leahquark - Tumblr blog

leahquark · 2 years

Text

The Bureaucracy

The investigation department didn’t investigate shit! Helen damn well knew it too!

“We fucking…” Before another word could exit my mouth Helen’s steely gaze pierced my soul. Underneath her petite business suit, and powdering of makeup, was a stone-cold killer. The prim and proper glitz of her polished nails resting on the wheel of her shining new SUV told the world what game she was playing. The deadly seriousness in her eyes, and the rigid and tense battle stance she defaulted to, warned the world what would happen if they didn’t play along. People called her “scorpion” behind her back. Step out of line, and, well…

“We saved the world.” I replied, my curse riddled bark turned whimper.

“We did our job. The investigators were just doing theirs.” Helen responded casually.

“It’s my grandmother locket, not part of that creature!” I spat back.

“You didn’t report it. Everything you don’t report to them is a potential threat.”

“I didn’t report it because it’s deeply personal to me!” The conversation fell quiet, as I glared at her incredulously. No questions? No curiosity as to this deeply personal story? No interest whatsoever in learning why the aura of her prized “indestructible bag” was less than half the aura off a simple locket? No! All questions could reveal were facts and personal information. Helen knew all the facts, and she had no reason to care about personal information.

I adjusted my analogue watch, 4:54pm, a full hellish hour passed alone with Helen.

The car whispered gently to a stop in a visitor parking space, the glistening silver SUV standing out like a sore thumb from the rattle trap rust buckets assembled in the lot’s employee parking. Dark ominous clouds swirled overhead, dropping a scattering of rain neither cooling nor cleansing. Before us loomed a monolith of dull beige, surrounded by a tarmac lot attached to an untraveled road. On three sides was decaying forestry, the kind with lightning struck fallen logs, and more brown bumpy roots than lush green grass. The fourth side of the lot was the road, beyond which was a heap of abandoned farmland, no crop growing in the barren dirt clearing. A lone telephone poll tilted diagonally in the field, threatening to topple at any second.

“This can’t be it!” I scoffed. The building was little more than a massive cube, the paint bumpy, most of the windows fogged with dust. “Investigation department? Yeah right! You’re telling me that we all report to a bunch of norms operating out of this shack in the woods?”

“The upper administration consists of individuals with supernatural abilities rivaling our own. Further, like it or not, this building is the department headquarters. It was chosen for specific reasons I have yet to understand and am unable to explain. I therefore insist you follow my lead. I also insist that while inside you behave yourself.” The scorpion stopped speaking, looking to me to ensure I understood. Behave myself? What the hell kind of sentence was that?

Her eyes flashed with genuine aggravation, and it became clear. She wanted me to behave like her! She wanted me to play her game of false niceties and diplomacy! Never!

We entered the building, and I snapped awake. The entryway was a massive high-ceilinged courtyard. A cooling breeze wafted over us as we passed the threshold. The floors were white tiles which clicked in every step, and the walls gray synthetics. The lighting in the room touched every corner, perfectly regulated to see every inch of the space. Centrally placed was a looming glass plaque standing upright, and around it were dull gray cushioned benches that looked as though they’d been freshly cleaned. Strangest of all were the walls, covered in immaculate oil paintings in all different styles, at perfectly even intervals, each an identical size.

Something shifted in me as we entered the space, perhaps the cooling sensation of stepping into the building, but every hair stood on end, and every sense seemed to grow heightened. The clipping of Helen’s boots against the floor, the beating of my own heart in my ear, even the ruffle of my baggy cargo pants, all of it was audible in perfect clarity. I could smell the stench of my own unwashed shirt, feel sweat and grime pooling on my hands, and taste the remnants of the extra garlic pasta I’d consumed in spite before the long car ride.

It took me only a moment to realize why. There was nothing to the room. The air was a dead silent, devoid of the rustle of wind or pitter of rain outside. It was light too, the air was light and cool, not a thick soup to swim through. There was no smell to the building, no taste to the air. Even the wood door was silent, on the other side painted over gray and indistinct.

We made with speed to the central glass structure. A touchscreen directory was projected on it, which Helen interacted with in silence. Waiting, I began to pace about the room, admiring the paintings, gorgeous works of art I studied with wonder. Each depicted rich landscapes and natural beauties. My favorite depicted a lone wilting cactus bristling with thorns in a desert heat, a single flower blooming from the mass of spikes, a cloudless blue sky overhead.

I returned to Helen after studying each painting thoroughly. She’d taken out a small paper, likely from her “indestructible bag” clipped over her shoulder, and was writing. A start jumped across my body, as I realized I was looking to her with total relaxation. I felt calm, and perhaps grateful that she’d accompanied me. My heart rate slowed. I was glad to see her.

A flush of heat hit my face, as I quickly pulled out my phone and tried to check for distraction. To my dismay the device refused to power on. The time displayed on my watch was 4:55. I glared, comprehending that the second hand had stopped moving, the watch dead.

“Lucy,” Helen spoke softly, softer than I’d ever heard her speak before. “Let’s go.”

Through a gray door, and down a flight of gray stairs, we arrived in another wide-open courtyard, a similar directory of glass stationed in the middle, identical paintings adorning the walls in the exact same spots. The same room was repeated on two different floors, and somehow this was calming, my heart further slowing from its already relaxed pace.

Helen led us to an office where a woman, secretary of one “Mr. Smith”, insisted we’d need to come back at 5 O’clock. We left the office, moving into the central courtyard.

“5 O’clock huh?” I questioned, looking to my watch, the second hand still wedged in place, directly at the 30 second mark. Helen ignored me, moving with purpose to the directory. A tiny digital clock displayed in the top left corner, the colon separating the hour from the minute blinking in and out of existence periodically. The time displayed was 4:59.

