Ugh, if you can survive the formatting, you're my hero. It's hideous and unbearable to read on MTGS, but I tried my best to show it the way it was written. MTGS' refusal to allow for the basic grammatical necessity of INDENTATION is frustrating, but here it is, 1780 words of unedited trash. Feedback would be nice.
I don't know why I still live in the city. All my life I've told myself I'll leave eventually, get myself a log cabin and live off the land; there's not much to stop me. I know how, my grandfather taught me as a kid, and there's not much of a reason for me to stay here in Denver. My nearest living relative is my sister, and I'd be lying if I said I was sad when she moved to Phoenix. As far as friends, or a job, or any sort of life, it's pretty much non existent. I spend my days in the touristy parts of town, asking for a couple sents or a warm drink or a bite to eat- I'm not picky, and I earn my keep when I need to.
That's the tricky part, for me, is what I do. Growing up, I'm sure someone told you about how "Everybody is special! Everybody is good at something, and everyone is important and talented in their own way!" And I totally believe in that line of thought; I'm a firm subscriber to the belief that everyone is good at something. Some people are good at positive things; like sports, or painting, or writing or math or science or open heart surgery or throwing molotov cocktails at cops; I'm not really picky about what they're good at. But my particular talent is perhaps the least employable skill since Typhoid Mary died- I'm good at seeing the horrible, horrible things that people are good at. I sit here on the street corners and I give out fortunes, and everyone walks away shocked by how relevant and personally significant my words are to their particular life, and really, it's only half a scam.
Fortune telling is bull**** of course (actually, all things considered, maybe not- but my fortunes definitely are), but I do tell them relevant things. I can literally look at them and read their life, I can see everything they ever did and by now my mind blanks out the mundane things, so that I only have to sort through the big things. Everything that my subject has ever been proud of or ashamed of and every injustice they celebrate and every victory they're guilty of. I can pick out and isolate the moments that cause them to stay awake at night and the shining things that cause them to wake up in the morning. It's like running the full course of love at first sight; I get to go from seeing something perfect and pure, to knowing every detail of their magnificence, to feeling the ache of their mundane ticks and flaws and the mistakes that they refuse to learn from, to seeing every burning erroneous stitch in their soul's tapestry. All within instants.
It's wearisome, looking at people and understanding why they deserve every turn of bad luck that ever befell them. The killers, cheaters, the liars, the narcissists, the politicians and the rapists- especially the politicians and the rapists- it just wears on you, seeing every way that they are similar to you. The way they grapple with things that they should or shouldn't be proud of and the balancing act of ethics versus what you can get away with.
Animals are different though. They just survive. You look at their every action and there's a clear cut reason for it- survive. Every thought, every action and instinct and kill was all guided towards the singular goal of surviving. My favorite are pack animals, or ones that mate for life. Sometimes I save enough to go to the Zoo (when they'll let me in), and I just watch the animals live. There's no pettiness, no pretention and no rules. It's a lot different from reading a person, for sure, and I had to practice, but it's much more rewarding, seeing something pure and fundamentally incapable of being guilty.
Their souls (for lack of a better word) are abstract, kind of like a Picasso. Looking at them, it's a series of abstract events all out of order, and it's up to me to make out the patterns recognizable to the part of a person that handles emotion. People though- god, the people. It's like looking at footage from the Vietnam War- it's all claustraphobic and bloody and senseless and violent and painful and insane and all it knows is the reciprocation of it's own infinite hurt.
But I digress. This city is gonna kill me- actually, no, that's not entirely accurate. It'll cause me to die. I'll feel burned out and just lay face down naked in the snow, or I'll gouge out my own eyes or something like that. I need to get out of here, but that takes money. I probably could have, back when mom was still alive, but not anymore. Now adays I just read fortunes.
I warn the nervous man in the suit that, "If you don't focus on your home life, your business will slip away."
I encourage the young lovers, "Overlook the flaws."
I cuss at the hippie.
I also cuss at the redneck.
And I cuss at the emos, for that matter.
Actually, I'd probably have more money if I cussed at fewer people. Never thought about it like that before. I think I'll actually give some honest advice to this guy-
"Your hopes and dreams-" he cuts me off
"Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"About your fortune telling. I've heard stories about the magic bum by the Hard Rock Cafe."
"I dunno what you heard, Professor," (I actually couldn't tell that bit for sure. He's definitely an academic, I can tell because I can see more of what he knows than I can see of what he's done, I just assume that he's a professor by the fact that he's got a stylish jacket and a chic scarf but hideous shoes), "But I prefer to be called a Psychic panhandler by the CVS."
"I'll give you a hundred dollars upfront if you come with me to the University, we'll run some tests, and if you're as special as you seem, we'll give you room and board, and in exchange you'll be a lab rat- nothing unsafe- and afterwards, we'll give you what we can. Deal?"
I was a little shocked by the offer. I know, it seems stupid that I couldn't see it coming, since I'm a mind reader and all, but it doesn't work that way. I don't see specifics, just a collage of their life.
