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Archive for May 2014

Regaining Herself: 5. Moira, Everyday

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Regaining Herself: Pictures in the Wind

Moira, Everyday

Moira knew her absentmindedness had been noticed.
The girls never bothered to stop their gossiping anymore. When she passed by them, they just watched her carefully and yapped happily about whatever current office scandal cropped up. The men left more and more documents queued at her desk, which forced her to introduce a document counting and tracking system with the usage of some hanging folders in her bigger locker drawer and generous application of paperclips.
Even when the director came visiting, she managed to maintain her pose and affect a lack of concern.
Every day she typed, brewed coffee, typed some more and then ran, as fast as they could, away from the oppressive feeling of someone being right there, just behind her, and watching her every move.
She didn’t know if one could get infected with paranoia, but she had the feeling that Charles’ fear of discovery might have left some traces in her mind. She changed the way she dressed, almost immediately after returning to work. Gray, beige, olive green ruled in her wardrobe now, all things purple, yellow and otherwise colourful packed away. She was as boring as could be. Her hair was tied away, her makeup nonexistent, jewellery left at home.
It had all failed anyway. Someone was observing her and she couldn’t shake the feeling that all her efforts to blend in with the walls might have given them even more reason to be wary of her.
More typing. An inconsequential meeting, or two. Some filing. Even more filing, after she found out somebody had mislabelled a huge box of evidence. More typing.
Going home in her tiny, slightly beat-up car she tried tracking other vehicles around her, looking for the one potentially tailing her. She never found it, but the pricking of skin on the back of her neck never went away.
She had to take a day off, now and then, due to the memories flooding her and the blinding headaches that accompanied them. Fortunately for her, no CIA doctor could reasonably argue against the idea that the telepath messing up with her brain had actually broken something, so the headaches were, albeit reluctantly, treated as a work-related injury and so, under the agency’s regulations (very, very obscure ones she dug up with a lot of effort) she was entitled to a half or full day off for medical reasons, as needed. This affected her pay, but she preferred less money to sitting in the din of the office with the needles of pain striking her eyes every time she moved.
Usually the “pain days” would be spaced out, on average one or two a week, out of which only every fifth or sixth required her to avoid society. A few times she was hit with a two-day ramp-up and a crowning, vomit-inducing pain at the end. Considering that one of these occurred on a office “outing event” and everyone saw her avoiding alcohol, nobody dared to suggest hangover, which helped her public image a bit.
However, in the long run, it wasn’t actually helping her. Had these been hangovers, she would have at least been able to avoid the alcohol, but things being what they were she simply didn’t know what to avoid. Considering however that each of these left her with at least a tiny piece of new-old memories, she put them in the category of “it’s an ill wind that blows no good” and learned to organise her life around them.
What she was most worried about was that someone would put together the facts, plus whoever was tailing her finally would break into her flat and she would be forced to admit that her memory loss was, in fact, not that permanent after all.
She really didn’t want CIA to find where Charles’ school was.
She even less wanted to be the one to betray this fact to them, but that was what her mind-mapping project on the wall pronounced to anyone who would have been able to see it.
CIA would have been very, very surprised to find the hideout of mutants in Westchester.

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Written by Srebrna

2014/05/29 at 10:00

Posted in Regaining Herself

Regaining Herself: Moira, Everyday

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Regaining Herself: Pictures in the Wind

Moira, Everyday

Moira knew her absentmindedness had been noticed.
The girls never bothered to stop their gossiping anymore. When she passed by them, they just watched her carefully and yapped happily about whatever current office scandal cropped up. The men left more and more documents queued at her desk, which forced her to introduce a document counting and tracking system with the usage of some hanging folders in her bigger locker drawer and generous application of paperclips.
Even when the director came visiting, she managed to maintain her pose and affect a lack of concern.
Every day she typed, brewed coffee, typed some more and then ran, as fast as they could, away from the oppressive feeling of someone being right there, just behind her, and watching her every move.
She didn’t know if one could get infected with paranoia, but she had the feeling that Charles’ fear of discovery might have left some traces in her mind. She changed the way she dressed, almost immediately after returning to work. Gray, beige, olive green ruled in her wardrobe now, all things purple, yellow and otherwise colourful packed away. She was as boring as could be. Her hair was tied away, her makeup nonexistent, jewellery left at home.
It had all failed anyway. Someone was observing her and she couldn’t shake the feeling that all her efforts to blend in with the walls might have given them even more reason to be wary of her.
More typing. An inconsequential meeting, or two. Some filing. Even more filing, after she found out somebody had mislabelled a huge box of evidence. More typing.
Going home in her tiny, slightly beat-up car she tried tracking other vehicles around her, looking for the one potentially tailing her. She never found it, but the pricking of skin on the back of her neck never went away.
She had to take a day off, now and then, due to the memories flooding her and the blinding headaches that accompanied them. Fortunately for her, no CIA doctor could reasonably argue against the idea that the telepath messing up with her brain had actually broken something, so the headaches were, albeit reluctantly, treated as a work-related injury and so, under the agency’s regulations (very, very obscure ones she dug up with a lot of effort) she was entitled to a half or full day off for medical reasons, as needed. This affected her pay, but she preferred less money to sitting in the din of the office with the needles of pain striking her eyes every time she moved.
Usually the “pain days” would be spaced out, on average one or two a week, out of which only every fifth or sixth required her to avoid society. A few times she was hit with a two-day ramp-up and a crowning, vomit-inducing pain at the end. Considering that one of these occurred on a office “outing event” and everyone saw her avoiding alcohol, nobody dared to suggest hangover, which helped her public image a bit.
However, in the long run, it wasn’t actually helping her. Had these been hangovers, she would have at least been able to avoid the alcohol, but things being what they were she simply didn’t know what to avoid. Considering however that each of these left her with at least a tiny piece of new-old memories, she put them in the category of “it’s an ill wind that blows no good” and learned to organise her life around them.
What she was most worried about was that someone would put together the facts, plus whoever was tailing her finally would break into her flat and she would be forced to admit that her memory loss was, in fact, not that permanent after all.
She really didn’t want CIA to find where Charles’ school was.
She even less wanted to be the one to betray this fact to them, but that was what her mind-mapping project on the wall pronounced to anyone who would have been able to see it.
CIA would have been very, very surprised to find the hideout of mutants in Westchester.

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/29 at 01:37

Posted in Regaining Herself

[PL] Dzień z życia Sigmarczyka

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– Pobuuuuuuuuuuuudkaaaaaaa!!! – rozdarl sie wartownik na glownej bramie zamku. – Swiiiiiitaaaaaaa juuuuuuuuuz!!!

Iron steknal i rzucil w kierunku okna jakies niewybredne przeklenstwo.

– Glupek zobaczyl ognisko i zdaje mu sie ze to slonce wschodzi…

Jednak na potwierdzenie okrzyku wartownika z wiezy zamkowej rozlegly sie dzwieki dzwonow.

– Wstawac, bracia! Swiiita juuuz! Nowy dzien wstaaaje! Pobuuudka!!!

Drzwi z trzaskiem otworzyly sie i swiatlo z niesionej przez pacholika pochodni oblalo bogato uslane poduchami loze Marszalka, oswietlajac dwa skulone ksztalty po obu stronach krasnoluda. Dwie mlode sluzace, przydzielone do ogrzewania loza (i uprzyjemniania bezsennych nocy) Irona zerwaly sie i, narzuciwszy zgrzebne szatki, wybiegly na korytarz. Tam spotkaly kilka innych, w podobnie niedbalym stroju opuszczajacych pokoje (a raczej komnaty) innych czlonkow Kapituly Zakonu.

