Revival Request

Hey guys, let's revive this blog after our extreeeeeemely long hiatus!

I was thinking that as well as creative writing, we could have other modes of writing too ... like feature article type opinion posts (if you know what I mean, we might even have to do a bit of research on the topic). So maybe we could have a committee of some sort to decide the type of writing, the stimulus/topic it's going to be on (it could be a normal stimulus like the ones we've been using, or it could be a controversial topic e.g. euthanasia, or a topic inviting opinion-fuelled discussion e.g. the questionable existence of bus timetables), and other specifics (like compulsory vocab or whatnot).

But I guess this wouldn't work so well with a time limit ... maybe we could just say that you have a whole week to work on it or something, and you just post what you've got at the end of the week? (No peeking at the drafts though haha!)

I thought that this would be good preparation for uni as well ... where we're going to need to engage in some academic writing :)

Any opinions, etc. welcome in the comments! This is just a proposal hehehe ...

Parade - The Bus Will Come by Alicia

The Bus Will Come

There is difficulty in maintaining the contents of a mug when it is not built for travel.

Here I am, awash in rain.

Amelia flexes her wrist softly in a circular motion, watching as the opaque brown stuff sloshes gently from side to side in her rapidly cooling mug – it meekly suggests CPS Current Population Survey on its curved face in a thin, grey, bending typeface. A little pale sunlight Toyota hurtles past, jostling the little party of water molecules and city street pollution into frenzy. She takes the chance to look down the busy road, looking for the merest sign of the tall blocky bus shape. There is none, yet.

Leather boots are not an adept demonstration of practicality when it is raining buckets of goldfish.

She totters in the short heels, wriggling her feet in a rather unpleasantly squelchy fashion as she shudders at the sensation of moisture seeping into her toes. Bus, bus, bus, bus where are you? A large droplet of rain has gathered its nearest comrades and has tumbled into her mug. Amelia’s eyebrows wrinkle in a small resigned annoyance as she watches it disperse into homogenousness with habile chemical ability. A figure steps into her peripheral vision, dressed in the mutually-accepted-by-society colours of black, brown, and black.

Amelia decides to swirl the tea again because she can see a small particle of rainwater which has not dissolved into the rest of the watery stuff – she’s not even sure it’s concentrated teabag enough to be called tea anymore.

An umbrella is essential when you see a swivel of cloud dusting the skies.

Rain on me. My jacket can handle it.

Of course, no one thinks to take an umbrella when they work in a petite little bookstore on the corner of Cleveland and Crown; that little plastic bin full of fold up and stick brollies is only for the lovely patrons who flutter in, bringing with them their own smells – coffee, cigarettes, cars, cardboard or even carcinogenic carbon. Amelia is that girl who sits behind the counter at Oscar’s reading a book about physics one day, and hearing the echoing sentiment of ‘old boy’ the next.

Never let tea cool if you intend on drinking it.

Bah! She swallows it gingerly.

That figure from before, on the edge of her peripheral vision, walks over with a smile – at least she imagines it to be a smile behind the darkness that is the hair and the hoodie and the everything dazzling about this newcomer.

Dazzlingly brilliant and as fresh as spring rain – until their hand raises and plops five sugar cubes rather arrogantly into her mug. This contumely from a no doubt self-named tea-genius has offended her. Amelia sniffs discordantly and steps away, the sly letters CPS turning to face the glass barrier of the bus stop instead of the stranger.

The bus will come, but do not expect it to come on time.

The stranger seems oddly put out – their shoulders have slumped. Amelia cannot find it in her tea-loving heart to feel any sympathy for someone who has just ruined her tea.

And yet, in that moment, as her eyes focus away from her thoughts to the distant horizon of the street, she sees that chunky block that is definitely a bus.

The right bus.

She throws her arm out into the gunfire, an imbalance of cold and warm singing as bullets of rain repeatedly strike her bare wrist and open palm. Her shadow stranger does the same. The bus huffily comes to a halt, the base of its steps teetering precariously towards the kerb.

There is a moment where it is just the sound of her cold breath mingling with the sighing of the engine, a romantic backdrop of rain pattering away on the roof of the bus shelter and the bus itself – and then the doors clatter open with some exasperated sounding pumps.

Board the bus, you little peasant.

Mind the gap.

Amelia minds the gap very much. The other steps forth unhesitatingly, jumping over the gutter and into the damp metal shell of the bus. Their steady sneakers beckon. She hastens to do the same, even as she watches with a sinking heart, the deepened wound of her severely diluted tea.

