Log in

No account? Create an account
02:13pm 21/06/2011
 And then there was this
    Post - - Link
For my Trondom: Fandom Wishlist?  
12:09pm 03/04/2011
So far we've come up with:

Alan on the grid
Kevin and Clu/ flashbacks
Continued moral ambiguity
Explanation about the Jordan program
Exploration of the idea that Sam and Edward Jr. are not their fathers
A return of "meanwhile, in the real world"
Alan on the grid
Failing grid structure
Reintegrated Clu/Kevin sharing a body-- and being very Split personality about it
More Tron
Alan on the Grid
Dan Shor/Rerezz Ram!
    Read 4 - Post - - Link
Call me easily excited, but...  
12:19pm 12/12/2010
 I saw some videos the other day for the Vocaloids-- of course I'd read about them before hand, but... it doesn't do the justice that watching a video of a concert hall completely packed with glow-stick waving fans, who all paid money to see a hologram.
Check it out! 
So call me easily excited, but I started checking into the software running the holograms... It's basically your average animating studio software.
Now. Take that. Add in this...
and you have so many opportunities....

My first act with this new technology would be to bring back Elvis, and maybe Michael Jackson. Definitely Dio. 
I know some people would see this as a morally grey area. But, I mean, how is it any different than watching a video of a past performance. We're not giving them new songs or anything, and we could program in movements that they're already known for.  And it's not like it will be for free-- you'd have to pay to rent the rights to the peoples' likenesses, and probably pay again for their recordings. 

My next acts would be backstage, acting out 7 different characters in a play, just by switching skins.
Using humans as the puppeteers will make the movements more... human. And so I'm excited now.

Alright, so. Next step is Blind Mag and Amber Sweet, live in concert. The only hardship there is how to make a hologram shoot holograms out of her eyes? XD

mood: excitedexcited
    Read 2 - Post - - Link
The Furby Incident  
07:19pm 26/09/2010


Do you remember the first time you saw a commercial for some doll or truck with an accompanying jingle? Mine was for the California Roller Girl doll.. a little blonde with skates who would scoot across the floor, moving her legs and arms and head.
Her jingle was really what interested me. I mean, who wouldn't want a theme song for themselves? But I couldn't have been more than four. So I whined and begged and pleaded for that doll, and at my birthday party, lo and behold, there she was. switch her on, and stand back... I expected to chase her all around the kitchen, sliding along in my socks, since I couldn't balance on my skates yet.
She waved her arms, kicked her legs, wobbled her oversized blonde head... and promptly fell over.
I was distraut. Here was the epitome of my childhood dreams, and there she lay on the floor.

But if you can't skate, what do you do? I went with my mom to see Starlight Express at the Hilton in Las Vegas, where we were living at the time. For those who don't know, starlight Express is Andrew Lloyd Webber's version of The little engine that could. A broadway style musical, where the entire cast is dressed as trains, and every scene is done on skates.

I came out of it determined to learn to rollerskate, and, as a result, broke my arm in two places at the age of five.

The next toy that I wanted was an Easy Bake Oven. It was this plastic contraption with a heationg lamp inside, and painfully small single serving mixes for cakes and cookies and brownies. It came with a purple stick with a cup at the end for placing the tiny silver baking pans into and removing them from the oven.

It was another birthday gift, and of course needed to be opened and used RIGHT THEN, regardless of the cake sitting in the other room. So, open the packet of brownie mix, add in one of the tiny cups' worth of milk, and a tiny cup's worth of oil, mix, and bake.

Now, despite being marketed for children, the easy bake oven was not, as it said, easy. It did not bake evenly, and it was absolutely possible to burn the edges while the center remained the consistency of pudding. It took just as long to bake a pan the size of a mayonnaise jar lid, as it would to bake a real pan of brownies in the oven-- and the final set back for the serving size was, after a half hour of being extremely patient (for kids), all of your friends wanted a piece of the pie, so to speak. So after divvying it up, everyone got a brownie the size of a Barbie shoe.

And after all of that, and the fear of dropping the pan inside the oven (it only held onto it by the very small lip of the pan), it was still thoroughly possible to burn onesself on it. It might not be easy, might not bake very well, but it was, at least, an oven, and ovens are hot.

