New and interesting fact of the week : If you are ever taken by someone (say a family member, or the police) to a psychiatric hospital, you should sign the voluntary form BECAUSE if you voluntarily admit yourself to a psychiatric hospital it doesn't go on your permanent record. If, however, you are admitted with an involuntary status, that will go on your permanent record.
So, just keep that in mind.
Here's the piece for the week. To be entirely honest, I stole the characters and setting from another short story that I never completed. Hopefully, they'll have a more fulfilling life here.
The Black and The Green
The two nations had been fighting for years on end with a bitter root of hatred grown so deep between them, gorged on the blood of men and the smell of burning cities, that both sides were convinced there could be no truces, no rest until the others were destroyed entirely.
Blood-spattered, battle-hardened, weary, wounded, and starving their armies fought and fought and fought. Families, friends, life in general had been forgotten. Even the names of the nations they fought for had become truly unimportant. Black and Green, that was what it came down to in the end. Those two colors decided whether the man at the end of the sights was friend or enemy.
Green:
Risen had shattered his radio five weeks before on a tricky descent down a rock slide. For the last month, he had been living off what he could catch and kill without wasting ammunition, which he had little enough of, only the current clip in his handgun, and that half wasted. He still had his long knife and a few grenades. It had become a battle for survival. Values and ideals no longer had any relation to his current situation. He still believed in them, certainly, but they seemed so far away, left behind with the people that he was meant to protect with them.
He found himself, by accident, in a part of the country that consisted of sharp cliffs, steep, forested hills and creeks that would jump out of little ravines to soak his boots. It was cold, all the time, but especially during the night. He gathered his ragged coat about his shoulders, ignoring the rocks that stuck through the thin soles of his boots and the frigid spots on his hands that corresponded with the holes in his gloves as he made his way through the trees.
He spotted a light ahead of him for the first time in a month and stopped to squint at it and see if it would disappear. When it did not, he approached it with caution built from experience. Every muscle in his lean body was tense and shivering. Whether the light was friendly or not did not matter. Light meant warmth, and he would have it if he had to take it by force. Too many nights he had spent sleeping in the freezing open air to wake with frost on his whiskers and some strange creature burrowed beneath his jacket.
He stumbled his way down the hill, clutching at his side where the same old wound that had bled half his life away a few weeks before had opened again. Warm blood on his side made him wince. Now the light was closer. He could make out the flames in a small fire pit. It was nearly invisible. In fact, if he hadn't been approaching just the way he had, he never would have seen it. He wondered if they were friendly, if they were Green. Sometimes, especially when it got so cold that ice crystals formed in the air, he could not remember why he was fighting, whose laws they were trying to enforce or destroy, but he always knew he wore green and his enemies wore black. He needed to remember that to survive.
Black:
Marsh had fallen a week back and broken his leg. It was embarrassing really. He’d been leading a squad for nearly ten years through far more danger than that little bit of forest could boast. He’d survived fire-fights, assassination attempts (three of them), rebellion, bombings, and, most recently, a transport crash after an enemy shot that had come from what was supposed to be empty territory. Everyone else had died in the wreck, and he’d walked away with a scratch on his forehead. But he set his foot wrong on flat ground and snapped his leg. Which only went to show that fate had a direly black sense of humor, because it was likely that broken leg that would kill him.
He loosened the straps on the splint around his left leg and pulled his pack closer. It was disturbingly light. He had enough medications for the pain and their were antibiotics, though he hadn’t needed them. The food supply, however, was getting slim. At the pace he was going, he wouldn’t get back to friendly lines until long after his supplies were exhausted.
Leaves crunched behind him. He froze, only his hand moving carefully to the gun at his waist.“Who are you?” asked a hoarse voice.
Vocal cords scarred by a chem-attack, Marsh thought, easing his gun from its holster while he wondered if he would be able to turn fast enough with his injured leg in the way.
“Give me your hands. Slow now.”
Give me your hands. If that wasn’t a green turn of phrase, then nothing was. Marsh lay his gun down, very slowly indeed, and lifted his hands above his shoulders.
“Where’s the others?” the voice asked, edging closer.
“What others?” Marsh growled as he worked his right foot underneath him. If he was going to do anything, he would have to do it before the other man reached him. “You’ve killed them all already.” With that, he snatched a burning branch from the fire and launched himself toward the voice.
