There's been a lot of dying and nearly-dying and almost-dying going on recently, Cal thinks to himself.
He slumps lower against the wall, pillows propped against his back, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, laptop emitting roughly enough thermal energy to keep his calorically-sufficient dinner tolerably lukewarm.
Hilary Hahn has been playing an E minor since sunset.
Outputting matrices to the console is a simple matter. Nested for loops set to row and column length, one added white-space per loop, set width to make things look pretty.
Hilary Hahn is briefly interrupted by the sound of a continuous moan.
Push back the string onto the vector, which is preferred over the list, for reasons of indexing. Usually. Unless you want 2-D structures. Then go for the array.
Allegretto non troppo. But not too--
--overloading is not a bad thing? It's fairly useful when it comes to operators, actually, and simplifies things a lot, especially when you want to compare classes.
Round--allegro.
My logic is faultless.
if ( ?? )
{
bool is = true;
}
else
{
bool is = false;
}
Molto. Molto appassionato.
I have developed a fault.
void (bool is, string name)
{
return false;
}
Bravura. Bravura!
Seeded in time, after the first declaration.
while (is)
{
srand((int)time(0));
is = (rand()%68) + 1;
}
Coda.
while (is)
{
srand((int)time(0));
is = (rand()%68) + 1;
}
Coda.
I have developed a fault.
Non troppo. Non troppo.
I have developed a fault.
error: void function cannot specify return value.
Poco agitato. Agitato e con fuoco.
I have developed a fault.
fatal error: cannot locate "system.link//file_matrices.exe"
Un poco agitato, ma andante;
I have developed a fault.
Modulate to F minor; allegro vivace assai;
Cannot execute file.
Requiem;
System failure.
Coda.
Showing posts with label Cal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cal. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Friday, March 6, 2015
Traitor
Cal leaned casually against the rail, one hand absently tracing the cold curls that twined down to the ground.
Through the haze of the room, he watched the crowd watch the lights and flowing scraps of cloth.
Cal realized that the fog machine had died a while ago, but the flashing lights hardly cut through the cloudy air, filtering through instead, struggling rays flickering once, twice, right in the eyes, before disappearing forever, rippling like ocean glare.
Cal bobbed his head along with the others, the bitter taste in his mouth matched by the pain in his stomach. His jeans rippled with the pulse of each beat, a heartbeat that rattled in his chest, kept him breathing. His ears had stopped ringing a while ago. They too, like the crowd, were hazy and muffled.
Cal swirled the half-melted ice around in his little plastic cup of whiskey and ginger. Or was it ginger whiskey? Whiskey and gin? Gin and whiskey? Cal glared at the little black straw and frowned, breath traitorously rich and hot in his mouth. He took another drink, and the crowd grew hazier.
Someone on the floor blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and it floated, suspended, like a thought cloud over his head before the fog machine kicked in again and swallowed him whole.
Cal hated whiskey. He took another gulp, ice pressing up against his lips, big fish in a little pond. Someone else on the floor saluted the lights with a fairly large plastic cup that was also fairly empty.
Another thought cloud went up, was swallowed.
Cal traced the twisted rail again, tucking his head farther back into his hood, taking comfort in the weight of his leather jacket. He was tired of holding the whiskey. Or gin. So he took another drink.
He was only doing this to make her happy. Why did it always end up like this? They hardly ever talked and met up even less, but every time they did, Cal would leave smelling of thought clouds and whiskey.
Cal shifted against the rail. His foot had fallen asleep.
The lights flashed red and orange.
All the trumpets and the marching bands,And the thunderclaps and trembling hands,And the people stood up in the stands,And I just felt so alone.‘Cause the halos, the black rusted chains,In the lightAs we screamedIn the dark“I just wanted to find a way home.”
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Dream
Cal was exhausted.
He'd gone to bed with a headache and managed, somehow, to drop off quickly. Sometime in the night, he awoke, head pounding. He stared vaguely at the shadows on the wall until sleep came again.
He was on a suburban street, the sky blue, the sun bright, the grass green. He was walking, shouting hellos to any friend that populated every doorstep.
"Hey," he said, walking up to a new, old friend, "What's up?"
"Nothing much," she replied, "You?"
Cal looked up, catchphrase on the tip of his tongue.
The sky. The sky was up. Why didn't he just say it?
Instead, he frowned, pointing just above the infinite rooftop horizon.
"What's that?"
There were two rings, two pink-shaded wisps of clouds joined together, two looking-glasses, side-by-side. Through one, the sky brightened. Through the other, twilight deepened.
She frowned.