So at the age of eight, I convinced my father to teach me to use the big girl oven-- after all, if you made a real pan of brownies, everyone got a piece large enough to coat the bottom half of their face with chocolate, AND still get some into their mouths.

The next, last, and worst of my disappointing toy purchases was something every girl wanted in third grade-- a Furby. A plush doll with a hard plastic base, eyes that would open and close, ears that would flap, and a beak that issued high pitched noises that, on first contact, seemed adorable.
That year, every girl bragged about the new things she'd managed to teach her Furby-- "Mine can nearly sing the alphabet, though it jumbles the letters, sometimes."
"Oh yeah? Mine acts like a second alarm-- after my alarm goes off in the morning, if the lights don't come on within five minutes, my Furby wakes me up again."
I could imagine teaching it to rat out my little brother for stealing cookies, and teaching it to take phone messages, and tell us when someone was at the door. Essentially, I thought a Furby would serve as the perfect subsitute for a puppy in our petless household.

I tried talking my parents into getting me one, but they just traded a glance. My parents had never been big into noisy toys. In fact, they were nearly outlawed. But this was no ordinary noisy toy-- it was a Furby, and I HAD to have it. Months of pleading and dropping what I thought were subtle hints went by, and finally I was allowed. We went on a grand excursion to the store, and couldn't find one in stock ANYWHERE. Eventually, though, as I was getting horribly discouraged, my father took me aside outside a Toys R Us, and revealed to me that he'd found a purple one at the Wal-Mart down the street. Success! We'd found it.

I sat in the backseat of the car, in the dark on the drive home, staring and imagiuning all the joy my new pet would bring... and the great eyes slid closed and open again. I dropped it, uttering a slight shriek. Here it was, still in its plastic package, without batteries in it, and it was moving. It reminded me of the then-terrifying Chucky doll... and I became sure in that instant that it was possessed and out to kill me.
I overcame that fear, though, opening it up, putting the batteries inside, and happily chirping back and forth with it, trying to teach it to say my name, and, failing in that, the words, 'die, jerk, die', though this part was taught in a whisper, lest my parents overhear.

I settled in for bed that night, Furby sitting on my dresser, and closed my eyes, only to hear a faint whistling, which grew louder.
My parents yelled from the other room that I should put it away and go to bed, and I began to fret. I didn't *think* it had an off button, but I knew if you covered the sensor on its forehead, it was supposed to turn off, or at least go to sleep. Which was great-- until you took your thumb away, and the light of the digital clock woke it back up.

Furby talked through the night, though it was tucked firmly into the back of my sock drawer. Somehow, that didn't shut it up, but it did muffle the noise sufficientlhy that my parents didn't get upset. Still, I got no sleep, and wandered into school the next day looking much worse for the wear. My teacher asked what the problem was, and I responded that it was my Furby. She grimaced knowingly, and suggested removing the batteries before bed that night.

I got home and took her suggestion while doing my homework. The batteries were set on the dresser beside the doll, and I ent and did my school work in the kitchen, then went out to play, Furby and its horrors temporarily forgotten. That night, when I got settled into bed, I heard a soft whooshing noise, and sat up, remembering the incident in the car. Little me crept over to the light switch, and flipped it on, only to see Furby sitting on the dresser, batteries still beside it, eyes and beak opening and closing, and from its mouth was the whispered word, 'die'.

That night, I rolled Furby in a towel and locked it in a hard travel trunk that was put in my closet and the door firmly closed. The key to the trunk was placed in the back of the sock drawer, and Furby was forgotten, until we moved, six months later.

My uncle and father were moving my closet's contents down the driveway on a dolly, when the travel case fell off of its perch atop some boxes.

I don't know who unlocked it. I don't know who put new batteries in it. All I know is, when Furby fell out, the sun hit the sensor, and its eyes opened, I ran, screaming in the opposite direction.

I switched to books. I was quite done with toys, thank you VERY much.  So much for being a 'normal kid'.

location: home
mood: chipperchipper
music: Don't fear the reaper- Blue Oyster Cult
tags: furby, kids, toys
    Read 2 - Post - - Link
Yet another beginning  
03:20am 02/12/2009

So I'm catching on that I like writing the beginnings of stories that may never be finished. Here's another... Imma call it Julia for now.
Yeah, TBH, I don't even know.
I blame Jermey Irons.
Fuck you Scar, and your Hum-ness, too.

