2011 in Retrospect

January: I spent the first month of the year working at UNC Press, a short internship which I enjoyed very much.  The people were kind, the work was interesting if not very stimulating, and it was my first experience with working full time.  My strongest memories, though, are of the place, Chapel Hill, where I stayed with my aunt and uncle.  Culturally it had everything I could want—streets lined with quaint little shops, several more metropolitan areas with malls and movie theatres, and a private, rural place to retreat to at the end of the day.  I think I’d like nothing better than to end up in a place like that.

February: On the fifth of this month, I sailed off to London for the beginning of my semester abroad.  (And by sailed, I mean figuratively speaking, though someday I would love to take a ship across the ocean.)  I was both thrilled and terrified by the experience.  I will always remember that first day—I spent most of the flight staring out the window, even when it was dark; met up immediately with my best friend in Heathrow, from whence we took a taxi to our respective homestays.  I was struck by how much my host family reminded me of my grandparents—lovely, politely brisk people who were immediately welcome and comfortable with me there.  They escorted me up to my small, third-floor room, where I shut the door, collapsed on the bed and had a minor panic attack at the idea of being so far from home.

March: I quickly acclimated, however.  I was not only abroad, but living in a big city for the first time, and it was a thrilling experience.  The culture of the city—food, plays, history, parks, everything—was marvelous, and I had many friends to accompany me.  I maintain that this semester is what cured me of the worst of my anti-socialism.  March also included a trip to Budapest, which was absolutely incredible, an opportunity I never would have thought to have, and to Oxford with a group of friends. 

April: Classes in London were remarkably easy—I had little trouble keeping up.  We had tea breaks in the middle of the three-hour classes, and my Shakespeare course involved several trips to see plays.  Twice I visited the Globe, which was wonderful (if a bit chilly).  The class also had a chance to visit Stratford-upon-Avon, a beautiful place, and later in the month was a trip to Bath.  Simply looking out the bus windows at the countryside was memorable.  On the last week of the month was our spring break, and I spent the first weekend of it in Ireland, a trip that I’d been looking forward to for many years.  I visited Dingle, the little town where my father’s family came from, but I spent more time memorizing the land itself than looking for its people.  The rocky coastlines, the startling green hills, and the smell and color of gorse in the cool morning—it was magnificent.  I sprained my foot and got a terrible sunburn, but still returned to England quite content.

May: By the time the end of the semester came around, I was ready to come home.  I’m not someone easily afflicted by wanderlust: I don’t like living out of a suitcase, and just the idea that I will be leaving a place in a short time makes me restless and uneasy.  I miss many things about London—the convenience of the underground, the numberless theatres, and (I confess) the cheap and healthy food from Marks & Spencer or Pret a Manger—but America is where I belong, and I was happy to be back with my family.

June, July, & August: I knot these together because they were rather homogenous.  My summer job was simply acquired by emailing my student work supervisor, who hires an assistant every summer.  She was glad to have me, and so I came and worked nine to five, living at Hollins and walking to work every morning.  It was a comfortable time—the campus was quiet, I was familiar with my work in the archives, and I had the freedom in the evenings of going out or staying in, writing or surfing the web.  The one notable event of these two months was my twenty-first birthday in July, on which occasion my parents drove up to visit me and take me out to dinner.  Soon after, I drove over to Richmond to visit my roommate Taylor, who brought me along to a “party” at a friend’s house, which was not impressive and served an excess of rather non-impressive drinks.  A very memorable event.  August culminated with the purchase of my first car, a white Hyundai which I christened Baxter.

September: This was the beginning of my senior year, and I remember spending much of it trying to straighten out my very busy schedule.  I was taking three classes, two private music lessons, was involved in two choirs, and was working fifteen hours a week, on top of beginning my honors thesis.  To me, September has always seemed interminable, and I don’t really like to remember it.

October: On the contrary, October seemed to race by.  I was finally settling into my schedule, finished with several different projects and not quite ready to face final projects yet.  It was a good month for my creativity, writing my thesis as well as other projects, and also in writing music.  I also began to realize just how much of a hermit I had been the past three years of attending Hollins.  Somewhat to my surprise, I found that I had a bit of a social life now, and even more surprising, I liked it.

November: I had a meeting midway through this month with my creative writing professor.  When I told her I wanted to continue writing after school, she recommended I meet with a friend of hers, the editor of a local business magazine.  I appreciated this because it meant she believed I not only could continue writing, but should.  This very cheering news was followed by other pieces of good news, among them an invitation to join the English honors society and the continuing approval of my thesis advisor on my novel.  On the other hand, computer troubles over Thanksgiving break only added to the stress of the coming exam days.

December: This month began with exams and almost a straight ten days of choir rehearsals and performances.  It’s in times like this that you really have to live one day at a time.  Finally, however, I was finished, and I retreated home for a few weeks of rest before returning for the home stretch on my education.

All in all, an excellent year.  I think I learned a good bit about myself as well as about the world around me.  I hope, however, that 2012 will bring more excitement, novelty, and opportunity into my life.  Happy new year, everyone!

Watch Out, Your Genius is Burning

I generally consider myself a creative person.  I have at least sixteen different ideas for stories written in my various journals, ready to be pulled out, polished, and set to paper.  My problem-solving skills are good, even if my ideas are sometimes a little out there.  I can make a puzzle out of any sheet of text, and though I can’t draw at all, I can get around that with geometric patterns that come out looking very cool (to me anyway).  But put me in front of a well-stocked refrigerator, and I’m lost.

Cooking is truly an art form, and becoming more and more so every day.  With the increasing complexity of microwave dinners, a real, honest-to-goodness made-from-scratch meal is a rarity and a joy.  It takes time, careful attention, and skill, and still a small miscalculation can lead to flames leaping out of the oven.  The word “homemade” implies a very great gift.

Unlike other art forms, however, cooking does not require full knowledge of the basics before one can experiment.  I’m still fuzzy on how to sauté, simmer, or julienne anything, though they are all marvelous verbs.  But today I made very good nachos with meat and “homemade” queso, the latter created by melting wedges of Happy Cow cheese with a bit of milk.  Maybe that’s not really cooking—“alchemy” is probably a better word.  But it tasted pretty good to me.

