Muse, baby, I know we've had our disagreements, but I need you back hon.
xoxo, liz

Even through the rain you could smell it: burning skin, decomposing corpses, rotting live flesh. But in the rain the dust settled; the river ran clear, not crimson or gray with blood or ash. They would go to the Fence on rainy days, slip their fingers through the chain-link and watch the fat rain drops disrupt the river's surface until the guards came through on their rounds and sent them away, to the barracks or work, wherever they were supposed to be. 

Commander Eichwitz and Doctor Birken would watch the Watchers from the warmth and dry of the medical building, standing shoulder to shoulder. It was a small amusement, as were the erratic changes in weather. Anything that drew them away from work and the windowless was a welcome distraction. For the doctor, the off chance that she might recognize one of her later charges as a Watcher was not an chance to be missed.

"How are the experiments coming?" Eichwitz asked quietly.

"Well. They were pleased at our last reports. Nothing I would consider a success, but to them, that they are not dead already is success enough," Birken replied. Her German accent was evident, but her words clear and carefully selected. She turned to the Commander and calmly stated, "I want to put in for my transfer."

He shook his head. "Not our time, my heart. A few more months."

"It is always a few more months. This place...wears on me."

The Commander turned to meet her eyes and cross-armed stance, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of her jet black hair behind her ear. "Things are changing. Our compound is not. Our orders are not. Until everything settles out it is better for us to stay here."

Birken searched his eyes for a long moment before turning back to the window. "I am trusting you."

He nodded and followed suit, and they continued their vigil in silence.

Always too soon in the observation did the guards come to shoo off the Watchers. Always too soon would the commander make some remark and excuse himself. Always too soon would the doctor be back to her patients.

Edmund was a Watcher that day, and he grumbled as the guards set him and his companion back to the barracks. "Can't even look at a bloody river through a bloody fence on a bloody day off."

"For our protection," his companion George recited in his oddly chipper manner. He had only been here a month; his optimism was typical and would diminish soon enough. "Would you rather be out in the war and that weather?"

Edmund said nothing, dragging his feet like a child leaving a carnival at his parents' orders. It was useless to argue with the new ones. The beeping of the gates opening in the distance caught the pair's hopeful attention briefly before the subsequent rumbling of diesel engines and stacatto of warning shots returned them to their senses. They remained respectfully silent until they reached the barracks, entering and sitting before a open-pit fire to dry their uniforms.

"They say there's only two ways out," Edmund said quietly, eyeing those circled around the fire. "Dead, or through Morpheus' Apprentice."

"Morpheus' Apprentice?" George repeated.

Edmund settled back on his elbows. "One of the doctors. They say you get a injection of some serum that makes you appear dead. You leave on one of those trucks, wake up, and you're out. Free." His story met only chuckles from George.

"It's true," a quiet voice said from the shadowed corner. "I've met her, the doctor."

"Then why didn't you take advantage of that, idiot?" Edmund demanded irritatedly. Some stranger always had to steal his limelight.

"I found it wasn't really what I wanted. Too many...risks."

"Risks or not, man, if I had that chance I'd leap at it. Better than being stuck in this bloody mess." Edmund looked to George for approval.

George shrugged. "Ask our friend here to help you out."

"She'll send for you, she'll know you know," the voice said before Edmund could even ask, and by the time he could turn to thank the man, despite his skepticism, he was gone. And sure enough, the next day after morning roll, Edmund was called to the medical building, sent past all the nurses and technicians straight to one of the doctors.

He was pleasantly surprised at his attendance by the sole female doctor. In the barracks men and women were separated most of the week, and in any case, most of the women were fairly homely, or plain at best. He couldn't help but to focus on her eyes, gray-violet pools that seemed to have seen everything, and processed everything as horrid. And yet they were kind.

"My name is Doctor Birken," she announced simply. "You are here for a standard check; the guards noticed you out in the rain the other day."

Edmund nodded. "But aren't standard check done by the nurses? Why am I seeing you?"

The doctor set down her clipboard and perched herself on the edge of the counter. "Well, Edmund, you tell me."

"Morpheus' Apprentice," he muttered.

"So word has spread," she mused with a slight grin. "Very well. I expect you are anxious for the process to begin."

"Um, what exactly IS the process, if you don't mind me asking," Edmund trailed, scanning the room as if any second the guards would leap out with their cameras and tape recorders and throw him in solitary for the next six months.

"Contrary to popular belief, it is the destination, not the journey that matters. You will be...free," the doctor explained. She slid down from the counter and began rummaging through a drawer, producing a syringe and small vial. She filled the syringe as she continued. "It will not be painful. You will go to sleep, wake up, and what happens next is left to you." Sensing Edmund was about to protest or inject a question, she added, "this is your one chance. Refuse it now, and I will pretend you never heard of me. You will enjoy solitary confinement for a time to ensure your lips remained sealed about my side work. And you will stay here until you die. It is quite simple. Yes, or no?"

