Chapter 2 - Silvia

  All right, here’s the deal.    If I write my side of this story, Brook has to keep up his side of the deal.
    That is the only reason why a kickass chick like me is writing a book, okay?
   Laugh if you want.
    I’d still beat your lame-ass ass blindfolded with both hands tied behind my—
    Ugh.
   Brook says I need to stop cussing.
    Go away, Brook, you’re cramping my style.
   Haha, he says I’m breaking immersion.
   Ooooops.    If you just agreed to go out with me now, Brook, we wouldn’t have this problem, hehehe.
    (He just smiled, kissed me on the forehead, and left.)
   (Worth.)
   (Sort of.  Maybe.)
    (Ugh.)
    Look, I’m just going to get this done quickly, so…yeah, ummm…have a paragraph break.

~ ~ ~

     Sup.
   My name is Silvia Thornton, resident sarcastic hottie of Twainside, future girlfriend to Brook, and the hungry devourer and vanquisher of all solid, double-stack hamburgers and seasoned fries.
    To just stick with the essentials, my side of this story probably started around six months ago.
   I had just gotten off the subway station at dusk, and I was kicking my skateboard through the dim streets of Twainside, probably grinning like a mad fool.  That musty, over-packed subway was literally the worst.  The new government had just opened up this jail-bar wall that went around the entire city, and, suddenly, everyone from the countryside and their mother was riding up to the capital to try to find work and a better life, myself included.  The subways were clogged.
    Oh, also, I’m the second oldest of seven kids.  My responsible older brother stayed behind to handle the duties on the farm, and the younger ones were too little to be employed.  I’m 18, by the way.  The next youngest just turned 15, so I was drafted by my parents to go and work in the city.
    Sound harsh?
  I wasn’t really too concerned.  My dad raised me straight, and I got my mom’s silver tongue.  Between those two, I’ve never had much of an issue, whether finagling or fighting my way through life.  Besides, my mom’s older brother - my uncle - lives here in Twainside, and he already had work lined up for me.  As long as I did well in whatever he had for me, I figured I would be all right.
    Those subway seats, though, I thought to myself, massaging my backside as I swerved around a young couple.  Did the old government actually pay an engineer to design a torture device like that?  At least my rear is well-endowed, another courtesy from my curvaceous mother; I can’t say so much for the others on that seven hour train ride.
   Most of them were unhealthily thin.  Granted, yeah, six months ago when this happened, I was a bit underweight myself, but, at least we had a farm, so food was right at our fingertips, and we weren’t paying through our nose for a bag of flour under the rule of the former government.  Everything said and done, we were pretty well-off during the former tyranny.
    That’s not to say I wasn’t looking forward to the new government when I came to Twainside.  My parents fought over money more than they fought over anything else, and, for all the brawling I do myself, man, I hate hearing other people get at each others’ throats, especially people I love.
    As I tore through the streets, I glanced back briefly, my skateboard making a suspicious amount of noise.  Sure enough, two kids my age were keeping pace behind me on their own boards: a guy and a girl.
    Boyfriend and girlfriend?    No…siblings.
  Twins, maybe.    They both wore smiles similar to mine.  Maybe Middle Eastern?  She had an adorable pixie cut under a basketball cap, and he sported a dark brown goatee, tons of piercings between the two of them.  Their white chucks were matching, and their fashion styles seemed to sprout from a similar theme: faded, near-white denim and lots of those iron-on appliqués.  Hard to tell if they were rich enough to afford a sense of fashion - or if their pieces just so happened to match in a fashionable way.
  Anyway, I made eye-contact, and they scooted up next to me, one on my left and one on my right.    “You’re Silvia!” the girl said.  Her voice was higher than I expected and super cute.
    “Yeah?”  We kept skating, even though that felt awkward.
    “I’m Kelsie!” she said, “We know Shrike.”
  Ah.  Shrike.  My mom’s brother.  My boss to-be.   Kelsie extended her hand, and so did her twin brother.  I crossed my arms to shake their hands, wondering for a moment if this was some sort of trap.    “How…do you know me?”
    “Pictures.  We were expecting you.  Shrike told us to keep an eye out on the station in case if you got into any trouble.  Crime’s not at its lowest, you know, and you got here closer to night.  He said you might need some help defending yourself in the case of an accident, but…” I got an eye-over from Kelsie, “I guess that might not be the case.”
    Huh.
  I wasn’t blaming Shrike for sending the twins - the last time he saw me, I was just a helpless toddler - but I wish he had given me some sort of warning.  Random strangers aren’t the easiest to trust.    I glanced at the brother.  “I didn’t get your name.”
    “Jessie, but you can call me Jess.”  He winked at me, smiling softly, and I laughed suddenly.
    He’s that kinda guy.
    “I hope this is all right,” Kelsie continued obliviously, “Shrike was also worried that you might not trust us, but he said this would be better than nothing.”
    I nodded, wiping the smirk off my face, and slowed to a stop at an intersection.  I think we needed to cross there anyway.
    “Nah, it’s fine.  Just curious how you two know Shrike.”
    Jessie and Kelsie hopped off their boards just as the cross walk sign changed, at which point we all skipped quickly across the intersection on foot towards the training center.
    “We work for him.  You know what your job is, right?”
  I laughed again.  “Nope.  Not the foggiest idea.”    “Ohhh…”  They exchanged a side-ways glance that made me feel 100% included.
  “Well,” Jess said, “basically, you’re like…our maid?”    “You’ll get paid really well, though!” Kelsie quickly interjected, “And I’ll kill anyone if they even think about looking down on you.  We’d love to have you hang out with us too, so…you don’t need to f-feel like you have to…be…alone or a-anything.”
    She sputtered to a stop and glanced at me with an apologetic face.
  “It’s fine,” I replied, unable to bear how cute she looked at that moment, “I figured I would be doing some sort of menial labor.  Besides, I’d be pretty impressed if you can give me a task in the city worse than mucking out stalls back at home.”   Jess and Kelsie exchanged looks again - they have that kind of ability to communicate without speaking that everyone wishes they had - and let out what seemed to be a sigh of relief.    “Cool,” Jess said, “Let’s get you settled in then.  Shrike will give you your first tasks from there.”