“They’re going to make us wait a full minute for no reason?” I proclaimed in indignity.

“Evidently so.” Helen responded calmly. “Please try to be patient.”

I paced about the room, glancing over each painting a second time. Beautiful still, as with the ones on the first floor, but having lost a touch of the initial excitement. I took a stand next to Helen, who in her always rigid, always ready stance was completely still, keeping the digital wall clock just on the edge of her vision. Finally, the stupid blinking clock read 5:00.

Mr. Smith was of no help. He directed us to a “Mr. Johnson” and Helen thanked him on our way out. We got ten feet from the door before I realized I hadn’t yelled at the man, thrashed the stupid norm’s desk to scare him into helping us. I moved to speak, to express the surprise in myself to Helen, but before I could say a word the thought suddenly didn’t seem to matter.

We scheduled a meeting with Mr. Johnson at 5:05. For five minutes we stood in wait, watching the little colon blink in and out of existence on the glass directory. The paintings were worth a third look, but only for a few seconds each. Most of the time was spent standing in silence side by side, staring at the stupid blinking clock which couldn’t tick by fast enough.

Mr. Johnson was not responsible for confiscated items. Instead he provided paperwork to apply for a clearance we already had. The rest of the lot seemed to go by in one blurry wash. It was while waiting for a 5:35pm meeting with Mr. Williams, that Helen next spoke to me.

“Thank you,” She said.

“Hmmm?” I questioned. I glared at my watch. The second hand was still wedged at 30.

“You’ve behaved yourself very well.” Helen muttered softly. Something felt wrong with those words. But at that moment, I glanced up at the digital clock on the nearby directory, and watched that glorious blinking colon blink its way to 5:35, and nothing else seemed to matter.

We entered Mr. William’s office, and stood across from his gray synthetic desk.

“Lucy Brand.” He said at last, typing on his old desktop. The first meeting to last more than a minute. “Enchanted locket, moved to storage locker 66. That’s not my department. And Mr. Miller will be out for five business days.” Like a bizarre vision, an image flashed in my mind, of watching days tick by on the colon blinking digital clock displayed on the directories.

“Could you hold on for just a second.” Helen questioned, lifting her bag over her shoulder. Her fingers seemed to slip, and the satchel fell in a clump on the floor. At once I reached out, and with just the brush of my fingertips over the fabric I felt it.

Helen’s enchantment was simple, my hand repelling off the thing, hit with a sudden static shock. The damn stupid fake brand name bag was enchanted to keep me out! Keep me out! Like Helen thought I was more likely to rob her than reach into it for essential supplies I knew she carried! We dealt and danced in crisis every day, and here was the scorpion, keeping up the niceties and playing her pretend politics! She waltzed into danger in that same stupid business attire. And she waltzed out expecting us all not to celebrate with joy, or cry from fear. No, of course, why would she let us? Displaying emotions was just too damn immature for her!

I felt something, heard something in the hanging stillness of the air. There was a rhythmic thumping that wasn’t there before, soft and quiet and slow. With a start it picked up as I realized it was my own heart, fear racing in me as I considered when I lost track of it. Details of the room came into focus, the baggy eyed man in the gray suit was hunched behind his gray desk in the gray room, his skin a ghastly sickly gray. There was Helen, her posture slumped, arms relaxed. No longer was a battle ready killer beside me. She was no one to fear, no one to command, not anymore. Her winged eyelashes were painted over dulling tired eyes.

“What the hell is going on here?!” I snapped, my heart thumping in my ear. I felt something jagged catching in my lungs, as they wheezed with relief like I’d been holding my breath. My heartbeat quickened, and a myriad of hateful swears poured into my stagnating mind.

“Lucy!” Helen attempted to scowl, slow and without energy.

“No! I’m tired of running around in circles! We’re leaving this purgatory, with my locket! Your chain of five-minute appointments ends here!” A swell of vitality flowed through me, an energy like I’d never felt before. An urge to move, to fight, coursed through my every vein. Rage as fuel powered my words. “Do you know who we are? While you’re all locked away in here, we’re out there, living! Does anyone here remember what it’s like to live?! To admire nature rather than painted imitations?! To find something to do rather than telling others what they can’t?! Is this how you want to spend your days, reading about someone else’s exploits instead of living your own?! No one in this forsaken temple of bureaucracy is even alive!”

“I’m sorry, that’s not my department.” The man behind the desk said simply.

Helen snapped to her feet. Her stance was rigid, her arms tense. Her eyes shot like blazing daggers into me. With one hand she grabbed her bag, with the other she pulled me by the arm like a child for the doorway. I waited expectantly for the damn condescending lecture, but it never came. We climbed our way up the stairs, her unceasing grip on me the whole way.

On the first floor, rather than the exit she made way for a painting, a lone standing cactus in an arid desert. It was hideous, perfection in its most unrealistic and exacting precision. The scorpion released my arm, and in one fell swing ripped the painting for the wall, the frame clattering to the floor, canvas face down. I stared incredulously at her blatant vandalism and the glistening metal behind the painting, a hatch, etched with roman numerals. In a single heartbeat, Helen pulled from her bag a metal hair clip and jammed it into the lone key slot. I rubbed my wrists where she’d grappled me as I waited. The second hand of my watch was stuck at 33. For 3 seconds it had started to tick. The vault door opened, and I grasped the glistening jewelry inside.

“Like I said.” Helen answered when my raised eyebrows glanced to her. “I’ve been here before. You did a good job back there. I was beginning to lose myself too.” She almost seemed to smile as she said it. We crossed the threshold in a race to return to the real world.

