Chapter 2, Apocalypse 2016

By the looks of it, Chief Moustafa was one of the unfortunate souls who had been too close to one of the blasts. He was missing a nose and half of his face looked scarred and a little melted. It continued down his neck and to his arm. He had floppy black hair on the unmarred side of his face, while the other side was bald.

And I felt guilty, so guilty. It wasn’t like he could help his disfigurement. That sort of reaction wasn’t in me—for all of my flaws, people couldn’t say I wasn’t compassionate. But on top of the scarring, he had green eyes and a scowl that automatically set me on edge.

I coughed and looked at the ground for a moment before giving a sloppy salute. “Chief Moustafa.”

“Private Fraser,” he rumbled, eyeing me carefully, making me feel sheepish and like an idiot. Then, to Commander Stokes, “Is this the best we can do? Her? Her hair is pink, not regulation, and she’s clearly a rookie, a former civilian who needed to know how to shoot. Or does she even know how to shoot?”

“I can get the job done,” I threw in, growing annoyed that I wasn’t being addressed even though I was right there. “And you’re hair isn’t exactly regulation either,” I petulantly added. He just stopped for a moment and looked at me blankly. “Well it isn’t. If we’re going to be criticizing each other without knowing each other at all, I might as well get that in.”

Moustafa looked at the Commander before slowly lifting one corner of his mouth. “She’ll work,” he said.

He waved behind him at me, and I looked at the Commander before trudging after the angry giant. I was allowed to kiss my parents goodbye before hurriedly packing and meeting Moustafa at the gate. I slipped a tiny makeup back in my pack along with a change of clothes and other supplies out of spite—that and it might come in handy with first impressions later, who knew?

We couldn’t take one of the vehicles because the city needed to save fuel. So we strode out, odd pair that we were. Me in my giant steel-blue parka with thick goggles on my face and a gas mask swinging from the bottom of my pack, an M4 carbine slung across my shoulders; him in head to toe black, his black hood down low like an executioner, Win Mag in hand. His pack looked tiny compared to the one taking up half of my body, even though they were the same size. Our geiger counters clicked slowly in sync.

He made long strides making it difficult for me to keep pace, especially in the snow. Not that I would mention it. I held my head as high as I could and tried to gracefully jog to catch up to him. I had my pride, and he had doubted my abilities—even though I doubted my own abilities myself and had no idea what I was doing. I was scared. And cold. And missed Netflix like so bad. Season 2 of Stranger Things, RIP. But I couldn’t let him know these thoughts. As far as he should know, I loved things like guns and pushups and MREs and whatever else I was supposed to like to be a survival goddess. I’m Bearetta Grills, I’ll drink my own urine. Ew. No, no I won’t. There is a line.

“My name’s Blurryface, and I care what you think,” I sang softly to myself to keep from boredom. We were walking along what used to be the main avenue. Giant oak trees used to cover the road with their branches and old Southern mansions sat back from the road. Now there were trees all over the road and grey, charred branches pointed at the sky. The old mansions had been looted, vandalized, and left in disarray. “My name’s Blurryface, and I care what you think. Wish we could turn back time, to the good old days—

“Please, something else,” Moustafa groused over his shoulder. “Less emo and depressing.”

I glared at his immense back. You could show a movie on the thing. Who was he to boss me around about singing to myself? Ugh. Fineeeee. He made me feel like a 17 year old rather than an almost 27 year old.

I growled a bit to myself. And then, “Uh, yo’ don’t get it twisted. This rap shit, is mine, motherf—“

His hand clamped over my mouth. And then I heard voices.

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Chapter 1, Apocalypse 2016

***Note: Not everything may be accurate, not everything may seem plausible, and it may seem a bit rushed. I’m doing this for fun, yo. The well-researched, thought out, re-written, agonized-over piece is still under wraps. I just wanted a project with a little less blood, sweat, and tears. My apologies to anyone who actually knows what they’re talking about in this kind of situation. I AM WINGING IT SO HARD.

Chapter 1

I trained for 9 months. In that time, the zombies rose up. But we didn’t call them zombies. Wayyyy too on the nose. I was opposed to walkers because, duh, copyright infringement. They were just known as the Infected. Which was highly accurate. They did want to eat flesh, any living flesh, and they roamed. They weren’t very fast, but they could be dangerous in hordes. Luckily, no one in our fragile city had the virus. I mentioned before, there were heavy quarantines prior. But thanks to a few HAM radios, we could get some news in and out of what was going on. They were already covering the Southwest, so it was only a matter of time before they reached us.

