Nika Harper's Blog, page 18

#GoodbyeBreakingBad

I’ve never seen an episode of Breaking Bad… I watched the #GoodbyeBreakingBad tag on Twitter to piece together what I think the last episode was about.

Br Ba

The desert stretched on far, nobody on the road but Walt and two trailing vehicles in the distance. Just because their lights weren’t visible didn’t mean Walt didn’t recognize them as cops.

The sound of an explosion is heard in the distance, barely audible over the sound of the car’s thrumming bass beats.
Walt is alone. He hummed the tuneless song to himself and finally headed towards his destination.


He closed the car door with force, a cloud of dust erupting from the side of the vehicle and catching on the gun in his hand. Without even thinking, Walt walked through the front door, catching Elliot at the table, mid-bite in his pizza. The spatter of blood and tomato sauce were nearly indecipherable from one another. He reconsiders his actions for a moment as the headless body slumps off the chair to the floor. Leave evidence? Clean what he can?
He thinks of chemicals and bathtubs, and a lot of hard work. Not unlike he’s used to, but cleanliness is a factor.
“You’re gonna need a bigger knife.”

A single red laser light came in through the window, Walt sighed at it. He arrived too early and the men arrived too late. No matter, what’s done was done. These fellows were not the clean up crew he imagined, but hitmen were useful in their own right. They took orders and they took money. Walt had those things. There was bleach, and then there was no longer a body. It didn’t take so long after all. Their cleeves were ruined despite their best efforts, but think of how many fine shirts $200k can buy. “Cheer up, beautiful people.”


Lydia was smart as she was sophisticated, when dealing with a meth crew. She knew things were downhill and she had clients to attend. When things fall to pieces, nobody gets fucked worse than the middleman. The cafe was warm leading into night, as she sweetened her black coffee with packets of artificial sugar and looked into the enamored eyes across from her.
He was her ticket, he was the knowledge and the talent, and the future for her. It was time to move up into big business, and Lydia knew when someone would follow.
She stirred her coffee, letting one eye wink lazily at Todd across the table. He waited on her every breath. The conversation was drawing to a close.
“So, shall we… become partners?”

Walt arrived at the cafe just in time to see the paramedics surround a car, locked from the inside. Todd was nowhere in sight… good boy. He’ll get picked up when he calls. The kid’s dick was bigger than his brain, but turns out his balls were bigger than all of them. He cut out a long time ago, but he did what he was told.


It was night, and the house was dark. A shame, too, Walt had expected something bigger, an epic shootout, something that made him feel powerful and worth it. He considered leaving the car running… maybe it would help him leave.

The lighter made her face and cigarette glow, as Skylar inhaled deeply. Another night alone. Not surprising. Maybe he was dead after all. It had her on edge but she pretended the cigarettes helped… but there’s that familiar figure in the doorway. Skylar hoped he didn’t see her jump.
“You look terrible.”
“Yeah, but I feel good.”

Walt strode to the table and put a bag on it. Skylar didn’t move for fear of what could be inside… anything was possible anymore. She could no longer trust him. He unzipped it quickly to show nothing but money… dollar bills of all varieties, well-worn bits of currency that had passed from desperate hands. She said nothing.
“I’m no longer your husband,” he said, walking out as quietly as he came. The relief and tears came as one. As she tipped her head down, a teardrop slid off the bridge of her nose and landed, with a sizzle, on the tip of her cigarette.


Now they’d be waiting for him. Now news will have spread, phones would be going off. Someone would be ready. It was time to visit the shop. Walt drove a comfortable 15 above the speed limit to the middle of nowhere, the best place for a lab to be. It would be quiet in there right then, the night was darkening around him and he’d cleaned up everything he could, as well as he was able. Now it was time to move on.


The lab was lit like a fucking downtown strip joint. Not much for subtlety, but they probably wanted to see him coming. It was time to pay up… Jack, Jesse, Todd, whoever the fuck else was left. Walt pulled in and packed up. Stealth was not an option here. He just wanted his fair share.

“Pay up,” he said, entering the door. Guns pointed at him from as many hands as there were in the room.
“You abandoned us,” Jack said.
“I gave you everything but skill. I own this, all of this. I want my share.”
“Who said—” but he couldn’t speak without a jaw. Jack’s face had ceased to be one at all, and Walt aimed his gun at every instrument he could, shooting racks, tubs, freezers… shooting his own work down. Jesse watched him, passive. Walt handed him a gun.
“Do it… you want this.”
Neither of them moved. The gun was heavy in Jesse’s hand, weighed down with conscience. Fires had sprung up, already warping the metallic walls with their heat. It was done, and time to go.

