Here we are, inside the final countdown to Christmas.
And I am up to my eyeballs in sugar and hyperactive children.
I’ve been seeing an increasing number of blog posts and Christmas letters summarizing how the year has gone for others, so I asked myself, do I want to write about my own experiences?
No. No I don’t.
I will say that last night I watched a movie with my husband, snuggled under a soft blanket, with sleeping children, and a three-legged cat, so things could be worse.
I wish it would snow more. Watching big flakes drift lazily down outside the window is so cozy.
I might have enough time to try my hand at making fudge this year. How’s that for optimism?
She didn’t notice when he approached her, intent on wiping down the headrest inside the Suit with a soft cloth to remove all traces of Hartmann’s earlier presence. He didn’t know what he wanted to accomplish, exactly, but he laid his hand on her shoulder and startled her. When her head twisted around, their eyes met for the first time.
“Can I help you?” she asked, fidgeting uncomfortably as her knuckles turned white around the cloth. He stared, taking in the strands of brown hair stuck to the side of her face, and the awkward water spill that soaked the front of her thick, baggy t-shirt. It was a shame that she was oblivious to her appearance, he considered, because the curves of her neck and jawline weren’t half bad.
“You ever been inside?” he asked, nodding towards the Suit. Compulsively, his fingers found the crook of her neck, but she flushed and pulled away.
“Of course not. I’m not authorized,” she replied sharply, though her voice trembled. Hartmann was satisfied to know that she was afraid.
“You know who I am?” he asked, and he grabbed her arm to keep her pinned.
She had to swallow hard before she could hoarsely reply, “One of the pilots.”
“I’m the fucking pilot,” he hissed, pushing her back against the door frame of the Suit. “Master sergeant Hartmann. You’re just the fucking cleaning lady.”
She nodded and squeaked, “Okay.”
“You have no right to love the Suit – you’re a nobody.” He wondered why she didn’t scream. The back of his neck prickled as others in the bunker were beginning to take notice, but as long as they kept their distance he didn’t care. Something kept her paralyzed, even as he pulled the stuck strands of hair loose from her cheek. “You’re going to quit this job,” he said softly.
“No!” She jerked against him then, but he easily pushed her back.
“I better never fucking see you near the Suit again.” His voice was low and dangerous.
Somehow, she slipped through his grip like water, and was inside the Suit before he could stop her. For a split second he considered yanking her back out, but her eyes and expression no longer matched the woman he had spent weeks watching. The look she gave him triggered his battle instincts, and he reflexively drew back, narrowly avoiding being caught by the Suit doors as they closed. His heart stopped as he realized what had happened, then he shouted,
“The Suit’s been hijacked!”
Hartmann drew his sidearm, knowing full well how futile it would be if the cleaning lady decided to blow him to smithereens. He very carefully backed down the ramp for the Suit, then moved to stand with the other soldiers who gathered with their guns held ready. Captain Lambert appeared at his side and growled, “What the fuck is going on?”
“I was messing with the cleaning lady, sir,” Hartmann replied slowly. “She jumped inside, sir.”
“The fucking cleaning lady?” Captain Lambert was surprised. “I want her file! The rest of you, keep ready but don’t move.”
“Sir, there’s something wrong with that bitch,” Hartmann muttered, narrowing his eyes at the Suit. So far it had remained motionless, and it was impossible to tell what was happening inside.
“Shut up,” Lambert snapped, then snatched the manila folder that had been brought to him. He skimmed over it, slapped it against Hartmann for him to take, then moved forward as he cussed, “We’re in for a fucking shit storm over this.” He boldly climbed the ramp and pounded on the Suit as he shouted, “Carol Smith! Get out here this instant!”
Hartmann watched in disbelief as the doors opened and the cleaning lady practically spilled out onto Lambert’s chest. She was dazed and unsteady as the captain helped her down, as if she had been drugged. Lambert’s eyes met the master sergeant’s, and he said gruffly, “You. Come.”
He took them to a small meeting room with a table and chairs, and ensured that Carol was seated before stepping back and folding his arms. Hartmann remained standing.
“You wanna tell me what the hell happened?” Lambert demanded.
Hartmann shrugged. “Already did, sir.”
Lambert rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Carol, what’s your side of the story?”