Finally, frisson, when the confined space of the pass traps you.

She sidles over, CPS raised high above her breast at a safe distance from the ground. Amelia does well in dipping her pass, and she listens in pleasure to the chirping duet of the two machines in synchrony with one another – the other has dipped too.

Only then does she remember the predicament of the pass.

A bat-like object comes into contact with her shoulder, continuing forward with the velocity of an accidental steam engine. Amelia can hear the apology on the other person’s lips, but she can only hear her own silent profanity as the foldable black umbrella comes to a shuddering halt right above her mug.

And releases a torrential downpour of sulfurous and haloalkane infested liquid.

Amelia turns instinctively towards the other person, only to glance at the Funny Girl poster behind them, absorbing the long brown locks tucked away in the abyss of a green hoodie. The other woman looks at the poster too, and is amused at an untold joke, understands an untold story, foresees an unforetold future. 

But all Amelia cares about right now is saying this:

No you seriously cannot rain on my parade.

~OvO~

Author's Note: Woah 912 words. I got a lot carried away. Wrote for about 45-50 min. It doesn't relate to belonging - it's a story about Amelia who is a girl waiting for a bus in the rain, remembering some advice, and meeting a lovely young stranger who just happens to annoy her a lot. I'm really sleepy, so most of this is really badly paced and everything. I might fix it later, I just felt so guilty because we have class today and I don't have anything complete to give in. :( 

Also, Funny Girl is the original musical that the song "Don't Rain On My Parade" is from. I didn't know how to end it and use the quote from the stimulus, so I did that. 

Hope everyone else updates soon! :)

Parade - the stimulus!

Welcome back from hiatus!

Thanks to Maggie! :)

3 Words of the week:

• Contumely [n] - insulting display of contempt in words or actions; contemptuous or humiliating treatment. a humiliating insult.
• Habile [adj] - skilful; dexterous; adroit 
• Frisson [n] - a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill

Guidance - Devolution by Alicia

Devolution

This is our world.

This is our universe.

Humanity was a speck of existence. We… we are the giants who stand on the shoulders of quarks.

***

78^th of Stymphalian, 5608

For the first time in a long time, I once again began to question who I was. Humdrum answers pulsed through my brain: you’re a human presenting as the most prominent result.

I have a routine, as humans do. My routine is to wake up and not die. Not dying is a great daily objective, though not as easily accomplished as you might think. Every few days I pass through the tunnels of a time of truth transcended into dust. Man has left his imprint upon this cave’s walls. I see the archaic infrastructure of an anti-gravitational aeronautical transportation scrawled in the form of a blueprint. In bold letters atop the sheet in an ancient laptop’s typeface, it says BOEING 787 DREAMLINER. Its edges remain pressed behind the glass forged of a distant era, its sheets a mellow cream-white.

I travel the thundering tunnels, wandering in the darkness, wondering of the light.

I press my palm into the dry soil to my right, waiting as it glows to life with a singing enthusiasm.

"Transmitting…"

My impatience level is high, a trait non-existent in the artworks of my ancestors. These humans of old, with such delicate spirit, manoeuvred the globe to seek answers. How could they withstand the hours and days in their medieval flight technology? The 5590s edition of the arc-optic transmat twitters as it prepares for beaming. My hand is inevitably warming to the contact of hyper-carbon fibre on flesh as I wait. I envy my great grandfather, who experienced the speed and processing capacity of the mid 55^th century.

The darkness fades with a soft ping!

The guidance of our forebears has become simplified into a solitary catechism.

“STOP MOVING FORWARD. WE'VE GONE TOO FAR.”

Chasing a dream has become racing from a nightmare. The integrity of humanity has decomposed into the pitch black of loss into which I’m falling.

Crummy lamplight tumbles into existence as I flicker into my mother’s living room. Thin tinkling trembles through the teacups. The strange time-keeper in the corner chimes in a low tenor, bothering Amphisbaena from his slumber by the heater. He growls with a sneer. My mother has a priceless collection of road signs from a millennium ago. They all speak the same message of warning, hidden in undertones as they scream at drivers from their odd pixel manifestations.

I wait for my particles to cease their painful fusion – an unavoidable side effect of the old transmat, the only one we could afford in the new world.

I imagine the day that my cells simply don’t realign.

It’s a possibility.

