The lithe executive never actually decided to move. That was something all of her body and none of her mind. So she moved, discarding the tools of the position she was similarly abandoning. The window that she had stared out of so many times was blurred, and the world beyond it was only two colors...the black silhouettes of the buildings that housed millions of other dying people and the primal red of the sunset. A wicked expression stared back at her in the window; the blood red was familiar, and she was about to add just a little more of the color to the world.
"Shaen?" Glancing back to acknowledge the husk that would undoubtedly become her replacement in the following minutes, Shaen found her fingers moving without her permission, placed lightly on the unpainted lips, silencing her ex-assistant without any real effort. Turning to face the other woman properly, she started in on the so-called evil genius speech. Even this was not something of her mind really, not just yet. Oh, she would have to rework it a little bit in the near future, no doubt about it, but for now, it flowed naturally from the last time the words had escaped her lips. The only thing different was the addressee.
As she closed the speech with a particularly evil laugh, Joann nodded appreciatively. After all, it was a rare thing indeed to see one of the great masters in such fine form, let alone to be the recording vessel for the words. There was a pleasure that seemed to originate at her ex-boss, and Joann wondered if she oughtn't clap, now that the whole thing was tied up. Yet Shaen seemed to be pulling the cackle to a close, and really, it was a bit late to start clapping now anyway.
Fist closing in finality with the last satisfying 'ha,' the next ruler of New NewLosSan Tokyorkdonton radiated with the muse that had lit upon her once more. Bidding Joann adieu in far more words than worth recording, she made her way to the escape ladder, setting off the alarm as she swung the door open and slammed it behind her giving the cold air as little chance as possible to rush in behind her. After all, it was the warmth that had saved her...perhaps it might some day save Joann as well.
WC: 392
12.08.2007
12.07.2007
1.0 : Warmth
The warmth was utterly unprecedented, really. It started at the bone, which didn't make a lick of sense anyway. Speaking of licking, that's what the flames of warmth seemed to do from there, licking outwards from the bones, tasting of the veins without shame. The flesh followed, the dramatics of the sensation entirely internalized. The warmth was not so hot as to burn at all, let alone feel like flames at all. It was hardly a wonder at all, except that it had been so long since her hands had really been anything but utterly numb. It was terribly alarming. Not alarming. Wrong 'a' word. Amazing. Astounding. Ameliorating. Airline-o-rific. Not the last one either.
Cracking her knuckles experimentally, Shaen relaxed back into her chair, examining the world with eyes so unaccustomed to seeing things as they were that everything was fuzzy. That wasn't true at all, actually. The young woman had never been able to see properly without corrective lenses, that's why everything was softened. It had nothing to do with being crippled so long by the screen that had been so close to her eyes. Maybe it did. She didn't have enough evidence to strongly support either the hypothesis or the contradiction to it to make any real claims. But she felt that it was the time spent viewing through presentations and reports that had made her so blind.
Feeling as if she were resting her hands on the warm hearth of some ancient inn's fireplace, the thought that perhaps, she wasn't going to put the contraption back on her hand, struck her rather solidly, all things considered. The longer she thought about that, the more time it would give the Company to notice that she was taking more than the required time to switch hands and get back to work. Actually, all things considered, someone would likely be bursting through her office door any moment to check on her, under the premise that she had not answered the call moments ago.
It was too late now though. Shaen had remembered that she was dying. And with that memory, she could no longer remain locked in anyway. They had the ability to detect that sort of thing, and it was a higher betrayal to remain in her post with the knowledge of incoming death than to escape without warning.
Escape without warning? Even as the phrase from the Company's Policy Book presented itself in the appropriate font style and size to her mind's eye, a smirk crossed the pale lips that had drawn thin at the initial realization that the fantasy was over again.
This was not the first time she had realized she was dying, and now that she was moving again, she was remembering that the warmth that lived in her fingers now once lived in all of her. It had once lived in her, and when it did, that was when she had lived the most of all, and staved off death better than any other time. It was time to get out of here.
WC: 504
Cracking her knuckles experimentally, Shaen relaxed back into her chair, examining the world with eyes so unaccustomed to seeing things as they were that everything was fuzzy. That wasn't true at all, actually. The young woman had never been able to see properly without corrective lenses, that's why everything was softened. It had nothing to do with being crippled so long by the screen that had been so close to her eyes. Maybe it did. She didn't have enough evidence to strongly support either the hypothesis or the contradiction to it to make any real claims. But she felt that it was the time spent viewing through presentations and reports that had made her so blind.
