Tell Her: Speak Up

(Unexpected continuation of the story Tell Her...)

"Lanie!"

Holding his coffee in one hand, he watched his steps with exquisite care, slipping behind her as she strode down the hall.  She never noticed their near collision.

Or so he thought. Still moving, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Hi."

Surprised, he could only mumble his own hello. But he did remember to smile. A good one, he thought.

She frowned for a moment, but before he could repeat himself she said, "I'm surprised you remember my name."

He opened his mouth to speak.

Andy breezed by.

"Hi Andy!"

"What? What was that?"

Amusement breaking along her face, she continued looking over her shoulder, her focus entirely on Andy, who was smaller but infinitely more animated than he was. Then Andy was out of sight and they were fast approaching his office, and—

"Lanie!"

In his head he called Andy several things only other number crunchers could appreciate.

Tell Her

Not much in the way of dialogue tags here, but I think it's reasonably easy to follow along with.  Plus, it's short.

 

“You want me to tell her you think she’s cute?”

            “What?  No!  And it was just that one time...”

            “Aaaah, the day she was wearing that skirt.  I saw the way you were looking at her.”

            “It was a nice color.”

            “It was black and white.”

            “Which...looks nice on everyone.”

            “Uh huh.  Sure.  Why don’t you just let me do it.  The next time she calls--”

            “Andy?”

            “You see.”

            “Andy?  ...Andy?”

            “Yes, my dear.”

            “Can I borrow--”

            “No.”

            “But I just need it really--”

            “No.”

            “I’ll bring it right back.”

            “For how much?”

            “I don’t get paid until tomorrow.”

Occasionally, you get it right

As many people know, I'm writing a fantasy novel.  What most people don't know, because it pains me to "admit" it out loud, is that it's a vampire novel.  

Yes, yes, I know.  I promise they don't sparkle.  I can't promise that they're not a little emo, though.  The first vamps I remember well are Anne Rice's after all.  Louis mourning Claudia throughout all time ring any bells for anyone else?  Lestat's torturous, unhappy childhood?  Yeah, thems my early inspiration, followed in short order by the likes of Joss Whedon's Angel and Spike v. 2.0 (not to be confused with the Spike of Buffy Season 2 where he was the scariest thing since since).  I've actually read quite a lot of vampire stories, much of it in the more straightforward vampires-are-EVIL perspective.  I'm the person my other geeky friends run vamp ideas past because I've already done so much "research" on the subject.  This is what you get from a voracious reader with a vivid imagination and a preference for mythology.

Anywho, I digress...severely.  I've just done a Wordle* on my novel, and while the names of my main characters pop up large and in charge, the word "vampire" doesn't even rate.  I'm ecstatic!

And you're going, Why???  Because when I started this novel, oh so many years ago, one of my express goals was to make a vampire novel that was somehow different from everything that I at least knew.  I wanted vampires who thought of themselves differently, who acted differently, who were perceived and perceived themselves differently.  For me that started with the word "vampire" being anathema.  Unfortunately, in this long editorial process, I've had to re-work and re-word a lot...including using "vampire."  

It would seem, though, that at least in one arena I've been successful.  It's very possible that concept-wise I'm still a big stinky failure, but I'm choosing not to believe that.**

*Wordle is an internet based software that takes text and turns it into a pretty wordcloud.  Which words appear in the wordcloud are usually chosen by how frequently they appear in the text.  Similarly, the most frequently used words are shown in the biggest font sizes, while less frequently used words are shown in smaller font sizes.  You can do all sorts of fun manipulations with these wordclouds on Wordle, from changing the color, font, word-direction, etc.  Have a go!

**Anyone who has either talked to me about my novel or seen my facebook posts will know that my love or loathing for my novel varies from day to day.  Usually the emotional swing is, ahem, quite wide.  *head desk*

In a Pool of Dark Light

She scrabbled hard against the robes, hard against him, hard against her fear.  “Let me go. Let me go.  Let me go!”

            But he kept dragging her along.

            “Let me go!”

            “No.”  And he yanked on her ropes, made her stumble. 

            Her knees scraped the rough deck-plating through her coveralls.  They were going up a ramp, though, so it was easy to get her footing again.

            She could feel her blood, running hot down her knees.  It itched.  The arches of her feet were cramped.  She could barely feel her hands anymore and the ropes bit painfully into her wrists.  “Please…” she tried again.