The quickly burning out motor of the hotel room ceiling fan hummed a little as it spun, slow, lazy circles that did nothing to rob the stale air of its humidity and its heat. It barely stirred enough of a breeze to warrant the use of the energy for it.
The room still stank of the last inhabitants, the sour sweet smell of sweat, and sex, though the sheets had been changed and the floor vacuumed.
What are you writing?
Her voice childish and sweet, and totally unsuited for the room. She wasn't really here though, was never really there. Just the hollow, soft echoes of her voice. Always right where she would never belong, dark alleys long past her curfew, hidden hotel rooms in the deep south, in caves, when I ventured deep into the mountains. I never tried to escape her, merely travelled to see how far she would follow. I wasn't running from this woman child,
this apparition that followed me every where. I wasn't afraid of her.
She hadn't hurt me in life, and now, years later, still couldn't. Not in her death.
What are you writing?
Her voice is soft, and seems the perfect counterpoint to the

sound of the fan motor and the feel of my own sweat running down my skin.
I am writing you, I reply. I no longer know if I am sane, if I speak aloud or only in my mind. It doesn't matter. There is no one here but me, no one to hear but her.
And she is with me so close, she may as well be only in my head.
Whether or not I spoke aloud, she is silent, placified with the one sentance answer, as though that is all she has ever demanded of me, is all she will ever demand again.
But it's not. Both she and I know that.
And somewhere, in the invisible land of wherever she is, the monster with the child's voice and face smirks its victory, its hold on my mind, my heart-- my very soul, once more acknowledged simply by my answering.
I cannot curse her. Cannot hate her.
Could not if I tried.
My fault, all of it. All of this.
She was mine, once, a long time ago.
Soft, and innocent, and small. Her hands had only been half of mine, but then, my hands have always been large.
And she would never be larger, always still, and cold, my last memory of her, her tiny, full lips stretched into an obscene mockery of a smile, her tiny hand clasped to her child's bosom,
nude in the twilight.
We mixed on her thighs, the combined flavors of she and I.
Back then, it was I who was the monster, and not she.
Back then, it was I who made the demands.
I who forced her to give me her innocence again and again.
She was willing, more often than not, but at that age, even willing, it was force.
She couldn't be more than twelve.
It was sick.
I was.
It was also perfect. I had to make sure it stayed that way forever.
So of course it had to end, before she did something, said something.
Little uglinesses that marred her, when she used language too old for her, when she spoke callously, and not like the gentle, sweet thing she was supposed to be. It was like she was hitting a glass with a hammer. Gently at first, til small, hairline fractures formed. Then with each blow it became more, until I shattered, and killed her. No more ugliness. Only the stillness of her perfection. I stared at her for a long time, drinking in that perfection, that stillness. Memorizing every turn, every soft place, every hard line, of which there were few. I learned all of her that night, without once touching her, learned her better than
all our feverish tumbles and groping hands would ever allow.
The tiny upturn of the corner of her mouth, the exact measurement between the little snub of her nose and the top lip, how her eyes stared at me, through me, not accusing, no longer seeing. Perfect, glassy doll eyes.
A month later-- maybe less, now I think of it, she came back. Her body had probably been consumed, eaten by the swamp life, but her voice, her presence, it was here, and it was... soft. No uglinesses. Only childish demands.
Childish in their petulance, in their expression. The demands themselves were ones no adult would make, no living, breathing, feeling being would dare utter.
I killed for her. Often. Raped for her.
Made myself more monstrous solely for her delight.
Prided myself on those times that invisible tiny hands clapped, stirring the hair on my neck, and tiny lips that weren't there brushed across my cheek.
I loved her approval.
And then she would be quiet for a while.
And each time I would wonder, is that the last of it? Is it done?
But I know now she will never be satisfied.
She will never leave me. She is just as clingy as the babe to its mother. And she, unlike the babe,will never outgrow that single minded devotion.
She is mine now, as I am hers, and we are ours. There will never be one between us.
I will never lose her, never outrun her, never try.
I am her monster, and she my bride.
And when I die, will she be there in eternity, and will we both burn, souls turning to crisp as these notes do, each night in the fire?
Answers she will not give, questions I no longer ask.

