves is mathematically 0.

Now! Don't jump off a bridge because of that. Hopefully while you read this you'll have a few names come to mind: Aristotle, Galileo, Lincoln, and countless others. The number of lives they've influenced is probably so large that, again, mathematically the number.. is.. Infinite. Can the same be said about you? I think it can. Already you've started to work out of the number 0. I know many more people then I could ever count. Each of them might, somewhere, in the very back of their head remember me. Many born before me in my family know my name, and my works. The same can be said about people in my family in the future. My children will know me (until they hit their teens) and hopefully stories of me will be passed to their children. The memories of me can live for a handful or two generations before my name starts to fade off. That's just my family. We all have good friends, right?

Comment from me to me; Too much blah.

Title Tale | WS

Wilting; to feel the effects of fatigue, or to feel exhausted. Wilting is also usually pertaining to the diminishing of life, or size. Happens to flowers that are given little light, water, or care. What about people? What do we really need before we begin to wilt?
The Sky; blank of heaven forever over and around us. Humans haven't been able to find the edge of it yet. It just continues, and within it life ends and begins to every level. Stars cause mass destruction. If there is a super nova in deep space, does it make a sound?
Can something so vast as the sky and heavens, something that houses life and death to every degree, wilt? Can the sky being to wilt? If so, what happens?

I think the sky can begin to wilt. It's all connected to our imagination. When you look into the sky what do you see? I usually see blue, a cloud, or a sunset. Beyond that? I see dual stars wrapping around each other and a chaotic mix of dust and planets fighting around them. I see enormous, solar system scale, clouds of colored dust. The bending of time as a star exhales for the final time. And then what? I'm not sure.. So, tell me, does the sky end where my imagination ends? It has too. With that theory in mind, ask yourself when the sky ends.

I feel many humans have lost a sense of imagination. Years ago we were going to start colonies on Mars to develop its atmosphere for human life but then our imagination shrunk and excluded that. The more the human race pulls back into their our reclusive selves the smaller the world becomes and the sky wilts. Wilting sky.