I'm broke.
I talked with my friend, who got a whole bunch of loans and stuff, and he said to talk to the Chair of the Theatre Department since it's my minor and they like me, and they'd be able to give me help. They didn't know wtf I was talking about, and told me to go to the ASI office, and they could help me. They couldn't, and told me to go to the financial aid office. I went to the financial aid office, and they couldn't. They told me to go to the Student assistance office on the other side of campus. I went there, and they were already closed, so now I have to wait until tomorrow to get the answer to the question that keeps giving me so much stress.
Why? Why won't anyone help me?
Is this supposed to be some kind of way to prove my worth? Is it a sick game meant to weed out the people who aren't serious about getting an education? Why does it have to be this hard? I want an education because I want a well paying, stable job. I'm so fucking tired of being poor. Haven't I suffered enough hardship? Haven't I struggled enough for one life time? How much more emotional torment am I going to have to endure before someone cares?
...
There was a girl walking around the student union today. You could tell she was mentally challenged. She had a box, and was asking for donations to help pay for her mother's funeral.
My problems aren't that bad. Does that make me a selfish person for stressing over all of this? Does it make me shallow? Conceited?
Maybe I'm just blowing all of this out of proportion. These things always work themselves out, Right? Or am I going to lose my chance at escaping poverty, all over a measly 1.5 grand?
Maybe I should have given it all to the girl. At least, that way, one of us would have gotten what we wanted.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Forsaken W.I.P
I enjoy watching him.
I know it is not my duty as an archangel to concern myself with humans. No...That is a job for the guardian angels. But I still enjoy following him as he wanders innocently through this world. He is such a wonderful little boy. I will admit I have always carried a weakness for children. A child is the Lord's way of saying the world should go on. Every one of them is unique and special in their own way. So innocent. So fragile.
Perhaps that is why I follow him? He is so vulnerable to deception, lies, sin. Yet he glows with radiance so rare among humans. As an angel, I cannot help but be drawn to his light. I could never stand to see that light extinguished. His pure heart deserves the utmost protection.
The others say that I should not become so attached to a human. He will grow old and die. They all do. I am aware of this, but it only makes me want to spend more time with him, while he is still an innocent boy. I know he is not aware of my presence as I follow him, but I do not need his acknowledgment to be happy around him.
It pains me whenever he injures himself, as children often do. I want to dry his tears of pain, whisper soothing words in the tongues of the angels into his ear, heal his wounds and cease his pain. But alas, I do not have that privilege. So I must satisfy myself by following him home from school.
He waves to his schoolmates in farewell and starts on his way home. I do not question the direction he heads in for I have taken this route with him so many times it has become an instinct to us both. He jogs past the playground, deeper into the urban city. He likes to run, I have observed. I chuckle to myself as I ponder what he is running after. Perhaps today he is a jungle predator, pursuing his prey? Or maybe an astronaut battling a fierce extraterrestrial. The lack of limits on a child's imagination always amazes me.
My train of thought is interrupted as the boy makes a hasty stop in front of an alleyway. His curiosity is obviously piqued. However, to me, something does not feel right. There is only one fundamental difference between a human and an angel, and that is the method of thought process. Angels are cognitive by design. Our process of learning is an instantaneous one. Humans, in contrast, are deductive. They require experience and sessions of intense reasoning in order to comprehend something. He cautiously enters the dark niche and I follow closely, wary of an ominous presence.
I see what has captivated the boy’s inquisitive nature. There is a man. He is alive, although he most certainly does not look it. The man looks up and sees the boy. A smile overtakes his weathered features that makes me uneasy. He calls to the boy and is offering him something. Now I know that something is drastically amiss. It is not in human nature to offer something freely.
I want to reach out and stop the boy, but I cannot. I was given strict orders when I was created not to interfere with human interaction. However, I refuse to leave his side. He reaches out an eager hand for the gift. Candy; sin in a plastic wrapper. It seems an irrational comparison, I know, but candy is very much like a sin. It is pleasing to the senses and is always available, sometimes given freely, and yet the devourer never seems to contemplate the repercussions that follow in a single indulgence's wake.
