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About the Author
Alister Flik grew up in a fundamentalist Christian home in the Midwest with a healthy variety of crazy available to her, and her middle child syndrome hardly affects her at all anymore. At 18, she moved to the West Coast, got a tattoo, and now lives happily as a quirky theist amidst the Portland heathens she so dearly loves. Her idols are Joan of Arc (crazy or not), Flannery O'Connor, and Daria. Her favorite superhero is the perfect superhuman combination of Joan of Arc, Flannery O'Connor, and Daria dressed in a cape, armor, boots, and armed with wit and a pen. She is currently looking for someone to illustrate this into a comic book.
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Vehicle (Pt. 1)
The shadow of the telephone wires fall parallel to the road and extend both directions from the car. It creates uncertainty as to whether one is going from or coming to this position. But these ropey shadows prove the sun, and the golden mood descends upon the town. One doesn't have to know one's future or past. In the present, even the approaching stop sign can't place an unwanted limit on the soul; not in the snug warmth the mind has found within the slight curvature of these black lines traced through the heart of the road by the benevolent light of the sun. It makes everything feel connected. A connection only threatened by the waves of sound extending as a cold threat from the car horn screaming behind; apparently unaware that these shadows, this sun, this road, these cars, are all one beneath this bright…

"Aw, shit."

Turning too late into the intersection, the telephone lines no longer offer their guiding trail to this direction, and the sun now supplies a hostile glare demanding submission.

"Now everybody's mad at me."

As the backdrop of shame falls into place, one free hand stumbles for sunglasses sliding maliciously toward the dirty car floor. These shady spectacles will stop for no man on their path to littered liberation. Their destination reached; the glasses slip seamlessly into the sightless cavern beneath the dashboard.

"Come on!"

Luckily, with the approach of another stop sign, an appropriate pause is supplied to dive into the unexplored depths of this: the refuge for so many lost items. The hand closes carefully around the smudged sunglasses in a delicate victory grip punctured with the tiny bits of rock and dirt pressing menacingly into the palm of the hand.

"Crap, I need to clean this car."

Head up, eyes protected against the sun's aggression, the car rolls onward in all its grime and glory. This neglected, protective world navigates the bipolar ambiguity of the engulfing reality outside. The power of a single finger takes precautions to prevent another honking interruption that could threaten thought. The finger points toward the portal to so many words and beats swimming together to offer splashed serenity for any listener. The inner realms of the vehicle are covered with waves of music dispersing a blanket of safety as a defense against doubts outside and as a distraction from the numerous self-poisoning doubts within the mind. Yet, this same safety allows a dangerous haven for the mind to wander, and the sounds open doorways to worlds of confusing memories tangled and knotted to the soul. Sorting through is tedious and painful enough to require it's own distraction, and the eyes refocus on the road with the clarity forced from fear of suffering.


Last edited by Alister Flik on June 4, 2008, 12:44 am
"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
 
Francis Meyrick

Delightful.
I read it several times. Each time I was struck by another quirk, another twist, another contrast, or another humor-ism.
Very entertaining. I laughed a few times.

When I wrote "Jeremy's War" I enjoyed just writing scenes I saw in my mind. I absolutely did not start at the front, and work my way through. I wrote it helter skelter. As and when I saw a particular part of the novel in my mind. Pretty soon, I had a beginning, a middle, and an end, with lots of very big gaps. Next thing, I had lots of little gaps. Filled them in, and I had a novel.
My point is this: I wonder if you should try something similar. Write up these 'flashes' of inspiration, such as this one, and start building up your character.
You have all the technical skills, and then some.

The storyline... Hm. Young dreamer woman goes on a voyage of self discovery, and....????

Speaking


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Wednesday, June 4, 2008 at 11:52:40

 
Francis Meyrick

You could have her feminine and thoughtful. And everybody wanting her to go and do a girly career. But she decides to be a helicopter pilot. Against everybody's wishes. Enters a mostly MAN world (there are only a few ladies), and struggles against stereotyping, male arrogance, inequality. But she has ONE instructor who helps her along. Etc.
Now you have a chance to play with all kinds of writer's mischief.


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Wednesday, June 4, 2008 at 12:15:02

 
Alister Flik

Ha ha. I think I will call the ONE helpful helicoptor instructor...Mancis Freyrick.

But seriously, thank you for the comments. I've already started writing a bit more on this. The character is still too abstract for the kind of story you've suggested, but I believe it can be developed into a much more concrete character with some more work. We'll see how it goes...I guess.


"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2008 at 00:24:38

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