Never did a tilting telephone poll across an untraveled road shimmer so beautifully. Never did the chirp of bugs and the crunch of the sandy parking lot sound so appealing. I looked at Helen, already reaching her car. In my hand I felt the locket, barely having time to comprehend its recovery. But that damned desert scorpion wasn’t to fool me that easily. One act of good was far from enough to redeem a person from a year of negligence and irritation. But maybe it was enough for a pleasant car ride home. I made my way toward her car, shining under the cloudless blue sky, and the glistening sun directly overhead.

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leahquark · 2 years

Text

Requiem of Victor (Revised)

The dream began, as dreams begin

I face my fate, I face my sin

Death to Victor, death to him

He is not me, not me, never will be

I refute this, I am not thee

Speak of the dead, a deadname we will see

Listen to death, bring forth misery

He is a child, playing in globes of nature’s gift

And the flicking swift swish of amber glyphs and fish

A child, and a betta fish bemused

A life, a death, which I’ve refused

From dark, where what reaches no light,

Comes forth creature, stalk of the night,

Unforeseen even in foresight

it hurts, it hurts, all pain, affright

Make it leave, make the dream stop, I don’t want to relive this

There is nothing left of me to live, especially not that life, not his

As child sets fish and bowl in snow

He looks to see, what comes I know

“He will freeze outside” From above comes a voice

He will burn inside, comes the unspoken choice

To greet Emico, comes father from home

And as such transpires, I retreat in alone

No, not me who does! Him for whom we tome

As Victor he was, now buried to atone

As Emico leaves me

Rage, rage, I will not see

My father beside him

As evening lights fade dim

And I am left, nothing within

Please spare me my final breath!

As ever closer comes his death!

For him I feel this breadth!

Victor! Name as Macbeth!

No! For that broken soul I feel no rue!

Fuck Emico Hetzel! Fuck Victor too!

Fuck the liaison, the fuck did he ever do?

…

I’ve spoken to Hetzel since then

A once yearly check up from when…

From inside the dream, I hear a voice, my voice, calling out to me

“Run…”

And yet this is only a memory.

Fire leaps quick and unrelenting

Tinder burns as wick, heat venting

A child falls, hear his final cry

Victor is here set now to die

He runs upward from fire below

All exits block with smoke in flow

A soul of death now stands tall here

Rupture of reality and bringer of fear

Vampire of night

Demon in sight

Ghostly goblin devil alight

A woman wicked, her craving the flame,

her brood gang slaughtered, John Morris to blame

And that wicked woman, her soul left alone

Decided to burn John Morris’s home

She did not know of the child

And as the manic tides of wicked and wild

Cravings and lust of the vampire inspiraled

Victor Marston-Morris climbed debris piled

And thrust himself from a window ledge, at peace in death, life defiled

…

“No!” I heard her yell

I don’t know how in hell

I will never know how I heard well

I will never know how I heard her words above tell

“Oh God no! What have I done?! Not like this! I didn’t want this!”

Yet it was already done, and death was he, him, and his

…

She shouted in the graveyard of fish about me, standing over my broken body

“I’m sorry!” she said, her doing, as was all that occurred that night

“Please live!” she said, as fangs descended into me, the moon above in ghastly light

What should have taken months took minutes as the fangs of her device dug into skin

And through tubes and technology new life was brought to me, my beating heart to begin

And there in agony I lay, raised to earth, clawing my way back to the living

Yet Victor remains dead

…

I awoke, breathing heavily. I looked to the mirror, my face ghastly grim and pale, sweat stained and red with the flow of my own blood. It had been twelve years since that night.

I sat for a moment, resolve burning in my mind.

“No!” It said.

It hadn’t been twelve years!

It hadn’t ever happened!

Not to me!

Certainly not to me!

Never to me!

“I am Vera Marston-Morris!” I shouted.

A felt a twinge of something behind my eye, something glistening streaking in the mirror.

The mirror… yes… the mirror.

It was an ordinary mirror! Of course! Of course it was an ordinary mirror! Of course, of course! It wasn’t specially forged by Emico Hetzel, liaison of the supernatural! It wasn’t the sympathy of John Morris for the trauma of his only child! It wasn’t an apology for the life who by tragedies chance they’d failed to save! It wasn't compensation to the final victim of the monster they’d gone out to hunt! It wasn’t so I could put on makeup without being reminded of the pain! It wasn’t the final visage of the self I so desperately wanted to see! It wasn’t! It was normal! It was a normal mirror! Damn it it was a normal mirror! Please, why can’t it be a normal mirror!

“I am Vera!” I shouted. “I am Vera!”

No, not Vera the vampire! No, not Vera, formerly Victor! No, Vera! Vera the damn ordinary woman! Victor Marston-Morris the vampire died years ago! I am Vera! Damn it I am Vera! Damn it, why am I not Vera!

I sat, shaking for a moment, eyes clenched in anguish, the silence of the night about me.

I opened my eyes, staring at the woman in the mirror, in the only mirror I could actually look into.

I took a moment of pause.

“I am Vera Marston-Morris.” I said again, more calmly than I’d ever managed before. “As much as I wish I was human, I am a vampire. As much as I wish I was assigned female at birth, I am trans. As much as I wish my life had been normal, I did have something traumatic happen to me in the past. But I will not let any of that define me. I am Vera. I am myself. I am alive.”

I collapsed onto the bed, letting the affirmations wash shallow and empty over me as I stared with insomnia stricken eyes at the ceiling.

