I'm so friggin' busy this week. I want to cry, because it's making my head hurt.
Besides that... NaNoWriMo is killing me. I have the idea sitting in my head, but nothing comes out of my head the way I want it to. None the less...
Enjoy the prologue.

Prologue

The Institute of the Sciences, Los Angeles, CA

"The genome has been completed for months now, Dr. Krauss, and your lab has yielded no results."

"Au contraire, sir. The sequencing and encoding are finished. All that is left is the implantation. And that will occur sooner than you think."

The lights flickered on.

Mr. Alistair McDouglass stepped into the genetics laboratory, followed closely by Dr. Herman Krauss. McDouglass was a man of 50-some years, immaculately dressed in a suit, his wrist adorned with a Rolex watch. He possessed a thick, muscled jaw and a heavy-set figure; he was an imposing image in this particular genetics lab, and, glancing back at his companion, McDouglass fought to suppress a superior smile-- Dr. Krauss was visibly nervous, his handsome, lean face tight, his sky blue eyes darting from McDouglass to the lab equipment, as if the proof of his hard work would somehow still his German blood.

Dr. Krauss gestured to a bank of some sort, lifting up the lid delicately. A fog from the liquid nitrogen spewed from the top and glided down to cover the floor. In the half-light, Dr. Krauss appeared for all the world like a mad scientist.

Perhaps a mad scientist is not too far from the truth, McDouglass thought with half chill, half pleasure. In nine months, when the world sees what we have done, many will surely call us mad.

"All viable embryos, sir. Never to fear, your grant money has been well spent," Dr. Krauss assured, his voice slightly accented.

"And the surrogate?" McDouglass cast a wary glace at the embryo bank.

"Has already been determined," Dr. Krauss said quickly, "A woman from the astronomy department."

McDouglass raised an eyebrow. "I specifically requested a woman from the genetics department, Dr. Krauss," he said coolly, though his voice was laced with anger. "I would think that the graduate student who worked alongside you would love to be the surrogate."

"Sir, with all due respect, many of the women-- no, many of the researchers-- in the department would like to vandalize our lab. They do not approve of our… experiment."

For a few seconds, panic flashed across McDouglass' eyes. "I trust that nothing has been vandalized!"

"No, no!" Dr. Krauss exclaimed hurriedly. "We have taken the highest security precautions."

The tension in McDouglass' face slackened for a second, before it tightened again. "You have yet to explain why your partner is not eligible."

"My apologies, sir. We need a woman who has not yet had children. My student has a young son." Dr. Krauss paused for a moment. "We're afraid that primigravida woman's immune system will attack the developing fetus. An nulligravida woman's immune system will not be able to distinguish the correct DNA sequence as opposed to the altered DNA."

McDouglass nodded slowly. "I understand. Who have you chosen?"

"Dr. Nancy Pritchett, PhD in astronomy," Dr Krauss logged into a computer, its monitor lighting up suddenly with Dr. Pritchett's profile. "Her sole motivation in being the surrogate is for the money involved. She is running low on grant funds."

"No other candidates who would be motivated for a greater reason than money?" McDouglass asked, even though it was slightly hypocritical. My only motivation is for the fame and money that this experiment will bring. If I can pull this off, I will be able to start a bioengineering company; people will invest to see grander creatures created, or their beloved pets "brought back".

Dr. Krauss shook his head. "None will support our 'fanatical mission', as many have called it. Dr. Pritchett comes in tomorrow for the implantation."

McDouglass studied the picture of Dr. Pritchett as it flashed from portrait to profile.

So, last night, I had light homework. Yippee! I was going to read, write, watch Star Trek, and have a nice evening.
Did that actually happen? Nope. Of course.

So, I was in the master bathroom, because that's how I roll, and I espy this thing. Full of liquid wax. And I think that this wax stuff is the wonderful peachy stuff that makes your hands all soft... and of course, it wasn't.
It was the kind of wax that you take off your eyebrows with. So... I spent an hour and a half getting this sticky stuff OFF OF MY HANDS. ; _ ;
It was horrible.