Hartmann expected her to let loose and demonize him in every possible way, but instead she echoed his shrug and murmured, “I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?” Lambert couldn’t keep himself from raising his voice.
“Something came over me, I think.” Carol nervously began to pick at her fingernails.
Frustrated, Lambert slammed his hand down on the table, causing her to flinch. “I selected you for this job based on your psych eval, and in all this time there hasn’t been a single incident. You expect me to believe that ‘something came over’ you?”
“I was … overwhelmed.” She squirmed and stared down at her hands as she bit her bottom lip. “The master sergeant told me to quit my job.”
“So you decided to get yourself fired instead?” Lambert scowled as he looked over at Hartmann. “Look, I know that MSG Hartmann was probably being an unreasonable prick towards you, so you need to focus on protecting yourself, not him. Got that?”
“I honestly don’t know how I ended up in the Suit.” Carol’s mouth twisted downwards and her chin quivered. “I was really scared that he’d find a way to force me out of my job, and I love cleaning the Suit.” For a moment she choked on her words, and Lambert’s expression softened. “I don’t know what happened,” she finished weakly.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Lambert murmured, putting a reassuring hand on her arm. “I have to file a report on the incident, and someone is going to take the blame. That was a breach in security, and it’s not going to blow over on its own.”
Hartmann looked between Carol and Lambert with his eyes narrowed, mulling over the possibility that the captain was attracted to the cleaning lady. It was no secret that Lambert had suffered a nasty divorce several years back, and as far as anyone knew it had completely destroyed his interest in anything outside of work. It occurred to Hartmann that his hadn’t been the only gaze focused on her as she cleaned.
Out of curiosity, he opened the personnel file he still carried. Carol had a long history of showing up on time and following all the rules; she was described with words like, ‘respectful,’ and, ‘content,’ all of which boiled down to a polite way of saying that she was easily controlled and had no big dreams in life. Hartmann looked back up at her, noting the way she hunched over and kept her elbows close, and he thought that she likely considered any clothing brighter than beige to be too flashy. Carol was someone who had perfected invisibility, so why had the captain noticed her as well?
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, sir.” Her voice was growing smaller.
Lambert sighed. “I’m going to recommend that your clearance be revoked, and that you’re reassigned. Wait here while I bring in your supervisor.” He then turned to Hartmann. “Your ass, on the other hand, is entirely at my mercy.”
“Go ahead and satisfy yourself, sir. I like it rough.” Hartmann smirked at the way Lambert’s eyes flashed angrily, then nodded at Carol as he tossed her file down onto the table. She was too shocked and pale to do anything other than stare.
“Move it, soldier!” Lambert barked, and pushed him out the door. “Consider yourself reprimanded for disrespecting your commanding officer.” He continued to shove Hartmann down the hallway. “Now, I want a detailed report on everything that happened, then you are to go home and await further orders. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Hartmann wasn’t thrilled at the idea of being removed from the Base, but the fact that Carol had jumped into the Suit on her own, combined with his status as the best pilot, made him expect that he wasn’t going to get more than a slap on the wrist for harassment in the end. The best part was, Carol was never going to be allowed anywhere near the Suit again. It was a small price to pay for the victory.
Lambert spoke into his radio, then informed Hartmann that someone would escort him off Base as soon as they were done, and a few minutes later they were in another small room. Hartmann wrote a glib statement, then signed his name with an exaggerated scrawl. Lambert’s radio crackled, and he stepped outside to answer it. Hartmann set his pen down then followed, but discovered that Lambert was already jogging down the hallway. He raised an eyebrow, but an MP approached him, and he knew that he wasn’t going to be privy to whatever had lit a fire under the captain’s butt.
He was going home to enjoy a little R&R before returning to duty.
I originally posted this back in May, but then totally fell apart with keeping to any sort of update schedule. It’s been a totally crazy year.
So, to provide better continuity, I’m going to be updating this story every Monday starting from the beginning.
Master sergeant Hartmann wasn’t certain when he had first begun to notice the cleaning lady. Two years prior, more for the sake of politics than anything else, the General had declared that they were going to improve national security by limiting the soldiers’ access to the Suit, and a civilian was picked out of the Base’s janitorial staff to be the designated caretaker of the military’s top asset. It turned out to be a plain, mousy woman, who quietly devoted herself to the job then faded into the background as another functioning cog, and business moved on as usual.