– Wielki Marszalku, co na dzis przygotowac? Wasza Milosc zyczy sobie balii?

– Nie, w tym tygodniu juz sie mylem… Zwykla szate, cos niezbyt bogatego… bez diamentow tym razem.

Po obleczeniu sie w elegancki stroj, wyszedl na korytarz i zajrzal do rownie wygodnie urzadzonej komnatki Seneszala, ktory wlasnie plawil sie w goracej wodzie nalanej do wielkiej balii, a cztery sluzace… hmmm… pomagaly mu. Miedzy innymi myc sie. Miedzy innymi.

– Pospiesz sie, Ghar, bo trza braciszkow zebrac i sprawdzic, co nam jeszcze do ubicia z pomiotow chaosu zostalo.

– Zaaaaaaraz… Chaos nie krolik, nie ucieknie… – muknal rozleniwiony Seneszal. – Niech no one tylko skoncza…

– Jasne, i znow do poludnia bedziemy czekac?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

– No to sprawdzmy – Iron pociagnal lyk z poteznego kufla z piwem. – Co nam jeszcze zostalo. Orki – wyorane. Ogry – zgromione.

– Gobliny – pogonione.

– Snotlingi – poszatkowane.

– Elfki – wychedozone – rzucil ktos z cicha.

– KTORY TO?! – huknal Iron, czerwieniejac.

– On! On! – natychmiast kilkanascie palcow wskazalo winnego.

– Czy moglbys – zaczal zimno Iron. – Wytlumaczyc mi, BRACIE, o czym wlasciwie mowisz? – usmiechnal sie, pokazujac nieprzyjemnie zczerniale zebiska.

– No trzy dni temu poszlismy z Gharem znaczy sie z Seneszalem Gharem do Loren no do elfiego lasu i tam byly kobiety znaczy sie elfki i bylo ich duzo i one piszczaly i my… e… – zacukal sie nagle klepiacy dotad jak kataryna zakonnik. – E… tego… wychedozylismy… kilka… znaczy sie… no… pare… nawet sporo… prawie wszystkie…

Iron popatrzyl na niego tak, ze niefortunny Brat Sluzebny az sie skurczyl w sobie i probowal znalezc cos na swoje usprawiedliwienie. Widmo trzydniowej glodowki na wodzie zamajaczylo mu przed oczami…

– Bo… e… celibat rzecz trudna… czlowiek slaby… – wyjakal.

– Dostajesz trzy dni karceru! – ryknal Marszalek, lupiac piescia w stol, az kufel z piwem podskoczyl. – A nastapnym razem bedziesz pamietal i wy wszyscy tez, ze jak na elfki idziecie, to zabrac ze soba Kapitule!

Braciszkowie wytrzeszczyli zgodnie na niego oczy, a co mlodsi w zakonie potarli powieki.

– No co, kazdego czasem, nachodzi ochota, zeby przytulic jakas elfke czy krasnoludke… Byle z umiarem, coby sie dziewczynki nie rozzuchwalily, a wam sily na picie i walke z Chaosem zostalo…

– Zdaje sie, ze na terenie Imperium wykonczylismy wszystko co mialo zwiazek z Chaosem – podsumowal Ghar, dotychczas nie zwracajacy wiekszej uwagi na to, co sie dzieje wokol niego, a zajety zgrabnym tylkiem sluzacej nalewajacej piwa.

– Niekiedy nawet to co widzialo Chaos, chocby z daleka…

– I tych, ktorzy o nim slyszeli…

– No to co robimy?

– Jedzmy gdzies dalej!!! – padaly okrzyki.

– Do Loren! – wyrwalo sie z kilku gardel.

– Nie, to nie najlepszy pomysl – Iron pokrecil glowa. – Owszem, kuszacy, ale to daleko, a teraz zima… Mozecie sie do Nuln przejsc. Tylko jak sie ktos bedzie bil, to najpierw spacyfikowac obie strony, a potem wnikac, kto zaczal, zeby nie bylo, ze niewinnych w kolko bijemy.

– A jakbyscie – tu Ghar wysiorbal reszte piwa z kufla, ktory zostal natychmiast napelniony przez sluzaca. – Jakie ladne panny zobaczyli, przekonajcie je, zeby do Zamku przyszly, bo sluzacych brakuje… – jego glos odplynal, gdy oczy Seneszala znow spoczely na tylku sluzacej.

– Nie brakuje, jeno uciekaja ciegiem – mruknal jeden z rycerzy.

– Che? – Iron lypnal podejrzliwie na niego.

– No od czasu jakescie sie zalozyli kto po pieciu garncach piwa dogoni i wychedozy sluzaca, to coraz mniej ich w zamku…

– Cichaj! – calej Kapitule pokrasnialy geby na wspomnienie wieczoru, po ktorym dlugo leczyli guzy i siniaki, a niektorzy i odmrozenia (jeden z nich, ktorego imienia kroniki nie wymieniaja, wpadl w pijackim amoku do spizarni i zasnal przycupnawszy na bloku lodu…).

– Hem… no to trza by sie na Ishtar wybrac, sprawdzic czy sie tam Chaos nie przeniosl… – zaczal powoli Ghar, odrywajac sie od kontemplowania zadka drugiej sluzacej, ktora przyszla ze scierka i wycierala rozlane na podlodze piwo.

– A przeniosl sie, przeniosl! – wykrzyknal jeden z mlodszych braci.

– A gdziez to znamie Chaosu na Ishtar znajdujesz, chlopcze? Trza by sie dokladnie temu przyjrzec, zbadac to i sprawdzic!

– Nie watpie, iz Kapitula zajmie sie tym dokladnie i zbada to szczegolowo – powiedzial mlodzieniec. – Ino zeby wam sily na wszystki starczylo…

– Na wszystkie? Jakze to?

– No prosto, panie. Wedle ocen moich, a nie watpie, ze zgodzicie sie podejrzenia te sprawdzic, siedliskiem zarazy Chaosu jest zamtuz oxenfurcki…

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/29 at 00:00

Posted in MUD/RPG

Tagged with , , , ,

But if you can still dream – 18

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I talk of dreams

I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
Romeo and Juliet I, 4

Doctor: Narcolepsy

Jack stood in front of a fairly high-strung Time Lord and demanded, openly and directly, to be heard.
“As long as I’m here as a passenger, I don’t want to spend my days considering the chance that you will get us killed. Not that it is a problem – I can buy most supplies anywhere we go, but restarting hurts.”

Doctor finally gave in. He promised to teach Jack proper TARDIS flying, as the method used until now wasn’t working (probably due to TARDIS reacting a bit sluggishly to Jack’s commands). Now he was paying for it.
“The first thing is to understand properly the time-space phenomenons we may come across. Now, you as a Time Agent should have had at least a basic course on this, but I suppose your studies would have been more in area of regulations and practical application. On Gallifrey they taught us to feel the time and to read from that feeling. First you need to understand what various things you might feel – or see on our girl’s sensors, as your human senses may be unable to catch some nuances. Afterwards I will show you how to interpret the printouts, screen readings and, if we manage to, will get you at least a tiny smattering of Gallifreyan. I have to warn you, human brain may not cope well with that.”
“I have lots of free time” the captain joked dryrily. “I can cram when we’re out in the vortex.”
“So” the Doctor rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go bookhunting. You will have tons of reading material before we finish today!”
This sounded like a threat.

In four more hours the heap of books started resembling a small hill and Doctor wasn’t stopping.