I’m just a beginner, though.  Over the years I’ve watched my younger brother and older sister dig through a fridge I had judged devoid of anything edible, and come up with quick snacks that looked and smelled marvelous—cheesy bread with herbs, pretzels and Nutella.  This kind of creativity can make something new and delicious out of something old and/or not aesthetically pleasing.  It’s not something that comes easily to me, and more and more these days I appreciate it in others.

Someday I want to be able to cook for real—to take fresh ingredients (“real food” says my mother with a sneer for the dried and frozen things I bring home from the store) and make them into edible and attractive dishes.  In the meantime, however, I will experiment and make messes and eat what I create no matter whether it’s good or bad or sick-making.  After all, that’s the best way to learn.

Other People's Houses

It always seems darker at night when you’re in a strange place.  This Christmas I’m house-sitting for one of my mother’s good friends, and I spent last night wandering through the house trying to find a nightlight for my room.  I can’t count how many times I ran into something on my wandering.

It’s very odd to be living in a place that’s pre-arranged for someone else.  Here I have all the things that I would like to have someday in my own home—an extensive music collection with a good sound system, a fireplace and a grandfather clock in the sitting room, an old dog and a faintly hostile cat.  And all the time I am constantly aware that none of it is mine. 

Homes are intensely personal spaces.  I think I would feel odd letting someone stay alone in my home for several days.  At least this one has a lived-in feeling—there are some houses I’ve visited that are absolutely immaculate.  In these, I look around and wonder where the mess is hiding.  I think it’s better if there is a bit of mess: signs of imperfection tend to be reassuring to most of us.

Having lived for a good long time in one dorm room or another, I’ve dreamt quite a bit about what my future home will be like.  I can’t yet see it clearly, but I know it will be a reflection of myself: something quirky, untidy, filled with rich colors and knick-knacks from here and there.  And I hope that whoever comes through my door will find it welcoming.

Making Plans

Christmas is a time for plans.  Every family has their little rituals—a certain critter to put on top of the tree, a way to hang the stockings, a planned lunch and shopping afternoon.  Sometimes the traditions don’t really make sense, but people are happier if everything is as it was before.

I’ve been learning recently that I, too, am happier if I have a routine, a day-to-day plan for what I’m going to do.  I’m healthier, too—can’t forget to eat breakfast or brush my teeth every morning if it’s on my schedule, can I?  But when it comes to big plans, like where I will be next summer or where I’m going to go after graduation, I haven’t got a clue.  And I kind of like it that way.

All my life I’ve had plans.  For most of it they were other people’s plans for me.  Every year I went through school because my parents and the government said I had to.  My parents chose vacations for me, or else my teachers organized them.  After high school graduation, I had my own plans to work on: go to college, study abroad for a semester, polish up my writing and my music.  Now, however, I’m climbing up the diving board and beginning to see the big empty space out there.  There’s just five more months for me, and after that—after May 20^th, 2012, to be precise—my life is one big blank.

It’s terrifying, yes.  But when I was a kid, I always loved diving: the quick twitch of your heart as you make the jump—the way your body feels in midair—even the cold shock of the water around your head.  It was my favorite thing about swimming, and I would do it again and again.

The thing is, I see that huge emptiness as opportunity.  I can do anything: apply for a job at a resort, plan a road trip across the country, go skydiving and bungee jumping and parasailing.  I could go anywhere—Los Angeles, London, Paris, or Abu Dabi.  There are probably places I shouldn’t go, things I shouldn’t do, but the fact is that I can do them anyway if the fancy suits me.  The world is my snowglobe, and it’s time to shake it up a little bit.  It’s time to not have plans, to make mistakes and correct them, and to find out what it is I really want to do.  And I’m telling you, I can’t wait to make the dive.

For the People?

On NPR this morning, I heard a bit more about the escalating presidential campaign efforts going on out there in the world.  I can’t give any details about it because I did my best to tune it out.  I refuse to think about it for another six months. 

Now, I realize that I’m just another blogger whining about something wrong with the system.  Feel free to tune me out, as well.  But I just wonder about the logistics of American government.  A president has four years to serve, and some of the latter part of that must be spent fighting to keep his position.  Meanwhile the American people elect a president with great fanfare, support him for the first year, become apathetic for the second, and then turn their attention to the new hopefuls beginning to spout their claims for the position.  This is one person’s perspective, but it’s what I see, and it seems like a waste of time.  I’d imagine there are more people than just me who are tired of the necessary jumping through hoops that politicians do every four years.

When I was in London in the spring, my political science professor expressed amazement at the large percentage of Americans who dislike and distrust their government.  Now why is that, in a nation professed to be governed by the people?  I can’t help but wonder if the system of government designed almost two hundred and fifty years ago might need a little bit of shaking up.  For instance: six year terms for the president instead of four.  The man (or the woman—let’s be optimistic) in the Oval Office might then have enough time to learn to navigate the infamous struggles in Congress and actually accomplish something.  We still have impeachment for the bad eggs, and if we’re not afraid to use it, politicians would actually pay attention to it.

Or here’s an idea—put the government online.  In the past it would have been impossible to poll the entire nation on small issues, but not now when every John and Jane Doe have internet and can use it.  What if, for the problems the politicians can’t solve alone, we were to bring in the people?  Polls on Google, or voting available online—with careful security measures, of course.  I have a feeling that with the continuing desire to do everything from the comfort of one’s own home, a lot more people would take interest if we wired the government.

Maybe they’re silly ideas.  I’m no politician, I admit that.  But the fact that a majority of Americans don’t even pay attention to what’s going on in their government is alarming to me.  Maybe if we make some changes to the way things are done, we can catch the attention of the people again.  The ones who are, after all, supposedly in charge of this nation.

Some Things I Wonder About

—Why is it Itunes, but Youtube?

—Mismatched socks that you drop on the way back from the laundromat: where do they go?  Does someone pick them up and use them in some kind of art project (very possible at my school)?  Or should I blame trolls?

