ravenswept: (Default)
Everything has weird little trends. Tropes if you will. Things that form patterns that people notice when they happen often enough in a specific order. Little traits that span works of media again and again, sometimes keeping to a rout pattern to the point that they don't even know why anymore; it's just the next piece of a one line puzzle.

Being as I thoroughly enjoy kids films, or at least films aimed at kids, one thing I've found interesting is the high population of inventors. Many of them, usually at the start only getting in the way and making life difficult for everyone else. But only because they are misunderstood! If only they had a dire situation that required their selective skills, as well as a small group of friends, or at minimum friends who used to be puttering antagonists, to help them showcase their unique and timely talents. If only.

It most likely is a trope, but I'm not going to bother hunting for it; a trope is any established trait or pattern in media, whether it has a name or not. But I'm curious as to why inventiveness is such a go-to for writers.

The jaded side of me says that it's about marketing. And when I say marketing, I mean the mass production of toys. Have a character who makes a lot of weird shit, and have that shit throw something, and you have the potential to make it on a lot of Christmas lists. Kids films don't always rake in the dough, so to compensate there usually needs to be an associated toyline to get kids excited as well. When the film does awesome, it's just gravy.

The optomisitic side says that it's that want every kid has to be able to make something really, really cool. Like being MacGyver, only without a mullet or knowing who MacGyver is. To be able to make ray guns, or mini motor vehicles, or just anything that screams "rad" out of things avalible in your own home. Pretending that your mom's hairdryer is a freeze ray is on thing; to be able to actually do it would get you such a grounding, but be so worth it.

But it's still a little weird to be such a go-to personality add on. Even if it doesn't go anywhere, as long as the main character shows that part of the reason they aren't well liked is because they "think different" and their inventions are a physcial representation of that, it like saying clapping your hands and saying "done".

What really got me to notice this trend is How to Train Your Dragon. Main everyman Hiccup isn't well liked by the pretty much the whole village, excluding one hold out mentor figure. While he doesn't make very much weird stuff, his opening scene includes him showing off a bolos launching he made since he can't throw one himself. This is frowned upon, because instead of making up for what he lacks, he should've instead made himself able to throw them without help. And supposedly this is not the first thing he's made to make up for his lacking physique. The only other thing he makes the rest of the movie is a practical saddle for dragon riding, but the seed was planted. It's there, and it's why.

Flick in A Bug's Life. Tries to help by making things that, supposedly, will help the colony. Said invention ends up kickstarting the whole plot of the movie. By the end, his inventive skills not only save the day, but his original invention is adopted into the mainstream just like he dreamed.

Nick Szalinski in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids; actually, he gets a slight pass, as his father is an inventor and he merely wants to follow in his footsteps.

Lewis from Meet the Robinsons.

Artemus Gordon from Wild Wild West (not really a kids film, but still felt like one).

Doc Brown (because he's awesome).

And that not even getting into side or plot device characters.

Is being an inventor something to aspire to? The movies say yes, but think about what they have to go through to get to that point where things are hunky-dory. For the most part, things are not so good for them. Generally they're hated or disliked until such a time that circumstances absolutely require their speific ingenuitity.

Is all this a bad thing? No, not really, not in the long haul of things. The visual of handmade, creative items are almost always appealing, and if it helps jumpstart the creative processes of kids, who am I to complain. But it is weird. Are there that many ackward kids or people out there who need to have their unsung hero template? Are there that many people belittled specifically for thinking and making creative devices? Really?

Autobrain

Dec. 4th, 2010 10:00 pm
ravenswept: (Default)
This piece was a very strange experience to write. Not because I have any problems with the themes or characters or anything, but that I think I blanked on how most it coming about. I remember typing, but very much lost myself in its creation until the fact that I realized it was four in the morning (having started at ten) and this was suddenly in front of me.

I'm not sure I like not being aware of myself when I write. It's one of the reasons I'm not and never have been anything more than a social drinker at best, and a lightweight at that. I like having my senses about me, so while having that blurred feeling of slowed movement works for some people, I hate knowing that I no longer have that sharpened sense.