Meanwhile, nuclear winter is the pits. I don’t knowwww if anyone has told you that, but it is. Like…seriously sucky, dude. It’s cold, dark, everything feels gross and a little dusty, and food becomes a major concern. Also, our water was intensely irradiated so while we did the best we could to attempt to purify it, I did notice my already very pale skin had a certain..glow to it. And no, I wasn’t pregnant.

Anyone who had been close to the larger cities that were decimated suffered worse from the radiation. Most people were vaporized, but those that didn’t tended to have scars like burn victims. THEY looked like the zombies we thought were coming. But they were all fine. Delightfully normal—as normal as one can be after a traumatic event.

As for myself, I lived at the Central Barracks. Cushy situation to be honest. The downtown of my city had been walled off as best as possible with scraps of metal, wood, and concrete, and the Central Barracks used to be a sweet hotel. My parents lived in one of the little shotgun houses by the mayor’s house. We still had a mayor. He just really answered to our commander, Commander Stokes. I saw my family and the mayor about once a week. Luckily for me, the mayor—unlike Sgt. Tibbs, the man who whipped me into shape—found me charming, if quirky. Definitely irreverent.

I’ll be frank: I hated military life. I found the structure to be chafing, and I’m sure my superiors found my presence to be chafing. We were all just chapped at that point. But I had gotten to be a decent shot (shout out to all of those Pre-War video games), and I could pack a wallop unarmed. I wasn’t outstanding, but it sufficed. Plus, I could talk my way out of a lot of things if need be. My mouth was my greatest weapon. If this had been normal times, if this was Pre-War military, I would have been gone so fast. But times had changed and as long as you fell in line when it was crucial, you were tolerated.

Pre-War. Everything was Pre-War. I think it was one of the shortest wars in history, with everything ending in hours. Who knew, we could have still been in the war and not known it. There was hardly a way to find out what was going on in the rest of the world. HAM radios only did so much.

We didn’t even have uniforms. The desert camouflage of the wars in the Middle East was useless in the grey and white landscape. So we scavenged and made do in our grey, blue, and white parkas—hard to find in a Gulf Coast Alabama town. But we did it. Most of us also had gas masks on standby. We looked like creatures from one of Dante’s circles of hell. But we didn’t look as bad as the things that attacked the scrap walls we had built around our city. The people who wanted to slaughter us and take our supplies. The creatures were bad, but bloodthirsty people…they were vicious.

The day before my life changed, I picked up some Kool-Aid packets from the commissary. I really, really hated how life was going. I know, in times like this, you’re supposed to suck it up buttercup and just survive. Common good. Fall in line. Blah blah blah. I just couldn’t do it. So with a final urge of stick-it-to-the-man-ness I had left in me, I dyed my hair hot pink. Or to be more precise, I flavored it “Pink Swimingo.” And it smelled amazing. I went to bed that night with a towel on my head, my fellow privates shaking their heads, and I fell asleep with a smirk on my face.

The next morning, as I was scrambling to get to my post, sliding over the icy cobblestones and pavement, someone ran clear into me (for once, it wasn’t my fault) and papers scattered everywhere. I stopped and began apologizing profusely as I helped him pick the papers up.

“No, no, don’t worry, it was my fault,” rumbled a deep voice, “I was in a hurry and—Private Frasier, what on earth have you done to your hair?”

I froze and looked up into the steely blue eyes of the Commander. I gulped and sort of saluted. It looked sloppy, I’m sure. “Kool-Aid spill?”

“And that isn’t your natural lip color, is it?” he asked slowly.

“No, sir. But there’s no reason you can’t look your best, even in a nuclear winter,” I said without thinking. I gave him an awkward “Oops” smile and began playing with the zipper on my parka. I was turning into Fran Drescher in The Beautician and the Beast. Not a good look currently.

His eyes narrowed. “Indeed. Sgt. Tibbs will have a fit you know.” I gave him a lopsided grin and what I hoped were convincing puppy eyes. Not that they seemed to work on anyone around here. “I was going to come find you anyways. Where were you off to?”

“Just…uh, watching the wall. You know, the usual…sir,” I wobbled, mentally wondering why I get myself into things.