The man's smile widens. Hands shift. Clothing rustles. A scream is stifled, and before either the boy or I can react, his little frame is hitting the unforgiving earth, disturbingly limp.
He stabbed him.
I am motionless. My celestial being refuses to interact with my mind. A cognitive connection is broken. Something within me feels like it is shattering, the fragments of it impaling me from the inside. That man; he killed an innocent boy.
MY innocent boy.
I feel my body move, as if it has a mind of its own. The man's eyes widen in terror. So, he can see me now? Good. I want him to see the face of retribution. I reach out my hand. Strangely enough, I do not feel rushed or urgent in my movements. In fact, everything is moving much slower now; slower and quieter. His mouth opens as my fingers javelin into his chest, but no noise comes out. How strange, albeit convenient. My ears are pounding. I am afraid it would have caused me a great deal of grief if he'd cried out. I give him an appreciative smile. Thank you for not screaming. The silence is so pleasant; music that plays to my surges of energy like waves on a beach when the moon gets too close. That is a very poetic way to describe it. Perhaps I will ask the scribes to write it down for me when I return.
I feel the heart in his chest beating wildly. It reminds me of the boy's first puppy. He received it as a gift a year ago. She was very frightened, and you could see her organs pulsating beneath her skin. That always happened when she got excited,or scared, or when the boy wanted to take her for a walk. Perhaps this man's heart wants a walk...I clench my fingers around it and pull. His blood clings to my arms, face, chest, but I pay no hindrance. His still spasming heart is in my hand. She must be so excited to be free of him. Blood is cascading down my arm to the dank ground of the alley. It is very warm, his blood is.
I suddenly find myself smiling. I love it.
I love the feel of his life dissolving before my eyes, the taste of his blood dripping from my cheek to taint my lips. The sight of his mangled body at my feet accompanied by the blood soaked earth. The scent of his rotting corpse. The silent music still playing in my ears.
My gaze shifts to the boy. He his dead.
The music isn't playing anymore.
I move to his corpse and encircle him in by blood stained arms. Only in death am I allowed to hold him. I rock him gently in my arms, whispering in tongues the words I've so longed to tell him. But I know in the furthest recesses of my mind that he cannot hear me. My cheeks are stained by my fury, or are they being cleansed my sorrow? Both are very wet upon my skin. They are very hard to distinguish.
I do not know how long I sit there. Maybe minutes, maybe months. Time is irrelevant to an angel. All I know is that after what seemed like an eternity, I suddenly feel...pain? I am hurting. Why? Angels do not feel pain.
It hurts.
I feel an excruciating pain in my back; the sensitive areas on my shoulder blades are aflame with a stinging sensation that is completely foreign. It is dark. The alley is gone. So is the boy. I am plummeting downwards. Where? There is nothing. Where am I? My body hurts. I try to fly back in the direction that I came; try to fly home, but I fail. Why? I am so numb.
I have fallen.
That is right, is it not? I have sinned. I murdered the man in the alley. He is dead. I killed him. I look down at my crimson skin. Yes; that is right. Or, rather, it is wrong, and that is why I am here. A man appears, emerging from the expanse of darkness encircling me. He is laughing, and it is oh, so very familiar to my ears.
Lucifer.
I remember him. The most beautiful angel in Heaven; the Prince of Light; the first of the fallen; Satan, king of Hell. He extends a hand to me, but I do not take it. He frowns; asks me to rise and follow him, but I refuse. He asks why. I tell him that the Lord demands that we angels are never to associate with Satan. He frowns again.
I heard a rumor that fallen angels are supposed to lose their memories of Heaven once they Fall. Perhaps that is why he frowns. I still remember Heaven. The memories cause me despair, for I know I will never again attain refuge within that kingdom again; the kingdom in which the boy I had so longed to protect now resides. Surely, he is safe now. Does that mean I succeeded in achieving what I had intended? No. This is not what I desired. This is wrong. I was wrong, and now I am forsaken.
