The exercise:
Write about something that is: unsteady.
A long overdue return to the Wastelands is in order (thanks Greg for the nudge in the comments a while back). I am feeling inspired at the moment, so hopefully the next installment will not have to wait so excessively long.
It was cold enough today that I had to wear pants instead of shorts to work. First time since... May?
I even was rained on for a little bit in the afternoon.
Only 14 days of work remain.
Fall has arrived.
Mine:
I study the items in Master Francis' supply closet by the light of a fluttering, unsteady candle. My left hand is shakier than I would like it to be, but I've regained enough strength to do what I require. I think.
The sack at my feet is already mostly full of the supplies that I need but I am still in need of weapons. I am not impressed by what I've found in the closet. I grab one of Master Francis' needles and test its weight. Running from my fingertips to my elbow, it is certainly intimidating. I'd rather not get close enough to make use of it, but better safe than sorry.
I drop it into the sack and frown at the remaining options. Maybe I should have started with the tool shed where -
"Sebastien!" The automaton's form nearly fills the doorway between the workshop and the hallway leading to the bedrooms. I remind myself that I am doing nothing wrong. Well, not especially wrong.
"Xavier." A few moments of whirs and clicks pass before he speaks again. "Are you intending on killing Master Francis in his sleep?"
"What?"
"Because I must inform you that I cannot allow that."
"No, of course not! Why would I do that? Why would you think that?"
"Then what are you doing with Master's things in the middle of the night? You should be asleep. You still need to recover from your injuries."
"I have recovered enough." Close enough, anyway. "I am going to find the North Ridge Brigands."
"And what do you plan to do once you find them?"
"Blow one of their ships from the sky." The candle is shaking badly now, so I set it down on a nearby workbench. "With as many of them aboard it as possible."
"Ah, you wish to avenge the deaths of your friends."
"I had no friends aboard my ship," I tell him and it is true. I respected Captain Miranda but we rarely spoke. The crew meant little to nothing to me. They were a means to an end, that was all. "This is about the principle of the thing. A man cannot be blasted out of the sky and then walk away without a proper response. That would be cowardice."
"I see." A lengthier pause this time, filled with grinding and clicks. I'm beginning to wonder if Sebastien has malfunctioned when he says, "I will go with you."
"What? You can't abandon Master Francis like that."
"I will reprogram Scout V42 so that it can perform my duties for our Master during my absence. I have done it before."
"Okay... but why would you want to help me?"
"The Brigands are not good people, Xavier. They have done harm to many innocent men and women... and automatons. I will not miss an opportunity to see them pay for their misdeeds. If you are able to get even with them in the process, all the better."
"Oh, I do not intend to get even, Sebastien," I say with a grim smile. "I intend to come out of this well ahead. Those bastards owe this pilot a ship."
Showing posts with label Wastelands. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wastelands. Show all posts
Monday January 16th, 2017
The exercise:
Write about: the next step.
I'm returning to the Wastelands for this one. In order to do that more easily, I needed to label all the related posts because apparently I hadn't already done that.
Had a good day with Nicky and my family. Spent the morning with Miles while Kat and Max were at StrongStart, then the afternoon with Max (featuring a rather spectacular session of soccer class).
She'll be stopping by again tomorrow morning before having to catch a mid-afternoon flight to Calgary from Penticton. We shall see what sort of madness we can cram into the three or four hours we'll have together.
Mine:
I'd had my doubts about the splint Master Francis had affixed to my left hand - two short pieces of wood tightly wrapped in three leather straps - but I have to admit it has done its job. The ache in my wrist is nearly gone now, and he says we should be able to remove it within a few days.
And then what? That had been the question he posed to me over dinner this evening.
"Sebastien tells me that Scout V42 has returned from your crash site with sufficient evidence - his words, not mine - that you were indeed brought down by the North Ridge Brigands. So I suppose revenge is one possible course of action for you."
"Hmm," I'd said without making eye contact. The food was simple but good, so I focused on that instead.
