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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Resubmitted for anthology - Term 3

Expanded journal story

One thing Kevin had learned very early on, back when he was a young intern with a spring in his step and hair on the top of his head, was that you couldn’t really escape the generators.

They hummed at a low frequency, low enough that you weren’t quite aware of them when you were at work, but always present. At first, when he went home at the end of the day, he would feel a startling release when he left the lab. Like the shock of cold when a warm blanket is taken away. But these days, he took that blanket with him out of the lab, into his car, home to his apartment. The low, vibrating hum was always there, nestled into the crevices of his brain.

He spent more and more time at the lab these past few years, and he’d come to accept the generators would never leave him. He would be an old man, lying on his deathbed, and the Kyoto-Marcel 16Hz Power Generator Series 4B would be there at his bedside. He didn’t mind. It was like a friend, like like a hand resting on his shoulder.

The hum vibrated along his teeth- right at the back by his molars- as he made coffee. The machine coughed in a sickly way and stopped dribbling for a moment. He gave it a slap, and the steady pat-pat of coffee resumed.

Scientific breakthrough of the century and we can’t even get working coffee makers, he thought. He gave a dirty mug in the sink a cursory rinse and refilled it, then made his way outside to the lab proper.

Treading carefully over a coil of wires, he stepped over to where Dr. Jensen was sitting, hunched in front of a computer console. Blue light glinted off her dark hair and reflected in her irises. She was running through the simulation again. Checking for bugs? He handed her his coffee and she took it wordlessly, drank half of it in one go, and handed it back. He set it on top of her console.

“Sleep?”

“No.”

Dr Jensen was young. She’d been on this project only six years. She had more dedication than anyone, except maybe him. He glanced at the lines of code on her screen, only half understanding her rapid commands. Her fingers hammered on the keys with undue force, and the sound of her typing echoed up to the ceiling, which was strung with cables, all running into the twelve cylindrical generators. Good old Kyoto-Marcels. When he’d started, there’d been two, and no wires. Now you could barely see any of the gunmetal walls. Turns out creating a wormhole means using a lot of energy.

Dr. Jensen punched one key with enough vigor that he looked down. She leaned back with satisfaction.

“Look at that.”

He peered at the screen, where several lines of code were blinking.

“It works, Kevin.” She smiled with cautious pride.

“No counting chickens, Jensen.”

She scoffed. “I ran through it four times tonight. The chickens have hatched. And they work.”

He raised an eyebrow at her metaphor. “First things first, it’s morning.”

He handed her his watch, and she peered at it. “Damn, look at that. Could have sworn it was three.” Then, “Wait-”

“Launch soon.”

She took a deep breath. “God. Can you believe it?”

He looked up at the jungle-like tangle of wires hanging just over their heads, carrying power to the generators. In the flickering light, they look half-alive, like blood-vessels strung up to twelve hearts. The lab was one creature, all the computers and databanks and monitors its organs, the deep, rattling hum it’s sleeping breath. “No.” he said.

Dr. Jensen stood up and stretched, blocking his view. She reached up to tug at her ponytail, her eyes bright, somehow, despite her lack of sleep.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? After all these years, it’s today.” The elastic snapped into her hand, and she shook her dark hair loose. “I can’t wait.”

He nodded, reserved, and reclaimed his coffee cup from where she’d set it down.

“Well, I’d better go talk to Dr. Amundsen about setting up a camera.” she said, and began to collect her scattered papers from her station. He nods again, lost in thought.

He hadn’t really processed it until now- that after today, everything would be different. No more long nights at the lab, no more black coffee and tinkering with the switchboards. No more listening to the hum of the generators.

He ran his hand over the top of one data storage unit to his left- very close to Dr. Jensen’s monitor, not up to code. If the experiment worked, there would be inspectors, cameras, reporters.

The floor hummed under his feet with new intensity. They must be powering up the generators for launch. The lights were still off to save power, and in the gloom, they seem monolithic and massive, pulling all the energy in the room towards them. He felt caught up in their flow, as if he too was wired into them by a cable.

He took off his shoes and flexed his sock feet on the floor. The vibrations ran through his body.

What if he never felt this again? What if he’s removed from the initiative after the launch? It’s not uncommon, and they’ll need to save money. They had practically enough power to light a city in here.

The fluorescent lights flickered on, and he heard Dr. Amundsen’s voice over the intercom.

“Alright, launch is in five minutes. Please return to the observation booth.”

He looked over his shoulder, where Amundsen’s bearded face scowled from the glassed-in booth above him.

It’s all so soon.

He placed his shoes carefully on the databank beside him, and padded up to Generator 8, the closest to him. He had to tread carefully over the wiring, as well as mugs and books that had been left on the floor. Under the harsh light, 8 glinted. It’s a massive steel and nickel cylinder, several feet taller than him and roughly the width of a door turned sideways. The sides were riddled with small ports trailing cable, and patched with bolts and panels where the machine has been opened, dissected, and re-sewn shut again. He placed his hand on it, and it’s warm. Here, the rumbling was deepest- the power levels were at their highest yet in preparation for launch.

They were waking the creature. He’d never stood next to the machines while they were on full power, and it was disconcerting, but also exciting. There was so much power here, and so much life. He set both hands on 8, and felt the vibrations run through his bones.

Behind him, Amundsen’s voice rang out. “Kevin! Get in the booth!”

He looked up at Generator 8. He looked at the glass booth behind him. He looked at the coils of wire running over the floor and ceiling.

He closed his eyes and felt the deep, baritone hum of the generators working.

And, very quietly, he opened his eyes and broke off a blue cable connected to the machine, shattering the plastic surrounding the port.

He turned around. No one had seen.

His shoes were still on the databank, and he slipped them back on before continuing up the winding staircase to the observation booth.Inside, Dr Amundsen, Dr Wen, and Dr Markus were jammed together. Dr Markus nodded hello. He scooted in, and took his seat at the front. Dr Jensen was perched on the central monitor. She waved at him, her eyes sparkling, and grinned wordlessly. He waved back.

“All right, folks,” Dr Amundsen muttered. He gave Kevin a pointed look. “Glad we’re all here. Launch in three, two, one…”

Dr. Jensen took a sharp breath.

“Now.” He pressed enter on his command.

The generators wailed. He saw the plexiglass separating them wobble. The lights flickered in the booth. Five years of careful science and algorithms channeling and directing all that power, diverting it carefully, precisely. It was working. He felt a terrible, sick tension in the base of his throat. Beside him, Dr. Amundsen’s gaze was steady and unblinking. It’s working.

The generators screamed, louder, louder, power growing. There’s no hum, he realises, panicking. There’s no hum, just the high-pitched screech of machines working too hard.

Then, suddenly, it’s over. A warning signal blared, just before a shower of sparks burst from Generator 8.

The booth lit up red with warning lights, and Kevin’s ears rang. Dr Wen, laser-focused, typed madly. Dr Jensen pressed her hand against the glass.

