momebie: \ (Ivor Wink)

[Source.]


You wake up in a mask. Not your clothes, not your mask, not your body. But it is your sense of possibility that supplies your adrenaline and an upswell of urgency. It's a nice, comfortable bed and you sit cross-legged in the middle of it assessing your options. It's important to place your feet down on the right side, after all, and to be going in the right direction at the beginning of every journey. No one wants to go on someone else's adventure. And you've decided, regardless of who you look like, that it will be your adventure.
momebie: (19th century death on a bike)

[Source.]


At first it's a rictus that comes over them. They're frightened, because of his height and his mask and his dress, and their lips twitch upward even as they try desperately to keep them down. He's a warning. He must be. The unknown stumbles before them, and then he begins to whir. And it's familiar, the spinning, arms out, legs kicking. It's spinning they did as children. It's spinning they watch others do. Spinning is not dangerous. So they laugh and clap and forget. They're smiling for real when they put him on the cross. His cloak catches their laughter. Their rictus does not know enough to fear.
momebie: (Bleach Renji tattoos)

[Source.]


It's like you have a god damned superpower. This ink moves through you, coursing in and out of veins, pushing your hands across keyboards and pads of paper and canvases of concrete. You have desire. You have drive. You have a small, impotent feeling of loneliness when they leave you, so you hold them in. You sit for days at your keyboard, refusing to let them out, afraid that once they leave you you'll be nothing. You'll be alone with the ghost of that desire.

Be wary. Ink is also poison. One way or another, either you or they will seep free.
momebie: (Angel Sanctuary setsuna torn)

[Source.]


The sand brings most people up short. It sucks and shifts. THey have to re-learn how to walk to some degree, or they'll stumble. They're lighter on the return trip. If you let the salt eat at away at the heavy parts of you, the rest of you practically springs away.
momebie: (WS Bucky Awake)

[Source.]


MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
all the sweet, green icing flowing down
someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'cause it took so long to bake it
and I'll never have that recipe again.
momebie: (Sisyphus has never had a gf)

[Source.]


A hundred years ago today a boy was born in French Algeria. Destiny stamped him, as it stamps all boys, and if you could shuttle back and forth through time you could see him slowly peeling that stamp away. Every one of his tremulous breaths would whisper a tiny amount of the stain gone. It's all rather more dramatic at the end. It's always more dramatic at the end. But that's the funny thing about destiny. It's just as much about consciously becoming anything other than what you should be as it is about rolling over and accepting life. When you're born into the world your end is also born into it, you just have to decide how much responsibility you can take for it.
momebie: (Architects Derek Sit)

[Source.]


It will never fit in a teacup. I don't care what they say. They're prone to exaggeration and hyperbole and can't be trusted. A nice tumbler, however, or a highball glass. The recipe is two ice cubes and as much whiskey as you can drink and still see straight. No, tempests don't fit in tea cups, but they fill people.
momebie: (Angel Sanctuary setsuna torn)

[Source.]


They only eat red things. At first the ornithologists thought it was because other types of berries were poisonous to them, but after some testing it was determined that extracts of other juices did not affect what the birds ate. It was all about the color. Then there were more tests and it was determined that they only see red color waves. Their vision is white and black and grey and red. Red for berries. Red for other birds. Red for hearts. Red for blood. No one had ever observed them eating live prey before. Feathers awash in blood, they turned on each other.
momebie: (OUAT Mad Hatter Scissors)

[Source.]


Ramblings. For the past three days you've made sense to no one, and it's only going to get worse. Strangers who overhear you in line for coffee and friends who call at inopportune times are likely to be concerned. Don't worry about them. They're not important. All that's important is the words, and they will have it out, one way or another.
momebie: (Death Note Light/L fight)

[Source.]



You know what they say about a perfect storm. You have to. Because I don't know and I need someone to tell me. Still, there's something to be said for momentum, for letting your inner life carry you away. Which part of your story is going to wash you over the edge today?
momebie: (Bucky Barnes Lie)

[Source.]