"Or you could continue on your journey to the west. Try to discover what your Captain Miranda had been seeking." Master Francis had been trying to avoid dipping the end of his long white beard in his soup, with mixed results. "Though, to be entirely honest, I have no idea what that might be and I have lived in this place for a very long time."
"Right," I'd said, stirring my soup with slow circles of my wooden spoon. That had originally been my plan but my time with Master Francis and his inventions had been a pleasant distraction and I wasn't sure that I was ready to leave them behind.
Besides, I still needed to win my money back from Sebastien. I could have sworn he cheated at cards, I just couldn't prove it.
"Alternatively," Master Francis had continued after sipping from his cup of water, "you could, if you'd care to, stay on here for a while longer. Sebastien has enjoyed your company and... I suppose I have as well."
"That is kind of you," I had said.
"Don't go thinking it would be a nice vacation or nothing like that though," he'd said, pointing a heavily wrinkled finger at my face. "I dare say you'd need to put in some work here to repay me for all that I've done for you."
"That's fair," I'd said, trying to hide a smile.
"Anyway, take a few days to make up your mind. Just don't take all year about it, all right?"
"Of course."
Now here I am, lying in bed, mulling over my options. And I think I already know which path I will choose. But I'm also wondering whether or not I could pursue more than one of those choices at the same time.
Because as much as I wish to repay my debt to Master Francis, I am also not the sort of man to simply forget about those who have blasted me out of the sky.
Write about: the next step.
I'm returning to the Wastelands for this one. In order to do that more easily, I needed to label all the related posts because apparently I hadn't already done that.
Had a good day with Nicky and my family. Spent the morning with Miles while Kat and Max were at StrongStart, then the afternoon with Max (featuring a rather spectacular session of soccer class).
She'll be stopping by again tomorrow morning before having to catch a mid-afternoon flight to Calgary from Penticton. We shall see what sort of madness we can cram into the three or four hours we'll have together.
Mine:
I'd had my doubts about the splint Master Francis had affixed to my left hand - two short pieces of wood tightly wrapped in three leather straps - but I have to admit it has done its job. The ache in my wrist is nearly gone now, and he says we should be able to remove it within a few days.
And then what? That had been the question he posed to me over dinner this evening.
"Sebastien tells me that Scout V42 has returned from your crash site with sufficient evidence - his words, not mine - that you were indeed brought down by the North Ridge Brigands. So I suppose revenge is one possible course of action for you."
"Hmm," I'd said without making eye contact. The food was simple but good, so I focused on that instead.
"Or you could continue on your journey to the west. Try to discover what your Captain Miranda had been seeking." Master Francis had been trying to avoid dipping the end of his long white beard in his soup, with mixed results. "Though, to be entirely honest, I have no idea what that might be and I have lived in this place for a very long time."
"Right," I'd said, stirring my soup with slow circles of my wooden spoon. That had originally been my plan but my time with Master Francis and his inventions had been a pleasant distraction and I wasn't sure that I was ready to leave them behind.
Besides, I still needed to win my money back from Sebastien. I could have sworn he cheated at cards, I just couldn't prove it.
"Alternatively," Master Francis had continued after sipping from his cup of water, "you could, if you'd care to, stay on here for a while longer. Sebastien has enjoyed your company and... I suppose I have as well."
"That is kind of you," I had said.
"Don't go thinking it would be a nice vacation or nothing like that though," he'd said, pointing a heavily wrinkled finger at my face. "I dare say you'd need to put in some work here to repay me for all that I've done for you."
"That's fair," I'd said, trying to hide a smile.
"Anyway, take a few days to make up your mind. Just don't take all year about it, all right?"
"Of course."
Now here I am, lying in bed, mulling over my options. And I think I already know which path I will choose. But I'm also wondering whether or not I could pursue more than one of those choices at the same time.
Because as much as I wish to repay my debt to Master Francis, I am also not the sort of man to simply forget about those who have blasted me out of the sky.
Sunday April 17th, 2016
The exercise:
Write about: the master.
Fun fact: even though my last installment of the Wastelands was March 10th, I haven't actually replied to the comment on that post yet. So, so far behind.
