Tastings

Jan. 18th, 2011 12:02 am
inkydink: dwagon (Default)
For [community profile] inkstains  Challenge 18. "Bubbles"

I never quite understood what he had against me and my restaurant.  For the seventh time in a row, J. Robertson Cobb, restaurant reviewer for the local weekly, gave me a bad review. People always asked me if I knew what the J stood for, I always said either “jackass” or “jerkface” depending on how charitable I was feeling at the moment.

Bubbly )

 

inkydink: dwagon (Default)
For [community profile] inkstains challenge 17
500 words

She hated it when people crossed out words.

She was a tree once, you see, and could remember the long ago when they worshipped her -- when her bark was sacred and only used for words that were blessed, good and permanent.

They carved words upon her, a necessary pain that she bore resolutely, for the sake of these short-lived creatures who were so dependent on weather and nature and the goodwill of spirits. She willed herself to bear the pain, trying to stop the thick sap from flowing and obliterating the blessings and curses but sometimes it just came out, trapping unwitting insects in the thick amber ooze. Whether the spirits liked or disliked these accidental sacrifices she did not know—it never occurred to her that the spirit they carved the words for was the one who lived inside of her.

Sometime during the Industrial Age they chopped her down and turned her carcass into paper. Some of it went into books, some into journals and periodicals and when those were outdated, pulped again and made into new paper.

When she was reborn, her new self recognized the paper. She didn’t mind that she had to be cut down for it; she liked it when people wrote words on them, but not when they crossed them out, tore the pages, and threw them away. She knew where the words went, after all, and what happened to them afterwards. Nothing completely disappears, she said, they just change form.

It was almost physical, the pain of the crossed-out letters: the slashing across, the decapitation of ascenders and serifs, the total obliteration of crossbars and hairlines. Still, these weren’t as bad as when they crossed out words, deletion was a declaration that the idea once committed to permanence with ink and metal on a sheet of virgin pulp, was invalid or unfit and must be scratched out—she thought it a form of child abuse.

“They’re my words, “ people said. “I can delete them if I want. “

That’s what abusive parents say, she thought. She could never understand how people could labor over the production of those words, loving them into existence, giving birth, so to speak; then relegate them to the scrap heap when they got unwieldy.

“But I only have 500 words, “ someone whined, and she thought it was like saying you should kill your second daughter because you’re only allowed one child. It was a waste of thought, and paper and ink, and that was an affront to her, she knew how hard these were to come by. She did all she could to prevent that waste, but people are profligate by nature, and all she could do was shake her head and sigh.

It wasn’t just the waste.

“ Law of nature. Those words have to go somewhere, “ she told me firmly. “Delete enough words, and they come back as something else. Something bad. Really bad.”

“Like what?”

“ 25,000 words? Twilight novella, “ she answered.
inkydink: dwagon (Default)
Somewhere, there is a universe where the medium of exchange is kittens,  where the measure of social status is how many cats you have and where the measure of the purity of your heart is how cats follow you all the time. I should go there.

.Kitsu The Kitteh
 


This is Kitsu. He turned up a few weeks ago outside the gate of our house with his sister.


 
 
So now, I am the official owner of four out of the gazillions of cats floating around the house. I'm not so sure how that happened. I keep telling them I don't like cats but they keep following me around anyway. Oh well.
inkydink: dwagon (Default)
For [community profile] inkstains , the Kismet/Fate thingy.

Okayyyyyy. So I figured I'd start to write something from a longer something that I've been meaning to write. This is from my still-unstarted manga/novel/animation script. Yes, status still remains unstarted --this doesn't count because this bit isn't intended to appear in the thingy I plan to write. Still, every bit helps, I guess.


1045 words, woo!
Flower
 
 

Cupcake was safe. Her father found her a block and a half from the main house, safe and sound with nary a mark on the little girl save the strawberry cream smears on her face that the puppy was conscientiously licking clean.


inkydink: dwagon (Default)
Attack of the Killer Koi At Pirate's Bay

And this was my original collage masterpiece* the for the other unwritten "torrent' entry. It was sposed to be an epic poem of epic badness but my verbal skills were dieded.

I should have written it down when I first thought of it. Oh well.

Parts I remember are:

**"Carp to the right!
Carp to the left!
Carping harpoonists keep carping
Ok, koi"

**Yusss. I need to work on my poetry.

*Yes, I have very low standards when it comes to art. I pride myself on my being a Philistine. Which, of course, is what you call someone who comes from the Philippines, according to some kid on Youtube.

inkydink: dwagon (Default)
This was the other story for [community profile] inkstains  torrent thingy, but I couldn't quite make it work.
Oh well.