—Why are coffee makers called baristas?  Is there a verb barist to go along with that?

—Why do I see people’s complaints about the changes on facebook before I actually see the changes?

—Some languages are read left to right.  Some are read right to left.  Some are read top to bottom.  Are there any that are read bottom to top?  What about in spirals?

—The song, the Little Drummer Boy.  Beautiful song, but what mother would let someone play a drum for a newborn baby? 

—Why does Rudolph’s nose glow red?  I’d be worried about radioactivity if I were him.  On a similar note, how did anyone come up with the idea of flying reindeer?

—How many decades has it been since anyone went riding in a one-horse open sleigh?     

Think Before Speaking: Strange Slang

“Any language in which the unassuming word fly signifies an annoying insect, a means of travel, and a critical part of a gentleman’s apparel is clearly asking to be mangled.”  Bill Bryson

Being an English major, I realize what a strange language English really is.  We have more exceptions than we have rules, it seems, and some of the idioms we use make no sense at all.  Think about it.  Why is it appropriate for us to tell someone to “shoot” a question as if it were a gun (or a bullet, for that matter), while news is “laid” on us as if it is a blanket.  It’s a metaphoric, theoretical language, and sometimes the theory is a bit off.

I think, though, that the language used on college campuses is the most interesting and strange.  Granted, my being a college student might weight my opinion a bit, but there it is. There are several that I’ve been noticing lately, some that I like, others that I do not appreciate, but all are rather strange.

I'll begin with the ones I don’t like.  First on my list is “dank.”  My roommate first told me about this one, and it brought images of something out of Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”—that dark, damp wine cellar where the narrator is about to imprison his enemy forever.  I’ve heard it used, however, as a positive adjective.  What?  Outside of beverages, there are few wet and cold things that I enjoy.  Add dark to the mix and I wash my hands of the matter.  Then again, I’m told we can blame marijuana for this one.  Not really a surprise, now that I think of it.

The next that I’ve heard more and more often is “totes.”  Now, to me, the word ‘totes’ is the plural of a word describing a flat bag with two handles, meant to hang under one’s arm and to hold books.  This makes sense to me.  What doesn’t make sense to me is the constant need to shorten words that actually aren’t that long to begin with.  It was already happening in email and text messaging, where ppl talk 2 u like this, as if avoiding as many keystrokes as possible.  Must this distressing trend carry to verbal English?  Please, America, tell me we are not that lazy.

Then there’s a classic, one that I intend to dust off and present again for some rumination.  This word is placed into almost every other sentence, by, like, the entire population of native English speakers.  The original meaning, I believe, was, like, something close to “something like,” which in itself implies a certain amount of, like, uncertainty in what we are saying.  I’m sure by now you know what I’m talking about.  When written, the word “like” stands out when it’s out of place, but in spoken language we hardly notice it.  Pay attention the next time you’re speaking to someone in casual settings, and see how many times you hear it.  It is frightening how much this has made its way into our language—like a fungus that coats the inside of a refrigerator within a day and a half.  (And that was actually the correct use of the word.)

There are a few strange new words which I appreciate, though.  Normally, when my friends tell me something and I don’t really have anything to say in reply, I will say, “Cool.”  It’s a filler word that I don’t really like, but it springs to my mouth very easily and seems to close a conversation nicely.  However, there are better words that serve this purpose.  A friend of mine uses “word” instead.  Though I can’t quite work out a way to make this make sense, I like it much better than my own habit.  Words are cool, after all, so it fits.

Finally, there is one which I heard today that I know will never catch on outside of the college community, but here it is a very practical term.  I have a roommate, and my roommate has a boyfriend.  Now, she has never had to ask me to leave so they can—ahem—have some privacy, but I would have understood it if she had.  I now have a word for this process: sexile.  Corny it might be, but I appreciate it very much.  After all, it really does explain itself, doesn’t it?  And that’s all you can really ask for from a language.

The nature of language is to grow and change.  You can’t stop it; you can’t go back.  All that you can do is complain about the words you don’t like, and use the ones that you do.  Thus, tonight’s post.  If it encourages people to think about what they’re saying, all the better.  I invite any comments about other strange words or usages people hear.  I will find more in the future, I’m sure.

Excerpt: Mercenary Queen 2

Here is part two of Ava's reaction for your reading pleasure (for clarification, see previous post: Part 1).  Again, this is my own original work, and any comments, questions, and suggestions are appreciated.

Note: Ava's concern about the reporter possibly having a taser is based on the fact that a powerful electric shock will short out her nanobots, making her vulnerable for a stretch of about two minutes.  This is one of the methods that Goodson, her keeper, uses to control her.

I could hear the building dying now, the creaks, groans, popping and cracking making up its death throes.  I focused on the three frightened heartbeats overhead—if I hesitated now, all of them would stop.

The stairs were gone, so I scrambled up the walls, gripping whatever handholds were there.  The heat cast stars in front of my eyes, throbbing through my bones, my chest.  I could smell my flesh burning with my clothes, a heady scent of pain that twisted my stomach in nausea and starvation.

I paused for an instant on the second floor landing, both to let my hands heal and to get my bearings.  The little throbs of life were moving, climbing higher, stumbling through the fire.  I heard a pitiful cough, and a brave voice encouraging the other two.  “Come on, there’s some air over here.  We’ll be all right, don’t be scared.”

Such courage twisted my heart.  They would be all right.  I would save them no matter what it took.

Aware that I was at last doing the right thing for the right reason, I leapt up and cleared the third floor landing with a somersault over the railing.  I was running as soon as I landed, racing against the fury of destruction all around to save the last victims of it.  Following the sounds and the faint scent of life, I paused, then simply put my shoulder to a wall and heaved.

It gave easily, showering me with glowing embers.  I straightened and met the eyes of two children, kneeling protectively beside the third.  They were the only humans—the only living creatures—I’d ever met that were smaller than me.  Their eyes were huge with fear as they stared at me. 