            He ignored her.  Until they reached the landing.  Then he yanked on the rope again, pulling her towards him then driving her to her knees.  She cried out.  Her torn knee burned and screamed.  Fresh tears made fresh tracks on her dirty face. 

            They’d found her in the engine room.  She hadn’t even known the ship had been boarded.

            He looped the rope around her neck, then around one of the railings.  If she pulled on it she’d strangle herself.  He walked away.

            She curled in on herself as best she could.  Her stomach was cramping, but she’d already thrown up everything she’d had for dinner when she’d been hit in the solar plexus.  She was no lightweight.  Working down in the engines meant a certain amount of dexterity and athleticism.  But she was no fighter, either, unless it was with her CO or a multi-tool.  Fear and exhaustion—they’d come near the end of the graveyard shift, her shift—was making her sick.  And she was feverish.  Up here, outside the bowels of the ship, it shouldn’t be so hot.  The invaders hadn’t killed enviro; she could feel the breeze of the circulating air.  But she was sweating and trembling in her jumpsuit.  Tears and sweat mingled with dirt and dust.  She stank.

            He came back, untied the rope and loosened it from her neck.  She thought of biting his hand.  He slapped her before she could.  “Up!”

            They were heading for a blank wall.  No, not a blank wall, but one of the pneumatic tubes.  Where were they going?  Where was he sending her?  The tubes were only big enough for one.  Even children, who were only allowed to use them in an emergency, had to take them singly.

            He stuffed her inside, carelessly throwing the rope over her head toward the back wall.  Then he stuffed himself inside, too.

            She struggled.  She fought.  She wasn’t exactly claustrophobic, couldn’t be working in the bowels of a ship, but she hated the pneumatic tubes.  She hated him.  Hated being tied up.  How could he even think they could both travel this way?!

            “Let me go!”

            He snapped his head into hers.  Blackness edged her vision.  The sound of rushing blood filled her ears.  His “No” came from far away.  She was burning up.

Servo

“You’re doing it again.”

She looked up from her book. “What?” And then she noticed her left hand. Her fingers were bending and flexing without her conscious thought, moving so slowly that the she could hear the whirring of motors within. “Is it that loud? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He smiled and shook his head. “I can only hear it because it’s so quiet in here. Fire’s died,” he added, using his chin to point to the glowing coals.

“Hey…” He wiggled his fingers to pull her attention away from the fireplace. “You’re still doing it.”

“Oh!” She put down the book and turned her eyes to focus on her hand. Inhaling slowly, she consciously took control of the servos, gears and motors in her cybernetic hand. Her fingers closed naturally into her palm as she exhaled. She held it away from her body and turned it this way and that, as if to admire the smoothness of her skin. “That shouldn’t happen. I’ve got to practice more.”

“I don’t know,” he said, reaching across the space between their armchairs to catch her extended arm. He gently ran his index finger down the inside of her arm, until she giggled and squirmed in her chair. “It’s sort of fascinating to watch.” Pulling her towards him, he leaned over and kissed her palm. “Personally, I’m simply glad it’s here.”

-Fin-

Untitled

follow-up to this previously posted flashfic.  Written for my friend, Elise, because she wanted a sequel.

It takes everything she has not to run. She refuses to run—though everything within her wants to. Her heart is pounding and she can feel sweat on her upper lip. She'd gotten the last word in, and there was no way she'd ruin it by running.

Except...except you were supposed to flee temptation, weren't you?

A surreptitious glance behind her showed that he had moved on. She sighed, relieved. The next moment she was kicking herself. What if he hadn't moved on? What then?

Train poem, 9/28, 10:30-ish AM

It's been months since you've seen me
months since you've heard my voice, hugged me, kissed my cheek
Do you remember my shape?
Or have you added and taken away?
Would I surprise you now?
Am I taller, shorter?
Does my voice register in an unfamiliar timbre?
Am I a girl you knew, or have I suddenly become a woman?

I miss you

The feel of your skin and quirky smiles
humor and biting wit
half-formed knowledge puffed up to full truth (did you ever believe the things we argued?)
brokenness and remoteness
No
not the remoteness
Never the remoteness
Otherwise I'd have to believe that months could pass
without you missing me at all