#whimword - Risk

The game.

That is all there is. Nothing exists outside the game.

No rules. No winners. No losers.

Inside the game there is only victory, or death.

The greatest heroes in the galaxy all played the game. You don't get to a position of power and influence without taking a few risks, and playing the game is the biggest risk there is. Those that win go on to become great warriors, warlords, kings.

The greatest of the great.

Our betters.

Because they know how to play the game. They know how to balance risk against possible reward, when to advance and when to retreat and when to bet everything.

I wanted to play the game when I was younger. Every kid in the galaxy does. We grow up re-enacting our favourite bouts, trading figurines of our favourite players and hoping that one day we might be allowed to watch it live.

Only the very privileged are allowed to see the games live. The audience has a role to play in deciding the outcome so the common folk generally aren't allowed in. Past winners often go back to watch new players compete.

That wasn't enough for me though. I wanted to play.

I trained hard from the day I was old enough to be allowed to. Honed my body and mind into the ultimate killing machine. The ultimate player of the game. I was going to become a champion and make my fortune. One day they were going to say my name with awe.

And then my brother died. Was killed. And I learned a sad truth about the games.

Mother was short on wages that month, so my brother went out to try to earn some extra coin. The guards said they caught him stealing, but I'll never know the truth. He was sentenced to compete in the games.

At first I was excited. My brother was going to compete in the games, a chance for greatness, the very thing I had wanted to do since I was a kid. I couldn't understand why he was frightened at the prospect.

He understood better than I did. There is no risk in the games, not for those who are meant to win.

You see, the winners are chosen beforehand, from those who already part of the elite. They train their whole lives for their moment in the arena. Their competitors were like my brother; poor commoners convicted of petty crimes. He stood no chance.

I watched on the vidscreen as my brother died, slaughtered by a young girl who was the daughter of a count. I had never been so angry in my life.

I still wanted to compete though.

I knew that one day I would play the game and I would win. The elite would welcome me with open arms and I would destroy them from the inside.

I have trained for this my whole life.

One way or another, I will avenge my brother. No matter the risk.

#Whimword - Seed

I've carried it with me for years.

The seed lives in a locket around my neck. I never take it off. It's a small thing, so tiny, but it means so much.

It represents hope. There has been precious little of that the last few years.

First there was the drought. No one knew quite why it was so bad, but everyone agreed it was the worst they'd ever seen. One moment we were happily living our lives and then suddenly there was no water. We had rations that were strictly controlled but even that didn't help. Crops died, and then the livestock. Food got as scarce as water. People were scared, and they lashed out.

The war was inevitable but it didn't need to get so bad. They didn't need to use the weapons they did.

Everything was desert already and the fighting just made it worse.

More people died. Unnecessarily.

A reduced population means each person gets more water than before but it's still barely adequate. And what water there is needs to be filtered and treated a dozen times before it can be used.

The land is poison. Nothing grows in it, nothing edible anyway. The few communities that are left have gotten pretty good at growing sickly, meagre plants with no soil and not enough water.

Life is hard and we all dream of rain.

I remember when I was a child, I would stand outside in a summer storm letting the rain soak through my clothes. The smell of ozone in the air and hot damp concrete. The sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. I remember feeling alive.

And after the storm passed the land would look greener than ever, lush and so very alive.

We took it for granted, all that water just falling from the sky. If we'd only known...

I don't remember the last time I saw a rainstorm.

That's why the seed I carry is so important: it's a reminder of all the things we have lost, a relic of a time when most people didn't kill each other to stay hydrated. It's a piece of history, possibly the last of its kind. The plants we grow now are hardy and drought-resistant; they have to be. I don't remember what kind of plant this seed came from, but I know it doesn't grow naturally any more.

But this seed is also hope for the future. I carry around my neck, next to my heart because I know that one day I will plant it. One day the soil will be healthy enough and water plentiful enough for it to grow, more than that, to thrive.

One day...

I have to believe that, otherwise there is no hope, no future. I have to believe things will get better or what's the point in fighting to stay alive?

And if not me then my children, or my children's children. One day the world will be right again, and my hope will flourish.

Finding Success in Failure

Life is full of little ups and downs. You win some, you lose some. And other cliches as well.

Writing is the same.

Some days the words come easy and some days it's like pulling your own teeth out. The trick is getting to the point where the former is more common than the latter. You need to be able to produce content on the regular, reliably, if you want to produce any kind of body of work.

And if your ability to keep a roof over your head and food on the table relies on your writing, well, it's even more important. Mine doesn't, yet. That's the ultimate aim though, so a lot of the time I try to act like it does.

I've found that doing extreme writing challenges like NaNoWriMo really help my output. There's something about the extra accountability, the public nature of it and the mass cheering on that happens that really helps be get stuff done. I've done three successful Camp NaNos and one successful main NaNo so far with more planned in the future.

Spurred on by my success at NaNo, this year I decided to attempt a couple of other writing challenges. In March I joined in with a challenge to write a videogame and in May I tried Story-a-Day. Did I succeed at either of them? No.