Commander Stokes reached out to a new recruit who was jogging by. “Tell Sgt. Tibbs to have someone fill in Private Fraser’s post. Now. Get to it.” I watched the wide-eyed recruit stammer and salute and scurry away.

“Well, Frasier, walk with me,” he said, heading towards our government building. “You know, you’re a noticeable person, even without the, um, tragic Kool-Aid spill. I’ve seen you at a few parties at the mayor’s and heard you talking in several situations. You know quite a bit about Pre-War foreign politics, nuclear deterrence, and general diplomacy.”

“Um…Thank you, sir?” It was my undergrad so…

“And people, well, people who aren’t giving you orders on a daily basis, seem to like you…And those that don’t you can tolerate it seems. You’re diplomatic is the point I’m making. I’m sending out ten teams to do some recon. I had you in mind for a simple mission out to Louisiana, but now I’m thinking something different.” He looked at my hair and smiled. “I think you might be the person I send up to DC. I’m sending my best soldier, my best sniper up. It’s important that whomever goes up with him can work with him and listen to him when it counts.”

“Well, sir, I don’t have the most obedient reputation,” I began slowly.

“No, you really don’t,” he chuckled. “But, I think out of everyone, he’ll like you the most…or, at least work with you the most. Besides, I think that if there’s anyone left up around DC, you’re the one best suited to getting them to help us.” He sighed and fixed his steely blue eyes on me. “You’ve got spirit, kid. You’re going to need it.”

“Well, sir, I’ll do my best…” I began, not arguing. This mission would be dangerous and there were high chances I’d die, but golly, I had to get out.

“I’ll be honest, kid, I don’t think you’re a great soldier,” he blurted. Gee, thanks. “But, you would have been a decent politician back before all of this. Lucky for you, that’s what I need right now.”

We walked inside the grey, over crowded government building, sandbags and troops all over the place, and he began briefing me on what I needed to know and look for. Military, resources, weapons, other cities or settlements. Any group of people we could possibly work with—or watch out for. We climbed the stairs and got to his office. Inside stood a hulking man with his back to us, looking out the window. He had a .300 Win Mag slung across his back. I’m not a small girl, 5’7” and broad-shouldered, but I felt like a teacup Yorkie looking up at that man. I probably had the shakes too.

“Private Fraser, this is Master Chief Petty Officer Moustafa. He’s been working down at the docks.”  We had the basis for building a sort of tiny navy for the city, and our engineers were working overtime to make it happen. While our military was cobbled of all the former branches and then newbies, most of the former Navy and Coast Guard were at the outpost there. I nodded. “Master Chief Moustafa, this is Private Fraser.”

He turned around and looked at me and made a noise at the back of his throat that sounded like a growl. Which I have to say, sounded way better than my yelp of surprise. I make great first impressions.

Apocalypse 2016, Intro

So, I’m still writing my scifi. I took a break, but I am still doing it, you guys. Even if I haven’t kept up with this blog like I should either.

That said, I need a fun project that isn’t serious to play around with, so I’m doing something that’s supposed to be fun and cheeky but still in the sort of apocalyptic/scifi/disaster genre. I also want to put myself in it and make it a weird alternate reality that’s also cobbled with different things in this sort of genre that I love. And then be aware of that? If that makes sense? Ah, you’ll see.

Hope you like the start.

Apocalypse 2016

Introduction

It happened on my 26th birthday. September 17th, 2016. Things were already tense. The Rio Olympics had gone sour as a cocktail of viruses got together and bread something else. They were calling it simply the Rio Virus. It attacked your immune system, your gastrointestinal system, before finally making it’s way to your brain. But it didn’t kill you—not exactly. Yes, ladies and gentleman. That’s how our nightmare of zombies were realized. They looked just like everyone else. Only their eyes were all white. And sometimes they were missing chunks of skin or a limb. Because they had been bitten. But on September 17th, 2016, that wasn’t a North American problem. We were in heavy quarantine mode. The virus hadn’t turned people yet. Their immune systems were just slowly dying and people thought it was a sort of flu. Coughing. Fevers. The usual. The virus would peak later. In the after. In November.

The US election had everyone tense and 2 members of the Trump campaign had committed suicide. The Clinton campaign was reeling from the latest leaks from Assange, but most people were confident she would recover—even though everything was still unsettling. Debates were approaching on the 23d and everyone waited with bated breaths.