Green:
Killed them all? Risen thought just before the other man leapt at him. He pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession, training and survival instincts overriding everything else. The shots were dead on. If the gun had managed to fire instead of jamming on the first round and clicking uselessly, he would have killed the other man. Risen’s exhausted mind could think of no other course of action then. He stared stupidly at the gun and pulled the trigger twice more as if that would fix the problem. The flaming branch smashed across the side of his head, and he went down without a sound.
To be continued...
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
The Telephone Exchange
As psychiatric issues have been much on my mind recently, I decided to write this short clip of a story. For some background you should know that schizophrenia affects about 1% of the world population. Its cause is truly unknown, although there are some physiological characteristics of the brain, such as atrophy of the frontal lobes related to lower blood and glucose supply, that are linked to schizophrenia. Disorganized schizophrenia (one of five types) is common in the homeless as people with this kind of schizophrenia find it almost impossible to maintain normal social lives and jobs. It is a very unique kind of horror, I would think, to find oneself unable to trust what your mind is telling you about reality.
On a writing note, this is written in first person present, which I normally despise, but it seemed to go well for a stream of conscious thing. If you have any feelings on the matter, post it in the comments.
~~~
It’s well past the time when I should be asleep, but I can’t stop thinking. They say your brain is like a super-computer, capable of processing on several levels at once, some of them so deep that you don’t even know they’re there. It’s deeper than that, of course, more intricate and so much more complex, but it’s usually the simple explanations that stick with you. My brain, my super-computer, has developed a bug, or caught a virus. I don’t know which term would be more apt. All I know is that it’s not running like it should. It's...going viral? Things that used to make sense to me are coming through slow and garbled. People I should know feel like strangers. I hear voices, a crowd of them, shouting and whispering and talking over each other so loudly that I can’t think. But that isn’t right, because the voices are my thinking, aren’t they?
I try to listen to just one, hoping that maybe something will get through, something that will tell me how to stop this insanity, how to save myself and reset the system back to factory standard.
Go on. Get it over with. I don’t know why you haven’t left already. Stop threatening and just go!
That isn’t how it works. You have to close the top––
Oh, what’s wrong with you? Just go to sleep already. You’ll be––
Thirsty, so thirsty. They’re putting poison in the water. All the water. It’s the government. They want us all to die, so they can open us up and steal our computers.
Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s just like––
––over the rainbow––
––then it will be the best––
––she said she didn’t know, but I––
––once in a lullaby––
Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, little baby.
“Stop!” I scream, but they don’t stop. They go on, chattering away like my head is the new telephone exchange. Get me KLondike 2-5674, please. Quick as you can.
There are pills I can take, but what good are pills to a computer?
I blink, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and stare at the ceiling. I’m not a computer. I know that. Computers aren’t creative, not truly. They don’t feel anything. And I feel things, which means there has to be more to me than just a processor. There has to be something else, some core of conscious like a soul. A soul shackled to a virus-ridden telephone exchange that won’t let me sleep.
Pills can’t fix a soul either. I don’t claim to know much about spirituality, but I know that much. Souls are intangible, ethereal, incorporeal…I can’t think of any other words. The voices won’t stop, and they aren’t saying the right things.
I wonder how far I would go to give my soul peace, rest, silence. I wonder if I would go to the edge or if I would jump off. Darkness would have to be better than insanity. But what if they follow me? The ghostly telephone exchange of the afterlife. I giggle in the dark, then clap my hand over my mouth. What if they weren’t in my head but in my soul, dug in like maggots?
Help, that voice is mine. I know it well, even amid all the shouting. I need help.
I’m telling you this, so if you happen to find me, if you meet me on the street, or maybe in the store, if you see me sitting on a bench talking to the telephone exchange you can help me. You can understand, I know you can, that this isn’t my fault. This was sabotage, a virus, and I need your help if I’m ever going to be well again. If I’m ever going to sleep….
Psych Bits
This week marks the beginning of my psych rotation, so here are some interesting facts for those of you who are interested.
Hematophobia is the fear of blood
Mysophobia is the fear of germs or dirt
Monophobia is the fear of being alone
Glossophobia is the fear of talking
Astraphobia is the fear of electrical storms
ECT or Electroconvulsive Therapy is one of the most effective treatments today for major depression, bipolar depressive disorders, and depression with psychosis, although why it is effective is still unknown. ECT is done with general anesthesia and muscle-paralyzing agents to promote patient comfort. However, the stigma remains, as many people think of ECT in the same light as lobotomies and trepanning.
