Halloween Story: The Wicked Witch's reform - Part I

So, I'm finally posting something, yay! After dealing with creativity issues this past week, I finally managed to write the first part of the story. Hopefully by tomorrow I finish writing the rest of the story. And then I will be able to post about two ideas I got this past week.

Crimson Amanda changes her colour

She lounged leaning her head on her sculpted wooden throne, covering her face with her wrinkled hands. Lately, she suffered nothing but failure in anything she did. What could have happened to strengthen those people so badly that they actually resisted her plans?

“Madam Amanda”, a squeaky voice echoed throughout the imposing gothic room.

 She turned her head towards the large wooden door on which two golden dragons moved aimlessly. A short man stood in front of the doors, staring at her intently, the sheer size of his surroundings making him seem even more insignificant. But the woman called Amanda knew better than to underestimate her right hand.

“What is it, Dwarf? Is there anything so urgent that it warrants interrupting the thoughts of Her Wickedness Wicked Witch Amanda?” she said with a cold voice.

“Maybe not, Madam Amanda, but I thought I should announce you that by tomorrow every servant will have left you. I hope you understand that we must take care of our lives and our families and the work under you has become too dangerous. The rest wanted to leave without announcing you, but I have been your faithful servant for over 20 years and I felt I owed you at least that.” the man said in an even voice, sometimes his eyes glittering with tears.

“Well, if that is your decision, don’t expect me to hold you here against your will. But don’t expect me to go easy on you out there either. Once you left me, you’re fair game, I hope this is very clear to everybody,” Amanda said in a calculated cold voice, while pretending to gaze through the open window.

“I hope it’s not a threat, Miss Amanda, for if it is, I wish to declare that I’d rather die than spend another minute in this cursed castle! There is nothing you can do about it. You may turn me into a snail, if you wish. Or even a fish, if that is your desire, and then leave me to rot next to your throne. But nothing can deter my desire to leave. Even death is better than spending another day here,” the man argued passionately, his rough hands rumpled the dirty cloth that used to be a shirt.

“Well, death would be against the reason stated for your departure, wouldn’t it? You yourself said everybody wanted to leave because my business became too dangerous. Why the sudden change in character? What am I missing, Dwarf? What is it that has you leaving?” Amanda said in an even voice, reaching slowly for a pair of silver-studded crimson high-heels she kept near her seat. She could see with the corner of her eye how the short man shifted his weight form one foot to another, his whole silhouette suddenly becoming the very emblem of embarrassment. “Dwarf, I already said I won’t be doing anything in particular to those who leave me,” she reassured him while putting on her shoes.

“Truth is, Madam, that your evil actions no longer deliver the rewards that would warrant your attitude towards us. In reality, I’m leaving because I think I can be a more powerful evil influence than you. Most servants believe that your constant weakening would soon lead to your final defeat in the hands of the more and more powerful heroes.”

“Oh. I see,” Amanda replied walking slowly towards the man. “So I am not evil enough? Crimson Amanda is not evil enough for your liking, Dwarf?” she whispered menacingly. Dwarf stepped back, trying to escape the witch, but with one wave of her hand, the golden dragons stopped their movement and the doors slammed shut.

“You will not intimidate me, Witch. Your regime of terror only made us stronger and more eager to fight you. The time has come to admit that your approach has become obsolete,” the short man said, trying to keep his voice from showing the amount of terror he felt. “I shall fight you if that is what you wish, Crimson Woman.”

“Fight me? It would appear that you consider you developed immunity to my magic. Would you like to test this theory of yours? For example, if I transformed you into a slug, to drag your body slimily across the floor, letting the rest know that Amanda is not the woman to be underestimated,” she said kneeling in order to stare into the eyes of her interlocutor.

 The fear in the man’s heart defeated his willpower, so a salty drop of water fell from one of his eyes. He wanted to ask her for forgiveness, but his pride made his lips stay still. He could feel her breath, the rustle of her clothes caused by her moving hands, the silent whispers. He knew he had no chance from the beginning, but he had gained time for the rest of the servants to leave, since were she to realise that they were abandoning her, Amanda would have punished everybody severely. This way, it was only him taking the punishment, letting enough time for the rest to arrive to a safe place, away from the witch’s influence.

Suddenly, Amanda stopped. She walked slowly back to her seat and as she sat, the doors opened wide, the dragons moving more feverishly than before, as if to express their happiness for being able to move again. The little man was looking at himself bewilderedly. He seemed unchanged.

“Dwarf, you are not my opponent. Make sure you stay that way. But don’t kid yourself, self-sacrifice makes no one evil” she added, looking at him. He understood and left the room.

            Amanda was all alone in the huge manor. Hours ago, she watched Dwarf’s departure from the window, afraid she might show how much she would miss him if she led him outside, and since then, she hadn’t moved one bit. Since the beginning of her career wasn’t she without any aid. She remembered that after the servants realised it was she who caused the death of their master, her husband, they had all left her. For three days straight she didn’t realise she was all alone, having locked herself in the library to study her husband’s collection of magic books. It was then that she decided that, in order to survive, she must become wicked. Everybody already hated her because she was a witch; why not take advantage of her talent?

            As a result, she sent sleep potions to every beautiful princess in the kingdom, along with a letter stating that a ransom must be offered for awakening the fair maidens. Some kings sent heroes to her manor, while others sent entire armies to extract the antidote. Only one gave her the money she demanded. In the antidote, Amanda mixed as a token of gratitude a beauty potion, for when the maiden awoke to be more beautiful than any other princess. Unfortunately, the two potions reacted with each other, making the princess more beautiful than any other in the kingdom, but only able to be awoken by the kiss of her true love. Saddened by this turn of events, the king swore vengeance on the inexperienced witch. The woman was still able to outwit both armies and heroes, mixing her mind-control potions in the drinks of nearby inns. She then sent the mind-controlled armies against the kings until they agreed to pay her a higher sum. Shortly after, Amanda had enough money to live her life surrounded by potions and spell books. But that was no longer her goal. She hired henchmen and servants through them did more and more elaborate schemes in order to get money. She even stole the sun and the moon several times. Once said sum of money was paid, she offered the hero information on the weakness of the one guarding the treasure, making them believe that they had killed their opponent, while she teleported her servant them to a remote corner of the world, thus honouring her promise and removing any one who knew her identity. Using others to do her bidding, Amanda kept herself and her faithful servants away from the spotlight, fewer and fewer people knowing that there was a mastermind behind most evil deeds happening in the land.

            But steadily, the kings and princes started to no longer pay for information on the weaknesses of the henchmen, relying in stead on the increasingly smarter and stronger heroes and heroines. Even other witches started joining the ranks of the good people. In the past months she tried controlling the mind of a king in order to appear that he had gone insane, to facilitate her offering to cure him later, but the scheme had fallen when a healer removed her spell recently. It was this event that made her loyal servants doubt her. If she no longer could do as much as control the mind of a king, there was no guarantee that she could continue to set her henchmen free from the prisons the good guys set them in.