The car was running, the air conditioner cranked up high to combat the heat of the building. It had only been a few minutes of waiting… the passenger door opened.
Jesse laid the gun on the dash, and crawled in. He did not look at Walt.

“Then I guess that’s all.”
The car became a speck of dust on a road that never really existed.

#GoodbyeBreakingBad

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Thanks so much for reading! I have more writing projects on NikaHarper.tumblr.com and tell me if this made any sense on Twitter: @NikaHarper!

geekandsundry:I had to put this together after seeing that...

geekandsundry:

I had to put this together after seeing that episode.

—-

Thanks so much for sharing! Oh, Wil. 

I’ve never had a choice.

Seek the Unknown (A Cover Letter) - Wordplay #10

To the Children’s Museum of Wit and Whimsy,

Hello! My name is Alice and I noticed the advertisement for a career as a museum tour guide. When I set foot into the museum, that sense of wonderment came flowing back, and it felt like my second home. I’ve spent many weeknights there, scouring the exhibits and I think it’s wonderfully put-together. I often visit just to watch the reactions in the mock courtroom exhibit!

I have experience with many cultures and groups of people, as explorations have allowed me to mix with diverse cultural backgrounds and even royalty, often without any prior knowledge or experience. I’m very adaptable and open-minded to interaction, and my curiosity about the world is unquenchable! From chess to botany, cooking or poetry, I think the best way to learn about things is to fall headfirst into them! I’d love to help pass on that enthusiasm to everyone I meet, from any background. There is always so much we can learn!

I hope I am able to share this excitement with the young patrons of the museum as a tour guide. Thank you for encouraging youthful minds to wonder, ask questions, and dive right into new worlds.

Sincerely,
Alice Mayes

12 Wisting Lane
Carrolltown, NH
999-555-1413
amayes@lookingglassexplorations.com

This is a cover letter written on the topics of “Seek the Unknown” and “Perception of Time” for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #10.

A Rare Personal Account

I was always the girl with a keyboard at her fingers.
In the dark room, with a dial-up modem chirping away at me as I listened to music on headphones and talked to my friends.
My REAL friends.
The ones that lived in different states, different countries, different time zones. They made me laugh, we changed our names and text colors and got together just to talk. The world was real, sure, but exchanging words with someone was even more real than that. I would walk home and fire up my browser, get into my custom chat programs, my IM clients, maybe even games.
There was a lot of Scrabble.
I was the weird girl with no friends, who might be cute if she just put on some makeup and stopped scaring people so much. I was the alone girl who had opinions, who had passions, and had them in an environment of people who were afraid to have them too. I loved things and it drove my life. I just had to get home, I had to distill into my purest self. Just words and a name, and maybe an italic font.

I was nothing but words. And those words meant something, independently of myself, and that meant the world to me. I constructed a mysterious persona and was judged only on the things I said. A wisp of the internet, an elemental, a manifestation.
I suppose back then we all were…. or most of us anyway.

The culture gave birth to profiles and friends lists, and public journals that were all about me, me, me. Interaction was less about exchange and more about yelling yourself out as loudly as possible. It was convenient that way, but it didn’t suit me, and it continues until now. Who has the loudest voice? Is it the person who relies on their appearance the most?

I was faceless and I was me. I had no reason not to say the things I wanted to, and I wrote like my fingers were possessed, and I shared it with others. I did so because I wouldn’t be judged by anything else. I had opinions and I had passions, and I expressed them in different form, with different people, and this time they actually understood a bit better.

Everyone wants a place where they belong.
I belong in a dark room, with music in my ears and a monitor in front of my eyes. The world is asleep and I am awake, stealing this lost time from others, where no demands can meet me and I can see what it is I’m truly after. Just me and the cold glow of a screen, and songs that seem to creep closer and sing to you directly once you turn the lights out.
It’s been fifteen years and I find solace in the same things as I always did. A blank page that I clutter with my thoughts, and people I can share it with.

The world changes and I still feel teen-aged, looking into the glow of my screen and hoping someone writes back.