I want to write something. Prose or brain vomit or what have you.

So... what has been going on in my life?

1. Patrick aka the guy from WAS who calls me all the time and thinks that I *might* go out with him even though he already knows that I like girls. He hasn't called me in a few days, probably due to his farktals essay (translated from Motherese, fractals essay). Ah well. I kinda miss talking to him, but then again he tends to delay my bedtime by A LOT so I can't say that I miss talking to him too much. I've been going to bed before 0:00 lately and I rather like that.

2. Thriller party. The prep has been EVIL. I had to fix the cat sanitarium floor and that took forever and don't forget the shitload of cobwebs that have to be annihilated. Decorating the barn with halloween stuff will be a pretty fun process.

3. I am commited to learning the Thriller this weekend, on top of everything else I'm doing.

There's a whole bunch of other stuff, but that can wait for another day.

And I really need to get back to the Tues-Thurs posts.
More at 23:00.

...and Bilbo. And, technically it's a day late, as their birthday were on the 22nd of September.

Homer is win. Understand? I love Homer.
Another thing:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Achilles_and_Patroclus
Is this not serious win/wtf?

I am definitely comparing Ishmael and Queequeg to these two. Oh, yes.
Furthermore... HOW DID I NOT NOTICE THIS? Especially after Melville.
Hmmmmm.

(Faramir is wondering why he's featured as the icon for *this* post.)

Of Roderick's daughter Margot. >.<

I'm angry. No, I'm not angry.
I'M FURIOUS.

Words cannot describe how pissed off I am.

( Cut, unless you really want to see me go Achilles. )

And now, Madi's probably angry with me, and I seem like an angry rage bitch.
Ah well. The madness will pass.

Enjoy the beginnings of a possible fanfic.

--

Captain James T. Kirk shifted his weight from side to side as he waited outside of the sickbay. His face felt drained of blood, his heart hammered in his chest as he stood and paced. His hands felt clammy and sweaty with stress, his whole body felt tense and trembling as the seconds ticked by, as the minutes were drawn out. On any other day, his first officer would remind him that his duties were to be on the bridge, commanding the crew of the Enterprise. But his first officer was not there by his side, not there to remind him, not there to comfort him with soft caresses and tender kisses. Kirk’s heart seemed to tighten within his chest, as the moments became seconds and the seconds became minutes.

 

Finally, the sliding doors creaked open, almost making Kirk jump with part surprise, part anxiety. “Bones…” he muttered softly, his eyes piercing Dr. McCoy with a worried gaze. “What—is he—how bad—?”

 

McCoy returned Kirk’s gaze, his face knit into a frown. “Jim,” he said quietly, placing a hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “Spock has damage to the temporal lobes. He cannot recall who he is, cannot recall any of his memories.”

 

Kirk felt as though a ball had lodged itself in his throat, his breath rattled in his chest as he took in McCoy’s words. “Spock’s memories—gone?” he whispered, the words caught in his throat.

 

“Jim…” McCoy started, trailing off. “When he hit his head during the Klingon onslaught, it directly affected the memory centers of his brain. He does not know where he is, what his name is…”

 

Kirk stiffened, swallowing painfully. “He will not remember his… relationships with anyone, will he?” His eyes fixed McCoy in a pained gaze. “He won’t—” Kirk’s voice cracked, uncharacteristic tears welled in his eyes. His heart ached unbearably.

 

McCoy’s expression mirrored Kirk’s hurt look. “No, Jim, he won’t remember how much he detested me,” McCoy paused. “Or how much he loved you.”

 

Kirk turned away from McCoy, slamming his fists against the wall in part frustration, part desperation. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” Kirk snapped, his voice laced with inconsolable sadness.

 

“Not everything can be fixed, Jim,” McCoy replied softly.