Hematophobia is the fear of blood
Mysophobia is the fear of germs or dirt
Monophobia is the fear of being alone
Glossophobia is the fear of talking
Astraphobia is the fear of electrical storms
ECT or Electroconvulsive Therapy is one of the most effective treatments today for major depression, bipolar depressive disorders, and depression with psychosis, although why it is effective is still unknown. ECT is done with general anesthesia and muscle-paralyzing agents to promote patient comfort. However, the stigma remains, as many people think of ECT in the same light as lobotomies and trepanning.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
23A Liver Street
Quote of the day, by yours truly:
"It feels like there's a hole in my heart without you."
"Really? You should probably get an echocardiogram."
Am I killing the romance? Sorry.
And now in honor of Valentine's Day this week, a story about the heart...
~~~
The little silver bell above the door on 23A Liver Street jangled as the door opened. A young woman in a large brown coat that completely hid her figure and dark glasses that did the same with her face walked carefully through the racks of herbs and spices to the little counter at the back.
The man behind the counter closed the cracked, leather bound book he was reading, but saved his place with his forefinger. He looked to be older than the book himself and was also beginning to yellow around the edges.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I was wondering," she said, then paused to bite at one plump red lip, "do you carry..." She began to sweat, the damp glow visible on her forehead. Fine tremors ran through her fingers before she pressed them against the dark wood of the counter. Still, the shopkeeper watched her, patiently, his book in his hand.
"I need a heart," she said in a shotgun blast of speech. "Do you have one?"
The shopkeeper gave a nod. "You'd better come around back," he said, nodding toward the end of the counter as he turned to the door behind him. The back room was twice as large again as the front, and while the front had smelled of herb and spice and must, the back smelled more of damp earth and metal. It was also cold, enough so that her breath billowed up in front of her face.
The shopkeeper took her past rows of shelves covered in neat white sheets. She shivered. At the very back stood a narrow table, also covered. The shopkeeper pulled the sheet aside and let it drop to the floor. Ten glass jars sat on top of the table. Each jar was filled with a thick liquid that bubbled gently, and to each was affixed a neat label. She bent closer, studying each specimen carefully.
In the first jar on the left, the organ was transparent so she could see straight through it. The label read: Glass - handle with care at all times; avoid sudden changes. The next jar was covered in fine crystals of lace-like frost. The liquid inside was frozen solid, but the organ still beat, pale blue and steady. Ice - WARNING: long term exposure may lead to permanent damage; use with extreme caution. The next in line had settled in the bottom of the jar and was a peculiar gray that had stained the liquid around it. Lead - ideal for poets and gothic writers; it is softer than it appears; do not drop. She took a step closer as she moved down the line. The next heart glowed deep ruby red with every beat, immediately catching her eye. She pulled her eyes away to read the label. Courage - not for common use; may result in actions that lead to personal harm WARNING: NOT bulletproof. She shook her head slowly and moved to the next jar where a perfect heart appeared to have been sculpted out of pink marble. Stone - inflexible; may be used when heavy blows are expected.
"I think I'd like this one," she said, tapping the jar with her fingernail. With her left thumb, she absently felt the gold band around the third finger.
"Might have a look at the others first," the shopkeeper said as he looked up from his book, which he had brought with him.
She pulled her coat closer around herself as she peered at the next jar. A soft yellow glow filled the liquid, which bubbled faster than the others, fizzing like fresh soda as the heart floated near the top. Light - ideal for most situations if coupled with good sense (not included). The next heart floated in what looked, and smelled, like maple syrup. Wrinkling her nose, she read: Sweet - may be used regardless of age or appearance; requires an individual match. The next heart appeared damaged, squeezing out vast amounts of fluid with every contraction and filling the jar with thick, red fluid. Bleeding - high capacity for empathy; ideal for healthcare professionals and missionaries. And the next lay again in the bottom of the jar, gleaming even in the rather poor light. Gold - retains long term value and malleability according to situation. WARNING: Fool's Gold may resemble superficial characteristics, but is nonmalleable and brittle.
"What'll you have?" the shopkeeper asked as she straightened.