I want a Sweet.

She is beginning again. She sends pictures. Someone young, and soft, like her.
I will find this someone.
They will be ours, just for those precious, gentle moments.
And then they will be no more.
Oh Julia. You'll be happy again Darling. Just give me this night, and the troubled sleep it will allow, and I will give you what you ask for. I always do.
I stumble to bed, do not bother turning off the useless fan.
I breathe in deep the rotting smell of the old sweat, and am reminded of when our sweat mixed.
Goodnight, Julia.
She doesn't answer.
It's just as well.
location: home for now
mood: blankblank
music: none
    Post - - Link
Same new story, Chapter one  
12:19am 30/07/2009
A gun sits in your hand like a reminder to stay calm. One wrong move and you blow out someone's brains, one wavering moment, and you lose your foot from carelessness. It's a comforting weight in your purse, just as the sheath for your knife bites comfortingly into your calf inside your boot.
The gun can't be on you. They like to touch you.
They own you while they have you, these men. And they're possessive.
Some of them mark you. More of them stroke you, touch every inch of you, try and make you writhe and rise and fall, and follow. You fight your body's reaction, keep your head, keep your calm so you don't snap and grab the gun, the knife... end the torment, end their life, end yours.
It's always in the back of your head, that temptation. This could be over. My back doesn't have to be grinding into the carpet, my ass doesn't have to sting and burn and my stomach doesn't have to be in knots.
I should be used to it by now. This has been going on for a while...
But you don't want this story, do you?
No. You want to know about THAT one, and the gun... how I got it, how I came to be here. What I did to him, and why.
Then let's start with the what and get to the who.
I stole the gun from a guy who worked at a gun store.
The one that burned down six months ago, the one on seventy sixth. Yes, that's right, you can add arson to that list.
Anyway. He'd seen me at the bus stop way back when I wasn't this. Way back when I was a normal kid, had a home, a family, before... but no, you don't care about that either. You just want a list of my crimes to hold up in court, so you can cart me off. Fine.
He got around me a lot. He was sweet and I was naive. He seemed very smart, had all these stories about violence he'd been in... I usually ended up covering my mouth in horror. But he was so damn instructional... what to do if this happens, what not to do.
He had that nice solid fortifying weight on him. Makes you think you can do anything, get away with anything. Or it does if you're stupid. He told me to come down to his work, after all that happened. After my dad, after...
So I went. Through the gunstore, past the toy guns with their brightly colored paintballs, past the rows and rows of rifles and handguns and casings and bullets...
Down he took me, after hours, into the soundproofed basement.
The instruction hall, where all the noobies get their lessons on the shit they buy.
But he didn't want me to play with the crap he sold upstairs. He pulled out his own personal toy.
I don't know what kind of gun it was. Don't really care. He said it was better, so I believed him, and when I felt it, felt the cool calm reassurance that holding this, no one could hurt me ever again, well.
have you ever felt completely vulnerable?
Had a moment where you realized you were so damn weak, anyone could do anythign to you, and you could do nothing about it? I had had one of those, standing in the dark outside my family's house, curb under my toes, cool breeze making up for the heat and humidity of the night... Anyone could have snatched me then, could have raped me and beat me, and killed me, and I'd be helpless.
You have never felt that. You're a man, so of course you've always had strength, always been secure in the knowledge that if someone tried something, you could put up a good fight. I weighed a little over a hundred and thirty pounds. I'd never lifted more than fifty at any one time in my life. I was scrawny, and bruised, and torn up inside, in more than one way, and I was scared and lost.
And holding this cold lump of metal took that away. And then I did what he said, pointed, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
It hurt, the first time, the way most things do.
I wasn't ready for the force behind it. it scared me.
And it made my heart pound and made my mind spin and I wanted more. It was like chocolate, or, as I later found out, a drug.
This was my first big high, after my first low, and I needed it.
He wanted payment for his lesson, of course.
And as if I had any money. So there I was, flat on my back on the training table, trying to feel something besides the pain and the sliding sensation, trying not to fall off the table, trying not to make a sound or remember the last person to do this to me.