 

000

 

“Spock,” Kirk whispered softly, sitting by the Vulcan’s bed in the sickbay. “You can’t hear me, Spock, but the Klingons attacked us. They broke the peace treaty. A tremor from their phasers tossed us all about in the bridge, remem—” Kirk bit his tongue, the word “remember” seemed like poison to him. “The phasers tossed us all about. Jeopardized the ship, but you… suffered a head injury. And now you have no memories. You don’t remember your name, or where you were born, or who your parents were, or who I am. And the doctor doesn’t know if you’ll ever regain your memories. Memories of us.” Kirk reached out to grab Spock’s hand, resting pale on the bedsheets.  “Oh, Spock!” Kirk exclaimed, choking up. His entire body shook with sobs. “You’ve forgotten so much…  you’ve forgotten how to play the lyre, and how to play 3-D chess. You’ve lost all your encyclopedic knowledge. What will I do without you to be my first officer?”

 

Somehow, Kirk did not care so much what he’d do without his first officer. No, this was a matter of what he’d do without Spock as a friend—no, much more than friends. Kirk kissed Spock’s hand gently before placing it back down on the coverlet.  “Goodnight, Spock,” Kirk said softly. “Please remember…”

For the record, I sound like a zombie, and today was our first day of classes. My seminar, Politics and Culture (P&C) is pretty darn bomb. I dropped out of Yearbook, so now I'm taking physiology first trimester, stretch and strengthening second, and drawing and painting third. Yay... I am still undecided about taking the AP portion of Bio II. That, and my new math teacher is like a girl scout troop leader. Too early to tell whether or not she's good or bad. That, and I got seriously gypped. Had I taken AP Physics last year, I could have taken both AP Bio and AP Chem this year >.< Can't complain about A period study though.

So, two of my friends, Leesha and Liz, came out to ride yesterday. I was on Juliet, Liz was on Archie, and Leesha was on Seabi. So, all goes well while riding in the arena, and I think, hey, why don't we go trail riding?

Thing that slips my mind: Leesha's last experience trail riding culminated in a horse falling on her and putting 200 stitches in her leg.

Well, none the less, all goes well, until my dog decides to come along, and is rustling through the underbrush. That doens't help things much, especially after Liz (now on Seabi, after massive horse-swappage) and I do a quick detour to look at another trail. And that's when Archie starts to flip out a bit. So, we propose that Leesha and Liz swap horses, since Seabi is much more bombproof. That's when things took a turn for the worse. As Liz tries to get on Archie, Archie took the opportunity to BOLT BACK HOME.

Epic horsie fail.

"Jim" 

Spock was one of the two aboard the Enterprise who could go to the liberty of calling captain Kirk "Jim". Most of the crew was to call Kirk formally, as "captain or "sir", some, in certain situations, could deign to call the captain solely by his last name. No, Spock could transcend the service and address Krik with a nickname that he'd first used in the early days, when they'd first labeled themselves as friends: Jim. Of course, McCoy was the other to address the captain as such. But McCoy threw the name around, constantly using the nickname, even when given a military order. However, Spock knew well that McCoy served as Kirk's conscious, so perhaps this was understandable. After all, every time the captain doubted himself, McCoy was always there to offer "moral support", as humans called it. Spock was not adept at such things; he was too apathetic.

 

But Spock felt like, whenever he used Kirk's nickname, it wasn't out of light-heartedness, as sometimes McCoy used it. No, Spock used it only when the situation transcended their relationship as officer and captain, and emphasized their relationship as two closely-knit friends who had transversed a galaxy together. Only then did Spock use the nickname he had, at first, dismissed as silly and illogical, but now, "Jim" seemed quite logical indeed.