"How much does this one cost?" she asked, pointing the jar labeled Gold.
"You've got a good eye," he said with a salesman's nod of approval. "That'll be the top of the line." He looked at her more closely. "Are you sure you want it? It's not for everyone. Some people find it too hard to live with a heart like that, understand?"
"I understand," she said. "How much?"
He told her the price, and she pulled a roll of cash from her pocket, peeling off bills one by one until a small pile lay on the table. He counted it again, thumbing through the bills with yellowing fingers, then tucked the stack into his book. Pulling on a glove, he took the golden heart from its jar and wrapped it carefully in brown paper, tying it securely with twine.
"Anything else I can get you?" he asked as she lifted the package and slipped it beneath her coat.
"No, thank you," she said. She left the cold back room and made her way out of the shop at 23A Liver Street with her new heart tucked safely next to her chest.
"It feels like there's a hole in my heart without you."
"Really? You should probably get an echocardiogram."
Am I killing the romance? Sorry.
And now in honor of Valentine's Day this week, a story about the heart...
~~~
The little silver bell above the door on 23A Liver Street jangled as the door opened. A young woman in a large brown coat that completely hid her figure and dark glasses that did the same with her face walked carefully through the racks of herbs and spices to the little counter at the back.
The man behind the counter closed the cracked, leather bound book he was reading, but saved his place with his forefinger. He looked to be older than the book himself and was also beginning to yellow around the edges.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I was wondering," she said, then paused to bite at one plump red lip, "do you carry..." She began to sweat, the damp glow visible on her forehead. Fine tremors ran through her fingers before she pressed them against the dark wood of the counter. Still, the shopkeeper watched her, patiently, his book in his hand.
"I need a heart," she said in a shotgun blast of speech. "Do you have one?"
The shopkeeper gave a nod. "You'd better come around back," he said, nodding toward the end of the counter as he turned to the door behind him. The back room was twice as large again as the front, and while the front had smelled of herb and spice and must, the back smelled more of damp earth and metal. It was also cold, enough so that her breath billowed up in front of her face.
The shopkeeper took her past rows of shelves covered in neat white sheets. She shivered. At the very back stood a narrow table, also covered. The shopkeeper pulled the sheet aside and let it drop to the floor. Ten glass jars sat on top of the table. Each jar was filled with a thick liquid that bubbled gently, and to each was affixed a neat label. She bent closer, studying each specimen carefully.
In the first jar on the left, the organ was transparent so she could see straight through it. The label read: Glass - handle with care at all times; avoid sudden changes. The next jar was covered in fine crystals of lace-like frost. The liquid inside was frozen solid, but the organ still beat, pale blue and steady. Ice - WARNING: long term exposure may lead to permanent damage; use with extreme caution. The next in line had settled in the bottom of the jar and was a peculiar gray that had stained the liquid around it. Lead - ideal for poets and gothic writers; it is softer than it appears; do not drop. She took a step closer as she moved down the line. The next heart glowed deep ruby red with every beat, immediately catching her eye. She pulled her eyes away to read the label. Courage - not for common use; may result in actions that lead to personal harm WARNING: NOT bulletproof. She shook her head slowly and moved to the next jar where a perfect heart appeared to have been sculpted out of pink marble. Stone - inflexible; may be used when heavy blows are expected.
"I think I'd like this one," she said, tapping the jar with her fingernail. With her left thumb, she absently felt the gold band around the third finger.
"Might have a look at the others first," the shopkeeper said as he looked up from his book, which he had brought with him.
She pulled her coat closer around herself as she peered at the next jar. A soft yellow glow filled the liquid, which bubbled faster than the others, fizzing like fresh soda as the heart floated near the top. Light - ideal for most situations if coupled with good sense (not included). The next heart floated in what looked, and smelled, like maple syrup. Wrinkling her nose, she read: Sweet - may be used regardless of age or appearance; requires an individual match. The next heart appeared damaged, squeezing out vast amounts of fluid with every contraction and filling the jar with thick, red fluid. Bleeding - high capacity for empathy; ideal for healthcare professionals and missionaries. And the next lay again in the bottom of the jar, gleaming even in the rather poor light. Gold - retains long term value and malleability according to situation. WARNING: Fool's Gold may resemble superficial characteristics, but is nonmalleable and brittle.