"Fine."
The next few months have bored me out of my mind. Mister Professor did enough tests to confirm that I'm psychic or magical or whatever the **** he calls my talent, and ever since then, he's been exploring what I can do. He's studied how I view lives and what I can tell and what my brain does, it's all pretty exciting I guess, if you care about stuff like that. Mostly though, he just "exercises," me, and tries to push the limits of what I can see and how far away I can see it. His favorite test is to have me view things through lenses, like today.
He has me look at somebody a specific distance away, then hands me something and asks if I can see through it-
The last one is one that he harped on. Two weeks later, we're still seeing how far away I can read through a telescope- he's playing with the magnification and trying to stretch my vision by inches at a time. Except that he decided not to today. He told me to be ready for tonight.
A big man with a penchant for animal cruelty came into my dorm to fetch me, and I went without complaint- albeit not happily. Every time he would be distracted by something, like his radio, I would whisper, just quiet enough that he could barely hear, the name of his dog.
I arrived at the Professor's office, and he started speaking excitedly, in a way so hurried and hushed and breathless it reminded me of the time I saw a senators son confess to murder.
"We're going to the observatory. You're going to look at stars. We'll see how it goes."
And we went. He didn't tell me why, he didn't tell me what I was looking for, he just had me look at stars every night four a couple weeks. Then he turned me to one he called Gliese, and asked my to write everything I saw.
At first it was the same as any other star, I just saw a star. It was relaxing, for sure, just looking at the infinite blankness of space. It was just cold and blank, kind of like a tree.
That was the thing though.
Most of the stars were like rocks, or metal or plastic, just empty and hollow, kind of like chewing on aluminum foil.
This one was just blank, like the space in between the lines of a book. Somewhere deep down, in the part of me that I don't quite understand, I could tell that the most important part was the part I was missing. And I sat there, for what I was later told to be six hours, staring through a lens at a tiny little point of light.
Then I saw it.
I saw a flash, green, then purple then blue that coalesced into an infinite series of tessellating triangles that came together like the skin cells of a tapestry woven with the skin of a billion creatures. I could see the most minute, vague, indistinct echoes of patterns that I knew to be living.
I saw a soul in twenty year old light- no, not one soul. I saw billions, blending together like the bulbs behind a TV screen to show me a single picture.
I cried for twenty odd minutes before I finally wrote down what I saw. I dunno what they're gonna do with this, I don't know how they'll prove that I saw what I saw but goddamnit I know what I saw.
I saw fear.
I saw pain.
I saw anguish.
I saw the infinite unfilled parts of the self that I didn't know existed.
I saw triumph.
I saw courage.
I saw hate and forgiveness and redemption.
I saw life.
Hard to get views on short stories of any kind around here. Sometimes I wonder if the SSC doesn't just need a retooling, do away with the prompts (maybe include a single, very broad theme or idea to try and work around, but not in a restrictive way), and have it run like the PRC, every two, three or four weeks or something. I really should talk to someone about that.
I don't know why I still live in the city. All my life I've told myself I'll leave eventually, get myself a log cabin and live off the land; there's not much to stop me. I know how, my grandfather taught me as a kid, and there's not much of a reason for me to stay here in Denver. My nearest living relative is my sister, and I'd be lying if I said I was sad when she moved to Phoenix. As far as friends, or a job, or any sort of life, it's pretty much non existent. I spend my days in the touristy parts of town, asking for a couple sents or a warm drink or a bite to eat- I'm not picky, and I earn my keep when I need to.
That's the tricky part, for me, is what I do. Growing up, I'm sure someone told you about how "Everybody is special! Everybody is good at something, and everyone is important and talented in their own way!" And I totally believe in that line of thought; I'm a firm subscriber to the belief that everyone is good at something. Some people are good at positive things; like sports, or painting, or writing or math or science or open heart surgery or throwing molotov cocktails at cops; I'm not really picky about what they're good at. But my particular talent is perhaps the least employable skill since Typhoid Mary died- I'm good at seeing the horrible, horrible things that people are good at. I sit here on the street corners and I give out fortunes, and everyone walks away shocked by how relevant and personally significant my words are to their particular life, and really, it's only half a scam.
Fortune telling is bull**** of course (actually, all things considered, maybe not- but my fortunes definitely are), but I do tell them relevant things. I can literally look at them and read their life, I can see everything they ever did and by now my mind blanks out the mundane things, so that I only have to sort through the big things. Everything that my subject has ever been proud of or ashamed of and every injustice they celebrate and every victory they're guilty of. I can pick out and isolate the moments that cause them to stay awake at night and the shining things that cause them to wake up in the morning. It's like running the full course of love at first sight; I get to go from seeing something perfect and pure, to knowing every detail of their magnificence, to feeling the ache of their mundane ticks and flaws and the mistakes that they refuse to learn from, to seeing every burning erroneous stitch in their soul's tapestry. All within instants.
