Wednesday Writing

Good morning you myriad of methodical mind-types!

It’s Wednesday, so I figured it’d be a good idea to draft out some fiction, and hey, you should too!  I’m also trying to do something different;  I always hate to write with an absence of music, with constant interruption, with, you know, life.   Thing is, you can’t always carve a minimum of sixty minutes out of each day to really work on your writing, sometimes you need to know how to start, stop, and start again.  If you have the means, (being paper and pen) maybe try to do that yourself , how did it work out for you? 

Hah! Ohsnap.  Apologies, I just got interrupted by an article on Huffington Post, did you know people are uploading pictures of themselves to tumblr with their bookshelves? They’re calling them Shelfies.  Yeah, that’s a thing.  Okay, so sorry, continuing.

Why not try to see what I can muster while my day is still moving?  Allons-y!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Touch

Ocon – 4.3B23

Reporting Star Cycle  – 051.97.4

“What do you put in it?” Her voice carries the words beyond dampened lips and saw-edged teeth, over the vibrations of the bar beneath my fingertips, and through the wiry noise spinning around us.  She must be one of their shamans.  I originally surmised, because her voice has a pitch so high it’s likely to shatter glass without complete mastery, to meet such a prominent figure in their society so soon, I felt I’d indeed been a very lucky Ocon. 

“Well, I use,um, the Beszwax? Oh! Also I use the hook of latch. ” I say,  I’d been practicing.  She nods her head with a smile, and tucks strands of her wheat stalk hair behind her ear.  I knew I was close to the touch, say anything for the touch, Maester Mwase advised, if you truly want to save them, we need to know they’re worth saving.

before I arrived I would watch them.  They scramble as if they’re getting ready for something that could happen at any moment, as if all at once they see their own sands and scatter away from, into and around one another.  When they needed reprieve they would come to places like this, where they would ingest what they call spirits in an attempt to subdue their own.  I liked that.  The idea that they could somehow remove something of themselves when all they’d really done was become what they always were.

“I’m Ana, but everyone calls me Buffy.  What’s your name?” She asks.  Of course I can’t give her my real name; I’ve not brung an abacus, three sage bushes and a spoon, but I give her the one I’ve created for myself  the blue sphere.

“Damarcus, Damarcus Freeman.” I tell her and she gleams back.  The name seems to fit the melanin bio-armor I’ve been equipped with, and the scouting pincers atop my head.    She is a willow of a woman; a hard stalk of a body and sleek cracked arms.  She begins to raise one of her arms, ready to touch my pincers, but she recoils.

“I’m like, so sorry, but can I touch them?” She asks.  I find myself startled, as I’ve forwarded you in previous reports they’re generally apt to snatch at them, but this one was different.  I lean my head forward and curve my lips to express pleasure. 

“Oh, wow.” She plugs her fingers into my pincers, what they, the humans believe to resemble  ‘dreadlocks’ a preference of hair style that twists the hair into an array of locks’ that most regard as ‘dreadful’.

The beauty of the pincers is that these subjects are so engrossed by them, I’d never imagined my data to practically throw itself at me.  I was worried the first time that they’d become aware of my ruse, that the nano fibers would trip their nerve endings but I should have had more faith in  our tech.  They claw, the burrow and tack away giving me shreds of what they will be, that little lump of coal in their DNA that will prove they deserve this place, just give me time, let me save them.

She released her hand and my pincers relent. 

“They’re so coarse, how do you do that?” They’re so curious of one another, I suppose it’s hypocritical of a researcher to say, but still, there it is.

“Well I dip them in what you would call a mechanical lacquer of sorts that blackens them, and seals them beneath coarse tubing to dilute their sensitivity, that way they only reveal under direct contact to a foreign element, such as your hand.” I am aware this is most likely what alarmed you in the audio relay.  The spirits that this shaman and I had imbued must have had adversely effected my speech and cognitive functions, I will be certain to not let it stir my tongue in the future.

“You’re weird, but like, not in a ghetto way, but you seem, like, educated.” She is right of course, I was the head nano integration calibrator in the sector, but I don’t like to toot my own horn, so I hold.

“Thank you, you’re not so bad yourself Ana.” She smiles, and I am aware that our time is at an end when her next drink arrives.  She leaves me with a smile, a gesture of good faith with the primitives, so I return it with my own.  I watch her with her friends as they scamper to the holy floor and perform a ritualistic dance, they are guided by a hearty man with noise amplifying hardware over his ears, who plays the sound of their god, DJ Casper; from what I’ve gathered he is a gentle celestial who only commands them, in late night hours, to ‘hop’ and ‘slide’. 

I know my mission is not done, I will continue to compile data, to find something credible that will let you know an invasion is not necessary, until that time I remain a humble advisor.

End Transmission

Ocon 4.3B23

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About CJE

I'm a writer from Columbus, OH and currently enjoy blogging about life, the journey to becoming published, and anything that feels interesting at the time. at twitter @CJEskew
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2 Responses to Wednesday Writing

  1. bethsmash says:

    Cha cha now ya’ll! Turn it out!

    Considering myself a newb to racial satire, my opinion may not count for much but I like this! I love the “educated” comment, reflecting on the common (and hopefully unintentional) insult given when people say things that end in statements like “…but he sounds educated” when they really mean “…white. He sounds white.”

    If I were to offer one part constructive criticism (based entirely on opinion), it would be that I feel you’re a little heavy on the adjectives. It’s the type of story that you really need to catch the important bits in order to know what’s going on, so with too many descriptors it distracts the reader from what they need to retain. To specify: the first paragraph reads a little bulky, and the “cracked arms” sticks out a little.

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