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."

My doxie is luffable.
He looks like a prehistoric reptomammal.
Fear him.

Because ANY GOD would not permit 12,000,000 people to be abused, experimented upon, tortured, and slaughtered by one power-hungry monomaniac egotistical man, and millions of mindless people persuaded by his oratorial presence.

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

*adds prom onto the list of "Things I Need to Forget"*

Yesterday, we had a Fine Arts concert, with song and dance and drama and handbells... it's to orient the Freshwomen with the wicked awesome fine arts kids... but they didn't want to talk to me, which is normal. They tend to talk with the drama girls, the girls that are more visible, have more skills than I. I am just one of those faces in the choir; and, after all, drama is about making a show of oneself while choir is about blending into a group. Anyway, I think I already know which Frosh I want, just because I've known her since the beginning of time. 

--back to story--

Handbells were playing their song "Acension", it's such a gorgeous and deep piece that I absolutely adore and it sends shivers up my spine and--
I started crying.

I started crying because this was one of the last times I'd ever see some of handbells girls play, one of the last times I'd see some of the dancers dance, one of the last times I'd ever sing with some choirmates, some of the last times I'd ever see some of the thespians act. So the tears came. Gods, I will miss my senior friends so much it will hurt, and somehow I'm going to have to make it through next year without them.

And while the tears where coming, I realized that in a little less than a month, I will be a senior and then I will have a little more than a year to be around the wonderful and gorgeous underclasswomen as well as the fantastic people within my own class. Next May, I will have to get all teary-eyed as Ms. Seaton presents me a rose because this time, *I'll* be the one leaving.

And great, I'm about to cry again.

"Good morning, dear," a voice whispered sweetly in James Bond's ear, the voice thickly accented with something that sounded Ukrainian, but the person who owned that voice had never been to Ukraine, and probably didn't know of its existence. So, the accent couldn't be Ukrainian. James would settle for a Kaleesh accent, then. 

He opened his eyes to gaze into Jalaen's reptilian eyes. "Good morning, Jalie," he mumbled, knowing that Jalaen could understand his early-morning babble. However, this was disorienting. On normal days it would be him waking up Jalaen, not the other way around. If there was one weakness to her, it was that she slept far too deeply. But then again, she was on painkillers after her visit to the hospital. Gods, the hospital. He would keep Jalaen as far away from the hospital as he possibly could, now. He would also give her no reason to-- no, he blocked the thought from his mind. Jalaen was alive, that's what mattered. And she was his goddess.

However, what was more disconcerting was the fact that Jalaen was carrying a tray. What for? Too late he realized that Jalaen was carrying his breakfast. This too was highly irregular, as generally their breakfast was consumed in the kitchen, or at some small cafe, police-permitting. Moreover, the lovely scents of egg and bacon wafted through the air; on any normal day, cereal or last night's dinner would suffice. James wasn't even aware that they had bacon and eggs in the apartment. And, possibly the most disconcerting of all was that the food actually smelled tantilizing (James usually cooked, as Jalaen could never make anything decent). He managed to dispell the shock for long enough to say: "Thank you, Jalie."

Even in the darkness of the bedroom, James could see Jalaen blush. "It's nothing. I ran down the the grocery store this morning, because we didn't have anything, and then I got another tenant to help me out, some ranger from a fantasy land, he knew how to cook more-than-decent food in a short amount of time... I was afraid you'd be up by the time I got back, but maybe actually getting to sleep on the bed for once is a nice change, instead of the couch."

James could not help but smile as Jalaen turned on the lights, though not before adjusting the dimmer so that the influx of light wouldn't permanently blind James. Then, with a grin, she sent the tray down before James, displaying a heaping portion of scrambled eggs with cheese, bacon, tomatoes, peppers, and mushrooms, as well as some toast, some coffee, and some orange juice. "I can't eat all of this, Jalie, he said jokingly, before impaling some of the egg on the fork. He thought about using the knife, but somehow he figured that the knife wouldn't work half as well.

"Well, I can eat the leftovers," she said with a soft giggle.

"No, I think Jalie deserves breakfast right about... now!" he exclaimed as he force-fed Jalaen the impaled scrambled eggs.

Amazingly enough, she didn't choke, but the astonished look on his goddess' face was priceless. "James..." she muttered, her voice seething, before she took on a softer tack. "If that the way you want to do things..." she grabbed a piece of toast, permitting James to take a nice chomp out of the said toast.
 
