I only update nonexistent-chimera.tumblr.com and slytherincandorproductions.weebly.com.
My writing is now private, but I might occasionally post here. Like right now.
UNTITLED STORY #1
“I… I am going to die.” Some things, like that, I can say with certainty, as sure as the sky is blue. Or is it? Up here it’s just black, with little silver dots called stars providing the absolute minimal amount of light.
My lungs… are they working? My eyes certainly are. A voice in my head, one I have come to know after so much isolation from humanity in general, screams out, “Water. Waaaaaaaterrrrrrrr. Must. Not. Die.” I know my real concern should be air. My oxygen tank has become near depleted. I will die. Certainly. As sure as the sky is black with little silver dots called stars.
I scream mentally at The Voice., because if I want to get out of here and back to that strange place called Earth, I need my brain to turn back on again. How did I get here anyway? My brain starts working, but only barely, and I remember all. Something about a crime I didn’t commit, and eternal punishment, and a space prison gone awry after an attack from three thousand vicious aliens who didn’t know what they were dealing with.
That’s all I can recall now, as my brain pulses in and out of conscious thought. “AIRRRRRRR. WAAAAATERRRRRRRR. MUST LIVE. NEED EARTH.” Stupid Voice, not shutting up when I tell it to. Do I even have control of my mind anymore? I need other people’s company, not just the psychotic inmates I was cooped up with for six millenia. No, wrong word. Years. Yes, years. That’s right.
To distract my mind from dying, I count stars. “One. Two. Three. What’s next? Five? No. Four. I hate life. Am I dead? I feel dead. Please tell me I’m dead.” That wasn’t The Voice. That was me. Me. My own conscious thought, the thing that makes me human. Why am I not dead? I should be.
How much longer do I have? I twist around, attempting to check the dials on my oxygen tank, but discover I can’t. I hope I’m somehow evolving into a freaky abiotic organism or something like that. I want to be abiotic. Then I’d not need oxygen. What would I carry around, then, a methane tank? Or nitrogen?
My head feels squeezed. I must have air. The Voice interjects, “WILL DIE. AIRRRRRRRRRR. WAAATERRRRRR. FOOOOOOOD. SHELLLLLLTERRRRRRR.” My eyes close. I can’t keep them open any longer. I am dead. I am dead. I slap myself on the arm, but it’s excruciating just to move. I am dying. Dying. I need to think of clever last words… no. It doesn’t matter now. No one knows I’m dying. Not even Stacey.
Who’s Stacey?
I don’t remember because my heart slows down and slows down and stops.
UNTITLED STORY #2 (a bit like a fanfic of my own novel because I'm so lame like that)
Part One
How old was I, fourteen? No, sixteen. I’d just gotten my brand new computer that day. Now it would be considered an ancient model, but back then it was the pinnacle of technology. I met John Doe online, in a chat room, and we talked for a while. He seemed to understand me perfectly, and I knew him just as well even though we hadn’t even met in person. In any other set of circumstances, I’d have wondered what John would think of me if he saw me in real life. Would he see a freckle-faced mousy youngster, or the girl of his dreams? But I didn’t care, because he knew me better than anyone and I told him all my secrets. Once he said to me, “Leslie, I don’t care where you’re from or what you look like, because you’re the most amazing, fun, and sincere person I’ve ever met. I want to know you forever and ever. I think I’ve fallen in love with your personality.” That comment sent butterflies up through my adolescent stomach and I turned off my computer and jumped around my room until Aunt Eleanor noticed me. “Oh, Les, this isn’t about some guy, is it?” I laughed, as my archaic Aunt would never understand how John and I met and became so close. So I responded, “He’s not just some guy, Auntie.”
Part Two
Oh, why did I do that? Why was I such a terrible, impulsive child? I was good with technology, and everyone knew, so why did I have to go and hack into the Authorities’ databases? No, I don’t regret that part. That led to me meeting John Doe in person and falling for him once more, even if his name wasn’t actually John and he was a bit weird in the head at times. What I regret the most is not saving his life. I was seventeen or eighteen, and so was John (whose real name was Jesse Watson). Because of the incident involving the Authorities’ databases, I was sent to fight in an interstellar regiment. Jesse, who apparently was a time traveler, was up there with me, but at the time I didn’t know he was actually John. He shot an authority that was threatening to kill our good friend Kathica. I liked Kat a lot, but I secretly hoped she wasn’t developing feelings for Jesse and vice versa. Killing the woman must’ve made him too guilty, even though she was a bit of a virago, because he flew a shuttle, all by himself (a very bad move, considering his clutzyness) and crashed onto an alien homeland. He went psycho, shooting them off in every direction, until his gun was depleted and they came at him in droves. And I, what did I do? I slept. I freaking slept. Oh, Leslie, you idiot. Kat, who happened to be rooming with me, told me that Jesse was going off to kill himself, but did I do anything about it? No. I just mubled, “Ehhh…” and turned over under the covers like the idiot I was. His last words: “I deserved it. I freaking deserved it.”