"What'll you have?" the shopkeeper asked as she straightened.
"How much does this one cost?" she asked, pointing the jar labeled Gold.
"You've got a good eye," he said with a salesman's nod of approval. "That'll be the top of the line." He looked at her more closely. "Are you sure you want it? It's not for everyone. Some people find it too hard to live with a heart like that, understand?"
"I understand," she said. "How much?"
He told her the price, and she pulled a roll of cash from her pocket, peeling off bills one by one until a small pile lay on the table. He counted it again, thumbing through the bills with yellowing fingers, then tucked the stack into his book. Pulling on a glove, he took the golden heart from its jar and wrapped it carefully in brown paper, tying it securely with twine.
"Anything else I can get you?" he asked as she lifted the package and slipped it beneath her coat.
"No, thank you," she said. She left the cold back room and made her way out of the shop at 23A Liver Street with her new heart tucked safely next to her chest.
Friday, February 8, 2013
The Lantern
I found I've been severely lacking in my attempts to practice my creative writing skills recently. So here's the challenge I've set before myself: I'm going to write one piece (poem/short/essay) every week until I run out of ideas or I get officially published...or nursing school melts my brain.
Here is the first attempt. If you are kind enough to read, please leave feedback in the comments. It would be much appreciated.
~~~
Everything was dark on the bahn. The stars hid away behind the blankets of clouds. From across the rolling hillocks came the crash of the ocean, softened by the wind into a low sound and a taint of salt. Rocks turned underfoot as he made his way toward the top of the hill.
His boots were cracked leather and mud with well-worn rubber soles that had long since lost any kind of tread. His pants were denim and mud to the knees where his long jacket had protected the rest. The collar of the jacket stood up around the gray woolen scarf that he wore to keep out the tearing wind, and he had a battered brown hat on top of his head, the brim broad and dusty. He wore a gun at his hip, a heavy piece of metal that threatened simply by being present. In his right hand, he carried a lantern.
He told people his name was Carter or Carson or sometimes Richard, depending on his mood. His name was Samuel. People who truly knew him called him Yuel, but there were few enough of those people. There had been a time when a name was simply a name and even a stranger could be trusted with it. The world had turned since them. It had changed. A civilization had fallen in that time. It had fallen so suddenly and so hard that no one had been prepared for what happened next. Food had run short. Tempers had run shorter. People died, from violence, from starvation, from stupidity and from simple illness.
Still, the world turned on as if did not notice the dead melting into its thick skin. The people who survived were a different breed from those who had been born to the world that was. The world-was had been filled with convenience and knowledge abounded in so many mediums that people gave up trying to discern what was useful and what was useless. The world-now had little time for trivia and popular art. There was only one thing of any use to anyone, and that was survival: how to grow crops in the summer, how to store food through the winter, how to find clean water, how to treat sickness, and how to protect what was left to you. It was a harder world, but in many ways, it was a simple world.
In that simple world, Yuel learned new things quickly, ruthlessly. He had lived when many others had not. Sometimes he had survived only on luck. Other times, it was certainly skill. He had lost friends and gained enemies, and he had moved on with the world. He had become what was known as a blackhand. In the world-was, he might have been called a mercenary or a bounty hunter. He didn’t much care what people called him as long as he was paid.
When he reached the beach, the blackhand bent to lower the lantern closer to the sand. Footprints, one set small in a pair of soft soled boots, the other larger...and stumbling from the look of the drag marks in the sand. He followed the footprints down the beach, the lantern swinging in his hand. The sand turned from gold to black and back again. A splash of dark red on the sand caught his passing attention, and he nodded to himself as he kept walking. The Man, that is, the head of the Dubh and the one who had hired the services of the blackhand to fetch back his daughter and the boy, had said his guards thought they’d tagged the boy on the way out. It seemed they were right.
A hundred meters down the beach, he saw them, shadows in the sand. He took his time in getting closer. He didn’t think the boy had a weapon, but he’d learned caution over the years. He stopped before the light of the lantern touched them.
“You can’t run any farther,” he said. “There’s nothing out this way but water. Best you just come back with me, Anna.” He didn’t expect it to work. It never did, but it was all part of the process. No reply came from the huddled figures. He took a step closer, raising the lantern so the light fell across the boy and the girl sitting in the sand. Her eyes were red from crying, while his face was pale and still from blood loss. The crude bandage around his right thigh was a damp crimson. Boy was perhaps not the best way to describe him––he was twenty at least and the girl was not much younger––but it was the word the Man had used, and most emphatically at that.