High Tide : Wordplay #9

The drink slid down her throat as sweat slid down her leg.

It was hot. You’d think humidity would get easier with time, but it wasn’t the case. Baking heat in the sun and the wet salt in your clothes… it takes a lot to live on the seas. She raised the glass to her lips again, amber liquid meeting her chapped lips and burning them.
Is this what she wanted?

He entered just to watch her, eyes dragging roughly across her leg propped on the chair in his room. He could have his own quarters and she could share them, being both female and mildly pretty. When you see nothing on the seas, the shallow face and warm thighs of the docks girls become welcoming, and Liella had found her fortune accordingly, in the rough hands of Captain Piers. Her clothing was leather instead of brocade. Her drink was homemade rum instead of fine wine. She hadn’t the language to converse with the fancy folk who came into port when she was a child, but now she could slice the clothes off of their body without marring but an inch of their skin.
Gifted, she called herself, and too damn smart to be here long. Piers moved to undo his belt at the door, but moved to the chair opposite her splayed legs and sat.
“The ship be full of spices and dry things. We need ter find a port.”
Her eyes were heavy lidded… and her mouth felt heavy too. “You no make money?”
“We’ll do just enough.” His hands rested near his belt again.
“Why not bigger ship?”
“No manpower, no weapons. Threatenin’ a boat be more than ugly faces and knives in teeth, me siren.”
She said nothing, not yet. Spices were paltry, cheap things that spoiled quickly and were in good supply. She wanted things of real value, and he brought her house goods. She wished she loved him more, but with his belt buckle in his hand all she could see was failure.
“Need more, next.”
“After we dock.”
“No, rapido.”
He pressed his lips, “Me siren, how yeh think we do it? With half crew, half a keg a’ powder? We be workin’ off threats alone. Curry’s all we can get. Especially if ye stay below deck as ye have.”
He caught her eyes then, the fiery ones that sparked on the flint of his own. That was all he wanted, her attention, and she wouldn’t give it unless it was worth it. Sliding out of her chair, sea legs posing her in an unending dance on the ocean, Liella sauntered to their wardrobe to dress them for bed. Piers seemed pleased, leaning back in his rickety chair and letting the pace of the waves ease him in his seat. She’d seen him like this so many times, pleased from a day’s work and bedding with his mistress, the ocean. She rocked him to bed, Liella just made it more manifest.
He didn’t notice her lifting a panel out of the cabinet. He did notice that her shoes had not come off, as they rapped against the floor to the chamber’s door.
“Wha…?” Piers said, leaning forward in his seat, already groggy.
“I go,” Liella replied, a rucksack on her arm. It clinked with special items that her keen eye had claimed without his knowledge. Her dominant hand held a rusted sword.
“No, my siren, I—”
“I leave. You stay sit.”
He stood now, “Ye’ll fight fer it, then? Ye’ll tell me I ain’t good ‘nuff?” And his creased hand moved for the salty blade, one of many, tucked into his belt. It was longer and fiercer than her own, but she was not afraid. She was cleverer than he.
She made the first move out of defiance, a deft stroke that slit his leather belt from his waist and crashed it to the floor. Piers’ astonished face did not match his body, which whisked his sword at her like in a flurry of well-learned strikes that she only dodged by luck and inebriation. Her sword found its strengths, drawing blood here and there and over again, little abrasions to be underestimated until one might notice their clothes growing damp. Piers was aware of her skill and blocked many, but the little cuts could overcome his frantic blows if he stood long enough.
He sat, in the shadow of her smirk.

“Ye were a bilge whore and ye took me fer me riches.”
“You not goodly rich,” she shot back, keeping her blade in hand. He would not call his crew. Liella could best them in their tired state and he couldn’t afford to lose more men.
A drop of sweat slid down her neck as she opened the door, sauntering from his quarters to a flimsy life boat on deck. The ocean was quiet and welcoming tonight, it held her boat in its hand as she boarded from the tall sides of the ship.

“Ye were a bilge whore!” Captain Piers called after her, not bothering to cut her rope or see her hurt. This was not the end of their meetings. This ship was at port often enough, and she had harbor knowledge beyond moat privateers, for having grown up a shipbuilder’s daughter. It was a day to shore at best, and she plunged out into the blackened waters, carried by a tide that wished her well.

A pirate-y adventure written on the topics of “Loyalty” “A Secret Door” and “Left Foot First” for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #9.

