Friday, October 28, 2011

Of All The Gold Ribbons and Wires

I guess I'm coming to some sort of should-have-seen-it-coming realization. I don't see my family as a cluster of individuals who have radically different views from me. I see them as no-face bodies with paper cut-and-paste ideas embedded onto their skins. That's why it was rather confusing yesterday to see one of my aunts, her husband, and my cousin and realize both assumptions would have been wrong, even if the former would have been better than the latter.

I don't know what I was expecting--maybe I had a weird, vague idea of who my family is suppose to be and what characters we were meant to play on Wednesday. My cousin is now about a head taller than me and lean lean lean and pretty pretty pretty. I only sound insanely jealous because I am. She seemed alright at first, nice to me, nice to everyone, funny in some moments, shy in others. All those pictures I saw of her sticking her lips out and puffing her cheeks with her chest popped forward and her back forming a curve made me assume she'd be plastic and bubbly and with an arsenal of fifteen hundred questions about my boyfriend(s) and best friends. But she wasn't. She barely spoke at times, due to the sheer and epic awkwardness that we seemed to be holding onto.

I think her personality is a shy one, but after some time passed, I thought maybe she had been spoiled sweet like there was no tomorrow. We spent the majority of the afternoon looking for a white dress for her graduation party, and frankly, I wish she would have just bought the ones that we found in the first store so we wouldn't have spent so much time running around. The only reason the store made me edge away quietly was because the dresses were wayyy to pricey and I swear to god, as soon as my cousin stepped out of the dressing room while some sales lady was helping her, some random employer popped out from behind a stack of clothes and started gushing about how cute and beautiful and perfect she looked. Then, when she tried another dress that had a string thingy on it, they started rambling about how it was such a great price because it was, like, FIVE dresses in one just because you can (get this) change the position of the ribbon in her waist.

It really made me want to say, "Please. Make it more obvious you're trying to sell us this dress by kissing up." I know it's their job, but it made me become a bit defensive. When we went to Macy's no one did that. I guess because they don't need to force people to buy things. Gha!

Aside from that, we were in Tiger Direct for about an hour because my cousin wanted a phone and a laptop. None of the computers were what she wanted (she kept saying she wanted a Mac) and when I asked her why she even wanted a phone she smiled shyly and said, "Because."

It wasn't rude at all, but I get icky and twitchy when my mother buys me fifty or eighty dollar dresses/shoes. I can't even imagine asking my parents to buy me a $200 dress, $300 phone, and $500 laptop on the same day, even if it was my birthday or Christmas or I just got accepted to Harvard (especially on this last one). Later I found out that when they apparently bought her some expensive phone she started crying because it just wasn't the one she wanted, and I didn't know what to think about the situation. I was just glad I wasn't there when it went down.

My aunt seemed to find it funny and maybe a bit bothersome that every time she asked me if I wanted something she could buy (like a $10 headband) I threw my hands up in the air and started going, "No, no, it's alright! I don't want anything."

Oh my aunt. Aunt aunt aunty. She is lively, oh how lively for a woman well past her 40's. She was jumpy and hyperactive and with spunk and a smile the whole time. She tricked everyone during lunch; we went to a fanceh restaurant (by my low standards at least o.e) and the food got to be a bit pricey. She got up to go to the bathroom and when she came back, after a few minutes of more talking, I ask my mom if she's going to pay soon and turns out my aunt hunted down the waitress when nobody was looking and paid for the food. I remember it going as:

Me and My Mom: O_O You what!?
Aunt: -not looking at us- I already paid.
Mom: But WHY!? O_o
Aunt: Because I wanted to >_>

This would have gone on for forever, so when we were looking for my cousin's white dress, and finally found it, my mom raced out to the cashier lady so to buy it before my aunt could do it (plus, she was struggling with putting away some dresses.) After flinging said dresses to me, she ran to the cashier and they both half battled until the dress was paid half and half (something that seemed to calm down my father after he found out she had payed for the food).

Speaking of the food, by far, the most interesting part was at the restaurant. For all that talk about being socially awkward and never being sure how to converse with people, my dad was the only one effectively saving everyone from having awkward silences. I think he was both nervous, glad, happy, and a bit unsure of seeing his sister and his niece after so long. All in all, he cracked some jokes and someway or another, the conversation drifted to politics. I couldn't hear very well at times, so I had to ask my cousin at one point to explain what they were saying. I didn't understand too well because the details were vague, but turns out in Ecuador some law has passed that if you are in possession of quite some money and you can't prove quickly,  right away, even document how you gained it, the government takes it away on the idea that you came across it illegally (no trail, all purely based on assumption). My aunt said there were barely any jobs over there, and that if you pass away, there's very limited amount of money you can leave to your children. I don't know where the rest would go, but the situation didn't sound good at all.