~ ~ ~

Break is great, guys.
Write on!
Clove

Chapter 1 - Skain

Iris vomits into the most extravagant toilet I’ve ever seen.

  What even are those?  Gold inlays on the handle?  Flowers, real flowers, in a basket on the tank of water, and this weird series of buttons on the side that I imagine controls the bidet feature of this porcelain masterpiece.  What a bizarre display of wealth.

  But I guess that’s rich people for you.

  I hold Iris’ long golden hair back as she heaves one more time and then pulls away, gasping pitifully.  She grabs toilet paper, which also seems ultra-fancy and thick, and wipes her mouth, smearing lipstick across her cheek.

“What’s the time?” she asks.

“You have plenty,” I reply, helping her stand on her five-inch platforms.

She shakes her head, flushing and dropping the smudged paper into the swirling cyclone of water and vomit.  “What’s wrong with me?”  Her manicured fingers linger on the gold lines of the toilet handle.  “For that matter, what’s wrong with this toilet?”

“Rich people,” I remark, smirking a little.

She steps away from her mess, which is now already swallowed up by the piping, and stands in front of the bathroom’s fancy mirror, washing her hands in the fancy sink using fancy soap that smells fancier than normal.

I wait, watching her.

“My makeup,” Iris mutters at her reflection.  Sweat lines her nose and forehead, and her lipstick is horribly marred.

“I can get a dresser for you,” I say, but she shakes her head.

  “If even one more person touches my face with less than a milligram of powder, I swear I’ll break.  I’m going to take it off.  I can’t stand this.  They don’t know what they’re doing.”

Sensing that familiar ring of stubbornness in Iris’ voice, I stand down, smiling to myself as she dumps the contents of her clutch onto the countertop.  Given the fact that, outside of a combat knife, the rest of the items in her clutch are cosmetics, I wonder if this has been her plan all along.

Either way, I get it.  I didn’t feel like the cosmetologists currently in the Plus House knew what they were doing, not necessarily because they were poor makeup artists but because they just have no idea who we are.