 

--

 

"Technicalities"

 

Scotty, technology office on the U.S.S. Enterprise, always kept himself busy whether on duty or off-duty, the only time one didn't find him working was when he was sleeping, and often time Scotty himself questioned that, his brain was constantly thinking of mechanics that he believed he dreamed of mechanics or his latest technical journals. But why, Scotty often asked himself, did he put out all the effort into knowing every scrap of information concerning the technology on the Enterprise? In Mr. Spock's words, there had to a reason, a logical explanation. Finally, Scotty could think of only one reason for the hours wasted on mechanics. Perhaps he was afraid that someday his skills, his knowledge would be lacking and he'd fail his captain; he'd fail the Enterprise. And nothing compared to the disappointed look in Captain Kirk's eye as he fixed someone with his stare.

 

--

 

"Hearing Things"

 

"Lieutenant Uhura here." Those three words often instigated her actions aboard the Enterprise. An earpiece  constantly  affixed to her head, sometimes Uhura wondered if someday, she'd start hearing voices in everyday life. She couldn't count the number of times she'd slip off into a daydream, only to hear a fast snap of static and the a voice. Perhaps an admiral of Starfleet asking to speak with Kirk, or maybe a crewmember who needed to be re-routed to Dr. McCoy, asking for a remedy for the common cold. Whatever it was, it seemed more like a voice that was trying to worm its way into her head, using her earpiece as a connection to her brain. And, whenever these paranoias took hold, Uhura had one simple remedy: bark "Lieutenant Uhura here" to Dr. McCoy and soon enough she'd have a cure for her headache.

 

--

 

"Addiction" 

 

Many of Chekov's crewmates laughed at him. "It's not an addiction," he'd snap, but the more he played his beloved video game, the more he came to realize. It was an addiction. But Chekov kept playing his video game, relishing in the fact that the captain hadn't shut the video game down, but he also didn't want to imagine a day when he couldn't play it. Shore leave would be hell without his video game, he decided, and cherished every moment with the console, which, Chekov assumed, must be the sort of feeling a heroin addict felt whilst high. But then he remembered something that Dr. McCoy had said, about a 21st century Earth game called "Tetris". According to the doctor, Tetris had helped soldiers with stress disorders; implying that video games must be some way of fighting stress. So now, when his crewmates taunted his "addiction", Chekov would smile and reply with, "not addiction. Stress relief."

I'm up in Canada, for a horse show. And the barn next to us had a basset hound puppy that would always come and say hi to me, every day. She'd come and lick my hand, tripping over her ears in the process. I've been sick with a cold, so these little greetings from the basset always managed to make me feel better, and I was very grateful for the attention this little puppy showed me.

Her name was Maple.

She had little maple-syrup-colored patches, and, I swear, she even had a maple leave-shaped patch. 

And today, I walk over to her pen, to see her not there, and I ask, "where's Maple?"

A lady replies with, "She passed away."

A smile played on my face, thinking that this was some sort of joke, the words 'yeah, right' were almost out of my mouth when the lady says, "I'm serious. She died last night. She drowned."

I felt as though someone doused me with cold water. I just... couldn't believe it.

So, requiescat in pace, Maple. Know that, in your short life, you've managed to touch my heart.

So. I had this dream.

George opened a coffee stand, and decided to include a secret ingredient in his coffee. This secret ingredient?

Some strange weed he found somewhere on his ranch. So, now George's coffee makes you high.

WTF or FTW?

Gods, I feel awful. And I don't think it's the horrible sunburn all over my face, which will probably give me cancer and then I will die young. Or the feeling that I'll have that same severe heat exhaustion that I had over at Paige's house, and which warranted a yelling-at by my mother. Because, apparently, I could have gone home. I don't think I would have withstood the car ride, anyway.

I feel completely useless. I haven't actually done my chores around the house for a while, since I've been gone or out at Legacy. And Shelly bitches at me, that I'm not "keeping up with my end of the promise" when that promise was all wishful thinking and nothing more and I need to be a help to people, not just throwing away my parents' money on horses I am probably not good enough to ride. I do not deserve the money that is sitting happily in my bank account.

Furthermore, I am desperately missing my Madi, to the point where I feel like calling her voicemail just to hear her voice and maybe her voice will cure my headache and my heartache and my loneliness.