But on September 17th, 2016, North Korea did it. They actually had a nuke that could reach Hawaii. And they took it out. Within an hour, the US retaliated. And then came Russia. And China. And we bombed back.

Most of our major cities were gone and the fallout was terrible. Europe was ravaged—Eastern Europe suffered from airstrikes from Russia. China and Russia turned on each other in the middle of it all.

As for the US—DC, LA, New York, Dallas, Houston, San Francisco, Boston, Atlanta, Miami. Gone. Craters of radiation no one dared venture to. Everything was fragmented.

Now here’s the thing. In an apocalypse, people like me aren’t meant to survive. I hate running, it’s from the devil. I had no military training, couldn’t even fire a gun. No survival skills really. But I had a quick tongue, some book learning, and some raw strength paired with some under-developed boxing skills. Not a lot to go on, especially when my greatest skill was building amazing settlements in Fallout 4, but when the left-overs from the military in the area decided to park itself in my port city, I enlisted.

Most cities devolved into mass chaos from what I heard—not like I had access to 24-hour news anymore, but you got word. Looting, gangs, killings, weird mafias and tribes emerging. But because my city had a lot of leftover military, we were on lockdown. My family was moved to camps outside of the base, which made me feel better while I got my butt handed to me by a drill sergeant who I vowed to never let know my loathing of running. He would use it for fun to torment me. I had a smart mouth and sassy comebacks and he was not a fan.

This was not how I wanted to spend my 26th year. Happy fricken birthday to me. At least I didn’t have to worry over elections anymore.

Ground Control to Major Tom

We lost sweet, sweet David Bowie. The wonderful Ziggy Stardust. Jareth the Goblinking. He was always a lovely inspiration for me.

I keep typing away. Carving out what story I can. Sometimes I just…I reread what I wrote and I want to tear it up and edit it ’til the cows come home. But I can’t. I think I’ll get stuck if I do that. Plunging forward, that’s the way! I can rewrite later. It looks a bit hideous though, if I look backwards.

On a funny note, a friend and I have started a new blog, Cinematic Persons Anonymous, where we examine the mental well-being, trials, and even minor complaints of the supporting characters who may not get the credit, or even screen time, in the action movies we love. Thus far, we’ve had interviews from a royal robe designer from Ming City and the Head of the Financial Department of the First Order.  Do check it out.

If anyone has tips to make yourself keep writing, I’d love to hear them. Hopefully I can do a new post about fashion that inspires me.

Until later,

Xoxo Vicky Stardust

 

PS, my laptop kept changing Jareth to Garth. I’m quite cross with it now.

Off Course

Last weekend was a bust. And the one after that. And the one after that. I won’t lie. I was doing so good with my 5k words a weekend…and then I collapsed. So much happened in the  world and in my own little work world that I couldn’t think. And then I went to Hawaii–where I am now.

Hopefully now I can think and pull myself back together. It’s so amazing to me how if you slack in one area, it quickly becomes a snowball-effect of procrastination. I’m in a dead-zone of creativity. Thinking isn’t on my radar. But it must be. Because I really don’t want to let myself down on my goals. So, time to pull myself up by the bootstraps and get serious.

And if anyone has advice to offer to beat the slump, I’ll take it.

Meanwhile, I’m reading Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series, and I must say, I’m enjoying the genius.

Galactic Inspirations #1

So I decided, along with my weekly posts, to also try to post a bit on what’s inspiring me now, what is really melding with me and what I’m writing. We’ll see how this goes.  It will probably be mostly pictures and minimal commentary.

Oh wait! I finally reached 5k words! Only 25k more before December!

Alright, now to the main event:

1980s Punk

1980s punk fashion, including punk’s daughter goth, is having a huge impact on me right now. It’s just so hot right now.

hansel gif

Yes, I just said that so I could use this gif.

I think I can attribute that to all of the amazing SciFi films released at the time. Naturally Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi, but also my favorite, Blade Runner, which shall get its own much-deserved post soon.  Also, the fashion in Back to the Future 2′s 2015 is oddly inspirational.

blade runner gif

Something about 1980s punk and goth is so futuristic that I can’t help but gravitate towards it. At the same time, it’s the past, so it has a nice recycled-world universe. On top of that, the 80s was decadence. It was an era of decadence and a time where you could believe anything was possible. The Commies were the unquestioned bad guy, and the US was the unquestioned good guy, and the fight between the titans happened somewhere else, over there, not here. Perhaps I’m drawn to this because the 80s wasn’t a giant time of questioning the man, with the main exception being punk. It fits these sort of principles and big concepts I’m wrangling with and condenses it nicely for me into forms of fashion and hair.