Iris’ eyelids are matted in golden glitter, her lips a fresh, vivacious pink to match her blush, which gives her a strange frilly look when combined with her classy black ballroom gown.  By the time she is bare-faced again, she already looks vastly more appropriate for tonight.  Then, she adds her killer eyeliner, dark and thick and sharp, and a blood red lipstick, and she’s fabulous - and lethal.

The way she is in reality.

The way I have always known her.

Blowing out noisily in annoyance, Iris puts her items away and tosses her hair away from her neck, giving herself a final once over.

“How long do those buffoons study before they get to paint their clown faces?”

  “Hard to improve on perfection,” I say, “Go easy on them, princess.”

She laughs weakly and turns, facing me.  “How much time?”

I check my watch again.  “Thirteen more minutes.”

“Do you have a smoke?”

I pull a packet out of my jacket’s inner pocket and hand one to her, taking one myself.  I may not have been the one to throw up out of anxiety, but I would be lying to say I wasn’t slightly nervous.  In a sense, everything is finally coming together.  All twenty years of my life before now were just long, slow stages of incubation, leading up to tonight’s birth.

  Iris and I eventually take a seat on the edge of the fancy shower, slowly breathing in and out and letting the drugs calm us down.  Maybe we’re about half-way through our cigarettes when there’s a knock on the bathroom door, a sound that immediately registers in my mind as “weird”.

We were on the third floor, in an abandoned hallway next to Heinrich’s office.  Everyone should be two floors below, ready to spill out onto the portico to face the journalists.  Glancing sideways at Iris, I get up and hesitantly unlock the door, peeping outside.  In that second, I catch a glimpse of maybe seven or eight plain-vanilla Maximum soldiers before they slam open the door, almost whacking me in the process, and squeeze into the unaccommodating bathroom.

Iris is on her feet, her clutch open, but I hold her back with a finger at my side, tacitly telling her to wait.  These young men, dressed in their formal service attire, are Bellumine’s soldiers, which means that, in a relationship akin to the historical American Army and Marine Corps, these kids are our unofficial allies.

  We still hate their guts, but, allegedly, according to our higher-ups, we work together.

  Besides, they’re pretty drunk, and fighting drunks is never fair in Heinrich’s eyes.

“Heyyy, Effar!  How we about that Maxi?!”

I ignore Dunce A’s coarse slur and reply, “Fine, thanks.  Can we help you?”

They snigger, like I’m a comedian, and shove me back a step, so that Iris and I are side-by-side.

“Has the sun been bothering you?” says Dunce A.

Dunce B adds, “Need to borrow my shades, Effar?”

Dunce C elbows Dunce D and says, “Like SPF ten thousand, am I right?”

What’s more amusing is that the sun does bother me, and I do need to wear sunscreen in the daytime.  What’s less amusing is that we don’t have time for something like this.

Glancing at my watch, I read 1853, so seven more minutes.  I toss my burnt out cigarette into the fancy toilet and grab Iris’ hand, intending to walk confidently past the Dunces and head downstairs.  Like most drunk people, if you ignore them, they become confused and fail to respond.

The Dunces, unfortunately, are more aware than I thought.  Before I can shoulder past Dunce A, he shoves me back again, except harder this time, in a way that is meant to hurt or spill me over.  I narrowly keep my footing as someone else ends up shouldering me in the chest one more time.  Knocked out of breath, I trip over the side of the fancy shower and fall, hitting the far wall and landing hard.

Iris stands in the corner between the toilet and the shower, watching with wide eyes and waiting to take action.

  “Just want to let you know where you stand,” Dunce A says, smiling, “Did you think we were drunk?  With your cool underground skills?  Nice performance, huh?  Were you patronizing us, just like you condescend everyone?  Calm down, Effar.  Remember where you were born, and remember what she is.”  He throws up a rude sign at Iris that, strangely, out of all of his comments, makes me the most angry.

“Noted,” I reply, a bit banged up, but more damaged in the ego.  My heart is roaring in my throat, pulsing from an adrenaline surge in a way that feels like I’m about to be strangled.

“See you downstairs, then.”

The Dunces, who I realize too late actually don’t smell like alcohol, filter out in a cold silence, and Iris offers me a sweaty, shaking hand.  I climb to my feet and take a second to catch my breath.