Doctor was, in fact, fascinated by the idea. Finally teaching someone to fly his ship, maybe refreshing his own rusty skills and checking, just in case, if everything was working as it was supposed to – apart from chameleon arch, which he knew perfectly well was working by now, with Jack helping with the repairs.
One thing was missing, which was the main primer on multidimensional geometry of closed areas.
He was a tiny bit tired already, but that book had to be somewhere here. Shaking his head he turned to them and suggested they just pile the collected books anywhere comfortable. Both got rid of their burden by the next table and looked at him expectantly as he climber the ladder. He heard their giggling and his hearts jumped a bit, trying not to look at them before he gets the jealousy of his face.
Fortunately he found a distraction and an aim – he had to visit an old friend to retreive the book.
Of course, they made fun of him. As if Ninth obsession with bananas was anything to laugh at. Heroically he left them there, between bookshelves, still trying to get rid of accumulated dust from their hair and clothes… Stop that line of thought, you idiot! They are just friends!
Their conversation quieted as soon as he made the second turn.
Three down, one across, three up, two zobrax and third yellow bricked doorway on the left.
They exchanged silent greetings, three books were returned and a bunch of bananas changed hands – the Librarian kept his stores of fruit on the top shelf of the History of the Ice Giants bookcase.
As Doctor was leaving, he recalled something and turned back, handing his friend a rolled-up copy of “Modern Book Conservation” leaflet. In return, he was handed a modest but still significantly pointy hat.
When he finally got back to them, she looked a bit unfocused and he saw her head jerking as if she tried to look at their friend and just couldn’t. Even as he strode towards them, talking lightly about where he just came from, he saw her body spasm and jerk, so he dashed to her and tried to hold her immobile. Suddenly her head came up and smacked him right in the chin and he shook his head and recoiled from the impact.
“Doctor! Doctor, are you ok? What were you… were you walking around with your eyes closed?”
He drew breath with effort. Feeling slightly weak, he felt around for the object he collided with. Finally focusing his eyes he saw one of the bigger containers, slightly sticking out of it’s shelf, just enough for him to walk into it and hit himself right in the face.
“I think there’s something wrong” he uttered finally. “I think I may be getting ill.”
Jack looked at him with suspicion.
“Was it a Rose-dream again?”
Doctor sat more comfortably with his back to a stack of books.
“Yes. But they seem to get more… more inline with the reality. The first ones were completely disconnected, seemed like dreams. Later they started to be flashbacks of something we did… then corrected flashbacks and now they fit in seamlessly into what is before them. I can’t even start to guess they are dreams, the only indicator is that Rose appears then. And, to tell the truth” he sighed heavily “even when I notice her, I order my brain to suppress the thought of this being a dream.”
Jack sat across from him and propped his elbows on his knees.
“Why? Do you just want to hold on to any contact with her, even like this?”
Doctor scratched his head, leaving his hair in worse disarray than ever before.
“Probably. Yes. But not only. I hope… I hope at some point I can find out what exactly is happening. Some of them just are, but remember, we have that blanket and flipflop. And they were hers, definitely. And used on a beach in France. And I lost one of my jackets, so I suppose it might have gone the other way and she has it now.”
Both sat in silence for a moment.
“Maybe you should get checked out? I know there’s nobody who could help you, really, but maybe TARDIS can check your vitals, to make sure we’re not missing… well, maybe if we tried, we could get her here permanently?”
Doctor’s eyes brightened.

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/27 at 01:00

[PL] Arkadia 2042

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W efekcie gry na Arkadii powstało kilka opowiadań dziejących się w świecie muda oraz nieduża seryjka z “naszej” rzeczywistości.

Siedziała w miękkim fotelu, kiedy po nią przyszli. Rękę z jedyną wszczepką położyła na stole i, wyglądając przez okno parterowego domu, przetrząsała kod w poszukiwaniu buga, na którym się całość kładła.
Dom był w miarę cichy, gdzieś w oddali po pseudodrewnianym parkiecie stukały pazurki rudodymnego siberiana, który, oddając się we władzę odwiecznego instynktu dostosowanego do współczesnych realiów, gonił dzwoniącą myszkę, napełnioną kocimiętką.
Od ulicy nie dochodził żaden, nawet najmniejszy szum. Dwa wróble, tłukące się na oknie i wyciszone starannie głośniki, emitujące Blind Guardiana z ośmiu punktów pokoju, stanowiły znakomity podkład do mruczanego przez nią zaklęcia programistów:

One hundred bugs in the code
One hundred bugs in the code
One bug fix’d and then compiled again
One hunderd and ne little bugs in the code…

Przekodowywała po raz kolejny autrotranslatora polsko-włoskiego, robiąc dla zaprzyjaźnionego kodera, zresztą na wyhakowanym skądś kodzie Arki. Te strzępki, które Administracja umieszczała na FTP, nie nadawały się do poważnego kodowania. Zwłaszcza, że ostatnia aktualizacja była sprzed ośmiu lat i nadawała się do stawiania nędznych mudów blokowych na najwyzej pięćset osób, a nie do poważnych produkcji, a już na pewno nie do testowania kodu, który miał finalnie trafić na Arkę.
Mozolnie i powoli sprawdzała algorytmy dopasowania tłumaczenia według fraz i kolokacji, ale wszystko się zgadzało. Zapisała na wszelki wypadek plik pod nową nazwą, wyłączyła neopico i odpaliła VTF. Zamknęła oczy i ruchem wolnej ręki zmieniła kanał odbierany przez głośniki na modulację głosową.

Wszczepka była może jedna, ale uważała, że doskonale wystarcza jej do pełnego odbioru. Nie musiała się wiele starać, żeby odpowiednie ruchy dawały jej nawet możliwość dosyć sprawnego grania na ręcznej harfie lub lutni, wymagało to tylko starannego oskryptowania V-tinyfugue, a to w zasadzie żaden problem. Zwłaszcza, jak część rozwiązań ściągnęła ze starych plików Klanu Tichy i nieco przerobiła na nowe potrzeby.

Coś zahurgotało, pewnie Głupia Bestia (zwana przy gościach Fafciołkiem, ku swemu upokorzeniu) znów wepchnęła swoją nowiutką myszkę pod lodówkę i usiłowała ją wyciągnąć. Tylko sprawdzi pocztę i pomoże kotu, bo przecież obskubie emalię z drzwiczek do reszty.

Usta poruszyły się, kiedy subwokalizowała.
– Cześć, Kiti. Niewiele. Ciao. Szlag, znów ten moduł. Tak, za chwilę. Poczta.
Palce poruszyły się delikatnie, kiedy “wklepywała ścieżkę”. Dla postronnych postaci wyglądało to pewnie jakby huragan przeleciał.
– Nie. Tak. Trzynaście. Czternaście. Siedemnaście.

– Wie pan, że jak jej wyrwiemy te wszczepkę, to już nic nie powie?

Zza modulków dzwięku dobiegły ją jakieś obce odgłosy.

Jeżeli Fafcioł siedzi teraz na lodówce, to ma w tyłek! zdążyła pomyśleć, zanim na jej ramię opadła czyjaś dłoń.

– Proszę odłożyć klawiaturę i wyłączyć głośniki. Ma pani prawo do adwokata… Proszę natychmiast rozłączyć się z mudem!

Otworzyła oczy bez wylogowywania się. Natychmiast chwyciły ją mdłości, w ostatniej chwili powstrzymała się przed okazaniem tego. Zacisnęła oczy i nadała w całą Arkadię ostatni sygnał…

przyzwij wszystkich Nie wiem co się dzieje, ale są u mnie psy i chyba trzeba spierdalać z Arki! Diskonekt wszyscy!