The second day has sat in a shroud. It's grey here. Grey in a way the likes of us don't typically see. I can't blame my absence on lethargy, so maybe I'll claim I was here all along and you just couldn't see me through the fog.
momebie: (Nightwing Fly!)
[In case you missed it, I'm going to spend the month posting picture prompts for those who want them. Feel free to drop responses below. NANO! LET'S DO SOME WRITING AND SHIT.]


[Source.]


Welp, here we are again at the shores of NaNoWriMo. It's very late now. Or possibly very early. Or possibly it's a perfectly fine time. It all depends on your point of view. And mostly your time zone.

Some of you know exactly what you're going to do. Some of you can pinpoint a spot on that far mountain peak. You have a map and some LARA bars and you're on your way. I hate you.

I'm still looking at all the pebbles. They're so pretty. Each one shining with possibility. How do I know if I've picked the right one? How do I know if the blue one won't skip better than the purple? How do I know the orange won't match my eyes.

It's time to make a decision. Grab one. Any one. Grab two. Grab a handful. Take as many as you can carry. Just know. Just know that you will have to carry them.

Good luck.
momebie: (WS Bucky Awake)
HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS. FIFTEEN DAYS UNTIL CON. I STILL HAVE SEWING TO FORCE LISA TO HELP ME WITH. HOW DOES TIME WORK THIS WAY EVERY YEAR? Anyway, it's time to start setting things up and getting amped about seeing your excellent faces, so it's Thursday night dinner planning time! Like last year, we are planning to have our Thursday Night Dinner @ Max Lager's. We chose this restaurant because of its proximity to the hotels and its variety of food. I'm going to shoot for reserving spaces between 5:00PM and 6:00PM, but I will hammer that out officially when I get a headcount and speak with someone there. The thing I do want to pull over from last year is the firm count rule.

*** We need an ACCURATE count of how many people you're going to have with you. If you bump into people on the way, please do not bring them in tow. (Well, unless they're going to fill a space someone dropping out left, I suppose, but at that point you can only fill one for one. Not two or three or fifteen to one. Seriously you guys, think of the waiters.) ***

Also, for this year, we need to keep in mind that their policy has changed and we may be split up a bit. This is fine! We just need to come prepared for it and willing to break off into groups of 6 or so. Make five new friends! Not that you'd probably have to. I think we all know each other by now. SO:

[Poll #1929064]

If there are people you want to invite who can come, please send them over here to fill out the poll. If you cannot send them over here, please comment below with who they are. WE NEED YOU TO FILL OUT THIS SURVEY BY AUGUST 21ST. I will call to make the reservation on the 22nd.

Remember! This dinner is open to anyone who can see this who is going to the con, so feel free to link it from your journal/twitter for your friends if you think they'd be interested. It's a hectic weekend and we just like having a calm(ish, we know you guys) moment to see our friends before things really get underway. So come! Bring your friends! Just let me know about it first. :p
momebie: (Batwoman signal)
Two things I'm thinking about that make the post I wrote and deleted last night about my hair look as stupid and avoidant as it was! (This is still stupid and avoidant, but in a way that's much more interesting to the rest of you, possibly.


1.) Pronunciation Book
This is a spiral I dropped into this morning after [livejournal.com profile] theemdash linked me to this Daily Dot article about a YouTube channel called Pronunciation Book that had recently gone from merely teaching pronunciations of words to a count down to something that seems jumbled and sinister and is fucking fascinating. It looks, as Em said at lunch, like writing as an extreme sport.

From what I can tell, the rest of the internet is also interested. 4chan's /x/ forum has come up in many of the articles and message board postings I read this morning. (I'm not linking to that, because I feel like 4chan is the LAST place I should go on my work computer, heh.) Many message boards have threads that are pages and pages long dedicated to figuring out what happened, locating the position of broadcast, and decoding strange clicks. Most people seem to have written it off as an ARG or a viral marketing campaign (possibly for Battlestar Galactica?), but I'm less interested in what it's counting down to than I am in the story that's unfolding in bits and pieces of rough translation and transmission. Someone has kindly pulled together some of it into a semblance of story:



Em and I have decided to forego the interest in clicks and triangulating location and such and just focus on the words. We're going to pull apart the sentences that have been leaked in a seemingly pellmell way and see if we can't reorganize them in a more or less linear narrative. (Or non-linear narrative, given that there seem to be two timelines going, but at least we can try and find a Plot A and Plot B.) We're working from a list of transcripts that she found of the videos so far.