  “I need to vomit again,” Iris whispers, “but now is not the time.”

“We can talk to Heinrich about them later.  Come on.  We’re going to be late.”

~ ~ ~

Write on...at 2:27 AM on a Saturday morning!  :P

Clove

Front Row

Her eyes are so full of regality.

She looks like a princess, but not a first or last born: some discontent 6th or 7th daughter of an emperor's harem wife.  She must live an amazing life, though, full of pleasures and handsome men, rich feasts and wealth.  I think...maybe she has no idea how much she actually has, or maybe she is lonely.  If she is, I have a feeling she desires to remain alone.

That look in her eyes is too bitter, too condescending and beautiful.  To her, I bet I look like a beggar, something filthy that got stuck on the heel of her hand-crafted leather boots.

Write on!
Clove

June 8th, 2017

The gas station lights curtained us off from the rest of the world so that reality was clarified to that nighttime scene: his silver car parked behind mine, the two butch store employees loitering on the cigarette-littered sidewalk, and the tense, incessant soundtrack of cicadas.  We had finished filling up for the two-hour carried back to our summer apartments, so there was no reason to remain there - and yet we hesitated, facing each other sadly.

"I wish we could stay longer and just chat a bit more," he said quietly, almost as if speaking just to himself.

"I know," I replied, "I'm sorry, but I need to go..."

He nodded, although the look on his face grew more conflicted.  Even after twelve hours together - that azure quarry lake, the hot, spicy Thai dishes, and his laughter in the cool movie theater - we had done so much, and I felt sick on happiness.

Then don't leave me...

My throat hurt.

For another moment, I stood, taking in his existence, branding his expression into my memory so that I would not forget my desire, my purpose and focus.  Force, constraint, necessity.  He seemed to be feeling even worse, his eyes frantically searching my face, an anguished laugh tearing from his lips.

"I...really, really like you," he said.

I love you.

I knew what he wanted to say.

I stepped closer, watching his expression carefully as I said, "I like you a lot too."

After that, maybe he said more.  If he did, I responded without conscious thought, my attention narrowed in completely on his alarmingly tormented body language.  Was I mistaken?  His eyes bared his soul, and I tore my gaze away, unable to stomach that look of affection...

No...

This feeling will go away.

He was on the brink of pushing forward.

I knew.

I know that words are completely inadequate in expressing how I feel.  I need to use my body to tell him correctly, and, above all, I need him to know how much I love him...  If I could only have him for a night, I know my hands, my lips, and the shape of my hips could express how much I care.  If only he would feel how much I care...

I saw that sentiment in his eyes.

He leaned forward, fighting an almost unnoticeable movement of his arms tensing, but I knew I could not be misguided on his cut-back intent.  Then, quiet now, but breathing in deeply, he fell more indescribably sad than I have ever seen anyone look, the war of desire and judgement, adoration, forethought, and excruciation surfacing on his face.

"Please."

I knew what he wanted to say.

No...

This feeling will go away...

The noise of the cicadas faded, as power came into my hands the way the paths of fate always light up before me.  "Correct action" - that to me was to end his suffering for him, to step into his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning my head on his shoulder, inhaling his beautiful scent and brushing my fingers through his soft hair.  To hold him tightly.  To tell him that I understood.

To love him.

Then, I blinked, and the sound came back in.

Gripping the bladed edge of my mind, I cut through that dizzying reality, adrenaline spiking my vision with electric darkness so that I knew that that moment - or my sight in that moment - would not be recorded.  Why design the carnage to hunt me down in my sleep?  I hated myself in that moment with an incredible loathing, but I took a step back, a cold, charming smile already on my lips.

"All right, I need to go," I said with sharp finality.

He seemed shaken, unaware of the gore-soaked sword of perception in my subconscious' grip.  "Yeah..."  Then sighing, he said, "Yeah, we should call it a night.  Good bye..."

"It's okay," I said, grinning as I twirled to create dissonance between his sorrow and my fear, "Have some self-control."

"You should leave before me," he said, "You drive faster."

"Yes, I will quickly outpace you."  Far too comfortable with my assassination, I had reached my car by then while he was still watching me, and I swung the door open, unwilling to break my cheery facade until I was folded into the dark curves of the road.