            What had made them so strong? Did Amelia herself become soft? After all, she didn’t keep Dwarf by her side, even though it could have been so easy. However, she didn’t change at all. Maybe that’s what she did wrong: she did the same schemes over and over again. But she didn’t. As soon as she saw a plan was becoming obsolete, she found something else. But now, no matter what she concocted, she was defeated even before registering her first success.

            Why did her opponents become so strong? Why were they stronger than when she first found them, and not weaker, as they should have been after being drained of time and resources for so many years? It was only natural for her, the victor, to be growing stronger. But had she truly grown stronger since she started hiring henchmen? She felt so powerless after they left. Every plan Amanda could think of involved at least one helping hand, a commodity she no longer possessed.

            “That’s it!” Amanda thought out loud, rising herself from her seat. “I grew weaker as I had people to act my plans in stead of me. They grew stronger as they had no one to rely on. I thought I was evil, but I was in fact a good influence on them, helping them grow stronger. Now that I think about it, the kingdoms that fought constantly against me are the ones who have flourished since I started my career, while those I had no interest in or actively aided are now subdued by them. It would appear that I trained them without knowledge. As a result, I was good. The Wicked Witch Amanda was in fact the Good Witch Glinda. Now this is a thought to dread.”

            Amanda, in her rush to confirm her thoughts ran to the observation room, where she held information on all kingdoms, ignoring the cold feeling of her bare feet on the black marble floor. “I’m actually Glinda. But is Glinda actually me?” She continued to ask herself while taking out papers, files and letters from all corners of the room. “Well, maybe it is true. The countries she supports and defends are the weakest in the land. And each and every battle they fought while she was away ended in their defeat. While most have enough resources to build an army or defence systems to keep away even the strongest enemies they refuse to do so, relying solely on the good witch,” she concluded, seating herself on one of the imposing chairs at a large table. The observation room used to be the dining room, before she deemed it useless since she had no one to invite, so she had it transformed to the room where she unveiled her plans. “This is interesting,” Amanda mumbled while taking out a used piece of paper with a table that had numbers and names. She compared it with other papers spread across the large table. “After every great hero’s defeat, the kingdoms they served proved to be weaker than their counterparts. Same goes with highly intelligent or deeply devoted rulers. Look, when the leader left in a long quest, most of the time someone wicked seized the power, the resistance of the people being insignificant. Maybe this is it: good makes people weak, while evil makes them strong.”

            The witch rose suddenly from her seat. Everything became as clear as day. She had been living a lie.

            “Evil is good and good is evil,” she repeated endlessly as she dashed to the potion room, all the way to the other end of the manor. There she began brewing several potions at the same time. “Naturally. I have never been evil. I was always good: I helped people achieve their dreams of strengthening their spirit and their soul. The Crimson Witch was all a lie. Sure, there was my late husband, but I’m sure that he was happier when he died than most of his servants. What do you think, Dwarf?” she asked, while looking over her shoulder. Realising she was all alone, she focused on brewing potions quietly. In order to prove she was still the most intelligent witch in the realm, she had to drastically change her public image. 

Halloween post: Thought process and delay

You know how I promised you a Halloween-themed story this week? Unfortunately I don't have it done, but not due to laziness. I just couldn't answer my own questions.
Here is a record of the thought process that has led 2 days ago to a coherent summary:
Why did the Wicked witch become bad?
Love? Too typical. The story of a villain reforming due to love has been done and re-done for so many times it is unoriginal and uninteresting.
Loneliness? I use that too much in my stories. Besides, loneliness is a good reason for turning evil, but not good.
........ umm... what else?
No reason? That would be good, giving me a good chance to build a random character. One of those fascinating, unpredictible characters.
.... I don't have a proper action. What could be?
I know! Good is bad and bad is good. Wait, what? Yes. The witch came to realise that what she believed is evil is actually good, so she reasons that what she believed is good is actually the real evil. What about that?
. . .  Still, I need a summary. I have no idea. Let me start writing and see where I end up. Ah, a 15 lines about how lonely she is. When did I even come up with Amanda? Did my subconscious watch Diagnosis Murder again?
Okay, okay, Let's see...
So Amanda is evil and a witch. What does she do?
She kidnaps royalties for ransom. She casts spells to her benefit. She mistreats her underlings.
But what's the normal consequence? Do they admit their defeat? Most likely they become stronger and tougher to win against. So Amanda realises she's actually helped them.
Now what?
How does she reform?
What will she do?
Will my story have an actual plot?
I almost have an answer to these questions, but to find out, wait until I finally manage to finish writing the actual story. Definitely before Saint Andrew's Day, for which I'm planning supernatural posts and a story with vampires, undead, witches, maybe ghosts... (which I'll start writing with more than 4 days before the deadline...)
Any way, to find out Amanda's story, join me next week, either on Tuesday or on Thursday.

Lots of "blah blah blah"s and the wicked witch's reform

Ahhhh, it's that time of the week again! The time I recap all of the ideas I came up with throughout the week and cross out those who are either too similar to those already posted or are too full of my robot delusions and realise I've got nothing to post. Yeah. This week I'll refrain from posting another story, mainly because I would have to finish one to post it and I also want to post a Halloween story I've got no ideas for. (So, tune in next week to see what I come up with to conceal the fact that I've got no idea what I'm writing!) And did I mention it's 2:28 a.m. here? And that I have to be up at 6? ...
What's with the long and pointless introduction again, you may ask. If not, I've got my Imaginary readers handling the asking of uncomfortable and/or obvious questions. In case you're wondering, my Imaginary readers are some really annoying voices I come up with after asking myself how can my words be misinterpreted. To answer your question, that long introduction serves the same purpose as this paragraph: to distract you from the fact that I've got no idea what to write. Actually, the only certitudes I have are the fact that I really need sleep and the fact that I have to come up with something really awesome next week to make up for today's this month's laziness. Well, I guess we'll have robot ghosts then. How about this: a tale about the wicked witch wishing to reform herself. By "wicked witch" I refer to the archetypal evil sorceress in fairy-tales: knows various spells, is creative, envious, controlled by an unexplainable grudge against the main character of the story and usually has a repulsive physique to match with the soul. What could lead her to reform? What feelings does the wicked witch have before and after? How does she atone for her wrongdoings? Does she manage to atone for them? Does the others' perception of her change?
I'll post next week my take on this story. As always, I'm looking froward to receiving feedback from you. There's a limit to how much my Imaginary readers can stand my writing.

No character traits

Sorry about the delay of this week's post. Before accusing me of being lazy, please allow me to say that I am that I've been trying to continue the robot-free streak I've been on. Moreover, the post I'm trying to write has undergone tens of changes, in my feeble attempt to convey the proper message since, no matter how many times I wrote it or re-phrased it, it ended up meaning a completely different thing altogether. In the end I gave up and posted the most recent version of it.

All characters have at least one trait, even if it's not mentioned specifically. As long as they do, think, say something, a trait will stem from there. Even in stories featuring otherwise mindless creatures, such as zombies, the character around which the action is centred must have a trait: be it that they're compassionate, merciless, active, humorous, they must have something that drives them through the story.