Anyway. Had a good family day. Spent a good part of the morning playing construction games with Max in the dirt, then went for lunch at our favorite coffee shop with all four of us. After we got back Kat and Miles had a rest while Max and I went up to Kat's parents garage and made a wooden bench to replace the wobbly piece of crap I made as a shoe rack... I'm not sure how long ago. A few years, I think.
At any rate, I made sure this one will be more stable. Max had fun helping out, but mostly he worked on his own bench. Which, apparently, we'll use when the one I made gets too wobbly and needs replacing.
This kid, you guys.
Mine:
"What have we here?"
"Who, Master. I have brought you a fellow human."
"I can see that, Sebastien. So... who have we here?"
"An airship crash survivor. As unlikely as that may seem, with his injuries and physical deterioration his story aligns with the most recently reported attack by the North Ridge Brigands. He is, as you might say, not in a good way."
"And who is, these days?"
I hear the approach of slippered feet but keep my eyes closed and my breathing regular. I'm weak - probably weaker than I want to admit - but I can still fight if I need to. Not that I think I'll need to, but I'll be ready if it comes to that.
"I have sent Scout V42 to investigate the crash site and search for other survivors, Master. And to scavenge any useful parts."
"Good lad."
He places a hand on my chest, almost tenderly. I manage not to flinch but I can feel a cough clawing its way up my throat. I try to swallow it inconspicuously but that only makes it worse.
"Fetch my medical bag, Sebastien. I'll need to use my needle to re-hydrate him. And get a pot of vegetable soup started. Make sure that you blend everything thoroughly, so that our guest will be able to ingest it more easily."
"Yes, Master. Should I bring the restraints?"
"Hmm... yes, better to be safe than sorry. It is a rather large needle, after all."
"What?" I open my eyes and try to sit up but he holds me in place with little effort. "What are you going to d-"
The rest of my words are destroyed by a coughing fit that lasts only seconds. It feels like an hour. When I'm finally able to regain control of my breathing my eyes are watering and my chest and throat are burning.
"Relax, visitor. You are safe here. In time, I will bring you back to full health."
"Who are you?" What does it matter, really? But right now I feel like I know nothing, so even the knowledge of this man's name feels somehow valuable.
"You may call me Master Francis."
Write about: the master.
Fun fact: even though my last installment of the Wastelands was March 10th, I haven't actually replied to the comment on that post yet. So, so far behind.
Anyway. Had a good family day. Spent a good part of the morning playing construction games with Max in the dirt, then went for lunch at our favorite coffee shop with all four of us. After we got back Kat and Miles had a rest while Max and I went up to Kat's parents garage and made a wooden bench to replace the wobbly piece of crap I made as a shoe rack... I'm not sure how long ago. A few years, I think.
At any rate, I made sure this one will be more stable. Max had fun helping out, but mostly he worked on his own bench. Which, apparently, we'll use when the one I made gets too wobbly and needs replacing.
This kid, you guys.
Mine:
"What have we here?"
"Who, Master. I have brought you a fellow human."
"I can see that, Sebastien. So... who have we here?"
"An airship crash survivor. As unlikely as that may seem, with his injuries and physical deterioration his story aligns with the most recently reported attack by the North Ridge Brigands. He is, as you might say, not in a good way."
"And who is, these days?"
I hear the approach of slippered feet but keep my eyes closed and my breathing regular. I'm weak - probably weaker than I want to admit - but I can still fight if I need to. Not that I think I'll need to, but I'll be ready if it comes to that.
"I have sent Scout V42 to investigate the crash site and search for other survivors, Master. And to scavenge any useful parts."
"Good lad."
He places a hand on my chest, almost tenderly. I manage not to flinch but I can feel a cough clawing its way up my throat. I try to swallow it inconspicuously but that only makes it worse.
"Fetch my medical bag, Sebastien. I'll need to use my needle to re-hydrate him. And get a pot of vegetable soup started. Make sure that you blend everything thoroughly, so that our guest will be able to ingest it more easily."
"Yes, Master. Should I bring the restraints?"