Apparently, some other aunt of mine (not sure who exactly, but definitely from my father's side) told them I was getting a bit fat, so they got me some size large dresses but later reconsidered and figured none would fit me too well. And I guess it's alright, I am definitely much more heavy than my cousin, and I wasn't about to complain if they went to the trouble of getting me the dresses. It's just that one of them was a strapless purple dress that barely went over my knees, and the black one squeezed the life out of me at around the chest area, I don't even think I could wear a bra with it. If I was fat, why exactly would I wear things like that? O.o I asked my mom, but her response was more or less "BECAUSE YOU MUST EMBRACE IT D8". Truth be told, I don't think she knew either.

I was given a necklace too--maybe gold, maybe not, that has the first letter of my last name on it. And it was odd. Odd, odd, odd. I don't know what to do with it! I have to call my other aunt and thank her because it was her present, and struggle with words, and blink a lot, and wonder what exactly would drive anyone to want to see me or my brother, let alone give us presents like that. We were so young when we left, if we barely remember back then, why would they want to see us as awkward, silent, shy teenagers? Why not keep with the idea of cute little curious six and eight year olds? It's not a bad thing, it keeps from gaining some disappointment.

There's just one thing that stayed with me. When I was very young, my parents would at times have dinner at friends' houses or invite family over to eat if it was Christmas or some celebration. Everyone would sit in huge tables while me and my little brother would sit beside our parents and eat the food quietly while the adults spoke. Half the time, I had no idea where a story started or ended, but there would be bits so animated and full of life that everyone seemed to be shaking with laughter, even me and my brother. I think hearing my aunt talk about something that happened to her while attempting to arrive at an opera made me remember of those times of just sitting around a large table and hearing the opinions and stories of the eldest people. It was just that kind of thing that made me love being in a big family when I was little, and that made me sad whenever I realized some fight or argument was springing up.

But even so, I think bits of it have faded, and I don't feel too compelled to attach myself to the idea that I need to have a fifty people close to me and knowing my every thought just because I share a genetic link to them. Truth be told, I chose to be with some of my friends, which is not something you get to do with family, and even then I understand that there are things I never want to discuss with them just as there are things they don't wish to discuss with me. Remembering such a clustered life of people and laughter should make me sad that I don't have something like that anymore. It should make me feel empty at holidays when it's just my brother and my parents. But it doesn't, because I know as a child a room full of older people smiling and talking about things I didn't understand too well made me feel safe and happy, yet as I grow older, I don't need that anymore. I don't need to live with compromises and etiquette and constant eyes everywhere. I'm glad I had a family with so many individuals growing up, and I do wish to one day go back and speak with some of them, but I'll be fine without it from now on. I'll be okay alone in a few years. I won't cry at Christmas eve because there aren't seventy people at my house.

It's not so bad to have just my thoughts as company for a little while. If we're not alone for some time to figure out what and maybe even who makes us happy, maybe we'll never grow and remain as the children sitting in the room full of ghosts and elders.

Nevertheless, I realized that even after trying to get some ideas of what's happened over at my country, I know absolutely nothing. Just the little things they said were troubling, and yet I fear it doesn't cover even a quarter of the whole situation. I should call and ask, but as the world changes, people need to find a way to survive and a revolution won't be the first thing popping into their minds, of course.

If no one cares about what's happening to a tiny country at the corner of South America, how is the rest of the world like? How are all those nations we don't even hear a whisper about? I hope they're okay.

I can look around a school or a mall or a crowded place and realize I don't care about any of those people or whether they live or die or suffer, but to imagine some isolated place of the world in ruins and chaos makes my heart hurt and my stomach turn. I have no idea why.
~ Becky