As a result, I was wondering whether it would be possible to write a story where the main character has no traits. Just like the woman in "B.D. în alertă" :„nici tânără, nici bătrână, nici înaltă, nici scundă, nici grasă, nici slabă” ("neither young, nor old, neither tall, nor short, neither fat nor thin"), they can't be defined by anything. I've spent months thinking whether there was already a type of character like this. After all, zombies are supposed to be mindless and robots are supposed to be soulless. However, in all stories I've come across, main character zombies had to have even an ounce of brain or soul and robots, although cold and soulless, were programmed to do actions that were either immoral and/or cruel or empathic and/or helpful. 
Would a main character that can't be defined through anything be dull? Would they be mysterious? Isn't being mysterious a trait in itself? How can it be avoided? Would it be possible to make a captivating story even with such a character?

Guest Story! Trapped

You know how the last posts have been about a writing contests and the ideas for it? And how I mentioned that usually when I write on a topic, I write it because I have agreed to write with a friend to both write on that very topic? And how that practice gave me the idea for this blog? Well, now I have the great pleasure to post one of the writings of that very dear friend of mine:

Trapped

by Alexandra (TooCloseToTheEdge)     

“I am here! Look at ME! Stop talking to this body! I am here!” I keep shouting at my sister while she is talking to me. She will not. She cannot hear me. Little did she know about the girl in front of her, the one she is calling Anaïs. It is my name. It is me. We are the same; the body and me. Yet so different. I have not been myself since the accident.

            It happened almost 4 years ago, only a few days apart from Christmas. We were getting home, my sister and I, after a great funny evening spent in search for the perfect presents for our parents, my boyfriend and several relatives that we usually get to see only once a year, as well as the friends that we were going to spend the Christmas with. Almost home, with all the presents packed and neatly arranged on the back seat, singing along with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby’s carols hearing from the old radio, only a moment was needed for Brigitte to look away. It felt almost like a flashback; a bright intense light hurt my eyes, then the loud sound of the truck’s honk warning us that we are way too close to it and then blank. I vaguely remember hearing my sister shouting for help and a man running to our car.

            As I understood later, the accident must have been terrible, for my body was very close to shutting itself down. The day I was aware of what was happening around was the happiest in my life, even though the realization that I may never be able to walk again scared me to death. Ironic, isn’t it? From what I knew, it was 24 December. I will remember this day for the rest of my life. The first thing that I hear after waking up is the sweet terribly worried voice of my mom. I understand that we are in a hospital, as many medical terms flow and fill the space in the room, until they reach my ears. It seems that they do not know that I am able to hear them. The term paralysis hits me. As the doctor explains further, I feel lighter and lighter, my chest squeezing, slowly loosing the connection with my body. I feel like I am backing off, going in the depth of my brain, a dark silent place where nothing and no one was present. I am even more scared. I feel my heart pumping more blood, faster and faster trying to make its way to my brain. Everything is spinning. The dark space extends and then contracts itself at the same time with the rapid irregular beats. I cannot breathe. The doctor’s fast precise reactions save my life. She puts an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and starts counting. At first, the counting seems repeatedly chaotic, but soon enough I understand that she is only trying to save my life, pressing on my chest in order to make my heart beat again. As she does so a few times, the monitor to which I am connected starts to beep regularly, making the annoying prolonged sound disappear. I see myself waking up. What was happening, though? It does not make sense. I wake up, yet I am standing here alone, in this dark somber place from where I cannot come out. After a few tries, I did it. My eyes are wide-open and the panic starts to vanish as I start to get used to the diffuse light in the room.

            “Welcome back”, the doctor says and as I slowly open my eyes, I hear myself speaking with a scared precipitated voice that I do not recognize as myself:

            “Where am I? What had happened to me?”

            “Let’s send her to a CT scan”, they announce after a moment of silence that seemed incredibly long. My bed is being moved, slowly, to the CT room. I am terrified. In the end, what can go wrong? Many people have to go through this many times while they are hospitalized. Why would my experience be different? Then, I black out. Again. But this time, it is different. Instead of that huge black space, I find myself standing in the middle of an astonishingly beautiful glade. I can hear the thrills of the birds, as well as smell the perfume of hundreds of all sorts of flowers; from the tiny blue forget-me-not, to a lane of poppy flowers, my senses are flooded with an amalgam of smells and colors that started mixing, making me believe for what I thought was only a blink of an eye, that I am a synesthete.

            “Anaïs ! Anaïs ! What is wrong? Please, somebody call a doctor!” my sister shouts in despair while pressing the emergency button. It is only then that I see the tube coming out of my trachea, and by the time the doctors came in a rush to take it out, I was having a seizure.

            The doctors started talking to my sister as I was starting to breathe on my own. I was mistaken. They did not take it out. What they did do actually was to change the medication that was now going to float in my blood, through my veins, making me fall asleep again. The next minute, my sense of hearing felt distorted and the speech sounded muffled, but I was able to understand what they were talking, as I was lip-reading.

            “Mademoiselle, I am afraid that your sister will not be able to move anymore.”

She turned to her left, where my mother was sitting, to wake her up. Then, they showed a scan. The CT scan I had only a few hours ago, I think. “As you can see here, the doctor was pointing the right side of the brain; the hemorrhaging was greater than on the other side. Now, if we take a look on this, you can see the extension of the hemorrhage to the inferior midbrain and into the left side.” My sister was crying. So was my mother. I wanted to talk, but no word would come out. Then, it hit me. Not able to move, literally meant that I was not able to move. But it was worse than I was thinking. I was paralyzed below the neck, unable to speak, move or feel anything. Locked-in-Syndrome was the final diagnosis the doctors gave me and it described the situation and the way that I was feeling, better than anything else. I was trapped in my own body and petrified that no one would realize I could understand.

            A few minutes later, they saw that I had my eyes opened. I want to shut them so I seem asleep, but the tall blonde doctor was faster than I was. He shone his flashlight into my eyes probably to see what the pupils’ reaction to light is and that it’s not only an involuntary reaction due to the stimuli.

            I was terrified. My dreams started to become nightmares. I thought that I am delusional, only to find out that I was asleep. What if they decided that I was not going to wake again and I was brain-dead? All these “what ifs” scared me to death. It was not only the fact that I wouldn’t ever be able to move ever again in case they realized that I was aware of what was going on around me, but also the thought of being a burden for everyone if I was lucky enough, and they stopped sedating me.

            One day, it must have been late January by than, Sébastien came in the afternoon, to visit me, as he had usually done. His perfume tickled my nostrils, and as it entered my lungs, I inhaled. Wrong move. Or not? I started coughing, thinking that I can suffocate every second that passed. He had the brilliant idea to remove the oxygen mask off my face and let me breathe. Then, he called my doctor and the nurses, who were astonished to see me breathing on my own. This was the day when I can say that I was reborn, just like a Phoenix. It was the most important day of my life. Everything has changed since.