The automatic sprinkler system went off, and the doctor leaned back in his chair. It’s over. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It’s safe. Through the soles of his feet, he fet the everyday vibrations of the remaining eleven generators return.

“All right, folks. No wormhole, huh?” Amundsen murmured

Jensen snapped back to life.“Maybe it was the capacitor.”

“Possible. Or an error in my calculations.” said Markus.

“Not likely, Steve.”

The room hums with chatter as they file out, back to the whiteboards and computer sims.

He sips his coffee, and flexes his feet in his shoes. One more year of work, and one after that, and one after that, maybe. Another year, at least. Another year.

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Short Story for new shoots workshop

It was called Marseille, like the French, and it sat between Parsfeld and Climons, held at arms length by miles of canola fields. It had a main street, a Dairy Queen, a corner store that sold Pringles and magazines- just like any other town in nearly every respect.

With one exception. In Marseille, in was 1986, and it had been for 31 years.

That was Nancy’s hypothesis, anyway. Or her best guess. She wasn’t a science person, anyway, she was an artist. That was the whole reason she’d left in the first place. She owned a small, dying clothing-and-knickknack store next to the Dairy Queen, and she’d gone out of town one day to visit what she’d hear was essentially a more popular version of her store in Climons, hoping to see what they were doing right. One Sunday in March she’d thrown her purse in her car and driven off, and after fifteen minutes, had begun to notice something odd. She didn’t recognise the names and incidents mentioned on her tinny car radio. The vehicles looked different, they were bubblier, sleeker. The billboards in the canola fields were - weird.

That was nine years ago. The store in Climons had closed in 1994.

Her hypothesis, theory, whatever, rested on two things: the incident above, and he fact that no one ever left Marseille and no one could get in.

She had tried. She had tried that same Sunday, had just turned her car right around once those bad vibes started and tried to drive back. But she’d ended up lost again and again, crunching over dirt backroads by farmer’s homes. She could see it in the distance, but she couldn’t get to it, which was ridiculous. She’d learned to drive on these roads as a teenager, had gone back and forth between Marseille, Climons, and the larger towns beyond them. But she couldn’t reach it now.

You reached Marseille by turning off the big multi-lane highway and trundling along the smaller Christie Lake road, sort of sliding up sideways into the town. After a few attempts down the road, she began noticing how strangely alone she was, even at rush hour. She began to look out for other drivers, and never noticed one.

So. It was possible that Marseille didn’t exist and Nancy was an insane person. This she didn’t buy because she got along very well in every other aspect of life, and she didn’t really think she was intelligent enough to invent a whole previous life for herself. It was possible she had time-travelled that Sunday, or slipped into a parallel universe, but she’d checked out some books at the library on those theories and they seemed very complicated. Therefore, she decided, it was most likely that Marseille was stuck in time. Or unstuck. However you liked it.

Following her abrupt exit from Marseille, she had had a hard time adjusting. She worked at a small diner off Climons’ main street. It didn’t seem like diners had changed much, but everything else sure had. Hairstyles were much flatter now, at least for a woman of her age, which she liked because it was so much less work. She didn’t like the cell phones, though, and she definitely didn’t like the internet. She was aware the internet was a good place to go for people who were “nuts”, like her, but she didn’t trust it enough to try it. Instead, she kept a close watch on the town.

She drove out every Sunday, not only because that was the day she’d left but also because it was her day off, to go check on it, and to see that the faint buildings just visible on the horizon hadn’t changed.

She didn’t know if she’d ever get back into Marseille. It was there- she could see the water tower, bluish from the distance, and the Walmart, and the fishing tackle store. She could just see it. It struck her as funny, sometimes - she’d spent her youth wishing to get away, and now here she was trying to return.

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Sonnet- Term 3

It’s the drawn-out ending of a long day,

air warm and still, lying close to the skin.

The cooling, red-orange sun is making it’s way

down the sky, before tomorrow can begin.

It’s another sleepy Friday afternoon

the kind with hot classrooms and close beige walls.

Slowly drawing closer to the end of June-

there’s a warm summer wind in the halls.

The shadows slant, the sun has almost set-

the end’s getting close, but not yet- not yet.

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Viewfinder- Term 3

1. The tree stands stone-still, the only movement the play of wind in the leaves. Gathered in clusters and levels, all moving individually, they rustle like a flock of roosted birds, shifting restlessly, each with their own personality. Pushed by the current, they move by themselves, or in waves as a whole.

2. The branches twist upwards, curving together like grasping arms. The tree seems frozen in a burst of movement, petrified into shocked stillness- a creature turned to stone, but with a living heart inside. Weaving and pushing, elbows poking and fingers pointing, the tree reaches for the sky.

3. Up close, the bark is it’s own landscape- mountain ridges and plains furrowed by canyons and valleys, dry earth furred by lichen growths. When you squint, you can just see it- a river valley, the kind settled by the earliest humans, bordered on one side by a thick forest, open on the other to parched plain. They would grow their crops by the river, and hunt in the forest, and there- that range of woody mountains would protect them from invaders. You can almost spot them, going about their minuscule lives, unaware of their tininess, the precariousness of their existence on the side of this tree.

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Journal #3 Term 3

The grass crunches under her feet as she makes her way across the field. It’s 12:28 AM, and the moon is high and full in the sky, so big it looks fake. The night’s chilly- she isn’t dressed warmly enough, and her teeth chatter.

I’m too old for this, she thinks. The trouble she goes to for a paycheck.

It’s cold enough that the crickets and frogs are mostly quiet, and the highway isn’t for a long way off. Here, it’s just her breathing and the rustle of the treetops high in the air. The site she wants to get to is just by the next road- less a road and more of a dirt track, really- and she’d better hustle it. You were supposed to harvest this stuff at midnight, and it was already well past that.

Too many new witches got all caught up in the details- fussing over harvesting moonrake at the exact stroke of midnight, using only tallow candles to light a ritual, throwing a fit over not being able to find the pewter cauldron a spell called for. Really, you could harvest your herbs within an hour or two of the prescribed time and they’d be just fine. Dollar-store tea candles did just the same thing as tallow, and nobody would ever notice that you used a stainless steel saucepan instead of your great-grandmother’s Jacobian-era cauldron. She’d even met a witch once who swore by those tiny plastic dinosaurs instead of oracle bones- “because who has time to find dragon bones these days?”

She’s found the road. Huffing, she sets her bags down in the middle of it, not worrying about cars at this time of night. She checks her watch- 12:49. Better hurry.

She drags a pair of shears and two rubber rain boots out of her backpack, and checks the spell on her iPad one last time. It was a gift from her son, and so far she only really knew how to use the PDF reader and Doodle Jump. The iPad lit with a white light, matching the moon.

Three bundles of moonrake, but she’d grab more in case she messed up. Squelchily, she steps down into the shallow ditch at the road’s edge, and her boots sink in a good five inches. She hefts the shears and begins to saw away at the tough stalks. Moonrake is tall, grasslike, but with woody stems, and the shears are almost too dull to cut through. She tosses a handful up on the bank, realizing too late she didn’t bring any gloves. At least she’s wearing old clothes.