Zdążyła jeszcze zobaczyć signoffy pierwszych wizów i swoją własną wiadomość, puszczoną przez kogoś z Administracji przez Jeźdźca Apokalipsy, zanim musiała się rozłączyć.

Delikatnie wyciągnęła wtyczkę z gniazda wszczepki i rozmasowała przegub.

– O co chodzi? – odwróciła się w kierunku psypolicków, czyli Funkcjonariuszy Równowagi Psychicznej. Zamarła. Jeden z nich trzymał wymierzony w jej wszczepkę porażacz nerwowy. Porażacz był niebezpieczny dla “czystego” człowieka. Bardzo niebezpieczny dla cyborga, dowolnego typu i stopnia, nawet dla kogoś z jednym wszczepem. Śmiertelny w razie zaaplikowania do samego wszczepu.

– Proszę podać ręce i nie robić żadnych niepotrzebnych ruchów. Jest pani aresztowana – wyrecytował jedyny psypolik bez broni. – Pełna lista stawianych pani zarzutów może zostać powiększona o stawianie oporu przy aresztowaniu, jeżeli natychmiast się pani nie podporządkuje.

Sześćdziesięciolatka podniosła się powoli.

– Panowie pozwolą, żę zabezpieczę dom na czas swojej nieobecności. Kot nie może zostać bez jedzenia na dłuższy czas.

– Proszę się nie przejmować tym stworzeniem. Zostało zneuralizowane –
powiedział z niejasną satysfakcją typek bez broni.

Mimo niejakiej przeszkody, złożonej z kilku funcjonariuszy, znalazła się w kuchni w ciągu trzech sekund. Na środku leżał, jak nędzna kupka futra, wyciągnięty w ostatnim skoku Fafciołek. Paraliż, który go opanował, nie zdołał go zabić. Wciąż jeszcze poruszał oczami, próbując zrozumieć, czemu łapy nie chcą go słuchać.

Klęknęła przy nim, gładząc bezmyślnie długie futro.

– Muszę go zabrać do weterynarza… Nie mogę go tak zostawić…

– Nadchlebnik Koziak się nim zajmie – do przodu wystąpił ten sam psypolik, który wcześniej trzymał ją na muszce.

– Posiadanie zwierząt domowych nie przynoszących bezpośrednich zysków dowolnego typu jest klasycznym objawem Przeniesienia Uczuć Macierzyńskich, a zatem aberracji typu B. W takim wypadku standardową procedurą jest pozostawienie obiektu pod obserwacją, zaś w razie zaobserwowania innych odchyleń, izolacja od zwierzęcia.

Koziak odbezpieczył starannie ogłuszacz i omiótł nieruchome ciało kota stężonym promieniem.

– Cholerny morderco! – ryknęła i rzuciła się na niego.

***

Nigdy nie rzucaj się na faceta z załadowanym ogłuchem.

Patrzyła tępo na stalowe drzwi, zastanawiając się czy raczyli powiadomić jej męża, czy zamknęli drzwi od mieszkania i co się stało z Fafciołem.

Oprzytomniała dopiero w ciężarowce, podzielonej na spore boksy. Naprzeciwko niej leżał nieco młodszy mężczyzna w wielkich, panoramicznych okularach. Gryzł zapamiętale prawą pięść, jakby tłumiąc krzyk.

– Co się stało? – zdołała wydusić ze ściśniętego gardła.

– Cc… cccc…. ccciachnę-ę-ęli mmmmiiii kkk-kkk-kkabel siecccccc-ccciowwy – wymamrotał.

No tak, typowe objawy zerwania linka na wirtualnej.

– Kim jesteś? – zapytała ostrożnie, gdyż oczy jeszcze nie przyzwyczaiły się jej do mroku.

– Jjakk tto kkurna kkkim, ttruwwerem! – jąkał się już mniej, jakby szok mijał.

– Voo? To ty? – przycisnęła twarz do prętów celki, próbując go lepiej zobaczyć. – Kogo jeszcze mają?

– Nnnikkoggo. Nas. Ttt-tylkkko.

Opadli na podłogę naprzeciw siebie.

Furgonetka zatrzymała się.

Znów przycisnęła twarz do prętów, próbując tym razem zobaczyć coś na zewnątrz.

– Voo – jęknęła ze zgrozą. – Chyba jesteśmy gdzieś przy… Słyszę tramwaje, o, wiadomości… Trzynastka!

– Może być jeszcze parę innych ulic – dodał Vookash ponuro, już całkiem
normalnie. – W zasadzie, nie wiadomo, co gorsze.

Drzwi z tyłu ciężarówki otwarły się z huknięciem i wepchnięto przez nie spory kształt. Jeden z funkcjonariuszy otworzył drzwi obok niej i wepchnął tam swoją ofiarę.

– Nie wiadomo, co gorsze – powtórzył Vookash. – Może za to Kir im się wywinie.

Oparła czoło na dłoni.

– Janek… Brat, żyjesz?

***

Otępiali, siedzieli w pace ciężarówki, kiedy znów się zatrzymała. Najpierw coś łupnęło, jak wyłamywany zamek, potem dobiegły ich oddalające się kroki psypolików… A potem, gdzieś z góry, rozdzierający krzyk, znajomy głos…

– Nie możecie! Nie rzucajcie tym dyskiem! Nieeeeee!

Zaraz potem huk i kolejny, doskonale znany im głos, wykrzyknął:

– Już, spokojnie, Jędrek… To nic nie pomoże… Chodź, bo wykręcą ci ręce i nawet po wyjściu nie będziesz już mógł… Ej! Niech mnie pan zostawi! Auaaaa!

***

Elspeth siedziała, rozmasowując przedramiona, za które jeden z funkcjonariuszy ją chwycił, kiedy próbowała wyskoczyć z platformy. Jej brat też nie pomagał psypolikom, ale oboje wylądowali w boksach z obolałymi mięśniami. Było ich już ośmioro, razem ze zgarniętą z pobliskiej kafejki trójką młodocianych Scoia, którzy ze strachu wcisnęli się w najdalsze kąty swoich celek.

– Co robimy?

– A co możemy? – odpowiedział jej ponuro młodszy brat. – Żadne z nas nie ma wszczepu z tele, a to jedyne, co teraz może nam się przydać.

– Ja mam – pisnął jeden Wiewiórek. – Nawet działa.

Jej oczy zaświeciły się.

– Możesz wejsc w pasmo i wywoływać Miniora? Po prostu Minior, żadnych cyferek.

– Szacun – wymamrotał chłopak, może siedemnastoletni. Wygładał na Michaela 112 albo inny nick z trzycyfrowym identyfikatorem. – Nie ma go.

– Szukaj dalej. Under. Lakshmi. YaaL. Laurelin. Tigr. Nicolas. Shit, chłopaki, kto miał jeszcze tele?

– Nuke. I, o ile dobrze pamiętam, Adalb.

– Mam, mam Lakshmi? Co nadać? – Scoia miał rozszerzone źrenice.

– Nadawaj na wszystkich pasmach: Srebrna mówi: SPIEPRZAĆ! Jak ktoś zapyta, w czym rzecz, zrób zapis, ze psypoliki nas mają. W ogóle, możesz zrobić stały zapis i wyszukiwanie z automatu?

Chłopak skinął głową.

– To nadawaj. Do tych wszystkich… I do każdego kto zaczepi twoją postać na tele. Jesteśmy pieprzonymi wyjętymi spod prawa, rozumiesz? Aresztują nas psypoliki, nie jakies wypierdki mamuta z krawężników. Mamy, imainuj sobie, przekichane.