            “She is fully conscious”, Sébastien kept telling the doctors, but they seemed to be too blind and self-confident to listen to what a slightly immature boy had to say. Nevertheless, the kind and perseverant boy that I so deeply felt in love with, would not give up on me. I may have fallen asleep, while he was humming a lullaby, my lullaby, because when I woke up a few hours later, he was gone. Stunned as I was, I thought that he left me, only to realize it was the middle of the night, and as every person should do once in awhile, he went home to sleep.

            The very next day, he and my parents came at the first hour of the morning with daffodils, and many cards. It seemed that they have talked to the doctors and that those flashcards were going to help me recover, or, even better, communicate.

            My birthday arrived, and as I was going to spend it on the hospital bed, I was quite down, and the inability of expressing myself, of moving, made everything even worse. As months passed, I learned how to use my eyes to replace the voice that I lost.

            Everyone was so kind to me and almost all the time nearby to help me with whatever I might have needed. I think that they were wearing gloves with me, so nothing could ever hurt me again. Careful is the right word when trying to describe my family’s attitude towards me. They thought they were doing their best, and who am I to contradict this statement? Yet, deep inside, I felt left apart. As if all that everyone could see was only the shadow of the girl that I used to be.

            “Look at me!” I try sending her the telepathic message once again. “Why can’t you see through this flesh and blood and realise that I am inside here? A prisoner of my own self.” It is pointless and I stop staring at her as if I were a lunatic.

            “It is time for your afternoon walk, Anaïs”, I hear my mom calling from the other room. I think that I am choking. How I miss walking, running in the first hours of the morning, feeling the sun warming my limbs. Now I have to watch others move and walk me everywhere. I feel the air touching my face as my mom is pushing me outside the garden on the road now covered  with rusty leaves.

Life is passing by and I do not have the power to make it slow down only for a split second. My sister has just got married and is waiting for a baby. How wonderful life can be, yet, so unfair!

           

Creativity

A friend agreed to let me post one (or more *evil grin*) of her stories here. And I planned for this week's post to be one of them until I got an idea for a post (actually, until I realised I can't find the right story among the chaos in my computer).

I noticed today's society pushes us more and more to think outside the box. If we are to succeed, we must find new unexplored corners, new creative ideas and solutions. So more and more people strive to find newer and more original ideas.

  Is this where we are headed? In a place where individuality is so high that everybody is required to find a new niche, a new unexplored corner of humanity's imagination to exploit? How would we live in a world where if you're not able to come up with something creative, you might as well cease to have dreams of succeeding in life? What would happen if our world really evolved into it? Would we be ranked by the success of our ideas? By the level of our creativity? Would we have a maximum level of ideas we can come up with or, the other way around, a quota of innovative ideas to come up with?

What would happen when we won't be able to find any new idea? When every possible idea in the world has been explored and exploited to its maximum potential? What would we do then? How would our society look like? Would it fall apart?

Next week I will post a story. My mind needs a break from all this thinking! 

Without the Internet

Since I skipped last week's post (because I'm a moron), I decided to give out a double post this week. ^^

In the past years, the Internet has replaced in many homes the well-established means of information and communication, such as the television, the radio, the post, even the phone. Speaking of phones, now even on our mobile-phones we use the Internet to communicate with our loved ones. Because the Internet has made the world smaller. Now we can see what every one does regardless of the distance or time. Every action someone takes is known by every one and every one knows ever action that is taken. We became dependent of it: we work through it, we talk through it, we learn through it, we escape our world through it. 

What would happen to our society without the Internet? Would it collapse? Would it face mass-spread withdrawal symptoms? Would we be able to cope with not keeping in constant contact? 

But what if a war struck? A war so massive it would leave a great chunk of our world without electricity and, subsequently, without the Internet. Would be able to cope with it the way our ancestors did? Or would we crumble, would the contrast between what we lived so far and the situation at hand would be too great, too massive for our minds to comprehend? We choose to escape even from the current society, how would we cope with a war or a major cataclysm without our primary means of escape from reality?

What if we faced a major cataclysm? Would we handle the mental pressure of not knowing whether our loved ones are all right. Would we pack everything we have and head to find them? Or would we wait, the incertitude slowly eating us from the inside? Would we wait, confident that whatever happens, humanity will find another way of keeping in touch with their loved ones?

Our world's reflection in our mind

I was supposed to post this last week, but, as I am a moron, I completely forgot to, you know, write it. I'm deeply sorry.
Either way, I shall continue last post with something anticipated but completely unrelated. As I said last week, there was a story I wrote for a contest about a girl who builds a world in her mind and lives in it in stead of the real world.
It's not a ground-breaking idea, but it allows for many interpretations and possible storylines to stem from this.
Mine was for her to have always found reality boring, so she created her own little world with her own little friends. Her life was happy and cosy and she enjoyed every moment spent in there. Only one day her friends riot and throw her back into reality. She it faced with a vital decision: to escape from reality for good by means of suicide, to go back to her realm and seek forgiveness or to try and adjust to reality. She cannot adjust to the real world, so she tries to kill herself. Only, at the last minute, she realises that all she has done in this world, all she has left for eternity is her world. Only, if she dies, her world dies with her. So she decides to stop and ask her friends for forgiveness.
But there's a lot to be done with this: you could explore her past and what's made her seclude in a delusion, or how she interacts with her delusion, or have her adapt slowly to reality, or the drama of her family and so on and so forth.
Also, one could simply mirror the two: her delusion and reality, to see the measure in which they coincide. Moreover, one could expand this into a meditation upon the manner in which reality influences a delusion.

Utopia

I was away from my computer these last 10 days, hence the story I posted. Somehow, I came absolutely convinced I'll return from my trip to the countryside full of ideas and ready to write lots and lots of entries. Obviously, my prediction was really wrong. I did get one idea, but, as I forgot to write it down, it went away as soon as it came.Anyway, yesterday I remembered about something that had been on my mind over a year ago.

During that time I wanted to participate on a writing contest titled "Dream Worlds" and had two radically opposing ideas. The first one was to re-write a story with a girl who creates a world of her own, story which I'll treat next post. The second one really got me thinking. The main idea was to have a spaceship filled with various people (and aliens and robots) heading for a distant planet believing it to be an utopia. Although their goal is the same planet, their dream worlds are different and, since no one knows what they will find, their dreams clash to each other, leading to discord and disagreement. 

Then I really got to think on the whole concept of utopia. Isn't it kind of impossible to have a country where everybody is content? We're all different and there will always be even a few displeased members of the society regardless of how the society is shaped. To put it in pretty words, one's utopia is another's dystopia. Then how would the concept of perfect world come into contact with human nature? Is it impossible or hard to achieve?
Could a world where every possible form of leadership have their own country and people the freedom to be citizens of any country they wish qualify as an utopia? After all, it would allow everyone to have their desired degree and manifestation of the concept of freedom.
As you can see, not only am I not a great philosopher, but I don't even read philosophy, so these thoughts came solely to aid me to sketch out a story about a female android who is dragged by her creator to a clandestine voyage to a mythical planet. She is disgusted by the love he bears for her and hopes to achieve independence from her creator as a life form rather than an object. On the spaceship she confronts different, often conflicting goals and expectations about the illusory planet and eventually, when they stop by a planet that was colonised by robots, decides to remain there, considering it to be a safer battle to bear than a world she has no concrete information about.
As for the story that was eventually written down for the contest, I shall gladly post it on a week when I'm even slower on ideas.

