Count. Word Count.

... on a bond-worthy Thursday night.

What I'm Working On
I've started a new narrative!!! "Oh but Sarah, aren't you working on your really rad angel vs. demon trilogy???" Why, yes I am, young bibliophile! I just sprouted a little idea-bud in class on Wednesday during one of Bradford's beautiful lessons and decided to roll with it... and personally I'm having a lot more fun writing this one. Spectra, my new narrative, is based around a sub-class of humans who can hear colors. It get's all political and gorey, but you'll see as the story progresses. I've decided to post it in installments, just like my Satanica narrative. I hope you all like it! I'll probably be posting installments every week or so :)

Word Count: 2132

How I Feel About The Process
I'm having SO MUCH FUN writing this piece. I'm aiming for roughly 150-200 pages. It's a lot of fun because I get to show off my nerdy science prowess and my love of dialogue and story-telling! (Not to mention I get to throw in some romance, comedy, and subliminal political subtext).

What I'm Reading Right Now
Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things by Martina McAtee. I'M. IN. LOVE. Talk to me about it in class, why don't you? I'd love to turn some people on to the supernatural/LGBTQ friendly/burton-esque fantasy world McAtee creates <3

Shaken, Not Stirred
         - Golden-Eye 007

Ego

When everything in the observable universe is so far away

It's easy to get a big head, y'know?

Because by comparison, our heads are much larger than the stars

At least from where we stand.

We are so big.

So of course everything revolves around us.

Of course we are the most important things in the universe

Of course we are bigger than the stars

Because the stars look so small from so far away.

We are so big.

When our brains go supernova, there will be nothing left

When our hearts turn to stardust and drift off to Andromeda,

We will make the galaxy weep

We will tear the planets from the Sun

Wrap their rings around our eyes and laugh

Because we are so big.

The black hole in the corner of the universe

Will shrink into our mouths

And we will devour it.

And the galaxy's arms will coil around us

And cry on our shoulder

Because we are so big

So big, so big.
And we matter.

Basement Library

I am a book opened -
Dog-eared and panting
I sweat the ink
Blotting out meaning

I am losing my place;
who tore my binding?
I am tearing pages
I am slowly blinding

Where are the words?
There are only thoughts
Mingled together
Here, in inky spots

I am history rewritten
In soggy intention
I breed the mold
With careful attention

A thousand words
And a million spaces
Are submerged by Truth
A lie that erases

There is no reward
No alternate ending
I am soaking in dreams
Of Time never-ending

Spectra - Installment 1

A Letter to You, the Reader

_______

I can no longer hear the colors, though I still feel the varying shades of blue that cast themselves against the walls of my bedroom through the slats of my blinds. I write this to you in complete silence. I do not hear even a single decibel of yellow, nor a shade of pink. My brain, in its totality, is naked; it’s only in times like this - these solitary hours of the night - that I can return to this perverted silence. The record player has been still since nine o’clock, since my neighbors tend to dislike such disruptions in the hours leading up to morning. And so, to pass the time spent listening to the saliva accumulate in the front of my mouth, I write. I have written every night, unfettered, for the last thirty years. It is the only way I know to compensate - to divert the energy spent listening to pure nothingness into something requiring attention. Writing has become the distraction to the quiet that perturbs me. The quilt on my bed does not sing. The walls, freshly papered with fluorescent bluebells, refuse to trill. The soles of my slippers, thread-bare and graying, do not chitter with neglect; they merely are. Everything that exists is silent; however, I feel their vibrations. They pulsate at my temples in tendrils like phantom limbs. So, it is with this silence and this pain that I finally tell you my story: what was stolen from me, and what I have suffered as consequence. Though you will never posses the means to empathize, I can only imagine (regretfully, of course) that you too have had something taken from you. Whether or not this something is so utterly imperative that you've resorted to a near nocturnal nature in its absence, that is entirely your prerogative, though I do not mean to imply in any respect that my problems are worse than yours. However, I hope that those of you who have never experienced this shade of grief will come to appreciate your fortune and eventually make the conclusion for yourself that the romanticization of tragedy is the purest tragedy in itself.

I used to hear the colors, and they sounded beautiful.

-L.J.W, August 19th, 2095

Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give A Damn...

...But I do give a Word Count Wednesday!!

What I'm Working On

I think I just came up with a pretty okay plot for a short story/novella (epic poem???). I'm very excited to write about it, as it's definitely out of my comfort zone. It's actually going to pertain to Bradford's experiment #6, so I hope I'll actually be able to use it toward my portfolio in its totality. I'm going to begin doing a small bit of drafting tonight, and then hopefully my word count won't be so meager. I've written a couple poems this week (as I usually do), so that accounts for what little words I have composed. I'm also quite interested in experiment #7, assigned to us over spring break. The master plot I was given to work with was "Metamorphosis". After reading through the chapter, I can quite honestly say that I have never in my life even considered writing anything along these lines, but I will stew over it the next couple of days, and I'll update as my progress... progresses. Also looking forward to writing critiques for my peers' wonderful narratives!

Word Count: 245

How I Feel About The Process

It doesn't happen often that I think of something so ingenious... so innovative... so revolutionary... that I have to actually write down the plot in the middle of Bradford's life-changing lectures. That's where my mind had wandered today, however, and I am happy to say that I have conquered my short bout of writer's block. I am going to take a break from writing my book, and in the meantime, I will digress with this nice little narrative idea. 

What I'm Reading Right Now

The Time Keeper by Mitch Alborn. I LOVE IT. Tuesdays With Morrie is one of my all time favorite one-act plays, and I have to say, The Time Keeper is most likely going to end up being my favorite work of his. I love his overall structure; it's so unique and intriguing. I am ready to read more over the break!

After All, Tomorrow is Another Day,

           -Scarlett O'Sarah

Another Mechanism

I felt you burn against me like a wounded sun
An icon to many but a god to none
You were no one:
A machine gun.

Drawn into corners, a forgotten amen
Boot prints in sand, the forgotten man
At home, you weren't forgotten

Loneliness imposes - a blank sheet composes
Our dresser is dripping with graying roses
It is a calming necrosis.
It is soothing hypnosis; borderline psychosis
Another mechanism to mourn this -
I am a shadow of you.

Who I was is unimportant.

The Underneath

Where is my baby?
Is she underneath your car?
Would you please check?
I think she might be up to something.

Sometimes she likes to spit up
Just to make me clean it up
I think she likes seeing me like this.
Have you seen her?
She's not in her crib.
I think she might be underneath your car.
Or maybe she's hiding in the fuse box again.

I just wish she'd talk to me
She won't even grow teeth for me.
She doesn't like me, I know it.
She won't feed from me, you know?
She bites me
Yes! You heard me! She bites!
How can she bite without teeth?
Well her little gums just... stick!
They clamp and stick and won't let go.
She's doing it to spite me.

Is she under your car?
Can you see her?

Sometimes, she wakes me up.
In the middle of the night, mind you!
For no good reason other than she...
...Well she shits herself, to be frank!
What kind of child soils their diapers
And then just sits there and wallows away
Just crying and crying and crying
Until someone comes in and has to stick their fingers in it?
That's demented, if you ask me.
Just sick!

What do you mean she's not under your car?
I saw her playing there yesterday.
Did you forget her in the glove compartment?
I've done that once or twice.
Nothing? Oh goodness, where could she be?
Oh! Oh my, well would you look at that?
It looks like she's under my car!
I must have forgotten her there when I left this morning.
I took a drive around the block to relax.
Come to think of it, she hasn't cried all day.
What a sweet baby.
If only they'd stay like this forever.