Feeling as if she were resting her hands on the warm hearth of some ancient inn's fireplace, the thought that perhaps, she wasn't going to put the contraption back on her hand, struck her rather solidly, all things considered. The longer she thought about that, the more time it would give the Company to notice that she was taking more than the required time to switch hands and get back to work. Actually, all things considered, someone would likely be bursting through her office door any moment to check on her, under the premise that she had not answered the call moments ago.
It was too late now though. Shaen had remembered that she was dying. And with that memory, she could no longer remain locked in anyway. They had the ability to detect that sort of thing, and it was a higher betrayal to remain in her post with the knowledge of incoming death than to escape without warning.
Escape without warning? Even as the phrase from the Company's Policy Book presented itself in the appropriate font style and size to her mind's eye, a smirk crossed the pale lips that had drawn thin at the initial realization that the fantasy was over again.
This was not the first time she had realized she was dying, and now that she was moving again, she was remembering that the warmth that lived in her fingers now once lived in all of her. It had once lived in her, and when it did, that was when she had lived the most of all, and staved off death better than any other time. It was time to get out of here.
WC: 504
12.06.2007
Why the Word Count?
Just a little side note to answer a question I suppose will be asked eventually.
Why the hell is word count posted at the end of each post?
Because I want to know how much I've written. Really, that's all. I've rarely been aware of word count, and likely, by the end of this month, I won't bother. But right now, it amuses me, and I feel it will be beneficial to me to be aware of how many words I've typed per day. The goal isn't necessarily to increase or decrease the number, just to be aware.
Why the hell is word count posted at the end of each post?
Because I want to know how much I've written. Really, that's all. I've rarely been aware of word count, and likely, by the end of this month, I won't bother. But right now, it amuses me, and I feel it will be beneficial to me to be aware of how many words I've typed per day. The goal isn't necessarily to increase or decrease the number, just to be aware.
Prologue.4: Breaking
Shaen was getting awfully tired of this format. It was so much more restrictive than the last one had been, and it wasn't giving her room to do what the other one had. It was getting maddening, actually. If it hadn't been her own knuckles she was pounding on, she might have actually pounded rather than just pondering over the ridiculousness of the format.
Maybe it was time to break from the format regardless of the punishment that would be doled out.
Actually, maybe the blinking alert at the upper right corner of her lenses that signaled an incoming call, likely to announce the newest adaptation was the excuse she needed to walk away from the Project for just a moment. To remember that the format had been decided on because it would be the best once more, and stick to it with a little more gusto.
Or at least, perhaps that's what she would have done, if when she had tapped her index fingers together, as she always did to answer the phone, it had actually worked. But this time, it hadn't worked at all. Something funny had happened. Scrunching up her nose into the sort of face mothers scoffed at, she removed her air-dead lenses to rub her eyes and saw something she had forgotten to see for some time.
Shawn was dying here.
Just like the ones who did not have the corner offices with the brighter windows that showed the relaxing weather that they supposedly had all the time up this high.
How many weeks had it been since she had removed her lenses anyway? Though company policy had stated that they take eye breaks, it did not strictly require them to remove their frames, and in practice, most did not. So they never saw what Shaen was seeing now.
It was freedom, and she was going to have it again.
WC: 309
Maybe it was time to break from the format regardless of the punishment that would be doled out.
Actually, maybe the blinking alert at the upper right corner of her lenses that signaled an incoming call, likely to announce the newest adaptation was the excuse she needed to walk away from the Project for just a moment. To remember that the format had been decided on because it would be the best once more, and stick to it with a little more gusto.
Or at least, perhaps that's what she would have done, if when she had tapped her index fingers together, as she always did to answer the phone, it had actually worked. But this time, it hadn't worked at all. Something funny had happened. Scrunching up her nose into the sort of face mothers scoffed at, she removed her air-dead lenses to rub her eyes and saw something she had forgotten to see for some time.
Shawn was dying here.
Just like the ones who did not have the corner offices with the brighter windows that showed the relaxing weather that they supposedly had all the time up this high.
How many weeks had it been since she had removed her lenses anyway? Though company policy had stated that they take eye breaks, it did not strictly require them to remove their frames, and in practice, most did not. So they never saw what Shaen was seeing now.
It was freedom, and she was going to have it again.
WC: 309
12.05.2007
0.1 : Theodore Nott
Theodore Nott was not particularly amused by the goings-on in his classroom, and that was made clear on his greasy yellowed face, bushy black rectangles of hair narrowing downward as he rose from his desk, his height exaggerated ridiculously by his stick limbs. Mud-spattered limes bore upon the class with something akin to the most vile disgust. One by one the students turned to face their Professor, aware that something was not right. The air seemed to shiver around him with power, giving an odd look to the electric blue hair that had come free when the band that had held it back had suddenly changed into a small canary.