Somehow, for a moment I couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer the questions in those eyes.  The difference between us paralyzed me.  These innocents couldn’t understand what I was, couldn’t comprehend that what they feared, I relished and sought out.  I didn’t want to see their fear, but how could they not be afraid of me, too?

Then the older boy looked at his brother and smiled.  “See, Mikey?” he said in a voice made rough by the smoke.  “I told you they’d come for us.”  He looked at me.  “Can you get us out of here?  My little sister needs a doctor.”

I crossed the room, ignoring a lash of smoke that blistered my shoulder, and knelt to touch the girl’s face.  She breathed shallowly, no older than three.

“Of course,” I murmured.  I touched the younger boy’s face gently, and he smiled, comforted rather than frightened by my cold skin.  “Of course I’ll get you out of here.”

There was a roar, and the wall by the door collapsed, startling us all.  Under my feet, the floor groaned, beginning to sink into the room below. 

Swiftly I snatched up the girl, cradling her against my chest with one arm.  I lifted the younger boy to my back.  “Grab on to my waist and don’t let go!” I shouted to the third.  He did, so quickly that I was momentarily astonished.  Then a floorboard snapped, the world lurched, and I lunged into the window.

Someone shrieked as we went through the glass.  I felt sorry that I could not shield the children from the cuts that would not heal as quickly as mine would.  The smaller boy—Mikey—held on so tightly that my air was nearly cut off, so I removed the arm that secured him to my back and reached out my hand.  It fell around the horizontal flagpole that I had seen earlier, exactly where I remembered.  I spun around it, ready to drop onto my feet from there.

One of the children screamed, and the grip around my waist slipped.

I planted my feet on the flagpole and snatched the falling boy’s wrist.  He shouted, but I knew his wrist was not broken, and I was afraid to loosen my grip.  Small hands slid down my neck, and on my back the child screamed again.  I threw my torso forward, stopping his slide and throwing off my balance.  For a moment I wavered, and the concrete leapt up to my eyes, seeming capable of destroying even me.

One second passed, then another, as people screamed and scrambled beneath us.  I was twisted into the most precarious position, my shoulders nearly perpendicular to the ground with a little girl dangling limply against my chest.  My thigh was crushing my arm against the girl’s warmth; the other foot was braced up against the building, the brick uncomfortably hot against my ankle.  I was bent in half, weighed down by the swaying child in my hand while his brother scrambled for a better hold on my back.  I couldn’t move at all, afraid to release the girl, afraid to pull up one boy and lose the other, afraid to fall and kill all of us.  None of us would be in this position if not for me.

“Mikey,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear.  “Mikey, you need to climb up and hold on to my neck again.”

“I can’t,” he sobbed, draped across my lower back and clinging to my waist.

“You can.  Mikey, you must.”  My stomach muscles were aching.  Soon my legs would begin to shake.

“I want my mommy.”

“I’ll take you to your mother.  I will, Mikey, I promise.  But you have to climb up to my back first.”

“You can do it, Mikey,” his brother called in a strained voice.  He held on to my wrist with his free hand and was trying to keep from swinging at all.

There was a thick silence below us.  All that I could hear was the roar of the fire and the snuffling sobs of the boy on my back.  The metal flagpole was slowly getting hotter, beginning to seep through the soles of my boots.

I heard Mikey take a deep breath.  Then he lifted his feet, digging them into my waist.  I leaned forward as far as I dared, wavering as he scrabbled to get back up to my shoulders.  For a moment, I was afraid that he would fall.  I tossed my head back, and his hand closed around a clump of my hair.  Ignoring the pain, I let him use it to pull himself up, wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist.

“Good boy,” I gasped.  I took a breath, but my job wasn’t near done.  I looked down at the boy hanging from my hand.  “Try not to move, okay?”

He nodded, biting his lip from the pain in his arms.

Slowly—very slowly—I began to lift him back towards me.  My muscles trembled dreadfully, but if I let go, he would suffer, and I would not let that happen.  Inch by inch he rose towards me, his eyes on my face the entire time.  I made cautious corrections to my balance and moved slowly so as not to jar either of the other children.

Suddenly the boy swung free of my hand, looping an arm around my waist.  I instinctively drew back, and just like that my balance was gone.  The crowd below shouted as we fell.

The impact snapped both of my kneecaps, and I crumpled to the ground with a cry, trying not to fall on the children.  The boys rolled free, coughing and crying, but both got to their feet without trouble.  They ran away through the crowd, calling for their mother above the tumult.

Alone for a moment, I laid the sleeping girl aside and bent over my injured legs.  Broken bones had to be set quickly or they would heal incorrectly.  I had learned that from experience, which had led to a lesson on how to break my own bones again.  Fortunately, that desperate measure was not necessary this time.

“There you are.”

I looked up through the smoky air to see my fireman friend coming to join me.  He knelt beside me and laid a hand on my shoulder.  I was glad that his hand was gloved—I didn’t want him to pull away from my icy skin.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.  “That was quite a fall.”

I rubbed my knees gingerly, grateful for the thick fabric of my pants.  There were burnt holes in them now, but at least he couldn’t see the livid bruises that would quickly fade.  “I’m fine,” I told him, picking up the unconscious child again and pushed to my feet.

“Careful,” he said, steadying me as I gasped in pain.  “You sure you’re all right?”

“Fine,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against his shoulder and closing my eyes.  Ice was still rushing through my legs, and the swelling was almost gone.

He didn’t believe me.  “Come on,” he said, his grip tightening on my arm.  “You should get checked out anyway.  So much smoke is bad for anyone.”  There was a flicker of doubt in his voice, as if perhaps I might be excluded from this.  But he didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer an explanation. 

As we walked away from the crumbling building, the adrenaline began to fade, allowing me to focus on my surroundings.  I could smell the smoky musk of the fireman, saw the nervous glances he gave me over his quick uncertain smile.  The crowd murmured nearby, and I saw several people craning their necks, trying to get a glimpse of me.  Their eyes made me twitchy, and I started to look for an escape.  Back to Goodson?  Or out into this terrifying world, which could be deadly even to me?  I didn’t know.

“There she is!”