And it's not that I'm mad at the time loss. There have been plenty of times I've sat down to write and suddenly it's hours later. The problem this time is the loss of the sense of writing itself. I want to be aware of the words and characters. I want to have multiple voices in my head arguing over how they'd be better represented.

Maybe it was just from writing so late and not sleeping particularly well lately. Who knows. But the story itself was a strange end to a kinda weird day anyway, so why not add to the oddity?

As for the story itself, I kinda like it. It's not like anything else I've attempted before, and the characters seem like they'll be a lot of fun to engage with. Erilina Crow seems like very much someone who will get her way regardless of how you feel about it, and it's interesting to see how much power and control she actually has and exactly how she's willing to exert it. Kelli I'm still trying to get a grasp of, she's very much still an unidentifible, in what I know of her and her character itself. Almost going through the motions, but not sure what the motions are, a mass of unsure emotions and tangled ideas. Which I'm sure Erilina will enjoy straightening to her enjoyment.

I'm trying to figure out how far exactly I'm going to go with it; and I'm pretty sure it's going to go somewhere, I've a bit of a lull in my other projects at the moment, so indulging in something that's actually doing something isn't going to hurt matters. But with stories like this there's always a line at some point that you don't know if you want to really cross or not. And more often than not, you usually don't realize if you have crossed it until you're looking behind you and all you see are footprints.

Even with this first entry, it flirts close to being very brazen about the material therein, but still holds it back from being in your face about it. Yes, the themes and such aren't exactly subtle after a certain point, but it still never outright states that that's what it's telling you, which I like. In a way it feels very much like Scarred, a slow exploration of a life changing experience as it happens to a character, an experience beyond the standard "coming of age" or "finding one's place in the world" events that one usually finds on shelves.

I'm interested to see where this goes and far it will go. And Erilina just seems like she'll be a fun bitch to write for.
ravenswept: (Zipper Eyes)
Slowly now the madness will begin to creep into my thoughts. Drowning my vision in its own ideal of reality, such that what I once called my own is no more. Filled to the brim with the haunted call of unself, I will cease to any longer care how it ends. Only that it will inevitably end is my sole assurance. But even now that single truth may soon no longer keep.

The ghost would soon come.

I stand before my sentencer, his tome of law and age holding within my judgment. He waits for the other, that whom will forever keep watch over my movement and leanings to their satisfaction. A white phantom lingering behind my ears to whisper forever nothings. Bound by arcane ways and rites not my own, twisted metal evermore showing my enslavement.

The two families watch, their endless struggle over meaningless power halted only temporarily. Even the damned enjoyed a good hanging. Eyes that shown little more than black rock to me stared back, waiting. Soon. Just moments more, and another entraptee would be gathered into the fold. Welcomed to that fate which I would rapidly share. Some wore imitations of my attirement, seemingly to both mock and pity us together in some macabre brotherhood. But mine was far more expensive, in all monetary and pious needs, separating myself from all others so that I alone would endure the coming trials.

The ghost would soon come.

Our seconds waited, shifting and swaying from each weighted leg and back again. Thirds and fourths too showed their unease, aleved only by the knowledge they were not alone in their ordeal. Their service was that freely involuntarily given, false joy spoken as to delay their own condemnation only instants longer. More so than my disturbed audience, they bore the styled remnants that openly twisted and derided the dawning farce. Positioned higher in some artificial ranking, closer to bear witness to that which someday they too may be judged to bear.

The ghost comes.

Unspoken yet signaled, they rose, together a mass of black and silks. Eerie tones began their climb, the beginning of the ensnaring ritual. The portal that lay at the end of my long walk opened, my binding to be shown to the world. Pale wisps darted as the form slowly raced towards me, daring those that lined the conduit to touch. But to do so was a fool’s path, more so than all others. One which I had already been elected to walk. Two trailed behind the white, eyes downcast as to not be swept away should one catch a glimpse beneath the curtain mask. Theirs was to keep to the physical plane my creature, until such time that it would mine alone a task to keep sated. Only moments more, and they would be freed. Moments more, and I would be sentenced.

