Jumping In

Well it's been more than a week now since my last post (uni assessments are coming
thick and fast at the moment) so I figure I should probably put something up so that Oblogotory doesn't end up disappearing before it gets off the ground.

So here we go. Blog post no. 3.

I've gotten a bit of feedback on Home since I put it up (not on the site as yet which at time of posting should be obvious) and the main issue that came up was the argument that takes place on the on the train. In short: too much exposition, not enough justification... It's a fair point and it is something that I wrestled with while I was writing the story.

In the end it was something I left in because of the word limit, simply because I didn't know how to convey the history that I wanted to convey without condensing it like I did.

Still it can be said that regardless of word limits the info dump is something I end up relying on a little too often(depending of course on what it is that I'm writing). In particular one of the major stories that I've been working on in the last little while (I'll leave out the plot details as I hope to put parts of it up in the future) uses the info dump pretty heavily in the opening pages. I have tried to justify it and it does seem to come across as interesting (at least to me) but at the same time it still ends up feeling a bit clumsy...

In the end I guess I do it because it’s easy. Once the story is all worked out in your head it the whole setting the scene part can seem rather tedious when all you want to do is get down to writing the story itself.
So lesson learnt really. Need to be more patient.

Anyway, this is a writing blog so I should probably couple my self examination with an actual story... Again this is something that I wrote before I started blogging (and indeed is quite a bit older than Home) as I have not had time to write anything new recently (wish that I did – so many ideas!).



In Transit

He closes his eyes and slowly slumps backwards, the brief prick of pain already distant and forgotten. One... He begins to count the seconds as they tick by. Two... He tells himself in a second it will all be okay. Three... A familiar warmth begins to creep into him. Four... It surrounds him, fills him. Five... His heart skips a beat. Six...

Time seems to slow to a crawl. Stops. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.

Seven... Sparks bloom in darkness.

Eight... Rise up above him. Nine... The light envelopes him. Smothers him. He sinks in it but he doesn’t fight. He wants to drown. Forever and ever.

Time passes. An imaginary sky churns overhead a make-believe sea. He submerges himself in both and everything blurs. Fire dances merrily between fingertips, kind and comforting, forgetting to burn. Each breath fills his lungs with molten gold. It gets into his blood. His veins pulse. His blood sings.

It keeps him alive.

From above he can hear a voice calling. A hand touches someone’s face. His? He tries to raise a hand to brush it away. Nothing happens. Somewhere a part of him starts to feel concern, to panic, but the warmth washes everything away and very soon he forgets.

By the time he notices them again the voices have become two instead of one. He tries to listen to them, but he does not hear. They grow in urgency and he feels another prick of pain, rougher than the first. Out of habit he tries to count away the seconds, but it hits him before he can muster the literate part of his mind. A wall of cold and pain. It pushes past the dizzying warm, and takes him for its own, ripping him from himself. He can feel his blood slowing to a trickle. Solidifying. Slowly it becomes as ice and he can feel his heart starting to flutter in his chest. In an instant he loses control.

Muscles spasm, heaving and contracting. He tries to breathe and finds his bones burning with a cold fire. A pressure builds behind his eyes. Why isn’t he breathing!? Someone wails as a stinging slap descends upon his cheek and he finally gulps down air. His eyes snap open to darkness, the world reduced to tiny pinpricks of light. Something moves in the distance. The world seems so very far away. The voices are there again, somehow clearer with the added distance. “Stay here son. Here with us. Keep your eyes on me. Stay with...”
The light begins to fade and the voices wash away. He begins to wonder if they are talking to him.

Cold metal punches him in the chest.

The wail becomes a sob. “Again” A second blow falls. His ears pop. “Again!!” Somewhere something beeps with a monotonous tone.
He comes awake with a jolt, gasping and spluttering in the dark. For a moment all he can do is sit there. His head feels two sizes too small. He reaches up to cradle it, only to find a piece of material covering his eyes. He pulls at with clumsy hands. A band of elastic snaps between his fingers and the material falls away.

The light is everywhere. It stabs at his eyes. A mess of colour sits before him. He shakes his head. A green curtain hangs in a window to his right. An empty chair sits to his left and there is a small aisle to the left of that, with more empty seats lining the other side. He reels forward as everything shakes again, taking his breath away. From up ahead he can hear the tinny buzz of an old radio. He rips open the curtain and is greeted by an empty desert. Red sand and blue sky slide past the glass. As far as the eye can see. He pulls back the curtain and rises to his feet, bracing himself on either side. Several passengers occupy seats further towards the front. All facing forward, all silent. They ignore him as he makes his way down the aisle. The radio buzzes in his ears.

As he reaches the driver’s seat he peers out the front windscreen. A single straight line of black road, unbroken and infinite, stretches out before him. Running from beneath his feet to horizon with two identical swathes of sand on either side. He turns towards the driver, a million questions burning in his brain.