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/24 at 00:00

Posted in MUD/RPG

Tagged with , , ,

But if you can still dream – 17

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I talk of dreams

I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
Romeo and Juliet I, 4

Rose: Meditation

Three weeks after the attempt at vacation, Rose’s condition was desribed as “satisfactory”. She apparently didn’t suffer any “adverse effects” of her “episode”. Even the newspapers stopped blaring about her supposed drug addiction, especially after the catastrophe at the debutante ball (one based on two dresses being identical and one of them getting slashed with a bread knife).
Rose, with her satisfactory condition, was now reclining comfortably on her bed, made with high pillows and bottle green cover, trying to somehow manage her ennui. Boredom was making her want to do something, anything, even though most activities were forbidden – and some were strictly forbidden – in her state of health.
She tried to drown her excessive awareness in several mindless pursuits, starting from reading Jackie’s stack of romance novels, through reviewing lab results and ending on watching soap opera channel. Each lasted no more than a few hours and her restlessness already showed in the way the house was thorougly cleaned, the books stacked and restacked in boith library and living room, Tony’s toys cleaned and fixed, where needed, and now she was trying to force herself to finally lie down.
Inside something was pushing her to go, to do, to create or destroy, to simply act, whatever the act itself would be, to change things, maybe to discover, to–
Her breath came in short gasps when she finally managed to calm down. A panic attac, caused solely by the limitations of her own body, sped up her heart rate so much that she felt her pulse drumming into each cell of her system. Watching her palms slowly pulse white-pink-white-pink-white she counted, with watch in the other hand, 15 seconds, 30 beats. 120 per minute. Still a bit too quick, but if this was what she could gain when she calmed down, she wasn’t going to try for a slower one. Definitely not wanting to get worked up again and do some irreparable damage to herself.
The “episode” was finally ascribed to an overwhelming allergic reaction, almost on the brink of shock, to some specific chemical compound found in her sunblock. Fortunately Tony had no sign of these same problems, even though his lotion came from the same brand. Anyway the series was being recalled from distribution and customers were crowding the company’s chain shops, demanding their money back.
Rose stopped Pete from suing the company, reminding him that none of them wished her to be studied and checked for specific reasons for reaction. She herself had no idea what might have caused it – whatever happened in the previous years might have redone part of her immune system to the level which would not tolerate substances normally not harmful to humans.
She lied back, trying to purge her overclocked brain of everything, but each time she finally managed to achieve the blissfull level of relaxation which granted her only the abstract view of caleidoscopic spots, spinning slowly on glittery black background, something intruded into her absolute peace, starting with an overexcited squirell outside her windows.
Finally she had her windows shut, curtains drawn, doors closed, Theresa away in the kitchen and not checking on her every minute, mobile phone muted and the landline disconnected. And the nice, glowing black was back in her mind, swirling with jeweltone sparks and spots, slowly spiralling towards the center and suddenly he was there, turning, turning, turning towards her, his smile, his hair, his glowing eyes, and the black was fading, slowly fading, and it disappeared somewhere in the wall or in the floor or in him or in her and he was talking, at her, actually talking…
“…and it should be somwehere around this corner. I’m pretty sure I left it there, just let me have a look. You can put yours on the floor there.”
They dumped the books they were holding unceremoniusly on the huge central table. After having carried them through half of the library they were already dusty, and when Doctor climbled yet another ladder and started to browse the top shelf, they discreetly dusted each other off, giggling over Doctor’s mutterings.
“Ah, yes. Just as I thought. We have to make a few more turns” he slid down the ladder, holding a banana in one hand.
“Are you going to eat it now?” she burst into uncontrolled laughter, not really knowing why.
“By no means, my dear lady. It’s a sign and I don’t eat signs.”
He snorted.
“A sign? Doctor, who could be leaving you bananas as signs? Your previous self?”
Doctor looked a bit hurt at this supposition.
“Of course not. It would have spoilt if it waited that long. Well, it could have, depending on when he would have left it. But no, definitely not. One of my fellow Librarians left it there, letting me know he took the book. Ook.”
They both blinked.
“Just wait here and I’ll be back in no time at all.”
They stared in the small corridor he entered, but couldn’t even hear his steps anymore.
Rose felt there was something very, very wrong with her eyes. Whenever she tried to look at her companion, her sight slid to one side. She knew there was someone there, but the aversion agains looking at him – definitely a he – was so strong she couldn’t even focus properly to think about his name. Before she could go deeper and analyze her feelings, Doctor was back, holding a whole bunch of bananas, three books and a pointy hat.
“Good chap. Terribly useful with high shelves. I envy him – never needs a ladder or a stepstool. Well. I have what I needed, and now we should set up the working area. …., go to the kitchen and bring me the biggest pot we have.”
When he addressed the man next to her, she felt her fear anxiety nervousness revulsion rise and a burning sensation woke up in her middle. Suddenly she was bending in half, jaws locked and she saw his eyes darken and widen and his hand was on her arm, holding her up and shaking her slightly.
“Rose? Rose? Are you awake?”
Pete’s voice got through to her consciousness.
She tried saying something, but gagged on her dust-dry tongue and shook in a silent shudder. Finally she managed to nod and breathe shakily.
“You’re going for a checkup tomorrow” her mother’s words were short and sharp. “No more slepping pills for you, my lady. Day and a half asleep is way too much.”
She blinked and nodded, trying to stop the world around her from swimming.
She didn’t remember taking any pills.

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/22 at 00:30

Regaining Herself: 4. Charles, School

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Regaining Herself: Pictures in the Wind

Charles, School

Charles’ hair fell now down to his shoulders – and into his eyes – so he took to tying it back with random pieces of string or ribbon. Having finally settled on black silk, he felt a bit like an aristocrat from days long gone. At least the cut of his clothes was much more comfortable than those poor guys had had to wear.
He half-heartedly attempted to keep up appearances even though it wasn’t that easy to look elegant on the wheelchair. Also, sometimes he just couldn’t make himself care enough. With no Erik or Moira, he had nobody around with the seniority required to push him to behave. If he thought too hard about the last time he actually dressed in something nice and felt it to be important, he had to shut himself in his office just to regain his balance and superficial calm.
Every day he woke around dawn, managed his bath – using the bars installed by Hank and Sean – got dressed and started his day way before everyone else was up. His private kitchen was set up in such way that he could put together a reasonable meal by himself if he wanted to eat before the teachers’ breakfast was served.
He was in his office before anyone else could come knocking, up to his ears in papers – reviewing the applications, checking the documents and writing essays on the mutations of eye-related DNA.
Meetings with students, meetings with parents, group lessons, individual lessons, students homesick, students just simply sick (not every mutation was beneficial to one’s health). Each day full to the brim, each almost the same. Only sometimes, when the headache came, he allowed himself to postpone a lesson or two, retire to his private rooms and cut himself off from the entire world.
The migraines came in waves – sometimes nothing for a time, sometimes three days in a row. When he got a week of lull, he knew well enough to fear for his own sanity during the next attack waiting around the corner to ambush him.
The school grew around him. He managed, through network of trustworthy contacts, to recruit more teachers, or at least grown-up mutants with relatively interesting talents and potential to teach. He already had a surfeit of P.E. teachers and coaches, but couldn’t find even one person willing to work as a simple administrator. Literature was also a problem, and he very much wished to provide the students with as good an education as possible, giving them the option to go to university or at least function in human society in relative peace.
In a flash of inspiration he appointed Alex as the night duty coordinator, which gave him an hour or so sleep more as he handed over the evening review and stations assignment to the younger man.
Hank, apart from doing his own research, was conducting maths and physics classes, occasionally taking the most promising pupils to his lab and giving them some part of the research to follow.
Placing Sean was his last great problem. Kid wasn’t old enough yet to be a teacher, but he couldn’t fit into a class with even the eldest form. The solution would have been two years at normal human university, if only Sean’s face hadn’t been printed and pinned at every police station as ‘wanted’.
He would have happily delegated this painful task to someone else. But with nobody available he simply hunched his shoulders more, pushed the wheelchair onwards and hoped to survive the next big crisis the world was going to throw at them.