"Hmm... yes, better to be safe than sorry. It is a rather large needle, after all."
"What?" I open my eyes and try to sit up but he holds me in place with little effort. "What are you going to d-"
The rest of my words are destroyed by a coughing fit that lasts only seconds. It feels like an hour. When I'm finally able to regain control of my breathing my eyes are watering and my chest and throat are burning.
"Relax, visitor. You are safe here. In time, I will bring you back to full health."
"Who are you?" What does it matter, really? But right now I feel like I know nothing, so even the knowledge of this man's name feels somehow valuable.
"You may call me Master Francis."
Thursday March 10th, 2016
The exercise:
Write something that has to do with: clockwork.
Yeah, the Wastelands haven't left my thoughts quite yet...
I spent this morning rearranging furniture and organizing stuff in Max's room. There's a lot more space for him to play in there now and I think the layout works better in general. Thankfully he approved of the changes when he got home from daycare.
This afternoon I got started on filing our taxes for 2015. Not my favorite thing ever, but it was good to get it started and I'm hoping to finish it off tomorrow morning.
Mine:
The ache of my broken wrist is a constant companion. My only one, so I can't help but treasure it just a little. It is a reminder that I am still alive, that all of this is not some unending nightmare.
How many days have come and gone since my airship was blasted out of the sky? Five, I think. They blend together in my memory. Though the landscape changes as I continue westward, it all feels the same. Boulder after boulder, dusty ravine after dusty ravine, with no signs of wildlife to be found other than the distant, screeching calls of falcons high above.
I chase the western horizon, as best I can, because this is the way Captain Miranda had been taking us. Perhaps, if I survive long enough, I will find what she was seeking. Whatever in the hell that might be.
My canteen is empty now. It has been a day (or is it two now?) since I last discovered clean water. My throat aches at the memory. If things continue like this, it is difficult to imagine me lasting much longer. But I continue to drag one foot in front of the other, for what choice do I have?
I reach the end of my most recent canyon and the path rises steeply before me. Under ideal circumstances it would only take me five minutes to reach the crest; I probably wouldn't even really notice the incline. But now... now I shudder in dread at the mere sight of it. The climb takes too much out of me, and far too long. I have to crawl the last few feet and don't attempt to rise until my heart stops threatening to burst through my chest.
"Up we go," I mutter through cracked lips, pushing myself off the ground.
"Who goes there?" The voice is not fully human. There is a metallic quality about it that is vaguely unsettling. On my hands and knees I am reluctant to look up. "I repeat: who goes there?"
"Xavier Daniels," I say. "Helmsman to a fallen airship. I come from the -"
"That is more information than I require at this time." I hear clicking and grinding as I feel a shape bend over me. "Can you stand?"
"I... could use a hand."
"That I do not have to offer." More clicks, some whirring now. "However, I do have this."
Something grabs hold of the back of my shirt and hauls me upward until my feet are dangling a few inches off the ground. I look up slowly, taking in dull brass legs, an abdomen covered with turning gears and dials, up to a face dominated by two large, oval pieces of glass. They look like they belong at the end of a telescope.
Only they are moving as though they are looking at me in the same manner as I was just looking at it.
"You are badly injured and malnourished." I want to ask it not to harvest me for parts but I don't have the energy to crack the joke. "I will take you to my master. He may be able to help you."
"May?" I repeat as I let my head sag back down. I watch the ground move below me for a few jerking steps before deciding closing my eyes is a better idea. "I like the sound of those odds."
Write something that has to do with: clockwork.
Yeah, the Wastelands haven't left my thoughts quite yet...
I spent this morning rearranging furniture and organizing stuff in Max's room. There's a lot more space for him to play in there now and I think the layout works better in general. Thankfully he approved of the changes when he got home from daycare.
This afternoon I got started on filing our taxes for 2015. Not my favorite thing ever, but it was good to get it started and I'm hoping to finish it off tomorrow morning.
Mine:
The ache of my broken wrist is a constant companion. My only one, so I can't help but treasure it just a little. It is a reminder that I am still alive, that all of this is not some unending nightmare.
