[prompt] Ben gets poisoned

Real quick, 324 words, left it open at the end, thanks to the plot generator at http://www.writingfix.com that gave me "a huge city square", "a thief", and "your character drinks something poisonous".

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He thinks that he’s never felt anything this unbearable before. The pain wracks his body in waves, in spikes, like someone trying to force metal shards down his stomach and digestive track. Stumbling, he almost smashes into a wall in an effort to stand upright. His legs are failing him, sweat’s rivering off his face and neck, and it’s suddenly a million times harder to breathe. It’s like his body has forgotten how.

What is it, he thinks desperately, forcing his body take another step, then another- what’s sliding its way through his veins, rendering him more helpless by the second? What’s happened, what’s got him like this, what’s killing him-

Get it out, he thinks clearly as he sinks to his knees, get it out.

He forces himself to vomit, bile and partially digested food flooding out of his mouth and triggering another gag reflex. It’s such a strong, acrid taste that he can’t tell if there’s anything unnatural coming out, or if the poison was even something he ingested. For all he knows, it could have been airborne, or something like a dart, or…

He crawls, heaving until nothing comes out, away from the first puddle of sick and sits back again the alley’s brick wall, shaking violently all over. He can barely lift his hand to wipe his mouth. His vision starts to cloud and double and he blinks fiercely, clinging desperately to consciousness. It can’t end like this… The words are dull as they ricochet almost silently around his skull. It’s dark. It’s cold. He gets one last glimpse of his surroundings, the people gathered to watch him, starting to call out, to walk towards him, to… to…

And then nothing.

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When he wakes up, he’s got the vague feeling he should be dead.

He’s not. He wishes he were, though. The pain’s gone from unbearable to excruciating.

“Blood pressure’s coming back up. Think he’s coming out of it.”

Blogging Creativity: Post Numero Two

I guess I really should just chill about all this, considering that I'm the only person who will ever lay eyes on this thing. Unless I want to give the link to Greer or Willa, maybe, but no one will accidentally find it who knows me well enough to identify my writing style. So, I need to chill and stop worrying about what people will think.

I guess it's just weird that I'm writing for an unknown audience. With my handwritten diary, it's easy to understand that I'm the audience, and I can write whatever I want to on it- weird ideas, hopes, emotional breakdowns, all that stuff. Only problem is, I can lose that diary or someone could find it. Here, though, it seems much easier to keep up. Maybe. My writing will be different, though, because writing things out longhand seems to get me more thoughtful prose. Even if I end up tiring out an idea because it takes me too long to get the premise down.

I think it would also be cool to get a compendium of stories that I'm working on and force myself to write once in awhile. I have all these ideas in my head, but I'm ridiculously lax about getting them all down. It's strange. So, more discipline is what I'd like for Christmas.

...how do you do the Blogger equivalent of an LJ-cut? It baffles me.

That's why we stay in Cabrini Green

This isn't the first blog I've had. Heck, this isn't the first diary I've ever had. I've never been too good about keeping up with these sorts of things, always falling by the waysides a few months into the venture. With a physical diary, you can always come back to it later and pick up where you left off; with blogs, you've got to keep people entertained. You've got to update frequently, be funny- or at least relevant- respond to other people's posts... it's strange. It's not so much a diary as it is a way to keep in touch with people, and maybe that's why I've decided to abandon my last blog and take up this one. See, this blog is a bit of an experiment- it is for me, and for me only. I don't care who reads it- I mean, you're more than welcome to, obviously. It is online. But it's not linking to anything. It's not connected to anything else in my real life or past online lives. That's the beauty of the internet, the ability to reconstruct yourself as many times as you need to.

Piper A. is a pseudonym. I picked it because I like the name Piper and the letter A, go figure. The title and link to this blog come from Nickle Creek's "Seven Wonders". The title of this post comes from Jodi Shaw's "Cabrini Green". Both are very, very beautiful songs.

I have no idea what I'm going to use this journal for. Maybe it's going to be just that- a journal. Something for me to reflect on and grow by without getting my lines crossed. Somewhere where I can be as anonymous as I'd like, post what I'd like, and frankly, not give a damn about who sees what and what they think of me. Think of this as a rechristening, or a restructuring, or something like that. Recreating myself in my own image. Total freedom, no restraints. No communities, either, no joining with people and feeling pressure, old phobias going by the wayside. Maybe I can be happy online without all that, hmm? We'll see.

Truth, much like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.