Monday, October 24, 2011

Let Me Be The Cannon's Fire

-bows-
Well, "today" as in found on October 12, 2011
Last week: something about religion, something about the Christian C.O.R.E group, something about dancing, something about praying, something about music, something about me and Emzy walking into the middle of it all to hunt down for free food, something about the awkward moment where some lady thought me and the equally non-believer best friend wanted to join in the dancing and clapping for God. I was there for the food. Which there was none. Tis okay. They looked happy. I think.
Apparently Monday: Erm...something about Abortion Day? What? Classmates of mine walked in with duct tape across their lips and a paper in their shirt with the words LIFE, representing the...erm...babies that never got to speak due to abortion? The problem with trying to argue with people--even in a logical manner--is that they start talking over you. And over you. And over you. The silenced people couldn't say anything, but they had their little pack of friends right behind them who stared going "YOU'RE KILLING A BABY, IT'S KILLING A BABY." Yes. A zygote is a human being. As is an embryo. Because any cell(s) with the potential for human life IS human life. You heard that? Potential for human life? Obviously, we better do something. Time to start rounding up all the women who get their period and convict them for involuntary manslaughter every month. And anyone who masturbated at least once in their life--why you're a murderer. Because if a zygote is human life, then so is a sperm!

God, I was so tempted to find some tape, slap it across my lips, and go around with a piece of paper that said, "Today I will silence myself to represent all the women that had their ability to chose taken away from them."

Yes, I'm pro-choice. Shocking. Wait till you find out I believe women have the right to vote.

This entire week: I can ramble on about Spanish class and how it's a flashback of Humanities with all those "young thinkers" and philosophers in the making whose pencils probably hold more ground breaking ideas than whatever they were rambling on a couple of classes ago. I was in Chemistry the other day--and I love Chemistry, I love, love Pre-Cal even though I have a cursed B in the class, and I got my grades to go up a little bit, but do I really need school? Do I really? I learned more by reading the 300 dollar books they assigned than anything they said in class. So far, my AP American History teacher hasn't taught a thing, and if it was a real college class, I would have poked the dean to death or something. I love learning, but I'm not too keen on having my entire life be determined on a couple of standardized Q&A papers passed out every year. But I need to do it--like I need to do it even though it's wasting money on my parents--and god my parents, right, we have this thing, this thing called a family with uncles and aunts and cousins and stuff. And an aunt that I liked when I was little and a cousin that I liked when I was really little is coming over and I have to miss Speech and Economics because family is important, because we haven't seen them in so long, because I'm eight years old and still believe in Santa Claus and Ghosts and family.

And now I'm stealing from Wintergirls.

Alright, it's been a weird week. Not in the sense that something crazy happened, but in the sense that I feel like a sleepy program, newly awokened with information overloading into my brain like there's no tomorrow. There's this contest thing for scholarship money I'm going to enter. One Sci-Fi story, and maybe enter the poems category. I have an idea for the sci-fi story, but if I explain it, it'll sound stupid. Oh cheese.

Here's the unfinished poem taken from something I made for Brook on her birthday during March.

Turning older once again
A fact true since the gar-den
A waking world, yet dreaming
Without the aid of seeing
But you are one from many
Individual, unlike any
So hear the crack of thunder
*Disregard all past blunder
*_________________

For it's time to be awake

*In need of writing and rewriting.

Speaking of Brook, a boy in her class committed suicide yesterday. Yes, yesterday. She called me crying, angry, and alone, because she didn't know what to feel. She thought it was selfish that he had done such a thing, she thought it horrible that he would never get to live, and so many words I couldn't repeat in my head because I needed to figure out what to say. Because what could I tell her? Like the capital punishment, I don't know what I think about suicide. But I won't write my thoughts today--class is starting. And it'll take a while.

On a last note, you know your school's gone to crap when in the newspaper, a seventh grader's talking about true love and...mates. In a poem. Because it's deep.

Yeah.

Rest in Peace, Ritchie.
Oh, and...Gadhafi's dead. Is this just the year my eyes are suddenly working and I'm taking notice?
~Becky

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Simplicity

I am not a good writer in Spanish. Honestly, I'm not. Prose is flat, words are forgotten, and translating tittles that sounded good in my head (Gold Chains and Lighting doesn't sound as good in Spanish as you'd hope) kind of kills any credibility I might have as a talented Spanish speaking writer. Honestly, I thought knowing more than one language would be good. I could be a total badass and translate my own stories for my mom and stuff. Alas, that's rather complicated as my vocabulary in English is much broader than my Spanish one (at least, the vocabulary I actually remember quickly in regards to that language.) So...yeah, let's hope I also become slightly good at that?

Because we're reading Lazarillo de Tormes in AP Spanish, my teacher wanted us to write stories regarding poor people on the streets and how they've...lived...or something (Note: Andddd I knew AP Spanish would have something to peek my somewhat secluded interests--Lazarillo de Tormes was a banned book in Spain due to its criticism to the church (no surprise there), but turns out there was an entire list of publications that were banned by the Catholic Church during that time. I shall find it!).