How many days have come and gone since my airship was blasted out of the sky? Five, I think. They blend together in my memory. Though the landscape changes as I continue westward, it all feels the same. Boulder after boulder, dusty ravine after dusty ravine, with no signs of wildlife to be found other than the distant, screeching calls of falcons high above.
I chase the western horizon, as best I can, because this is the way Captain Miranda had been taking us. Perhaps, if I survive long enough, I will find what she was seeking. Whatever in the hell that might be.
My canteen is empty now. It has been a day (or is it two now?) since I last discovered clean water. My throat aches at the memory. If things continue like this, it is difficult to imagine me lasting much longer. But I continue to drag one foot in front of the other, for what choice do I have?
I reach the end of my most recent canyon and the path rises steeply before me. Under ideal circumstances it would only take me five minutes to reach the crest; I probably wouldn't even really notice the incline. But now... now I shudder in dread at the mere sight of it. The climb takes too much out of me, and far too long. I have to crawl the last few feet and don't attempt to rise until my heart stops threatening to burst through my chest.
"Up we go," I mutter through cracked lips, pushing myself off the ground.
"Who goes there?" The voice is not fully human. There is a metallic quality about it that is vaguely unsettling. On my hands and knees I am reluctant to look up. "I repeat: who goes there?"
"Xavier Daniels," I say. "Helmsman to a fallen airship. I come from the -"
"That is more information than I require at this time." I hear clicking and grinding as I feel a shape bend over me. "Can you stand?"
"I... could use a hand."
"That I do not have to offer." More clicks, some whirring now. "However, I do have this."
Something grabs hold of the back of my shirt and hauls me upward until my feet are dangling a few inches off the ground. I look up slowly, taking in dull brass legs, an abdomen covered with turning gears and dials, up to a face dominated by two large, oval pieces of glass. They look like they belong at the end of a telescope.
Only they are moving as though they are looking at me in the same manner as I was just looking at it.
"You are badly injured and malnourished." I want to ask it not to harvest me for parts but I don't have the energy to crack the joke. "I will take you to my master. He may be able to help you."
"May?" I repeat as I let my head sag back down. I watch the ground move below me for a few jerking steps before deciding closing my eyes is a better idea. "I like the sound of those odds."
Sunday February 28th, 2016
The exercise:
Write about: the dark season.
I'm going to pretend that today will be the end of my steampunk writings for now. We'll see what tomorrow brings, I guess.
But for now, I'm bringing things back to a scene that took place before my opening on Thursday. Because, apparently, that was not where this tale began.
Mine:
It's coming was spoken of, but not by those who had a reputation for sanity that they wished to maintain. Old men in tattered robes stood or sat on street corners and warned passersby of what was to come. Toothless hags screamed from their bedroom windows at anyone who came within earshot.
The dark season will soon be upon us, they said. Get yourselves ready.
Ready to do what? a few bothered to ask.
To leave, they replied. Every last one of them said it. To leave.
When it came at last we thought it was just another winter. The grey clouds arrived to cover the sky at their usual time. Warmth seeped slowly away. There were no early indications that it would be a winter without end.
Captain Miranda was one of the first to start assembling a flight crew. When I agreed to be her helmsman I didn't know where we were headed or why. I was in need of a job, that's all. My desire to leave the city had nothing to do with that itch at the back of my neck that kept telling me that something was deeply wrong.
Nothing at all.
We launched at night. While it was certainly unusual, it was also not unheard of. At any rate, no one tried to stop us. No crew member left word of where we were headed. I don't think any of us had anyone to tell, really.
When we reached the edge of the Wastelands two days later there were some murmurings among the crew but it never neared mutiny. We trusted Captain Miranda. She had told us we were going to find the sun again and we believed her. Each of us would follow her orders to the very end, there was no doubt of that.
Even if it meant flying over the most dangerous, inhospitable terrain our planet had to offer.
Write about: the dark season.
I'm going to pretend that today will be the end of my steampunk writings for now. We'll see what tomorrow brings, I guess.