I flinched, tensing as a man lunged into my space with a small machine in his hand.  My hand tightened into a fist by the little girl’s shoulder before I realized he was not holding a taser.

“Miss, how did you accomplish the incredible acts we saw today?” the man asked, pushing the little machine into my face.  I leaned away, my fingers trembling with the desire to flatten his greasy nose.

“Sir, you need to stand aside, please, these two need attention,” the fireman said in a way that showed faint displeasure.  He tried to guide me past the man.

“Just a few questions, miss, please!  What is your name?”

“Ava,” I whispered, ducking my head in hopes that he would go away.  The fireman put his arm around me and began to push the invasive man away.  But the skinny man resisted, and now more people were beginning to cluster forward curiously.

“Ava what?” the man demanded.

Journalist, I thought suddenly.  That’s the word for this irritating person.

“Fae,” I answered thoughtlessly, remembering the old stories Kessoli had told me.  I closed my eyes and cuddled the quiet little girl against my chest to stifle the loneliness.

“Make way, people, come on!”

“Miss Fae, is the little girl all right?”

I stopped, shuddering as I realized why the girl was so very quiet.  Suddenly I heard the shouting of the mother that I had been blocking out of my awareness.  She was struggling toward us from one side, the medics from the other, but both were too late. 

I had not been paying attention—perhaps the child had still been alive when we had landed.  I could have helped her.  I should have.  For a moment, everything went silent as blood roared in my ears.  I tipped back the small head to look into the girl’s face.  She was frowning faintly, her eyes closed.  I could almost believe that she was having a bad dream.

Someone close to me took a ragged breath.  I had never heard a sound of such absolute despair.  When I looked up at the mother, her face was blurred in colored, quivering light.  For an instant I was frightened; then I blinked and the tears began to fall.

I had not wept once in my memory.  It made my pain worse to know that this poor mother would hurt more than I ever had.  I had caused this pain.

I stepped forward and placed the small body into the woman’s arms, tears trickling down my face.  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, more sincerely than I had ever spoken before.  “I’m so sorry.”

She said nothing, made no sound as she took the child.  Her knees gave out and she fell to the ground, where her sons pressed against either side of her as she buried her face in her daughter’s neck.  I turned away from her stillness, wiping my eyes with very cold fingers.

“Here, come on.  This way.”

I followed the voice numbly, not bothering to guess who it was who had hold of my arm. I’d failed.

“Sit down, Miss Fae, let’s take a look at you.”

Blinking through the tears that I couldn’t stop, I looked at the man in the red jacket who handed me a bottle of water.  I stared down at it blankly as he and his partner began to examine me.  The wide-shouldered fireman stood behind them, a solid wall against the curious crowd.

“Unbelievable,” the medic muttered, prodding the burned holes in my clothing gently.  “You are the luckiest woman in the world.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head so that tears flew to both sides.

“Temperature is alarmingly low,” the woman told her partner in confusion, her fingers hot on my wrist.  “Shock, maybe?”

“No, I’m fine,” I said, pushing her hand away.  “It’s just my skin temperature.  It’s normal for me.”

“Hmm.”  She poked something under my tongue anyway.  “Hold that between your teeth.”

“Is everyone out, David?” the male medic asked.

“Every single one, and not a moment too soon,” the fireman answered.  He gestured to me.  “Thanks to this lady here.”

I spit the thermometer into the woman’s hand and wiped my eyes again.  “Please, it’s just Ava.”

“Normal,” the woman proclaimed, squinting at the reading on the thermometer.  She shifted her puzzled gaze to me, her eyes marveling.  “I’ll be damned if you aren’t the healthiest person I’ve ever met.”

“She’s different.  Special.”  David smiled encouragingly at me.  “And that’s what saved all those people today.”

“And killed one.”  I wrapped my arms around my chest.  My heart was picking up speed again, and my fingers twitched against my shoulders.  “I did nothing.”

“Nothing?  Tell that to the people you saved.  Tell that to the mother who still has two of her children thanks to you.”

“She should have had them all,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Miss Fae, from what I’ve seen today, if you couldn’t have saved her, no one else could have,” David said fervently.  “You did everything you could, and that makes you a heroine.”

“Don’t call me that!”

I bounded to my feet and leapt to the top of the ambulance, crouching there away from the foolishness of the humans.  Did none of them understand?

“I failed!” I screamed, my tears falling faster, blurring the startled faces that were turned up to me.  “All that came of my actions was pain and damage!  There is nothing good that I can do, nothing!”  I leaned over the edge of the vehicle, bending the steel under my fingers.  “Do you hear?  Noth—”

Had I been focused, I could have avoided the shot.  As it was, I attempted to twist away, but the bullet ripped through my right breast, shattering my breastbone and burying itself in my left shoulder blade.  The pain leapt into my mind with claws extended, hotter and angrier than the real flames.  My body spasming, I fell into screaming darkness and crashed into ice and iron.

Into the darkness echoed Goodson’s voice, sharp and clear and as loud as a world.  “Stand back, ladies and gentlemen!  Please, stand away!  She is highly unstable!”

“Highly unstable?”  A less familiar voice, filled with anger.  “You’re the one with the gun!  What the hell are you thinking?”

I was lying on the concrete, my whole body twisted in agony.  Ice was tearing through me as the nanos realigned ligaments and arteries, eating into the hard, cold knot in my back.

“I am thinking only of your safety, sir.  Ava is powerful and nearly uncontrollable.”

“So this is a way of controlling her?” David demanded.

It was pleasant to have a champion.  Kessoli was never so passionate for my sake.  I turned my head, learning that I now could.

“See for yourself, sir,” Goodson suggested smugly.  “You are not dealing with an average human.”

I opened my eyes to meet the gaze of every person within eyeshot.  Most of the crowd screamed as I sat up, grimacing and clutching my flaming chest.  My hand over the disappearing wound, I staggered to my feet, dizzy from the scent of the blood all down my chest and stomach.  I looked up and met David’s eyes.  His face was ghastly white as he stared at me in shock.