“Please, don’t hurt him,” Anna said, pushing a lank strand of blonde hair back. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Yuel stepped closer and set the lantern down in the sand. “He’ll be dead if he stays here much longer. Do you want him dead in the sand?”
“No,” she said with a gushing of tears.
“Then I suggest you come back with me.” He put his fingers around the boy’s wrist. “It’ll happen either way.”
“You don’t understand anything, do you?” she said, grabbing suddenly at his sleeve.
“No.” Yuel shook her away and stood, lifting the boy over his shoulder. “Nor do I want to. Come along or stay. It’s your choice.” He took up the lantern in his free hand and began to walk back along the beach.
“Do you know why my father wants him?” she asked. Her feet kicked through the sand as she ran after him. She caught his arm again. “Or did he just give you your money and you didn’t ask questions?”
Yuel said nothing.
“How much did he promise you? How much do you want?” She dashed in front of him and threw herself on her knees. “What do you want?”
Another voice, a woman’s, joined in suddenly, startling him, and he was not one to be easily startled. “Put him down.” The command was followed by the distinctive click of a hammer cocking back. He stood quite still with one hand holding the lantern and the other steadying the boy.
“This isn’t your bother,” he said over his shoulder.
“Actually, it is,” the woman replied. “Súil.”
A man appeared from the direction of the bahn.
“Make sure Eels is all right,” the woman said. “Anna, take his gun now.”
Súil took the boy from Yuel’s arms while Anna scrambled back to her feet and tugged Yuel’s gun from its holster.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Anna said breathlessly.
“I told you we’d be here,” the woman said. “Go with Súil. I’ll handle this.”
Handle had a nasty sound to it.
“You can turn around. Slowly,” the woman said as the others disappeared over the hill.
So he turned, still holding the lantern. If all else failed, he meant to throw it at her.
“So you’re the blackhand,” she said. She was tall, as tall as he was, and not thin but not heavy either. Her hair gleamed true red in the lantern light. Her eyes were green. The gun in her hands was a beauty of a blue-barreled revolver. She held the weapon easily, and he didn’t doubt that she had used it before. She looked him up and down. “What’re you doing working for the Dubh, Yuel?”
“I remember you,” he said.
“Aye, well, you should, shouldn’t you? I pulled three bullets out of your chest.” She tapped her own chest to emphasize the words.
“Do you mean to put them back?” he asked, waving at the gun.
“I’d rather not,” she said. “It was an awful lot of work to pull them out.” She gave a thin smile and lowered the gun slowly.
“It’s a shame I couldn’t find them,” Yuel said slowly. “I suppose they’ve crossed the channel by now. There’s no telling how far they could have gotten.”
“They must have had help,” she agreed, her smile growing wider.
“Aye,” he said. “Good help. It’s hard to find these days.”
“Not too hard, if you know where to look,” she answered. “I assume you still remember the way.” She turned and walked away.
After a moment, he set the lantern down in the sand. Leaving it there, he followed her into the bahn.
Here is the first attempt. If you are kind enough to read, please leave feedback in the comments. It would be much appreciated.
~~~
Everything was dark on the bahn. The stars hid away behind the blankets of clouds. From across the rolling hillocks came the crash of the ocean, softened by the wind into a low sound and a taint of salt. Rocks turned underfoot as he made his way toward the top of the hill.
His boots were cracked leather and mud with well-worn rubber soles that had long since lost any kind of tread. His pants were denim and mud to the knees where his long jacket had protected the rest. The collar of the jacket stood up around the gray woolen scarf that he wore to keep out the tearing wind, and he had a battered brown hat on top of his head, the brim broad and dusty. He wore a gun at his hip, a heavy piece of metal that threatened simply by being present. In his right hand, he carried a lantern.
He told people his name was Carter or Carson or sometimes Richard, depending on his mood. His name was Samuel. People who truly knew him called him Yuel, but there were few enough of those people. There had been a time when a name was simply a name and even a stranger could be trusted with it. The world had turned since them. It had changed. A civilization had fallen in that time. It had fallen so suddenly and so hard that no one had been prepared for what happened next. Food had run short. Tempers had run shorter. People died, from violence, from starvation, from stupidity and from simple illness.