A pudgy hand reaches out before he can speak, tapping at a sign above. Please stay seated while in transit.

“But...”

The driver taps again. “But why!? Where the fuck am I !!?” The driver just sits there and the other passengers do the same. He waves a hand in front of the drivers face. Nothing. No one does anything. He sighs and makes his way back to his seat.

Another jolt wakes him. His eyes snap open in shock and confusion. When had he fallen asleep? Absently he looks out the window again. The sky is gray and rain now pelts soundlessly against the glass. He realises for the first time how thirsty he is, but he knows the water is out of reach. Outside he watches as it leaches into the sand like a stain. Mixed together they look like blood. His stomach churns and he tastes bile. Suddenly he’s no longer quite as thirsty as he first thought. A white smudge appears in the distance and he watches, hypnotised, as it slowly grows in size. He remembers a sign in a supermarket parking lot. Its neon light burns in the sky as it approaches. Three figures detach themselves from the glow. A man, a woman and a child. The man hits the woman. The child looks away, towards him, and he recognises his own face. Then in a single moment the whole scene is swept away. He chokes back frustration, reaching toward the glass. The other passengers look on, silent and still. He feels sick. Another smudge appears on the horizon. Darker this time. He tries to look away but finds himself frozen. A single figure running in the rain. There then gone. Large buildings are the next thing to detach from the haze. Lecture halls. Classrooms. All familiar. Hundreds of figures go about their business, moving from building to building. His eyes seek out just one, sitting at a bus stop, apart from the others, head buried between his hands. The figure looks up in recognition as the image boils away. Next he sees himself standing alone, separated from the group so dominated by the large figure from before. He wants to cry but he feels he has no right. Again he watches himself running in the rain. Past the parking lot. Past the tall buildings.

Finally his figure comes to rest in the middle a street somewhere and immediately lies down and goes to sleep.

Someone holds something out to him to take; it glows so bright that it burns a hole in the world. He reaches for it longingly but just like the others the image quickly fades. Everything lurches forward again and for a second all colour disappears. He wants to be sick. That old radio starts up again, playing that same single note song.

He blacks out.

Everything is wrong. The floor shakes and buckles and the air is filled with the discontented whine of the engine, as if it is stuck in the wrong gear. He stumbles from his seat and almost falls to the ground. The aisle twists and turns in front of him. The windows have gone empty and black. The wall of cold returns rolls over
him, consuming everything. He flinches as icy hands brush under his clothes. Painstakingly he starts moving towards the front.

The passengers sit there like statues. The driver moves once more to tap the sign. He reaches up and pulls the thing down, flinging it to the side. The whine builds, to almost more than he can bear. The driver taps at the empty air. A pressure builds inside him. A need so strong he feels like he must surely burst. He takes one last look at the driver and then grabs onto the oversized steering wheel and heaves with everything he has left.

The world buckles and spins, turns upside down and inside out. Another jolt catches him in the chest and then there is a searing pain as if someone has put a hole in his heart. Finally the other passengers turn to look at him. Surprise glints in their eyes. His body goes limp.

Somewhere the radio breaks and the world shatters into a million pieces.







P.S. I know next to nothing about drugs or about addiction - at the time that I wrote this I was reading a blog written by a British herion addict - something which I found both rather confronting at times but also extremely moving.

Check it out if you're so inclined - http://gledwood.tripod.com/blog/ (this is part 1 of 2 as there is another blog on Blogger.com - but still I would recommend you read it from the start)


M

Home

Okay I would have liked to put this up earlier as it seems somewhat silly to start a writing blog with no writing in it, but I've been busy, so yeah here is a story.

Home was originally for a assignment and so was written with a limit on how long it could be and how long I could spend on it before it was time to submit (the writers block that sprung up while I was writing it didn't help either as it meant that I sort of had to rush to get it in). With this in mind it has some flaws. There are bits that I would like to rewrite, bits that should be clearer, that should be expanded on. There also details that I think should be changed completely as they don't really fit in with what I was originally trying to say.

But yeah that can come later. For the moment it's just good to be getting this posted somewhere.

