Pub- lisher, publisher, go away. And dont call again, another day. Im working at the bakery today, Hard at work, slaving away, Making the money you cant afford to pay. Publisher, publisher, please go away, I wont fall for another money scheme. I have mountains of copies and piles of misprints, I wont pay you to not market for me. The moneys dried up, you see. I have a wedding to plan and bills to pay, I dont have time for you to bother me all day. Publisher, Publisher, please go away. Please stop calling, please leave me be. I have no story, its unfinished and boring, And it wont be yours when the pages are clean. So please, publisher, publisher, go away, and don't call again, any day.
When “working” requires inspiration, ideas, and the desire to actually put forth a literary effort before a single word can be written.
Why can’t I go?
If my friend is telling the truth, then there is an enchanted place.
Somewhere, out there.
If she’s lying,
Then my heart is broken,
And my soul is stolen,
And I will live forever insane.
(Pulled from one of my writing journals during my teen years. As is the photo, which can be found on my DeviantArt, The purple girl.)
When did crude become eloquent,
Crass become unique
And vulgarity become beauty?
What is a name?
When borders blur like smudges on chalk boards,
He is her,
She is him,
We are you,
And you are not blameless,
When judged by more than that which we define ourselves as.
Whats in a name?
When defined, we defy
What lies next to our thesauruses?
It’s changed so frequently,
Typos in societies context,
Sue becomes Mary,
Mary becomes Glenda,
And Glenda becomes famous.
When the name has been used up
And tossed away,
Does it remain true to oneself.
If you are your own definition
No matter what they say you are,
Are you still defined?
Or merely rolling down the pages
Until Glenda arrives?
Then, who are you to define yourself?
Others are greater than the mere you.
When does majority not rule?
A food’s thought ends at a luncheon ajourned.
Am I still me?
And will your proclamations ever prove otherwise?
When you have to create your own “Meme” just to get people to read your witty author remarks.
Photo by Teri Lain Like the true recluse, I enjoy the morning in its darkest hours, seeing, smelling and tasting what blissful miracles it has to offer. Like the polite, well-mannered gentlewoman, I do nothing during those night morning hours, in fear of waking and offending those who sleep walk.
(The autobiography of a young, self-centered Torbe, struggling through space to be the best doctor in the universe, as told through journal entries. Based on the rpg, “Stars Without Number”.)
November 26th, 3225,
With the last 50,000 credits, I finally escaped the slum planet of Belate, only to dive right into the heart of death. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as the Terran saying goes, I suppose. Trudging through the black market (which is practically “the” market on Belate), I was able to find the grittiest smuggler around to sneak me onto the next ship that touched down.
I should have wired him the money when I was finally safe. We got just on the other side of the landing bay when he demanded his payment and bolted back over the wall. I also should have asked for information on the ship I was boarding, because if I had known that I was sneaking into a minor cruizer that belonged to the Sacrificial Protestant Christians, I would have spent the rest of my credits on a whole medical crew. A brave one of course.
You see, the Sacrificial Protestant Christians are a religious sect that, I was soon to learn, conquer and sacrifice entire planets to replenish their soldiers, empty zombie like corpses animated by cyberware known as revenant wiring, which allows the nearly dead or once living to attack and accomplish tasks given by a central AI.
Yes. Through a narrow vent, I snaked my way through their vast and complex cooling system, which I assume kept the specimens from decomposing prematurely, into the lower holding cells where the Not-yet-converted resided, until they were lifeless enough for the Ministers to perform the conversion process.
A process, by the way, which melds the cybernetic revenant wiring with the organic material by accelerated fission. A sight more beautiful than a binary star dance through a meteor shower.
After witnessing this event, I decided that I must experience and perform this process myself. After much observation, however, I did discover that the Ministers were able to perform this process by using their own psionic powers. A power I did not possess, nor would I want to. This mind was far too great to chance on losing from a terminal aneurysm or another “Scream”.
However, this did raise my interest in psionics. If I ever met one willing enough, I would at the very least love to hook up some wires to their head and watch the monitors light
up from their brain activity. At the most, slice up their brain into one inch samples to place and preserve in slides, so that I could study them for years to come. (Now, that is something this mind is worth trading for.)
Hiding behind the dead, and given the fact that I was lucky enough that I already smelled like the dead, a scent that never truly left me once I started carving up bodies, I avoided their senses long enough for them to travel through spike drive to the next planet. Then I stole a few specimens I had not yet studied, along with some reverent wiring, and hightailed it out of there.
I did lose a few inches on my tail, as well as the reverent wiring, on the way out the landing bay doors. At least my tail would grow back.
Now, I remain hunkered down under a mortuary, hiding for my life, until the Sacrificial Protestant Christians give up in their search for me, and of course, the total domination of the planet.