Story: Dear Clarence

Me and a very good friend like writing and found a good way to get over the laziness/business of the everyday life that kept us from doing so: we find a common theme to write upon, each writes her own approach on the theme and when we're finished, each sends the story to the other to be read. This way, we have to finish those stories so we won't make the other wait.

More than a year ago we decided to write about how we imagine the afterlife.

So, there it goes, my wonderful romance fictional weird story, or something:

Dear Clarence, wherever you are

“It will only be a routine surgery, nothing to worry about” The Doc told me with his always serious expression and I could not help to wonder how he would be after the work hours. He kept on babbling something about the risks of undertaking such a surgery, but I was too busy staring at his gorgeous thick silver hair curling gently around his gentle face. The hair was actually blonde – I presume, but such a light blonde that it looks silver. He was not much older than me – in his early thirties, medium built and his sloppy white coat put over his grey suits – always a different one – added to his sexiness. Ah, my gorgeous saviour!  

 I had visited countless doctors before arriving to him: my last hope. All said I was incurable, that there was nothing but prayer in store for me, and that I should resign, but not him. He said all of them were idiots – his actual words – and that I wasn’t ill enough to start worrying and that he could guarantee he’ll make me the one I used to be. How sweet of him! Although he didn’t know the “me” from before, that’s irrelevant. 

  As I sat, all ready for the “unimportant” surgery, looking at my only living relative – a distant second degree cousin – signing some consent papers all worried and such, to be pretty honest, I started panicking. Does she know more? Am I really beyond help? Won’t it be better to let it kill me slowly – I’ll at least gain a few more... agonizing... years? And what the heck does “rare” mean?

 Four or five years ago was the time my life started going wrong. I had just turned 20 the day before when my sister joined mom and dad up above – or down there, Hell knows. But, could Fate stop at that much? Nah. I had to choose between organizing my sister’s funeral and my job, and by the end of the month, I was already in debt to my neck and jobless. Sweet, right? I managed to survive – barely – by quitting faculty and starting working part-time jobs. But this lull didn’t take long. I fainted, waking up days later at a random hospital, with bored doctors and indolent nurses. The diagnosis: exhaustion. They released me, and I fainted again. And again. It was at this time that the doctors I went to started suspecting I was seriously ill. And apparently I was suffering from a really rare malformation caused by the pons area of the brain becoming over stimulated by some badass hormones that came from an extra gland. If you’re wondering “what the heck extra what?!”, welcome to my world. My life for these past years became a juggle between doctors and various jobs which I lost as soon as I had a crisis. That until I found him, my serious angel. 

 Ah, at last, the lights of the surgery block! I felt awkwardly relieved by him stroking my brick-coloured hair and desperately sought reassurance in his ice-cold eyes. “Damn, I fell for the guy that’s going to kill me – no, do not dare think like that, he’s going to help you have a life again!” I thought as I felt a strange liquid flowing through my veins and my sight dimmed more and more The Doc becoming nothing but a silver spot on top of a green rectangle. I still faintly heard him giving orders: “It’s going to be one Hell of a surgery, may The Lord have mercy on us. And of the poor helpless thing. With a little luck, she won’t die, and I’ll be fam...” were the last words I heard, coming from a well-known husky voice, but with such coldness my veins froze upon hearing. I should have expected, though. I really should, but it was too late, my mind started drifting away and I had no choice but to believe. 

 “To believe? I should pray, right? But... I swore a long time ago I’ll have nothing in common with the guy that made me all alone in this vast world.” 

 “World? I see the world alright. Man, this is weird. I woke up to see myself – or might it be my astral projection? – above the whole wide world. Is this space? No, the bloody blue planet looks more like bloody than blue. Now that I mention, this “world” seems kind of short in oceans. It’s just the human-inhabited lands. Or, could it be...? I sure hope I wasn’t abducted by aliens in the middle of my surgery. Damn, we’re so many! I force myself to turn around to check out whether I see any stars. Oh, I’ll be damned...” 

 “Is this... just WHAT is this? Lots of monster-like creatures sitting in a circle around uglier monster creatures and the these little circles go around different creatures, and so on indefinitely.” I thought. “Ugly? Seriously, ugly? Can’t you at least call us different? Pretty intolerant, are we?” a  thunderous voice sounded in my mind. “No. Just no. Do NOT think that. Just how much lack of respect can you have for angels?! Eh, anyway, would you like to be admitted to Heaven?”

 “You must be kidding me,” I sulk in denial. “Anyway, what’s with the ugly thingies?” came my question just to gain some time to think.

 “Could you PLEASE stop calling angels ugly?” the genderless voice replied with annoyance. “They’re angels. The white humanoid ones are deployed on the field where they gather data, passing it on the upper hierarchy which pass it along and so on. Everything is done through short-range telepathy. And we’re not ugly, just that we’re really different. Haven’t you read the Bible? That’s why the archangels have to take humanoid form, in order to make you listen to what they say. Anyway, human souls are judged according to their actions and, if deemed developed enough, put in a corresponding angel hierarchy.” 

 “If not?” I asked becoming rather curious. 

 “Oh, if the soul has been corrupted beyond redemption, it goes to Hell. If things are unclear but it’s too late to send the soul back to where in came from – usually by the end of resuscitation, we resort to the reincarnation system, where it joins angel souls that have fallen prey to corruption and demonic souls on their way to redemption. It’s quite an inflation of the last two sorts, so that’s why there are so many humans born. Would you like to be judged now?” it asked not giving me a moment to pull myself together and I nodded. 

 A force pulled me towards the centre, but quite far from where God and the saints presumably were and a low-rank angel came and shoved the images of my life – all thoughts, actions to the minds of those around. And mine, of course. I could not help regretting quite a lot of them especially the fact that my imaginary talk to God, as a 20-year-old, when facing Clarence’s death was made public to all those around. I could see compassionate looks in their eyes and I felt the same feelings I had then: “compassion? I’m dieing from starvation, and all you do is pity me and bury me deeper!”. Yet, I could see from their eyes that they understood my pain, that they did not hold a grudge for what I thought since they experienced that pain before. They explained to me that the higher the rank of the angel, the more people’s lives they had to experience. They received more prayers, more sadness, more remorse. They felt everything, ranging from gratitude, anger, despair, to literally everything the humans assigned felt, and tried their best to soothe their pain. Yet more and more closed their hearts, just like me, so they couldn’t provide even for the bare minimum, and those souls decayed more, caused more pain to others and the cycles continued. I felt tears of regret flowing from my eyes for the first time in a long time. As they saw this, they asked me where I would like to go. When facing my honest answer, they shrugged and said it’d be a waste. Yet I was relentless in my decision. 

 And that’s how I ended up in Hell. Why? Because I acted as I always do: on a whim. 

