The Worth of a Woman...
Mar. 17th, 2008
02:18 am - A kiss to last the ages...
Mar. 11th, 2008
01:42 am - Day 62, (1989??)
I haven't really written much in this thing. Writing seems a waste of time and effort, more often than not. Well, other than the ledger. I always keep that up to date. Whoever owns this town is going to have a pretty penny coming to them when they show themselves. And I can figure out what this damned place uses as currency. But this isn't the ledger. This is my private book and tonight I have to write. There's too much to say and no one to really speak it with. So I write.
( ~I've this creeping suspicion that things here are not as they seem. Reassure me, why do I feel as if I'm in too deep? I've been praying for some way to show them I'm not as I seem. I have done wrong but what I did I thought needed be done.~Collapse )
Mar. 6th, 2008
10:48 pm - A meeting of the minds...
Who: Hank Rearden, Henry Foster, Dagny Taggart, and Dirk MacDonald.
What: Dagny and Hank go on a hunt for fuel.
Where: Henry's apartment, Dirk's Place
Status: In progress
After the brief encounter in the convenience store, Dagny and Hank returned briefly to her flat to drop off the few things they had needed and touch base. Speaking with Henry Foster seemed the most logical step now, being that Dagny knew he had some sort of access to fuel even if she'd forgotten about it until she brought it up today. Odd the things the mind blocks out, but she'd been so caught up in finally seeing Hank again it just left her mind. Fortunately, Henry did not live far.
( ~We are climbing two by two, to be sure these days continue, things we cannot change...~Collapse )
02:13 am - The Meme
Feb. 9th, 2008
Who: Dagny and Satan
Where: Just outside of town
When: Mid day
Satan had been walking away from his apartment for a long time. He'd needed to get away and he didn't have any direction in mind other than away. He noticed a girl out of the corner of his eye. He came closer and noticed that she seemed very intent on what she was doing.
Sam needed scrap metal. And, like everything else in this town, it appeared as she asked and wanted. A whole heap of the stuff, actually, like someone had discarded it from a project in some sort of dump. That's where she stood now, looking oddly out of place among the rusts and scraps. She stood upon the top of the pile, carefully digging through it and tossing out the good pieces. She didn't yet notice Satan.
Jan. 20th, 2008
This is a strange book. I swear I can read other people's thoughts but perhaps I just truly DID hit my head too hard. Or, Occham's razor, I can read other's writings and they will be able to read mine in turn. Either way, I am writing. It's something to keep me from madness for another day, or at least a few hours. But, hell, I don't know what to write. I don't know where to start.
I have to believe Quentin Daniels is here somewhere. I followed his plane the ENTIRE way. I was just on his tail! Where could he have gone that I did not? It makes no logical sense, but NONE of this makes logical sense. It's madness. A beautiful jail cell where everything you need is given already so no one needs to work, prove themselves or be of use at all. It truly is insanity. I almost don't want to work on the plane as quickly as I can because at least with it still in disrepair, I know I will have something useful to do. Once I fix it, then my hands are idle again and I can barely stand that thought. Still, I will not be a lazy fool. I will fix the Sanders plane as soon as possible. Hell, I should be doing it right now.
And then there is Henry Foster. I suspect he is nothing more than a handsome doll. Most of his brain is made from what people have told him to do and to think. Even his career, which he says he does love, he chose at the hands of a teacher. Yes, he seems competent enough, but can I truly respect a man who has never thought or fought for himself? Especially after all that Hank and I have done. Everything we've gone through. I am never one to preach monogamy or, god forbid, even marriage, but can I truly even consider a man like Henry after Hank? I fear there is no compare. And that as well is another step closer to insanity.
I must go work on the plane. I must get out of this place. I need to find Quentin Daniels and get back to the US. The railroad needs me. Hank needs me. Everyone who has ever fought the looters need me. Alright. I am done with this nonsense. I'm off to work.
Jan. 16th, 2008
12:58 am - Crash Landing (Open to Everyone)
At first it was just a streak in the sky, almost like a falling star but very quickly it became apparent that whatever it was was far larger than a falling star. Then the streak became smoke and a touch of fire and the form of an old fashioned propeller plane could be seen over head of The City. The noise came a heartbeat later, a screeching cry of the large bodied object tearing through the wind and raggedly towards the ground. Within a few minutes, it was all over. The two person sized plane had pulled up just a touch at the last moment but still violently ripped down into the field of the small park that lined the middle of The City. It hadn't been a perfect landing by far, but there was no answering explosion so at least the plane hadn't been utterly destroyed.
Upon closer examination, the plane was an odd thing. A single engine propelling a craft that should be too big for one engine, but it had seemingly flown at one point. It was a Dwight Sanders monoplane, one of the best in Dagny Taggart's world, abandoned like the rest of the Sanders line when their maker disappeared. Now, however, this plane would probably not fly again. The left wing had been entirely ripped off and the right was only hanging by a few pieces of metal. The cockpit's windows were completely spider webbed and the left side was slightly stained with blood. Apparently, there was someone inside. Whether they were alive or dead could not be told from the outside.
It would take great strength to force open the broken door, the locks and latching bent to hell and back. Still, it could be opened to reveal the single pilot inside. Dagny Taggart had lost consciousness somewhere in the ragged, violent meeting with the earth. She was still strapped into the pilot's seat but her body was mostly slumped off of it onto the floor. She was slumped over the smashed controls of the pilot's seat. Blood covered her face, lips and throat. Fortunately, most of it seemed to be coming from her nose. A vicious goose egg was already forming upon the right side of her forehead where her dark hairline met her pale skin. Lastly, her right leg was turned beneath the pilot's seat in a way that was more than unnatural. It wasn't a pretty scene, but it seemed to, probably, be a survivable one.
Jan. 15th, 2008
02:01 am - Just before arrival...
"The flash of light that hit her had no source. It was as if the air within and beyond the plane became and explosion of blinding and cold fire, sudden and soundless. The shock threw her back, her hands off the wheel and over her eyes. In the break of an instant, when she seized the wheel again, the light was gone, but her ship was spinning, her ears were bursting with silence and her propeller stood stiffly straight before her: her motor was dead.
She tried to pull for a rise, but the ship was going down and what she saw flying at her face was not the spread of mangled boulders, but the green grass of a field where no field had been before. There was no time to see the rest. There was no time to think of explanations. There was no time to come out of the spin. The earth was a green ceiling coming down upon her, a few hundred swiftly shrinking feet away.
Flung from side to side, like a battered pendulum, clinging to the wheel, half in her seat, half on her knees, she fought to pull the ship into a glide, for an attempt to make a belly-landing, while the green ground was whirling around her, sweeping above her, then below, its spiral coils coming closer. Her arms pulling at the wheel, with no chance to know whether she could succeed, with her space and time running out --- she felt, in a flash of its full, violent purity, that special sense of existence which had always been hers. In a moment's consecration to her love -- to her rebellious denial of disaster, to her love of life and of the matchless value that was herself -- she felt the fiercely proud certainty that she would survive.
And in answer to the earth that flew to meet her, she heard in her mind, as her mockery at fate, as her cry of defiance, the words of the sentence she hated -- the words of defeat, of despair and of a plea or help:
"Oh hell! Who is John Galt?"