So, there's a bit of madness you can step into if you like.


2.) NPR and Capes
I'm still mainlining Smallville. I'm actually almost finished. I have three episodes left in season 9, which I'm sure I'll get through tonight, and then I start season 10, which I'll probably complete by this weekend. My thoughts on Superman through the lens of Smallville will come later, but right now I just wanted to establish I am living firmly in the Mainlining Smallville Headspace, which means I tend to place the template of that fantasy over what happens sometimes. I've also been listening to NPR as I drive lately. Something about the break up made me less inclined to listen to my music all of the time. (Though I don't know why. I finally live in a world where the most important person in my life doesn't give me shit for what I listen to. Maybe it's residual fear or something.) So it shouldn't surprise any of you to know that this morning I was listening to a story about PTSD and wondering how different it would be if it was happening in a world where Superman existed.

Would they, for instance, instead of pulling someone who had served in the army in Iraq for the piece, pull one of the Joker's victims? What would socioeconomic speculation look like in a world where capes were more or less big business? How many fluff pieces can we run about acrobat clinics for kids suffering a loss? Would the rafting race between Cuomo and Bloomberg, meant to draw attention to the Adirondacks as a vacation spot, be instead about Harvey Dent and Commissioner Gordon? How different would Comic Con look in a world where the people we dress up as are real? (Okay, my initial feeling about that one is 'not that different', because yada yada cape comics and the way they speak to their readership and how deeply they can touch us and alter the context through which we view the world. I would strongly argue that the hope brought to people by cape comics isn't any less now than if they were real, it would just be more widely validated. And that's a whole other post, isn't it?)

THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT. And things I might implement as a story telling exercise. I don't know, I haven't decided yet. I'm going to collect my thoughts and make a more substantial post, probably to the Big Girl Blog.


So uh, good afternoon, internet. What stories are you distracting yourself with today?

FINGERS CROSSED LJ DOESN'T EAT THE POST THIS TIME.
momebie: (Supernatural Castiel IDFK)
Everyone knows the most accurate way to do science is LJ polls, and since [livejournal.com profile] barbed_whispers is clearly just MAKING THINGS UP I thought I'd come here to verify.

[Poll #1917179]


In other terrifying news, someone mashed up Cotton Eyed Joe and Gangnam Style, because why not I guess?

momebie: (Nightwing Fly!)
Quick! When you think of characters that fly--I'm thinking superheroes here, obviously, but really anyone you can think of who doesn't have wings and doesn't use magic, who just seems to have an innate ability to defy gravity--do you assume that they are manipulating the gravitational field outside of them, or that they are flexing something extra from the inside?

[Poll #1906785]


I was doing my reading for this week's Gender Through Comic Books module, Superman: Birthright, and I noted that Lex's assumption about how Superman moves through the air is that he's controlling his own gravitational field. I find this curious and telling, given that he's praised as a great inventor, but doesn't seem to have the air of fantasy that actually WOULD make him a great inventor. Lex Knows Things that the other characters don't, and because of this the rest of the world assumes he's making it up, when really he's just stealing and cobbling things together to fit his whims. I don't mean that in a derogatory way. He's obviously insanely brilliant either way. I just think it's an important distinction in the character.

Anyway, I noted this on twitter and [livejournal.com profile] metonymy asked me if there was a difference in controlling a gravitational field and flying. Another SuperMOOC person responded to say she hadn't thought of it that way, so now I'm curious. I mean, obviously, the stuff I know about science could fit in the ear of a dust mite. But given that these characters are usually presented within a context of fantasy, I tend to assume that their ability to fly is another muscle that they're exercising, rather than something cast iron scientific like disruption of the gravitational field, unless we're specifically told so. Tony Stark? Definitely disrupting gravity and engaging thrusters. Carol Danvers? Ummmm...just plain flying*.