Today, I heard a commercial that talked about the American Dream, and how owning a house and a car was part of that dream... to me, the American Dream died in a plane crash on February 3, 1959. Along with Buddy Holly.

Bye, bye Miss American Pie,
Drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry...

So, yeah, for the past week (June 28-July third) I was at my WAS residency, maybe I'll give you a full brief of what all happened, but yeah. We had this engineering challenge that was supposed to simulate a payload lofting into LEO (Low Earth Orbit), using a long line of fishing string, a straw, and balloons.

Well, Red Team (there's four teams, I was in Grey Team) got one really long and skinny balloon, like the type used in balloon animals, and two round balloons. The effect? You can guess.

The carcass of a ficlet is complete.

--

"Flare"

Darkness. Rain. The car was still... and then the impact tremors. And the earsplitting roar.

"Boy, I hate being right all the time," Dr. Ian Malcolm had said with a groan, flippant to the inherit danger.

"Keep still," Grant whispered softly, "its eyesight is based on movement..." he trailed off as Tim started fiddling with a flashlight. "Turn the light off, turn the light off--"

Hammond's little granddaughter made eye contact with the Tyrannosaur and let out a piecing scream.

What happened next felt like it proceeded in slow motion, and Ian Malcolm felt almost ashamed of his previous comment as the massive Tyrannosaur attacked the Land Cruiser; now the children were in danger-- even if Malcolm thought that the park was a foolish idea, he would never want to see someone be killed-- now the Tyrannosaur was getting closer and closer to the children, and there was not one thing that Malcolm could do to help. Wrapping the cuff of his shirt around his hand, he rubbed the windshield to remove the condensation. He wasn't the expert on dinosaurs, he would not know what the dinosaur would do, but he couldn't watch as the Tyrannosaurus Rex ripped the roof off the Land Cruiser, flipped it onto its sides, tore off the tires... every second seemed like it could be the children's last.

"Dr. Grant," Malcolm said under his breath, "we've got to do something. That...monster is going to kill them."

Grant turned to look at Malcolm, a look of disbelief written on his face. "What do  you suggest, Ian?"

Before Malcolm had a chance to speak, Dr. Grant quickly rummaged through the compartments in the backseat of the car. You'd think this was James Bond's Aston Martin, he felt like quipping.

However, now was not the time to quip.

Only once Dr. Grant had lit whatever he had pulled from the back, only then did Malcolm know what to do.

Flares. Flares would distract the Tyrannosaur from the children for long enough... Dr. Grant could run in, grab Timmy and Lex, and Malcolm could be the distraction. What would happen afterwards was beyond Malcolm, but it would save the children. Quickly he lit a second flare, jumped out of the vehicle, and shouted some quick obscenities at the Tyrannosaur.

What happened next was a blur in Malcolm's memory.

"Ian, freeze!"

"Get the kids!" Malcolm barked back, his eardrums throbbing from the decibel-crashing roar of the dinosaur.

"Get rid of the flare!"

"Get the kids!" Malcolm roared again, his own voice seeming small compared to the carnivore's bellows.

"Get rid of the flare!" Dr. Grant shouted one last time, but Malcolm did not hear it.

No, he only heard the snap-crack of the flare, the squelching sound of the mud, and the loud breathing of the Tyrannosaur as, suddenly, there was a searing pain trough his chest as the Tyrannosaur snapped down on him, and sharp teeth punctured his skin from his shoulder to his navel. He shouted in pain, but it was a forsaken shout, he would be dead here any second as...

The death blow never came.

Instead, he dimly recalled plummeting to the earth, landing, the sickening crunch of bones breaking as his left leg went startlingly limp. Even in the darkness, he could see the white bones sticking out of the skin. Malcolm never thought he was a weak man, but he wanted to retch. He could feel blood running down his leg from the wounds; he could feel the blood oozing out of the puncture wounds on his stomach, and, even if he was not seriously hurt, Malcolm realized that time was running out for him.