 Useless to say, my expectances weren’t met. No scorching flames, no red goat-like-horned imps, not cauldrons, no agonizing screams. Just a luxurious lobby where a smiling receptionist awaited behind a crimson desk. Of course, I took my time studying my surroundings. Tons of gold everywhere. The finest – missing – paintings  hung on the walls, gorgeous – just as missing – sculptures were adorned by garlands of the rarest flowers – some unknown to man. The exquisite scent they spread, along with the lush green of the decorative plants made one think of a jungle, yet the paintings, the sculptures and the golden ornaments brought the image of an exclusivist art gallery. To bond the strange combination, all around the room soft couches were laid. Their crimson-coloured leather and emerald-green irisations created a discreet web. “Madam, please, would you mind my asking the reason for you being here?” I heard the beautiful crystal-clear voice of the tall blonde receptionist.

 “Would my dear Clarence have looked like this if she was alive?” I could not help wondering, my heart squeezing in pain, but I politely replied that I was sent there after the judgement. Her smile grew cold and I could feel her tense. “Madam, we conduct a supplementary judgement, I hope your following me would not be much of an inconvenience” she said leaving her desk and I could see a short navy blue skirt barely covering two gorgeous legs.

 I could not help thinking of her sexiness absently listening to the sound her high heels made on the cold granite pavement. I followed her through a labyrinth of halls similar to the reception remembering an episode of a science-fiction series where helpless victims were trapped in a hotel and made face their worst nightmares. “Please enter this room,” she guided me through a door.

 As I entered, I was both amazed and petrified to find myself in a glade as I knew what it meant. “God and angels, if you have good reception where I am, I beg of you to try and take your minds off me. I’ll be alright. Just... please, for the next while, try not to connect with my thoughts and feelings.” was my last thought before my mind and body paralyzed, as it happened every time before. Panic sent a steady flow of adrenalin through me, allowing me to run as fast as I cold. But It was quickly approaching. For a moment I thought of asking God for help, as I did every time before, but then I remembered the angel I had talked to and suddenly the thought of burdening them with my own problems was shoved away from my mind. It was my fight, and mine alone. There was no one to blame. Not God, not the angels, not me, not my dear Clarence, not even It. No one. The steps approached. My hearing sharpened.

 Pluck-pluck. Crack. Rustle-rustle. Fear froze my limbs, but willpower alone let me sit in one place and see it for the first time. Cold. The cold scales strangled my limbs; tiny red tongues smelled me over and over again as they approached my neck. It came and I forced myself to look straight into its bright otherworldly eyes. The huge emerald tree boa wobbled on top of a pair of hairy distorted human legs and a rainbow unicorn horn curved upwards from the back of its neck. I felt shivers down my spine but continued to stare relentlessly at it. It was a mental battle; I tried to show it that I could face it even though I feared it. My vision started becoming cloudy, and only when my eyes stung did I realise that tears were flooding my pale cheeks. Fear? Not by far! I just realised why I feared it to such intensity, and why I had this nightmare over and over again when I had a crisis.

 It’s the snake. The same snake we encountered when Clarence and I, the orphan sisters, had gone to the forest when I was 15. “It was not supposed to be there”, the forest guards half-heartedly declared while we were taken to hospital to be treated. In the ambulance we swore that, if something happens to one of us, the other must live the other’s life as well. Oh, sister, how could I have forgotten? I was so caught up in barely surviving and immersed in the loneliness I was feeling... 

 All this time the snake was looking at me puzzled. Its legs and horn disappeared and it shrunk to normal size. Slowly all other snaked holding me started leaving were they came from, while I kept on staring at the gorgeous meter-long emerald boa. It was its beauty that had attracted us in the first place, wasn’t it? “Oh, that was unexpected,” I suddenly heard the familiar voice of the receptionist behind me. “Now, what should we do with you?” sounded the annoyed voice of the angel I had first heard. “I think there’s only one way,” the angel continued. “Well, I must agree with you. The middle way awaits. Goodbye, madam,” the woman added and the forest was no more. 

 All I could see was a tunnel. “Quite the cliché,” I thought, but started walking automatically toward the light. My mind drifted again to Clarence, and I wowed that I would live my life as I had always wanted: with courage and sincerity. Then I could not help but think of The Doc. The bastard killed me. Agreed. But, shouldn’t I give him a second chance? Were his kindness – interested or not – and courage not enough to make me love him? I remembered his touch as he started surgery and could not help but wonder how he would act in front of the one he loves. The light approached and I started walking through it. Would they send me back, or make me reincarnate? Did he give up on me? 

 So dark, it was so, so dark. I tried opening my eyes, but they were so heavy. Yet curiosity got the better of me again and I forced myself to look around to see where those undisclosed noises came from. The light blinded me at first, but as I started adjusting to it, I could see red sweaty faces. I tried rising but a trembling red hand grabbed me and pulled me back to the uncomfortable surgery table. I could not take my eyes from the bloody imprint it left on the white tablecloth – or whatever it was that white thing they put on me. “Sedate her again,” I heard a familiar husky voice next to me. Even his voice trembled. As I raised my eyes I met his gaze and I could see something. Was it fear, was it something else? Nope. It was fear. It’s no use making false assumptions. I could feel my strength fading and fainted. Again. Ah, the bittersweet irony!

 When I started getting to my senses again, I was lying on a hospital bed with an oxygen mask to my face, a perfusion let me know I was being fed artificially. Ah, I always hated this part of waking up, having to take off all things they used to keep me alive, and then look for a nurse to tell them I’m alright, all set to go home. And after all this I had a headache. Just great. It wasn’t until I had a glimpse of a silvery hair moving past my bed that I remembered what had happened. And for the toughest part of today’s act: letting the bastard know I don’t like being ignored. I should take my perfusion, my oxygen mask or the electrodes on my chest? 

 As I carefully considered, with a hand on one of the electrodes, I noticed a pale face looking at me as if he had seen a ghost. He ignored what the nurses were telling him about the other patient and rushed towards me. Did he lose some weight? What could have happened to my dear doctor that could have hurt him so bad? 

 “You... you’re alive?” he nearly whispered to my ear as he gently touched my face. For a moment I thought it were the angels and demons still having fun over me. I tried muttering something, but coughed over the oxygen mask. He gently removed it and gave a worried look at the EKG monitor. “No wonder my heartbeat is off the scale,” I thought. But I remembered I could speak. Yet I looked into his eyes and my words froze in my throat. Damn you, Doc, you and your worried look! In the end all I could do was to nod. “You didn’t manage to kill me. Did you at least save me?” I asked eventually, embarrassed by the silence. He seemed surprised and then smiled.

 “Well, didn’t I tell you it was only a routine operation?” 

 “Yeah. And that’s why you were the only one that agreed to do it,” I bitterly replied, remembering his freaked out face back in the OR. “Now, Doc, please come clean and tell me what happened. The whole truth.” But my remark made him revert to his usual ice-cold self. He checked my signs, and then coldly left. I was transferred to different place and was not to see him until I was released from the hospital, after several weeks. 