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leahquark · 2 years

Text

Unpaced-meter

I don’t know how well this translates to page

That still beat boiling well of rage

The closing feeling of this cage

Is it slowed or center stage

These lines start slow

Always, this way, these ways, so

Breaking forth they shall not never grow

I know

It’s broken now

Broken rhythm like broken vow

Restore this line I know not how

Set steep to here resign what mine is mind I shall

Faster spoken words about me spin

Long lines of rushed breath breathed within

Paceless fates face breathless as a new line I begin

Let time take this worthless set style as an abomination of the nation of my mental sin

Repeat and fin

Let chaos in

Shout it

I dare you, wrote, no not written, without it

No doubt about it

No steady pace stable enough to reroute it

This paceless page is my fate

Not broken but designed to berate

What worthless styles resign to set center stage of what they call great

And of which I hate

Broken here as I break free

This style is madness, this still is me

As with every syllable I exceed the poetic expectancy

As I control the now chaotic rhythm of thee

Explanation:

Unpaced-meter: A form of poetic writing wherein the writer changes the meter and rhythm frequently and chaotically to scale the speed at which certain lines are read, forcing some lines to be read faster than others.

First developed and published by Lea ‘H

This poem in particular is designed to express:

An example of this new poetic style the author is experimenting with and developing

A feeling of rage at the gatekeepers of poetry insistent on certain rules being followed, limiting innovation. This frustration at lacking skills and knowledge in traditional poetry, but having poetic ideals which can not wait to be expressed in poetic fashion, lead to the development of this style and publication.

0 notes

leahquark · 2 years

Text

Requiem of Victor

The dream began, as dreams begin

I face my fate, I face my sin

Death to Victor, death to him

He is not me, not me, nor never will be

I refute this, I am not thee

Speak of the dead, a deadname we will see

Listen to the dead, brings death a misery

He is a child, playing in globes of nature's gift

And the flicking swift swish of amber glyphs and fish

Betta fish, bottled and bemused, lining the shelves unused, of ego long bruised

Of hunter now haunted and hunted in his hallowed home

Yet John Morris doth not stand alone

As his child goes to play, tumbling in snow at the end of winter's long day, arises a figure, a creature, without feature

His shirt is scarf of knitted wool, and arms as stick thin branches, waving across the way as the lurching preacher from yonder advances

It stalks in the night, it hurts, it hurts, affright

Make it leave, make the dream stop, I don't want to relive this

There is nothing left of me to live, especially, not that life, not his

The child plunks a bowl in the snow

He admires a fishing swimming, contrasted stripes aglow

He holds a feature carrot tied with a bow

He looks to a see a figure, what comes next I know

"He'll freeze outside" From above comes a voice

He will burn inside, comes the true unspoken choice

Victor brings the fish inside, bow in one hand, carrot in the lawn,

at the base of Frosty's stand, far more than tilting by the dawn

"Dad!" he calls, going and gone to the window to sit and wait.

"Emico is here!" and with that seals his fate.

Fuck Emico Hetzel! Fuck Frosty too!

Fuck the so called liaison of the supernatural, the fuck did he ever do?

12 times I've spoken to Hetzel since then

A yearly check up from... when...

...

John Morris leaves

And there alone in that house is Victor

Alone, no soul to disturb his mind

He sits in a thin but tall home, a three story wood creaking thing

His family home is home to betta fish, over two dozen, in separate bowls, in separate corners of various rooms.

Four in this room, four in that room.

Four in his room, more to come soon

One sits in a bowl beside the child, as he watches with open eyes wide and wild

The fish sits still and stupid, staring through the bowl,

to the world outside as the mild snow begins to roll

"Are you cold little guy?" Victor asks the fish

"Do you like the snowman?" Victor asks as it begins to swish

...

The betta fish turns, eyes red aglow.

"Run" it says.

"What?" Victor asks.

"Run!" it says with all that I know.

Fire leaps quick and unrelenting

Tinder burns as wick as heat is venting

A child trips and starts to cry

Victor is here set to die

He scrambles upstairs from fire below

He runs as exits block and smoke continues to flow

The house his crumbling about him, death to any structure or symbol here

Death by a vampire, rupture of reality and bringer of fear

Her name was Vivian, her craving the flame,

her brood gang slaughtered, John Morris to blame

And that wicked woman, all left alone

Decided to burn John Morris's home

She did not know of the child

And as the manic tides of wicked and wild

The cravings and lust of the vampire inspiraled

Victor Marston-Morris climbed through debris piled

And hoisted himself over a windowsill ledge

And I watched the memory of how I found myself dead

...

I died that day

I tumbled from the balcony of a burning building

I was a child at that time

Smoke inhalation had clouded my judgment

I fell head first from the three stories up

My neck broke on impact

"No!" I heard her yell

I don't know how in hell

I will never know how I heard well

I will never know how I heard her words above tell

...

"Oh God no! What have I done?! Not like this! I didn't want this!"

She shouted in the graveyard of fish about me, standing over my broken body

She was old, haggard and scarred and toothless

Toothless because her teeth had been extracted and forged into something deadly

She'd raised a brood of vampires with her teeth, but not her mouth

"I'm sorry!" she said, her doing, as was all that occurred that night

"Please live!" she said, as fangs descended into me, the moon above in ghastly light

What should have taken months took minutes as the fangs of her device dug into skin

And through tubes and technology new life was brought to me, my beating heart to begin

And there in agony I lay, raised to earth, clawing my way back to the living

Vivian over me, and in sickening tones I could hear the vampire song she was singing

...

I awoke, breathing heavily. I looked to the mirror, my face ghastly grim and pale, sweat stained and red with the flow of my own blood. It had been twelve years since that night.

I sat for a moment, resolve burning in my head.