A Riotous Farewell

Today I left Riot.

And it was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make. The people, the game, the community… all of it is inseparable from me since I started three years ago.

Three years is a long time in the universe of League of Legends. I started the day after Season One began, in a flurry of activity and excitement. The community team was three people. We shared a room with Player Support which was only three people too. The world was different then, and I was taking a chance on a company who I had so much belief in.

This remains true. Today I leave a company who is making great strides in player behavior, eSports, community practices and especially in their exciting gameplay. When people called me the “Face of Riot” I think that’s a lie. I’ve been the face of the FANS of Riot. That’s how it should be.

Today the decision is made that we need to part ways, because we’re growing in different directions.

I want to focus on writing more. I want to make crazy videos and have a little bit more free time to be whatever I want to be, and right now I’m not even sure of what that is. I’m not disappearing as a fan, and nobody could stop me if they tried.

I want to see what else I can do. And I think what I can do is fucking infinite. And I think I’m ready to try.

Thank you all for supporting me, through a lot of sleepless nights and drunken evenings of wondering whether I’m doing the right thing. It’s so difficult, but I know I am.

I’m happy to discuss this with all of you. Just message and tweet:

http://www.facebook.com/ThisIsNikasaur

http://twitter.com/NikaHarper

Thank you Riot and thank you all. So much.

Luminosity : Wordplay 8

It’s like I can feel my heart racing, and it isn’t just the thrill of battle. That’s different. This feels like my feet are carried by butterflies, like I can walk on rays of light.
It’s rare that someone is my age around here, and even more rare that it doesn’t seem to phase him. I’ve seen his steely eyes as he looks down the lanes and steps into battle, and I… well, it never seems like a good time to talk. There’s work to do, and I admire his ethic.
It’s just that I don’t really know anyone like me. My brother’s so serious and our job isn’t really the kind where you make friends. It doesn’t benefit anyone to miss a shot that could win the game because you felt guilt in hurting someone you care about. It’s part of the job. Maybe that’s why I don’t get along with too many people.
I read a lot and always have, but I’d even like someone to share that with. I think he… would understand me. He was an explorer, so he must know a lot about nature, and culture, and… well, just the things I read about. I’ve been a city girl too long. He reminds me of everything I’ve been missing.

He sometimes tells people “You belong in a museum!”
….I wish he’d say that of me.

He’s so undaunted and brave. We face mercenaries and monsters and nightmares constantly, and I’ve seen a lot of smiles fade from the faces of combatants. But not him. Not even when we’re squaring off, I think I like those moments the most. I get jittery and nervous and I think I might be a little less reliable, but at least I have his attention. I almost hope he’ll find me sometimes. Hah, then I hope I can impress him by blasting him away.
‘Serves you right, sneaking up on a girl like that.’

I know what we do in our off-time is our own business. I know that this is something I have to take seriously, and I do. I fight day in and day out, and I’m good at it. I stay positive. I represent my city and my family the best I can, and I really love it. But there’s something missing. I see it every time I look at him, every time I want to start a conversation and don’t know where to start. I want to know why killing a golem makes you powerful, and where Baron came from, and why a nexus shines like it does. I bet he knows these things, or… we could figure them out, together. We could be curious. Our minds are boundless, and our spells can stretch all the way across the grounds. We can find one another.

I know all about prisms and spectrums and colors of light, but what is the color of love?

A short fanfic about League of Legends, written on the topics of “The Reason Why You Saw Me,” “A Twinkle in His Eyes” and “What’s The Color Of Love?” For the creative writing show, Wordplay #8.

Old Passages and Blank Leaves

typefacetales:

She opened the book.
Nothing happened.

She closed the door tightly, settling in more properly to the low table in front of her, kneeling closely and opened the book again.
There was no blast of light.
No rush of air, no rustle of leaves in her ears, no scent of sap and sunshine. There was just the same room, with the same wallpaper, and a book which had never had a middle before. Something must be wrong. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a hint of a trespasser, a camera, anything that would make this sacred moment pause. Her heart was pounding and she tried to steady herself, closed her eyes and dreamed of what she would find inside.