Edmund swallowed, remembering what he had told the man about his acceptance of the risks in this procedure. "Alright."

"Excellent."

Three weeks later, Edmund would have found this escape route unnecessary. The enemy had succeeded; the lagers were liberated. It had been said before, after the Holocaust, "Never again." It was said after Cambodia, after Bosnia, Rwanda and Darfur. The human race has a funny way of not being true to their word, no matter the severity of the offense, no matter the evidence and rampant presence of the offenders.

What the liberators found was worse than what they found at Auschwitz. Worse than anything they had seen before. How many were killed was unknown. It would take decades to sort through and DNA map the remains found in the burning piles and mass graves. It would take decades for the rain and snow and wind to wash away the putrid scent of a violent history. The medical building was reserved for the strongest-stomached soldiers in its slow evacuation. In every room, patients in stasis, with varying degrees of injury and forced substance abused. Many were too traumatized to be moved and were shot in their beds like racehorses with broken legs.

Two rooms were of particular interest. The patients were in medically induced comatose states. MRIs would indicate full brain function, and full experience of pleasure despite the horrific manipulations of their bodies; they were forever trapped in dreams where their bodies had no impact on the extent of their mental ability. Each had a carefully scribed chart detailing their arrival in the program, the duration of their "treatment", and their expected date of expiration. One the army doctors deemed stable enough to awaken, and though he died soon after, he spoke but two words in his consciousness: Morpheus' Apprentice. No records indicated a patient, doctor, nurse, guard, or prisoner by the name of Morpheus. The names of the medical staff were only located in a central computer system, destroyed soon upon liberation by the lager's Commander, as their protocol had required. He was taken into custody as the rest of the camp was sent on their way, amongst them a woman, with jet black hair and gray-violet eyes, accepting this as her ultimate transfer.

The tragedy of life is not that man loses, but that he almost wins.


Sometimes the worst advice you can give a person is be yourself.

'Tis depressing the vast amount of poetry invading writing (fiction writing!) communities these days. Don't y'all have special communities for that?
Anyway. Need to remember to post my prompt list here so it travels between computers. Laptop tends to overheat too much to be useful :/ but God help me I can never remember to make them share over my flash drive. Mostly because half the time I can't FIND my flash drive. Started a story with friends, prohibition era. Should be interesting. Getting the feeling my characters are going to get used and stomped over though, so I haven't put nearly as much love and thought into them as I usually do. Better to distance myself, I think. Then I won't be upset when everyone starts to God-mode them away.
Still looking for a way to break away from vampires. When I write I can't help but have the various ones I've created leap out and say "USE ME!". Love em too much. And no, I won't start writing goth characters to segue to proper human behavior. That's just wrong.
How exactly does one go about writing a "light" character? That's something I'm going to struggle over the next few days for the one prompt that keeps stabbing me in the eyes when I don't have the exact wording written down.
Right, back to writing for "Integrative Studies in Social Sciences", a class oh-so very important to animal science majors.
Tally ho!

they all hate me they all do

Appears I did that thing where I disappear for a while. Oops. Been working on my new computer and ran into so many problems it's not even funny. Long story short, a month or two later, I'm still without a working PC and am waiting for my refunds on bad parts to buy goods ones....
Tomorrow's my last day at home, then it's off to school. I'm glad to be going and getting out of the house, but I'm also slightly terrified and really really full of dread. To the point where I can't sleep and I'm not even tired. Too much is going on with people that are easy to avoid at home...don't know if I'm ready to jump into the world of forced lack of solitude (though I love my roommate dearly, and my suitemate) and those stupid boys who manage to do things that keep me from moving on.
Anyhow, will most likely will return to this realm when I'm at school.
Whoever it was that had sent me a manu on gmail....I'm workin' on it. Will finish at school, more free time.
Or less.
Time will tell.

i've been gone for a while.
oops.

dear livejournal:
i despair that there are pieces in writing communities going un-commented upon. however, i am but one human and too much reading makes the brain go all mushy-like, specially when one is trying to get one's own writing juices flowing again!
i can only hope that one day writers will pull their heads out of their asses, leave their high horses in the stable, and comment on other people's work (with specificity and genuine helpfulness) as many times as they would like their own work commented upon.
yours,
liz.

When I was 10, work required dad in London, and dad required me and mom in London. We moved into an old house in the crowded outskirts of the city, in an area rich with history. It was two days after we moved in that I first met Chancy. The night was rainy (as usual), and I was up late reading. I felt someone looking at me from the doorway, but knew my parents were asleep. Next thing I knew there was a young man next ot me, asking what I was reading. He seemed terribly surprised that I responded to him. Told me his name was Chancy, and he had died at the age of 23, approximately 150 years ago. Then he was gone.