She gets five bundles, and pushes the pile together on the road. It’s past one now, and she’s a little sleepy, but she keeps working. She snaps each bundle together with an elastic band and wraps them in newspaper, humming to herself, and stacks them carefully in her backpack for safe travel.

She decides to walk back around the field this time, instead of through. Whacking through all those bushes was hard work, and she can see trails around the edge, pounded into the dirt by other walkers. As she goes, she scrolls through the rest of the spell on her tablet- it’s a spell for youth. She hadn’t bothered telling her client it wasn’t permanent. Most cosmetic spells wore off in a few months, but if you had a big event sometimes it was worth it to get a little spruced up. She was pretty sure he was an actor or something- he had a total disregard for money, the kind you only found with the first-generation rich, and he was very well-dressed. And he smelled good. She could ask her daughter, maybe she’d know. Probably he was the most famous actor ever and she was being a total loon not knowing who he was. Well, he was paying for a kitchen renovation, so far be it from her to be picky.

She can see her car faintly in the distance- even in the moonlight it looks junky. She shoulders her backpack and presses on. When she gets back home, she’ll get out her big pot and start stewing the stems- they need three days, it’ll stink up the whole house. Then she needs paprika, which she gets from the Food Mart, and turtle’s eggs, which she does not. Probably most of tomorrow afternoon she’ll have to spend sloshing around Moose Lake. Oh, well, she thinks, it’s a living.

She fumbles for her keys and beeps the car. She can’t wait to get the heat cranked in there, she’s still chilly.

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Journal #2 Term 3

“The Ancient Romans were an advanced society, and had currency, writing, and even plumbing. However, the most crucial aspect of their success as a civilization was-”

The teacher pauses. Anya jerks her head up- she’d been zoning out.

He’s looking right at her. Why’s he looking at her? She isn’t talking, or sleeping- she glances down at herself, reflexively- does she have something on her shirt?

Her gaze lands on her hand, and she realizes. Crap. She’d unscrewed her finger again.

She covers the digit with her other hand and starts to screw it back in. It’s a habit she’d picked up back at the developers- loosening joints, unscrewing things. Sometimes, like now, she did it without even realizing.

The teacher resumes the lesson, but now everyone was looking at her, some even craning their necks to see what was going on. The finger clicks as it locks in to the knuckle, and she sets her hands on top of the desk. She resolves not to move them again for the rest of the lesson. So many habits to break. She’d realized only yesterday that another little tic of hers- rapidly focusing and unfocusing her eyes- made an audible whirring noise. She tries just to hold herself very still, usually, but she can’t be too still- that’s creepy, apparently. She has to remember to blink, and, thinking this, she blinks a few times. Thankfully, the circuitry and motors that she has instead of organs whir just enough to recall breathing, so she doesn’t have to simulate that too.

The teacher’s writing something on the overhead- she better focus.

“Alright, guys, make groups of five, and then you can get a big piece of paper and some markers. I want you to come up with some ways our society is influenced by the Romans.” he says.

Groups of five. Great. If she was human, she’d excuse herself for the washroom and run for the hills, but everybody knows she doesn’t need to.

The students are shuffling around, forming loose bands of people. Looking at them, all collected, she can see how much of an outsider she is. Her plating looks reasonably like skin, but only if you ignore the seam lines along her jaw, arms, temples, and legs. Her eyes look human from far away too, but up close you can see the lenses. More effort was put into her brain than appearance, and her movements always look wrong. This was easy to miss at the developers, where she was mostly alone, but here, surrounded by hundreds of natural people, she sticks out. She’s the uncanny valley incarnate.

There’s a group of four looking around aimlessly. Well, here goes nothing, she thinks.

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Altered book- Term 3

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 7 years

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Journal Entry #1 Term 3

A car passes, tires hissing on the wet road, and the headlights flash briefly through the darkened restaurant, illuminating the plastic tables in orange. They quiet, waiting for it to pass before speaking again.

“As I was saying,” the girl continues, her face lost to the darkness, “I’ll show you, but I expect payment.” Her voice is deep, rough, and the lack of visuals makes it seem as though it’s coming out of the air.

Diana, casual, digs into the blackberry pie on the table in front of them with her fingers. “How much?”

The girl smiles. “Not money.”

“That’s vague,” says Diana through her pie.

“I’ll pay it.” says Em. Diana turns, her braces reflecting in the light from her upturned phone.

“That’s the dumbest-”

“You won’t be involved. I’ll pay it.”

“Em-”

She turns back to the girl, sitting silent and still across the booth. Diana’s phone casts a bluish light across the table, catching a pair of folded hands decorated with gel nails, a pair of slim wrists, but Em still can’t see her face.

“You’re sure?” asks the girl.

“Yes.” says Em definitively. Beside her, Diana is shaking her head.

“Listen, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I have to see it, Diana.”

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“I know it’s the source of the power outages and the blackouts. I know it’s the reason the birds don’t fly anymore. I know it’s why there was the tornado outside town last month-”

Diana pushes a stray, sweat-stuck strand of hair out of her face. “You don’t know any of this!”

Em huffs. “Well- okay, maybe not, but if I see it, I’ll know.”

“It’s just dumb curiosity!”

The girl in the booth raises a hand. “Not too loud, please.” Her voice hums across the humid restaurant, and they both fall quiet.

She extends one smooth hand across the table and holds it there, palm up. In the silence, Em can hear the hum of the air conditioners, the rushing of cars on the freeway not too far away.

“I will take you, Em.” says the girl. She turns her hand ninety degrees into a recognizable gesture for a handshake.

Em extends her hand across the table, and the girl shakes it. Her hand is cool and dry.

“My name is Isabel.” the girl says. “Follow me.”

She rises, much taller than Em originally thought. Em unsticks her thighs from the booth seat, sweaty in the night’s heat, and turns to Diana. She’s shaking her head, silently, lips pursed.

“If you’re not back in half an hour, I’m calling the police.” says Diana. Behind Em, the girls shoes are clacking across the restaurant linoleum- she’s leaving. Em turns to follow, glancing back. Diana’s phone glows.

The girl leads her behind the counter, through the swinging door, and through a kitchen that’s treacherous in the dark. The taps and sinks gleam silver in the light from the cooler at the back, and the brightly coloured Coke and 7-Up bottles are somehow comforting, lit in the cool flourescent glow.

Isabel, she notices, has stopped, and is facing the freezer at the back. A big one for such a small restaurant. Her hair conceals her face. She points at the freezer handle.

“It’s in there.” says Isabel, in her deep, enveloping voice.

Em, a little unsure, grasps the handle- cool in her sweaty hand. She heaves, pushing the door open with her thin arms.

She feels first a rush of cool air on her face and arms, and then looks up. Inside the freezer is a deep, deep blackness, blacker than the night sky when the power went out two weeks ago, blacker than the bottom of the well outside town with the ferns growing on top of it. It’s huge, impossibly dark.