I simply don’t understand humans anymore. 

~OvO~

Author's Note: 467 words. I actually went at least 5 minutes over. I wrote more than half of this blind before I actually remembered I had a stimulus and three words to shove in. So it barely relates, and the three words really were shoved in. 

I actually had many different thoughts on the direction of this story as I was writing, and it was actually my 3rd idea. My first was a repressed Victorian era young lady, my second was a young man leaving for the war with the story from the perspective of the mothers left behind (how typical), and this was my third. 

My story is a post-apocalyptic view on humans, which struggles to restore its previous height of enlightenment, even with the ancestors telling them not to, warning them to heed the warnings that they themselves did not. Honestly, it needs a lot of development. I wanted to end it with a view on the past, to maybe the persona's grandfather working with scientists and considering the moral implications etc. etc. But my mum called for dinner and :( food

Some paraphernalia:

• 78th of Stymphalian, 5608 - I made up a futuristic calendar. This story is set in the year 5608, the month Stymphalian, on the 78th day. 
• Stymphalian Birds are man-eating birds from Greek mythology [click the link for wiki page]. 
• Boeing 787 Dreamliner is one of Boeing's newer aeroplane models, introduced in October '11. 
• arc-optic is completely made up. I was thinking of optic fibre speeds. Originally I wrote just optic but it seemed too our-contemporary, so I added a random "arc" in front of it to seem more futuristic.
• hyper-carbon fibre - same as above. I was thinking of those transparent plastic displays we have nowadays. 
• Transmat - is a transport booth from general sci-fi, similar to a transporter in Star Trek. I really couldn't think sci-fi creative enough today. 
• Amphisbaena is a snake with two heads, also from Greek mythology. In my story it's the name of their pet (the futuristic species of which I'll leave to your imagination)

I'm upset about this story, because I wish I was bothered and had enough time to bring it up to standard. Oh well, criticise away! :P

An Instant - Colours by Selina

An Instant - Colours

He inhaled deeply the serene air coupled with delicate redolence of flowers at Sydney Harbour National Park with the corners of his mouth turned upwards, forming deep wrinkles on his coarse face. Today must be a magnificent day, with an azure sky above me! He exclaimed, although he had never seen colours before. ‘Azure’ was the colour of the sky people described to him.

His walking cane leaned next to a tree while he ran his fingers down the intricately carved grooves of his violin, with a blissful smile hanging on his face. Gently placing the violin beneath his chin, the usual familiar smell of mahogany and home surrounded him, creating relaxation for him at this foreign environment. He placed his fingers at the worn spots on the fretboard, where countless hours of fingering for notes caused the lacquer to thin, exposing the rich varnish beneath. As he drew the bow across the stings, small wisps of rosin float lazily above the instrument while mellifluent melody and dulcet rhythm of Canon in D by Pachelbel pours forth from the violin’s hollow body.

He closed his eyes. But it was not dark. This was the only instant where he could see the world full of colour that he imagined how they should be. A warm breeze swept past him. The notes around him fluttered and danced joyfully in the wind along with the music, and he would sit on the chartreuse grass, smiling from deep within his heart and charily observing his children’s facial features and expressions while they are playing. That was his precious instant in the wind.

The soothing song ended softly but his world of colours continued resonating in his head.

Author's notes:

283 words, which is very very short! This piece conveys my love towards violin despite the fact that i have no clue how to play it... Anyways, sorry for being really late! 

Please criticise and recommend more sophisticated words I could replace. 

Guidance - the stimulus!

Thanks to Alison! :)

New Rules: Three words have been chosen which must be included in the creative for the further development of our vocabulary inclusion.

The three words:

1. Truth
2. Spirit
3. Integrity

Fight - A Moral Greyscale by Jennifer

A Moral Greyscale

The accelerated lash of a trained soldier's boot on my left cheek, and the momentary yet lethal darkness sends me down onto the perilous base of the invaded trench.

The stalemate had been broken.

In the frenzy I taste the thick blood of my bitten tongue, metallic like the deafening barrage of overhead gunfire. It is only a split second before I recover and search frantically for the soldier who had attacked me. Letting go of a single life will result in the death of many more.

I spot the soldier's pale complexion over ten metres away, his skin a stark contrast against the muddy earth which lines the trench, against the dark green uniform which crowds the narrow area ... against the rest of us.

"GET HIM!" I bellow in agony as his shrinking figure recedes into our living quarters. 