But for now, I'm bringing things back to a scene that took place before my opening on Thursday. Because, apparently, that was not where this tale began.
Mine:
It's coming was spoken of, but not by those who had a reputation for sanity that they wished to maintain. Old men in tattered robes stood or sat on street corners and warned passersby of what was to come. Toothless hags screamed from their bedroom windows at anyone who came within earshot.
The dark season will soon be upon us, they said. Get yourselves ready.
Ready to do what? a few bothered to ask.
To leave, they replied. Every last one of them said it. To leave.
When it came at last we thought it was just another winter. The grey clouds arrived to cover the sky at their usual time. Warmth seeped slowly away. There were no early indications that it would be a winter without end.
Captain Miranda was one of the first to start assembling a flight crew. When I agreed to be her helmsman I didn't know where we were headed or why. I was in need of a job, that's all. My desire to leave the city had nothing to do with that itch at the back of my neck that kept telling me that something was deeply wrong.
Nothing at all.
We launched at night. While it was certainly unusual, it was also not unheard of. At any rate, no one tried to stop us. No crew member left word of where we were headed. I don't think any of us had anyone to tell, really.
When we reached the edge of the Wastelands two days later there were some murmurings among the crew but it never neared mutiny. We trusted Captain Miranda. She had told us we were going to find the sun again and we believed her. Each of us would follow her orders to the very end, there was no doubt of that.
Even if it meant flying over the most dangerous, inhospitable terrain our planet had to offer.
Saturday February 27th, 2016
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: the inscription.
Steampunk obsession continues. For reference, imagine mine carved into a stone that my narrator encounters after wandering aimlessly through the Wastelands for two or three days.
Spectacular late morning to mid-afternoon here today. We had lunch on the deck for the first time this year, and I was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals when I went into town shortly after that.
Of course, it still gets wickedly cold in a heckuva hurry once the sun starts to go down. But my goodness, is the sun ever glorious when it's hanging out in a clear blue sky.
Mine:
There is a town filled with beautiful women,
That only serves ice cold beer;
But concern yourself not with this place my friend,
For it is far, far from here...
Write a four line poem about: the inscription.
Steampunk obsession continues. For reference, imagine mine carved into a stone that my narrator encounters after wandering aimlessly through the Wastelands for two or three days.
Spectacular late morning to mid-afternoon here today. We had lunch on the deck for the first time this year, and I was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals when I went into town shortly after that.
Of course, it still gets wickedly cold in a heckuva hurry once the sun starts to go down. But my goodness, is the sun ever glorious when it's hanging out in a clear blue sky.
Mine:
There is a town filled with beautiful women,
That only serves ice cold beer;
But concern yourself not with this place my friend,
For it is far, far from here...
Friday February 26th, 2016
The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about something that takes place: at the break of dawn.
I, um, may be getting caught up in whatever it was that I started yesterday.
With Kat's parents still feeling ill, I had Max this afternoon. We ran a few errands in town together and then we came back to the farm to pick up Natalie so that they could play together at the park.
It was such a warm, sunny day that there were plenty of kids already there when we arrived. I had the car window rolled down on the way there and was just wearing a light long-sleeve and jeans until the sun decided to hide behind some clouds around 4 o'clock.
Spring, spring, spring, springity spring...
Mine:
The first rays of sunshine wake me to the start of a new day. It takes a few moments to realize that I am curled into a ball on hard-packed earth.
I ease into a sitting position, noting at least four severe injuries that I can't recall incurring, and find myself staring at the blackened wreck of my airship less than a hundred feet away.
Within an hour I know that there are no other survivors, my left wrist is broken, and that I am, undeniably, stranded somewhere in the Wastelands.
Write four lines of prose about something that takes place: at the break of dawn.
I, um, may be getting caught up in whatever it was that I started yesterday.
With Kat's parents still feeling ill, I had Max this afternoon. We ran a few errands in town together and then we came back to the farm to pick up Natalie so that they could play together at the park.