The shade of pallid moon glow drifted to my side, silent as all others. The haunting pitched tenor faded, their part in farce of ceremony and circumstance ended. Our steward bade seat the families, least they become any more uncomfortable than needed for the following uncomforting law. Tears already ran down those of lesser strength, their soft sniveling wails alone filling the noiseless hall. Balding eyes searched us, the bound and the binding, and found us to be to his morbid satisfaction. His ancient digest opened to the previously marked folio within, fattened fingers scanning for his place among it all and found the cord that would end my fate.

His mouth gaped open, a rumbling and stilted say carrying over the captive faces after first washing over me and mine.

“We joyously gather here today to see wed these two loving persons in holy matrimony…”


*funny: yes/no?*
ravenswept: (Default)
He twirled the rose again, wondering if he was overthinking the whole thing. Sitting in the large hotel lobby, he looked around as people went about their business, checking in, carrying bags, while he just sat in the middle of it all on a plush couch, hunched over staring at the blue rose in his hands.

Blue was her favorite color, he knew that. One of the few details about her he did know, hell he didn't even know what to look for when she got there. How he got to this point seemed like a blur, he hardly remembered being invited down to finally visit, let alone the few months prior getting to know each other through sporatic messages online. There was some kind of connection, else he wouldn't have flown down; there had to be, right?

He studied the rose; he knew blue meant eternal love - or was that everlasting love? - and hoped that she didn't. He had merely wanted the bold color, to make a good first impression, to impress her, not make any declariations.

God, this was all a mistake, what was he even doing here? He didn't know thing one about this city, it was why he was sitting like a putz in this hotel waiting to meet her. He wasn't about to get lost trying to find her; they also didn't want that kind of knowledge, where each other lived. Not yet (ever?); let's just start with dinner and whatever else the night brings. Where is she, is she late, was he early, he shouldn't have let the hair-lady gel his hair, it said he was trying to hard, maybe he should just -

"Um, excuse me? Are you [censored]?"

He looked up, catching her eyes immediately. Shit. She was beautiful. Damnit, he knew he should've sprung for a nicer shirt.

"Yeah, yeah, that's me. [Censored], right?" Real names were so awkward, never used much before. But online handles would've made the whole thing even weirder, so they had both agreed to forego them and let each other know the first big thing about themselves.

This, would be the next big thing.

"Yep. Sorry about the time, traffic was weird on the way over."

"No problem, I was just... sitting here. It's a nice lobby and all. How'd you know it was me?"

She giggled, a hand brushing through hair that wasn't out of place anyway. Great, either he was on the right track or had just said something incredibly stupid. "Well, you said you'd be waiting with a rose, and being you're the only guy here, waiting, with a rose, I just figured..." Stupid, definitely stupid.

"Right, right." He held it out. "For you, by the way."

She looked a bit wide eyed, surprised by the small gift, her hand gently accepting it. A hand, he noted, that was surprising smooth. "Thank you." She turned it this way and that, inspecting it like a jewel. "It's beautiful, I love the color." She blushed when she mentioned the color; oh god, did she know the rose color rules?

"So," she said, searching the lobby with her eyes, rocking a bit on her heels, "what do we do now? Are there any plans, or were we just gonna play it by ear? Cause, you know, whatever works for you, you're the one visiting and everything, I just though, you know, hehe." She was embarrassed, he knew this already.

"Yeah, right, plans." He looked around himself, letting his eyes come back to rest on her. "Well, the concierge did help me find a small restaurant not far from here, and it's not going to blow my budget; is an Asian fusion place okay?"

"It's fine. Anything after?"

"Um, that's up to you really, I'm kinda hoping to make it through the meal without you leaving after getting to know me." She laughed, a good sign. "I figured if we make it that far, then we could just see where we end up. I guess there's some kind of street thing going on? We could wander that, you know, just... see where we end up." He felt like an idiot.

"Sounds nice." He looked up; she had a small smile. She was as nervous as he was, but seemed okay with everything so far. He really wanted this to go well, wanted the night to go well, and she seemed willing to give him a chance. Don't screw it up, don't screw it up, don't screw it up, don't -

"Let's get going then." He offered his arm. He regretted it immediately, and almost took it back, but she stole it before he was able.

"Let's." He smiled, and led the way.

***

They stood outside the hotel door, the carpeted silence muting everything around them. Neither said anything, didn't know quite what to say. Both wanted to, but the words, for once, escaped them.