"It's probably nothing, just--"
A drone split the air, a heavy groan that rolled back the clouds into smoke, spilling the twilight across the sky. The blue rippled into black, and twilight swallowed the sun.
"Oh, my God--"
"--we should get inside--"
But they stood rooted the ground. Cal wondered if this was a dream.
A terrible roar split the air, and the twilight became darkness itself, empty and hungry. The tiles flew off the roofs, drawn straight up into the heavens.
Cal felt it clawing at him, tearing at his feet, thrumming through his heart. Cars flew by overhead, and she screamed. Cal was blown off his feet, and with terror, he realized that he was going to die.
Strong arms seized him around the shoulders, warm and solid. The roaring intensified, and he began to slip. Up, up up.
"Let me go!" he shouted.
Her feet remained firmly on the ground as the sidewalk flew past him, as earth and everything else rushed up to oblivion.
Cal screamed at her, struggling wildly in that grip which was slowly, slowly slipping away.
"Let me go! Let me go! I want to go--"
Cal broke away, flew up, up, up
and fell awake.
He remained frozen, tangled in his stale blanket, for hours.
He wanted to die.
He'd gone to bed with a headache and managed, somehow, to drop off quickly. Sometime in the night, he awoke, head pounding. He stared vaguely at the shadows on the wall until sleep came again.
He was on a suburban street, the sky blue, the sun bright, the grass green. He was walking, shouting hellos to any friend that populated every doorstep.
"Hey," he said, walking up to a new, old friend, "What's up?"
"Nothing much," she replied, "You?"
Cal looked up, catchphrase on the tip of his tongue.
The sky. The sky was up. Why didn't he just say it?
Instead, he frowned, pointing just above the infinite rooftop horizon.
"What's that?"
There were two rings, two pink-shaded wisps of clouds joined together, two looking-glasses, side-by-side. Through one, the sky brightened. Through the other, twilight deepened.
She frowned.
"It's probably nothing, just--"
A drone split the air, a heavy groan that rolled back the clouds into smoke, spilling the twilight across the sky. The blue rippled into black, and twilight swallowed the sun.
"Oh, my God--"
"--we should get inside--"
But they stood rooted the ground. Cal wondered if this was a dream.
A terrible roar split the air, and the twilight became darkness itself, empty and hungry. The tiles flew off the roofs, drawn straight up into the heavens.
Cal felt it clawing at him, tearing at his feet, thrumming through his heart. Cars flew by overhead, and she screamed. Cal was blown off his feet, and with terror, he realized that he was going to die.
Strong arms seized him around the shoulders, warm and solid. The roaring intensified, and he began to slip. Up, up up.
"Let me go!" he shouted.
Her feet remained firmly on the ground as the sidewalk flew past him, as earth and everything else rushed up to oblivion.
Cal screamed at her, struggling wildly in that grip which was slowly, slowly slipping away.
"Let me go! Let me go! I want to go--"
Cal broke away, flew up, up, up
and fell awake.
He remained frozen, tangled in his stale blanket, for hours.
He wanted to die.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Time and Age and Distance
There's never enough time.
Or maybe there's just too much of it, Cal thought, legs drawn to his chest, bare feet curling in the carpet. He fixed his eyes on the television, but his ears strained to listen in on the conversation behind him, the distant words crackling through the speaker, the low rumble of his father's reply. He picked absently at a rough strand of carpet fluff, twirling it between his fingers. Cal belatedly realized that the man on screen was frozen and had been so for some time.
Guiltily, he whirled around to look up at his father, who held the telephone loosely in one hand, the other setting the television remote down beside him.
Cal had come to appreciate these nightly telephone calls, the only connection he had across fifteen time zones to a dim memory of heritage. The words coming through the speaker were not reassuring, though. There were sad words and quiet words. Regretful words. Hospital words.
Cal tried not to remember hearing his mother screaming.
He turned back to the television and the sleeping dog that lay curled up in front of the subwoofer. The carpet fluff continued to unravel in his hand.
The words finally reached a lull, and Cal turned around again, unconsciously rising into a crouch. He reached out and took the phone from his father, pitching some happiness into his voice as the distance briefly disappeared, and he pretended he was still a child clutching his mother's hand on the subway before time and age and distance had come to take it all away.
He forced himself to laugh, high and breathy. He told stories about school and cooking and accidentally setting things on fire. And when he handed the phone back to his father, he meant it when he said, "I love you."
It had taken nineteen years.
The carpet fibers slipped through his fingers and fell, shapeless, back to the earth.