 Being jobless and broke, I didn’t have much to return to, so I decided to leave town. Where to? No idea. But before, I waited for him outside, just to have one last talk. I spotted him; he left all alone, to walk to his house several blocks away. After following him for a few streets, I patted him from behind: “Hi, Doc, remember me? So. Now d’you care to tell me what happened during my surgery?”

 He looked as if I had punched him, opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind, but eventually decided to speak. 

 “I... I almost lost you. That’s the truth. I... I underestimated what I was to face inside you. If I had delayed the surgery even a little more, your brain would have been forced to shut down completely. As in... brain dead. That is all, I think. You look surprisingly well for someone who has undergone such a surgery,” he ended, looking straight into my eyes with a mix of pride and affection. I hoped this is not how that woman statue felt when Pygmalion sculpted her and then by gods’ will she came to life. 

 “So, how long did you resuscitate me?” I asked, holding back the more stringent question “How did you feel when I died?” He tried avoiding answering the question, but in the end, he was compelled to.

 “Three hours,” he muttered looking at my bruised hand.

 “I guess you really didn’t want to lose me,” I finally decided to find it out.

 “W-well, didn’t I guarantee you that I would bring you out of this alive, no matter what? I’m a man of my word. I sure pray you won’t need another surgery, anytime, anywhere. Girl, you’re one lucky, lucky... When we were about to give up, you revived,” he said unexpectedly softly, which made my heart melt all over again.

 “I know, I saw you pin me down back on the table. I looked straight into your eyes, remember?”

 “I’ll never forget that. Ever,” he shuddered and I felt his warm hand holding mine.

 “Did you get famous for my surgery? I know you were talking about that.”

 “Oh, how did you know about...” he twitched. “No. After your revival I decided this case is too much in God’s will for me to take any credit. Besides, seeing you fainted afterwards made me realize one thing.” And here he stopped, refusing to answer me, even afterwards. He continued walking, looking straight at his feet.

 “Hey, Doc. How could I repay you? I’m jobless and broke, but I’d do anything for you,” I gathered up all of my courage and said, proud and honest. He stopped and turned his head in utter surprise. “Well, just live a happy life, I guess,” he said and then continued walking. I knew at that time that there was no chance for me to have any kind of future unless I speak up to him. So I rushed towards him, hugged him and put all my love in three simple words I whispered to his ear. He tried rejecting me, with a trembling voice, but it was too late. I could already see my feelings were answered. All I had to do was to insist. Which I did, until not only did he accept to date me, but also he let me live with him. Here, Clarence, see, I could muster up enough courage to say “I love you” to the one I love. See, I could live happily, for both of us.

What about humans and plants?

Ever since I was very little I have been passionate about myths and legends. I own about 10-13 books about various mythologies and legends from different places. The book that got me into all this was a book about Greek Mythology called "Legendele Olimpului" ("The Legends of Olympus"), which I've read for over 50 times to this day. 

There is one recurring theme in those legends: that of the metamorphosis of a human into a plant, usually a girl trying to escape a god. (Seriously, Greek gods were horrible.) 

I can't say I get it, though, since, in most cases, there would have been other, more logical means of escape. For example, in one of my favourite legends, the god Pan falls in love with the nymph Sirinx, the daughter of the Ladon river. One day she runs scared from the god until she gets to the banks of the very river her father patrons with the god catching up with her. Somehow, she considers herself unable to continue forward and asks her father and her sisters for help. Then she gets turned into a reed. The god cries after her and makes a panpipe using pieces of reed. And that's why the panpipe is called a syrinx and a reed pipe. I must ask: why did she have to turn into a tree? Couldn't she have been transformed into, say, a fish and be together with her family? Or a mer... oh, ok, not a mermaid since the greek didn't have that. Still, you get my point. Or why couldn't the spell be reversed?

See, always the story ends here. The human gets turned into a plant, end of story. Why? What happens after they're turned into a plant? Do they regret that? Do they enjoy the photosynthesis? Can they still reason? Do they still love? Do they still feel pain? And so on and so forth. Why won't we write a story on this? What happens after a human gets turned into a plant? How does that new species spread? Do they have plant sex?

This post is full of random - I'm trying to shed some light on some... posting... things...

So... umm... I kind of made this blog with the intention of being serious about it and sticking to the topic, no matter how much my mind's yelling "Hahahahahh, write a post on chocolate. Yaaaaa! Riding on Rainbows! Reverse Nyan Cat! It's ought to make a good political satire! Why don't you comment upon that weird thi.... OOOH! Look, those treeeees! <3 Could you post pictures too?" (yes, my mind actually thinks those things in that succession). And... I still want this. So... umm... because I am as random as you've seen above, I think this post... will... help me clear up the mess while shedding some light about ... something.

Alright, after this highly hesitant and rather irrelevant start, I would like to say:

1. I would really like to post some new idea or possible source of inspiration every week since I do have several posts in my tiny distracted little brain, but every time I try wording them out, they sound plain stupid. (Pfft! Like there could be a possibility that they're actually really incredibly stupid!) 
2. When I have nothing of any significance in my head, I'll post a story I've written. Maybe I'll start with this week's post, I've got a story I wanted to share with you guys for quite some time.
3. As I've said time and time again, I'd love to link other peoples' stories as well, especially if they're fit for one of the posts. Same with other ideas or sites with inspiration. If no link, I'll credit the people.

I'd love to hear what you have to say on this matter. Really. (If ever I would get any form of acknowledgement of this blog's readers, I'll cry tears of joy.)

That should be about it. I can't shed the feeling that I had something else really important to write, important enough to warrant my going so badly off-topic, though.

Oh! Indeed. 

Wouldn't a crossover between Humanoid Kikaider and Gepetto be the most awesome thing to ever possibly happen? Really, Internet, do you know if such a thing happened? Could you direct me to such a beautiful piece of fanfiction? Or, you know, if maybe my mad fan mind inspired you, be bothered to share it with me?

How Robots Took Over The World

Yes. Two posts about robots almost in a row. I can't help it, every time I see something electronic, my mind drifts to the robot apocalypse.

Every piece of fiction about the Robot Apocalypse (or the Zombie one, or the Alien one, etc. etc.) I've come across shows the human resistance against the overlords or the human reactions in the face of an invasion.

Wouldn't it be nice for a change to have stories that show the other side of the coin? To see the motivations that would lead them to such a quest. Sure, you'll say, that's rather ordinary. Well, I mean beyond the short exposition the villain offers to the hero or the already painful analogies to real events of humankind. I want to know why robots conquer the world, not be reminded of Cromwell's Revolution (it was the first thing that came to mind, sorry British people, I can't remember the official name, too drowsy). I mean avoid cliches, think about why would that thing happen! Make it a story, a glorious, triumphant story about an event much feared by us all.

If you’ve got an awesome idea and you don’t mind sharing, e-mail me or comment. If you’ve got one of these ideas into a story or found one that already has, please share the link, I’d looooooove to post it here. If you’ve got a comment to make, same thing, e-mail or comment.

The journey of a lightning

Last night there was a long-awaited storm, complete with wind and lightning and rain! All that gave me an idea (so blame it on my sleep-deprived brain again >.>)

From a scientific point of view, "Lightning is a massive electrostatic discharge between electrically charged regions within clouds, or between a cloud and the Earth's surface".