"Thank you for the cookies," he called out.

"You're welcome," I said, "I hope they're not too dry."

He fixed me with an "are you kidding me?!" look, and I laughed, saying goodbye again before getting in, plugging my apartment location into my phone, and turning on music: something incredibly banging and wild to mask my gasping as I tore out of the parking lot.

I know what I am doing.

I lost someone because I lost control.  If I have to kill again, the same way I did before so that this feeling of loss becomes everything I feel, I will.  Why else did I regret for twenty-seven months?  I promised myself something when I promised him the world, saying I always kept my word...

...so that is why...

Alone in the dark, I curled over, tears clinging to my hair, and screamed until my voice was hoarse, and then I drove and drove and drove in silence until I was home.

Here's everything that's been cooking in my brain for the last year

Wow, I've been gone for a long time.  I'm not sure if I'm going to reinstall this blog for the general public due to schedule constraints (growing up is time-consuming, I've found), but I'll probably keep posting here and there about my own writing musings.  If you want to keep reading, please feel free!  Just... as a disclaimer, moving forward, this space is probably going to be more for my own sake: a place to put down the continuation of my fictional writing.

Speaking of which, here's a synopsis of my story on paper (or cloud memory, whatever).
I finally have everything I like in here, and all of the characters are good, powerful, exciting types.  A love triangle between an INTJ, ENTJ, and ESTP?  Fantastic.  XSTJ government authority?  Naturally.  Complete with two INFJ villains for kicks.

Act 1

     The new government is installed.  Impacts of the utopia settle down to the Minimum where the good is abused.  I'm thinking, like...because of the family program, the Outsiders begin to empty out foster homes and orphanages to facilitate human trafficking.  Distributed clothes and food are bottle-necked by crime lords who distribute as they see fit.  While the government is in transition, the gangs have begun to grow more bold: more murder, more territory advances, more deals with the Outsiders for increased influx of drugs into the market.  Most of this is seen entirely through Jaiden's perspective, who is desperately trying to get Antony's attention.  They scheme to leave an obvious opening for the Maximum to be attacked so that the Minimum gangs will, which will get the government's attention, directing Heinrich and company towards the exacerbated crime.
     In the Maximum, Skain is having success at quieting any remaining riots, not that there are many. He and Iris work in tandem well and beat down the arrogant crew (who enter again later - which is trope-y, I know...  I may scrap this or find a different way to use this).  Silvia (weird name for an ESTP at this point...  I may change her name again) is installed and cast as Skain's surrogate sister.  Because of his relationship with Brielle, he's not extremely thrilled about any of that, but Heinrich is insistent because of the transparency of public records at this point in the world.  She is very comfortable and obvious about her intentions, in a sort of Kanbaru way.  Both he and Iris quickly learn to take that in stride.

Act 2

     When the Minimum begins to seep into the Maximum, Skain's force is turned in that direction.  They are quickly, substantially out-matched (as in, not even close).  (This is where Mitch gets shot by his old gang; this will also be a good opportunity for Silvia to save Skain's backside.)  Because of Skain's team's complete and utter failure and continued infiltration into the Maximum, the city quickly confronts the government about the problem, and Heinrich releases his plan to stop all inflow of help to the Minimum, leaving border guards at the above and below ground entrances.  Skain's team is put on surveillance and scouting (to determine who is leading the Minimum skirmishes).  During this time, because one of Skain's best friends was harmed, performing is more difficult.  Drug use increases amongst the team, and morale drops.  (This is where I get a chance to play with some darker themes.)
     When Skain goes back down for scouting work, he successfully notices how involved the Outsiders are (with their stock of rulers, one always taking the place of the next dethroned).  Jaiden tracks his movements just to monitor him.  (I'm not sure exactly how I'll write this, but I want a fast series of clips: back and forth with increasing pressure on both sides.  Firstly, to obtain information; secondly, to determine why he's being stalked.)  Eventually, when he has made the right conclusion about the Outsiders, Jaiden catches him and threatens him, stating that she knows about Brielle.  Upon return, he reports to Heinrich, hiding his fear and any details about the threat.  Iris is unconscious, drugged, and, while worried, Skain quickly rules her out anyway.  If Jaiden knows about Brielle, she certainly knows about Iris.  Heading back to the facility, he takes Silvia out of the city walls to talk about his worry, realizing that, some day soon, he'll be forced to betray her too.  (This is the same scene from the first story.)  She advises him to stay faithful to what is right.
    This arc ends when he goes to visit Brielle with Silvia.  He explains to Silvia what happened to Brie.  She had periods of mental stability between hallucinations, so he brought her there and paid for her on his own.  Even though the government was medicating her, she was having more and more violent hallucinations (which I may or may not later reveal was actually caused by the additional medication), so they began to sedate her instead.  Silvia insists on breaking out Brielle that night, taking her back to her home so that (1) Brielle could heal off the medications and (2) Brielle would be out of Jaiden's sight, buying Skain some more time.  Even though he is doubtful of Silvia's claims to be able to fully heal Brielle, he agrees.