The subject was very broad (we had some guidelines: it needed to be more than one paragraph, first person, etc, but those were just technical) and we had around twenty minutes to write a rough draft on Tuesday. Because I spend about fifteen minutes trying to remember the right words (and I kissed goodbye the idea of putting accent marks in such a short time--eff that >___>) I decided to write a quick story, whatever came to mind. Now that it's done and corrected, I had to type it up, print it, and draw in a picture at the front. Which would be fine, except I have to add some random fancy stupid font thing DX. UGH! Whyyyy? It's going to be so difficult to read! Why not something more simple?

And in that ALL CAPS RAGE I remember something that happened this morning.

My teacher gave the stories back to us--and believe me, mine was bleeding DX. Accent marks everywhere, lines traced with a question mark at the end, words circled because they just made no sense or I fail at spelling--but surprisingly, she liked it O_o' She called me out in class when she said the stories were very well written. That or she was telling me to put my laptop away. I couldn't tell, except when she came forward to our table and told me my story was very interesting/good/something, I just needed to be careful with grammar (and that eventually, I'd get better at that). I thanked her and she walked away, so this girl at my table asked, "What was your story about?" So I answered with, "A girl who gets murdered in a church."

And...erm...it kinda is.

They gave me a lolwut? face but...really, that's all I needed to say.

Okay, so, technically speaking, it's not the entire point. I didn't write Unnamed Girl stands in a cathedral and gets stabbed and the end, now cry. It did have a narration and a bit of a lead up, but not to the extent my classmates had gone to. I realized a few people were in the process of writing full length novels--explaining all that had happened to the characters, all the terrible things that had occurred to them, etc, while mine was...vague. I'm not saying that makes mine better, I'm sure there's an undiscovered great author somewhere in that class, but it did make me think of something that my dad wrote yesterday on this video depicting one of Steve Job's speech to some graduating Stanford students. I'm not gonna paraphrase, I'm just going to spend the next couple of minutes finding his comment (he had to write it in English despite Spanish being his fluent language, but  his point was made):

I'm a PC man all my life.... But in the Face of Greatness i should bow. I bow in front of you Steve Jobs. You change the world, you show us the way to be powerful torrent of coherent ideas, You show us that simple and elegant is better than brutal complexity. Be at peace you deserve it.

(Side note: Whenever someone famous dies, my dad just bursts into a room and exclaims it in Spanish. When Micheal Jackson died, he exclaimed it by running into the living room and turning on the TV. When Osama Bin Laden died--and I found out because I woke up early to freak out about my AP Psych test--he burst into mine and my brother's bedroom saying "They're saying Bin Laden is dead!" and turned on the radio. And yesterday, I was studying for Chem on the living room/dinner table and he ran out from his bedroom going, "Steve Jobs is dead!" and turned on the computer. What the cheese.../ side note ends.)

Basically, my family owns a record breaking zero Apple products, but I respect Steve Jobs to a certain extent (and I love, love, love Pixar--more than Disney at that, but don't tell anyone, non-existent reader, or I'll get stabbed) and was quite saddened by his death. He understood design, in my opinion, above all else. Sometimes so much can be said in so little. And in thinking of simplicity, I tried to manage that with my story (I doubt I managed too well, but hey, I'm learning). There's no back story, no true reason for what's happened, no lengthy details of all the cruelty my heroine (it was Dream, in case anyone wants to know, but I didn't give her a name here) has faced. It was her, standing at the empty cathedral she had hidden inside for many years reflecting on all the people she had hurt and all the errors that she had committed in the attempt to remain alive (no true details, just few hints about possibly having murdered one child for food and that it hadn't been her first time doing so). As a child of the streets, what was important was survival, but after so much fighting and fear, she couldn't keep fighting anymore. So after having hurt one last person, she waits in the cathedral for a woman she had harmed (indirectly/directly, not stated). The woman of red hair and grey eyes murders her without ever even looking at her directly, but the heroine decides that she cannot fight anymore, and she will allow herself to die at the hands of this woman as if to finally rest from such a terrifying life.

I'm hoping the simplicity of it worked, and if not, I'm hoping I at least got the general idea.

See, there are people in this world who are total badasses at being Jack of All Trades. There are people who are talented in many things--or at least incredibly useful and beautiful things like mathematics, the sciences, etc. Then there are people like me, who kind of, vaguely, not really have a talent of sorts. I'm not a good enough writer yet, but if I can't force some talent to sprout from the blue, I'll at least do my best to learn from the masters.