“No one could get up from a wound like that,” I heard the female medic mumble in frightened amazement.

In her element, Goodson sauntered forward, tucking the smoking pistol back into her bag.  “Tell them what you are, Ava,” she ordered me.  “Explain what they are seeing.”

She was punishing me.  I stood for a moment, learning how to breathe again, wondering if I deserved punishment.  I thought of the poor mother’s silent suffering, of the girl who would never again open her eyes.  Yes, probably I should be punished.

Goodson’s eyes tightened.  “Ava?”

I met David’s eyes, bracing myself.  “I am a metalblood,” I told him tonelessly, holding his astonished gaze.  “Chemically enhanced to be stronger, faster, and more sensitive than humans.  I am equipped with the ability to heal nearly instantly and an altered reaction to pain.  I was created to defend and protect, to do everything a human cannot or should not do.”  I shot a glance at Goodson and deviated from my script a bit.  “To be a mercenary, up for hire.”

Goodson’s lips thinned; then she smiled dangerously.  “You see how reckless she can be,” she told the crowd.  “Ava is the result of experimental procedures, and we are still working with her.”  She beckoned, and behind me I heard the clink of chains as Micah stepped out of the crowd.

David looked at Goodson.  “But she saved all of these people," he stammered.

“A beneficial result of her restlessness,” Goodson replied.  “Her next actions may not be so magnanimous.  And after all, her control leaves much to be desired.”

I hung my head, remembering the fragility of human bones under my fingers.  She was right.  I put my hands behind my back and felt Micah twine cold titanium chains around my wrists.

“You can say what you want.”  I looked up to see David balling his fists, his face determined.  “But whatever she is, whatever you did to her, it doesn’t change what she’s done.”

Goodson walked up to me and laid a hand on my head.  “How kind of you to say so,” she said to David.  “But I prefer to be realistic.”  She pulled my blindfold from her pocket.  “We’re going back to the labs now, Ava.  Shall we see if you can make it there without bolting?”

I didn’t say anything as she covered my eyes again.  Micah nudged me in the back and I walked forward, my back forcibly erect from the restraints.  I could hear the crowd shrinking away from the macabre sight I must have been, blood-stained and bound as I was.

Then there was a touch on my arm.  I turned my head towards David even as the rough cloth of his glove scraped across my skin.

It was a different pain that twisted through me at that moment, stronger and colder than any other as it shredded into my heart.  With it came the regular flare of heat, warming my entire body, but it didn’t fade as quickly as it always had.  “Thank you,” I whispered to him, hoping he heard.

There was no reply, and I turned my head away.  Staring straight into darkness, I walked through the path created for me by fear.  Then I was shunted into the car, out of sight of the world once more.

Excerpt: Mercenary Queen

Last week, I had a request from some of my classmates in my workshop to post a bit of—I suppose saga is the correct word to use—a saga that I’ve been working on for some time.  Here I am obeying that request.  This is a science fiction story, one which I am still exploring in the back of my mind.  Set far into the future, the story centers on a young woman, called Ava, who has been submitted against her will to an experimental lab.  In this lab, she became a metalblood: a human with enhanced physical strength and speed, heightened senses, and the ability to heal almost instantly through the use of nanobot technology.  Ava’s creator, Carolyn Goodson, would like to capitalize on the skills of Ava and the others who follow her, creating an industry much in demand in a chaotic world.  Goodson maintains control over the “mercenaries”, as they come to be called, by virtue of her knowledge of their needs, but it is a tenuous control and one that will soon break.  The only real question is when.

My focus in the story is Ava and her emotional state.  She does not remember who she was before the change, but she does remember how it was to be human, and it conflicts jarringly with who she is now.  The changes necessary to create a mercenary have certain mental side effects, including sadism and masochism, as well as a tendency to react on instinct.  Ava has difficulty accepting herself as she is and struggles daily to be a good person.  The story asks the question—and I don’t know if I have the answer—what does it really mean to be good?

Here is the first part of Ava’s “reaction”, her first appearance to the public.  I maintain that all of this is original, and I welcome any comments, questions, or suggestions.

Notes: Gehanna Nine is the central city of Ava's homeland.  It is called such because at one time it was a giant ship with nine decks where all the people of the city lived.  Now the nine levels are metaphorical, implying classes: One being the lowest class, Nine being the highest.

Elyssa is Ava’s only companion at this point, the second created mercenary.

     It was a very thick blindfold, folded over two or three times and covering the entire top half of my head.  My vision was completely blacked out, but in a way I was glad of it, even relieved.  For the first time I was leaving my prison in the labs, and all of my senses were warring for my attention.  Even through the bulletproof glass I could hear thousands upon thousands of strange voices shouting and laughing and arguing, their words blending together into the cacophony of car horns and sirens and footsteps and lift bells and dogs and birds and so many things that I could not recognize.  On the dry filtered air I smelled smoke and sweat and hot metal, tar and steel, as well as dozens of smells that made my mouth water.  The city called out to me, screaming in my ears and nose, and I shuddered, not knowing what to answer.

     I was uncomfortable enough as it was.  Rather than the forgiving stretch fabrics that they let me wear in the labs, I was clad in stiff blue pants and a slinky tunic which smelled funny and snatched at my shoulders when I moved.  My hair had been combed and tied back, the curls heavy on my neck.  They’d given me shoes, but I’d kicked them off: I’d have snapped the spindly things in seconds.

     Only my hands offered anything familiar for me to cling to.  Within the heavily tinted windows of the car, Goodson, Kessoli, and Micah were close enough to touch.  I held on to Kessoli’s hand, memorizing the layout of her bones, the smoothness of her palm.  Better than losing myself in the heady aura of Gehanna Nine.

     The car jolted over a bump and my grip tightened.  Kessoli cried out and struggled to free her hand.  I let her go and cringed back into my seat.  “Sorry, sorry,” I whispered.

     “It’s all right.  No broken bones.”  Still, I could hear the edge of pain in her voice.

     “Moderation, Ava,” Goodson reminded me primly.  “You must always be mindful of your strength near humans.”

     “Unless I’m supposed to crush them.  Am I right?”