It's wearisome, looking at people and understanding why they deserve every turn of bad luck that ever befell them. The killers, cheaters, the liars, the narcissists, the politicians and the rapists- especially the politicians and the rapists- it just wears on you, seeing every way that they are similar to you. The way they grapple with things that they should or shouldn't be proud of and the balancing act of ethics versus what you can get away with.
Animals are different though. They just survive. You look at their every action and there's a clear cut reason for it- survive. Every thought, every action and instinct and kill was all guided towards the singular goal of surviving. My favorite are pack animals, or ones that mate for life. Sometimes I save enough to go to the Zoo (when they'll let me in), and I just watch the animals live. There's no pettiness, no pretention and no rules. It's a lot different from reading a person, for sure, and I had to practice, but it's much more rewarding, seeing something pure and fundamentally incapable of being guilty.
Their souls (for lack of a better word) are abstract, kind of like a Picasso. Looking at them, it's a series of abstract events all out of order, and it's up to me to make out the patterns recognizable to the part of a person that handles emotion. People though- god, the people. It's like looking at footage from the Vietnam War- it's all claustraphobic and bloody and senseless and violent and painful and insane and all it knows is the reciprocation of it's own infinite hurt.
But I digress. This city is gonna kill me- actually, no, that's not entirely accurate. It'll cause me to die. I'll feel burned out and just lay face down naked in the snow, or I'll gouge out my own eyes or something like that. I need to get out of here, but that takes money. I probably could have, back when mom was still alive, but not anymore. Now adays I just read fortunes.
I warn the nervous man in the suit that, "If you don't focus on your home life, your business will slip away."
I encourage the young lovers, "Overlook the flaws."
I cuss at the hippie.
I also cuss at the redneck.
And I cuss at the emos, for that matter.
Actually, I'd probably have more money if I cussed at fewer people. Never thought about it like that before. I think I'll actually give some honest advice to this guy-
I was a little shocked by the offer. I know, it seems stupid that I couldn't see it coming, since I'm a mind reader and all, but it doesn't work that way. I don't see specifics, just a collage of their life.
The next few months have bored me out of my mind. Mister Professor did enough tests to confirm that I'm psychic or magical or whatever the **** he calls my talent, and ever since then, he's been exploring what I can do. He's studied how I view lives and what I can tell and what my brain does, it's all pretty exciting I guess, if you care about stuff like that. Mostly though, he just "exercises," me, and tries to push the limits of what I can see and how far away I can see it. His favorite test is to have me view things through lenses, like today.
He has me look at somebody a specific distance away, then hands me something and asks if I can see through it-
2: fifty yards, naked eye. CHECK
3. seventy yards, naked eye. FAIL.
4. seventy yards, magnifying glass. FAIL.
5. ten yards, digital camera. CHECK.
6. Hundred yards, binoculars. CHECK.
7. Three hundred yards, telescope. CHECK.
The last one is one that he harped on. Two weeks later, we're still seeing how far away I can read through a telescope- he's playing with the magnification and trying to stretch my vision by inches at a time. Except that he decided not to today. He told me to be ready for tonight.
A big man with a penchant for animal cruelty came into my dorm to fetch me, and I went without complaint- albeit not happily. Every time he would be distracted by something, like his radio, I would whisper, just quiet enough that he could barely hear, the name of his dog.
I arrived at the Professor's office, and he started speaking excitedly, in a way so hurried and hushed and breathless it reminded me of the time I saw a senators son confess to murder.
And we went. He didn't tell me why, he didn't tell me what I was looking for, he just had me look at stars every night four a couple weeks. Then he turned me to one he called Gliese, and asked my to write everything I saw.
At first it was the same as any other star, I just saw a star. It was relaxing, for sure, just looking at the infinite blankness of space. It was just cold and blank, kind of like a tree.
That was the thing though.
Most of the stars were like rocks, or metal or plastic, just empty and hollow, kind of like chewing on aluminum foil.
This one was just blank, like the space in between the lines of a book. Somewhere deep down, in the part of me that I don't quite understand, I could tell that the most important part was the part I was missing. And I sat there, for what I was later told to be six hours, staring through a lens at a tiny little point of light.
Then I saw it.
I saw a flash, green, then purple then blue that coalesced into an infinite series of tessellating triangles that came together like the skin cells of a tapestry woven with the skin of a billion creatures. I could see the most minute, vague, indistinct echoes of patterns that I knew to be living.
I saw a soul in twenty year old light- no, not one soul. I saw billions, blending together like the bulbs behind a TV screen to show me a single picture.
I cried for twenty odd minutes before I finally wrote down what I saw. I dunno what they're gonna do with this, I don't know how they'll prove that I saw what I saw but goddamnit I know what I saw.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Hard to get views on short stories of any kind around here. Sometimes I wonder if the SSC doesn't just need a retooling, do away with the prompts (maybe include a single, very broad theme or idea to try and work around, but not in a restrictive way), and have it run like the PRC, every two, three or four weeks or something. I really should talk to someone about that.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!