Finally got around to it

I had an idea a couple months ago for a short story about a man who is in a mental hospital and thinks his hands are disappearing. Anyone remember that? Anyway, I decided start writing it. Here's what I've got so far:


Today they are passing out thick sticks of charcoal and rough-textured drawing paper. Miss Waverly, the drawing lady, said we could draw anything we wanted. I pick up the black stick. It feels strangely light and awkward in my hand. I have to be very careful now when I am drawing, to get the picture to come out right. I want to draw my hand, but not like it is now. Like it was before they locked me away.

I start carefully, the thumb first, with its elegant curve across the back of the nail, and the bony, knobby knuckle. Then the wide, square shape of the palm and its thick lines: life line, heart line, head line. I make the lines especially dark and heavy, like they are on my hand in the right lighting. Then the other fingers, long and thin with the same knobby knuckles as my thumb, thin, delicate lines where they bend, squared-off fingertips; a man’s hand. I work slowly, trying to make every line perfect. Trying not to forget anything this time.

Miss Waverly has been strolling through the room, examining the patients’ artwork. She pauses at my table and bends over to get a better look as I work on the shading. I look up expectantly at her, marveling at how pretty she is, with her large brown eyes and straight dark hair that falls just to her shoulders. She gazes at my drawing. My heart beats just a little faster. She is so pretty, I think. I hope she likes my picture. Maybe I will give it to her if she does. After a moment, she catches my eyes and asks, “Why are you drawing with your left hand again? I thought you were right-handed.”

I look down and sigh. “Because,” I explain, exasperated, “my right hand’s going away again.” I don’t know why she asks these questions every time. I’ve told her about my problem before. She hums thoughtfully and points one small, delicate finger at my drawing.

“Did you notice that some of the fingers are missing?” she asks. I look back down at my picture in disbelief. I was so sure I’d done it right this time, that everything was there, but as I count the fingers, I see that there are only three. There is nothing I can do but stare at the drawing, speechless with dismay. After a moment or two, Miss Waverly smiles and pats my shoulder, then starts towards the next table.

After she leaves, I hold my right hand up in front of my face. Two fingers are missing today, my ring finger and my pinkie, the same digits that are missing from my drawing. With a sigh I set down the charcoal on my desk. I will have to try harder tomorrow.

a thought on grubbsy's piece

I'm currently thinking about critiques on your piece, grubbsy..

first thing, well...'s rather cliched. I'll have some deeper stuff later on today possibly. Of course, if I go to Troy tonight, I probably won't do it tonight because I'll be in a bad mood.

Tell me what you think........LEGACY

"Papa, no Papa don't go," Sara screamed at her father as three men in dark blue uniforms tried to drag the man out of the front door.

At this, one of the three men stop and turn toward Sara. "Don't worry about him little girl, we already have a nice new home for him." He smiled, but not out of kindness for there was none in his heart. His brown eyes were empty and his smile was uncaring. Sara could only feel sad, as warm tears streamed down her checks. She wanted to go to her father. To hold him, and keep him from leaving. Her mother was crying, sobbing, and holding her back. Why was her mother holding her back, why were these men taking her father, what right did they have? She needed her Papa.

Sara leapt as her mother's grip lessoned and grabbed onto her father's hand. "Papa, no, I won't let you." She was very strong for her age and held on tight.

Her father's hand enclosed around her wrist, "Sara I'm sorry, so sorry, but I can't stay."

"But why Papa, what did you do," She whined.

"Nothing, I didn't do anything Sara, you have to believe me, this is just one big misunderstanding." His eyes were warm but also full of fear.

"No, Papa don't leave, you can't go." Sara persisted at tugging at her father, now dropping like a dead weight.

"I told you girl," it was the man in the blue uniform again only this time he wasn't pretending to be nice. "He's going, your daddy has been a bad boy, saying bad things and now he's going to be punished for it."

Sara didn't know what bad things her father had said and didn't care. They didn't have a right to take her father and was about to say so when she felt a sharp pain in her side. She looked down and saw a black boot had hit her right bellow the rib. She now knew what it felt like to be a kick ball as she flew backwards, spinning in mid-air. She could see the man again, he was smiling, only this time there was joy. He liked it, he had hit her and he liked it. Sara couldn't imagine how someone could find joy in such a thing. It was at this time that the kitchen table broke her fall. She hit it hard, but it did not break under her.

Sara looked over at the men in the dark blue uniforms dragging her father. They were almost out the door. Her back was sore and her hand was warm. She looked over and realized that a dinner knife was digging into her skin. Red blood was streaming down the knife and onto the table. But not as fast as the tears that were streaming drown her face and onto the floor. Sara felt some thing unusual then, rage, anger. She wanted to get her father back, she wanted to get even.

Sara rolled off of the table and onto the floor. The knife still in her hand, only this time the blade was out. She moved forward, keeping low, her eyes focusing on that man, and his uncaring smile and uncaring eyes. He didn't care if her Papa was gone. She would make him care. Stepping carefully she moved with haste to the door were her father was giving his last great struggle.