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/20 at 10:00

Posted in Regaining Herself

[PL] Wiersze: wszystkie inne

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Zbiór wszystkiego, co nie pasowało w pozostałych postach.

Kołysanka

Gwiazdki migoca lagodnie
Usmiech i oczy dzieciny
To jest cud swiata najwiekszy
Male szczescie – narodziny

Swiat caly w dwoch piastkach sciska
Tak wiele przed nia przyszlosci
Kim bedzie, co zrobi, stworzy?
Duzo pieknych mozliwosci

W tych oczkach migoce swiatlo
Sekretow wielkich wysiace
Poczekac przyjdzie lat kilka
Rozpali sie zar w nich tlacy

Szczescie wielkie niech cie czeka
Niech cie czeka powodzenie
A nastepnie takiej jak ty
Slicznej corki urodzenie

Bys nie byla nigdy smutna
Bys w sercu nosila pokoj
Lekka stope, zreczne dlonie
I przemadra miala glowe.

Krasnoludy

Tu, pod gora, gdzie ciemnosci czarne groza
Tu, gdzie zloto jasno blyska w czerni jaskin
Gdzie kwiat zaden nie zakwitnie, nie wyrosnie
Lecz kamienie tu szlachetne poblask sieja

Wejdz tu, lecz ostroznie stopy stawiaj swoje
Przewodnikiem twoim niech ma lampa bedzie
Slyszysz? To kilofow uderzenia w sciany
Krasnoludy tu znalazly swoje miejsce…

Bracia moi, kujcie zywo, kujcie pilnie
Wyszukajcie najpiekniejszu klejnot jaskin
Ja, z powierzchni wam przyniose bursztyn zloty
Oprawimy w srebro, zloto wszystko razem

Jak ten metal, co spojeniem dla kamieni
Tak braterstwo miedzy nami twarde, mocne
Siostra wasza mienic bym sie chciala zawsze
Choc’em elfka, i z powierzchni wchodze tutaj

Ciemnosc ta mnie nie przeraza, ni jaskinie
Podziw budzi we mnie kuzni luna jasna
Nie na moje to jest palce, nie moj rozum
Lecz wy mistrze w tym rzemiosle, wy artysci

Tak wiec chwale dzisiaj spiewam krasnoludow
Co i w boju zaprawieni i w kowalstwie
I przyjazni wiez zadzierzgnac bym tu chciala
By nie mowil nikt o starych nienawisciach!

Zjawa

Duch w bieli nad zamkiem polata
“Czym jestes, przeklete widziadlo?”

“Jam krol, co zeszlego lata
Zabila mnie reka podla”

“A czyjaz to reka cie dzgnela?”
Zapyta ciekawy wedrowiec

“Zony to reka mej milej
Czyz to nie zdrada? Sam powiedz!”

“Ah, przeciez to zdrada wyrazna
Lecz jakze ci pomoc dzis moge?”

“Jesli sie duchow nie lekasz
Wyjdz o polnocy na droge

Na rozstaj, co w trzy swiata strony
Rozchodzi sie sciezkami trzema”

“Wiem gdzie to! Co czynic trzeba?”
“Stamtad odwrotu juz nie ma

Idz prosto, jak strzelil, na zachod
Trzy kroki po trzy razy odlicz

A gdys juz przybyl na miejsce
Prosto na polnoc sie obroc

Siedm krokow tam odlicz przed siebie
Lecz bacz bystro bo to cmentarzyk

Przed toba, wprost wejscia ujrzysz
Piekny z marmuru oltarzyk”

“Okropne!” zakrzyknie wedrowec
“Lecz coz czynic mam pozniej, duchu?”

“Stoj obok, a gdy lysnie raz
Nie lekaj sie burzy dmuchu

Wez miecz swoj, krwi kropelke utocz
A kapnij nia na oltarz maly

Gdy zrobisz to, wnet uciekaj
Bo cmentarz zbudzi sie caly

Ja jeden nie wroce z zaswiatow
Druzyna tu idzie cna ze mna

By zlowic ma zonke wstretna
I sad tam odprawic nad nia”

Wiec poszedl pomocny wedrowiec
Krwi krople utoczyl z swej zyly

Co stalo sie? Trudno dociec…
Nikt go nie ujrzal juz zywym…

 

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/19 at 00:00

Posted in Poems

Tagged with , , , , ,

[PL] Wiersze filozoficzno-życiowe i z okazji

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Trochę wierszy “życiowych” Srebrna też ma w swoim portfolio.

Cel życia

Jesli wejdziesz na najwyzsza wieze,
Jesli zlowisz ta najwieksza rybe,
Jesli znajdziesz ten najwiekszy diament,
No to o czym bedziesz marzyc pozniej?

Jesli juz pokonasz wszystkich wrogow,
Zbadasz swiata wszystkie tajemnice,
Gdy zdobedziesz wdzieki pieknych kobiet,
To na jutro juz ci nic nie pozostanie…

Gdyz… czym zycie jest bez wyzwan, czy bez celu?
Czym zapelnisz puste dla spelnienia,
O czym myslec, co planowac bedziesz,
Gdys juz wszystko widzial, wszystko opanowal?

Zostaw sobie chociaz jedno miejsce,
Choc skarb jeden, jedna wyspe morza,
Jedna gore, ktorej nie zdobedziesz
I o ktorej snic na zawsze bedziesz…

Jeden punkt na mapie, jedno miasto,
Co tajemnic bedzie pelne dla cie zawsze,
Co nie zwiedzisz go, nie sprawdzisz, kto w nim mieszka
I na zawsze bedziesz marzyc o nim mocen.

Ile stąd mil…?

Ile stąd mil do Gwiezdnych Pól?
Ni jedna, ci rzeknę, i wszystkie.
Lecz jakże dojść tam, bracie mój?
Patrz prosto w jasną swieczkę.

Lecz czy nie zgaśnie ona mi,
nim trafię tam i wróce?
Nie, nie boj sie, to jest ot tuz,
Za jednym oka mgnieniem.

Lecz skoro to jest blisko tak,
To czemuz tak daleko?
O jedno bicie serca stad,
O oddech jeden, drgnienie.

Ale nie dotrzesz nigdy tam,
Jesli zly czas wybierzesz,
Bo miedzy dzwonu “ding” i “dong”
Wejsc musisz pewnym krokiem.