No! It said.

It hadn't been twelve years!

It hadn't ever happened!

Not to me!

Certainly not to me!

Never to me!

"I am Vera Marston-Morris!" I shouted.

A felt a twinge of something behind my eye, something glistening streaking in the mirror.

The mirror... yes... the mirror.

It was an ordinary mirror! Of course! Of course it was an ordinary mirror! Of course, of course! It wasn't specially forged by Emico Hetzel as a gift for John Morris so I could at last see myself! It wasn't a sympathy gift, or a compensation so John's daughter, his only child, could put on makeup without being reminded of the pain! It wasn't! It was normal! It was a normal mirror! Damn it it was a normal mirror! Please, why can't it be a normal mirror!

"I am Vera!" I shouted. "I am Vera!"

I sat, shaking for a moment, eyes clenched in anguish, the silence of the night about me.

I opened my eyes, staring at the woman in the mirror, in the only mirror I could actually look at.

I took a moment of pause.

"I am Vera Marston-Morris." I said again, more calmly than I'd ever managed before. "As much as I wish I was human, I am a vampire. As much as I wish I was assigned female at birth, I am trans. As much as I wish my life had been normal, I did have something traumatic happen to me in the past. But I will not let any of that define me. I am Vera. I am myself."

I collapsed onto the bed, letting the affirmations wash shallow and empty over me as I stared with insomnia stricken eyes at the ceiling.

0 notes

leahquark · 2 years

Text

Zoe and Kra ‘O: Dilemma

There was a series of rattling clunking rumbles, the ever so persistent clink of loose metal colliding. It came again and again in rapid succession, as my face compressed softly against my pillow.

“Kra ‘O?” I called, my voice muffled by the cushion. There came only the clinking in response. “I have a writing question.” The clinking rumbled louder, then all it once it crescendoed in a chorus of crashing shattering. The piercing break filled the air, and a soft chirping voice murmured.

“Hmm…” Kra ‘O pronounced, examining a dilemma unseen.

“What is writing?” I asked, shifting my face to bury myself further, near to smothering myself in my bed, save for my partially uncovered mouth. There came about more crashing, a distinct fluttering as the clinking in sharp jagged tones pierced the air. “I mean what’s the point? Is it to make you feel better? Am I supposed to write how I feel? Am I supposed to write how I wish to feel? Am I supposed to write my own conflicts? Or maybe I’m supposed to write totally made up conflicts to escape from my own?”

Suddenly the crashing grew louder, a great squawking filling up the space of the room. I leapt up at once, the daze of my depressive musings fading around me. There was nothing, no broken cups and glasses, no spilled tea stains upon the rug. Only a small little black bird, her bemused smile studying me. At her feet rested a tiny plastic cup of almost unperceivable water.

“How did you…” I began to stammer. “I thought I heard… you said you were making tea so I thought…”

“Writing?” Kra ‘O questioned, her eyes upon me, full knowing. “Writing is something you love. And something you haven’t done right in far too long.”

“But that’s because I don’t remember!” I protested. “I don’t remember how to do it right!”

“But that’s the secret isn’t it.” Kra ‘O chirped. “You have to stop being afraid you’re doing it wrong.”

#writing #fiction #conversation #writing advice #crow #hobby #passion

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leahquark · 2 years

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I’m now on Wattpad

https://t.co/k6zsWwocLS

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leahquark · 3 years

Text

How to escape from a time loop

Prevent the causing event

Alright, so you’re stuck in a time loop. But maybe you know what caused it. Hey, if the causing event keeps happening, it’s obvious. Let’s say at the end of every day, you die. Easy peasy, just don’t die one day and you’ll escape the loop. Easier said than done, sure. Especially if the loop is short, or the event is out of your control (yea, 10 minutes really feels unfair to convince your aunt Sally on the other side of the country not to knock over her Egyptian flower vase). But hey, you get unlimited tries at this. Plus, a time loop means your money and resources reset, so feel free to go nuts and waste them. Just, don’t do anything you might regret if the loop suddenly breaks. Of course, after enough repeats, I doubt there’ll be much left in this category. If the loop happens when you go to sleep, then don’t go to sleep. Heck, chase the sun around the world if you have to. Rage against the dying of the light.

Make amends for the causing event

Okay, so maybe the event that caused the time loop only happened once. And maybe it happened on the day before the loop, or in the first iteration only. Well then, you can still make amends for it, hit the edit undo. Don’t believe me? The statistical probability that YOU would be the first person stuck in a time loop is so ridiculously close to zero. If you’re in a time loop now, that means others were probably in a time loop too, and maybe got in and got out the same way. And they kinda had to get out, in order for time to progress and trap you in your time loop today. So go track down that evil time witch and apologize to her, or find a scientist who can study the alien blood you’re covered in. Tell them to keep notes, then at the end of the time loop memorize them and regurgitate them back at the start of the next loop. Remember, you’re the only one who can retain information / make progress at the end of each loop. Only you can look out for yourself, but maybe medical science has an answer.

Prevent and make amends for everything that could possibly be the causing event

Okay, so maybe you don’t know why you’re trapped in a time loop. Alright, then try this. Go through a list of everything you did the day before the loop, and during the first iteration of the loop. Focus on things you said, places you went, objects you saw, things you thought about. It’s important to do this before the time loops repeat so many times you forget what happened the first time around. One of those things, something as minor as not hanging out with a friend, could have been the causing factor… at least according to movies and TV. In reality, it’s probably as likely the time loop was caused by a passing black hole, or a scientist at the large hadron collider. But hey, if it’s something not related to your personal life and daily activities, then you’re kinda screwed. So just completely change your daily routine, do things you’d never think to do, break that habit that you do on every iteration of the timeline, and hope that the loop was just some catharsis for your morning coffee addiction. Now is the time to fix any regrets you may have, to make amends, to become a better person.

