For Shame!

Now, I know that I've been MIA for a couple weeks but there are so many things going on that logging them too would kill off what little free time I've got. I'm starting a new book tomorrow (yes, AGAIN, bite me) and I'm trying to focus my energy there. I'll just feel solace in the fact that none cares that this blog gets updated less often than the Farmer's Almanac.

Yesterday, I felt like I was 13 again. No, I'm not talking about pimples or hair in weird places, I'm talking about the infinite shame that one feels when asked something from his tutor and catches himself not paying attention.
I mean, when I was a teacher last year, I kept catching wee ones not paying attention then went on to ask them WHY weren't they paying attention.

Mental note to self. DON'T DO IT.
Or at least do it and be as cool as Kevin was yesterday about it.

So, we are writing an excercise, a short story centered on dialogue. We've got 45 minutes to write it.
Long story short, the tutor says "aight, pencils down please" and summarily asks one of the postgrads to read her own. I must admit, I was half paying attention to her words, half-looking at the end of my story which needed just two more lines that i HAD to write before they were flushed down the void of "Shit-I-forgot-it-land".

I wrote the two lines then went back to listening to Kirsty. Obviously I had no idea what she was talking about, apart from her eloquent and composed writing.
So, then, she stops and the tutor summarily aims the proverbial gun at me.
"Dinos what did you think of Kirstie's story?"
This must have been the longest silence in the history of my years since junior high school.

Maybe 8 seconds of vocal Erevos.

2 choices. Talk bullshit about how the subtext is percolating in the female character's voice and the conflict between the two characters is perceived throughout by the subtle hints of their interaction.
I mean that was the point of the exercise and I am positive that Kirstie did a good job as she always does.
(Damn, I should have said something like that in retrospect.)

I was honest though, so I bit the bullet.

I went on to say "I'm so sorry but I've only heard the 2nd part because I just wanted to finish my piece before I lost it. I'm so sorry." (I think I said I'm so sorry about 6 times, and also thought about it a few hundreds more.)
At least, the tutor and the others laughed about it and gave me some credit for being honest (to be frank, I wasn't the only one trying to finish my piece at the time) but I felt so bad for my colleague. It wasn't deliberate.

Damn, this post looks like a livejournal entry. I should end it with a joke. Meh, maybe next time.

Consta... "phasing in and out of the timespace continuum" ...ntine

The internet works again! (plus a flashfic for you peeps)

It's been a while, I know... Life happened and also at some point, the blog, like an unforgiving mistress, stopped uploading. Oh well.

Been in Edinburgh for a month now and I'm totally in love with it...

As usual, when you have dozens of things to say, you can't choose from where to start... I'll just give you a little flash fiction I scribbled down during class yesterday and typed an hour ago. Hope ye like.

***

COLLECTOR

I have been following this particular gentleman for quite some time now.

It may seem out of place to you, as to why I should be on this fellow’s trail all this time, what with me being so busy after all, so I must explain.

He, just like me, is a hunter and a collector of valuables. I always had a fascination of the “chase”, that passion to grasp that which is considered one-of-a-kind or priceless. Over the years I have become exceptionally good at this sort of sport, and so did this man in front of me.

He hasn’t seen me yet.

His usually composed demeanor is gone at the moment as he is walking briskly down the road. The briefcase he holds in his sweaty palm is banging loudly on his expensive suit. That constant thud sounds like a scream to his ears; it’s saying: “I – have – an – awful – lot – of – money – inside – me!”

His eyes dart around. A street full of people, all of them out to get him.

But I walk among them and he hasn’t seen me yet.

I see now that I am not alone on his trail. Others – far less competent than yours truly in the stalking business – are following him.
Some are themselves collectors, some are paid by such.
Some are standing on the right side of the law, some on the wrong.

This comes as no surprise to me. All these years of meticulous work towards the pursuit of his passion have collected him lots of enemies, if you forgive my wordplay.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s all part of the game. And this particular player has finally grown impatient. He has now blown his cover, forsaken the network of contacts at his disposal and now runs towards the precious find. I would like to know what Van Gogh would say if he knew that one of his lost paintings would be the prize of this “race”. Well, thought lost for ages to be precise, and the people who now hold it would like it to remain that way.

Does he truly care about the painting itself? I think not. To him, priceless and worthless are the same but he would probably run behind an ox cart if he felt others would consider it worthy. It is the pursuit which is important to him. I must respect him for that, even if I can see the feebleness of his present actions and this is why I wouldn’t miss this occasion.

He still is cunning though. Just a few well-timed turns in the streets and the others have completely lost his trail.

Pity for the man that the knives don’t aim for his back but for his heart.

We have now reached the rendezvous point. An empty parking lot. How original. It used to be inns and basements once. Cloaks and daggers were replaced by suits and silenced guns.

Oh well, one must go with the times.

He hasn’t seen me yet, but more importantly he hasn’t seen the handgun in the pocket of the smiling woman in front of him. She holds the painting in her other hand. Or more precisely, an empty cylinder that supposedly holds the artifact within.

Not long now. I have to prepare my scythe. Rather obsolete as I understand, but then again it has always served its purpose. Diligence is the mark of a good collector, be it a collection of paintings, souls or even stamps. A collector must never be careless and even though this gentleman was, I won’t be.

Ah, now he sees me.

***

Consta... "still hasn't seen a ghost" ...ntine