This is a very rough draft.So. Here I sit, on a transit shuttle, making a valiant effort to read a newspaper and failing utterly. Directly across from where I'm sitting is another peace emissary, a slim young human woman . Her face is familiar, but can't call her name to mind. Sonja? Sarah? Doesn't matter, I guess. She's too absorbed in the tiny holographic display emanating from her palm to be any conversation. No surprise, there. Newest model, it looks like. They're certainly cool, but only if you really like having bits of hologram generating machinery embedded in your hand.This is a very rough draft. by MoggieKitten
Glancing to my left I can see a small creature, sentient class C, from the look of it, perching on a nearby seat. Perching is the best word for what it's doing, I guess. It seems to have three sets of appendages, and none of them are long enough to reach the ground from its seat. I can't recognize what particular race it is, and I'm mentally kicking myself for this, since I know full well sometimes it's the simple gaps in know
A Story PracticeThe world might be about to end, and they are making me do puzzles.A Story Practice by MoggieKitten
A generic lab-coated geek sits beyond a plexiglass divider, timer in hand and a frown on his rodenty face. I finish matching the red and white pattern on the blocks in front of me to the newest card and he stops the timer with surprising enthusiasm.
He needlessly adjusts his glasses for about the 16th time this session, then begins furiously scratching away on a notepad. "I'll have to tabulate your results, of course," he replies with the strange enthusiasm he seems to reserve only for scientifically studying things. In this particular instance, me. "You seem to have done alright. I hope..." He squints harder at his illegible writing as if it has all the answers. "I just hope we'll find something." I can see he's about to say more, but either thinks better of it or chickens out. Probably the latter. He seems to know what he's doing when it comes
gossamer, and yousome peoplegossamer, and you by escap-ing
(the lucky ones)
get songs stuck in their heads.
i, on the other hand,
am left with words
that beat incessantly against
the confines of my brain.
last week, it was "gossamer."
i thought it was whimsical;
that was pleasant.
i saw the word
every which way i turned:
a gossamer veil of sunlight,
a silk shirt like gossamer,
a spider hanging by a thread of it.
i hate the word now,
with all its whimsy washed away;
the hard g is too harsh and garish
against the roof of my mouth,
the double s too serpentine.
it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,
like some sort of linguistic anomaly,
a could-be word that really shouldn't be.
today, it was your name.
(i never thought
proper nouns counted, but
evidently, they do.)
i didn't see you as much as i heard you,
in the whistling of the breeze
or the creaking of the hardwood floors.
your imposing yet warm presence
near the nape of my neck.
i admit that somewhere
in the recesses of my mind,