I am forsaken.
---
1504 words. A novelette is defined as having a word count between 7,500 and 17,500, or 45-85 pages, in length. If I decide to use this, it's going to take a lot of expansion...Opinions?
I know it is not my duty as an archangel to concern myself with humans. No...That is a job for the guardian angels. But I still enjoy following him as he wanders innocently through this world. He is such a wonderful little boy. I will admit I have always carried a weakness for children. A child is the Lord's way of saying the world should go on. Every one of them is unique and special in their own way. So innocent. So fragile.
Perhaps that is why I follow him? He is so vulnerable to deception, lies, sin. Yet he glows with radiance so rare among humans. As an angel, I cannot help but be drawn to his light. I could never stand to see that light extinguished. His pure heart deserves the utmost protection.
The others say that I should not become so attached to a human. He will grow old and die. They all do. I am aware of this, but it only makes me want to spend more time with him, while he is still an innocent boy. I know he is not aware of my presence as I follow him, but I do not need his acknowledgment to be happy around him.
It pains me whenever he injures himself, as children often do. I want to dry his tears of pain, whisper soothing words in the tongues of the angels into his ear, heal his wounds and cease his pain. But alas, I do not have that privilege. So I must satisfy myself by following him home from school.
He waves to his schoolmates in farewell and starts on his way home. I do not question the direction he heads in for I have taken this route with him so many times it has become an instinct to us both. He jogs past the playground, deeper into the urban city. He likes to run, I have observed. I chuckle to myself as I ponder what he is running after. Perhaps today he is a jungle predator, pursuing his prey? Or maybe an astronaut battling a fierce extraterrestrial. The lack of limits on a child's imagination always amazes me.
My train of thought is interrupted as the boy makes a hasty stop in front of an alleyway. His curiosity is obviously piqued. However, to me, something does not feel right. There is only one fundamental difference between a human and an angel, and that is the method of thought process. Angels are cognitive by design. Our process of learning is an instantaneous one. Humans, in contrast, are deductive. They require experience and sessions of intense reasoning in order to comprehend something. He cautiously enters the dark niche and I follow closely, wary of an ominous presence.
I see what has captivated the boy’s inquisitive nature. There is a man. He is alive, although he most certainly does not look it. The man looks up and sees the boy. A smile overtakes his weathered features that makes me uneasy. He calls to the boy and is offering him something. Now I know that something is drastically amiss. It is not in human nature to offer something freely.
I want to reach out and stop the boy, but I cannot. I was given strict orders when I was created not to interfere with human interaction. However, I refuse to leave his side. He reaches out an eager hand for the gift. Candy; sin in a plastic wrapper. It seems an irrational comparison, I know, but candy is very much like a sin. It is pleasing to the senses and is always available, sometimes given freely, and yet the devourer never seems to contemplate the repercussions that follow in a single indulgence's wake.
The man's smile widens. Hands shift. Clothing rustles. A scream is stifled, and before either the boy or I can react, his little frame is hitting the unforgiving earth, disturbingly limp.
He stabbed him.
I am motionless. My celestial being refuses to interact with my mind. A cognitive connection is broken. Something within me feels like it is shattering, the fragments of it impaling me from the inside. That man; he killed an innocent boy.
MY innocent boy.
I feel my body move, as if it has a mind of its own. The man's eyes widen in terror. So, he can see me now? Good. I want him to see the face of retribution. I reach out my hand. Strangely enough, I do not feel rushed or urgent in my movements. In fact, everything is moving much slower now; slower and quieter. His mouth opens as my fingers javelin into his chest, but no noise comes out. How strange, albeit convenient. My ears are pounding. I am afraid it would have caused me a great deal of grief if he'd cried out. I give him an appreciative smile. Thank you for not screaming. The silence is so pleasant; music that plays to my surges of energy like waves on a beach when the moon gets too close. That is a very poetic way to describe it. Perhaps I will ask the scribes to write it down for me when I return.