"Do you... want to come in?" His voice was low, searching. Just because everything else had gone well, the chance to still dork everything up was still on the table. But he felt good about asking, especially when she squeezed the hand they'd been holding for the past five minutes.

"For coffee? Or a nightcap? Is that what they usually ask?" her eyes saying yes, even if her mouth didn't.

"Honestly?"

"Hmm, mm?"

"I don't really need a pretense." He reached behind, fumbling with the keycard, but managing to open the door without looking, and took a step inside. He kept a hold of her hands, the rose of the night trapped between their palms, but didn't pull. If she wanted to, was ready for this, then he was going to let her enter on her own.

Still, he was a little surprised when she followed right in step with him, not even hestiating to be led inside. The door closed on it's own.

His hands shook, gently taking the rose from her and setting it on the dresser; not from fear, but from the tick of electricity they'd both been feeling since the kiss at the fountain. He didn't want to rush anything, but both wanted more. Holding hands was only going to last so long.

Her purse slid to the floor, not unforgotten but no longer needed. In a quick move he had her pressed against the wall, both hands cradling her hips, one slipping under the blouse to touch warm skin. The kiss was harder, more hungry than the previous. Her arms were around his in the same instant, holding him close, not letting him away for air. It had been a good night.

He finally pulled back, teasing her as she kept trying to pull his lips into another kiss, pulling back every time she went forward. Their bodies were pressed tight together, each could feel the heat coming off the other. She gasped as his hands went along her sides, barely skimming up along her ribs. At some point during the kiss she'd managed to unbutton his shirt; time to return the favor. He pulled up on the fabric, hoping, but not caring, to not rip the material as it came up and over her head. He didn't take it off all the way, instead getting it all the way just before the sleeves became removed, leaving her wrists trapped together, and her at his mercy.

He held her arms above her head with one hand, snaking the other to the small of her back and pulled her into another kiss, lighter and multiplied. She went flush against him, a leg darting out and wrapping around his so he couldn't move further away. The raised arm came down, bringing her tighter to him, and her arms, still cuffed by her blouse, incircled his neck, pulling his lips back to meet, again and again.

Finally, they just stood there, foreheads softly touching as they gently rocked together to unheard music.

"We should..." He had slight moment of panic. Too fast, damn it, he knew it, god, he had just fucked himself over all because- "...probably take a shower." Idiot! Stop overthinking this!

"Right," he said, not loosening himself in the least. "Shower." He felt the blouse finally give her up, falling in a heap next to the forgotten purse, her smooth hands raking through his hair as they shared another tender kiss.

"Share?" she offered. He saw her wiry smile, matching it with his own.

"You sure? You don't have to..."

"No. I don't." She pushed off from the wall, her hands travelling down his arms to pull at his, leading to the bathroom. "But I want to." She met his eyes, a mix of trust, lust, and something else he was slightly afraid of, but wanted none the less.

He let her tug him forward.

It had been a good night.
ravenswept: (Default)
I'm not crazy you know.

No, I'm not. Not really. A tad bit mad, maybe...possibly...but not crazy.

No, that would mean I didn't quite know what I'm doing right now; are the straps too tight, by the way? I know it'll be meaningless in a few moments, but still, no point in unnecessary discomfort. See, would a crazy person care about something like that?

But, anyway, I'm well aware of the ramifications of my actions. The papers are just little bit more, shall we say, verbous in their depictions of my work. But they need to sell papers, going out of business and all, so I guess my little hobbies seem like wonderful little front page news for them.

I don't care for the nickname, though. "Macabre Killer"; it's so, I don't know, grisely. I'm merely an artist. My chosen canvas happens to be flesh, so can you blame me for getting a little uptight for being labelled by something so not what I'm going for? Also, please stop shaking, you're going to cause leather burns, and that's not what I'm trying to achieve this time.

Sorry to say, you won't be the main focus of this piece. That honor goes to her, over there. What? You don't like it? Well, excuse me, she's not finished yet. God, everyone thinks just because they've seen Saw and all those shitty sequels, anyone can be a critic. Do you know how much work goes into this projects? How much effort it takes to find the right subject matter, let alone getting them to my studio? Do you?