All that said, I did enjoy Birthright, in spite of my hitherto complete non-interest in all things Superman. (Except for Dick Grayson's obvious doe eyed adoration of him. That I will always find amusing.) Mark Waid did more in 50 pages to make me care about Supes than pop culture had done in 30 years. A lot of it boils down to this quote:
We’ve talked about this before. Living things have a kind of glow around them. They’re surrounded in a halo of colors I’d invent names for if I weren’t the only one who could make them out. I’m not sure if that halo is a soul or an aura or what. I do know that at the end of the life cycle, it fades pretty quickly, and what’s left behind is…hard to look at. Empty in a way that leaves me empty, too. But when it’s there…my God, how it shines.


So, thoughts? Superman comic recs? Superman fic recs**? I'm not a proud person. I'll take whatever you can throw at me.


(*Disclaimer that I don't read many comics with characters who actually fly, except for how I've just started reading Captain Marvel, so if it's been addressed then OBVIOUSLY I missed it and would like to know the canon explanations if you know them.)
(**Except for you, Rachael! I still have that epic Supes/Bats fic set aside for when I have time to give it the attention it deserves.)
momebie: (Supernatural Dean froze that way)
[Heavy lifting.] Had my first call with the Health Coach last night. I didn't cry and she didn't try to shame me! We talked about my goals and my current state of disrepair and all of the things I know I need to do but just...don't. That is seriously the story of my life at this point. I draw up diagrams and lists of things I could do to make myself happy and productive and healthy, and then I set them on fire and go off to eat chocolate cake in bed. Because eating chocolate cake in bed makes me just happy enough at the moment to make it not matter that I'm going to be blindsided by miserableness later.

SO. Project Shell Game is in effect. So-called Project Shell Game because the three major things I need to start doing are so interconnected that I'm finding it impossible to work on one because of the others. I need to A) get to sleep at a decent hour so that I can B) wake up by 6:30AM and C) walk three miles before work at least three days a week. Maybe if I can follow all of these then I will be able to pick out the one thing that makes me happiest in the long run. Maybe there's a pearl under all three. Who knows. That's the one thing I told her I'd work on. I want to be able to give her good news when she calls back in April. I also want to not die during that run I signed up for, so there's that.


[Art and shit.] I mentioned a while back that I wanted to run a game of Artist's Telephone, because it would be fun. Now that we're drawing close to summer I'm thinking that I really would like to set it up. It might be best to host over Tumblr, but I can figure out the particulars when I see if there's actual interest. For those who don't know, Artist's Telephone is a game where one person creates a piece of art and then the next person in line uses that piece of art to inspire them to create a new piece of art, and on and on. If you think this sounds fun to you, would you please respond to this poll?

[Poll #1904553]

Also, I'm leaving this post unlocked, so feel free to share this with other people you think might enjoy it.


[Words and shit.] I need a pair of eyes to help me whip a poem into shape. Anyone? Bueller?
momebie: (Angel Sanctuary setsuna torn)
“It’s not what I expected,” David said. He dangled one of his feet over the edge, kicking gravel as he did so, causing it to disappear soundlessly into the abyss below.

Rene pulled his right hand from his pocket and used it shield his eyes from the way the mid-afternoon sun was reflecting off the beiges and blues and reds of the stone canyon walls sprawling out in front of them. “It’s big. Huge. Grand, even. Goes on for fucking ever. What did you expect?”

“I just expected it to look more real. There’s no depth to it. It might as well be a backdrop.”

“There’s depth to it. Maybe you’re just ill-equipped to see it.”

“You’re honestly telling me that your eye can perceive where all of those walls and ridges and towers stand in relation to one another.”

“I’m good with walls.” Rene shrugged.

David pulled his foot back to solid ground and teetered for a moment, shooting his arms up and out to maintain balance. Rene watched him out of the corner of his eye, just in case it looked like he might go in. Not that it wouldn’t serve him right, the miserable idiot.

Rene had been perfectly happily unhappy in Denver. He’d hunkered down into settling for a quiet, unassuming life with no passion, just like everyone else he knew. He had beat back hope and hidden his journals. He’d let his poetry turn into shopping lists of benign compliments. He challenged no one and nothing and he was going to live a good long life because of it if his liver didn’t give out first.