I feel the heart in his chest beating wildly. It reminds me of the boy's first puppy. He received it as a gift a year ago. She was very frightened, and you could see her organs pulsating beneath her skin. That always happened when she got excited,or scared, or when the boy wanted to take her for a walk. Perhaps this man's heart wants a walk...I clench my fingers around it and pull. His blood clings to my arms, face, chest, but I pay no hindrance. His still spasming heart is in my hand. She must be so excited to be free of him. Blood is cascading down my arm to the dank ground of the alley. It is very warm, his blood is.
I suddenly find myself smiling. I love it.
I love the feel of his life dissolving before my eyes, the taste of his blood dripping from my cheek to taint my lips. The sight of his mangled body at my feet accompanied by the blood soaked earth. The scent of his rotting corpse. The silent music still playing in my ears.
My gaze shifts to the boy. He his dead.
The music isn't playing anymore.
I move to his corpse and encircle him in by blood stained arms. Only in death am I allowed to hold him. I rock him gently in my arms, whispering in tongues the words I've so longed to tell him. But I know in the furthest recesses of my mind that he cannot hear me. My cheeks are stained by my fury, or are they being cleansed my sorrow? Both are very wet upon my skin. They are very hard to distinguish.
I do not know how long I sit there. Maybe minutes, maybe months. Time is irrelevant to an angel. All I know is that after what seemed like an eternity, I suddenly feel...pain? I am hurting. Why? Angels do not feel pain.
It hurts.
I feel an excruciating pain in my back; the sensitive areas on my shoulder blades are aflame with a stinging sensation that is completely foreign. It is dark. The alley is gone. So is the boy. I am plummeting downwards. Where? There is nothing. Where am I? My body hurts. I try to fly back in the direction that I came; try to fly home, but I fail. Why? I am so numb.
I have fallen.
That is right, is it not? I have sinned. I murdered the man in the alley. He is dead. I killed him. I look down at my crimson skin. Yes; that is right. Or, rather, it is wrong, and that is why I am here. A man appears, emerging from the expanse of darkness encircling me. He is laughing, and it is oh, so very familiar to my ears.
Lucifer.
I remember him. The most beautiful angel in Heaven; the Prince of Light; the first of the fallen; Satan, king of Hell. He extends a hand to me, but I do not take it. He frowns; asks me to rise and follow him, but I refuse. He asks why. I tell him that the Lord demands that we angels are never to associate with Satan. He frowns again.
I heard a rumor that fallen angels are supposed to lose their memories of Heaven once they Fall. Perhaps that is why he frowns. I still remember Heaven. The memories cause me despair, for I know I will never again attain refuge within that kingdom again; the kingdom in which the boy I had so longed to protect now resides. Surely, he is safe now. Does that mean I succeeded in achieving what I had intended? No. This is not what I desired. This is wrong. I was wrong, and now I am forsaken.
I am forsaken.
---
1504 words. A novelette is defined as having a word count between 7,500 and 17,500, or 45-85 pages, in length. If I decide to use this, it's going to take a lot of expansion...Opinions?
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Come to me, my muse!
Okay...so I've been contemplating what to write for that novelette scholarship...It has to be fantasy/sci-fi/horror, and I'm running low on inspiration.
Well, that's not entirely true. I have a bunch of good ideas rumbling around in my head, but I can't pick one, mainly because I can't seem to expand any of them into a novelette. They're just snapshots of a plot that's potentially swimming around in the depths of my subconscious, and I'm not a very good fisher.
If anyone has any good ideas, let me know.
Well, that's not entirely true. I have a bunch of good ideas rumbling around in my head, but I can't pick one, mainly because I can't seem to expand any of them into a novelette. They're just snapshots of a plot that's potentially swimming around in the depths of my subconscious, and I'm not a very good fisher.
If anyone has any good ideas, let me know.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
All about the green...
So, I owe $1,605, to my knowledge, and 6 weeks left to make it.
