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06 September 2006 @ 06:33 pm
slug guts  
writing of the real world
An argument reached its climax with gunshots. What is it that eats at people so?

Those I make the daily commute with say that it has "always" been like this, but only in recent weeks have the winds given me hints of the violence. Sometimes I wish humans could go back to square one where death was usually more organic in origin, beginning once again, but that would not change anything ... people are the source of the trouble, not their tools. Were we to forget all the years, I would likely fret still over the current technology of death, be it a bow, a sword, a dagger, or even a stone. We cannot take our inventions or our actions back.

It breaks my heart to see and hear the moments or results when people take the lives of others. Was there no other way? Though the individual is responsible for his or her own actions and owes society a tremendous debt for the life that cannot be replaced, the web of cause surrounding every situation is so very complicated. Who betrayed who? Was it the person who sold the weapon? Was it our schools failing to teach the most necessary of societal concepts, "communication" and "tolerance" ...? Even if we can determine these things, blame has no point unless action is taken.

I try to never live in fear. Every moment post birth brings the potential of risk; if I shied away from stepping out the door, or even from waking, I could not live.

dream writing
Attired in a yellow silk dress with a strange gray sheen, she entered the heavily carpeted parlor, moving between furniture and social inferiors until she reached the elite who had invited her here. She balanced a glass of champagne in her right hand and smiled at the small talk, but her feeling of superiority was shaken when a subtle nuance in someone's wording caught her attention at the same moment the drug in her drink made its presence in her bloodstream known.

Her eyes widened, and she swayed abruptly as the world warped around her. She knew that she was not trusted, but this? So they wished to destroy them like this, was that it? They could try to remove her if they wished, but she would save the Lady she knew to be imprisoned in the mansion, no matter what.

She ran through the compound as the poison affected her perception, causing every other door to seem half its proper size. She could not stop. What if they had their hands on the Lady? She climbed the stairs which doubled back and forth as they rose. Through room after room she passed, all showing signs of struggle with no hint of successful escape. No! She reached the top floor. Where ...? Where ...? Where was the Lady? How would they escape now, so far up, without allies?

The Lady appeared before her. Ah, nothing mattered now, they could make it, of this she was sure. Her companion pointed up, at a circular skylight in which the glass had been broken. They squeezed through to the roof, and pausing a moment, she realized that the poison would impair her ability to carry weight. Wordlessly, they removed their heavy flounced skirts. She took hold of the Lady and leapt into the air, but her weakness caused them to plunge; grimly she corrected the fall as best she could and aimed for a gap in the manor wall. It seemed they would not make it, they could not possibly gain the altitude, but they passed through with pointed toes.
 
 
Current Mood: confusedtorn between angry and hopeful
Current Music: "Close Your Eyes," Juliana Hatfield