Lecz nie zawahaj sie ni raz,
Bo jedno twe zwatpienie
Obroci ciebie w pyl i proch
Strach – zepchnie w zapomnienie

Kiedy juz w Gwiezdna wkroczysz Ton
Pamietaj o powrocie
Bo czasu tylko tyle masz,
Co plomien, co migoce

Powrocisz tu, lecz nie ten sam
W twych oczach blysna gwiazdy
I nic juz tu, wsrod lasow, gor
Nie bedzie ciebie godnym

Bo kto wsrod Gwiezdny wkroczyl Lud,
Kto z nimi zyl ich zyciem
Ten nigdy juz nie zdola tu
Szczesliwym byc naprawde

Kres podrozy

Pewnego dnia przed soba masz
Zamku wysokie mury
Lub lasu cien czy rzeki brzeg
Albo gor zrab ponury

I westchniesz wtedy “Tak, to tu”
Odlozysz swoje brzemie
Pokoj nastanie w sercu twym
Odplyna z duszy cienie

Podrozy twej nadejdzie kres
Odnajdziesz ukojenie
By zyc na zawsze juz tam, gdzie
Twa droga cie prowadzi

Osiadziesz, wrosniesz w ziemie ta
Jakbys do domu wrocil
Bo dom twoj bedzie to, lecz ten,
Cos sam go wybral sobie

Lecz nie mysl, zes oden o krok,
Ze blisko juz wytchnienie
Wedrowac musisz wiekow wiek
By spelnic przeznaczenie

Marzenia

W dalekich krajach
W zamorskich krajach

Tam – czeka na mnie ten jedyny

Lecz ja nie plyne
Lecz ja nie lece

Ja… stawiam w oknie mala swiece

I czekam tak przez cala noc
I czekam tak przez caly dzien

A potem ide spac – i snie

O tych dalekich, zamorskich krajach
I o mych z Toba tam spotkaniach

A kiedy budze sie – no coz
Znow na TYM brzegu jestem morz…

Moc pióra

Czyz silniejsza nizli miecze
Nie jest piesn niekiedy bronia?
Czy nie mocniej nad zelazo
Rane zadac struna, dlonia?

Wiem, niewielkie to sa rany
Co nie jatrza sie, nie krwawia
Ale pomysl, wrogu barda
Nie okryje cie nieslawa?

Gdyz zaspiewa piesn o tobie
Piesn co wykpi wady twoje
I osmieszy przed wszystkimi
Gdy wypowie slowa swoje

Piesn silniejsza jest niz ostrze
Pioro – grozniejsze od miecza
I nijakie driakwie, ziola
Ran z nich wzietych nie wylecza

Tedy pomysl kiedy czasem
Nim na barda miecz podniesiesz
Bo czy slawy ci przybedzie
Gdy przeklenstwo na sie sciagniesz…?

Nędza poety

Odwracasz swa glowe, odwracasz spojrzenie
Poezji mej nuty nie neca twych uszu
Patrz na mnie! Jam biedne, nieszczesne stworzenie
Co liczy, ze serce twe piesnia poruszy.

Odmawiasz mi laski spiewania dla ciebie
Wiec dzisiaj glodowac mi przyjdzie, coz czynic
Lecz jesli nim slonce sie znajdzie na niebie
Nie znajde pieniedzy, czas bedzie sie zmienic.

Z poetki – wojownik, z truwerki – zabojca
miast lutni miecz ostry niesc bede w swej rece
Lecz coz ja poradze, ze straszna ta trojca –
– Glod, nedza i hanba – sie dziela ma meka…

Wszak lutnia nie tarcza, a slowo nie zbroja
I slawa poety niepewna co chwila
Sa tacy co ciesza sie mizeria moja
I tacy co sami don dlon przylozyli

Wiec odejdz, nie sluchaj, to twoj wybor przecie
Lecz pomnij me slowa w noc jaka bezgwiezdna
I pomysl dlaczego coraz wiecej w swiecie
Jest zbojow, poetow jest mniej zas i bardow.

Ostrzeżenie (Gdy nad miastem)

Gdy nad miastem sine dymy
Gdy nad rzeka opar zimny
Gdy nad laka mgla poranny
Idz tam, gdzie twa czeka panna

Idz, gdzies sie z nia zmowil wczoraj
Idz sie zabaw do wieczora
Idz, pohulaj w towarzystwie
Lecz gdy wrocisz, patrz sie bystro

Boc czekaja panny bracia
Kamrat kumpla od w kart grania
Co ci maja skore zlupic
Za postepki twoje glupie

Wiec uwazaj, chlopie sprytny
Co ci drogi zakret niesie
I posluchaj czasem piesni…
Truwer zawsze prawde powie

Pieśń na Belleteyn

W Belleteyn sie nuzam zarze
Pochodni blask z daleka mijam
O chlopca mego ustach marze
Kochankow widzac tu co chwila

Dzis Noc Majowa rzadzi swiatem
Dzis milosc wszelka uwolniona
To powitanie wiosny z latem
Dzis wszystko jest nam dozwolone

Jam Trzema w jednej kobietami
Dziewica, co jak pak rumiana
Kochanka swego pod lipami
Dzis czeka przed wielka przemiana

Jam Matka, ktora zycia daje
I dech swoj w dziecka pluca dmucha
Jam ta co zycie to odbiera
Jam Panna, Matka i Starucha

Jak Ty, tak kazda z nas, Bogini
Trzy role w sobie zawzdy nosi
Bo kobiet takie przeznaczenie
By zycia wszystkich rzadzic losem.

Pokusa

Ciemnosc z wolna nas ogarnia
Tuli zimnymi ramiony
Moze wreszcie sie poddamy?
Moze damy sie jej wchlonac?

Mysli takie, ciemne, zimne
Po polnocy trzy godziny
Kazda dusze zywa mecza
Neca slodkim zapomnieniem

Lecz nie, poddac sie nie wolno
Czern to otchlan a nie wolnosc
To stracenie, nie sen blogi
To kajdany, nie swoboda

Odrzuc kuszace obrazy
Zostan soba, nie trac wiary
Slonce wschodzi, swiat sie budzi
Odrzuc wizje sennej mary

Obudz sie juz z odretwienia
I rozejrzyj smialo wokol
Zycie lepsze od spokoju
Boc to przecie… smierci spokoj…

Rota kupców

Farnagu, przyjmij ma ofiare
Zlozona Tobie w wiernym darze
Chce wraz z innymi Ciebie czcic
Pieniadza boze i opiekunie

Do twej swiatyni poklon niesc
W skarbonie datki swoje klasc
Bys chwala swoja objal mnie
Opieke swoja mi raczyl dac

Madroscia swoja wspomoz mnie
By chwala Twoja mogla rosc
I zysk nasz rosl, i obrot rosl
By w swiecie slawnym byl wciaz Cech

Dlonia swa silna podtrzymaj mnie
Sile mej woli wzmocnij, bym
Sie nie zawahal wiecej gdy
Interes jakis ubic przyjdzie mi

Przyjmij me modly tedy dzis
W podwoje Cechu swego wpusc
Bym wraz z innymi mogl Ciebie czcic
Pieniadza boze i opiekunie

Wiosna
Wiosna przyszla w tym roku z zaskoczenia
Zakwitnieniem spiacych pakow na drzewach
Zaspiewaniem zmarznietych ptakow na dachach
Zzielenieniem mlodej trawy na lakach
Wiosna przyszla w tym roku znienacka
Majac kwiaty w bukiecie schowanym za plecami
Jak diabelek z pudelka wyskoczyly nam z wody zaby
I jak tort z niespodzianka wybuchnela lisci zielen
Wiosna przyszla w tym roku nagle –
Zaspiewala, zatanczyla, zagrala…
Na naszych oczach pojawila sie…
Lecz – zniknie… A po niej przyjdzie Lato.

