Tag Archives: future

List story

For this story, I had to use a list of things (for mine I decided upon heart rate per minute), and honestly, I think it turned out well. I am going to be self-praising now. I like this story. I am proud of this story. I got a kind of crappy grade on this story. But I still like it! Because it’s good! Yay! Enjoy!


174 (living – bpm of a premature child). The number of times her barely formed heart forced blood though her veins, in the span of a single minute. Her mother had chosen the name Esma, and prepared it for her as warmly as the crib in the pale green room that waited in their home for her arrival. She found out later that it meant loved, from an entry in some battered name book. But her father named her Bacia. He always made sure she knew that it meant death. She would have known anyway.

0 (dying – bpm of nothing). Her mother lay still. The nurse talked quickly to her father, telling him that it was no fault of the child, not to blame the child, you mustn’t blame the child. Perhaps he had held the same empty stillness in his face that he always showed her. No matter how his face had looked, how still and silent it must have been, like frozen mountains, cold and unmoving, he did not care to listen to the nurse.

63 (dreaming – bpm of a child sleeping). When she drifted off to sleep, her mind would soar to thoughts of other places, other worlds where the sun would cut less harshly. Where she could see the stars and places only learned about in the books of geography and travel that she read as quickly as she could download them from the info sites. She dreamed that someday she would leave.

131 (drinking – bpm of a drunk man). Her father would lay on the couch after he drank, his breath stinking of ferment, tears navigating the plains of stubble across his face, his chest shuddering with choking sobs. He would yell at her, never hit, never touch, simply words that cut like knives, like blades of the sun. There would be blame in his words, blame in his face, blame in her name. Perhaps she blamed herself as well, but she never cared to think about it for too long, afraid of what she might realize, what traitorous thoughts she might find skulking in the shadowed parts of her mind.

162 (running – bpm of an exercising teenager). She would always leave the house when he got drunk, letting leaves crackle and branches sway where she passed through the cool of night. When she ran, she didn’t have to wonder what she’d do when she could leave, worried that guilt might moor her to that house forever. Moor her to the man whose DNA she bore, the man who did not see her as his daughter. She was a parasite to him, she knew, sucking away the life of the woman he had loved, and leaving nothing but a muddled portrait of what had been.

118 (leaving – bpm of a scared teenager). She packed what few things she cared enough about to keep. A few sets of clothes, boots, and a necklace of her mother’s that her father had wordlessly handed to her when she was old enough not to asphyxiate on it. Her father had yelled when she told him she was leaving. Yelled that she’d taken away her mother’s life, and was now leaving him with nothing, accused her of not caring that her mother had died so that she could live, ranted and swore at her until she nodded meekly and went to her room, where the green was now faded. Her mother, her mother, her mother. She had thought about her mother’s sacrifice, and it was why she had to leave. Her mother had died so she could live. This was not living. This was existing, merely a shade, eternally shackled to the death of her mother. To him, she was nothing beyond that. She never would be. So she left.

122 (sweating – bpm of a woman in a hot environment). The enlistment station was sweltering, perhaps they were bolstering troops against the inevitable chill of the ships. No matter how good the insulation was, they were always a little chill, or so she had heard. It would be better than the city at least. The shining chrome of all the buildings smarted against her eyes, and while it looked slightly mystical, it would be horrid to live in, exacerbating the sun upon your skin. However, it was worth it to stand in the heat, as her form processed, because soon she would be on a ship, a courier. Necessary in case of required blackouts that left nothing but the shielded life-support systems online. She would run through darkened passageways, no more difficult to navigate than the woods at night. And when she reached wherever the ship was heading, with some pay in her pocket, she could finally be her own person.

186 (carrying – bpm of a running woman). Her feet hammered a quick tempo in the silent hallway. She heard a slightly slower pattern travel towards her, and she moved to let another courier pass unimpeded. The footsteps faded away into the almost oppressive silence again, leaving her with only her quick breathing and the pulse of blood sounding in her ears. There had been signs that a hungry fleet had been through the area recently, nothing to be too afraid of, but caution could keep you breathing, so it was always best to utilize it. Which was the cause for the blackouts, and for the running, but soon they’d be back to the travel, back towards some new world. Just a few more messages to carry.

194 (fleeing – approximated* bpm of a scared woman). She crouched in one of the bunks, the best place to be if the ship ever had to take evasive maneuvers. Even so, she had to grip the handles, secured firmly to the wall, with all the strength she could muster. The hungry fleet had not been far enough away, it had caught their scent, and now they were fleeing, as quickly as the gargantuan engines could muster. They might be able to make it away, but for now there was nothing she could do but grip the handles and feel helpless. And afraid. Astoundingly afraid. She had always had some iota of control over what would happen to her, and suddenly she could do nothing but hang on and wish for escape, for survival. Her name felt like a chain, the millstone encircling her neck as she sank to the deeps, connecting her once again to her mother. She wondered if this was how the woman who had borne her had felt, knowing life slipped away every second, yet unable to intervene against the looming figure, the figure that waited with eternal patience. Waiting with patience that could outlast the stars.