And so I don't forget: rest in peace, Steve Jobs.
~Becky

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Dexter


I didn't really think I would be so fascinated with this show. I heard about it from--who else?--my dad, and ever since then, I'd been interested on it. So I managed to watch season 1 in two days with pesky school in between it all.

I went looking for the soundtrack right afterwards (something I started doing in my editing days. This is the track I'm listening to: Hidden). Really, I'm glad it's the one show I seem to like along with the general public. After Dollhouse, Firefly, and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles got early canceling (poor Summer Glau), I'm glad this one's coming back for a sixth season. I just have some catching up to do.

Some new found inspiration has come crashing onto my head, it seems. I do wonder at times how the show managed to gain criticism. How my parents used to say it wasn't for me, because the morality is...all over the place. To watch a serial killer and cheer for him, wishing he wouldn't get caught, etc, etc. I've read about serial killers--both fictional and non-fictional. And I know no one in the world would ever be able to write a story from the point of view of a serial killer without blurring the line between fiction and reality*. It's not possible. They are not good people and never will be. They're not even interesting--maybe their actions and methods are, but them as people? I can't think of anyone that killed for any other reason aside from, "I wanted to do it." I might be wrong about this, but it's simply the feeling I get from it. Of course, the public doesn't think that. They assume them to be such complicated beings with thoughts unlike any other and near beautiful minds. No wonder men in line for the death sentence get calls from women telling them they love them and want to marry them (true story).

So obviously, when we write about them, they have to be fictionalized, one way or another. We can't write interesting stories about purely savage, horrible people, even though some try. No, we always give them an interesting persona. A reason for doing it, a deeper idea or thought. It keeps them from being real and from being the truly sick and twisted things that they're based off. So when I watched Dexter's story, I realized there was that one thing that heavily set him apart from an actual story of a serial killer. It's not just Harry's code. I doubt a person like him could ever exist, but the way the show is carried and how one can see through his eyes is almost flawless. And even though I know he could never be real, he's not just a serial killer. He's more human than anyone else on that show. He's alone, detached, and yet self-less to a certain extent. Killing is something he has to do, it's a need that drives him, but his self keeps him breaking the code taught by his father.

Anyways, I'm not good at reviews or anything (seeing as what I'm doing is openly gushing at the show--sorry, I just finished season 1 like five minutes ago o.o). Just wanted to openly fangirl at it xD. I expected it to be cool--not...like this. I don't know. If anyone watches the last episode of season one, you'll know why I keep jumping up and down at it. I almost cried too, something I can't ever seem to do at shows or movies or even books.

Speaking of serial killers, it seems throwing Whiskey on a Harry Potter RP might cause a bit of raised eyebrows. I mentioned the girl liked to kill animals and never tried anything bigger, even though she's wanted to (I swear, this was before Dexter; my obsession with serial killers goes a bit far back) then some weird morbid thoughts got introduced at some point, and this was people's reaction at the OOC threat:

Awee:
Darth... What have you done to Whiskey?! I thought she was this small, innocent little girl! I'm not sure if I want Dory hanging around with someone so cruel now - although it does support Dory's theory that Whiskey's an evil leprechaun, killing adorable woodland creatures who conspire to take her gold...

^Yeah...Aweena's made a far more interesting character than I have xD. Dory's adorable but she's like 5'11 and hugeee.

Stealth:
I POSTED.
And WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT?

Luc:
Yea, I too was surprised by Whiskey. 

Although, loyal as always, Lyra came to my rescue ^^
Legion-insanely bipolar young adult with separate fighter personality
Archangel-emo boi
Dream-...Dream.
Rosegrave-serial killer
Whiskey-adorable depraved killer

Tis Darth, guys. Love her characters for their problems D<

So let's hope I get better, kay? For anyone curious, I'm posting what I wrote for Whiskey that got come people to blink a lot. For now, I have to run and get ready to buy some groceries. I'll probably write more after some much needed homework is done. Or watch more Dexter. Hmm...

~Becky

*Note: I suppose to an extent Monster is the exception to that rule. Even so, Aileen, although arguably the most famous woman serial killer, doesn't fall into the complete norm. She meets the requirements having killed more than 3-5 people within periods of over 30 days, etc, but even then it was brought forth due to a growing paranoia, possible schizophrenia, and an overall harsh life (although this last bit is rather common with serial killers). It doesn't make her a good person, it doesn't excuse her actions. But when I mean serial killer, I mean in the more typical sense, the sociopathic kind which Dexter falls into like Ted Bundy, Pedro Alonso L√≥pez, Andrei Chikatilo, John Wayne Gacy, etc.