SHe doesn’t feel Isabel’s hand on her back, or the slam of the freezer door behind her. All she feels, all she sees, is black.

#term 3

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

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Script

EXT. A DIRT ROAD RUNNING THROUGH A SUNLIT FOREST, NOON

A blue truck bounces unevenly down the rough track, disturbing the peace of the summertime forest on either side. In the back of the truck are three young children sitting on milk crates, and in the front two teenagers and another child, all holding on for dear life. All the passengers are wearing bathing suits. Even far away, we can hear loud arguing.

Driving is MARCUS, fifteen. He has an untidy appearance, wearing a dirty shirt and messy, too-long bangs. He has a very loose grasp of the practice of driving, which is irritating PETRA, sixteen, in the seat next to him. Petra has dark hair and eyes, and a suspicious expression. Wedged between them is ALICE, a girl of three with cornsilk hair. In the back of the truck are three children: JOSH, 11, SARA, 6, and BRENDAN, 8. All are a little bedraggled-looking. Petra is babysitting them.

PETRA Marcus, come on.

MARCUS Just a little further!

PETRA It’s been, like, forty minutes.

MARCUS I told you it was near Karras Pond.

PETRA We passed Karras Pond easily fifteen minutes ago.

MARCUS Can you just hold on for like three seconds?

A shout from the truckbed.

SARA I have to pee!

PETRA (yells) Okay, Sara! (quieter, to MARCUS) I’ve been in this truck- which smells like fertilizer, by the way- for forty minutes and in that forty minutes you have not told me where we are going or why.

MARCUS It’s a surprise.

PETRA Surprises are for kids.

MARCUS You’re only a year older than me! Besides, who’s driving?

SARA I have to pee really bad!

JOSH Me too!

PETRA You don’t even have a license.

MARCUS I’m licensed!

PETRA For tractors. Hey, you can get in deep sh- stuff for underage driving.

MARCUS Yeah?

PETRA Yeah. Like juvenile detention. Or something.

MARCUS Okay. I'll keep that in mind.

MARCUS steers sharply to the left, and PETRA grabs the back of ALICE’s dress just before she tumbles onto his lap. Outside, the three children slide sideways. The truck rumbles through the brush, branches whipping out of the way.

PETRA Slow down!

MARCUS slams on the brakes feet from a large tree directly in their path, and everyone lurches forward. He jumps out of the driver’s seat, and leaves the door hanging open as he runs into the forest. PeETRA sits, watching him.

PETRA Marcus!

Marcus reappears.

MARCUS Come on!

PETRA ushers everybody out of the truck and goes to follow him. The three children drop to the ground behind her and run ahead. She pushes through the bushes.

JOSH (voice muffled by the forest) Did you see that I almost fell out of the truck?

SARA I didn't because you wouldn't let me sit on a box and I had to sit on the ground. And I couldn't see anything and I didn't know where we were going.

BRENDAN We got the boxes because we're older, that's the rules.

SARA That’s dumb.

JOSH (not listening) I slid over like whaaaaa and hit the side of the truck like BANG and I could’ve broken my arm but- (he stops suddenly)

PETRA is unable to see them for the forest.

PETRA Josh?

She moves faster through the forest, then stops suddenly.

The kids stand on the perimeter of a twenty-meter circle of absolutely barren earth, surrounded by perfectly normal forest. Not a single plant interrupts the flat soil.

BRENDAN What the hell?

PETRA gives him a habitual, reprimanding slap on the head.

PETRA No swearing.

She looks across to MARCUS for an explanation, but he only shrugs.

SARA What is it?

JOSH Dunno. (sniffing) It smells like burnt toast.

BRENDAN Oh yeah.

SARA Brendan, what is it?

BRENDAN (shakes his head) Crop... circle?

MARCUS Isn’t crops, it’s forest. I thought of that.

SARA Petra, what is it?

JOSH Stop asking!

PETRA makes a decision. She picks up a rock and chucks it into the circle. When nothing happens, she takes a step into the dirt. She shrugs.

PETRA Just dirt.

JOSH steps in next to her. He laughs, and scuffs his feet in the perfectly smooth surface. BRENDAN joins him. SARA hangs back, and JOSH grabs her wrist.

JOSH S’fine, look.

They amuse themselves with scuffing the dirt around and drawing patterns with their feet.

PETRA Forty minutes for dirt?

MARCUS It’s not just dirt.

PETRA Okay, flat dirt. Heard of a camera?

MARCUS Yeah, but... I dunno. Isn’t it weird?

Just then, JOSH trips over something. Petra darts towards him.

JOSH Dammit!

PETRA (approaching him) No swearing! Are you okay?

JOSH Yeah...

He looks back to see what he tripped over. SARA and BRENDAN are already looking at something in the dirt. JOSH clambers to his feet and joins them. PETRA approaches, MARCUS behind her. It’s a whitish sphere, about the size of a grapefruit, buried but for the very top in the ground. A beat, then they all begin to dig at it.

BRENDAN Stop pushing!

They pull the sphere out of the loose dirt. PETRA holds it. She turns it in her hands. It’s very heavy, and is a clear, liquid white, perfectly smooth.

MARCUS Knew it wasn’t just dirt.

PETRA (running a hand around it) Is it... What is it? A globe?

BRENDAN Abstract art.

JOSH New atomic bomb.

SARA Lemme touch it!

PETRA Okay, hold your horses. One at a time.

She bends down to let SARA touch it. She lays a single finger on it, very carefully.

SARA Ooh.

She touches it again with her fingertip. JOSH pushes in.

JOSH Okay, your turn’s over.

He slaps both hands on it.

JOSH Neat.

SARA Hey!

BRENDAN I want to touch it.

MARCUS I found it! Move, you twerps, lemme see it.

He tries to grab it from PETRA.

PETRA Stop it!

Alice flaps her hand at it, too short to reach.

SARA Let Alice!

She grapples for the sphere, and PETRA fumbles with it, thrown off balance by everyone around her.

PETRA Hey!

BRENDAN tries to catch it, but pushes into PETRA, and she stumbles. It slips out of her hand, and they all tense, but it doesn’t fall. The sphere hovers five feet off the ground, perfectly still.

They all freeze.

JOSH Holy shit.

PETRA doesn’t reprimand him.

She pulls BRENDAN and ALICE carefully away from it, where it hangs impossibly in the air. They step back and look at it.

BRENDAN Okay.

JOSH It’s just- it’s just there, it’s not-

PETRA (warningly) Marcus-

MARCUS I didn’t know it would do that!

PETRA Alright- I- Everybody back to the car.

JOSH Nooo!

SARA I don’t like it. BRENDAN There’s gotta be a string on it.

PETRA picks up ALICE and hoists her on her hip.

PETRA Josh, Brendan, Sara, car, now. Marcus!

MARCUS is shuffling towards it, holding a stick.

PETRA. Marcus, no. No no no.