Then the reluctantly anticipated fire of a machine gun, the howls and shrieks of combat mates violently ambushed. It is difficult not to picture the carnage which will await my return. Blood and revolting gore, but this time of my friends ... my friends, of whom we had sworn an eternal allegiance.

The culminating fury erupts within me as the crazed scream of a mad fighter - and my paralysis shatters. I storm through the length of the trench with a regained strength, treading on the hands and shoulders of my fallen army.

He is still there, the cold satisfaction of murder plastered over his white ghost of a face. 

He is white. Just like those who had slaughtered my village. White.

Charging towards him, I tackle him to the ground with the power of countless memories of loss. He loses his machine gun, as I did my parents. My friends. My elders. Everything was gone.

I strike his stomach like a frenzied animal, drawing on the forgotten strength of pain. He tries to strike me again, this time with the dagger attached to the side of his shoe. He misses. 

He sends his foot flying against the stone surface, dislodging the earthly remains of the trench wall which topples over us. Pushing us closer together, urging us to exact our revenge.

The silver dagger dislodges. He wails as the blade slides to within a few metres' distance, sending us into a frantic brawl. He elbows my thigh sharply, temporarily disabling me as he scampers toward the blade. His hand is merely centimetres from the blade before I clasp his neck, strangling him as I drag him along the blood-stained floor.

I reach for the blade, but the solace of cold metal in my hand does not arrive. I almost forget myself - whipping around, I force the dagger against the soldier's white neck.

Against a boy's white neck. His horror stricken eyes match chillingly, incongruously, with the snicker of murder on his mouth. He has aged too much. 

It will take only a flick of the wrist to send this boy to the hellish suffering he deserves. 

He is white. I am black. White, black, white, black, white, black ...

Author's Note: 515 words. Sorry about any parallels between this story and the first creative I wrote on this blog (Chastity - My Kind). I think I tried to refrain from specifically using the phrase 'my kind' haha ... don't remember if I succeeded :|

I was originally going to end it with something like white, black, something brown then something about how there's always a bit of each in each other (yin and yang) or some deep philosophical statement. As expected, that never happened.

I should probably add more to this author's note. On another note (do you see what I did there? I get amused by my own sense of humour), I need to sleep. I realise that I only ever post here right before I go to bed .........

edit: In case you thought I was pulling that lunacy about white, black and brown from nowhere, it's me reading too much into the colours of the cat and dog :P

Fight - 99 Luftballons by Alicia

99 Luftballons

1139 hours, Vandenberg Air Base, CA.

“Sir, are you sure?”

“Are you here to question my orders, or to follow them, Lieutenant?” Commanding Officer Phillip Savoy barked, his hands tightening into fists by his thighs.

The officer beside him assumed an expression of obedience, but not before Savoy glimpsed the contempt and fear. They were in the middle of a war here, and it was not the time for frightened officers to forget their place.

 “Launch missilery action Lima Alpha.”

The order was repeated and echoed across the room until it was transmitted into the radio communication system.

“Echo Romeo Tango, launching Lima Alpha countdown in 5...”

 Across the fiery evening sky, missiles streamed, trailing a blazing pure white tail of steam towards unsuspecting destruction.

“ETI two minutes…”

***

1840 hours, East Germany.

“Maria, let’s go home.”

Maria jumped off the small construction of torn brick and items that people simply didn’t want anymore. Her patchy red shoes scuffed against an old wooden doll that had lost the glimmer of its maker’s love. The long pleat of her skirt brushed past a heavy scorched leather suitcase weighed down by a mountain of memories and lost faith. In the glimmering heat of the sunset, they glowed with an unnatural presence as if warning them 

to forget, or was it to remember?

Her younger brother, Friedrich, ran around her in circles, his head thrown back and lips parted as he gazed upwards to the horizon, towards their design. Already, their art was far away. The fluorescing eyes of streetlamps as they made their way down the Straße hissed in anticipation of night.

More eyes began to emerge from darkened alleyways as cats slinked outwards, marking their way around the two children in silence and care. 

Fifty stars came shooting out of the sky.

Dogs could be heard in the distance, barking in paranoia about the ninety-nine red balloons the two children had set free into the air.

What stupid dogs they were. 

~OvO~

Author's Note: 330 words. I know, I cheated with the stimulus a bit. But I did this story as a roughly (highly inaccurate) historical fiction because I'm trying to write my After the Bomb story and I'm getting really stuck.