Act 3

     Having tracked his phone, Iris finds him at dawn at the train station, hungover.  Beat up and exhausted, they grab food and then get drugged up again for the day; she explains that she was knocked out in an explosion during a Minimum counter against the tech center.  During their breakfast, Heinrich, having been given sufficient information by Skain and having talked with the government about their plan, calls a meeting and sets forth a comprehensive strategy to finish off the Minimum, which includes handling all of the Minimum in what Jaiden sees as a proactive, preemptive sense.  (Since they were attacked first, to Skain and Heinrich, that's not really proactive.)
    Full-on war is waged against the Outsiders, but, despite how hard they're working, the force is not making much progress.  Before Silvia returns, Jaiden catches Skain again, infuriated that Brielle vanished.  Jaiden informs Skain on Antony's plan and says that, if he does not cooperate, they'll go after Silvia as soon as she returns.  She lets him go without touching him this time.  Soon thereafter, the government recalls Heinrich and holds a discussion on whether they should continue or not because they're rapidly losing ground.  Antony suggests putting up a treaty with the Outsider leaders, and a vote is cast.  Skain, being the leader of his own force, has significant sway.  Still determined to follow Silvia's advice, he does not agree, along with all of his team except for Iris.  Shrike does not.  Heinrich abstains.  The vote does not go through.  The government instead sets for a final allotment of their budget towards battling the Minimum, claiming that they do not want a pugnacious reputation and also claiming that the people deserve better than to spend their money on crime reform.  (The city needs education and work opportunities first.)  If Heinrich fails at that point, their duties will be reduced to simply guarding the Maximum from the effects of the Minimum.
     On the way out, Antony threatens Skain, saying that he made the wrong decision.  Unconcerned, he sends a text to Silvia, telling her to stay where she is; she responds with "okay" and claims that Brielle is doing much, much better.  Encouraged, Skain works out and goes to bed.  That night, when he's in the facility, he's kidnapped, more or less.  Jaiden had separately caught Iris and threatened her (using him, though he doesn't know that or know that Iris would even be willing to assist the antagonist to save his life), and Iris had intercepted Skain's texts, responding as Silvia.  As scheduled, Silvia came back that night and was taken by Jaiden's crew.  She's used against him so that he agrees to work with Jaiden to save her life.
     Their plan to is simply keep Skain under lock and key; Iris returns to report deceitfully that Skain had an opportunity to infiltrate the Outsiders, so he took it and went offline to do spy work.  Because Skain is an integral branch in Heinrich's division, their plans are broken up even further, and more money is wasted bringing and training more forces.
     Silvia, having been too unconscious to know exactly what happened, recovers.  She remembers at least that Skain was in danger underground.  Hoisting Skain's team together, she demands that they break from Heinrich's orders to find him; Iris is vehemently against this, for her own internal reasons (for Jaiden).  Sensing that Iris' disagreement is not simply for loyalty to Heinrich, Silvia misinterprets Iris' false motives as jealousy and, even as injured as she is, fights Iris and wins.  (ESTP > INTJ haha...)  With newfound respect from Skain's team, she gets the team to agree.
     On her side, Iris was unable to come up with a plausible alibi; she had claimed that Skain was gone to do spy work, but then the team went to find him.  Forced to confess, she is kept under watch by Heinrich, though she helps the team by giving them the location of Jaiden's base.  They break him out, wreaking havoc in Jaiden's base as they go; in the explosions, Jaiden is killed.  When Skain comes back, Iris is inseparable from him.  Silvia has an epic moment where she condemns Iris for not understanding sacrificial love.
     When Skain is awake again, he firstly tells Iris that he's going to need time and space to figure out what to do with her feelings.  She takes this well, having learned a lesson from Silvia.  In the meanwhile, Heinrich states their ultimatum.  They have about two more days of resources before they will need to back off.  Silvia suggests baiting the Minimum forward the same way the Maximum has been continuously baited, but not to cut off the limbs.  The limbs will point to the head; if they want to end all of the rulers, they will need to retrieve the information from the Outsider lackeys.  This plan moves forward; there is success, and the city ultimately wins.
     During the trial, Antony gives testimony to his and Jaiden's initial desires: to preserve the good within the Minimum.  The government takes this into account and continues supporting the Minimum.  I'm not yet sure what I'm going to do about Iris and Silvia, but, in the final scene, Skain goes to Silvia's home and finds Brielle completely recovered.  (Maybe I'll just make Brielle male, and then give him to Silvia.  I dunno.  Actually, that would be funny and fitting, I think...ahhh, no, I'm totally going to do that.)