MARCUS Just a sec, okay?

PETRA (getting scared) I do not like this- Marcus, I am leaving, we are all going to get in the car and leave and not touch it- Josh!

JOSH, not to be outdone, is moving towards it too. MARCUS swipes his stick under it and over it experimentally. He glances back at PETRA.

PETRA does not respond, but pulls SARA closer to her by the back of her shirt.

JOSH reaches forward and grabs it. It comes away in his hands like a berry off a branch.

JOSH S’fine, look.

MARCUS Give me it.

He yanks it out of JOSH’s grasp and brings it forwards. PETRA backs away. BRENDAN makes grabby hands and he lets him hold it.

MARCUS Dunno what it is, but it isn’t dangerous.

PETRA Defying all known laws of physics qualifies as dangerous in my book. Brendan, what are you doing?

BRENDAN hefts the sphere once, testing its weight, then flings it up into the air. It doesn’t stay like before- it falls like any normal object. Onto Marcus’s foot.

MARCUS Ow, jesus. That thing’s like a bowling ball.

BRENDAN Why didn’t it stay like it did before?

MARCUS Who knows.

JOSH We should take it back to do experiments.

BRENDAN Yeah!

MARCUS As long as you carry it.

JOSH Does anybody have a bag?

BRENDAN Towel would work. Should protect it.

PETRA No, no, no. There is no way we are bringing it back to town. Not going to happen. No.

INT: THE FRONT SEAT OF MARCUS”S TRUCK

Petra nestles a round shape wrapped in a t-shirt in her lap as the truck bounces back to town. JOSH sits next to her, victorious and shirtless.

#term 2

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

Text

Short Story for new shoots workshop

With one exception. In Marseille, in was 1986, and it had been for 31 years.

That was nine years ago. The store in Climons had closed in 1994.

Her hypothesis, theory, whatever, rested on two things: the incident above, and he fact that no one ever left Marseille and no one could get in.

So. It was possible that Marseille didn't exist and Nancy was an insane person. This she didn't buy because she got along very well in every other aspect of life, and she didn't really think she was intelligent enough to invent a whole previous life for herself. It was possible she had time-travelled that Sunday, or slipped into a parallel universe, but she’d checked out some books at the library on those theories and they seemed very complicated. Therefore, she decided, it was most likely that Marseille was stuck in time. Or unstuck. However you liked it.

#term2

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

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Letters, term 2

NOTES: Letters are between an Australian nurse and her boyfriend. The nurse is stationed in Greece during WWII. All stories are closely based on real events. All spelling and grammar errors are intentional. Dotted lines stands for a spot blacked out by censors.

Dear Kit,

Many “thank you”s for the candy. All the gals here loved it especially the chocolates. Was a big morale-booster, too, for reasons I will explain. Before I forget could you please send some stockings as my wool ones are quite worn through. We are on our feet 12 hours a day here and they go very fast. I have put extra bandage around my heels to prevent blisters in the mean-time, and some of the other girls do it too- the 2/5th AGH makes do!

We are currently in ------------, having been moved just a few days ago- and do I have a story to tell you. You might not believe it. We were evacuated just recently out to ----, and were taken by car and truck to Nafplio. We weren’t told until a few hours before, Matron Best having selected 40 to go and 39 to stay. We all said our goodbyes. I had to leave darling Mer behind which was very heart-rending, altho we promised to write. We all left in the very dead of night with our little satchels and tin hats, and respirators in case of gas. On the horizon we could see the fires from the battle and I only then realised how close it had got. I was so glad to have Constance with me as I don’t think she’s ever felt fear in her life. For two hours we all stayed put in a cemetery as there was an air raid going on. We all huddled down and held hands v. tight. It was complete blackness, made even worse by the big respirator masks which you cant see out of even during the day. I could hear the rattle of the planes overhead and the explosions but thankfully the Germans saw no use in bombing a cemetery. Still it was very harrowwing.

After another hour we arrived to find that our transports were on fire from the raid and being deserted by the Navy men. The fires were so bright you could read a book by them. I don’t think I will ever forget the look of those bright orange flames against the black water and all the smoke coming in thick onto the harbour so you could hardly see. There were some men floating facedown in the water but it looked like most of them had gotten out O.K. They had other boats out spraying them with retardent but it wasn’t doing much yet. I dont know how long we spent on the harbour, but nobody knew what to do. It was chaos with everyone running around in the smoke trying to dredge men out of the water. We were all very scared our transport would leave. Eventually somebody found some fishing boats and Greek fishermen who would take us and we all crowded on like sardines. We went very slowly through the fires.

When we got to the destroyer it was more chaos because nobody had thought to bring the walkways the Navy boats had to get us on. We had to jump across the gap to the destroyer in our narrow skirts and tin hats, one at a time. It was like the games we used to play in the garden, jumping from the tree to the balcony, except this was in the Agean Sea with fires burning all around you and an old man barking at us to hurry up because he was worrying about the Germans coming back. Constance was the first to go of course, and she nearly didn’t make it, only avoiding the chill water because two of the Navy men caught her by the arms and hauled her up. This spooked the rest of us good but we didnt have any other near-accidents. I got across okay- all my gymnastics training doing me good, although I don’t think I’ve ever felt my knees knock more in my life. We did have one accident where Julia’s satchel was dropped in the water when we tossed it up after her. It hit the side of the boat and sunk like a stone. She must have felt badly loosing all her things but she didnt say a word.

Once we got in the boat we were all so tired from our night we were asleep on our feet. Altho the boat was rocking v. badly and cold, we all slept very well with the blankets the soldiers gave us. It was afternoon when we arrived in Crete and we all felt better for a night’s rest and some mugs of soup which was good because we were at work right away setting up the hospital tent.

Quite the harrowing event but throughout it all we did fairly well keeping calm and soldiering on, even me, which you may find hard to believe! But when you are with 39 other even-tempered women it is not so hard as you might think.

Work has been hard but no threat of air-raids like before, which is a relief. There are 50 men now and 40 nurses plus doctors etc, which you might think would work out but never seems to be enough. Where I was emptying bedpans and mopping before now I am applying bandages and stitching, as there are less experienced nurses here. I am such a quick stitch now, which is good as we also find we are short on anasthetics often. When I first started in 1940 it was so hard seeing the young men with their burnt eyes and limbs because I would always see your face on them but now it is just like any other day. Of course one does feel but you go on so much easier. I know you wouId prefer having your leg and fighting to not & being at home but it makes me happy you are safe. I always worried you would come in wrapped in bandages even tho you were training on the airfields and I was in Greece.

Much love to you, Kit. I think of you every day & you dont need to worry about me finding a beau among my patients as they all move on too fast. As soon as this war is done I will come home to you and we can go to the movies and fool around like we used to. I hope you are getting used to the crutches.

Also since you asked I dont know anything about troop movements and besides they screen all my letters- the 2/5th goes where they move us, no use telling us plans and us going and blabbing by accident, which I could just see happening to me. So I don’t know & don’t mind. Greece is very sunny and warm but as I haven’t had a day off in 2 weeks I haven’t been swimming.

