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River Tam

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River Tam
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sixwordstories [September 06, 2007]
Ssh, it's sleeping. All curled up.
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random_fic [September 27, 2006]
Beautiful, beautiful. Magnificent desolation.

It's easy to see where the rumors about the Reavers came from. The seemingly infinite black haphazardy punctuated by faint and lifeless glimmers. There's an old, old saying about once having come so far there's no chance of coming back. That's what they thought had happened to them. They went so far that they couldn't come back.

Not entirely true. They did come back. They went back so far they forgot how to be what they'd become. The evolutionary process takes one step back and all the walls come tumbling down. The inherent dread inside the heart of every human. How fragile their civilization is. With the right trigger humanity is capable of anything.

River smiles. Contradiction in terms. It's the absence of humanity that enables capability. But it's all semantics really. Whether it is or it ain't the conclusion is ultimately the same.

Stare at it long enough and it ceases to be a colour. It becomes its own entity, breathing in to virtual nothingness then exploding into stars, shapes, planets, people. Black is its form, the base of its structure. Everything looks lost, even as it moves on its designated course. Or freefalling through the 'verse. All routes look the same when its only ants scuttling undetermined square miles. Stare at it long enough and it could all be a loop. Time and space shaking hands and round and round they go.

"It could be a hostile planet, Simon. You've got to keep your wits about you."

The vast expanse of floor is no longer simply the surface their feet tread every day but the first encounter with an unknown world. In the minds of children the familiar decor morphs into rock faces, crags and crevices flled with crooks and crannies yet to be discovered. Flats and plains, hills and slopes. It could go on forever or they could fall off the edge. no one knows. Though neither are a particularly logical conclusion but logic isn't the pertinent issue when dealing with imagination. Mix the restriction of equations with the endless scope of youthful notions and therein lies beauty. Answers with expansion, knowing enough to long to know more. Because if one knows all kinds of all kinds of everything, then what do they themselves become?

"What do we do if we encounter unfriendly forces?"

Without missing a beat, "We cut off their water supply." Head peeking round the sofa.

"And if there's no water?"

"All lifeforms require some sort of fluid. It's simply a case of finding out what theirs is."

Plain, matter-of-fact. Rules of the world. There are things that are and things that aren't. Though, of course, there are exceptions to the rules. Anyone could tell you that. The trick with the unknown is to apply knowledge already gained and tailor it to fit the particular rules or laws of the new subject as they are uncovered.

But sometimes Simon just tries to be a smart alec. Usually fails. Still, it's always amusing. He is meant to be the smartest, after all.


She stares out at nothing, and everything. Once upon this was all empty. Then something birthed all things out. Preacher says it's God. Nice idea, bed time story, but too many flaws. Fundemental, gaping holes. Living life on a book of perspectives. And she's the crazy one. But to cling to something is to keep going. Simon clung to her, when she was lost and far away. Never let go. White knights and Cinderella's with slippers that don't quite fit. Should but can't. Toes are all crooked. Dancer's feet but can't get the rhythm. Danced once, beautiful and free, but then the they cracked the whip and snapped back to the world. Fire at the pyre.

Everyone talks and everyone laughs but their voices are away somewhere. Tunnel vision, tunnel hearing? Watch them. See them. Know you're not of them. The aching, deep down in the dark places, reminding of what's lost. The words to say, they're there sometimes but other things crowd and push them out. Fall out the ear and onto the floor. Chicks and cuckoos. Scoop them up, try and get the precious commodity of coherent thought back but then everyone looks with those same eyes. Almost irony.

Almost is correct.
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random_fic [April 23, 2006]
Have you ever been helpless?


I am bound. My hands are cuffed and the metal glares, cold shiny reflection. Go forth and be who you sought to become. Sought, sort, their means and methods, by my hand. Skeleton key on command then the hands move and feel but they're not attached. They're not attached any more. There's an err in the system, bugs put in place for noble purposes only now they're crawling, crawling. Under the skin, in the ears, behind the eyes. I feel them there, tiny pitter patter of sticky legs creeping through the cerebral cortex [knowledge is power, power is here, harness, little bugs, harness], squibbling around the cerebellum [dancer's grace, such an adavantage, such a subject, such a prize, everyone had a lovely day at the fair and I got sick on the ferris wheel] and nibbling away at everything else. Take it, trash it, auction off to the highest bidder, doesn't matter. Everyone's already got one anyway. It's not what they have but what they took that makes the asking price a figure of astronomical proportions.