129 (shivering – approximated** bpm of a cold woman). The wind biting off of the snowfields was glacial. The ship had made it, just barely. She shivered in the unexpected cold, the cold that was wonderful and amazing all the same, because it was the sharp cold of life, not the interminable frigid silence of death. A few other people walked in the icy air, and some sat at the hatch of the ship. She looked at the town, just visible through the snow and sleet. It was surrounded by a seemingly depthless forest of trees. You just make out the sharp green scent of the pines that were liberally mixed with more deciduous trees, skeletal under a gray sky, but speaking of warmth to come. Things that looked so lifeless, but weren’t, simply biding their time until the small death of winter was over. Death was a part of life to them. Death was always a part of life. She stared at the forest, the living and the dead, seamlessly intermingled. What’s in a name, but the most unbreakable chains of blood, wound through with soft ribbons of love, equally adamantine. What’s in a life but death, and what’s in a death but life? She was her mother’s daughter, she was her father’s wretch, she was her name’s bearer. She was a woman, merely a woman, who would very much like to live in a place with forests to wander, once the snows thawed. She was loved, and she was death. She was free, and she was bound. She was lost, and she was home.

*I could find no info on the average heart rate of a scared adult woman, so I estimated from the teenage info, including additional exertion in 194.

**Cold does speed your average heart rate, although to what extent I could not locate, so I used a number close the overly hot heart rate of 122.


Slightly more than 350 word story.

Here you go! Another story. And I’m posting another one right after that. But the one with the dragon will wait until tomorrow. Or the day after. Eh. Memory is difficult. Back on track, this story was supposed to be 350 words, but I thought it was fluid. So it’s more like, 370 something words. Enjoy!

350 word story 

The ship rose from the dock, skimming lightly over the shimmering city. The pilot held the controls with easy familiarity, and sat with the quiet of careful concentration.

A slight movement from the lone passenger shifting for a better view at the passing city-scape pulled the pilot from her rumination, to glance at the woman. She seemed entranced by the glittering lights and polished edges. The fool probably thought that it looked like some mystical utopia. Atlantis reborn, perhaps.

The pilot knew better. You travel a place for years, and you start to see where the façade is worn and tattered. The homeless who shield themselves from the scorching sun by crouching within what meager shadows could be found.

Maybe the passenger believed the tales of protection from the hungry fleets, thinking that this world would be safer than any other because of newer technology and more advanced weapons. In the end, of course, the safest city could, at best, delay the inevitable, but few people really want to accept a fact such as that.

Or perhaps the woman, little more than a girl, really, had aspirations of joining the fight against the fleets. If so, she was doubly a fool, to go and choose a death that would only help add to the mountains of corpses, hanging endlessly in the frozen blackness.

But who could understand the thoughts of the young, who throw themselves on blades to prove that they’re invincible. The children who think that just because they haven’t bled yet means that they never will.

The pilot wondered if she herself had ever been so headstrong. Although the fleets had not been a fear when she was young, there were always dangers, always causes to launch yourself into, without thought of the consequences.

She was older now. Old enough to see her mistakes for what they were, but not so old that she looked at the mistakes of the young with animosity, seemingly convinced that age would always bring wisdom, rather than wrinkles.

But she knew that you have to let the young make their own errors, or else they will pull towards the dangers even more sharply, until they found wisdom enough to see their own mistakes, or killed themselves trying. She thought of this as the girl walked from the ship, towards inevitable mistakes, and destinations unknown.

Dredges No. 1

So, I am dredging through old story files, and they kind of are horrible. But I’m posting them anyway. Yeah. Don’t know why. But here you go anyway.