Lato
Lato to piasek przesypujacy sie miedzy palcami
Lato to slona woda parujaca w upale
Lato to mokra chustka, polozona na twarz dla ochlody
Lato to cieple kamienie, na ktorych siedzisz
Lato to parasolki chroniace od slonca
Lato to wycieczki, byle daleko od miasta
Lato to marzenia, tetniace mlodoscia
Lato to morze, zza ktorego ladu nie ujrzysz
Lato to chwila ulotna, drzaca w upale
Lato to krotkie noce, pelne tajemnych szeptow
Lato to suche drzewa, mdlejace z upalu
Lecz Lato… to zaledwie zapowiedz Jesieni.

Jesień
Pelna kwiatow, owocow i grzybow
Przytula nas do siebie
Zlotymi liscmi klonow
Kluje nas delikatnie
Ostrymi kolcami kasztanow
Rosnacych w parku
Popedza nas do zbierania
Tego, co dla nas przeznacza
Ostrzega nas… przed Zima.

Zima
Zawierucha, zimne dlonie i usta
I moj pokoj, w zawiei zgubiony
I to drzewko, co wzrasta wsrod sniegu
I balawanek, co zakwitl marchewka
Moje oczy, wpatrzone w dal biala
I te male momenty czekania
I te dziwne minuty szukania
I te smieszne choc smutne spotkania
W tej zawiei gdzies jestesmy, zniknieci…?
Czy tez tylko sie nam tak wydaje?
Wiem! Musimy poczekac! Do marca! A wtedy…
Razem z Wiosna wszystko odtaje…

Ja

Na palcu srebrny pierscien
We wlosach srebrne nitki
W pamieci setki piesni
A w oczach chec do bitki

To srebro, nie siwizna!
To lira, nie plecaczek
Medalion, nie amulet
I… sztylet… Nie zabawka.

Gdy zadrzesz ze mna – strzez sie
Nie, ja nie rusze palcem
Lecz na ma skarge jedna
Przeliczni rusza w walke

A slowem moim piesn jest
Wiec strzez sie, nieroztropny
Bo uszy ci napuchna
Gdy ujrzysz w grze me dlonie

Gdy wkroczysz na ma sciezke
Slowem sie jeno zemszcze
Lecz slowem sieke ostrym
Ostrym jak elfie miecze

Wiec nie wchodz w droge Srebrnej
Nie draznij mnie nadmiernie
Bo ucho moje dobre
A usta – szyderstw pelne

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/14 at 00:00

Posted in Poems

Tagged with , , , , , , , ,

Regaining Herself: 3. Moira, Office

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Regaining Herself: Pictures in the Wind

Moira, Office

Moira had gotten used to the glances.
She had been allowed to stay in CIA – the agency didn’t like to simply fire any people who knew way too much for the bosses’ comfort. Allowed to stay didn’t mean however staying on as a field agent, or anything even remotely as interesting. She was back to the typing pool, just like a threat from her past had predicted.
Outcast from both groups.
Other typists, secretaries and assistants gave her wide berth. She was the one that had tried to be better. She had been promoted. She had jumped out of the line. She had tried to be something more. They shunned her as a traitor to the female department.
The field agents, now a solely male contingent, avoided her as scrupulously, as if the failed promotion was some kind of disease she could pass on to them. The cloud of bad luck was about her and nobody wanted to be caught talking to the “girl who forgot everything”. Even the ones that admitted she probably did some good work during “the missile crisis” assiduously limited any interaction to “please, three copies, Miss MacTaggert” and “thank you for delivering this, Miss MacTaggert”.
Being stuck as neither fish nor fowl she should have probably left the agency on her own.
She didn’t care enough, though. It was a job, it paid for food and rent, and it was so uncomplicated it left her with a lot of time and brainpower to process her memories. She knew her way around the office and she never actually paid attention to anyone except for her direct boss. So she kept her focus on her memories, on her daily tasks and on being as unnoticed as someone of her – albeit local – fame ever could.
For all the tasks – typing, correcting and taking notes – she used only small part of her brain. She had years of training in this and a particular ability to double-task effectively. Major portion of her consciousness was used to recover, collect and combine the splinters of memories that kept surfacing from time to time.
During lunch she was usually left safely alone, so she ate the unappetizing special of the day slowly, but quietly and went back to her desk, retyping someone’s report in four copies. She always said she was ideal notes taker – everything went from ears or eyes directly to the hands, no need to involve brain on the way. This way she could run the personal analysis and map the connections – which sometimes felt like putting together a giant, mixed up, imaginary jigsaw puzzle – when at the same time earning her living by transferring someone’s stakeout notes to proper form and correct tenses.
People here really need to brush up on their grammar and spelling.
She corrected a ‘hole nite’ to a ‘whole night’ and went back to her puzzle pieces.
Charles Xavier was most definitely lying low somewhere nearby. Otherwise he wouldn’t have needed to make her forget.
He must have others with him. He would be hiding them. She must have seen them. He was keeping them safe by keeping her away.
She bit her lip.
If he hadn’t cared about her, he could have gotten rid of her in many different ways. Instead he made her forget, made her safe, both for their and her sake, and from any side of the conflict. CIA understood she could give them nothing and if any other mutants got their hands on her, they wouldn’t be able to pull anything meaningful from her memories either. Not that it would have saved her from the most inspired of them, but still it was something.
What she could actually remember were flashes, sometimes single words or strings or incomprehensible technical explanations. There was the man who looked, but only sometimes, like a blue furry beast. Mostly he looked like a scrawny teenager, but both pictures overlapped.
She could remember genetic theories, explained in that cultured voice and dreamy accent, words full of passion and fascination. Charles. She was sure it had been him, even though most of the memories of him even from before the attack on HQ were blurred.
She could remember the other voice, much colder, black turtleneck and thin body, always almost shivering with hatred towards the world. Quite sure it was Eric, but as most of her focus had always been on Charles, the complete (or even partly usable) scenes with him were not that many, and the face was a somewhat hazy case.
But what she remembered in full, in the greatest detail possible, was the very last moment she had with Charles. The day she recovered it, she cried in her bed from the soaring happiness that hurt so much.
She remembered the glorious sweetness of their kiss, the sudden closeness and her little gasp the second their lips touched. He was so careful, she had thought at the moment, yet she felt he knew exactly what he was doing. She wanted to deepen the contact, maybe to reach and caress his tired, worried face when she felt his hand rise and she hoped he would be the one to touch her. Instead she felt the earth fall from under her feet and she her own body collapsing right there and then nothing.
Moira liked recalling this part, because even though it was the exact end of their relationship – right before it could start – she knew, for sure, he must have cared for her. She remembered his “I know”, laced with such sadness and sorrow. She was quite assured the separation he enforced couldn’t have been easy for him either.
Also, it gave her fury enough food to keep her going and force her to complete her investigation of her own brain. She just couldn’t give up before letting him know what she thought about him.
She sighed quietly, trying not to draw anyone’s attention. Work was finished for today, papers stacked, out-boxes filled, in-boxes mostly empty. Girls were leaving, filing one after another in the unconscious order of seniority the group had created internally. The order she used to be a part of, until she tried not to be.
She picked up her things and put on the beige coat that made her blend with the crowd. Waiting for the last of her co-workers to leave, she was the one to turn off the lights and so had to wait for the elevator and ride down by herself.
Outside the menacing building, in the stream of humanity hurrying to their different goals, she walked alone and alienated in her ultimate objective of regaining the control over her own mind and showing Charles Xavier that he would not get rid of her that easily.
She licked her lips, hoping for some stray sensation to wake up, for a taste or smell of that day to come back.
Not yet. But soon she would have the whole corner of her picture build and would move to the next big part.

Written by Srebrna

2014/05/12 at 10:00

Posted in Regaining Herself