1,605 - 280 in my account right now = 1325
1325 - 420 I get for survivors annuity for March = 905
905 - 495 I can make at my job in the commons at minimum wage for 11 hours a week for all the weeks I have left = 410
410 - 60 I have out of pocket = 350
350 - 15 Liz owes me = 335
This is the new calculation I have on my debt.
Things that changed:
- The show I was going to help unload for got canceled. (-200)
- Apparently, my mom already transferred the money for my Feb. Survivors annuity and I used that to help pay for my meal plan, so all I have left over from that is what's in my account now. (-140)
- My boss has me working another three hours on Tuesdays. (+75)
My options on how to make the remainder:
- Talk to Head of the English Department about an emergency loan/work study. (My major)
- Talk to Head of the Theatre Department about an emergency loan/work study. (My minor)
- Get another job sometime this week that pays above minimum wage.
- Beg, plead, and steal (but not really) from friends and relatives. (Only as a last ditch effort...)
1,605 - 280 in my account right now = 1325
1325 - 420 I get for survivors annuity for March = 905
905 - 495 I can make at my job in the commons at minimum wage for 11 hours a week for all the weeks I have left = 410
410 - 60 I have out of pocket = 350
350 - 15 Liz owes me = 335
This is the new calculation I have on my debt.
Things that changed:
- The show I was going to help unload for got canceled. (-200)
- Apparently, my mom already transferred the money for my Feb. Survivors annuity and I used that to help pay for my meal plan, so all I have left over from that is what's in my account now. (-140)
- My boss has me working another three hours on Tuesdays. (+75)
My options on how to make the remainder:
- Talk to Head of the English Department about an emergency loan/work study. (My major)
- Talk to Head of the Theatre Department about an emergency loan/work study. (My minor)
- Get another job sometime this week that pays above minimum wage.
- Beg, plead, and steal (but not really) from friends and relatives. (Only as a last ditch effort...)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Bored.
So....I'm gonna try and post everyday. I guess that means I'll have to make the effort to find something interesting to talk about.
I was looking through a list of scholarships I'm eligable for, and a really interesting one came up. You have to write a novelette or short story that's fantasy or horror or whatever, and it gets judged by a panel of writers; Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason, Gregory Benford, Algis Budrys, Orson Scott Card, Brian Herbert, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Eric Kotani, Anne McCaffrey, Larry Niven, Frederik Pohl, Jerry Pournelle, Tim Powers, Robert Silverberg and K.D. Wentworth.
did you see the bold one? Yeah.
Yeah. Holy crap.
If I could whip up a novelette by April, I could have it read by THE Orson Scott Card. *dies*
I'm trying to decide what to write about. I have a few things already started that i could try to expand, but I'm having trouble choosing one. I could always take my "Fairy Odd Encounter" story and write more. I've been meaning to, anyways, but it seems a bit childish. I was also tossing around the idea of making a Biblical satire with the little cult that I helped create in which God is an Author. Considering it's a panel of authors, they might appreciate being likened to God...8)
So, that's what's up with me right now.
I was looking through a list of scholarships I'm eligable for, and a really interesting one came up. You have to write a novelette or short story that's fantasy or horror or whatever, and it gets judged by a panel of writers; Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason, Gregory Benford, Algis Budrys, Orson Scott Card, Brian Herbert, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Eric Kotani, Anne McCaffrey, Larry Niven, Frederik Pohl, Jerry Pournelle, Tim Powers, Robert Silverberg and K.D. Wentworth.
did you see the bold one? Yeah.
Yeah. Holy crap.
If I could whip up a novelette by April, I could have it read by THE Orson Scott Card. *dies*
I'm trying to decide what to write about. I have a few things already started that i could try to expand, but I'm having trouble choosing one. I could always take my "Fairy Odd Encounter" story and write more. I've been meaning to, anyways, but it seems a bit childish. I was also tossing around the idea of making a Biblical satire with the little cult that I helped create in which God is an Author. Considering it's a panel of authors, they might appreciate being likened to God...8)
So, that's what's up with me right now.
Monday, February 19, 2007
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