Hartmann was by far the best at piloting the Suit. Although it was obviously alien technology, he had an intuitive understanding of how to operate it, and was consequently given all of the important missions. He had already been considered something of a hero due to his ‘bravery’ and ‘leadership’ beforehand, but the Suit had skyrocketed him to the status of a superstar. He was worshiped by those below his rank, and greatly respected by those above. It was unspoken, but everyone pinned their hopes of winning the war on his abilities, and he was more than willing to accept the mantle.
Yet, somehow, the moments he had spent basking in the adulation of a job well done melted away as the cleaning lady took up more and more of his awareness.
There were moments when it was comical to watch her, a slim 5’4” woman standing on a stepladder with a soapy sponge, contrasted against the 12-foot mecha that she rigorously scrubbed. However, when she worked on detailing the interior, it stung to realize that she was more intimately familiar with the Suit than he was. He felt like the interloper, good for a wild ride before the Suit returned home to its loving family. He never had the liberty to simply touch and examine the Suit, no matter how much time he spent inside.
To make it worse, the cleaning lady was completely unaware of him. Hartmann was attractive and muscular, with sandy blonde hair and sharp eyes, and took it for granted that women would preen and flirt as they competed for his attention. The cleaning lady, however, never smiled or brushed her hair behind her ear; her eyes slid over him as if he was any other uniform in a sea of soldiers. He had even bumped into her deliberately to see her reaction, but she had tersely apologized then skirted around him, never quite managing to raise her eyes to his face during the entire exchange. The other soldiers had snickered, and someone had said, “I guess you aren’t her type,” as Hartmann stared after her, his face hard.
That was two strikes against her.
In between missions, he kept an apartment off Base, and he liked to amuse himself by taking out a few of his buddies to pick up women at bars and clubs. The thrill of simply bedding them had vanished years ago, but he still got his kicks out of playing with them. He had developed a good eye for finding the ones that were attractive enough to be worthwhile, but still had the shadow of desperation that spoke of a willingness to do anything. That night, he imagined that he had the cleaning lady in his clutches, and pushed the woman to a level of filthy that he had never gone to before. Unsatisfied with how easy it had been to control and degrade her, he sent her away from his apartment with one of his friends, and from the way she giggled he knew that she was up for another round of debauchery.
Alone, he knew the folly of his fantasy. The cleaning lady was the sort who spent her evenings curled up with a book and a glass of wine – she would never be under his power.
So he watched her. He watched her clean his Suit, watched her love what should have been his, all the while knowing that she was untouchable. The cleaning lady was ranked above him, the master sergeant.
I did some poking around at my blog stats, and found it interesting that the “science fiction” tag got nowhere near the same amount of attention as “romance.” This is relevant because I’m going to resume posting The Scions this month, and I deliberately chose to keep the romance tag away from it.
Which is fine. I know that we’re all supposed to be seeking popularity like the little dopamine junkies we are, but this particular camel can’t handle another piece of straw.
I want to get back into feeling like a writer, without any obligations to the outside world.
So.
Despite the fact that the bulk of The Scions is about the relationship between MSG Hartmann and Carol the cleaning lady, I don’t consider this story to be a romance.
Alice and the Warden is a romance, because the overall tone is cute with lots of positive emotions. I wrote it because I wanted something fun to indulge in. At the end of the day, I wanted it to be a delightful experience for everyone who reads it.
The Scions, on the other hand, is supposed to be a little messed up. Philosophical explorations and all that jazz. Look. I didn’t really want to write it, but the idea kept screaming in my head until I acquiesced to its demands. I don’t know what sort of emotional impact it’s going to have, but I sincerely hope no one decides to emulate the story in real life. It’s philosophical.
That said, I actually am enjoying the writing process with this one. Don’t judge it too harshly.
When I’m too fried to do anything, I’ve been playing Rune Factory 5.
My husband and I have played through most of the Rune Factory games — the exception being Frontiers, because the pacing was agonizingly slow, and it reused all the characters from the first game anyway. #nerds
With RF5, I told the kids that my character was going to marry Lucas, because he’s the most like daddy. 🙂
Fun moments include:
…
This is what he said after I gave him a love potion.
Oh, but that’s what I do, Lucas. Tee hee.