These photos are obviously not mine, just ones I found all over the place.

Until later,

Xoxo Vicky Stardust

Beep Beep Boop

That title literally came from the loading screen at WordPress…and I loved it so I went with it.

Also, it reminds me of this stunning gif of Steve Buscemi, who I adore. I think he’s the cutest thing ever, and don’t you dare contradict me. Also, he’s a boss actor.

steve buscemi

Anyways, I missed last week’s post, and I missed my 5k mark. I’m a bad, bad writer. I was out traveling, and that just kills the groove sometimes.  But good news! This weekend, I have all the time in the world. I’m shooting for 7-10k.

On the bright side, I did finally nail down the name for my hero (though, hero isn’t the word I’d use to describe him, really). Captain Fenrir Themis, named after the Norse hellhound. Yes, there’s a point. There’s usually always a point to everything when I write. I’m the sort of person who writes things with 50 different layers to it. I’m that neurotic. I’m the writer your English teacher thinks every writer is. I can’t help myself. It’s just all got to be steeped in symbolism.

Vicky is Neurotic

I do finally have a grasp on him. I’ve been wrestling with his character for weeks. I finally tackled him…he’s a bit of Chris Pratt as Starlord, Han Solo, and an 80’s rocker all in one. I’m starting to realize how much this thing is being influenced by the 80’s… There’s a lot of neon. I blame my parents. And the fact that Blade Runner is my favorite movie of all time. ALL TIME.

Gaze upon its magnificence.

Gaze upon its magnificence.

So, another thing I’ve been thinking is doing bi-weekly posts… I know, I know, I was awful and forgot last week’s… but this would be a short post, mostly pictures, of things that inspire me that week. If you’re actually reading this, and have input, let me know.

I’m cutting this short because I’m watching Back to the Future, all 3 of them, and it’s October 21, 2015…so I gotta. Speaking of SciFi and all…

Can we please start dressing like this now?

Can we please start dressing like this now?

Until then,

Xoxo VickyStardust

Procrastination Dead Ahead

Sweet mother of pearl, procrastination is already setting in here. I don’t even feel like writing another blog. How sad is that? But I told myself, once a week, so here we are…though I probably need to go every 3 days, judging by my stats page.

Spongebob: That show understands me on a very deep level...and I'm pretty sure Squidward is the millennial poster-child.

Spongebob: That show understands me on a very deep level…and I’m pretty sure Squidward is the millennial poster-child.

I keep telling myself I’ll have 5k words by Friday… “Suuuureeeee…” I seem to be responding.

My problem is two-fold. Not only am I just an awful procrastinator who works best against tight deadlines, but I am incredibly detailed when I write. I feel like instead of books, film should be my medium. Except I know nothing about film-making, and they’d all have to be big-budget films.

This is kind of heinous and brilliant all at once.

This is kind of heinous and brilliant all at once.

No, instead of writing, I’m over here trying to get my, to use tumblr’s word of the hour, aesthetic right. Bright side, I almost have my own feel which is starting to meld…that’s a plus, right? I also get obsessed with certain songs when I write if they remind me of the story, so I have a playlist now. Before you ask, yes, “Space Oddity” made it. How could I not? Ground control to Major Tom.

I'll never be this cool tbh

I’ll never be this cool tbh

I keep renaming people too. Like, I feel the name has to be perfect and have 4 different meanings that are relatable. My psychotic perfectionism is setting in. I understand now why the stereotype of anyone artistically inclined is temperamental. Artists are being driven insane by themselves and this inability to perfectly communicate what’s going on in their brain. They can’t perfectly replicate this particular firing of synapses in their skull so they’re bound to get a little fussy. And heaven forbid no one gets it.

Ugh, side note, my least favorite thing is people misunderstanding a joke. The worst. Especially if it’s something non-controversial and mild and they still find some what to be offended about. To a person who tries to stick to neutral ground and avoid stepping on toes or being disrespectful, if you still find something to be offended about, it takes them to a special level of rage. I think the internet has provided an unfortunate outlet for people lacking in a sense of humor. I truly do. Weird, random rant over.