I'm not sure whether it's because those challenges lack the comprehensive progress tools of NaNoWriMo or if it was because no one else around me was really doing them, but I failed. I did not write a game in March and I did not write a story a day in May.

But did I really fail?

No, I don't think so.

I planned to write a choose your own adventure game in Twine for March's challenge and got very little done. However, I did start getting to grips with Twine, which is something I'd not really tried before. And while March was a bust the project lives on. In fact, I've written more words on it this month than I managed in March. And it's fun. Seriously fun.

So was that a failure? No.

I didn't manage to write a story every day in May either, but I did manage to write stories some of the days. I have more stories finished than I did at the beginning of the month, which in my book is always a win.

When you set yourself challenges like that it can be tempting to view missing the target as an abject failure, but I don't see it like that.

Did I learn something new? Yes.

Did I get something written? Yes.

Did I end up with more words at the end of the month than I had at the beginning? Yes.

Then as far as I'm concerned it was a rousing success. And as a bonus, I have a better idea of my strengths and weaknesses. I know what sort of challenges are best for me, which ones I can get the shiny certificate for, and that feeds back into my process.

It's Camp NaNoWriMo again in July and I plan to not only participate but win. Same in November. But as long as I'm writing, I'm winning anyway.

#whimword - Ring

The ring was given to me by my grandmother, a family heirloom. No one knew how old it was. It had been in the family longer than anyone could remember; my grandmother’s grandmother had given it to her and she’d received it from her grandmother.

It was old. Unspeakably so.

Family rumour held that should the ring ever leave the family’s possession then disaster would fall. The stories were vague on what manner of disaster, but it would be a disaster nonetheless. Perhaps the loss of the ring would result in a death, or the ruination of the family fortune.

My task then was to act as the ring’s custodian, to ensure its safekeeping. Easy enough, or so I thought.

I had not reckoned on the ring having a mind of its own.

The ring was too small for my finger, so I usually wore it on a chain around my neck, assuming it would be safest next to my skin. I would frequently find that it had somehow slipped its chain, or that the chain itself had come undone. The discovery would be followed by a frantic search for my prized possession, lest I disappoint the entire family with my carelessness. More often or not the ring would turn up within a few hours, in my bed or the sink or in a pile of papers I’d been looking at.

I was thankful that it never seemed to go far.

Once the ring went missing for an entire week, during which time I lost my job, my father passed away and my long term girlfriend left me for another woman. When I finally found it (down the back of the sofa) I nearly sobbed with relief.

I made sure to keep a much closer eye on it from then on.

But still it would occasionally escape from me.

After the death of my father my mother broke her silence concerning the ring. She spoke of how grateful she was that she had been skipped over as custodian (the ring was always passed down grandmother to granddaughter and our family always bore daughters) and told some stories of her own mother’s trials in keeping the ring.

It seemed that that was part of whatever deal had been made in the mists of time immemorial; our family would prosper so long as we could keep hold of the ring, but the ring itself would not make that task easy. My mother believed that a spirit had somehow been trapped within the simple gold band and that’s what gave the ring a life of it’s own.

When my mother passed I misplaced the ring for a whole year during which I almost died of meningitis. My daughter found and returned it to me. She nursed me back to health.

Truly the day I adopted her was the best of my life.

One day I would pass the ring to the daughter she would undoubtedly have and our family would continue to flourish.

#whimword - Toothbrush

It’s just a toothbrush, isn’t it?

But if that’s the case why is it scaring her so badly?

Because it’s not just a toothbrush, it’s a symbol. Having her own toothbrush round the other woman’s apartment means something.
It means that they’re thinking about this being more than what they’ve been pretending it is, and that’s terrifying.

This thing between them was supposed to be casual. Fuck and run, fuck and run. Pretend every time is an accident and that they have no plans to do it again. That’s how it’s been for six months now. That’s how it’s supposed to continue. But feelings have an annoying habit of getting in the way and the toothbrush by the sink is just a symbol of that.

It means premeditation. It suggests permanence.

She’s not entirely sure how to deal with that.

This was never supposed to be about anything but sex but now they sleep through the night in each other’s arms, call each other when they’ve had a bad day. They cook each other meals and sometimes, just sometimes, if they’re both tired and stressed out, they don’t even have sex. They’ll just hold each other and murmur reassurances to each other before falling asleep curled around each other.

And now there’s a toothbrush by the sink.

It’s never just been sex between them. That should have been blindingly obvious at the beginning but they were both lost in the red haze of sex, lost in each other and too determined to live in denial a little longer. As much as they’ve both tried to pretend otherwise this thing has involved feelings—deep ones—ever since the first time they kissed.

Really two grown women should have been more astute, more emotionally aware but they had their reasons. And honestly it’s kind of difficult to think about serious things when there’s a talented tongue wrapped around your nipple.

But now there’s a toothbrush. The line has been drawn and the serious feelings they’ve both tried to avoid for the last six months have been brought to the forefront. They have to talk about it.