My writing is now private, but I might occasionally post here. Like right now.
UNTITLED STORY #1
“I… I am going to die.” Some things, like that, I can say with certainty, as sure as the sky is blue. Or is it? Up here it’s just black, with little silver dots called stars providing the absolute minimal amount of light.
My lungs… are they working? My eyes certainly are. A voice in my head, one I have come to know after so much isolation from humanity in general, screams out, “Water. Waaaaaaaterrrrrrrr. Must. Not. Die.” I know my real concern should be air. My oxygen tank has become near depleted. I will die. Certainly. As sure as the sky is black with little silver dots called stars.
I scream mentally at The Voice., because if I want to get out of here and back to that strange place called Earth, I need my brain to turn back on again. How did I get here anyway? My brain starts working, but only barely, and I remember all. Something about a crime I didn’t commit, and eternal punishment, and a space prison gone awry after an attack from three thousand vicious aliens who didn’t know what they were dealing with.
That’s all I can recall now, as my brain pulses in and out of conscious thought. “AIRRRRRRR. WAAAAATERRRRRRRR. MUST LIVE. NEED EARTH.” Stupid Voice, not shutting up when I tell it to. Do I even have control of my mind anymore? I need other people’s company, not just the psychotic inmates I was cooped up with for six millenia. No, wrong word. Years. Yes, years. That’s right.
To distract my mind from dying, I count stars. “One. Two. Three. What’s next? Five? No. Four. I hate life. Am I dead? I feel dead. Please tell me I’m dead.” That wasn’t The Voice. That was me. Me. My own conscious thought, the thing that makes me human. Why am I not dead? I should be.
How much longer do I have? I twist around, attempting to check the dials on my oxygen tank, but discover I can’t. I hope I’m somehow evolving into a freaky abiotic organism or something like that. I want to be abiotic. Then I’d not need oxygen. What would I carry around, then, a methane tank? Or nitrogen?
My head feels squeezed. I must have air. The Voice interjects, “WILL DIE. AIRRRRRRRRRR. WAAATERRRRRR. FOOOOOOOD. SHELLLLLLTERRRRRRR.” My eyes close. I can’t keep them open any longer. I am dead. I am dead. I slap myself on the arm, but it’s excruciating just to move. I am dying. Dying. I need to think of clever last words… no. It doesn’t matter now. No one knows I’m dying. Not even Stacey.
Who’s Stacey?
I don’t remember because my heart slows down and slows down and stops.
UNTITLED STORY #2 (a bit like a fanfic of my own novel because I'm so lame like that)
Part One
How old was I, fourteen? No, sixteen. I’d just gotten my brand new computer that day. Now it would be considered an ancient model, but back then it was the pinnacle of technology. I met John Doe online, in a chat room, and we talked for a while. He seemed to understand me perfectly, and I knew him just as well even though we hadn’t even met in person. In any other set of circumstances, I’d have wondered what John would think of me if he saw me in real life. Would he see a freckle-faced mousy youngster, or the girl of his dreams? But I didn’t care, because he knew me better than anyone and I told him all my secrets. Once he said to me, “Leslie, I don’t care where you’re from or what you look like, because you’re the most amazing, fun, and sincere person I’ve ever met. I want to know you forever and ever. I think I’ve fallen in love with your personality.” That comment sent butterflies up through my adolescent stomach and I turned off my computer and jumped around my room until Aunt Eleanor noticed me. “Oh, Les, this isn’t about some guy, is it?” I laughed, as my archaic Aunt would never understand how John and I met and became so close. So I responded, “He’s not just some guy, Auntie.”
Part Two
Oh, why did I do that? Why was I such a terrible, impulsive child? I was good with technology, and everyone knew, so why did I have to go and hack into the Authorities’ databases? No, I don’t regret that part. That led to me meeting John Doe in person and falling for him once more, even if his name wasn’t actually John and he was a bit weird in the head at times. What I regret the most is not saving his life. I was seventeen or eighteen, and so was John (whose real name was Jesse Watson). Because of the incident involving the Authorities’ databases, I was sent to fight in an interstellar regiment. Jesse, who apparently was a time traveler, was up there with me, but at the time I didn’t know he was actually John. He shot an authority that was threatening to kill our good friend Kathica. I liked Kat a lot, but I secretly hoped she wasn’t developing feelings for Jesse and vice versa. Killing the woman must’ve made him too guilty, even though she was a bit of a virago, because he flew a shuttle, all by himself (a very bad move, considering his clutzyness) and crashed onto an alien homeland. He went psycho, shooting them off in every direction, until his gun was depleted and they came at him in droves. And I, what did I do? I slept. I freaking slept. Oh, Leslie, you idiot. Kat, who happened to be rooming with me, told me that Jesse was going off to kill himself, but did I do anything about it? No. I just mubled, “Ehhh…” and turned over under the covers like the idiot I was. His last words: “I deserved it. I freaking deserved it.”
