Unspoken Truth (b)

They’re not telling you anything new, and they’re not rewording it in a different way; there is absolutely nothing in the content of their message that is different from what you already believe.  And yet, to hear it from them, when the only one you’ve ever heard if from before is the whisperings of the world and your own heart…  It’s different.

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Bumpire (a)

“You gotta be kidding me, kid.”
For the first time since he picked up the trail three weeks ago, he gets a clear, unobstructed look at his quarry.  It’s a young woman, late teens or early twenties, with tangled dirty blonde hair stuffed into a stained knitted cap; he can’t tell if the color of her hair is natural, or from actual dirt.  She’s dressed in washed-out jeans with holes in the knees, and a down coat with so many feathers poking out of the holes she must have found it in the trash.  A bum.  Three weeks’ worth of sleepless nights, stakeouts, and bloodstains; thirteen crime scenes in alleyways or moonlit backroads, all for one rogue vampire, and she’s an honest-to-God bum.
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Shomething About Namesh

“I made thish promish long ago: that never would I don a falsh name, a falsh identity, or a falsh appearanshe.  That if men shaw me, they would shee me for who I am, whatever pain or hardship that would entail.  And if you believe that I will recant this vow for shomething as petty ash unneeded material gain, then I musht apologize, but your belief is wrong.”

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One of Those Days

Cecile’s foot-twitching evolves to full-blown leg twitching as her eyes flick to the corner of her computer monitor, where the clock refuses to march any faster than a hiker trudging through a sea of cold mud.  Her MP3 player mocks her as it sits on the desk by her keyboard in its supposedly-groovy tie-dyed case; it ran out of charge an hour after she punched in.  Most days she could survive without it.  Most days she’s a master of shaping her mind to suit its environments, as least as far as staving off workplace boredom is concerned.  But no physical, mental, or emotional force known to humankind can stop the madness brewing just under the surface when it’s “one of those days”.

{Today was one of those days.}

That Point

There comes a time when writing a lengthy work—and the time may come more than once—when a good writer will reach That Point.  That Point where she suddenly questions the very fabric of what she is writing, even though she had the utmost conviction and trust in it before.  She will wonder what her work is supposed to mean, what it is supposed to say, and how it is saying it.  She will wonder if her work has value, and moreover, if any besides her will say it has value.

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