And so it went, back and forth, exchanges of toast and eggs, and sips of coffee. Ocassionally the aim with the fork would be slightly off and there would be much apology and the kissing away of the offending tomato or mushroom. And finally, when breakfast was all done, Jalaen flopped down next to James, resting her head on his chest. He spent a few moments admiring how thick her long black hair was, it was more like a waterfall of black cascading from that lovely head, and with a contented sigh he quietly vowed to himself that he would make every day as happy and gleeful as he possibly could.

--

Such moments as those, James cherished. Where was Jalaen now? Maybe she had gone back home, back to a galaxy where she was treated fairly. Or was she waiting for him, in New York? He wasn't sure which thought pained him more. Even though, if she had gone home she would be unreachable, he'd never see her again, New York had been a cold, cruel place for her, a place where she could never fit in. But James couldn't decide which one he wished for the most: Unattainable, but happy, or waiting for him, but alone and persecuted?

It had been too long since he last saw her. Silently he cursed M-I6, for at first giving him that trip to New York (and indirectly, Jalaen) but only to rip him cruelly away from that happier life... but 00's were not supposed to love.

Jalaen ran her flesh-and-blood hand through her daughter's hair. Sheila's hair was caked with blood, her eyes were shut, her face covered with her own blood. Just to assure her madly beating heart, Jalaen felt Sheila's carotid artery. There. A steady pulse greeted Jalaen's nervous fingers. If it stays steady, she might pull through, Jalaen though hopefully, breathing out a sigh of relief. Sheila's still alive...

But how could Jalaen let this happen?! It was her fault! She had sent Sheila on the mission, she had sent Sheila to this torture! And now Sheila was in pain. More than in pain. Walking in the shadow of death. Jalaen's heart was wrenched inside her chest, this was her daughter, Sheila's blood was on her hands. Sheila's bad leg was missing now, all that was left was a blood, raggedly butchered stump, bound with a tourniquet.

The features of Sheila's face were tight and pained. Wordlessly, Jalaen grabbed a shot of morphine and carefully injected it. The lines on Sheila's face relaxed.

My horse tried to kill me today.

I get Anthrax in the mail tomorrow!!!
(Or maybe today. *fingers crossed*

Other than that, life has been a little sweet and mostly shitty.
I got a royal ass-kicking from Leesha, which I desperately needed, and I can take Madi to prom, if my mother will let me. We'll see what happens. Maybe I could kidnap her! haha.

Anyhow, life is better.

I AM UTTERLY DEFEATED BY YOU, FENOLI TEST.
I STUDIED SO GORRAM HARD, EVERY NIGHT FOR A WEEK.
MADE NOTECARDS. THE WHOLE SHEBANG.
AND YET, I MANAGED TO FAIL IT.
F*CK YOU.

(I apologize for the all-caps, but I need to get this out of my system.)

I am certainly NOT PERFECT.
At best, I am mediocre.
I am also sick of being compared to people who are obviously better than me.
"Why aren't you good at math, like Xanda?"
"Why don't you qualify for the USEF, like Steph?"
"Why don't you have a 4.0, like Adriana?"
"Why aren't you more organized, like Nancy?"
"Why aren't you a good artist, like Leesha and Liz?"
"Why must you be such a nerd, Elly isn't a nerd."

Every single day of my life, it is thrust in my face that I am not GOOD ENOUGH. Never good enough.
93% on PSAT. Not good enough to qualify.
4 on my AP US History test. Not good enough to be a 5.
And so it goes.

Always mediocre, with no specialty. No one says "Why aren't you a good Melville scholar, like Margot?"...

Emergency post!
Scene: bio class
Characters: Me, natsu_kashii 
Props: Big Ebola, three baby Ebolas in a petri dish

Me: *giggling* Look, here's the baby Ebolas, and the mommy Ebola!
natsu_kashii : They're a little darker brown than the mommy.
Me: They look like their daddy.
natsu_kashii : Where's the daddy?
Me: He died. x_x
natsu_kashii : In the war?
Me: Yeah, in the war. *pause* Poor little Ebolas will never know their father.
natsu_kashii : They told me enough. They told me you killed him!
Me: No, Ebola. I AM YOUR FATHER.
natsu_kashii and me: No! Noooo! That's not true! That's impossible! *sob*