Look what you did...making me resort to Gandhi.

Look what you did…making me resort to Gandhi.

Back on track, this is going slow, and my Netflix habit isn’t helping.

But this playlist I made is pretty bomb.

bog 2.4

Maiden Voyage

2001: A Space Odyssey

In 1964, after the completion of Dr. Strangelove, Stanley Kubrick found himself enticed by the world of science fiction.  The great yet eccentric director sought out writer Arthur C. Clarke, who, at the time, Kubrick believed was a recluse, or as Kubrick oh-so-delicately put it, “a nut in a tree.”  Despite Kubrick’s doubts, and Clarke’s being mildly offended by Kubrick’s assumptions, the two set out to make what is now seen as one of the most groundbreaking films of the last century, and certainly one of the most groundbreaking films in science fiction–though the very first one, A Trip to the Moon, will always hold a special place in my heart. 2001: A Space Odyssey created a rich legacy and influenced the likes of Spielberg and George Lucas, who put his stamp on the entire genre with Star Wars, which itself has had more than an impact on science fiction films–it’s influenced science fiction literature, culture–even generations.

Star Wars

…and this is the Mother of all things to have going before you.

So, where does this leave me, a 25-year old millennial, who is praying to avoid a quarter-life crisis and still trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up? Simple. I’m going to write a novel. A science fiction novel….Well, at least I’ll try. The way I see it is that this blog will actually serve a purpose: to make me write the story in my head. I’ve always loved stories…film, books, television, plays, Humans of New York…. And I figure, I need to try. So, this blog is to make me somewhat accountable and to make me go after a dream of mine.

This isn’t my first blog…or my first attempt to write a book, for that matter. I thought once that I’d be a great book reviewer. Another time, I wrote about my adventures living in Italy. I was asked to write for my school when I studied in Italy. And my last blog was an old tumblr I didn’t keep up. It was full of Sherlock and neon flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. And Sherlock. A floral bouquet of Cumberbatch. As for the books… too many to count, but they still sit on my back burner. I love them too much to throw them out…each character like a child of mine. In the novel The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, an old, eccentric author talks about characters, saying that they stand in front of her, tugging on her arms and clothing, begging and wondering when it’s their time to be heard. And so she wrote until only one remained.

So, now I finally want to give them all of their voices. Now I want to be brave enough to push myself into writing their stories. I start here. I’m hoping if I get viewers and followers, if my friends and family know, then they’ll hold me accountable to just getting it done.

My goal for the end of the year is simply 30k words. Nothing more. I know NaNoWriMo does 60k, but this year, I just can’t do that insanity. Hat’s off to those who do, though. I keep trying and failing. And I will try again…just not this year.

Over the course of our time together, I hope to document my frustrations and joys…even talk a bit about what exactly I’m doing. All through a weird millennial lens. Why this lens, you ask? Because, like it or not, I’ve become very much the embodiment of my generation in some ways. Prepare yourself for more use of the word “I” than one would want… : I’ve got the money and job struggles, the wanderlust, the social awareness, the need to binge watch. The love of Netflix…minus the chill because Netflix is for my laziness and nothing else, but that is another rant for another day. I like stupid pop music, and I love bands that are too obscure; you’ve probably never heard of them. I loathe the Kardashians, but sometimes I have a morbid curiosity about them… I loathe myself promptly after finding out. I’m obsessed with Buzzfeed and their quizzes. I find this whole current election fascinating and actually really enjoy that Donald Trump is a part of it–only because it gives us something to laugh at…But seriously, don’t elect him…please. I’ve lived in 2 other countries from the age of 20-24. I’m trilingual. Or almost. I speak Spanish and Italian, and neither is perfect, but I can handle life in both languages. I’m considering law school… but sometimes I feel hesitant. I always wish I was in another country. I always want to know a new language. I’d like to do something that helps people. Purpose and helping others is more important to me than money, which is the same for many in my generation. All of these things go into making me a person. All of these things are more typical in my generation. And all of these things will go into my writing. Don’t worry. I won’t always talk about myself this much–makes me self-conscious.

....shut up, Time....

….shut up, Time….

Anyways, I hope you’ll come with me on my intergalactic journey into Science Fiction.

Xoxo,

Vicky Stardust

2001: A Space Odyssey