In case it wasn't apparent, the dogs are the Americans, and for some reason, cats are Germans. This is highly inaccurate. The fifty stars are the missiles, it's a bit hyperbolic but it seemed fittingly American. 

AH! The name of this and the story idea itself, is all entirely based on the song called 99 Luftballons by Nena. It's an anti-war song written sometime during the Cold War, which translates to 99 Red Balloons in English. 

• Strasse (or Straße) is German for street. 
• ETI is Estimated Time Impact, although I just made that up. 
• The times seem really weird, being 1139 and then 1840, but it's apparently a 7 hour difference between America and Germany. I just didn't bother checking specifically for California. 

An Instant - Blinding Wind by Jennifer

Blinding Wind

"The government housing? You mean that eyesore of a debilitated shack which sits clumsily on the brink of our otherwise pristine neighbourhood?

"No way, you can't be serious. Mum, I'm not coming with you. Haven't you heard the rumours? Everyone says that the girl who went missing last month was last spotted just two streets away from that row of government housing."

My mum darts me that familiar glare, the oh-you-are-such-a-snobby-twenty-first-century-first-world-country-teenager look.

"There's no proof behind that - and you know it. I expected something more reasonable from you, Mel."

I admire my nails in an attempt to hide my defeat. A painful essence of truth in her statement had struck me, but it was much easier to pretend not to care.

"Come on, we're leaving now. At least you can say you've volunteered before at your next job interview."

She flashes one of her taunting grins as I shoot her an affectionate scowl, grabbing several bottles of hand sanitiser and pepper spray into my bag behind her back.

***

Even from afar, the cacophonous multitude of languages shrouds me in confusion. What were they gossiping about? A lady hanging up her laundry takes a quick glance at me - then a few seconds later shouts something in some foreign tongue to her daughter behind her. A momentary fury swells within me as I imagine her making a racist joke - was it the colour of my skin? Or my mass of curly hair?

But as the young girl turns around she only appears two or three years my junior, albeit several centimetres taller than me. Where was her cultural dress? Everyone at school said that the area was extremely distinct because all its residents wore peculiar cultural dresses - almost like a fancy dress party, but daily.

In fact she was clad in a t-shirt and jeans, her white socks peaking peeking out through her ... Nike sneakers which I had been begging my mum for three months to buy me. I tug at my mother's hand eagerly, but she ignores me and starts searching for the other volunteers.

The young girl turns around on her sneakers and begins heading my way. Subconsciously, I roll my eyes in an exasperated sigh - I was too exhausted for a wordless exchange, facilitated only by universal hand gestures at ineffectively overcoming the language barrier. That's how all the movies showed two different cultures communicating, wasn't it?

"Hey, are you one of the volunteers? I think the others are meeting up over there."

She points to some unfamiliar location to no avail, as I recover from the shock of her perfect English. Why of course. She would attend the local high school, just like me. Maybe I had even seen her before?

As she turned around I tried to photoshop her silhouette out and drop her in the midst of our school campus ... surprisingly she would blend in well. Actually, there would be no indication whatsoever of her living in government housing. Where were the broken shoes, the greasy hair, the notable accents or stuttering of those who live here? 

Author's Note: 520 words. haha, as you can see, I have not finished. and my bedtime is nigh. i almost need to go to bed. this one is pretty colloquial, I haven't actually gotten to the main point at all sadly :( i tried to intersperse the colloquial language with some heavier matter later, to show how their two lives are interlinked and stuff. but i shall leave that to a commenter's analysis :P i might actually keep working on this creative and post it on my personal page when done :) maybe. 

well it goes on with how (in an extremely cliched manner - because I lack the creative juices to transcend this clichedness) the persona realises all the social and political stigma associated with not-as-well-off families. And something like this was meant to be one of those lines: "And it took only an instant for me to recognise the false stories, the false rumours, the false speculations. We had all been blinded by the suffocating wind of society and politics, our minds pushed to and fro into what we would like to be thinking." Then something about me being cleansed of the 'paint' and untrue (yes, trying to find another word for false --> consequence of limited vocab) perceptions which once plagued the persona, revealing her true self.

I know right. I invite anyone to challenge me in being the self-named queen of clichedness.

It probably isn't really belonging either, more CHANGE or JOURNEY. Good night! :)

change of plans, actually on to read Alicia's creative! :P

Fight - the stimulus!

