from the OTHER archives: Socks, Part 4, Chapters 9-12

The day after I write this is looking to be something out of a religious textbook’s interpretation of hell- three tests, one presentation, and no rest anywhere in between. Add daily writing and the fact that I seem to have lost motivation for a lot of things I used to quite enjoy, and it’s shaping up to be a crappy week.

But by the time that the scheduling system gets around to posting this, it’ll be over, so there’s no use in worrying about it.

Yasmin’s Blog
Friday, April 26, 2013

It’s about to get spicy in here- new character? New format? New storyline? Sign me up.

My real name is Yasmin. I don’t have a real last name. I used to, but it’s been such a long time since I’ve heard it that I’ve forgotten it.
You see, I’m like nothing you’ve ever seen or thought of before.

Actually, you know what, cancel that.

I don’t want to throw myself at you or burden you with my past, so if you don’t want to stay for this long ride that is my life, you might as well leave this blog right now and never come back.

If only quitting this business were that simple. But I made a promise to myself to “spork”, as it’s called, all three of the shit books I wrote from seventh to eighth grade. And you know I always keep my promises.

To most people, I’m just a fictional person, made up by a random person. But to some, I am real. It all depends on how you look at things.

Are you ready for the ride? If you’ve made it this far, I’ll just assume that you’re ready.

I’m not ready, but since I’m forced to be here, you might as well begin and get this over with.

My friend and I were kidnapped when we were both 11 years old. A person with a mask took us from our homes and experimented with us. They made us different.

If everyone is different, is everyone the same?

We no longer have arms; where we had arms, there are now wings. We still have the use of hands; they are at the end of the wings where they look out of place.

That’s not very aerodynamic of you.

We were made to fly but most of us never got a chance.

The awkward hand position is probably why.

There were 98 other children and teens made like this by the person with the mask. I was number 47. When you add up the digits (7+4) you get 11, the age I was when I was kidnapped. Handy, huh? But not completely coincidental.

Don’t bullshit me, G. I know that you only noticed this after the fact.

There was an imprisonment where the other experiments like me were kept. I escaped. My friend did not; he was shot in the wing when he was halfway over the electrical fence.
Huk- I’m choking up now, remembering what happened that day.

If you were going for eloquent, Yasmin, you have bitterly failed.

Now, whenever I have to go out in public, I put on a thick sweatshirt (no matter what the weather) to hide my wings or arms or whatever they are now.

How do you not get heat exhaustion? How did you even put on the sweatshirt in the first place with your huge arms-wings? (God, I just cringe writing that word for the first time in two years.)

I hide because I don’t want the person in the mask finding me and bringing me back to the imprisonment.

And I hide because I am an emotionally repressed adolescent with trust issues. I mean, I can’t even properly come out. But you’re going to one-up me every time, aren’t you, Yasmin?

But I know that someday I will find somebody like me. Together we will free the others, if they are still alive.

Somehow I don’t think that you and a handful of other cobbled-together teens are going to resist effectively against a government program. I mean, technically, none of this is considered canon like The Samhain Files is… It’s like the crap Zelda games for the CD-i. They exist in their own self-contained bubble of idiocy.

“Ummm…” was all I could manage to say after reading the first post. Turns out that the earlier posts were at the BOTTOM. Huh. I pushed the laptop back to Emma.

It’s called “reverse chronological order” and is the default for all blogs so that content that may no longer be relevant isn’t the first thing that visitors see. Plus, it makes it vastly easier to see if a blog has been abandoned or fallen inactive. You would know that if you had actually made something out of your life, Algeria.

“Read some more,” Emma replied as she pushed the laptop closer to me.
“Why? It creeps me out. Why would ANYBODY kidnap innocent children just to-”

The first time that Algeria says something rational, there are two more books to sift through with even more chances for Algeria to go back to being an idiot.

The door flew open (excuse the horrible choice of words)

It was a perfectly fine choice of words? Why are you apologizing? It was sufficiently descriptive.

and for some reason Tim burst out of the hallway into my room as I pushed the laptop back to Emma. She closed it.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?” I yelled at Tim. “WHEN SOMEBODY IS RECOVERING FROM BOTH BURNS ALL OVER THEIR BODY AND A MOMENTOUS DISCOVERY, YOU DON’T JUST BURST INTO THEIR QUIET, PEACEFUL ROOM! ESPECIALLY WHEN THAT MEANS-”

Not to play devil’s advocate, but your boyfriend didn’t know anything about your precious blog. You have no right to yell at him. I mean, if I played by these rules, I would be shouting at my parents hundreds of times a day… and you know how well even shouting once goes.

“Sorry, Maxi.” At least he remembered I like my middle name better than my first. “It’s just that there’s somebody here to see you.”

Oh, joy. I wonder who it is. -_-

“Like who? Abbey? Luna? A sadistic short-black-haired creepy girl whose name will not be mentioned right now?”

This isn’t a Harry Potter book. You can say “Tomorrow”. You don’t have to skirt around people’s names.

“Nope. Somebody by the name of Yasmin. You know her? I don’t. And she insists on wearing this really hot, thick sweatshirt.”
Well, quelle de coinky dink. What a coincidence.
“Bring her in.”

I always imagine Algeria saying that last sentence in a completely disinterested voice. I don’t know why. I mean, Algeria just read about a fellow experiment, and now she gets to meet her? Man, I should have tried- you know what, never mind. That would be a horrible idea.

Yasmin’s Blog
Tuesday, May 7, 2013

I hate this format with precise dates. It always makes writing so much harder. I think I’m going to write The Lilyborn straight up so that I don’t have to deal with any conversions form exact to relative dates.

I look up at the cave ceiling and I wonder, are any more of my kind reading this? Are there any more winged people out there?

There are good chapters that are one sentence long, and then there’s this one. There isn’t even any good plot information revealed here- it’s just an excuse to bump the total chapter number up one more. I’m disappointed, G.

“So… you have a blog,” I said as I tried not to stare at the girl standing by my bed. None of the hospital staff had given me permission to be able to get out of the bed, so obviously I was stuck in there.

I think my readers would kill me if I used one more Captain Obvious gif.

“So…. you have wings,” was her reply.

She had straight, chocolate brown hair that was done up in a really fancy and chunky braid. Her eyes were this weird olive-green color and something in her made me want to go I-don’t-know. Something was off here.

Your constrained views on sexuality, perhaps? It’s okay to have crushes, Algeria. I mean, Yasmin was the only “ethnic” character in the whole series, so I can kinda understand where you’re coming from.

Oh, wait, G made Yasmin white again eventually. Shit.

“So… I heard that you have an insanely creepy and unforgettable past,”
“Who told you about that?” She looked straight into my eyes. I met hers.

How To Not Dox Yourself

“Your blog,” was my comeback.
“Does that mean-”
“Yes. Take off the sweatshirt.”

I get it, Algeria- you have yet another crush. But even mby my standards, isn’t this taking things a little too fast?

She started to protest, but she stopped when she realized that there would be no way of getting around this. Up went the sweatshirt, over her head, and then-
I said nothing. I could hear Emma thinking, Algeria the slack-jawed! and doing a mental grin.
Whatever. Emma wasn’t doing anything, anyway.

Emma was busy pondering the sweet release of death and working on her next book, like I will now leave you to do.

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