RACHEL'S BEEN SITED

Archive for the month “February, 2014”

A Meditation on God – Prose

            I sometimes wonder if there was a time before.  Before that great, damning pen swept over us, dictating our shape, our words, our lives.  Our world.

            Did we exist before?  Was there a childhood, an ancestry?  Did I have a grandmother, that kind eyed, flutter-winged woman whose dying words left me, and not my cruel stepfather, in control of this struggling country?  Or is that all she ever was, a memory?  Does it even matter, now that she’s gone?

            All we have, all we know, all that is… is what is.  To think too hard otherwise would only lead us into madness.  Especially in this world we must adapt to living in.

            Imagine for a moment what it must be like to be us.  You went and created us — or, perhaps, took control.  You play with our lives, pull heartstrings, on a whim.  Maybe that’s life.  But most lives, I hope, are better formed.

            My name is Aria.  Sometimes Aerya.  I think, once, I was Song.  I change with your mood, but don’t think I don’t remember.  We all remember.  And we play your script like puppets, in the moment believing, I’m sure, every word you put in our mouths.  But we remember.  I remember, for instance, Christophe.  My love.  My future husband, object of my undying passion, who existed but a day before he faded out, forgotten.  You’ve forgotten, that is.  Not I.  Sometimes I wish I could forget him, that you’ll go back one day and notice, scratch him out, keep him from existing at all.

            To live for a day must be crueler than to have never existed at all.

An excerpt of a dramacomedic fiction about a set of characters becoming self-aware of their less than consistent creator.  The poem inspiring the story (or was it the story that inspired the poem?) can be read HERE.

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A Meditation On God By Her Ink-Spattered Works

A Meditation on God
By Her Ink-Spattered Works

She carved me with ink, with pressure of pen.
Shaped me in smooth strokes, careful arches.
Streaks of sentience and decisive jabs of
completed thought.
Cut me into this world of white,
lines of blue.
I exist on her whim. Every step is hers
to shape.
How can I not love her?

Hate her.

Her clumsy words
clumsy and cruel,
shaped stumbling feet. This malformed nose on a
malformed face.

Was it ignorance that wrote me so?
Ineptitude?
I think I halfway hope so. It makes her
kinder, somehow.
More worthy of my love.

A bumbling queen, well-meaning but inevitably unable to
form me, to
shapemecarveme

create me
into the flawless creature first born in her mind.
That she couldn’t help but try and capture in ink.
And failed.

This weakness I could understand.
Forgive.

But no. No, I think…
she does know.

I remember, once, a time when my nose was straight.

No one else does, of course.
That day is long past.
Scratched from existence, buried under
black lines and angry swirls, replaced with this
Bent
Battered
Broken
Thing.         
The result of an accident, vague and undetermined,
some time in my unexplored past.

And I know it, I know
(though I can’t name how
or why)
that being broken is what broke me.

There was a time when I wasn’t broken.
When she had it right.

So why?

A wordless cry
(of course wordless. No words can be formed without her consent.)
Silent plea, silent request
silent demand:
Explain.
Explain.

I know that you’re watching.
Know that you shaped me.
Malformed face in a
malformed life.

Do you know what you created?
Read through the lines.
Off-key dialogue, stumbling words
(stumbling feet, stumbling world.)
Do you know what you created?
Past smooth, curving U’s,
Bent B’s
The occasional, ugly,
angry X.

Do you know what you created?
Did you shape my bitter soul, too?

An excerpt from the story inspired by this poem can be found HERE.

When the Giants Dined Out…

When the giants dined out (as giants often do – it’s remarkable how quickly they run through even the food stored in their twenty-foot stone refrigerators) they preferred to go to the beach.

“Baked, seasoned meals,” they would chortle as they crouched at the edges of the sand like mossy boulders, awaiting their food.

In front of them, the blissfully ignorant vacationers lay tanning their skins golden brown, or swam and splashed in the salty water.

“And best of all, no work.  The meals prepare themselves.”


Thanks to the Cayman beaches, the salty ocean, and the very brown tanners for inspiration.

sunset

Echoes in Solitude

If you’ve followed me long enough to wonder about the title (“Hey, didn’t she already post a piece called ‘Echoes’? Man, how uncreative.”) — this piece, had the story been completed, would have taken place in the same universe as my original “Echoes” post HERE.  As things stand, nothing directly connects the two scenes, and each can be enjoyed independently of the other.

Echoes

            The house had been silent for nearly three weeks, now.  To Rea Hayes, its only occupant, it had felt like much longer.

            Only occupant… She allowed the words to settle over her, and shuddered.

            Unwashed laundry had begun to pile up in the corner behind the kitchen – work things, mostly.  Somehow, when she came home she always ended up in the same old oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at the blank TV screen, her tray table a line of phones. Read more…

Destiny – A Drabble

            The idea of destiny is such a feeble one in modern society.  Most see it as a set of startling and remarkable circumstances foretold by a ranting madwoman, based on visions she’d glimpsed in a bowl or a piece of clear stone.

            I’d like to say that the truth is nothing quite so mundane, but it is, strangely, just the opposite.  Destiny is in the details: the most inconsequential of moments, the offhand notions, the half-formed ideas that make up the very core of who you are as a person.  You will fight, run, help or harm in a given situation; you have no choice.  But your call to arms, your fated path, is defined by nothing less than your own identity.  There is a reason why you can never fight destiny: because, in the end, you have no reason to want to.

JK Rowling and the Public Denouncement

hrstareSeven years after the release of the final book, Harry Potter‘s JK Rowling denounced the canon pairing of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger in an interview conducted by the films’ own Hermione, Emma Watson.  (Read Here or just Google it for fan reactions.)

Now, an author looking back over a body of work and wishing she’d done things differently definitely isn’t a problem, or even really newsworthy – there’s always that one scene, line, or decision you wish you’d handled differently, and I’ve written enough of my own fiction to know that a first try (or even a 10th) might still not end up being the story you’re trying to tell.  What’s so strange in this case is that JK is basically stating that she wants to alter a major subplot that existed throughout the majority of the series. Read more…

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