And then it hit me.
That cold lump, he'd set it next to me on the table, and it was sliding around with us.
Oh, don't tense up, don't brace yourself, you make this less fun. And honestly, that fresh, you think I could kill him for the gun?
Fuck no. I picked it up and bashed him on the head with it.
And no, he didn't report it.
He was screwing in his place of employment, after hours, when his date clunked him on the head with his own weapon.
And I was only fifteen at the time.
So a few days later, when it was closed and no one was inside, yeah, I torched it.
Propane sitting outside, still attatched to somebody's grill, and one shot...
Just like the movies.
Well, maybe smaller.
Still. It impressed the fuck out of me.
So there. That's enough for the day, don't you think?
I was fifteen, armed, and already growing cynical.
That cold weight that I spoke of? It may be all that kept me from going crazy. Saved my life a few times.
But hey, that doesn't matter, does it? Those few times, no one was actually hurt, so who cares?
I dunno how safe sleeping in an alley would be for you, in your nice clean suit and your shiny shoes, your expensive watch and your carefully trimmed hair. Maybe they'd leave you alone. They kinda prowl around anything laying still, hoping it's dead, though, so I doubt it.
Those wolves, those vultures, they'd hound you until you were nothing more than a cigarette burn in the rug of life.
Just like them.
Just like me.
Oh, but that was just the start of things, Daddy.
So daddy, tell me a bedtime story.
Tell me the last time you felt vulnerable, lost, alone, helpless, hopeless, and scared.
Go home to your soft chair, your warm wife, your hot dinner and your centralized Air Conditioning and tell me that last time you were uncomfortable, the last time you had some jerk's cock up your ass so far you thought you'd never breathe again.
Then come back here, and tell me I don't deserve to protect what little life I have.
I'll be waiting.
mood: coldcold
music: the soft whistle o the A/C
    Post - - Link
Foreward to a new story  
10:43am 20/06/2009
<td width="30"> </td>
The world is a real fucked up place, you know?
When a man does horrible, wrong, evil things, somehow it’s easier to swallow, not so hard to believe. When someone like me commits some act of atrocity, everyone reacts. And why not? You look at me, you think you have me pegged as some sort of innocent.
I’m young, but so what? Ages are numbers. Fucked up shit happens, next thing you know there’s a sixteen year old whore running around with a gun and a forty year old’s cynicism.
And somehow, that’s less ok than the real forty year old man who picks her up on the side of the road and decides, hey, why pay a prostitute? Have a quick suck, a quick fuck, slit her throat and toss her to the side of the road.
Well I tell you what, mate: This gun keeps me safer than your teenaged daughter is, even in your own fucking home.
Because I know where my enemies are, and I know how to use one. Her? She walks to school each day, completely unaware of that crazy lecher who stares at her from between his blinds, fisting his cock and imagining her warm thighs wrapped around him.
Yeah, she goes to that big private school and she sees these older boys who have cars and can drive, and what happens when she accepts a ride home, and he don’t understand that no means no?
Either way, eventually, she ends up raped. And they can’t let her live, oh hell no, she knows them. She would tell the cops who they are and where to find them. So what do they do? Quick suck, quick fuck, you find her on the side of the road, dead, cleaned out and showing signs of abuse, bruises and scrapes, and flashing her cunt to the world, cold and dead as it is.
So object to me carrying? I won’t end up that way.
Object to me shooting the bastard who tries, well good on you.
But you think of your little Princess, and you think of me, and you think, in the long run, who will be better off.
You shelter your kids, raise them in places that are so damn safe, and then when they move out on their own, what do they find?
Leches and Pervs, rapists, murderers, thieves, and what? Daddy isn’t gonna be there to protect them. So maybe pick up a knife, a can of pepper spray. Outfit Princess with something that’ll just piss her attackers off. And then when you find her body, bloodied and bruised and slashed and mangled, it’s that much worse, because she didn’t know how to use it.
Fuck that all to hell.
Either put your Princess in a bubble and never let her out, or hope to God she ends up like me.
Because sometime, something like this is gonna happen to her.
And you have to wonder: What choices will she make? How’s she gonna react?
Do you think Princess will live through it, Daddy? I almost didn’t. But hell, that’s what life is, right?
One big game of Russian Roulette.
And Daddy? Your finger’s on that trigger.

    Post - - Link

June 2011  

  Powered by