It’s been a thousand years since scientists created the first changing drug, it was much less advanced, and its effects could be, messy. It’s been a thousand years, and we have traveled so very far. Now, humans can fly like the birds we once so admired, or run like cheetahs. Or they can simply change, it’s so easy to decide how you look now, not just your clothes or your hair, but your whole body. I try to avoid it unless necessary, having to readjust to a new height or strength is hard. Funny how we can control everything now, except for the basic fundamentals of our bodies, not that people haven’t tried.
There are old books, little more than blocks of kindling to most, but a few know how to read. It’s almost a lost art now, no longer needed, you can simply download the information you want to your brain, and you can access it there. No want for books.
Except, it’s a little odd, reading them. So many meaningless words written by people who have been dead for a very long time. Most are probably dust now. And the stories they tell, amazing, wondrous stories, and how it seems that so many of them coveted the idea of being able to become the animals that surrounded them. It’s easy now, take a shot, or one of the new pills, and wish.
But you need to wish for something real, or at least something that used to be real. Trying to become something unknown can turn…problematic, some idiot tried to turn into a shark that could walk on land, he succeeded and turned into a land traveling shark, but his body wasn’t prepared to do that, to become something that was simply pure imagination, he turned back after a minute or so, with no bones. The cartilage from the land-shark refused to turn back into the nice little thing called a skeleton, and his body couldn’t accept the shark shaped cartilage, so no bones.
And you can’t stay a creature too long, it’s not a determined time, but most safety guides say a day, although a few people have survived as animals for weeks. It really all depends on your willpower, your mental strength
I’m sorry if I’m rambling dear reader, but I hope that the somewhat dull talk of things that everyone knows may help to shoo away any disinterested people, only in for giggles. Because you and everyone need to know that the scientists are lying to you. They say that you can only stay an animal for a day but you can stay for far longer than that, the people who stayed animals simply liked it better that way, no entrapment, no losing of their minds to the wild, they just became what they’d always dreamed and couldn’t fathom going back.
And you can become something of pure imagination.
They tell the stories of horrible things that happened to people who tried it, and they’re true. But they’ve created another drug, one unbeknownst to the public, and there are no limits, there are no things stopping you.
I’ve seen it done and I’ve done it myself, become something of pure wonder. I’ve seen people as unicorns of legend, and griffons, and even a chupacabra. I have been a dragon. But the truth is, it might be better that they keep it from us, it’s intoxicating to do. The feeling of being one of those things, it takes your reason, it truly turns all but the most determined and, honestly, headstrong people into the very creature that they change their form to.
It’s because of the magic. It is a thing of pure imagination, so when you think of all these myths and dreams, you see them with magic, so you gain that.
And it is so hard to control. The power, it changes you, so much. But if you have found this I hope that you are strong enough, and have enough reason to destroy the second drug. But you can not, must not, taste its power. I can’t bring myself to do it, to kill the thing that lets me become something from tales, and I have to go back to it, soon. I doubt that I’ll be able to change back again, but dear reader, feel no sorrow for me, or any of the others, we made our choice when we did it, when we took it and wished. But I am begging you to have the strength to do what we could not. And, if you know that you can’t, please leave this so that another may find it, this must not be allowed to reach the masses.
And if it is too late when you read this, if it has been released, I am so sorry. But the magic is calling again. One more thing dear reader, please, if you ever see a dragon from legend flying through some silent forest, please try to wake me up. If you cannot it is alright, for it is so amazing.

I walked through the silent woods, the occasional cricket’s chirp breaking the stillness. Suddenly a large flock of birds flew overhead, sounding the alarm, their cries taking the stillness and stomping on it. I did not have long to wonder what they were flying from, suddenly a great, scaly, beast, flew after them. My mind took a second to register what it was, dragon.
I couldn’t help wondering if it was the unknown writer of the letter, the person who had been the reason that we were not being trapped by a new changing drug. It had been a few hundred years ago, someone had found it and destroyed the second drug, but who they were was unknown as well.
The only way that people knew about it was the fact that the person who found the letter was also an accomplished hacker, they had hacked into every screen receiving data from anything and provided what the letter had said. With a note that this was to remember the unknown writer’s warning.
You did still hear reports of mythical creatures, unicorns, gryphons, someone had turned into a chupacabra even, but not dragons. I decided to try, hoping that the dragon liked sparrows more than people as snacks. I had no name to call to them with, there had been a list found of the group of scientists who had made the second drug, and it was speculated that whomever wrote it must have been one of them.
I had just been reading up on them (Er, thinking up on them), so I still had the names where I could remember them easily, I sucked in my breath, and gave a loud sharp whistle, getting the big lizard’s attention, it landed, and walked forward, inspecting me. Scrambling to remember the names I said them, “Corie, James, Seln, Lana, Christopher, Joy,” none of the names seemed to have an effect on the scaly beast. But then I remembered something, just a snippet that I had accessed, one of them had been nicknamed Nikky, so I gave it a try, “Nikky?” It had an immediate effect on the dragon, she, and clearly she was a her now after the whole female spelling of Nikky thing, turned back towards me. Inspecting me closely.
She looked at me, and shook her head. She most certainly shook her head, then flew back up to the darkness of the sky. I could make out her silhouette as she blotted out stars. I remembered a line that had always nagged at me from her letter,   One more thing dear reader, please, if you ever see a dragon from legend flying through some silent forest, please try to wake me up. If you cannot it is alright, for it is so amazing.
I said the final word of the letter, almost a goodbye to the person who had written it, “Godspeed.”