     “Of course you must obey the wishes of our clients.”  She was smiling, I knew it.  As she spoke of human death at my hands, Goodson smiled.

     I leaned back in my seat and tugged experimentally at my chains.  Those were all too familiar, and no comfort to me.  Inch-thick and made of cold titanium, they twined around my wrists and arms several times, binding them together.  I could probably break them, but it would take some effort, and with Micah beside me, taser in hand, I didn’t want to risk it.

     "Nearly there,” Goodson hummed.  She reached out to toy with my hair, ignoring me when I flinched from her hand.  “They will be amazed by you, Ava.”

     “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who it is that will be amazed?”  Not that the name would mean anything to me, but I hated her secrecy.  What difference did it make?

     “You’ll see soon enough.”  She laughed.

     I hunched my shoulders and longed for Elyssa with every bit of energy I had.  I couldn’t crush her fingers.  She would comfort me, remind me that I was not alone.  But while she was progressing fast through her training—almost as quickly as I had—she wasn’t ready to meet the public.  I was on my own.

     The car, already moving slowly, decelerated further, coming to a near standstill.  Aroused by curiosity, I straightened as Goodson slid open the little window in the division that hid us—well, me—from the driver.  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

     “Don’t know, ma’am,” the driver answered, his voice muffled.  “Traffic’s backed up pretty far.  Something going on up ahead.”

     “Well, then, take a different route.  We have an appointment that we cannot miss, as I told you.”

     “The only other route through is Level Two, ma’am, and I don’t want any trouble.  I could go around, if you’d like—”

     “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, that would take hours!”  Goodson slammed the window shut and sat back, huffing irritably.

     “I wonder what’s going on,” Kessoli murmured.

     I closed my eyes, though it made not a whit of difference under the blindfold, and listened.  Far ahead I could hear crackling noises, and the smell of smoke wafted faintly in, stronger than any other scent.  Loud voices were shouting, and sirens droned from far away.

     “I think it’s a fire,” I said slowly.  “But a huge one—larger than the labs.”  It was so strange—why start a fire so large?

     There was a stiff silence.  Then the door opened, and Goodson called out to someone, beginning to question him.  Through the open door, the noise and smells streamed around me.  I hadn’t thought they could get stronger, but now it was difficult to focus.

     I heard Kessoli murmuring to herself—praying for protection for someone.  She was worried—I could hear her heartbeat quicken.  Were we in danger?  I tensed, ready to fight though I knew I had nothing to fear.

     “What is it?” I asked Kessoli in a low voice.  “What are they burning?”

     Kessoli didn’t answer for a moment; I guessed that she was staring at me.  “Ava,” she said in a low voice, “no one started this fire on purpose.”

     “What?”  For a moment, I didn’t comprehend what she was saying.

     Then a scream arced through the air, and I understood far too well.  Wherever the fire was, whatever its cause, there were people inside it.

     I remembered the blistering white heat of flames on my skin, the fear as I felt hungry fire devour me.  Pain and terror were both familiar to me, and now innocent people were becoming familiar with it as well.

     My chains snapped far more easily than I had expected.  Before Micah could move I was out of the car, startling a group of young voices who cried out at my appearance.  I straightened up and dragged off the blindfold.

     For a moment, I thought it was a mistake.  Light pierced my eyes, reflecting from metal and glass all around me.  The buildings loomed oppressively overhead, but between them I could see a small piece of empty blue air.  Nearby there were humans, two men in suits, a lady and a dog, and a group of teenagers, all gaping at me, and beyond them were others, dozens and hundreds and thousands of others.  The sensations and emotions of freedom nearly crippled me in that moment.

     “Quickly, Micah!” Goodson cried.

     I dodged Micah’s taser by a bare inch, swinging around a street light to escape him.  He came at me again and I leapt up to catch the neck of the lamp.  I swung myself up and perched on the curved lamp, chains dangling from my wrists.  Several people below me shrieked, and I wasn’t surprised.  I was a monster, after all.

     Or perhaps not.

     I froze for an instant as a new and shocking idea struck me like cold steel.  Perhaps I could do something to help, something that no one else could.  Maybe these suffering people would be saved because I was what I had become.

     This thought, this instinctive hope was what drove me forward.  I leapt from my slender perch to the top of a delivery pod and made my own path down the crowded street over the roofs of cars.  I could hear the reactions of those watching from the sidewalk and within the cars, but my focus was on the sound of the fire: the crackling roar, the shouts of fear, and the occasional painful scream.  I drove myself on, elated by the thought of the people who needed me.

     The street curved, and so as I went the flames came into view, entwined around a tall apartment building.  Bright yellow vehicles circled the inferno, and men swathed in protective clothing shot streams of water into the maw of the burning building.  Civilians clustered in the street anxiously, blocking my path.

     Pausing atop a blue van, I scanned the surrounding buildings.  To the right of my target was a larger building with small balconies on each floor.  They’ll do, I thought, grinning.

     "Hey!  What are you doing up there?”

     I was already in the air, ignoring the gasps and cries of shock.  From the van I swung onto the rod supporting the traffic lights.  Running along it, I bent my knees and jumped, higher, farther than any human could have done.  Seizing the base of a railing, I hurled myself around and over onto the balcony.  There was an open window to the burning building only a few feet away—it was a sign, a promise.  Laughing, I threw myself into the fire.

     It curled around me like an embrace, sharp, hotter than a human’s pulse.  The answering rush of the nanos within me felt good, transforming me into a column of ice, unmovable despite the force of the flame.

     There was a crash within the roar, and someone shrieked.  Focus, I told myself sternly, even as my heart shivered with delight.  There was work to be done.

     I made my way swiftly through the fire, following the scent of human sweat and fear.  The smoke made it difficult, which only pumped the adrenaline faster.  I’d never had a challenge before.

     There was no one on the floor where I had entered, but the two below were full of people.  Were they trying to get themselves killed?  I shook my head, baring my teeth as I leapt into the gap between the stairs.  I would save them—I knew I would.