It must be springtime now, with the world smelling wet and warm. There was peace and her brother would be an easy walk away with his new wife, both ready for her visit. And the trees…. branches on every side, hollowed out for lanes and streets where crackling wagons and cycles totter by on uneven wheels. A breezy rustle of leaves made every conversation private, and she’d had so many… Discussions with the Duke on the proposed laws of the new kingdom, sweet whisperings to people she thought of fondly, and warming talks with the now elderly woman she felt to be her Nanny. She remembered how safe every minute felt in Nanny’s arms, warm and a little tickly on her bare skin. If only that could happen now….
If only she could have a bite of acorn pancakes, and practice dandelion racing with her breath like when she was nine. If only there was barleywine and a crisp fire of peat as she laid down her head, and asked Nanny to tell her a story when the reply would be “My darling, you are the story we tell.” If she could feel the movement of the boughs underfoot, the song of the sprightbird in the air, the hands and faces of those she once knew…
Everything would be better, wouldn’t it?

With these thoughts in mind, and her nose tickling at the promised scents, she opened the book in front of her.
Then again.
And opened it again.

She felt more solid than she had ever felt, heavy with thoughts. Her heart was racing and quickened with every opening and shut of the book’s cover, pages fluttering empty between her and a world that she had always, unequivocally had access to. She grew desperate. Her tears stained the pages with salty marks, where they should have fallen onto the shoulders of loved ones.
There was no explanation, no barrier preventing her. It could not be age or privacy or permissions, the only answer is that it was her.
There may not be any more barleywine.
She might never see her brother, or ride a spindly cycle across the tree rim at dusk.
Her only path into this world would not accept her journey any longer. But it was there, it was right there, and she clasped the covers in her hands and shook the book above her, its empty pages dislodging a long, crisp tree leaf. It landed on her lap, thick and dried out.

The book, shut and impassive, trembled with the shudders of the adult girl’s tears.

The Currency of Seconds - Wordplay #7

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

The incessant, malignant sounds, spawned from heartless electronic devices that steal every last minute, every last breath, driving the numbers forward until each person counts zero. The shriek of responsibility, of wasted moments, of reality outside of nonsensical dreams where we would rather have interesting, terrifying chaos than face banal existence any further. Every second a new reminder that the world demands that we fit in, that we continue trudging, that we are lucky to be an essential part of the grind, breathing our shared air and living our baseless lives.

BEEP.

BEEP.

The sheets were even warmer in the patch of sunlight from the window. He moved his legs over.

BEEP.

BEEP.

No. The madness of unliving was a gentle respite, to live among vapor in unfettered imagination, where brain synapse create image and color and…

BEEP.

BEEP.

Well, it’s time to turn that damn thing off. He flopped over to his stomach, lurching for the button on top of the clock, to silence its offensive shrieks. He had no time to press snooze. He had no choice to stay later, nor call out for the day. He had no control over the shirt he was about to wear, or the traffic on the long stretch of highway, or even most of his own curriculum applied to the writing boards. The dulled stares of students mirrored his own as they drudged through one page, then the next, absorbing as little as possible and watching that clock.

More seconds ticking back and forth on…

BEEP.

BEEP.

Fuck the snooze button. Fuck this job. Fuck the fact that he had no choice.

 

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

The room felt different, the press of skin against his was more rousing than the alarm clock, as though he could sleep through it anymore. His arm flung out to silence the clock as she murmured and shifted next to him, her hair everywhere like a trapper’s net. His favorite tie was caught under her arm, they must have slept with it all night unknowingly. It looked different and duller, whether compared to her, or with the knowledge that its purpose is fulfilled. The plane left at eight p.m. They had time.

But he liked the look of her tangled hair in the light. He liked that the day felt bright and full of promise and freedom. He loved that she looked better in his buttoned shirt than he did. He spent those seconds being happily awake, instead of wasting each breath on sleep.

“You don’t need use that alarm anymore, you know,” and her voice was raspy from the night’s drink and the morning’s solace.

He laid his head inches from hers, spending his time like currency, investing in this moment in the warm bed.

“I know.”

A beginning and an end of a long story, an activity written for Wordplay #7 on the topics of “An alarm clock that won’t stop ringing” and “the joy of watching the sunrise.”

typeface tales: Tower Blocks

typeface tales: Tower Blocks:

typefacetales:

The yellow one fell.
Then blue then purple.
Then another yellow, which stacked up nicely.

And this is what was taking everyone’s time, this color matching, the widespread shifting of colors and blocks to create new sculptures and shapes. Some people played it like a strategy game,…