Thanks to Maggie! :)

Because this stimulus is so specific, it's okay if you don't really...use it... But don't be discouraged! Give it a go, it'll test the limits of your adaptability. :) Don't forget, there are metaphorical ways of including it.

An Instant - To sleep, perchance to dream by Alicia

To sleep, perchance to dream

It would be cliché to say that it was all a blur; to say that all the instruments seemed to flare to life at once; to say that he, Richard Finn, could not respond.  

His hands were before his eyes, fluctuating in and out of focus as he pulled his screaming spine backward. Heavy grey shapes clung to the windows, pressing down, leering at the two men. The darkness clogged his eyelids as Richard tried to eliminate the echoing flash of lightning that blinded him. Everything was drained of its correct colour, the flashing emergency lights an eerie pink, the four stripe epaulettes upon his sleeve a diminishing vanilla. He sank against the cool hard leather back of his pilot’s seat, and tried to breathe through his nostrils.

The distant echo of his daughter’s laughter tangled with the muffled silence in his ears. Nothing connected.

Faintly, the flickering altimeters reminded him of something he saw in a textbook once.

He felt the soft smile of his wife lingering in the sunshine as she chattered to the neighbours, the Almantises from Florence. Nothing connected.

Faintly, he could see the strained face of his first officer, a freshly qualified young man called Stephen, speaking to ATC. But Richard could not hear the words beyond a blur of sound.

He smelt the memory of an Irish tea, sweet, with a dash of skim milk, the faint press of flush crimson lipstick painted on the lip of the teacup. But that didn’t connect either.

‘…one.’ Something from a textbook.

‘Captain…’ A textbook about aeroplanes, ‘…hear me?’

The other man’s hands were everywhere, assessing the damage, his lips moving silently but rapidly. Another blinking red light winked into existence, and Stephen swallowed, taking a deep breath, as Richard watched, and his lips moved slower than before. Slow, but fast - URGENT.

‘Cabin crew prepare…emergency...’  Richard closed his eyes tightly, wincing at the exhausted pain behind them. A faint green echo shone in the blackness. His heartbeat quickened. There was a dull ache in his forehead. Richard’s hands crept forward reflexively.

‘I have control, Stephen.’

The darkening clouds rumbled, the deep resonance rolling a depression in the atmosphere. Richard watched as the carburettor indicator fired into action, joining the cacophony of recorded warnings. They were rapidly losing altitude.

‘Sir, we’re flying one-engine.’ Plummeting. Yet the clouds did not thin.

Richard pushed the A318 into preparations for emergency landing, cursing the two useless turbine engines dragging them down hard. He needed to see the ground. Chaotic sensors screamed. But even on the ground, Richard was not in control. The clouds wouldn't move.

A cyclone battered mercilessly against the hull of the smallest Airbus member. The yoke jerked beneath his white knuckles, shuddering. The jolts ran along his body, rooting to his toes, forcing him to struggle, to scream, to MOVE.

“Get out of my house, Richard.” She turned her back on him, as if equal and opposite forces would push him away, out the door.

No, no, it didn’t connect to anything.

The recorded warning was no longer intelligible above the noise of the jet’s shuddering. Stephen had gone pale beside him, frantically requesting weather reports, weather reports, weather reports on approach. ATC, a bloke named Kevin, his voice was quiet. He calmly told them about the 58 mph crosswinds on approach.

“Look out, mate, she’s gusting to ten. Sure you want to brave this storm?” Carl was saying, standing in the driveway with his car keys hanging loosely from his index finger where it swung back and forth like a pendulum. Hypnotic in its deceptive uselessness.

An instant in the wind, suspected multiple bird strikes, hydraulics malfunction, multiple engine failure, carburettor failure, altimeter failure, anti-icing failure, failure, failure…failure… fail…ure…

“Pull up. Pull up. Pull up.” The recorded warning announced cheerily, carelessly.

An image of a sharp woman with a clipboard, sighing, as he stared at a point above her head, vanished. It seemed to connect, but then it didn’t.

‘Flaps 30, full reverse throttle, Stephen.’

‘Roger.’

The runway was too far left. The ground reared up like a snake poised for attack, wondering if it would allow the pathetic little white mouse to touch it before it struck. A heaviness caught Richard unawares, his grip faltering.

‘Landing gear, sir?’

Of course, bloody landing gear. He nodded drowsily, hoping his FO’s frightened, intense staring at the senior pilot-in-command was paying off.  