I'm going to bleed to death.

The pain sent throbbing waves through his body, every ounce of his being felt as if it was in excruciating pain. Malcolm tried to think of anything and everything he could possibly do to stem the blood loss, he needed to last until someone came out looking for them. If they came out looking for him. Or the Tyrannosaurus could be back to finish him, in which case, he did not want to be alive for that. None the less, he had to think of some way to stem the bleeding. Something. Anything. Without jostling his shoulder too much, as the wounds had started to coagulate--

Tourniquet. That would do it.

Feeling emboldened by his little speck of medical knowledge, Malcolm quickly undid his belt and wrapped it tightly around his bleeding leg. His shoulder was jostled and the blood wept afresh. Somewhere nearby, the Tyrannosaur roared. Malcolm closed his eyes, prepared for the impact tremors to return, ready to see those massive jaws, ready to be shaken to death like a doll, like those dolls that his daughter liked to play with...

Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Barely audible, he whispered goodbyes to the few people who would miss him.

He was ready.

I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

Goodnight.

Let us make it known. Alan Grant and Ian Malcolm are currently in a heavy battle for favorite character... but I think Ian Malcolm is winning out.

--
"Site B"

Dr. Ian Malcolm stared out the windshield, stuck in rush hour traffic; on his way to meet the other fruitcakes on this madcap rescue mission. The sun shone, but he did not feel the warmth. No, he was too chilled by what he had just learned from Hammond.

So there's a site B. Isla Sorna.

Not that he liked that. More dinosaurs. Of course.

He hated being right all the time. The dinosaurs had escaped on Isla Nublar, just like he had anticipated. Even though he had seen the electric fence repel the velociraptors earlier, his knowledge of chaos theory had told him that life would find a way. The dinosaurs had found a way to reproduce, right? Even though they were all bred as females. And wouldn't they have kicked it after seven days without the lysine? So much for that. He was about to head to an island, with dinosaurs. And this time, no fences.

If not for Sarah, he would not be going.

SCENE: Biology class
CHARACTERS: Adriana, Mr. Fenoli, Me

Adriana: What are we talking about today, Mr. Fenoli?
Mr. Fenoli: The fetal pig.
Me: Moo! *silence* I mean, oink.

So. Much. Homework!! *yelp*
Well, not really. Just the term paper for Sr. O'Dea, and *possibly* some math homework for Mr. Pesce. Any more homework, and I. Will. Cry.
Five paragraphs, plus works cited. Consider me dead.

Short crappy ficlet thing I wrote.

--

"Barefoot"

 

"Why do humans even bother to wear shoes? I mean, walk barefoot long enough and your feet get used to it. Sooner or later, tough feet will become a genetic trait and these--" Jalaen lai Sheelal held up the pair of dress shoes "--These will be useless. And people will ask you why you even *have* shoes in the first place. I go barefoot."

 

James Bond sighed, taking a short commercial break from devouring the Tim's Cascade chips. Jalaen sometimes seemed to be a child. Half the time he just excused her antics as normal for an alien, a stranger to Earth, but seriously, shoes? "Don't people wear shoes in your galaxy?" he retorted.

 

"Well, yes," Jalaen replied, casting the shoes off, "but people wear boots, not shoes... and it's different. A lot of species go without footwear. And you'd never force a pair of shoes on me."

 

James raised an eyebrow. "Late at night, while you're sleeping, I'll put some shoes on you!" he said, an air of goofiness about him. "But you'd never fall asleep..."

 

Jalaen smiled, a slight, devilish smile. "You must be getting psychic, Jamesie. Picking up on my brainwaves. Come on, there's a park nearby… no one will notice if you don't have shoes."

 

James sighed. "Jalaen, I don't think it’s a wise idea, going barefoot in New York."Ah, but there was no way he could resist the bewitching smile, the look in her eyes. "Fine. Outside we go."