His six sworn siblings looked like they had everything handled at the Pavilion of the Drunken Duck, so Zhang Di decided to just take a walk.

 

Yo-ho-ho.

Oct. 9th, 2010 07:31 pm
inkydink: dwagon (Default)
[community profile] inkstains "torrent" thingy.
579 words
 
hokusai-la cascata

People said that all the knowledge of the world--its history, its arts, and its science -- are hidden away inside a cave, behind a waterfall near the top of the seventh tallest mountain in the world.  To get there you would have to battle a one-eyed captain with a cutlass, as well as all the men the captain had.

Estiv knew it was a lie, of course. Not the cave or the waterfall, but the mountain.

Read more... )

 

inkydink: dwagon (Default)
FLOG entry for [community profile] inkstains  "Unmasked" thingy
728 words
warning: racist characters using racist slurs
notes below the story.
------------------------
It only happens once every hundred years, my grandmother said. Please do this for me.

Fine, I said. Okay. 

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?“  asks the wolf-face in the top hat as he grabs me and turns me around so gracefully the wine glasses on my tray don’t even tinkle.

“Serving liquor, “ I answer, as the music stops. “And I’m a boy.”

 

“Oops, sorry. Didn’t notice, “ he says, winking, “ The tail and the beads got me confused.”

A golden-gowned swan hits him on the head with her fan. “Stop annoying the help, “ she says, thwacking him on his hat. “Go dance with the banker’s daughter, she’s the vampire with the ill—fitting nightgown of flimsiness at the corner.”

 

He nods, bows, and blows me a kiss as he runs off.  The Swan turns to me, and says, “Sorry about that, Lobito is always annoying when he’s had too much to drink. Peninsulares are such a pain,” she sighs,  “but they’re the ones with money, and after having money for a couple of hundred years or so, they’re considered de buena familia, and so must be invited. “

 

I smile and don’t say anything. It’s not my place.

 

“I don’t recognize you, though, “ she says, and now it hits me. She’s the organizer and hostess, the Hermana Mayor, the eldest daughter of an old family from the outskirts of Madrid,  last haciendera scion of the sugarcane plantations on the island.  

 

“Grandmother could not make it, señora, “ I answer quietly. “She’s getting on in years, and her joints now ache when it rains.”

 

“Ah,“ she smiles and I look, amazed at how beautifully golden she was. “ I know you now! Ruben! You're all grown! Didn’t we send you to the city to study engineering?”

 

“Yes, señora, thank you very much.”

 

“The one that graduated summa cum laude?”

 

“Yes, señora. I’m working at the local office of the Department of Public Works now.”

 

“How wonderful! I must introduce you to the governor!” she turns around, grabs my waist and hustles me off towards a grim-looking gargoyle, talking with an equally grim-looking camel (dromedary?) who was smoking a brown cigarillo and flicking the ash in a brass saucer held up by a  four-foot  tall (on his hind legs) cat.

I finally recognized the cat as the parish priest, the cura paroco. I almost didn't recognize him with the marmalade-marked fur covering his tonsured pate.  But he gave me a beating once, when I was small, and I never forgot those knuckles.  Oh well, I'm bigger than him now.
 

“We must do something about the indios and their uprisings, “ the gargoyle was telling the dromedary (camel?) as  the cat yawned boredly. “The indios are getting uppity.”

 

My  swan-sponsor thwacks his head with her trusty fan. “Get with the program, Carlitos!  There hasn't been an indio uprising since 1898. Besides, it’s their island now! We sold them to the Americans a hundred years ago, don’t you remember? “

 

The camel nods and harrumphs, “And those idiots set them free. “

 

“Hush, we have an indio in our midst, “ my swan-sponsor said, “This is Ruben, the son…son...?”

 

“Grandson, señora,” I mumble.

 

“Grandson of Corazon, my upstairs maid. He’s working in government now. “

 

“Can’t be an indio, if he’s Corazon’s grandson, “ the cat purrs. El cura obviously didn't recognize me. “ She came with my family on a ship from the Motherland, remember?”

 

This triggers another discussion of the good old days, when the indios and chinos knew their place, and the Church was still Head of State, and no one cared if a priest had sons and daughters and no one gave a whit  if indios disappeared in the tall grass only to be found later with their hearts and livers missing.

 

I slip away, it wasn’t my place to be there, listening to their bitter, mean conversations.

I used to hate them when I was little, but I realize now how pitiful they were, these insulare snobs. Their days of money and power were long gone, replaced by the bumbays, chinos and indios they detested.

 

Let them have this night, it happens just once every hundred years anyway, and only when the moon and planets are just right.