P.S: Here it goes. Richard is Luc's character. It's not that good, but...I'll get better at some point.


Whiskey:

Don'tcomenearmeDon'tcomenearmeDon'tcomenearme

The little seventh year had been laying on her bed for a while, hearing the talk of the girl's dormitory as she kicked her feet slightly underneath the covers. The redheaded girl was laying completely still, her breathing controlled but her eyes wide open, staring at nothing in particular. Then she heard them.

Soft timid sounds of purring, followed by light footsteps that barely seemed to ascend down upon the ground. She tilted her head only slightly just to watch a small gray kitty pause at the opening of the door, his bright green eyes staring back at Whiskey. She raised an eyebrow, keeping her breathing controlled, and simply waited. Why had he stopped?

Girls were crowding inside, walking past the small cat and speaking with giggled voices, out of breath and tired. They collapsed on their beds and stopped moving at some point, laying perfectly still. Whiskey shifted her weight completely, her eyes still locked on the harmless creature on the floor, and sat up. He tensed up, jerking his head up and staring vividly at her. The movement alone made her picture the creature's head thrown back, more than normal. Creek, creek, creek, and boom. Red oozing out from one thin line. So much hearbeats per seconds before that one moment alone when the coolest of waves washes over her body and she knows the creature in her arms is dead. Done. And it calms her. She floats back down to earth, little bits of blood raining down on her and she's done. Over. Nothing wrong.

Not tonight though. "I wouldn't do anything," Whiskey whispered to the kitty, gulping slightly as she slid one leg off the bed, "Not at this time."

And now, I'm talking to a cat.
It wasn't that bad, actually. Talking to a cat was better than twitching her hands towards something sharp. Or a rope. Some fire. Her lighter was by her beside. On the summer...just a bird really. It was already half dead by the time she found it, so she probably just sent it to heaven.

Whiskey sighed. Yeah. It didn't matter how she rationalized it or not. They were just animals. That was all. No soul so no sin. That's how her father had taught her at least.

She got up, and the second both her tiny feet touched the floor, the cat whirled around and leaped out the door. She raised a curious eyebrow but shrugged as she fished around for her pants, deciding to leave her shoes forgotten. No less than a minute later, Whiskey was walking around the girl's dormitory, wearing nightgown of a faded orange color as well as some jeans underneath. Everyone was asleep by then, and she could hear all the girls breathing, dreaming away. She was poking her fingers together and drifting her eyes around absentmindedly thinking of the last few weeks or so. Her body was itching then, a small tingle on the tip of her fingers that seemed to be growing. Like she needed to do something. Break something with the tiny digits and rearrange something with her mind half gone.

There were so many of her classmates that weren't moving. They barely looked asleep, and with one hand hanging out the bed, it was difficult not to imagine that the little rising and falling of their chests stopped. A few lips were parted as if a scream had escaped not so long ago. Like if its beginning had been as quick as its end, and the girls had been given no time to press their lips back together and save up air for another scream that would not come.

StopStopStop

Whiskey sighed heavily, deciding that sleeping right now was not an option. She opened the door for the girl's dormitory fully before stepping out, her feet barely making any noise and hardly touching the cool ground as she made her way forward. It was curious, though, that in the dead silence, one more of the Ravenclaw students had been awake. He wasn't even in any nightwear, fully clothed, walking out the door. Had he been waiting for someone?

Isn't that Richard? Whiskey thought, frowning a little. He was a year below her, but a prefect. Where's he going this late at night?

Whatever the answer might have been, it seemed that all Whiskey could think about were simple questions that didn't need to be there in the first place; was he alone? Was he going somewhere secluded? Was there any reason anyone would find it odd if the boy didn't come back for a few days?

Before she could realize it, her feet were carrying her forward, and she was jogging after him. At first, she made no noise and simply tried to catch up to him. Maybe he would notice her. Maybe get her in trouble. She didn't know. Frankly, she didn't know why she did half the things she did


"Science and science fiction have done a kind of dance over the last century... The scientists make a finding. It inspires science fiction writers to write about it, and a host of young people read the science fiction and are excited, and inspired to become scientists...which they do, which then feeds again into another generation of science fiction and science..."
- Carl Sagan, in his message to future explorers of Mars.