Am dead tired after a long day so goodnight.

For you x x x x x x x x o o o o o o o o o x x x x x x x x x I love love love you Kit Gwendolyn

PS Dont forget stockings!

Dear Gwen

I hope you like the stockings. They’re made of fine wool so they should not be too scratchy. I sent some candy too, although they were sold out of liquors at Corris’s, so I got lollies and chocs. Your letter has been passed around to all my relatives as they were all astounded at your story and you will likely be asked to retell it many times when you return. Also enclosed is a drawing from Charlie of Gwen jumping onto the boat. He asked me to read the letter may times, which I did.

The crutches are going as well as expected. I’m still very clumsy and Aunt Mary makes me practice hopping around in the garden as I knock her lamps and things when I’m indoors.

Sometimes I forget it’s gone and then I remember. Just this morning I woke up and swung out of bed and nearly fell, forgetting my left leg is gone at mid-thigh and wasn’t there to catch me. And sometimes if I sit still I swear I can feel my foot. I notice it the most when I’m going out in town because people stare. I guess all your hard work with the soldiers will get you used to amputees so you won’t mind. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t hurt when people are frightened, although a lot of people are very respectful. Just yesterday when I was going out with Mary for groceries a man shook my hand. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had never seen any action. I feel a real fool about it, spending two weeks in training trudging in the mud and then going home right away after an aeroplane accident, without being any use. All the fellas are off fighting and here I am. Well, everyone except Jim, who can’t go on account of his diabetes. He told me one time he wishes he was missing a leg so people wouldn’t hiss at him on the street thinking he’s a coward. That made me pretty mad & we haven’t talked in a little while. So it’s just me and Aunt Mary and Charlie mostly.

I wish I could work but I’m still in the recovery period so I’ve been watching Charlie at home while Aunt Mary works. She’s got a new job making bullet cartridges and will bring defected ones home for Charlie to play with, which he loves. Money is tight as she’s got me to look after and it will be some time before I can get a job, but we don’t need to worry about toys for Charlie because he’s got his cartridges. He stands them up in big rows and knocks them down. I never knew how much energy a little boy could have till I started spending time at home. Usually in the morning I’ll read and he’ll run around and amuse himself, and in the afternoon I’ll take him over to a friend’s or we’ll go into town. I still get tired fast so we can’t do as much as either of us would like. On Tuesday we played Chinese Checkers and he beat me. He’s a smart kid. On Wednesday we didn’t play any games because we were too occupied with your letter.

I know you don’t like it when I pester but I worry about you all the time. I hope you still have the photo I sent you & I hope you won’t forget me. I know it isn’t patriotic but I wish you could come home. I’m glad you’re further from the front lines these days, as the thought of you working with shells whistling over your head makes me go out of my mind. It’s funny that I hope you won’t have any more emergencies like the one you told me, but at the same time it was so exciting to read. I hope you’re doing O.K., you sound so tough. I love you and I can’t wait to see you again.

All my love, Kit Love from Charlie and Aunt Mary too

Dear Kit

Thank you and bless you for the stockings they are lovely! Am no longer traipsing around in little bits of bandage. And the candy was lovely, I gave a little to all the girls. Tell Charlie I have the drawing up by my bunk and look at it when I go to sleep.

Thankfully there has not been any more “exciting” emergencies. We have been here two months now and it is going fine. I got a day off last week and went into -------- with Constance on bycycles. We dont know a word of Greek and had to talk through hand gestures when we went to get some lunch. As a result I got some funny cheese dish I didnt want but it was just fine in the end. It has been sunny for weeks now and hardly any rain so it is getting dusty and all the army trucks send up big clouds. It is a job keeping the dust out of the hospital tents. The 39 others we left behind have arrived and so I am reunited with Mer! Although now many more patients are coming in and we are too swamped to chat. The battles in Greece seem to be getting bad and I dont know how long it will be till we are moved again. I can’t see the shells like I could in Greece but if the men cant hold their positions we’ll go with them. Word has it it might be to ----------- next. Will see! It sounds like a good time, we could see all the ---------------------- --------- ------------------------------ --------------------------- -----------.

Another thing- for the past week I’ve been changing the dressings of a soldier from Yamba.. I told him I was from MacLean myself. Isn’t that interesting. We get on well although he isn’t a match for you, Kit dear. I come and talk to him at nights because I haven’t been sleeping well. He’s called Herb and he told me about the what it’s like fighting in the towns and I told him my own story, with the boats which suprised him a lot that a nurse had come so close to combat. He was the wireless operator on a tank and he was in for gunshot wounds, one in his stomach which is pretty hard to get over, and the other in his leg. He said the Germans fight dirty so now everyone does too. He got shot when they were getting out of the tanks at night to get supplies, some Germans hid and fired on them when they got out. He says the Germans don’t surender anymore when you capture them because everybody just shoots each other now, and even goes at the Red Cross trucks. The Germans started shooting prisoners and they got so mad they started doing it back. He can’t wait to get back to action because he spent so long in training to work on a tank and he doesn’t want to waste away on the hospital bed. His good friend Will who was the gunner was killed by the Germans the same night and he wants to get back in the tank for him. He didn’t die right away but bled out on the ground before the medics got there. He spends ages tapping Morse codes to himself to make sure he doesn’t forget.

I don’t know if its fair to kill prisoners but if the Germans started it first I guess I understand. I remember when I started I was so suprised just to see a man who had been shot in the back but I got over that pretty quick. I guess when you’re all out to kill each other there aren’t any rules. Maybe don’t read Charlie this part.

I hope you can get to work again soon, although I’m sure Mary and Charlie will miss you at home. Dont feel so bad about not seeing any action as lots of fellas get hurt in training and its nothing to be ashamed of. Soon you can get an office job and keep helping the war effort. You have such nice printing and you did so well in school I’m sure you can get a real nice job. I’m the one with the bad speling, which is why I’m the nurse!

Thinking of you and saying a prayer every night for your poor stump! Love you love you write me Gwendolyn

#term2

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

Photo

Viewfinder #2

1. It’s 5 PM, and a summer day in late August. The afternoon’s chaos and sticky heat has passed, and the day is just beginning to cool. The sky has faded from bright jewel-blue to soft powder, and the sunlight is warm and welcoming, a relief from the oppressive heat of noon.

2. The mountains look like paper cutouts from this distance. They’re soft-edged and layered against each other, varying tones of blue-green, set against the pale sky. They seem to almost glow from the warm evening sunlight. Although, of course, they’re very large and very far away, it’s hard to tell just now. They look almost unreal, like a matte-painted backdrop, charming in their fairytale fakeness.

3.The blankness of the sky is a welcome contrast to the humid, chaotic busyness below. Cool and flat, ribbed with faint clouds, it contrasts the earth, which is orange with the late sun’s glow. The sky is faintly yellowed at the edges, like old paper, as it recedes into smog. The mountains are pressed up against it’s sides, but even their size and mass can’t compare with the concave expanse of the sky. It arches above the world, too far to ever touch.