 

Tomorrow they will have to put their masks on again, hobble along with their canes  or be pushed in  their wheelchairs like the pitiful old people I see in  mass at the Iglesia Catedral every morning.  And sooner or later, die the lonely deaths of homesickness and heartsickness on this godforsaken island where La Madre España exiled them.

 

I make my way to where my place was, behind the curtains, near the kitchen, and peek out once in a while,   amazed at the sight of wolves dancing with vampires, and horse-headed men dancing with ebony-haired pale women with only skeletons for backs,  whirling  and twirling gold, silver, purple and maroon.  

______________
The Philippines was a Spanish colony from 1521-1898. Spanish words are in the Philippine colonial context:  insulare is a Spaniard born in Spain, while a peninsulare is a Spaniard born in the peninsula (the Philippines here), and thus considered 'noveau', an indio is a native Filipino often of Malay or Indonesian descent.

bumbay, chino (or intsik) and indio are derogatory terms for Indians, Chinese people and Filipinos

inkydink: dwagon (Default)
There's this desert, see, and it's a big one, and in that desert, every grain of sand contains a world, and in that world, there are deserts, and in one of the deserts, every grain of sand contains a world, and in those worlds there are deserts, and in one of those deserts, every grain of sand contains a world...

THWACK!

Oops, sorry. Moving on. 

In one of those worlds there is a desert and...

THWACK!

Stop hitting me upside the head, dammit! I'm moving on with the story! Okay? thank you. Now where was I?

Never mind. I forgot.
inkydink: dwagon (Default)
I always wonder why pissed-off people say "Die in a fire" when they get into wars on the internets and lose their patience and/or the argument.

Unless you're tied to a stake and actually set on fire, it's one of the less painful ways to go-- the smoke inhalation makes you sleepy, and your system shuts off your organs one by one, and you don't feel a thing, not even the flames burning you to a crisp. At least that's what the medics say.

(that's why they're called flame-wars, silly.)

Oh.

Right.
inkydink: dwagon (Default)

For [community profile] inkstains , the sin challenge entry thingy
*less than 500 words, unless you believe in how many words a picture is worth. lalalala.
**I was tempted to recycle the angsty Lucifer Falls story again, but I thought I'd recycle Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf postcards instead
***and I'm probly doing this all wrong

Susan tried to reach nirvana from Topeka.




And when she died, like people do, they put her on trial. But first, they had to determine if what she did was, like they contended, sin indeed.

“ Jesus is the only way to heaven. Yoga? Bah! Pagan new age witchery! “ the people from Sunday school said, sputtering. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” This last one made her frown, since she was dead anyway.

Next, they brought in her children. “ She neglected us because of the yoga,“ the children spat, “She forgot to feed us. And the few times she didn’t, it was all birdseed, sprouts and tofu. Evil, evil woman.”

They brought in her husband next, and she wondered whether he remembered the vows they took, to be on each other’s side, no matter that the world would turn against them, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health. “She loved her yogi more than me, “he muttered. “That’s adultery, innit?”

They brought in person after person to testify. Some said it was a mortal sin, some said it was venial, but the majority made no such distinction. Sin is sin, the Protestants said, and while she used to be one of them, she knew better than to protest.

“Idolatry,” said the priest.

“Pride, “ said his altar boy.

“Murder, “ said the little child who looked at the skinny children thinking she would rather die than eat soy milk.

“Covetousness, “ said the nonpracticing Hindus and Buddhists. “How dare she appropriate a culture not her own?“

(Of course, the advocate objected to this as immaterial and irrelevant on the grounds that they had no place using the Christian commandments when they weren’t Christian. The objection was overruled-- the prosecutor was wily and quoted some similar version off their tenets.)

“Thou shalt not lie!” the butcher boomed when it was his turn. “ Passing off tofu and shiitake as steaks! Liar!” She found this funny and giggled, just as her advocate was objecting yet again, saying that her vegetarianism wasn’t what the trial was about. Again, the objection was overruled.

When it was time for the closing arguments, the prosecutor argued passionately for her to be sent to hell, while the defender argued that it was all a case of insanity. But insanity pleas rarely work, and when the verdict came down, no one was surprised.

Guilty, the little piece of paper said.

The judge sentenced her to two lifetimes with her previous life counted as time served, and no one complained. The second lifetime would be on probation.

The judge himself led her out of the courtroom for processing, saying ,“Don’t ever let me see you in my courtroom again. You can do better this time.”

She looked at the judge, wondering what he meant. He smiled and said, “Susan. You’re not in Kansas anymore. “



inkydink: dwagon (Default)

This is what happens when you scan your self-portrait at 300 dpi, resize and click "Save For Web". Anyone got a story to go with the postcard?

And I almost forgot: Yay! First post!


 
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