"That. Is. Quite. Enough." Each word had its own punctuation, a trick that the young Professor had learned while receiving his continued education. There was a steel that hardly seemed to belong to the wraith of a man that moved out from behind the desk with sudden determination. Each step rang out in the silenced classroom, and his irritation was nearly tangible as he moved towards the student in the front row who he was about to pointedly humiliate. "Wilkes." The look of utter horror on the boy's face very nearly convinced Nott to choose a new target, but that would hardly do. This Professor was never going to be accused of favoritism, let alone nepotism in his time teaching.
For the rest of the day, the class was utterly obedient and actually managed to complete each task he set for them. There was one notable exception, of course, but that was by design more than anything else.
August Wilkes couldn't very well be expected to both be a barn owl and a student at the same time. That was just preposterous.
WC: 289
"That. Is. Quite. Enough." Each word had its own punctuation, a trick that the young Professor had learned while receiving his continued education. There was a steel that hardly seemed to belong to the wraith of a man that moved out from behind the desk with sudden determination. Each step rang out in the silenced classroom, and his irritation was nearly tangible as he moved towards the student in the front row who he was about to pointedly humiliate. "Wilkes." The look of utter horror on the boy's face very nearly convinced Nott to choose a new target, but that would hardly do. This Professor was never going to be accused of favoritism, let alone nepotism in his time teaching.
For the rest of the day, the class was utterly obedient and actually managed to complete each task he set for them. There was one notable exception, of course, but that was by design more than anything else.
August Wilkes couldn't very well be expected to both be a barn owl and a student at the same time. That was just preposterous.
WC: 289
12.04.2007
12.03.2007
Prologue.2: Thinking
Shaen was thinking that maybe typing on her knuckles wasn't actually anymore "ergonomic" than typing on a real keyboard had been.
But then again, it had never really been a choice. As soon as the Company had heard about the Keyknuckles design, everyone had been fitted with the delicate wrist guards with their light sensors. She no longer wrote the numbers and letters on each section with ball point pen...it was as natural as the other ergonomic keyboards became, after enough use now.
Of course, that didn't help it from hurting like hell and being ridiculously uncomfortable after typing for any longer than an hour and a half. It also didn't allow her the luxury of wearing the nails on her typing hand and longer than stubs. Though even on a proper keyboard she would type with the pads of her fingers, she had never realized until the switch how little her fingers left the keys until her nails had scraped across her own knuckles. After the first day, she had trimmed all of her nails to just under the tip and had kept them filed down that way for the following weeks.
It was the joints that got the sorest, not the bony bits. She had to switch typing hands every so often to preserve the use of her hands. She couldn't risk those becoming useless though, as the Company had made plenty clear when they had replaced the old new keyboards with the Keyknuckles.
Just like they had made plenty clear that they were to spend five minutes of every half hour staring at the window when they had replaced the old new monitors with the tiny displays in her eye wear. The Company would not tolerate injuries due to the new perfect equipment they had purchased, regardless of how many employees made the same complaints.
Shaen wasn't complaining though. It was just a passing thought as she stretched her fingers out on the desk for a moment, reveling in the cold ergonomic plastic desktop that had replaced the cold ergonomic wooden desktop just last month.
WC: 342
But then again, it had never really been a choice. As soon as the Company had heard about the Keyknuckles design, everyone had been fitted with the delicate wrist guards with their light sensors. She no longer wrote the numbers and letters on each section with ball point pen...it was as natural as the other ergonomic keyboards became, after enough use now.
Of course, that didn't help it from hurting like hell and being ridiculously uncomfortable after typing for any longer than an hour and a half. It also didn't allow her the luxury of wearing the nails on her typing hand and longer than stubs. Though even on a proper keyboard she would type with the pads of her fingers, she had never realized until the switch how little her fingers left the keys until her nails had scraped across her own knuckles. After the first day, she had trimmed all of her nails to just under the tip and had kept them filed down that way for the following weeks.
It was the joints that got the sorest, not the bony bits. She had to switch typing hands every so often to preserve the use of her hands. She couldn't risk those becoming useless though, as the Company had made plenty clear when they had replaced the old new keyboards with the Keyknuckles.
Just like they had made plenty clear that they were to spend five minutes of every half hour staring at the window when they had replaced the old new monitors with the tiny displays in her eye wear. The Company would not tolerate injuries due to the new perfect equipment they had purchased, regardless of how many employees made the same complaints.
Shaen wasn't complaining though. It was just a passing thought as she stretched her fingers out on the desk for a moment, reveling in the cold ergonomic plastic desktop that had replaced the cold ergonomic wooden desktop just last month.