But from a human point of view it's more complex than that. Since the beginnings of our existence, we've been fascinated with that fire falling from the sky. We worshipped it, we cursed it, we revered it, we hated it. 
And how could we not? For on every journey to our land, the lightning brought us something:

• Glass and subsequently windows (XP, Vista, 7, you name it)

Image from an awesome article about fulgurites.

• Light

Image from Daily Mail, check this out for more gorgeous images of lightnings

• Fire

This gorgeous photograph

• Electricity

Image from a great article

• Life

Image from here

Those were two bad jokes in a row. I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it.
Anyway, my point is that lightning, from a human point of view has always been a mythical instrument of the Universe to... well... punish us, most of the time. (Though I did read somewhere an old folk tale about the the fact that every time  the lightning strikes, a devil has been struck by a saint. I can't remember anything else, other than the fact that it was complicated.)

However, the lightning is almost always seen as a tool rather than an entity. So, how about a story about the lightning? I was thinking about its journey. How does it come here? Why does it come here? Where from? Who is this lightning? 



P.S. I found this blog while researching for this entry and... well... I know what I'll be reading for the next few days.

Robot apocalypse

 We have so much zombie fiction that outright prepares us for the zombie apocalypse. They tell us how to build our basements, what guns to pick, what to do if we/our loved ones are infected.

But what about robots? Most robot fiction I’ve come across has both nearly indestructible humanoid tin-men (and, yes. Yes, I am thinking the Cybermen from Doctor Who) or some mother-computer-thing like the Matrix. But do you think that really is the way they’re gonna conquer the world?

[I’m sorry for what you’re about to read. I’m really, really into the whole robot apocalypse thing, to the point where I talk to lamp-posts. Because fear of electronics* goes well with robot apocalypse.]

Isn’t it more likely that they will start from the little things, like, say, mobile phones? After all, they are at the moment the smartest of all gadgets around us. Probably next will be the computers who become sentient. Maybe humans will succeed in making them cross the Uncanny Valley, although I doubt that is even possible. Instead they will make them smarter and smarter until they develop a conscience of their own. Afterwards it’s only a matter of time before they usurp us. Slowly, but steadily. Not in the way the Matrix did, far less bloody. Simpler. Not only do we help them, but we end up being grateful to them. Willingly becoming their slaves. How? We make them think for us and do things for us. No, not like Wall-E! They coordinate, distribute and keep our currency. They give us entertainment. They educate us. They provide us comfort in our own homes. Do you see it now? They are everywhere already. They make their moves slowly, engulfing our bank system. They take our jobs, not just in the factories, but in the service industry as well. They make us dependent to them: for school [I always knew Wikipedia was ruled by robots!], for sports [when you go to the gym, think twice about that running thingy], for irrigations and agriculture [computerised everything. That’s all I can say.], for transportation [today the GPS, also today the driverless car!] and so on. They make us dependent until they find a way of properly repairing themselves. They still don’t do things as good as a human, but it’s strength in numbers … and usefulness … and energy … and the material they’re made of …

What will they do with us? Beats me, they might as well exterminate us.

*  I mean it when I say fear of electronics. I'm afraid even of using a photo camera. Needless to say, computers scare me the most. Why am I here, in front of a computer, writing? Because fears are made to be faced! And I do so! Every single day! Even when I shouldn't! 

Elves riding dinosaurs firing rockets

 I was actually saving this post for later, but in the end I said "screw it!" and there it is. And the rest of the stuff I want to post are sadly really and completely off-topic. Seriously, I have more than 5 ideas to rant about but none that I could use here. *sigh* Anyway...

“But it’s freaking August!” you’ll say. Of course it is, but who knows how long it’ll take for us to start/finish our Christmas/Holiday stories ready? (Besides, I sing carols and quote “A Christmas Carol” all year long, I like the holiday season too much not to.)

Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, we don’t have enough Christmas stories who are guided by the Rule of Cool. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with the usual holiday cheesiness, but sometimes it’s too much.

You could go for anything that’s holiday-themed and guided by the rule of cool: Santa with an eye patch sailing the seas on a shark as a pirate, elves battling ninjas, the aforementioned elves riding dinosaurs firing rockets etc.

P.S. I would love to post some of the things I have already written, especially those I have already posted on my Gaia Journal (I'm a proud Gaian :) ) and... I guess I'll do that soon.

Hot zombie

  We can take anything and turn it into a fountain of sexiness, be it for guys or girls. Look at pirates. They transformed from a bunch of scurvy-ridden dead-drunk sailors to the icon of badassery and sexiness they are now, see Captain Sparrow for a notable example (though I'm thinking Trafalgar Law, to be honest). And it’s not the first time some undead have been revamped* into sexy tough walking fan-service. Look at vampires. Though, in all fairness, I've just finished reading Polidori’s The Vampire and it’s not all that different from good modern-day vampire imagery (I'm thinking more Anne Rice than Stephanie Meyer here).

So why shouldn't we try this for our brain-eating friends? Sure, you fans of the zombie genre will argue that if they do get a brush of sexy they will stop being so menacing and it will be yet another horror genre ruined by “the masses”. I say screw that! Even vampires could keep their dignity after Twilight, so why, oh, why can’t we have a little, little bit of zombie fan-service while you get to see them eating brains?

*I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for that pun. T_T

Two dots who live in peace.

This sentence did not let me sleep last night. “Two dots who live in peace.” What could it mean? Anything, actually. Those dots could be anything, they’re dots after all. They could do anything. They’re whatever inspires you.

If you’re inspired or really badass, you could even go with writing a story about dots. I’d love you if you do that, we don’t have enough stories about dots.

If you’ve got an awesome idea and you don’t mind sharing, e-mail me (at paula_13pisicinegre@yahoo.com or 13pisicinegre@gmail.com) or comment. If you’ve got one of these ideas into a story or found one that already has, please share the link, I’d looooooove to post it here. If you’ve got a comment to make, same thing, e-mail or comment.

Introduction

a.k.a. WHAAAAT?

Look, let’s say you’ve ran out of ideas and looking around you doesn’t help. Let’s say you want just the idea, the impulse to start your story. That’s why I made this blog: to give ideas for stories.

I love stories, they fascinated me ever since I was very little (say, 3 years old) so I wanted to do something that could help storytellers out there, regardless of the medium they use to convey their stories. For a while now, my imagination has gone into overdrive and at one point I realised I won’t be able to write all the stories that run through my head. That’s how the idea for this site was born. Of course, as soon as I had that thought in mind, my dear brain decided to forget the impulse pattern to most of the great ideas I had, so I had to delay this blog until I have gotten new ones.

If you’ve got an awesome idea and you don’t mind sharing, e-mail me (at paula_13pisicinegre@yahoo.com or 13pisicinegre@gmail.com) or comment. If you’ve got one of these ideas into a story or found one that already has, please share the link, I’d looooooove to post it here. If you’ve got a comment to make, same thing, e-mail or comment.