Here we go:

Home
The sea lay heavy upon the shore, rising higher and higher against the great wall as each new wave came in. From the top he could feel the water churning away in the darkness. It scared him. These days it probably scared most people. He could feel the water poking and probing at the stone below. It seemed to be searching for a way through. A way free. He could feel its hunger, feel it watching him. Beckoning to him. In the back of his mind a voice seemed to cry out in terror and for an instant he felt sure that he would fall; or that the sea, suddenly given form by his fear, would somehow reach up and then drag him down deep below and devour him.
He stood frozen for a long time. Watching. Waiting. His heart in his throat. Nothing happened. By the time he could move again he felt almost disappointed.
 Behind him he felt the warmth of the sun as it pulled itself over the horizon. The light struck the water below and the glow dispelled the illusion. Off in the distance he could make out the large outline of a ship as it wallowed into the bay. Two smaller ships followed behind; sleek and sharp.
 It was time to go.
From somewhere below and behind an unfamiliar voice barked up at him.  Squinting, he turned to see a man standing in the street below, helmeted head poking out from the high collar of a blue stab-jacket. The figure cupped his hands and shouted again. “Sir? Did you hear what I said? I’m going to need you to come done from there now.” The man sighed with relief. “Thought you were a jumper” he says by way of explanation. The policeman took his arm as soon as his feet hit the ground, running a small scanner over the inside of his wrist. “Alan Rickman?”Alan nodded. The cop gave him smile. “Sorry if I scared you. It’s just we’ve been getting a lot of them up and down the coast lately. Something about the sea wall seems to attract them. Jumpers I mean.”  Alan opened his mouth to respond but the officer had already moved on and was now thumbing the scanner’s small display. “Sir. According to this record, the current address that you are listed at is one no longer considered valid by the city authority. Would that be correct?” Alan nodded silently. The policeman coughed, giving him an inquisitive look. “Now it also states that you have been allocated a place in one of the new arcologies up north. Is that right?” Alan nodded again and then finally found his voice. “Yeah as far as I know. I’m supposed to leave tonight; they’ve got me on one of the last trains out of Southern Cross...” He trailed off as the officer relaxed his grip, letting go of his arm, “Good to hear. Good to hear.” The officer paused, thinking. “I think we can forget this whole trespassing on government property thing this time.” He clipped the scanner back onto his belt. “Just make sure you stay out of trouble for the remainder of your time in the city.” His laugh was short and humourless “Don’t want you missing it because some other officer isn’t so gracious.” 

The trip back took longer than expected. The run in with the cop meant that even though the sun was still low in the sky, it was still late enough that the streets had already begun to crowd. His home, which was no longer really home, was exactly the same as he had left it. Empty. Open. Abandoned.  There had been no point in locking the door. There was nothing left to steal, it had all been packed up the day the government rep had told him he was being evicted and it was unlikely that anyone would try and squat there. The ‘Notice of Intention to Demolish’ signs plastered to the front door of his building were a reasonably effective form of discouragement. He sighed, looking around for the last time. The walls and floor were bare, empty of all except dust and the shadows left by missing furniture. It looked so small and there was nothing left to say that he had lived there. But he had lived here. It had been his home. But now, almost in the blink of an eye, it was gone. He snorted in disgust and turned to go, throwing the keys over his shoulder as he went. They hit the floor with a clatter. He did not look back.    

A mess of sound greeted him as he made his way back up the stairs and on to the street. He had been inside longer than he had planned and now the street was well and truly full to bursting. The press of people seethed all around him. Faces blurred together. Voices spoke in half a dozen languages he couldn’t even begin to understand. Slowly he began to pick his way through the crowd, letting his instincts take over. Peopled push by, he pushed back, following the flow. From somewhere up ahead a siren began to wail and the sound of yelling and breaking glass rose above the hum of the crowd. People clambered over each other in an effort to see what was going on. Slowly the throng ground to a halt. Alan swore under his breath. This was going to take forever; he began to look for a way out. From the other side of the road he could just make out the flickering lights of a tram stop.
People grunted in annoyance as he pushed his way to the side of the road. He ignored them, instead watching intently for a gap in the almost constant stream of bikes and Pedi-cabs. After several minutes one finally appeared and he made a quick dash across to the other side, carefully placing his feet so as not to trip on the old steel tracks that ran up and down the road. On the other side a tram whirred to a stop overhead and he was forced to dive through the crowd and then take the stairs two at a time to reach it before it swung away.