Oddly enough she’s not as scared as she thought she would be. Now that the mask has been torn away and there’s nothing to hide behind she feels calm. As though this is all very inevitable. And really they’ve always been headed for this place, they’re just not very good at admitting the truth to themselves.

Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Their own odd kind of normal. Honestly she can see them bumbling around like this together for the rest of their lives. It’s a nice thought actually.

Maybe they’ll never really mention feelings, and that’s fine.

“I noticed the new addition in the bathroom,” she says.

“Yeah?” The other woman is tense, wondering if everything is about to come crashing down.

“Maybe I could leave a few clothes over too. If that’s okay.”

Her smile is luminous. “Okay.”

It was never just a toothbrush.

#whimword - Confidence

Your palms are sweaty, your hands shaking. There is the taste of bile in your throat and if you get through this without vomiting it'll be a fucking miracle. You don't need to look in the mirror to know you look like shit; you already know that your face is pale, your fringe stuck to your forehead with perspiration.

You have never been so fucking nervous in your whole life.

There's a knock on the door and a voice telling you it's time.

As you walk through the backstage area you hear people calling out to you, reassuring you, telling you it'll be fine. You wish you could believe them.

"Good luck out there."

"You'll do great."

"Break a leg!"

You're not ready for this. You know it in your heart. Not for the first time you wonder why you were chosen for this when so many others must have been better candidates. What could they have possibly seen in you that made them choose you?

You try to think back, try to remember what happened that day that set you on this path, but you can't remember. The only thing in your mind is a blinding white terror and you know that you're going to fuck this up. How can you not? This isn't meant for you. You shouldn't be here. You don't belong.

Not for the first time you consider running. If you bolt now they'll be disappointed in you but at least then they'll hate you for running, not for fucking up this wonderful opportunity you should never have been given in the first place. The only reason you don't run the fuck away is because your knees feel weak and you're not convinced your legs will be able to carry you any meaningful distance.

You're down to two choices then; go out there and do what is expected of you and probably fuck up, or pass out. Passing out feels like the more attractive prospect but somehow you know you won't be able to.

There's a buzz in your brain now, a strange fizzy feeling in your limbs you know is adrenaline. Fight or flight response has kicked in and since you've already ruled out flight there's only one option left. Fighting means going out there and doing your thing, no matter the consequences. You're still not convinced you'll be able to pull this off without screwing up and letting people down, but the only option left is to try.

The lights go down and you're out of time.

The sick feeling has disappeared completely, though you're not entirely sure when. You feel... excited? You're ready. How on earth did that happen?

There's a murmur of anticipation that sets your blood on fire. You wonder why you were even nervous in the first place; this is what you were born to do, who you were born to be.

The audience applauds as you step out into that spotlight and you realise, you were ready after all.

#whimword - Citizen

Everyone in the Commonwealth wants to be a citizen. It means you're civilized, accepted; you have rights. Only a tiny fraction of the Commonwealth's inhabitants ever acquire citizenship, and most of them are wealthy. For those born without means the only way to obtain citizenship is through service.

Joining the army is the fastest route to becoming a citizen, but it's also an excellent way to get killed. Jace chose to serve in planetary security; it takes about twice as long to earn citizenship that way, but it's much safer. Which had been fine with Jace's husband in the beginning, but he's starting to get a little frustrated with how long it's taking.

Tom wants kids, they both do, but the only way they were ever going to get permission to adopt is if one of them obtains citizenship. And Tom had been barred from serving in most professions that led to citizenship after he'd lost his leg in the hovercar accident. Over the last few years Jace has come to realise that the man he loves isn't going to wait forever to start a family.

Jace needs to get his citizenship, and soon.

Which is why he was using his security clearance to break into the Commonwealth Citizenship offices in the dead of night. All it will take is a few changes in a database and he will become a citizen. And then his husband will stay with him and they can start the family they'd always dreamed of.

His mission is interrupted by the blare of alarms. Jace's heart is in his mouth as the security barriers come crashing down around him. There's no point in running; his heart is already broken. Without his citizenship there is no doubt that Tom will leave him and it'll all be for nothing. He lies on the ground with his hands on his head and submits meekly.

The trial is smooth and justice is swift; Jace had been caught red-handed abusing security privileges and trespassing on Commonwealth government property. He doesn't bother protesting his innocence. The judge sentences him to twenty years in prison and he's permanently barred from obtaining citizenship.

Prison isn't too bad; he gets fed and is kept busy but he misses Tom. Family aren't allowed to visit until after the first year of the sentence; Jace doesn't expect to see Tom even then. Surely he will have moved on; taken up with someone who can provide the children he so desperately wants.

After a year and a day in prison, Jace receives a visitor. When he sees his husband on the other side of the security glass he almost breaks down in tears he's so glad to see him.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he says crying.

"Oh you dolt," Tom says affectionately. "I love you."

Maybe they do still have a future together, despite prison and the ruined chances of having a family. Maybe Jace is enough after all, even without being a citizen.