The Princess and the Golden Swing

I had a weird fever dream this morning about a princess, well lots of princesses really. All of them were in competition to win the hearts of princes through this medieval gameshow that included princess-style sports, a talent competition, and a beauty/popularity contest. I wasn't me, I was an angsty princess with black hair and green eyes.The only thing that was familiar was the length of the hair. I didn't want to marry a prince or be in the game show, but I had to be. I had already lost two rounds because I put forward no effort whatsoever.

The next competition involved swinging on a golden swing while music played. In order to make it interesting, the princess would swing out a four-story window over the heads of the crowd. I was having trouble getting ready and children from the crowd were chasing me and pulling my hair. Finally I got away from them and decided to just pull my hair back and forget about it. I got on the swing and my accompanist told me that she had lost the sheet music for my song. So I decided to sing the song. This was a weird feeling, because I was singing in a voice that wasn't mine (princess was a raspy alto), singing a words I didn't know to a tune I had never heard before. Worst of all, some of it was in French and I don't understand any French outside of "oui" and "bouregeois," both of which were not in the song. But, I was really enjoying it and the audience loved it and I won the competition.

Okay, enough froo-froo girliness. I am going to go watch my Bodyworlds Anatomy for Beginners: A Live Autopsy and eat ice cream.

Short Story: Distraction

It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...

Poetry and Stuff

Grief:Peripheral The flicker of bluish light filters out what is missing; there is only one set of boots by the door, an apple sits on the counter uneaten, and even if you don’t make a sound, the notch in your heart is nothing personal. ____________________________ Yeah, I know I said no poetry, but I lied. From The Culling, because what girl doesn't dream of owning a library with a ladder? I just posted the last chapter of The Bond, which I'm not 100% satisfied with. It is the end of this novella, but the story continues in the next book of the series. One of my biggest problems is I don't have a title for the next novella. The working title was "The Break," which doesn't really work. If you have an idea or two, throw 'em in the comments.

Creative People and Pain

What's more, says Csikszentmihalyi, the openness and sensitivity of creative people can expose them to suffering and pain. As electrical engineer Jacob Rabinow told him, "Inventors have a low threshold of pain. Things bother them." And yet, few things in life bring more satisfaction and fulfillment than the process of creation. -From an article by Hara Estroff Marano

Refracted Neurons

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