I am moving when I'm standing still. The nature of control is tenuous, fleeting. I can hold a pen and write the words and therein my power lies but all notion of one's mastery becomes obsolete in the sealing and sending. I'm alone in my functioning so can my processes be analysed in the fashion which they should by those who should know better? You made me here, you created each sun, moon and star in my sky and yet you can't see when the meteors come crashing? Fiery, hard fragments of something larger turning everything in its path into burning wastelands. I'm a burning effigy and you lit my torch. You didn't know, you didn't know, you turned your eyes and did what's best only now you're far enough away to mistake the sounds of screams for the happy chorus of children. Above and beyond the dreams of us all and you still don't hear them calling. Clawing. Cowering.

The sense of it all becomes harder to see, pin point dot on the horizon now when vocalised and even in the written, but please see. It isn't what's there but what isn't. Valuable, consistent lesson.

I can't be any more. I'm not any more. Water leaks from my eyes like it should because my heart aches but it's all hollow. Don't make me keep being a shell. I think I might break, and be no more. Dragging off the motal coil. It's a spring. Tightly wound. I don't want to be there when it explodes but I know I will and they won't have tied my hands then. Please. Make me yours again. Pat my head and bring back memories of who I could have been. Distance makes it seem like dreaming and I'm tired of the shaking awake. Kiss me on the forehead and make obliged promises of a better here and now. Not soon. The moment.

Please.
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random_fic [March 21, 2006]
[ mood | pessimistic ]

Describe your most dangerous relationship

Stick six shooter, mess of organic hand cannon. Leaves that could be fatal - fatalistic - if scattered by pulling the wrong branch. There is something amiss with the macula networking because every part is telling a lie. Sticky vitreous swimming with falsities and does falsehood make a girl false too? There's no reprieve for intent or perceptions, nor any other number of circumstantial problems. I see with my ears and hear with my eyes and you stand there as though its competent?

Limits approaching nothing but the black mean there are no limits. Worlds are born and made and just as easily destroyed. God rested them all within the palm of his hand, allowing them to grow and thrive through his grace and will alone when the smooshing could have been so easy.

His grace was not good. There should have been a firmer hand, a rod. Brimstone in the palms of the children. Little lambs sears its wool and calls itself by another name because it can. It fails to resemble what it was supposed to be. Cow eyes and cat claws. It didn't forget what it was but was subjected to too much information. No more room in the soft brain for all that remembering. All up in smoke.

Poof.

Except the particles collide and reform and are given a name once again. Everybody waits for the worm to turn. The body is an independant notion. Independant motion. Like a spinning top. Start the momentum and it will spin at a steady velocity almost indefinitely. Perfectly speaking. It's made of wood and so am I. Joints and strings. I used to pull them before I became obsolete. Little wooden toy made a wish and became a real boy, now he's always caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Can't be trusted. It's all veneers and lines in the sand. One toe poked over and the castle's doomed to ruin. Throw it in the airless, see if it still needs to breathe like all the others do. Put it out of its misery while they sit upon a chair of bones and say what good work they've done.

Don't turn your back. The knife's in reach.

It doesn't know, it doesn't know.

Simon says and we all fall down.

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Death [January 10, 2006]
[ mood | restless ]

How do you want to die?


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Good. Evil. Practical. [January 06, 2006]
[ mood | blank ]

Good, evil practical. Which one are you and why?


All things are practical. The grass grows to feed the gazelle. The lion hunts the gazelle. The cycle of life goes on. Man created tools to hunt his prey. Life is a binary cycle. Life and death. Nothing before and nothing after. I'm not a theologian. Too many errors to base anything upon. It needs to be studied and changed to tell the truth. It needs to learn.

I have a purpose.