Then David rode into town on his loud motorcycle with his loud mouth and his bright, vivid photographs of parts of the world Rene had always wanted to see and ruined everything. Rene might never forgive him for that. It was yet to be seen. The most important thing, the most painful thing, was that Rene was writing again. With my pictures and your words, we could rule the world, David would say. The idea of that scared the shit out of Rene.

And now here they were with three forty ounce bottles of beer, two pairs of jeans, and jacket between them. Here they were fighting for the keys to the car and over who got to choose the radio station on the hour. Here they were unshaven and hungry and tired, but still able to give sun bright smiles to pretty blondes at gas stations. The road fell away behind them and life rolled on and on and on.

Rene looked into the Grand Canyon and strained to see the floor of it as if he was down there. What would it look like, if he honed in on the smallest part of something so vast? It was the question he asked himself before he sat down to write anything. Seeing so much of the states was ruining that precision, making it harder to focus. How did you describe one beautiful thing when everything was beautiful?

David clapped him hard on the back of his neck and knocked him off balance. He reached and grabbed the tail of David’s leather jacket, trying not to fall in. “What are you thinking?” David said.

“Nothing. Impossible to think with you around.”

“So you say.” David slid his arm around Rene’s shoulder and knocked their heads together. “Isn’t it more than you’d ever hoped for?”

“I had hoped for nothing, so yes.”

“You’re so young to be so dead inside,” David said lightly.

“Not dead, quietly alive. Hope kills, David. Hope makes the fall ten times worse.”

“How’s hope treating you now?”

Rene lifted his eyes, searched the horizon for another sign of life--a bird or a mountain goat or a fat little squirrel. Something that would make him feel less like they weren’t the only two people in the world. If that feeling welled up inside of him and was knocked down, god only knew what would happen. Maybe he’d write great, miserable works of literature. David would be so proud to have spawned them too, regardless of the pain involved.

“The same way she always does,” Rene said.

“The mindfuck then.”

“The mindfuck.”

David squeezed Rene’s shoulder and pulled away. Rene could hear the crunch of David’s boots against the gravel and dry desert ground as he walked back to the car. If there was a more addictive drug than hope, Rene didn’t want to find it. As it was, the fall still might kill him.

This post was written in response to [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol Exhibit A, Week Five Topic: This is your brain on.... Concrit and comments are welcome.
momebie: (MCR Gee red)
T-12. The museum was silent and dark, except for the anterior storage room where Essa was putting the finishing touches on the artifacts that were going to be placed on view in the morning. Only the standing corner lamp was flicked on, but the room glowed with a bright orange burnish as the light from the Oota Dabun pushed away the late night shadows. Essa inspected its casing. A frisson ran down her spine as she ran a white gloved finger down the electrically tinted glass and searched it for cracks or signs of mistreatment.

The Oota Dabun was a legend that had recently become real. A slow burning star that had been trapped at the center of the Earth during its formation and then violently birthed through a volcano hundreds of years before Essa was born. It had been passed down through clans of native peoples all over the American continent, never housed in the same place twice. Those chosen to be caretaker for the star were blinded for the privilege, and it wasn’t lost on Essa just how incredibly lucky she was to live in a time when the star’s light could be contained and viewed by anyone. It was nothing short of a miracle, and was often billed as such in clumsy handbill copy.

Come and see the star. Confront the beauty of space.

Essa completed her check of the star’s casing and pulled her hand away. There was a flare of light, suddenly. The star looked like it was bubbling at its core. She took a step back just as a wave of light stronger than any recorded in the observation of the Oota Dabun rippled outward from its core and stretched across the lab. Essa put her hands up in front of her face. She could swear that something physical hit them as the light passed her, but when she pulled them away everything was as it had been.

“Losing it, old gal,” she muttered to herself. Essa wrote up her final report and left for the evening.

T-7 The rash sent her to the emergency care center at one in the morning. She’d been out for drinks with a friend from grad school, Cara, when her palms started to itch. She scratched at them absentmindedly until Cara became annoyed by what seemed like a nervous tick and grabbed her by the wrist, inspecting Essa’s hands. They were swollen and red, creased with white where her nails were digging into the skin.

“What did you get into this time?” Cara asked, motioning to the bartender for their bill.