Or maybe there's just too much of it, Cal thought, legs drawn to his chest, bare feet curling in the carpet. He fixed his eyes on the television, but his ears strained to listen in on the conversation behind him, the distant words crackling through the speaker, the low rumble of his father's reply. He picked absently at a rough strand of carpet fluff, twirling it between his fingers. Cal belatedly realized that the man on screen was frozen and had been so for some time.
Guiltily, he whirled around to look up at his father, who held the telephone loosely in one hand, the other setting the television remote down beside him.
Cal had come to appreciate these nightly telephone calls, the only connection he had across fifteen time zones to a dim memory of heritage. The words coming through the speaker were not reassuring, though. There were sad words and quiet words. Regretful words. Hospital words.
Cal tried not to remember hearing his mother screaming.
He turned back to the television and the sleeping dog that lay curled up in front of the subwoofer. The carpet fluff continued to unravel in his hand.
The words finally reached a lull, and Cal turned around again, unconsciously rising into a crouch. He reached out and took the phone from his father, pitching some happiness into his voice as the distance briefly disappeared, and he pretended he was still a child clutching his mother's hand on the subway before time and age and distance had come to take it all away.
He forced himself to laugh, high and breathy. He told stories about school and cooking and accidentally setting things on fire. And when he handed the phone back to his father, he meant it when he said, "I love you."
It had taken nineteen years.
The carpet fibers slipped through his fingers and fell, shapeless, back to the earth.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Sleeping is Hard
Cal decided that sleeping was difficult. At night, he'd lie in bed, drift off, maybe fall asleep for a few minutes. Start halfway-dreaming. Then twitch awake. Then he'd drift off again. And dream. And twitch awake. Sleep. Dream. Twitch. Repeat.
As if flinching awake every few moments wasn't irritating enough, the half-dreams-or what fragments of fragments he remembered the next morning-left him with images he couldn't shake.
Like shadowed doorways and snatches of sunlight on barren concrete. Like friends long-buried.
And every time Cal flinched awake, he felt the fresh grief of leaving again.
As if flinching awake every few moments wasn't irritating enough, the half-dreams-or what fragments of fragments he remembered the next morning-left him with images he couldn't shake.
Like shadowed doorways and snatches of sunlight on barren concrete. Like friends long-buried.
And every time Cal flinched awake, he felt the fresh grief of leaving again.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Ghosts
The man in the trench coat ghosted through pools of light, shoulders hunched, satchel in hand. The orange glow that fell on him brought with it a sense of other-worldliness, as if this man did not quite belong.
He didn't.
On this unseasonably warm winter's night, he was a monster, his silhouette a lumpy creature of the darkness into which he melted with almost a sigh of relief.
This was a thing caught between imagination and reality, Cal decided, unzipping his jacket in a show of defiance. There was no man.
All the same, he turned, almost against his will, to look over his shoulder. Darkness. Just darkness.
Cal shivered.
He didn't.
On this unseasonably warm winter's night, he was a monster, his silhouette a lumpy creature of the darkness into which he melted with almost a sigh of relief.
This was a thing caught between imagination and reality, Cal decided, unzipping his jacket in a show of defiance. There was no man.
All the same, he turned, almost against his will, to look over his shoulder. Darkness. Just darkness.
Cal shivered.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Thinks
Cal wasn't ever any good at goodbyes.
He just grins awkwardly, tosses some half-baked cliche over his shoulder, and scoots away as quickly as he can. Goodbyes are painful, no matter how long the ensuing absence.
Deep inside, he thinks that maybe there is a chance that this will be the last goodbye, that something might go terribly wrong.
He also thinks that maybe he reads the paper a little too much.
But he knows that there are infinitely more things that could go wrong than the things that needed to go right.
Cal thinks about Captain Ed Murphy and his law.
He wonders what would happen if he died. How many people had he forgotten to kiss goodbye? Oops.
In his mind, Cal remembers that goodbyes are always permanent because time doesn't stop changing people just because they've gone away, and since they're away and time passes, they change, but you're not there to see it, so the next time you see them, no matter how long it's been, they're not the same people you said goodbye to.
Those people are dead.
Cal wonders how many times he's died.
Sometimes, he thinks he's always dying.
He's too busy dying to live.
How about that?
He just grins awkwardly, tosses some half-baked cliche over his shoulder, and scoots away as quickly as he can. Goodbyes are painful, no matter how long the ensuing absence.
Deep inside, he thinks that maybe there is a chance that this will be the last goodbye, that something might go terribly wrong.
He also thinks that maybe he reads the paper a little too much.
But he knows that there are infinitely more things that could go wrong than the things that needed to go right.
Cal thinks about Captain Ed Murphy and his law.