I need to learn. The current status is untapped potential. Unknown results. The results haven't been tested yet. They sit and they wait, they try to conform to the law of averages. Off the scale. The results can never be truly quantified. The effects can never be truly quantified. Like people telling stories but they don't know the ending. Making it up as they go along. Trimming and adapting to suit the audience.

Skills and disciplines. They teach you how to be pragmatic. Pas de bourrée, rond de jambe a terre, battement glisse, dim mak, dar mak, baraw.

The morals are no longer important. Brush them aside and don't mention them again. They'll go away if you don't talk about them. It makes good and evil extraneous. Concepts like water. Changing shape as it moves. Bend to the will and reasoning.

Everything has a design. Messages written in DNA telling horses how to be horses, brothers how to be brothers. The product of the coding can be altered. Conditioned.

Quick learner.

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Fear [December 20, 2005]
[ mood | stressed ]

What do you think when you hear the word fear?


Gifts are not above being manipulated. There are no good intentions simply the twisting of the data in their possession. Stretching it to its maxium capacity with a nod and a smile of pride as the cave in crashes around their feet. The tree doesn't make a sound if there's no one there to hear it. They were there but they'd blocked their ears. Conditioned them to hear the sounds they wanted out of screams. Etymology derived from the Greek to suit the purpose. True sense of the word but a fatally inaccurate interpretation of my original intention.

We're doing such good work.

They claw at me with their talons then ask why I can't sit in front of their desk? All results must fit onto the graph without any case of anomaly. Abberation is the very thing being measured in the first place! Foolish little men playing with their tools, thinking they're building Rome in a day when it's nothing but a house of cards. Watch it come tumbling. Try to hold it together with more pins in the soft parts, drilling through bone like it doesn't feel it and inserting needles. Monitoring brain activity as they toy with the pulses. Clean white labs. Artificial divinity. Grave errors in judgement in advancing evolution before its time. There's a careful structure. The self awareness becoming pure arrogance and the notion that are powers are dangling explanation in the faces if you can only follow the clues. Discarding nature and nuture as nature and nuture pale in comparsion to vision and ego.

Gifts of good intention can be tainted by sour hands.

Tiny spikes think they're being secret when they puncture the flesh. They forget it has a memory. Holes bleed when they're asleep all the same. You can scrub and polish until everything gleams but it doesn't erase the act. It knows.

I know.

They make my palms sweat then wipe them clean and claim it was all a dream. There are axiomatical properties with which one can tell the difference. Sometimes the dream can be touched and tasted but this is using the wrong side of the brain. The right side knows that it's being decieved. Skip down to the path back to the world that was. Hands in the fog.

I don't... There aren't always the signs you were looking for. Little hands creep in and turn them all around. They pretend to take you away but bring you back to where you started. Point zero. Down into the minus numbers. I try to arrange the facts back into their coherent whole but they keep making noises on purpose. It's distracting. I can see my own hand in front of my face then watch it vanish again. Red, white, red, white. Watch me fall into the night.

Not everything is hidden in the dark. Some things become very, very clear.

I can see you.

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Sample [December 10, 2005]
[ mood | distressed ]

When did you realise things were 'not going to be okay'?


He came. Search and rescue. Candles in the darkness go shining, shining then they get snuffed out. It's not shiny. They make promises that everything will be alright and that right will stay as right and left will be left but anything can change and be altered. Even the fundemental states of being can be manipulated into things that are other. They do not compute with the rules and regulations that were stated.

Reassurance is a little white lie. There are lots of little white lies. Some of them are big and black pretending to be small. They crouch in the corner hoping no one will see how big they really are. We boarded and we sat in chairs and ate our food like good girls and boys should but we didn't get the treats. We stayed in a corner too hoping no one would see us too . He tried to make it sound like big open spaces when we all knew it was just a corner. A corner in time. Time flows away and there's nothing you can do to change that. You can bend and break the laws yet time will make new ones and punish you for your insolence.

Silly children. You are dolls we play with. Here to serve a purpose and do not ask questions. Eat your greens and early to bed. Grow up to be healthy and wise.

They lie.

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