Binge watch time related tv

Also read some sci fi. Of course, if you’re reading this, you’re probably on track already, and getting into the more obscure sections. That’s good, a lot of those mainstream sci fi movies are more meant to make you feel good than actually discuss the repercussions of time loops. But hey, you never know, maybe you’ll get some inspiration for something. Heck, a lot of escaping from time loops is getting the right inspiration. So yea, take a break, and binge those bad tv shows. You’ve got all the time in the world to do what you love… assuming you love sci fi television as much as I do. Heck, I won’t judge if you just want to use the time loop to binge all day, enjoy yourself! (You are trapped in a serious science anomaly we don’t fully understand after all) Just, make sure you eventually take a television break if the time loop doesn’t show any sign of fixing.

Find a guide

Alright, so basic fact of logic, there’s only one person on the planet who knows the absolute most about time loops, and chances are it’s not you. At least, it wasn’t you when you got stuck. For all you know, that person walking down the street next to you knows more than you. Heck, maybe they were trapped in a time loop too. So go ahead and ask. What’s the worst that could happen? No seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re trapped in a time loop, any social awkwardness you display will be forgotten by the next loop. Go up and talk to random people, find that person who knows a ton about sci fi. My DMs are always open, and I’m sure you can find some people in a sci fi discord server. Want a real kicker? Spend one loop learning all you can about a person, just talking to them friendly and nice. Then next time loop start the conversation with an announcement that you’re in a time loop, and prove it by reciting those same facts you learned about the person in the last loop. Get to know someone, make some new friends, or just reach out for help (its so hard to escape alone).

Convince the government

That trick I mentioned, in point 5… that’ll probably work for the government too. Imagine calling up the president of the United States on his personal cell phone, telling him you’re in a time loop, and backing it up with a whole host of personal facts. What they won’t see, is the hundred or so timelines you spend going from convincing the police, to the FBI, to the governor, to your local senators, etc, etc. At every step of the way, wasting one or two timelines to learn all their personal info, then regurgitating it to them in the third timeline as proof you really are looping. It’s exhausting. All to convince some bureaucrats and some scientists to look into it. Let’s hope they really do have aliens in area 51, or this will be a massive waste of time. But hey, time is something you’ve got too much of anyway. The effort may be exhausting, but you can’t give in, you need some professional backup on your team, and no matter how much you repeat yourself, its worth the effort.

Number those timelines

Alright, so at this point, try anything. But you need a way to stop yourself from trying the same thing twice. And you need a way of prompting the people you are with to stop saying the same old ideas. If you wake up on the same day every morning, and ask the people around you to help you escape a time loop, then they’re going to be repeating a lot of their responses. But in my experience, people reply, think, and remember differently based on the prompts they’re given, and maybe those different prompts will jog your brain, and the brains of the people you’re around, into thinking of something new. One way to do it is get a dictionary, or some other book with a wide variety of words, and each day refer to the next word in the book as that day's prompt. Do something completely random, completely insane, but make sure it started with you and your time loop guides reading and thinking about the prompt. So you’re probably going out to go touch an aardvark then. Come back when you’ve ridden a Zambonni and I’ll know things are really desperate. Point is, keeping trying new things, and enjoy them while you’re at it.

Keep trying

Alright, it’s not really like you’ve got much of a choice here. Going about your day, or repeating the same day twice, or acting and pretending like you’re not really in a time loop, are all ways of experimenting with something new (though, frankly I think these will just lead to frustration). Heck, maybe instead of acting crazy, what you really needed was to act normal. Maybe it’s a sentient creature keeping you trapped in the loop, and it’ll sense when you’ve given up hope and then release you from the loop. Maybe. Really doubt that though. Technically, it’s impossible to give up. But hang in there. Keep yourself, and your joy. You get to live. You get to experience something no one else has felt. You can learn a hundred new skills, and master them all, and live frivolously every day. You get to meet every person on earth, and study them all in a single day. You are technically immortal. There is nothing you have to do, no responsibilities. There’s nothing new on television to keep you glued to the screen, and no point putting any of your dreams off until tomorrow. You’re trapped in time, but in a way free. Free of consequences except the ones you choose for yourself. So choose to be happy, choose to live. Choose to value this day with your friends and family, even if they won’t value or remember them. Maybe plan one million for escaping the time loop is to go down to a nice sunny beach and just relax. In a strange way, that’s got just as much chance of working as anything else. And it’ll make your eternity here a lot more bearable than moping around your house all depressed like.

Don’t die

I have no idea what the religious implications are of being trapped in a time loop. And the thing with most time loops, at least the ones I’ve seen on tv, is that death doesn’t let you escape the loop. And frankly that’s a good thing, because death is something worse. I’m not going to go into this too much, though if you really are trapped in a time loop I’m sure these few words are tantalizingly short. (If you need more, there are plenty of resources out there) But no time loop has ever been solved by dying. Even if it did resolve, your eternal purgatory would probably end up taking the form of a time loop. But don’t worry, I can give you my personal assurances that you’re alive right now. And that’s good. Because life is a beautiful thing, even when the day repeats. You know, especially then. After all these dark and gritty escape the time loop stories, of tormented characters driven mad because nothing they do matters, can’t we have one where someone is happy to be in a time loop? We all die, eventually that is. Whether you’re trapped in a time loop or not. But not all of us live. Not all of us truly live. Maybe being trapped in a time loop will help you live truly. I mean, if you really think about it, in several thousand years, is anyone even going to remember you? Remember your accomplishments? You may as well have lived for a day. If you want to escape the time loop so what you do matters again, maybe it’s time to face the reality that what you do… may not have mattered. And that’s okay. Life is about the living. Living every day, day by day, and making the most of it. We don’t always get to control the hand that life gives us. Maybe we know someone with Alzheimer's, whose memories fade at the end of each day, and makes it seem like we’re living that moment over and over. Maybe they don’t even remember who you are. Maybe, to them, you’re a stranger, who met them today, and knows so many things about them. Is it happy when someone laughs, if they won’t remember it later? Did it really happen? Yes it did. Yes it is happy.