#term2

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

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Journal Entry #3 Term 2

She turns off the tap and tests the water with a foot. It’s too hot, but she steps in anyway, hissing. Slowly, she lowers her entire body in, an inch at a time. Under the water, she can see her skin reddening. Carefully, she tips her head back and lets her hair soak. She raises an arm and watches steam rise off of her skin.

She wonders what will happen to her now. One stupid mistake and her money’s just gone. She doesn’t know anyone in this city, and she has no funds to travel, obviously. She's up a creek without a paddle.

She closes her eyes and thinks of her kitchen. Four cans of lentils, a loaf of bread. Some milk, some peanut butter. It isn't enough. She can sell her books and records but that'll only last so long. She lets the water creep over her face, until only her nose pokes out.

Under the water, she can hear her heartbeat in her ears, pounding steadily. With her eyes shut, it’s like nothing exists but her own body.

She could call her mother. She hasn’t spoken to her in almost a year, but she could try. Go home, sleep in her bedroom again. Be treated like a child- no. No go. She can’t go home, she couldn’t do it. There’s no assurance her mother would even let her come back, anyway.

She hold her breath and lets her head sink further, until she’s entirely submerged in the water. Other than her hair brushing her face, she can’t feel anything beyond her own weight. She isn’t weightless, but she’s floating.

She opens her eyes, letting them sting. The surface of the water is far above her- too far to ever swim. Rays of sunlight filter through, flickering and dancing down to reflect off of her, and illuminating small particles that waft all around her. She moves a hand through, and they stir and swirl around her fingers. The water is dark and fathomless, but alive.

Below her it descends for miles, fading into dark blue and then into black. She realises now that she’s sinking slowly, quietly slipping down to the depths. It’s peaceful. The water is warm around her, and it moves gently against her skin as she goes down. She watches the tiny particles drift up past her, like dust motes, spiralling up to the sun. She feels detached from her own body, like watching herself. The water’s surface grows farther and farther away.

She sits up in the bath suddenly, sloshing the floor. She clears the water out of her eyes with the back of her hand before lurching out for a towel. Almost drowsed off there, she thinks. Close call.

#term2

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

Text

Expanded journal story

One thing Kevin had learned very early on, back when he was a young intern with a spring in his step and hair on the top of his head, was that you couldn’t really escape the generators. They hummed at a low frequency, low enough that you weren’t quite aware of them when you were at work, but always present. At first, when he went home at the end of the day, he would feel a startling release when he left the lab. Like the shock of cold when a warm blanket is taken away. But these days, he took that blanket with him out of the lab, into his car, home to his apartment. The low, vibrating hum was always there, nestled into the crevices of his brain. He spent more and more time at the lab these past few years, and he’d come to accept the generators would never leave him. He would be an old man, lying on his deathbed, and the Kyoto-Marcel 16Hz Power Generator Series 4B would be there at his bedside. He didn’t mind. It was like a friend, like like a hand resting on his shoulder. The hum vibrated along his teeth- right at the back by his molars- as he made coffee. The machine coughed in a sickly way and stopped dribbling for a moment. He gave it a slap, and the steady pat-pat of coffee resumed. Scientific breakthrough of the century and we can’t even get working coffee makers, he thought. He gave a dirty mug in the sink a cursory rinse and refilled it, then made his way outside to the lab proper. Treading carefully over a coil of wires, he stepped over to where Dr. Jensen was sitting, hunched in front of a computer console. Blue light glinted off her dark hair and reflected in her irises. She was running through the simulation again. Checking for bugs? He handed her his coffee and she took it wordlessly, drank half of it in one go, and handed it back. He set it on top of her console. “Sleep?” “No.” Dr Jensen was young. She’d been on this project only six years. She had more dedication than anyone, except maybe him. He glanced at the lines of code on her screen, only half understanding her rapid commands. Her fingers hammered on the keys with undue force, and the sound of her typing echoed up to the ceiling, which was strung with cables, all running into the twelve cylindrical generators. Good old Kyoto-Marcels. When he’d started, there’d been two, and no wires. Now you could barely see any of the gunmetal walls. Turns out creating a wormhole means using a lot of energy. Dr. Jensen punched one key with enough vigor that he looked down. She leaned back with satisfaction. “Look at that.” He peered at the screen, where several lines of code were blinking. “It works, Kevin.” She smiled with cautious pride. “No counting chickens, Jensen.” She scoffed. “I ran through it four times tonight. The chickens have hatched. And they work.” He raised an eyebrow at her metaphor. “First things first, it’s morning.” He handed her his watch, and she peered at it. “Damn, look at that. Could have sworn it was three.” Then, “Wait-” “Launch soon.” She took a deep breath. “God. Can you believe it?” He looked up at the jungle-like tangle of wires hanging just over their heads, carrying power to the generators. In the flickering light, they look half-alive, like blood-vessels strung up to twelve hearts. The lab was one creature, all the computers and databanks and monitors its organs, the deep, rattling hum it’s sleeping breath. “No.” he said. Dr. Jensen stood up and stretched, blocking his view. She reached up to tug at her ponytail, her eyes bright, somehow, despite her lack of sleep. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? After all these years, it’s today.” The elastic snapped into her hand, and she shook her dark hair loose. “I can’t wait.” He nodded, reserved, and reclaimed his coffee cup from where she’d set it down. “Well, I’d better go talk to Dr. Amundsen about setting up a camera.” she said, and began to collect her scattered papers from her station. He nods again, lost in thought. He hadn’t really processed it until now- that after today, everything would be different. No more long nights at the lab, no more black coffee and tinkering with the switchboards. No more listening to the hum of the generators. He ran his hand over the top of one data storage unit to his left- very close to Dr. Jensen’s monitor, not up to code. If the experiment worked, there would be inspectors, cameras, reporters. The floor hummed under his feet with new intensity. They must be powering up the generators for launch. The lights were still off to save power, and in the gloom, they seem monolithic and massive, pulling all the energy in the room towards them. He felt caught up in their flow, as if he too was wired into them by a cable. He took off his shoes and flexed his sock feet on the floor. The vibrations ran through his body. What if he never felt this again? What if he’s removed from the initiative after the launch? It’s not uncommon, and they’ll need to save money. They had practically enough power to light a city in here. The fluorescent lights flickered on, and he heard Dr. Amundsen’s voice over the intercom. “Alright, launch is in five minutes. Please return to the observation booth.” He looked over his shoulder, where Amundsen’s bearded face scowled from the glassed-in booth above him. It’s all so soon. He placed his shoes carefully on the databank beside him, and padded up to Generator 8, the closest to him. He had to tread carefully over the wiring, as well as mugs and books that had been left on the floor. Under the harsh light, 8 glinted. It’s a massive steel and nickel cylinder, several feet taller than him and roughly the width of a door turned sideways. The sides were riddled with small ports trailing cable, and patched with bolts and panels where the machine has been opened, dissected, and re-sewn shut again. He placed his hand on it, and it's warm. Here, the rumbling was deepest- the power levels were at their highest yet in preparation for launch. They were waking the creature. He'd never stood next to the machines while they were on full power, and it was disconcerting, but also exciting. There was so much power here, and so much life. He set both hands on 8, and felt the vibrations run through his bones. Behind him, Amundsen’s voice rang out. “Kevin! Get in the booth!” He looked up at Generator 8. He looked at the glass booth behind him. He looked at the coils of wire running over the floor and ceiling. He closed his eyes and felt the deep, baritone hum of the generators working. And, very quietly, he opened his eyes and broke off a blue cable connected to the machine, shattering the plastic surrounding the port. He turned around. No one had seen. His shoes were still on the databank, and he slipped them back on before continuing up the winding staircase to the observation booth.Inside, Dr Amundsen, Dr Wen, and Dr Markus were jammed together. Dr Markus nodded hello. He scooted in, and took his seat at the front. Dr Jensen was perched on the central monitor. She waved at him, her eyes sparkling, and grinned wordlessly. He waved back. “All right, folks,” Dr Amundsen muttered. He gave Kevin a pointed look. “Glad we're all here. Launch in three, two, one...” Dr. Jensen took a sharp breath. “Now.” He pressed enter on his command. The generators wailed. He saw the plexiglass separating them wobble. The lights flickered in the booth. Five years of careful science and algorithms channeling and directing all that power, diverting it carefully, precisely. It was working. He felt a terrible, sick tension in the base of his throat. Beside him, Dr. Amundsen’s gaze was steady and unblinking. It's working. The generators screamed, louder, louder, power growing. There's no hum, he realises, panicking. There's no hum, just the high-pitched screech of machines working too hard. Then, suddenly, it's over. A warning signal blared, just before a shower of sparks burst from Generator 8. The booth lit up red with warning lights, and Kevin’s ears rang. Dr Wen, laser-focused, typed madly. Dr Jensen pressed her hand against the glass. The automatic sprinkler system went off, and the doctor leaned back in his chair. It’s over. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It's safe. Through the soles of his feet, he fet the everyday vibrations of the remaining eleven generators return. “All right, folks. No wormhole, huh?” Amundsen murmured Jensen snapped back to life.“Maybe it was the capacitor.” “Possible. Or an error in my calculations.” said Markus. “Not likely, Steve.” The room hums with chatter as they file out, back to the whiteboards and computer sims. He sips his coffee, and flexes his feet in his shoes. One more year of work, and one after that, and one after that, maybe. Another year, at least. Another year.