 The tram moved unnoticed above the crowd. Somehow Alan had managed to get a seat by the window, but the smoke rising from below made it difficult to see anything apart from the jumping flames and small flashes of the rioting crowd. From further down the carriage a man began to chuckle. “That’ll show 'em” he said to no one in particular. Obviously though it was enough to annoy someone else as a young woman got to her feet, her face a cloud of rage. “What the fuck are you talking about? How can you laugh at that! People could be hurt down there!” The man smirked at his successful provocation. “So what? They have to learn that they’re not welcome here. That Australia is for Australians.” The woman seemed as if she was about to explode. “Where else are they supposed to go then!? There is no Europe anymore! Don’t you understand that!? It’s all gone. All under water. Australia is the only place they have left to go.” The man’s voice rose to meet hers. “And how is that our problem? We should push them back like we did with the Indonesians when their islands started to go under. Make them go somewhere else.” People were starting to cough nervously, but the woman refused to back down. “The Indonesians tried to invade you idiot.  These people pay for the right to come here. Hell the Australian economy would have collapsed long ago if it wasn’t for the money they bring in with them. And NO there is nowhere else they can go. We’re all that’s left. America has collapsed. Russia and China won’t talk to anyone. Nothing grows in Africa anymore. ” On the fingers of her left hand she ticked off what was left of the world. The man crossed his arms defensively. “And that’s enough to justify kicking hard working Australians out of their homes, out of the cities, just to give these people a place to live?” She smiled at that. “You make it sound as if the government is just abandoning people. They only relocate people who are unable to support themselves financially and even then they have promised them all places in the new Arcologies” Alan never heard the man’s response, while they had argued the smoke had cleared and great metal waves of the station roof had appeared out the window. He waved his wrist past the scanner on door and then clambered down the stairs and out onto the platform below.
The station was crowded beyond capacity. Even more so than the streets if that was possible to imagine. Yet, unlike the streets, here the people milled around aimlessly, waiting for a number to be called on the loudspeaker above which, every so often, would crackle above the heavy drone of the air conditioning. “Passengers 500 through 800, please board now at platform 3 for the Western Arcology. Passengers 500 through....” Bit by bit the people around him were being divided up and told where to go. He looked down at the slip of paper that they had given at the station entrance. 2743. He sat down in a corner and tried to block out the noise, but instead found his attention diverted to one of the televisions hanging on a nearby wall. Smoke and fire from the riot flickered across the screen, followed by footage of a small crowd milling outside walls of the European Enclave. For the most part it looked like they were done breaking things and were instead trying to cough up the tear gas that the police had sprayed in among them. A reporter appeared in front of the still picture of a EU flag and for a time spoke sadly and silently, before the image switched to a cruise liner docked in the bay. Men and women in crumpled clothes disembarked wearily only to be swarmed by waiting reporters. Alan turned away and for the first time in a long while tried to get some sleep.

Although the trip lasted well into the night Alan was unable fall sleep again. He had been woken not so gently by a station guard an hour or so before his number was called and although he was still tired his body refused to cooperate. That and his ribs still hurt.
As the train began to slow the people around him started to come awake and soon the carriage was full of movement and excited whispers. Across the aisle a small child clawed at the curtain. “Look mum! I can see trees! Look! Look!” The mother laughed dismissively. “Those aren’t trees dear; there aren’t any left in Northern Australia anymore. It's all just bushes and shrub. Look closely and you’ll see.” Alan peeked through a gap in his own curtain to see a forest of glossy black panels pointed towards the rising sun. Unnoticed a man in a blue suit and nametag had entered from the carriage in front, he came to stand by the woman and her daughter. “I’m happy to say that that isn’t exactly true ma’am. We’ve managed to a few growing within the Arcology itself. Quite a bit cooler in there you see.” The little girl began to whoop with excitement. “You’ll be able to see them for yourself as soon as we pull into the station.” He pointed as the the train slowly began to turn and for the first they could see their new home. “Magnificant isn’t it?” A uniform tower of glass and steel jutted up from the emptiness of the red desert; kept company only by the maze of solar panels and a tall metal fence that encircled the whole complex. The train came to a stop.

The man in the suit smiled. “Welcome to your new home.”
 


    
 

     

Foundation

It seems like forever since I decided that it might be a good idea to start a blog (or whatever this happens to turn into) so that I could have a place to put up some of the stuff  I have been writing lately.
My first attempt, and there have been several, (go looking for them if you want but I imagine they would be as boring to read as they were to write) did not start or end fantastically.
Back then it occurred to me that I should probably build up from writing posts about everything and nothing to posting actual stories. Blogs became like diaries and a diaries can become pretty dull as soon as you start to string together uneventful days.

...Went to uni... Went to work... Thought of a story idea - didn't get round to writing anything about it.

You get the idea.

So this time I've decided to do something different. Because it seems to me that if taking things all slow and lazy like doesn't end up working you may as well just jump in at the deep end and see what happens.

So... Here we go.

It occurs to me that have a place where I can put my writing may force/encourage me to not only write more but to also actually go back and re-read what I have already written. To edit and re-edit. Which in theory should be good practice no?

Anyway, Oblogatory (blog titles should always be pun based) is now that place.
Stuff will be uploaded as I write it, or if I'm having a slow day/week I may put stuff up from the backlog of stuff that seems to be gathering dust on my hard drive so that I can edit and expand on existing ideas.

So welcome. Stay a while. Read some stuff. Add comments and criticism if you like.
I don't really mind.


P.S. Thank you for wading through what (hopefully) be the first of many rants.

P.P.S. Anything too nasty means I get to burn down at least part of your house.

M