Last thing I wanted to jot down: trying to synthesize my beliefs with my writing, I know for sure that any pain I exhibit must be compelling in an upward direction.  Some kinds of darkness are sharp, I've found, and they poke you towards being a better person because they feel so disgusting.  Other kinds are addictive, and I would rather not glorify those.  Still, I have no intentions of shirking away from sex, language, abuse, suicidal thoughts, drugs, poverty, or lack of regard for human life - because those are integral elements to life, and, as my INFP said, fiction is the best place to explore darkness uninhibited.  Starting from a utopia is going to help me leverage the contrast of good and evil according to my beliefs.  I'm not sure how I'll do this yet, but I think, as I sort through my own darkness, I'm finding a better balance between what is disgusting and what is necessary to help guide people to a vicarious understanding of darkness.

Happy to say this once more:

Write on!
Clove

Feedback wanted!

Hey all!

Writing has official re-commenced.  Oh man.  This is exciting.  :D

After reading Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass, some of my story was overthrown.  I had to jettison Skain's negativity and pathetic-ness (say goodbye to the chapters I posted earlier) and rework my romance a bit.  (Plus, my Te function continually keeps finding plot-holes that I absolutely have to cover up, which means plot rework, plot rework, plot rework, re-outlining, scrapping arcs, and creating arcs galore.)

Anyway, I was having some fun this evening, testing Skain's entrance out.  If you happen to pass by this corner of the internet, please read this and let me know your thoughts on Skain!  My goal is to make him more likable.  Hit or miss?

~ ~ ~

Prologue IV: Skain

“All right, ladies, break time!”

Shrike stands outside of the boxing ring, his tattooed arms folded.  In one hand, he waves a crisp sheet of paper; in the other, a fresh cigarette is burning slowly.

Lowering my gloved fists, I pull off my helmet, shaking my sweaty hair away from my scalp.  Antony, my sparring partner, sucks on and spits out his mouthpiece and asks, “What’s up, Shrike?”

“Heinrich sent a letter,” Shrike replies, “for Skain.  Seems like it’s finally about to hit the fan, and they need all hands on deck.”

I step forward, yanking off my gloves between my knees and taking the letter from Shrike.  Heinrich hasn’t contacted me over the last half decade for anything more important than my birthday.  No updates, no mention of future plans, only rare comments on my training.

Why is he suddenly talking now?

  With damp fingers, I unfold the sheet of ivory cotton paper and skim the black printed words.  Antony reads over my shoulder out-loud.

“‘Skain,

“‘The police force in Twainside is soon to begin a project that has been seven years in the making.  Via these letters, we are assembling our high-potential cast from your individual locations to create a special operations task force.  You will be joining a group of five other young men and women as their leader.  Arrangements have been made for your arrival on Friday at 1730.  Plan accordingly.

“‘Your father, Heinrich.’

  “Hey, look at that” Antony remarks, elbowing me with a grin and pointing at Heinrich’s closing, “He still thinks of you as his son.”