He wonders what would happen if he died. How many people had he forgotten to kiss goodbye? Oops.
In his mind, Cal remembers that goodbyes are always permanent because time doesn't stop changing people just because they've gone away, and since they're away and time passes, they change, but you're not there to see it, so the next time you see them, no matter how long it's been, they're not the same people you said goodbye to.
Those people are dead.
Cal wonders how many times he's died.
Sometimes, he thinks he's always dying.
He's too busy dying to live.
How about that?
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Show
Cal stared at the numbers swimming by on blank paper. There was nothing left in his head, just a few empty thoughts rolling around in a deep sea of vague resentment. The door creaked open, then thudded shut, rattling the large plastic window above the handle. The beige wall gazed silently past the glare of the fluorescent lights. Cal ducked his head under the visual warfare and pretended to scribble.
He distantly heard two of the other occupants of the room start to talk quietly, the absence of authority prompting that which would not have been censured, just chided. Their voices released some of the tension of silence, and Cal slumped back in his seat, tossing his pencil with a sharp clack onto the chipped wooden surface.
The whiteboard at the front of the room was uncharacteristically bare, but no less than characteristically clean, polished by the alcohol that cleaned and corroded and made Cal a little giddy every time he breathed in. Sometimes, he would take a few extra breaths before the smell could fade.
The voices behind him grew louder, but Cal didn't turn around. He lowered his eyes back to the smudged page before him, shoving himself back upright, and snatching up his pencil, tapping a plastic end against his chin. The two behind him suddenly grew quiet, and Cal froze, staring nowhere.
One lowered voice broke the silence.
"Hey, want to see the video of the fight? I have it on my phone."
The other replied, fast and guilt-low.
"Yeah, sure."
"It's HD, man."
"Wow."
"It's pretty tight."
"Where was it?"
"Vernon Park."
"You went?"
"No, I... I didn't go. Wait, wait. You have to see this part. I'll tell you when Michael dislocates his shoulder."
"Why'd they fight?"
"Because Michael and Rodney, they... You know. They had this thing and... I don't know."
"There a lot of people there?"
"Yeah. Oh wait. Wait. There."
"Oooh."
"See, Michael's trying to punch, but he can't."
"Shit."
"And then he breaks Rodney's nose right... there."
"Wait, he broke his nose!?"
"Yeah. If you wait, you'll see this huge thing of blood on the ground."
"Oh, man."
"They say that when Michael got home, he was covered in blood and stuff and he passed out and ended up in the ER."
"Holy-"
"-There, you see it? The blood?"
"What-oh."
The door creaked open again, and Cal sensed a flurry of movement behind him. He sank back down in his seat, pencil dropping again from twitching fingers. He breathed deeply, once.
The show was over.
He distantly heard two of the other occupants of the room start to talk quietly, the absence of authority prompting that which would not have been censured, just chided. Their voices released some of the tension of silence, and Cal slumped back in his seat, tossing his pencil with a sharp clack onto the chipped wooden surface.
The whiteboard at the front of the room was uncharacteristically bare, but no less than characteristically clean, polished by the alcohol that cleaned and corroded and made Cal a little giddy every time he breathed in. Sometimes, he would take a few extra breaths before the smell could fade.
The voices behind him grew louder, but Cal didn't turn around. He lowered his eyes back to the smudged page before him, shoving himself back upright, and snatching up his pencil, tapping a plastic end against his chin. The two behind him suddenly grew quiet, and Cal froze, staring nowhere.
One lowered voice broke the silence.
"Hey, want to see the video of the fight? I have it on my phone."
The other replied, fast and guilt-low.
"Yeah, sure."
"It's HD, man."
"Wow."
"It's pretty tight."
"Where was it?"
"Vernon Park."
"You went?"
"No, I... I didn't go. Wait, wait. You have to see this part. I'll tell you when Michael dislocates his shoulder."
"Why'd they fight?"
"Because Michael and Rodney, they... You know. They had this thing and... I don't know."
"There a lot of people there?"
"Yeah. Oh wait. Wait. There."
"Oooh."
"See, Michael's trying to punch, but he can't."
"Shit."
"And then he breaks Rodney's nose right... there."
"Wait, he broke his nose!?"
"Yeah. If you wait, you'll see this huge thing of blood on the ground."
"Oh, man."
"They say that when Michael got home, he was covered in blood and stuff and he passed out and ended up in the ER."
"Holy-"
"-There, you see it? The blood?"
"What-oh."
The door creaked open again, and Cal sensed a flurry of movement behind him. He sank back down in his seat, pencil dropping again from twitching fingers. He breathed deeply, once.
The show was over.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)