#term2

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oliviawriting12 · 8 years

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Journal #2 Term 2

“I have to go to the moon.”

“What?” She rattles the holoprojector- it’s been acting up lately.

“I have to go to the moon.” he says again, in a dejected tone.

She gazes evenly into his slightly pixellated face. There’s sunlight coming in through her curtains, making the projection dimmer. “Oh,” she tsks, “your dad?”

“Goddamn Leonard.” He strides restlessly across her living room, clipping through her couch. She tsks again- a nice, noncommittal response, she’s found, to Mr. Leonard Elroy Sadaf Jr.’s occasional tantrums.

“How long?” she asks, moving across the room to the kitchen set. Although it’s just past noon for her, for El it’s almost two AM. Of course, time on the Sabine is pretty relative, since outer space doesn’t exactly have days or nights. She’s been to space exactly twice, and both times she found the unchanging fields of stars outside the windows oppressive. El spends most of his time in space these days, engaged in unofficial diplomatic training, which she does genuinely pity him for. Although it’s hard to feel truly sorry for him when his projection is standing in the middle of her couch.

“A month! A month on the moon, Maria!”

She hums. “That might not be so bad. They’ve got a movie theatre there now, real shopping-”

“One single-screen theatre! Ten shops! Wow, just like life in Buenos Aires!” He halts at her expression, and bobs his head once in apology. She uses the pause to take an egg from her fridge and pop it in the microwave.

“I mean- I have all my friends either on the Sabine or in Buenos Aires, except you, and I’m going to have to leave everybody so I can go be introduced to some colonial ambassadors in crappy plasti-silk suits. I’m going to have to golf, Maria.”

“Boil.” she tells the microwave, and shuts the door. “There’s starving children on Cochrane V, El.”

“I know, but what am I supposed to do about it?”

She raises a mocking eyebrow. Rich kids. She’d been able to attend the same school as El through a government academic award, and he’d been the only kid who didn’t look askance at the cheap synthetic nutrient bars she brought for lunches. It’s only now with her job as an AI unit manager that she’s able to afford real eggs, apples, meat. If she’s being honest, it’s really only some proteins that real is better. For bread, milk, noodles, juice, even oranges, synthetic is close enough as to be indistinguishable. Mostly a status symbol these days. She remembered kids at school bringing real sushi, steak and swiss cheese sandwiches, for lunch. Just nutty.

El had been sweet, though. And he’d given her olives from his lunch everyday because she loved them. She pulls her boiled egg out of the microwave with tongs and peels it with her thumbs. She slices it carefully, relishing the fresh, earthy texture of the cooked yolk. Behind her, El chatters.

“I hate golf, Maria, I’m terrible at it. And we’ll have dinner with all the executives and diplomats and who knows who and I’ll use the wrong fork, or something. And Leonard will barb me about it for days. I mean, since when has it mattered, really, what fork you use?”

She finishes slicing her egg and gets some mayo from the fridge. She’ll have egg salad for lunch. “Maybe to British people?” she suggests humourously.

“There hasn’t even been a monarchy in 50 years.” He shakes his head. El was never good with jokes. “Anyway. Anyway,” he continues, “Can you believe it, Maria?”

She tastes her mayo-egg mix and reaches for the salt. “It might be interesting to meet some colonists. They could tell you about life on- oh, Tarsus, Io, Alpha Two. What it’s really like.”

“They won’t be real colonists, they’ll be ambassador colonists, and they’ll only want to talk about taxes and interstellar shipping rates. It’s going to be so depressing.”

She spreads her egg salad on two slices of bread. “Well, you could say no.”

He gives her a reprimanding expression, as if to say, Really?

“Yeah, dumb.We can still chat, though.”

“I’d like that- Oh, hey, hold on.” He presses his thumb and finger together, activating his comm, and the holo shorts out for a minute from the crossed signals. She cuts her sandwich down the middle, and is about to take a bite when he flickers back to life.

“It’s Leonard,” he says disappointedly. “I gotta go pick out shoes.”

She bats her eyelashes at him. “Poor baby, new clothes.”

He snorts, then sighs a little. “Call later?”

“Yeah. See you, El.” she says. He wavers, and the holo shuts off, leaving her room feeling less alive. She puts her sandwich on a plate to take it to her bedroom, wondering when he’ll call again.

#term2

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