Still, the world turned on as if did not notice the dead melting into its thick skin. The people who survived were a different breed from those who had been born to the world that was. The world-was had been filled with convenience and knowledge abounded in so many mediums that people gave up trying to discern what was useful and what was useless. The world-now had little time for trivia and popular art. There was only one thing of any use to anyone, and that was survival: how to grow crops in the summer, how to store food through the winter, how to find clean water, how to treat sickness, and how to protect what was left to you. It was a harder world, but in many ways, it was a simple world.
In that simple world, Yuel learned new things quickly, ruthlessly. He had lived when many others had not. Sometimes he had survived only on luck. Other times, it was certainly skill. He had lost friends and gained enemies, and he had moved on with the world. He had become what was known as a blackhand. In the world-was, he might have been called a mercenary or a bounty hunter. He didn’t much care what people called him as long as he was paid.
When he reached the beach, the blackhand bent to lower the lantern closer to the sand. Footprints, one set small in a pair of soft soled boots, the other larger...and stumbling from the look of the drag marks in the sand. He followed the footprints down the beach, the lantern swinging in his hand. The sand turned from gold to black and back again. A splash of dark red on the sand caught his passing attention, and he nodded to himself as he kept walking. The Man, that is, the head of the Dubh and the one who had hired the services of the blackhand to fetch back his daughter and the boy, had said his guards thought they’d tagged the boy on the way out. It seemed they were right.
A hundred meters down the beach, he saw them, shadows in the sand. He took his time in getting closer. He didn’t think the boy had a weapon, but he’d learned caution over the years. He stopped before the light of the lantern touched them.
“You can’t run any farther,” he said. “There’s nothing out this way but water. Best you just come back with me, Anna.” He didn’t expect it to work. It never did, but it was all part of the process. No reply came from the huddled figures. He took a step closer, raising the lantern so the light fell across the boy and the girl sitting in the sand. Her eyes were red from crying, while his face was pale and still from blood loss. The crude bandage around his right thigh was a damp crimson. Boy was perhaps not the best way to describe him––he was twenty at least and the girl was not much younger––but it was the word the Man had used, and most emphatically at that.
“Please, don’t hurt him,” Anna said, pushing a lank strand of blonde hair back. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Yuel stepped closer and set the lantern down in the sand. “He’ll be dead if he stays here much longer. Do you want him dead in the sand?”
“No,” she said with a gushing of tears.
“Then I suggest you come back with me.” He put his fingers around the boy’s wrist. “It’ll happen either way.”
“You don’t understand anything, do you?” she said, grabbing suddenly at his sleeve.
“No.” Yuel shook her away and stood, lifting the boy over his shoulder. “Nor do I want to. Come along or stay. It’s your choice.” He took up the lantern in his free hand and began to walk back along the beach.
“Do you know why my father wants him?” she asked. Her feet kicked through the sand as she ran after him. She caught his arm again. “Or did he just give you your money and you didn’t ask questions?”
Yuel said nothing.
“How much did he promise you? How much do you want?” She dashed in front of him and threw herself on her knees. “What do you want?”
Another voice, a woman’s, joined in suddenly, startling him, and he was not one to be easily startled. “Put him down.” The command was followed by the distinctive click of a hammer cocking back. He stood quite still with one hand holding the lantern and the other steadying the boy.
“This isn’t your bother,” he said over his shoulder.
“Actually, it is,” the woman replied. “Súil.”
A man appeared from the direction of the bahn.
“Make sure Eels is all right,” the woman said. “Anna, take his gun now.”
Súil took the boy from Yuel’s arms while Anna scrambled back to her feet and tugged Yuel’s gun from its holster.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Anna said breathlessly.
“I told you we’d be here,” the woman said. “Go with Súil. I’ll handle this.”
Handle had a nasty sound to it.
“You can turn around. Slowly,” the woman said as the others disappeared over the hill.
So he turned, still holding the lantern. If all else failed, he meant to throw it at her.
“So you’re the blackhand,” she said. She was tall, as tall as he was, and not thin but not heavy either. Her hair gleamed true red in the lantern light. Her eyes were green. The gun in her hands was a beauty of a blue-barreled revolver. She held the weapon easily, and he didn’t doubt that she had used it before. She looked him up and down. “What’re you doing working for the Dubh, Yuel?”