WC: 342
12.02.2007
Prologue.1: Wondering
Shaen was wondering, for what might have been the millionth time, what she was doing here.
No, she decided, moments later, that that wasn't what she had actually been wondering at all.
Rather, it'd been why she was here.
Wait, was that any different, really? Shaen thought maybe it wasn't, but maybe it was.
Maybe this was why she was here, actually. Because she couldn't determine between what she was thinking, and what words really meant anymore. They used to convey so many things, used to hold so much meaning, used to be everything to her.
Memories of those days brought something out of her, and her fingers itched. It was the first time in minutes that she had been aware of her body again, and that was the end of that. The thoughts stopped as of their own accord, the pale tips touched one another in rapid succession, one hand the keyboard, the other typing each letter across the knuckles and bones.
She wondered what she was doing here, for what was certainly not the millionth time, in the corner office with the view of the City and the assistant who was even now waiting for Shaen's next summon.
WC: 194
No, she decided, moments later, that that wasn't what she had actually been wondering at all.
Rather, it'd been why she was here.
Wait, was that any different, really? Shaen thought maybe it wasn't, but maybe it was.
Maybe this was why she was here, actually. Because she couldn't determine between what she was thinking, and what words really meant anymore. They used to convey so many things, used to hold so much meaning, used to be everything to her.
Memories of those days brought something out of her, and her fingers itched. It was the first time in minutes that she had been aware of her body again, and that was the end of that. The thoughts stopped as of their own accord, the pale tips touched one another in rapid succession, one hand the keyboard, the other typing each letter across the knuckles and bones.
She wondered what she was doing here, for what was certainly not the millionth time, in the corner office with the view of the City and the assistant who was even now waiting for Shaen's next summon.
WC: 194
What This Is and Is Not
IS:
Fiction.
Therefore, it is entirely based in real life. Any semblance to real people or places is probably unintentional, yet completely lacking in coincidence. If you think something is about you...you could be right. If it's definitely about you and you're uncomfortable with it, let me know and I will make it private.
Random.
Any typos and oddities are therefore mostly unintentional unless otherwise stated. Nothing will be planned ahead of time. Serial stories may be interrupted for poetry without rhyme or explanation. For that matter, unscheduled bits of serial fiction may intrude upon once one-shots and wordless art without warning.
Public.
Therefore, I fully understand that you are reading this. I am intentionally performing here...but that is not to say that I'm actively seeking any sort of critical review. While good-natured recommendations may be taken well, some pieces will include a simple request not to critically view the piece. When this is added at the end of the piece, please respect it.
NOT:
Scripted.
Fiction does not mean that I think things out ahead of time. Fiction in no way implies that the characters I will use and speak through are static, planned out, have destinies set in stone as they are created. They will come to me, and that's what this will be. Their outlet. My outlet.
A Journal.
Except for when it is. Shaen, Evan, Kaylee...who the hell knows who might need to write in their secret place. But it is not MY journal. It is not the life and livings of one Miss Tia Shelley. You can find a sparsely updated journal for that individual here.
Yours.
It is very likely that unless I know you in my day-to-day life already that you are reading this. I hope that will change, to some extent. And if it does change, than I will explain this more.
I hope that you have found what you were looking for.
Fiction.
Therefore, it is entirely based in real life. Any semblance to real people or places is probably unintentional, yet completely lacking in coincidence. If you think something is about you...you could be right. If it's definitely about you and you're uncomfortable with it, let me know and I will make it private.
Random.
Any typos and oddities are therefore mostly unintentional unless otherwise stated. Nothing will be planned ahead of time. Serial stories may be interrupted for poetry without rhyme or explanation. For that matter, unscheduled bits of serial fiction may intrude upon once one-shots and wordless art without warning.
Public.
Therefore, I fully understand that you are reading this. I am intentionally performing here...but that is not to say that I'm actively seeking any sort of critical review. While good-natured recommendations may be taken well, some pieces will include a simple request not to critically view the piece. When this is added at the end of the piece, please respect it.
NOT:
Scripted.
Fiction does not mean that I think things out ahead of time. Fiction in no way implies that the characters I will use and speak through are static, planned out, have destinies set in stone as they are created. They will come to me, and that's what this will be. Their outlet. My outlet.
A Journal.
Except for when it is. Shaen, Evan, Kaylee...who the hell knows who might need to write in their secret place. But it is not MY journal. It is not the life and livings of one Miss Tia Shelley. You can find a sparsely updated journal for that individual here.
Yours.
It is very likely that unless I know you in my day-to-day life already that you are reading this. I hope that will change, to some extent. And if it does change, than I will explain this more.
I hope that you have found what you were looking for.
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