I don’t retort.  Partly because I’m too blasé about being adopted to feel any residual shame.  But mostly because I’m distracted as I re-read Heinrich’s brief letter over and over again, emphasizing different sections each time: ‘Twainside’, ‘our high-potential cast’, ‘Friday at 1730’.

  That’s in just two days, I think, feeling a knot form suddenly in my stomach, Will I be ready by then?

I push back my discomfort as best as I can and duck out of the ring, beginning to shelve my boxing gear in silence.  Behind me, Shrike and Antony tell me that they’re going upstairs to get cleaned up, and I raise a hand briefly in acknowledgement.  After a second, the basement door clicks closed, and I’m alone.

For seven years, I’ve known that this day was going to come.  I knew this day was going to come, and I imagined its form in all sorts of ways.  The police would finish their planning, and I would be recalled to the city, maybe put under public eye or hidden as a secret weapon.  Then, back at home, I would fight for Heinrich’s cause, waiting, waiting to see his smile.  Not because I’m starved for attention and want a father’s love, but because I genuinely respect Heinrich, and I want to see him succeed.

  I’ve spent seven years bracing and preparing myself for now.

  Yet, now is here.

And I feel annoyingly vulnerable.

Am I enough?  Has seven years been enough time?

  Bad memories begin to resurface without my permission.  Random stuff about a raised, manicured backhand, angry crying, and a lot of trouble-making and hell-raising.  I shake my head as I rummage through the basement’s mini-fridge for an unopened water bottle and push those bad memories back too.

  Shrike always told me: “Wrong place to go, Skain.  I’m spending every day filling your brain with everything you need to know to conquer on that urban battlefield.  This won’t be like the orphanage.  You’re top of the pyramid now.  No one will touch you unless you let ‘em.”

  And he’s right.  I’m nineteen and independent and pretty much untouchable.  But I still sometimes can get mentally and emotionally stuck in my trapped, controlled days as an eleven year old orphan.  Bad habit of mine.

  Whatever, I think, letting out a sigh of contentment as I pour cold water down my throat.  Friday is in two days.  I have plenty to do in terms of travel preparations before then.

  Besides, whether Shrike is right or wrong about my current aptitude and whether Heinrich wins or not, I’ve been single-mindedly focused on this moment for seven years, and I have no intention of letting it slip out of my grasp.

  I have too many people to prove wrong, too many people to prove right.

  Ready or not - I’m coming.

~ ~ ~

Write on!

Clove

Writing Silence

I feel like I've been swallowing words recently, swallowing until I suffocate.  People keep saying that I'm exposing too much truth, too much darkness, too much reality in my fictional writing.  The world does not need to know everything I want to say.

After all, I'm not responsible for keeping people informed.

If I spoke, people might be offended.

People might think the wrong way.

People might blame others for an "accident."

I'm sorry.

That's why this corner of the internet has been so quiet for so long.

Not just in fiction but stemmed in reality, I've been forced to keep quiet in a few areas about what I did and how I feel.  For example, last month, I was reunited with someone who had been my best friend, and I was told to keep all of the whisperings of doubt and relief that had developed over our distance inside - to only chit-chat.  This week, I was suffering because someone was playing with my heart and blatantly disrespecting my body, and I was told to keep my hatred and my accusations to myself - to forget anything happened.  Over the last several months, I've been trying to help a young girl navigate her early teenage years, but I was told to paint life lightly, not in the brutal battlefield that it is - to stay silent about reality until it was too late.  As a result, she was hurt - hurt exactly as I knew she would be - before I could warn her.

I don't have problems that need answers.

I don't need suggestions for solutions.

I have stories and no outlet.

Fiction is based deeply in reality; there is no fiction apart from reality.  What I've been writing has been "too accurate to life".  I need to blur the intense pain that I've experienced; I need to keep quiet about exactly what happened to others from my point of view - because they might know themselves, but they don't want to hear it.  My characters are too obvious; my plot arcs are too close to touchy subjects: the LGBTQ community, racism, feminism.

I, an author, should delete what I just wrote.

I probably said too much already.

But, haha, oh, this is just the beginning.

Write on!

Clove