I saw him often after that. One day I asked my parents about him. They chalked this mysterious man up to being a product of an overactive imagination and the stress of leaving my friends behind in the States. It bothered me that they didn't perceive Chancy as I did, so the next day I stopped at the library after school and researched our house. Sure enough, in 1845 a man by the name of Chancellor "Chancy" Evans was shot and killed, murderer never found.

That night I asked Chancy about it. He said he wasn't bitter about it, in fact, he could care less. His soul was only bound to this world because he refused to leave it. Felt he had other business to see to. Yes, he saw the light from time to time, but he ignored it. The other business was more important. The other business turned out to be me.

Chancy became a stronger force and clearer image as the weeks went by. He took to attempting to leave the house, believing that the bond between us could override his soul's attachment to the premises. And eventually, it was.

On the hour-long trip to and from school he would talk to me, explain the natural order of the unnatural world and behaviors of spirits and so on. He told me I was one of the few who could--and one of the fewer who should--communicate with the deceased. Apparently, I was strong enough for it. But not without his help.

There are spirits out there who would that the living stayed out of their business. But it is no one's business but the living's to see them off, he would always say. When the dead took to interfering in life, life had to interfere with the dead. I was that life.

After two years, we moved back to teh US. Chancy came with. We had established, in that timeframe, three very important things. One: Chancy was bound to me and I to him; I was the business keeping him on Earth, and he was responsible for protecting and guiding me. Two: I had a skill, a gift, that I needed to employ for the good of both the living and dead. And three: this would never be easy. A few weeks after our return, my parents overheard me talking to Chancy, a mistake on my part. Concerned that their daughter, back home with her old friends and at her old school, was still talking to an "imaginary friend", they carted me off to the man.

I never learned his name, or else I never remembered it. I didn't care to. His office was hospital-sterile and reeked of old men and sadistic "therapeutic" methods of days past. I immediately disliked it. My first visit to the man was the first time I saw an entity that wasn't chancy, and frankly, i was dumbstruck. It actualized all the things Chancy had told and warned me about. Of course, the man misinterpreted my behaviors--how could he not?--and set up an intensive schedule of meetings and tests and evaluations.

When we got back home, chancy taught me to block out the voices and visions.

**I'm finding it easier to pen out what I can before I go to sleep, then think over the next bit as I'm waiting to actually, like, fall asleep. I like to leave my last sentence leading me to the next part...so it kinda sucks if you're reading along and I'm leaving it hanging really stupidly, but it helps me keep going, so there. Haha.**

When I was younger, the man would ask about my mom and dad, and how I felt about the things they did and said. When I got older, the man started to ask about my thoughts on my own sanity. I told him I thought I was insane, 'cause they say that's a sign you still aren't. But the truth is, I knew I was sane. Sure, the voices don't stop and the visions don't dissipate, but how does that make me the crazy one? Maybe it's the rest of the world who's touched in the head, not necessarily for not hearing and seeing what i do, but for thinking it odd. Normal, after all, is only a matter of opinion.

It rained really hard last night, almost enough so to drown out the voices. But the storms make them louder, more persistent. Water has always been an effective medium, and that this place leaks like a bucket rusted through doesn't help. I blocked them out though, even Chancy. A sleepless night still, but a peaceful one.

This morning Kenneth brought my typical clozapine and Red Bull. The docs don't like that little habit of mine, but they know it's the only way they'll get me to stay and take the meds. Not like they do anything anyway. I'm checked in for a week this time, only 'cause I forgot to check the dates on my prescription and call for an appointment. Work's upset that I won't be getting any field investigation done, and Kyle's upset that he has to cook for himself, but they'll live.

"Sleep well?" Kenneth asked, watching me chase down the drugs with half the Red Bull.

I set the can on my nightstand and smiled at him. "Terribly," I replied cheerfully.

He grinned back. "Me too. Damn rain."

I say, this chap's a lying scoundrel if ever I saw one.

"Scared of thunder, a strapping man such as yourself?" I teased in mock surprise, ignoring the voice. Kenneth's various phobias were one of our more-frequented topics when he was on duty.

Jessica, are you listening to me?

Kenneth rolled hi eyes at me and headed for the door. "Dr. Corbin wants to see you at ten this morning."

Jesssssicaaaaaa...

"Chancy," I snapped. "Shut up for Christ's sake. He's not lying and you know it. You're the fib-spinning jerk-off here."

I will NOT shut up! You closed me out all last night--very rude of you, by the way--this just adds insult to injury. As for fib-spinning jer--

"I'm sorry," I drawled. "Now, if you would...?"

Chancy mumbled something unintelligible and passed through the wall, not neglecting to put his hand on my head as if he were "the claw" and I a prize to be plucked from the masses. He knew the sharp chill of his grasp irked me, same way I knew blocking him out irked him. We have a very love-hate relationship.