“I don’t know. Maybe there was some turpentine on a work station. I don’t remember catching my hands in anything though.”

“Turpentine does not do that,” Cara said, signing the bill and dragging Essa out to the car.

The emergency care center doctor was also unimpressed with the assessment. “Do you have any allergies?”

“None that I know of,” Essa said, sitting on her hands, letting the paper pulled across the bed crinkle underneath her skin and do some of the scratching for her.

The doctor left the room and returned with a tube of white cream. “I want to try this first. Hold your hands out.”

Essa did as she was told. The doctor slathered the cream over both sides of her hands and her arms up to her elbows. There was immediate relief from the itching. The redness and swelling also died down almost immediately, which seemed to perplex the doctor, but he didn’t voice his concern. He merely set his mouth at an uneven dip and told her to come back if the swelling returned.

She let Cara drive her home.

T-5 Essa woke up in the middle of the night and she was freezing, though her skin felt hot and she was drenched in sweat. Her skin felt more than hot. She felt like she was melting, and her vision was blurred. Bright, white floaters were swimming in and out of view as she dropped out of bed and crawled to the bathroom.

Once kneeling on her tattered old mat she used the edge of the tub to pull herself up and was startled almost immediately by a bright orange light appearing behind her in the full length mirror hanging on the back of the door. Her hands, still sticky from the cream, lost their purchase and she fell, knocking her head against the hard edge of her toilet. Essa closed her eyes to stop the room from swimming and pulled herself up again.

Without looking, she flicked on the bathroom light and leaned in close to the mirror above the sink. When she opened her eyes again she was confronted with the orange glow. It was coming from her. Her pupils shone as if someone had shoved fairy lights into ping pong balls, the deep red veins were visible against the sclera, and the sweat on her forehead was leaving a dusty golden sheen on her skin.

She wanted to scream. There was panic climbing up her throat. She tamped it down, deciding this was a nightmare, and turned off the bathroom light before unsteadily making her way back to bed. The bed sheets were rolled into a tight cocoon and she shoved her head under her pillow, trying to escape the frigid air.

T-1 When Essa woke again she was fine. She didn’t feel tired, her hands were their usual shape and color, and nothing about her was glowing without the aid of a good foundation. Chalking it all up to nightmares and tequila, she tried to find something in her closet suitable for unveiling a star.

T-0 She’d gotten a slower start than she’d intended, so Essa was practically sprinting across the downtown streets on her way to the museum. The signal said WALK, so she went without looking, trusting the traffic more than she would have normally.

Later she wouldn’t know how to explain what had happened. She was standing in the middle of the road when she heard the car horn blare. She looked up to see a red sports car lumbering towards her and she threw her hands up, unable to make her feet move. Right then everything around her stopped.

She blacked out for a moment, her sight going dark. Her whole body felt as if she had inhaled all of the oxygen in the city. Her lungs held on to it for a beat, making her feel impossibly dense. Then everything returned to normal speed and she felt a release. There was a woosh and a crackle in her ears and light erupted from her.

Everything was suddenly as white as it had been black just moments before. It blinded her to look at it ebbing outward, so she could only imagine what it was like for anything on the other side. She began to shiver again, as her skin crawled, impossibly hot. The front of the car started to burn away as it was stopped in its tracks centimeters from her. No one who witnessed the occurrence would allow themselves to believe it.

It would be touted as a miracle.

Come and see the star. Confront the beauty of space.

This post was written in response to [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol Exhibit A, Week Four Topic: Ultra Deep Field. Concrit and comments are welcome.
momebie: (Architects Derek/Amelia Run)
Those of you who have been around these parts awhile might know this story, but they might not know it in quite this way.

It was after dark when my classmates and I trickled into the warm fall night, laughing and talking loudly, chasing each other around and feeling an itch to do something brisk and drastic. It was partially because we were teenagers and burrowed deep in that mythic age of boundless energy and waking nights. It was also because we had just spent three hours sitting on the floor of a doctor's den, crafting flowers out of small pink and white bin liners. In the month we'd been working on our float for the homecoming parade we'd made close to 700 trash bag flowers and we needed at least 500 more. Our float won the spirit vote every year and this year was going to be no exception. I still remember the fake vanilla smell and the dryness of my fingertips.