10.

You can’t escape / why did you listen to me, I’ve never been trapped in a time loop

Life is a beautiful thing, time is a beautiful thing. It’s beautiful because it doesn’t loop. I can understand the anger, that bitter rage people can have, trapped and unable to reach out, repeating the same day over and over. Unable to move on. Unable to break free. And sometimes they do break free. Sometimes, silly movies and tv shows, that avoidance of the causing incident, or the help of scientists and their research, are enough to fix even the most terrible of fates. But sometimes they can’t, and we can go on, suffering forever. I’ve never been trapped in a time loop (I thought I was once, in fact, all my friends thought I was too, and they all tried to help me out of it. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t, right?), and if any of the people around me have, they've been hiding it exceptionally well. They’ve worked today, for the hope of relaxing tomorrow. They’ve made progress, with the thought that their accomplishments matter, and their adventures can wait. That’s the mindset a lot of us go through life with. But maybe, just maybe, life can’t wait until tomorrow. Maybe it takes getting trapped in a time loop to realize. When your hard work doesn’t pay off, and you can’t think of what evil thing has landed you where you are, when the universe deals you a bad hand, maybe that’s when you realize what’s important. Waking up, every day, with people you care about, ready to live life for today. Maybe tomorrow won’t come. Maybe it never will. Maybe you have to live, live every moment of your life, today. Or, maybe, just maybe, tomorrow is right around the corner. And when you tell those people around you that you love them, maybe this time they’ll remember. But what the hell do I know? I’ve never been trapped in a time loop. I’m just a person, one of billions on planet Earth, living life.

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leahquark · 3 years

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Dice

Those damn aliens had won. They’d outdone us at sharpshooting, and swimming. Basketball, baseball, ballet, baccarat. Frankly it didn’t give a damn what, they always won.

Physically they were better, stronger, faster, and somehow smaller and more flexible. They smashed the world record for weightlifting while simultaneously running the 200 meters.

Mentally they were sharper, quicker, more creative, and far more logical. Outmaneuvering us in chess and upon the simulated battlefield offered “considerably less resistance than anticipated”.

Their inventions, innovations, quality of life, and damn efficient use of resources outpaced ours too. We were frankly a lower life form. No wonder they wanted to displace us from our planet “before humans did further harm to a unique ecosystem”.

They were superior in every way, and that was their basis for not giving us a voice in the process. Until we could prove there was something, anything, we were better at than them, their superior orders were to be followed, or their superior weapons would open fire.

But I’ll be damned if we weren’t even in the eyes of sheer blind luck. But they didn’t think so. “Our gods are superior,” they assured us. “Our karmic balance will see fortune on our side.”

But when Mr. Reynolds pulled a full house to top that smug aliens flush in a lost game of poker, luck was on our side. When the gamer known as RedWing launched a Blue Shell in the third of four races and took the lead, the RNG gods had smiled on us. And when John Finnigan had opened his mystery pack of cards and pulled the rarest in the set, hope of victory had been with us (damn the one scratch that had cost us the tie breaking appraisal).

But there was still one thing, one more chance, to put us back in the running and seal victory and salvation for the human race. Dice. The fate of the world came down to two damn d10s on a cloudy Wednesday evening.

Rolling for the humans were Clark Rinsler, a sweaty big fellow fresh off a three hour session DMing a homebrew campaign of invading sci fi aliens, and myself. Jessica Porter’s the name, not much of a DnD player myself, but magic the gathering is my forte. You may know me from a viral video a few weeks back where I tossed two d20 onto the table, both turning up with that precious magic number. Well, I say viral, but does a million views even mean much in this day and age? Besides, the comments section was mostly filled with people making damn sad pickup lines at the shocked look of my friend Sarah Winston, dressed to the nines in some anime cosplay I didn’t recognize.

Rolling for the aliens were two demonic bastards with bad attitudes, no one really giving a crap at this point, just wanting them to get the hell off our planet. They rolled percentile dice, one d10 each, with the scores added up, one of them being in multiples of ten. After boasting about launch angle and trajectory and the tender and kind luck of their god, freaks one and two rolled a pathetic number. The small guy got a 4, but the big one, the one that mattered, slammed down on a 20. On a d20 I’d be impressed, but not on a scale from 00 to 90. Beat a 24 and the human race was saved, and I was rolling the important die.

Clark stood by with a sweat laced grin, looking over to me with false swagger.

“You sure you don’t want to switch dice?” he offered, holding out his d10.

“Don’t trust me to beat a nat 20?” A chided, bristling with rage. “I think I’m good to go. Let’s get this over with, and kick these damn beasts out!”

He smiled back at me, weary in his arm, my own hand clattering about in wait. Then we rolled, fate of our world handed to the dice.

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leahquark · 3 years

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5 Word Story

There's an old rumor that Ernest Hemingway famously was challenged to write a story in just 6 words. He wrote: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn"

Well Mr. Hemingway, let's see if I can outdo you today, with a short story written in just 5 words:

I finally remember how to count.