     I can imagine how I looked—a slim, small figure falling out of the smoke, burns rippling across my skin like living things.  Someone shouted in surprise, and I turned with a grin to see one of the firemen, shadows playing over his face.

     “How many people are still in the building?” I asked him.

     He stared at me through his mask, frozen in the act of pulling a beam off an unconscious man’s leg.  Then he shook his head and frowned.  “You shouldn’t be in here!” he shouted, beginning to haul on the beam again.  “Hurry, get out!”

     His voice was very loud, even over the roar of the flames.  It made me realize that he hadn’t heard me, and his weak senses must have seen only a slight oddness in me, not the drastic contrast that was between us.  My grin widened.

     I reached down and buried my fingers into the wood of the beam.  The fireman shouted as I lifted the broken beam with one hand and tossed it away.  Then I picked up the injured man with one arm, lifted the fireman in the other, and dashed to the nearest exit.

     Out in the open air, I gently set the unconscious man on the ground.  There was silence around me as I straightened and turned.  My fireman friend had torn off his helmet and mask and was staring at me as if he had never seen anything like me before.  Likely he hadn’t.

     “How many people are inside?” I asked again.

     He and dozens of others stared at me, taking in the broken chains dangling from my wrists, my singed clothing and unmarked skin.  Under their unnerving scrutiny, my spine straightened and my fingers curled.

     “How did you get in there?” the fireman asked breathlessly.

     I took a step back, clenching my hands around the cool metal of my chains.  “Through the window,” I answered, keeping my voice from shaking.  “Third floor.”

     “What—”

     An explosion deafened me, and black smoke leapt from the windows above, sending hot glass raining down on us.  I heard screaming from inside and outside the building, testimony of suffering and fear.

     “How many?” I cried, tensing to leap.

     “Nine!” the fireman answered.

     I was in the air, driving my hands into the stone, clambering up to one of the windows.  “Get your people out!” I cried down to him, and dove through a window.

     Glass bit into my skin, but I ignored the sharp heat of pain.  I could hear the building beginning to crumble around me and knew that I had only minutes.  I followed the sound of heartbeats, leaping through the roar of an orange and gray torment.  There were two people on this floor—I could hear them talking to one another in fear-soaked tones.  Darting through a crumpling wall, I found them, a man who was shielding his wife from the falling embers.  She was the first to see me, and she screamed.

     My heart sank—I could imagine what they must be seeing—but there was no time to reassure them.  The ceiling was breaking up, splinters leaping from the thick beams.  One of the beams snapped, and I leapt to meet it in midair.

     Wood plunged into my fingers, raining down on my head and shoulders.  Deflected, the beam struck the stone wall with a force that made the room shudder.  Hands bleeding and full of ice, I seized both man and woman and dragged them out of the room.

     The woman would not stop screaming.  Breathing hard, I looked back and saw her uselessly pulling to be free of my grasp.  With a gut-sinking horror, I realized that I had broken her arm.  I released her immediately.  Abruptly I recognized my wild excitement for what it was, the recklessness of an adrenaline high, and I was sickened.  There was death in this place, and it could easily be waiting to use me as its instrument.

     A small explosion shook the floor and sent plumes of black smoke through the air.  I clenched my hands, healed now, into fists.  I had to focus.  “Forgive me,” I shouted, too loud for my own ears, and I snatched them up again, struggling to balance speed and gentility as we fled.

     Somehow, I found the stairs before they collapsed, with both of my captives shouting and struggling against my hold.  I nearly dropped the man once, afraid to grip too tightly.  I growled under my breath, cursing Goodson for thinking more of my strength than my control as I leapt out a window into clearer air.

     It was a relief to see my fireman, standing next to a man who was obviously his leader.  More firemen stood around, being bandaged or given oxygen.  I laid my burdens down next to a stunned medic, too busy counting to notice his stares.

     Four fireman covered in soot aside from the one I’d pulled out.  Two more people made six, which left three still inside—

     A shrill scream sounded, not from the building.  I turned and saw a young woman struggling in the arms of a fireman.  She seemed to be fighting to go back in, into that place of agony and fear.

     Had I really once been a human?  I could not understand them at all.

     “You can’t go back!” the fireman cried, restraining her as she fought.  “That building is going down any second!”

     “My children!” she screeched, beyond hearing.  “My children are in there, let me go!”

     Children.

     The word struck a chord within me.  Children…small, delicate…vibrant, lively, beautiful…screaming.  Hurting.

     I remembered children.  Somehow, from an ended life, I remembered children.

     I ran through the crowd, trying to ignore those who cringed back from my swift passage.  “Where are they?” I asked the woman, ready for her answer.

     She looked at me, half-seeing me, eyes overflowing.  Crying.  I couldn’t remember having ever cried, though I had wanted to.

     “On the third floor,” she whispered.  “Please help them.  Please.”

     I turned, tensing to leap as I looked up at the fire.

     “Whoa, hold up!”

     A hand wrapped around my arm, squeezing tightly.  I stopped and looked back at the fireman coldly, adrenaline pumping through me again as the scent of challenge touched me.  I fought it back, knowing that if I jerked free of this strong man, I would break his fingers.

     "Release me,” I said, fixing him with my gaze.

     “What’s going on here?”  The leader had arrived, and with him came the fireman I had helped.  His eyes stayed on me, wary and curious.

     “You have to save my children,” the woman gasped, throwing herself at the leader.  “You have to save them, they’re dying!”

      The man closed his eyes.  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but the fire’s too far gone.  We can’t risk anyone else.”

     “You can risk me,” I insisted, tugging—gently—to be free.  “Let me go!”

     “You’ll die in there!” my captor snapped.

     I looked at the man who had stood with me among the flames.  “You know,” I said to him.  “You know that I am different.  I won’t die.” 

     He stared at me for four long seconds, his eyes narrowed.  Then his eyes shifted.

     “Let her go, Kyle,” he said.

     My heart jumped, and I grinned at him.  He took a step back, but that might have been a reaction to my sudden leap as his friend released me.  Free, I vanished into the fire, leaving them behind in safety.

Next part tomorrow!