We were all a little disappointed too, to tell the truth. Every homecoming there was a war between the senior class and the junior class and we had been prepared for junior operatives to come by and try to take us unawares. We had eggs and paintball guns and water cannons at the ready, but we were left undisturbed. So it was with extra nervousness that I made small talk with the boy I liked as we headed to our vehicles.

"Sucks that nothing happened," he said.

"I know," I said.

His friend offered no comment, hanging back with his hands in his pockets.

We stopped between my car and his truck, standing safe in the warm yellow glow of a phosphorous street lamp as our friends drove away, gazing out into the darkness surrounding the house rather than make eye contact. "Hey," he said. "Do you wanna do something?"

"Yeah."

"How about a high speed car chase?"

I think I'd meant to make an excuse, and I remember feeling like my knees were going to buckle. Still, something about the straight way his mouth was set and the light in his eyes confused my response. "Yes, I'm in."

He played it cool then, getting into his truck and letting his friend in the passenger side. I was shaking so hard at that point that I fumbled extra long with my keys and worried that they'd lose me off the bat. I was later told that he was shaking too and saying 'I didn't expect her to say yes' over and over to his friend. We all do stupid things when we're young.

We managed to make it out of the subdivision before we got too wild, but five minutes later I was flying down the beach road, pushing my 10 year old Honda to 95 miles per hour in a 35 mile per hour zone, flying past tourists in slow, lumbering sedans with northern plates. I was still shaking, but now with exhilaration. The island where I grew up isn't a big place. It's about five miles by twelve miles, and we only actually drove over about a quarter of it in our adventure, staying off the two busiest roads and sticking to dark clusters of neighborhoods on the north end. The streets were well-worn grooves to us by this time, even though we hadn't been driving for more than a couple years. We merely followed the paths we knew by heart and trusted the stagnant nature of the place to keep us safe.

When you're eighteen you're invincible, so even as my car slid sideways into a sandy lot in an empty subdivision newly under construction, I didn't once think about hitting someone or something. I didn't stop to consider how much a speeding ticket would cost if I was gunned pushing 100 miles per hour on surface streets. I only thought about my steering wheel and the Nine Inch Nails blaring in my tinny, stock speakers and the traction of my tires and keeping up. We probably drove around this way for close to half an hour, but it was only that slide that nearly made me lose him.

He finally stopped his truck at the top of the Eighteenth Street hill and got out. It's the highest point on the island at a staggering 17 feet above sea level. When I had parked and joined him in the middle of the street we were literally standing at the top of our small world. It was then that the night fell in on me. I hadn't noticed any of it before, too distracted by his presence and my itch. It was clear out. There were stars upon stars above us. The air was warm and wet, like it usually is in Florida in September, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Yes, I'll blame that on the air.

"I need to take my friend home," he said. "But good try."

"Thanks," I replied, trying to be cool about what I'd just done, as if I often spent my week nights doing stupid things with stupid boys. I didn't want to show my hand. I didn't want to be seen as excitable or overeager, even though he probably knew pretty well by then that I was both of those things. "I'll see you at school then?"

"Yeah," he said. And we parted ways. I spent a good amount of time after that aimlessly driving around the island and trying to calm my nerves enough to go home.

The funniest part of this story, the part worn smooth from telling, is that on my way home I got pulled over and given a warning for 'reckless driving'. It happened when I flipped my turn indicator and accidentally rolled my hand along the arm, briefly turning on my brights. I turned them off quickly, but was signaled over by a cop I hadn't even seen who thought I was warning other people that he was there. A neat trick, considering it was close to midnight and there was no one else on the road. I gladly took it though, and laughed giddily on my way back to my parents' house. Reckless, I thought, if only he'd seen me just minutes before.

So that's the part of the story I tell, but it's not the part that's the most important. The part that's the most important is that I said yes impulsively to something I knew I shouldn't do, something dangerous and stupid, and it changed my life. If only I could remember that more often as I grow. It would keep me from stagnating like home.


This post was written in response to [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol Exhibit A, Week Three Topic: Shenanigans. Concrit and comments are welcome.

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