#story #short story #flash fiction #hemingway #ernest hemingway #for sale baby shoes never worn #6 word story #6 word poem #5 word story #5 word poem #irony #subtext #implication #writing

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leahquark · 3 years

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Zoe and Kra ‘O Mini:

She looked to me then, those softest charcoal eyes.

“No one reads on social media.” She chirped.

“Oh by contrast, they do.” I replied. “And soon what we write.”

#zoeandkrao #leahquark #mini #story #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #poetry #thought of the day #read #social media #im back #more coming soon

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leahquark · 3 years

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Zoe and Kra ‘O: Overpriced Cards

“I’m going to do it Kra ‘O!” I cheered from behind my desktop screen.

“Do what?” Came my companion avian’s response. I paid her little mind, the dark blotch at the end of my vision.

“I’m going to buy some Pokémon cards!” I exclaimed with joy.

“You’re going to… what? Zoe, you what? You’re a fully functioning adult. You’re going to what?” I glanced over at Kra ‘O. The little crow had angel wings sprouting from her head, cheap plastic things that looked like stickers taped on. A golden sash lay tangled between her feet, too large for her small size. It depicted the bow and hearted arrow of cupid.

“Hear me out Kra ‘O.” I pronounced with a crack of a smile, the bird staring at me with the same earnestness. “I’ve been watching a lot of pack openings lately. And for the past two months I’ve been thinking, debating it back and forth in my head. And I keep coming to the conclusion they’re not worth it. But then I keep debating it in my head again, and watching more pack openings. I think I just have to do it.”

“I mean, okay, do what you want.” Kra ‘O pronounced, shaking out her wings. As she did, flutters of pink and red cut out confetti hearts scattered over my floor. “Hey, how much are they anyway?”

“Welp…” I began, my statement of no need to be concluded.

“That much? For little bits of cardboard with cute pictures you’re only going to look at once, then put away in the corner of your room?” Kra ‘O asked. A significantly large heart cut out tumbled out of her feathers.

“It’s kind of like investing!” I caught my childlike whine with one phrase, switching to the tone I reserved for professional purposes. “A lot of these items will appreciate in value with the ever constant passage of time.”

“Zoe, I know you, you’re never going to sell these!” came Kra ‘O’s somber answer, an angel wing sticker dislodging from her head. “You’ll become too attached. I mean, you’ve kept every single one you’ve ever received.”

“Yea, you’re right. It's not like I really need them.” Though despite my statement, my eyes still hovered over the page. “Besides, I get all the fun of opening them from listening to other people talk about it, without wasting any money.” I spoke again, muttering the name of the set I was most drawn to under my breath. “I mean, they were fun as a kid, but as an adult what am I even going to do with them?” I continued, planning out my day’s schedule for a quick trip to the local store. “Just takes up more space.” I assured Kra ‘O, remembering the pandemic and opening an online ordering service in the other tab. “I just have to keep telling myself they’re overpriced, and not buy any this year.”

“Exactly!” Kra ‘O cheered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need the computer.” she pronounced. My heart sank as in my panic I clicked order fast. Scrambling, I moved to hide my shopping history. Kra ‘O ignored me, finishing her sentence with a cheer. “I’m going to go order some Valentines day cards!”

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leahquark · 3 years

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Zoe and Kra ‘O: Yeah

It took me a second to recall why I’d walked into the living room, sweeping my skirt to sit comfortably atop the couch cushions, legs rushing in relief of reprieve.

“Hey Kra ‘O, your football team should be playing now, want me to switch the tv on?” I recalled after a moment.

“Yeah, one second, I’ll be right down!” I heard the bird squeak. I reached for the remote, my wrist catching strangely upon my sleeve as I floundered to free it.

“Okay, I…” came the initial pronouncement of my predicament.

“Wait! You monster! That’s not how I said it!” Came the caw of the dark crow, soaring in perfectly glide into the room, landing like thunder, eyes ablaze. Her tone was as I’d heard before, hysteria of something, either of grave importance, or no concern.

“What are you…” I began, my arm lodging further in my sleeve as I spoke.

“I speak not to you, but to you, the author of these archives!” Kra ‘O called. I flopped over, my side on the couch as I struggled wildly to dislodge myself from my own clothes.

“I’d be concerned if I didn’t know you so well. Could you slow it down for me?” I grumbled from where I lay. My friend paid me no mind as she continued on.

“No time! Quickly Zoe, how do you spell ‘yeah’?” She questioned.

“Y, E, A.” I spelled aloud, my arm finally popping free.

“Typical! What I would expect from someone who writes Zoe not Zoey, Noa not Noah, and Lea not Leah.”

“Ah, okay. I think I’m onto what you’re saying.” I replied, lifting myself back into a seated position and unruffling my outfit. “In the future you want me to quote you saying Y, E, A, H.”

“No, that’s just it.” Kra ‘O’s tirade began, as I slowly and silently reached for the remote, straining to grasp it without leaving my seat. “Yeah is the long form human spelling. Yea is the short form human spelling. But for my kind, we bridge the gap between long and short form. Please quote me as spelling the word correctly, as it was meant to be said. Yea ‘H.'' I stumbled forward, catching my hand against the ottoman as I grappled for the remote with the other. My knowledge of Kra ‘O’s meaning came immediately, the cause of my surprise.

“I am not doing that!” I exclaimed from my undignified position, fumbling about to sit upright. “Kra ‘O, you get why I can’t do that right? Please tell me you were joking. That was just a joke, yea?” Kra ‘O answered in deadly earnest, one phrase which sent a shiver down my spine.

“Naw ‘H” she said, the word nauseating by appearance unseen.

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