It was such a warm, sunny day that there were plenty of kids already there when we arrived. I had the car window rolled down on the way there and was just wearing a light long-sleeve and jeans until the sun decided to hide behind some clouds around 4 o'clock.
Spring, spring, spring, springity spring...
Mine:
The first rays of sunshine wake me to the start of a new day. It takes a few moments to realize that I am curled into a ball on hard-packed earth.
I ease into a sitting position, noting at least four severe injuries that I can't recall incurring, and find myself staring at the blackened wreck of my airship less than a hundred feet away.
Within an hour I know that there are no other survivors, my left wrist is broken, and that I am, undeniably, stranded somewhere in the Wastelands.
Thursday February 25th, 2016
The exercise:
Today let us take the opportunity to write some: steampunk.
It's a genre that captures my imagination on occasion but only rarely seem to explore. I saw something on Facebook the other day that reignited my interest but I'm not going to try to find it now, because Facebook is a hot mess.
Max had another good day at daycare. Natalie was back there after skipping Tuesday to go meet her new sister in Penticton. That was the first time Max had been there without her and it was totally fine, which is a relief.
Now we don't feel like we have to match days with her, though obviously that's the preference. Just allows for a little more flexibility on our part.
Mine:
Standing at the elevated rear of the ship, one gloved hand on the tiller, I keep one eye on the movements of the crew and the other on the airspace ahead of us. I listen to the soft, regular hisses coming from the engine and the chimes being sounded by the navigational instruments. My nostrils are filled with the scents of oil and leather and gunpowder. I relish the cool breeze on the exposed skin of my face and arms.
I do not look down.
We are flying over the Wastelands. Have been for days now. There is nothing to see down there, or at least there is nothing I want to see. The only thing I need to know about the Wastelands is that there is no safe place to land a ship.
Beyond that... inquiring minds will only find madness.
I have been told that it does not go on forever, that there is something beyond its far edge. What that might be, when we might arrive, and who may reside there? These are not my concerns. I am not the captain.
That doesn't mean I'm not curious, of course. But I have my duties and that is where my focus remains. For now, at least. Our fuel reserves are fine for the time being but we will have to land eventually. This cannot continue forevermore.
And the captain does not strike me as the sort of woman who intends to test the hospitality of the Wastelands. So she must have some idea of what she is doing. Right?
Three rapid bells from the navigational instruments. And again. We have company. Perfect.
I needed something else to think about.
Today let us take the opportunity to write some: steampunk.
It's a genre that captures my imagination on occasion but only rarely seem to explore. I saw something on Facebook the other day that reignited my interest but I'm not going to try to find it now, because Facebook is a hot mess.
Max had another good day at daycare. Natalie was back there after skipping Tuesday to go meet her new sister in Penticton. That was the first time Max had been there without her and it was totally fine, which is a relief.
Now we don't feel like we have to match days with her, though obviously that's the preference. Just allows for a little more flexibility on our part.
Mine:
Standing at the elevated rear of the ship, one gloved hand on the tiller, I keep one eye on the movements of the crew and the other on the airspace ahead of us. I listen to the soft, regular hisses coming from the engine and the chimes being sounded by the navigational instruments. My nostrils are filled with the scents of oil and leather and gunpowder. I relish the cool breeze on the exposed skin of my face and arms.
I do not look down.
We are flying over the Wastelands. Have been for days now. There is nothing to see down there, or at least there is nothing I want to see. The only thing I need to know about the Wastelands is that there is no safe place to land a ship.
Beyond that... inquiring minds will only find madness.
I have been told that it does not go on forever, that there is something beyond its far edge. What that might be, when we might arrive, and who may reside there? These are not my concerns. I am not the captain.
That doesn't mean I'm not curious, of course. But I have my duties and that is where my focus remains. For now, at least. Our fuel reserves are fine for the time being but we will have to land eventually. This cannot continue forevermore.
And the captain does not strike me as the sort of woman who intends to test the hospitality of the Wastelands. So she must have some idea of what she is doing. Right?
Three rapid bells from the navigational instruments. And again. We have company. Perfect.
I needed something else to think about.
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