Concussion - another failure. The 34L loomed slightly off centre as he slumped heavily. The rain drummed on the metal casing of the flight deck, hollow like the cavity in his chest…low…quieting…darkening…  

‘SIR…’ The first officer’s protest fizzled out with the last lights in the cabin.

Richard’s hands slipped from the yoke.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

***

Flight 8122 smashed into the tarmac, but Richard Finn was already senseless in the darkness. The gentle smattering applause of a drizzling rain resounded in the emptiness, trailing after the last spindles of that instant. The wind was still.  

~OvO~

Author's Note: 831 words. I wrote for 50 minutes, sorry! I have been damned waiting to write about planes! A lot of this is probably wrong though, in terms of emergency procedures, plane malfunctions etc. At first, I had about 300 words written like a disaster movie, and then I remembered it had to relate to belonging hahaha that's why it's sort of terrible.

Definitions & technical terms:

• Epaulettes for pilots are stripes that you wear on your uniform to show what qualifications/rank you hold - four stripes is Captain. I hope that explains a lot, Maggie. 
• Altimeters measure the altitude of the plane. 
• ATC is Air Traffic Control, it's the dude that sits in the cool towers at the airport and direct planes, give permission for landing etc. 
• Carburettor - I think our engineers might know what this is? :) It determines the amount of fuel drawn into the airstream based on speed and pressure of airflow. For engines. I think.
• A318 - the smallest member of the Airbus family. I was so proud to have remembered this random fact, but I checked it up just in case. 
• Airbus is a big airline company, like Boeing. 
• Yoke is the new modern term for joystick basically. 
• A crosswind is any wind that has a perpendicular component to the line or direction of travel. In aviation, a crosswind is the component of wind that is blowing across the runway making landings and take-offs more difficult than if the wind were blowing straight down the runway. (copied from Wikipedia)
• Hydraulics control the plane. Engineers, take over for me for this one. 
• Anti-icing is basically that; it anti-ices. It's this liquid that's put on the plane to prevent it from icing over - different to de-icing which is used to get rid of ice. 
• Flaps 30, full reverse throttle - Creative licence. I sort of stole this from a book about Qantas' failures, and I'm definitely not sure if I'm using it right. It's a type of prep for landing. 
• FO is First Officer 
• 34L is one of the main runways (the East-West) at Charles Kingsford Smith airport - not sure if it would actually be used for emergency Airbus landings... creative licence! 

If anyone's curious about the intertextual references or just plain fandom references in this story (which I doubt is any of you at all), I'll put them up on the Alicia page. 

Please criticise my story. No one's been criticising my stories lately. :( 

An Instant - the stimulus!

Thanks to Maggie! :)

No aspect of belonging specified: instead the almighty Maggie has commanded we include layers of belonging.

Orchids- The Brown Bench by Selina

The Brown Bench

The gentle wind brought the fragrance of blooming pink lilies growing from the lake along and caressed her wrinkly face to smear the silver tear that glistened in the corned of her eye away. The chirping of the birds and the rustling sounds of leaves echoed in her ears as her vision began to clear. The lady is here again, at Centennial Park, sitting on this isolated brown bench covered with bits of dull red leaves, holding the pink orchid with its pedals that once felt like soft velvet, that once symbolised their eternal love. Waiting.

The pure white orchid attached to the little girl’s silky black hair caught her attention. The girl scampers along the lake and hummed a peaceful melody with the ruffles on her pink velvet dress flowing with the wind, forming a nostalgic image in front of the lady's eyes. A strong gush of icy wind blew the white orchid on her hair into the lake, forming ripples on the still water.

Beside the little girl, a middle-aged man was kneeling down on one knee and handing a bundle of blossoming pink orchids to a woman. The woman’s face shone with happiness. They gazed at each other with tender affection and shared a vision of the future that no one will interfere.

Watching them was like watching her past flashing before her eyes. These memories surged her emotions like a tempest. The voice of his unachieved promises echoed in her head, “Wait for me, I’ll be back for you.” So she waited, and waited, for 5, 10, 20 years, everyday she sat on this bench, holding the pink orchid he once gave her but long withered. Waiting…

Author's notes:
- White orchids symbolise innocence
- Pink orchids is the gift for 14th wedding anniversary

292 words. A rather short creative, I'll try doing my prison creative some other day. Hope you'll enjoy it and please point out any problems with my grammar, especially with my expressions. Thx!