“I remember you,” he said.
“Aye, well, you should, shouldn’t you? I pulled three bullets out of your chest.” She tapped her own chest to emphasize the words.
“Do you mean to put them back?” he asked, waving at the gun.
“I’d rather not,” she said. “It was an awful lot of work to pull them out.” She gave a thin smile and lowered the gun slowly.
“It’s a shame I couldn’t find them,” Yuel said slowly. “I suppose they’ve crossed the channel by now. There’s no telling how far they could have gotten.”
“They must have had help,” she agreed, her smile growing wider.
“Aye,” he said. “Good help. It’s hard to find these days.”
“Not too hard, if you know where to look,” she answered. “I assume you still remember the way.” She turned and walked away.
After a moment, he set the lantern down in the sand. Leaving it there, he followed her into the bahn.
White Collar Nurses
What I Learned Today...
1) I'm less judgmental than I thought. People need compassion. I don't know how you can be in nursing and not understand this basic "how people work" idea. Someone who is a drug user and in the hospital, knows very well--because you can bet they've heard it or felt it from everybody--that what they are doing does not meet with approval. However, a patient who feels judged is never going to open up to you or listen to what you're saying, right? Don't get me wrong, I'm completely against drug use, especially during pregnancy. It just seems to me that you can still show a little care to the mom. She's still human. And, after all, who among us hasn't made mistakes?
2) I don't think I could ever entirely leave the field of nursing behind, as much as it pains me to say it, and it's because of the statement above. My teacher told me today that there are two kinds of nurses: White collar nurses and blue collar nurses. White collar nurses are in nursing because it's their career and it's what they want to do. Blue collar nurses are in it, not to put too fine a point on it, for the money. I personally don't think I would put up with what nurses are expected to put up with just for a little money. Maybe that's just me.
1) I'm less judgmental than I thought. People need compassion. I don't know how you can be in nursing and not understand this basic "how people work" idea. Someone who is a drug user and in the hospital, knows very well--because you can bet they've heard it or felt it from everybody--that what they are doing does not meet with approval. However, a patient who feels judged is never going to open up to you or listen to what you're saying, right? Don't get me wrong, I'm completely against drug use, especially during pregnancy. It just seems to me that you can still show a little care to the mom. She's still human. And, after all, who among us hasn't made mistakes?
2) I don't think I could ever entirely leave the field of nursing behind, as much as it pains me to say it, and it's because of the statement above. My teacher told me today that there are two kinds of nurses: White collar nurses and blue collar nurses. White collar nurses are in nursing because it's their career and it's what they want to do. Blue collar nurses are in it, not to put too fine a point on it, for the money. I personally don't think I would put up with what nurses are expected to put up with just for a little money. Maybe that's just me.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Labor and Delivery
What I Learned Today :
1) It is very important to eat breakfast. Aside from doing things like jump-starting your metabolism for the day, eating breakfast will keep you from getting dizzy and faint from hypoglycemia while you're watching an operation...assuming, of course, that you won't do that anyway.
2) When the surgeon tells you that "you're going to feel a little bit of pressure," you really, really don't want to know what they're actually doing to your body.
3) This is the really interesting part. For those of you who don't know, which I think is pretty much everybody since even the people in OB seemed surprised to see it, there is a condition of the placenta called a succenturiate placenta. Basically, this is a second, smaller placenta also attach to the uterine wall and the chorionic membranes. It's fairly rare, which is why no one in the OR knew what it was.
Altogether, it was a pretty good day :)
1) It is very important to eat breakfast. Aside from doing things like jump-starting your metabolism for the day, eating breakfast will keep you from getting dizzy and faint from hypoglycemia while you're watching an operation...assuming, of course, that you won't do that anyway.
2) When the surgeon tells you that "you're going to feel a little bit of pressure," you really, really don't want to know what they're actually doing to your body.
3) This is the really interesting part. For those of you who don't know, which I think is pretty much everybody since even the people in OB seemed surprised to see it, there is a condition of the placenta called a succenturiate placenta. Basically, this is a second, smaller placenta also attach to the uterine wall and the chorionic membranes. It's fairly rare, which is why no one in the OR knew what it was.
Altogether, it was a pretty good day :)
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