Sara looked up, knife behind her back so they could see it. She understood now, she knew what she had to do. She had seen it on the vid-screen when her parents didn't know that she was up. They did a lot of talking, most of it about the Galactic Federation. On screen they made it sound like a group of angels, but the way her parents talked they were far from. She understood that now, she knew they were bad, and bad people needed to be punished.

"Listen brat, I told you to go away, your Daddy..." But the man in the dark blue uniform, with his empty eyes and wicked smile didn't get to finish his statement. "Ahh!" A sharp scream left his lips instead as the little girl he had shone so little compassion returned the favor. She was a jumper, it was apparent as a new cut, a deep cut had engraved itself upon his face. It had narrowly missed his eye but wouldn't go away soon, and he drew his hands up to stop the blood. Sara's father seized the opportunity and struggled free, but he didn't run to Sara he ran away out of the house. Sara just stood there, bleeding and crying as her father ran out of her life, forever.

The story so far...

Okay, Sean asks some questions that need to be answered in a post instead of the comments, so here goes:

First of all, the title. I was sorta kidding about oneironauts (did you know that the term is usually used for lucid dreamers? Never say I don't do my research...), because I realize that it would be problematic. But we should come up with something creative. Like I said, suggestions are welcome.

The second issue is the purpose of this blog. As it was described to me by our dear Grubbs, our mission is three-fold: Firstly, to keep in touch; secondly, to share our work and critique each other's writing; thirdly, (this will most likely not apply much until college starts again in the fall, for those of us who are still going to be there) is to use this blog as a way to remind ourselves of meeting times and deadlines, since the plan is still to get things published.

Another possiblity that was mentioned was that we could use this space for collaborative projects. I'm not exactly sure what Grubbs has in mind here, but I'm hoping that he'll explain it once he's on the blog.

Finally, ground rules. I don't know if you could call me the ringleader, exactly, since I'm only administrator by dint of the fact that I'm pretty good at using this Blogger thingie. But in the interest of making things run smoothly (and because I'm the one with the power to kick out all the rowdies, heh heh), I'm willing to make rulings on anything that becomes problematic here. So here we go, my first two rules (wow, I feel powerful...)

1. Swearing: as far as I'm concerned, it's fine as long as you don't overdo it (Hint: if every other word in your posting is a swear word, you've overdone it), and as long as it's not personally targeted at anyone. We're all grown-ups here (or at least pretending to be), so we can deal with it. If this is a problem for anyone, let me know and we'll work it out.

2. Post Length: Please try and keep it under 1000 words, for ease of reading and scrolling. If you have a longer piece that you'd like people to take a look at either post only a 1000-word section of it, or if you want people to read the entire thing, find somewhere else to put it up and just post a link to it here, or if you don't have another place to put it, let me know and I'll help you figure something out.

Now for a technical issue: On the sidebar to the right, I'm setting up a list of members. If there's any sort of contact information (e-mail address, personal blog, whatever) that you want your name to link to, let me know. Mine links to my e-mail address, for example, so y'all can contact me personally.

Ack! Now I've got the southern-speak bug too! But then, I spent a semester two years ago living with a girl from New Mexico who had spent most of her childhood in Louisiana and spoke like a Texan. Painful, very painful. I guess I picked up a little of the dialect.

Now, my friends, I am getting pretty tired. It's past 2 AM. Time for me to go to bed. Talk to y'all later.

So what're we up to with this blog?

Question for you all, here: What're we going to use the blog for, other than keeping in touch?

Also...I don't know if we can continue using the oneironauts name for this...since I am not sure if I'm going to be in college next year, I am unable to be part of the club...so a new name would be advisable. I'm just sayin'

Also: I'm sorry for continuing to push this...BUT...publication should be our goal this year. I suggest we all work on one or two pieces this summer, and try to get them published.

We could use this space to keep ideas together about what we're writing, have a communal space where we could share short 1000 word stories, things like that? I'm thinking that's what would rule with this...also we could share places that would publish sci-fi fantasy stuff, be they websites or publications.

What think y'all? Oh shit...too much country music listening! OH CRAP!! Is swearing allowable here, or no? Angel you're the head ringleader of the blog, you'll have to set some ground rules or somesuch...

What up, my homies?

I will crush all who oppose me! Bwahahaha!

how's it going? I'm currently thinking of coo' titles as soon as I can wake up fully from my nap.

I'm thinking Iced Cream Headache might be right out though...

Welcome!

It is I, your faithful administrator, announcing the shiny new Science Fiction/Fantasy Writing Group Blog! So, what do you think of the new place? A little barren so far, huh? That will be remedied soon hopefully. Right now, I'm waiting on a list of who wants to join this endeavor. I'll add new members when I get their e-mail addresses.

But until then... the first order of business is a title. The one I've got up there is certainly accurate, but a bit... clinical, if you ask me. Does anyone have a better suggestion? Maybe someone should ask Hans how to spell "oneironaut" (is that right?).

That about wraps up this first posting. Anyone with ideas/suggestions for the layout/title/whatever can let me know.