Sorry, sorry, hehe, I'm a bit passionate about my work. That's why I'm an artist, you see, the passion behind every cut and stuture. It's not unlike Dali's work in some ways, you see melted and disfigured shapes and objects, when that's not the point at all. It's the thought of why things are like that, why did artist choose to make them that way. It's actually quite quieting.

Oh, would you stop crying already? I haven't even started yet, and it's not like you'll feel anything, I'm not that cruel. I just flip this switch over here, and zap you're out like a light. I just need a few parts. It's one of the sad ways of my craft, actually finding the right tones and hues. But, lucky me, I found you! And you're just near perfect, yes you are. Yes, I'm sorry, here let me get those tears for you, but that's the way it needs to be. We can't all fulfill our purpose. So how lucky are you do finally do so, right?

I think I've rambled on long enough; thank you for listening. Well, whatever you heard between your little triads through the gag, rather rude I must say. But, listen you did, and I don't often enough have people to actually talk to, so thank you none the less.

...yes. I know, you don't need to say it.

I could. Easily, just loosen that one link behind you and it all comes loose pretty quickly.

I could.

But I don't want to.

*ZAP*
ravenswept: (Default)
Mary Sue is you! You is Mary Sue! Today!

Okay, the task is seems is to write yourself (your real life self, mind you) into what is the most hated of literary characters, the Mary Sue. Or Gary Stu, should you be picky about naming conventions and/or a guy who doesn't like being called by female dominant names. To those, I direct you to the late Mr. Cash, and his thoughts on Sues.

Also, I'm in no way taking this seriously, and will enjoy this trash as much as possible. Like a fat kid on a cupcake.

***

The throaty laughter started deep inside, rising to the deep pitch and ringing tones that surpassed even the greatest of legendary B-movie mad scientists. It was so simple, he thought, again and again with so little effort on his part. Take a simple picture, not even with a good camera, a mere three generation old cell phone lens, and place it on any one of the many social networking sites. Within minutes he had been friended by people across the globe. How did they find him? He'd stopped asking that question years ago, figuring what worked in middle school would work outside those hallowed halls. It wasn't like he didn't have the time to practice back then, he'd hardly needed to study to pass those pedantic tests anyway.

"Yes, bask in my glory bitches, bask!"

The not-a-smile-not-a-smirk grin that had stopped so many before. Hair that perfectly spiked forward, yet had never felt the too-smooth slide of any product on the market, brushed forward and back in that devil may care fashion; so many tried to achieve, so few actually could. He didn't know where the t-shirt came from, it could've been old or new, but regardless, like all others, it fit him in such ways as to accent his physique without making it look like he was begging. Not that he wasn't proud of his body, but a sane person could only handle so many, shall we say, incidents that occur when shirtless that he erred on the side on modesty as much as possible.

He rubbed his chin, wondering if he should've shaved. What hair that did grow on his face never bothered him; why worry about what wasn't going to look bad? The goatee to sideburn look was pretty in right now anyway, no need to go beyond in effort. He stared at the screen, wondering if anyone else could make a five-year old laptop go as far and as powerful as he had. Why upgrade when you can simple make what you have go beyond anything new anyway? More and more, people wanted to know him. He chuckled again, soon he could turn the full force of this controlled public opinion on his designated targets. They would burn, if not in cyberspace then possibly in the real world, where the more, ahem, devoted would take actions into their own hands.

He didn't worry; they would never connect themselves back to him, least he himself get in trouble. And even if a connection was somehow made, he had thousands of "friends", and more by the hour. Who was he to pick even one of them apart from the pack.

"Soon. Like the tsunami pack of wolves, this wave will ravage those who I deem worthy. Or, unworthy, as the case may be." He laughed. He had made a funny. "No fourth season of Avatar the Last Airbender? Target! You leave a franchise hanging with so many unanswered questions?! You will burn, in fire! Oh, yes, your crimes with the Shyamalan will be held accountable, you cannot hide. Allow such atrocities to occur for mere pittances of simple money? TROLL, my minions, troll them until their servers crash! I have the internet, and what's more, access to that interent! My righteous opinions will be heard and made real!"

***

Hmm, perhaps I have issues.

Also, for reference:

Bask, I say! Bask!

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