BHWAHAHA me and my filthy mind. I guess it’s not going to take long for babies to come along? (and Reinhard is in the background, pretending like he’s not there) LOL
As I was posting these, I realized that my character is wearing a different outfit in every single screenshot. Gosh I’m such a girl.
I confess that there’s an element of emotional indulgence with playing these games. The idea of finding a tight-knit community full of weirdos who could accept someone like me is, well, nice. I’m a pagan stay-at-home mom, so most people don’t like me.
I also tend to go pretty far into headcannon. I could write fanfiction with all the stuff I come up with while playing.
My baby has cut his first tooth. I can’t believe he’s gotten that big already … time is flying by waaaay to fast.
I’m putting more effort into writing fiction regularly, but since I’m still fairly sleep deprived, I’m having a hard time keeping the facts straight in my head. I worry about creating plot holes, inconsistencies, and redundancies, but I probably ought to let all that go and keep plowing ahead anyway. After all, there are plenty of other authors who obviously don’t care about such concerns, and it ain’t hurtin’ them none. Ha ha.
I decided that I wanted to knit matching sweaters for my sons … and apparently, procuring wool for the project is impossible.
Not in terms of, “Oh my god the world is ending and there isn’t any fiber to be found!” But more like I keep getting sent the wrong thing, out of stock, didn’t actually ship, blah blah blah. Which maybe translates into the world is ending. IDK. I just wanted to knit matching sweaters for my babies. Le sigh.
I’m starting to wonder if there’s going to be enough time to finish them before Christmas.
It’s one of those periods.
Probably should have smudged ages ago. Meh, I’m tired.
I like to think about how babies are the same cuddly, bouncy, black-holes-of-need (lawl) today that they were 1,000+ years ago.
I didn’t grow up feeling like I belonged with the family I was born into. I used to imagine that I was secretly adopted, switched at birth, fairy changeling — anything that could explain the void I felt surrounding me, really. Combined with a general sense of alienation from society, I’m kind of a neurotic mess.
But, a long, long time ago, my ancestors kissed their babies’ cheeks the same way I do. They tickled their babies’ tummies, changed their babies’ diapers, and snuggled their babies against their breasts, the same way I do.
I bet they even occasionally got up with headaches after spending the night consoling a fussy baby, just like I do.
And the thought makes me feel like I’m not such an outcast weirdo.
I think that birthing person fiction ought to be an actual genre. Something that others who feel similar to me can relate to.
We’ve already had two beautiful, albeit ephemeral, snowstorms this month. It’s put me in the mood to get the house all warm and cozy for winter, and the flannel pajamas have officially been dug out from the bottom of the dresser drawer.
The three-legged cat is now out of the kennel, but she hides more often than not. I explained to the kids that healing is a process, and that she now has to adjust to having one of her legs missing, so they should be nice and give her plenty of space. Still, they’re really good at finding her hiding spots, yet I’m always at a loss with locating her. The thing is … I need to know where to put the litter box, lol.
And thus the days keep sliding by.
The hefty vet bill has made it prudent to tighten the belt, so to speak, and I confess that I’ve been enjoying the challenge of frugality. I took the kids to the thrift store to get cold-weather clothing, and I’ve asked them to plan out what sorts of Christmas gifts they can make for each other this year instead of buying anything. I love creative lateral thinking, and practicing stinginess. Win-win! Besides, it’s good to set the example of financial responsibility for the kids.
Also, celebrating 13 years with my husband this month. My how the world has changed in that time.
The other night I had an absolutely hilarious dream about The Black Magus, where the two main characters were bad stereotypes.
Lily was recast as a socially awkward red-head, desperately trying to get the Black Magus’s attention through not-so-subtle means. At one point, she had her phone in hand and was fretting about whether or not she should call him, talking to herself, “I didn’t steal his phone number; I borrowed it.”
Ainmire had short black hair, and dressed all in black. He was too caught up in his own self-importance to actually care about anyone else, but for his own amusement he decided to throw that awkward red-head a bone — because, c’mon, she was being ridiculously obvious about wanting him.
Even as I was dreaming it, I kept thinking about how ridiculous it was.
But it would make for a fun spoof.
And yes, I dream about my own novels and characters.#WeirdoWriter
By Autumn Rain 