i have no life

TM 276 ... SIBLINGS

2009-04-15T11:01:55Z

Are you an only child? Write about your siblings or lack thereof.

When I was growing up my father always told me I was destined to be a real man. A great man. My brother never heard the same type of praise. I am not an only child but there were many times my father would say otherwise. My older brother Omer...he was always given such a hard time when we were growing up. That is the curse of being the eldest son.

One instance I can recall occurred when I was eight years old and Omer was twelve. My father was upset with Omer again for having a reserved nature: children with that demeanor did not survive. They were supposed to become men and yet Omer constantly resisted. He dragged my brother outside to a coop out back full of chickens and ordered Omer to kill one. My father left. To this day I don't know if he expected Omer to quit or if he went to keep himself busy expecting a long wait before any progress was made. Omer could not kill the chicken under such pretenses...this I was aware of. He seemed so awkward standing there with that butcher knife handing down by his legs like a heavy weight of burden.

I killed the chicken for my brother. I snapped its neck with my bare hands without an ounce of shame. It was merely an animal. I had no sympathy for a creature that serves as a meal. What I cared for was my brother. I gave the bird to him and told him to present it to our father. There was no desire for credit on my part for I wanted nothing to prove. Instead of accepting the honor when out father reappeared Omer told the truth. That was always the nature of him I like to remember. It always frustrated me, but I believe I can begin to understand now his resistance. He was a much stronger boy than I in the sense he never became jaded for so long. Forever he is etched in my mind as the awkward-looking boy with the butcher knife dangling by his knees without a wish of ill or murder in his heart.

I think of him often these days.

I wish I could be more like him.

[OOC] -- personal leave

2009-04-01T21:58:14Z

This journal is going on an indefinite and perhaps flexible hiatus. At this point I’m not sure how gung ho I am with the whole RP-scene right now. I don’t possess the same amount of enthusiasm that I had before. I used to look forward to prompts and writing but lately I’ve been uncomfortable with my writing abilities and have felt miserable that I have not been able to create the rich images crafted with such care that a character deserves. In the most literal sense I have accomplished nothing. No personal rewards have been reaped as of late therefore I feel I need to reassess my position on this journal entirely. However, I don’t give up that easily.

This doesn’t mean I love Sayid any less. It has nothing to do with the current standing of LOST nor the direction his character has taken (in fact I like the general direction it has taken and stand by my character wholeheartedly). I am currently working on a prompt to keep his standing in [Unknown LJ tag]. I can only hope that fares well knowing I’ve acknowledged this confliction for myself.

Happy LOSTing, everyone, and enjoy.

--Rachel

TM 273 . . . Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

2009-03-11T20:17:32Z

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [Who watches the watchmen?]

The moment Jack Shephard and John Locke stepped out the door to the armory Sayid Jarrah knew this Henry Gale's life was in his hands. His heart quickened in pace despite his cool exterior. All the twitches and fidgets of anxiety had been worn out of him so only his vitals racing under his skin. Not for one minute did he believe this man, but he would question him none-the-less.

----

The heat of the Iraqi desert was sweltering. Certain times of the year meant the sun's rays could easily burn into a man's skin should he dare to roam outside too long. All of this was meaningless to the man sealed up in a bunker. None of the exposed elements could touch him in his cell. The air was stale and metallic as if it had been in this particular reserve for an eternity. It reeked not only of metal, but of sweat, blood and spittle. The man was no native of this country, but a transplant as a child. Somehow he had known Iraq all of his life. Now he was being questioned on behalf of it: questioned on his plans to destroy it.

"Shall I ask you again?" Sayid asked with a frightening aura of calm.

The man's lips trembled. already dour of his fingers were dislocated, jarred up at grotesque angles. He didn't budge. It hardly gave him the image of a martyr, but instead of a child backed into a corned by some ferocious beast. The best the victim could do was squint his eyes and hope to wake up.

Sayid let out the breath his quickened lungs had been reserving quite calmly. Sweat had formed on his brow. If only it were from the heat. The toil of breaking digits was showing and the inexorable scents of those metallic fluids stuck to his brow. In one shift of an instrument the man's thumb hung down below his wrist. He cried for his god.

"I want to know how many explosives are in place!" Finally Sayid's temper flared.

At that moment the heavy metal door that seemed eternally sealed opened with an aging whine.

"Has he said anything?" one of the two officer's asked. Americans. Their pale eyes seemed much darker.

"Nothing."

"It's been fourteen hours and all you've done is play paddy-cake with him!" The man rolled up his sleeves exchanging glances with his fellow officer. "We're stepping in."

Sayid's eyes protested with an impatient glare. It was a terrible trade, but a trade none the less and to be removed from something he was drafted into brought great shame. His want for air and cleansing, however, was fully ready to lead him. He stepped out. The door closed. He could hear nothing. Everything was left to the dim imagination.

With a heavy feeling of deceit and weariness Sayid began to wonder who exactly watched the watchmen.

----

The thought of this particular scenario, among many, never crossed his mind when he was left in the room with Henry Gale. He wasn't concerned with Jack or John just outside the door and what conflict would arise as a result of his decision. He had only given Jack an answer through the door that would leave his methods to the dim imagination. The air was typically stale and didn't resemble the salty, fragrant winds above the Hatch. He was used to the trapped feeling...though trapped was the last thing he felt.

taken from only48days

2009-02-11T17:22:34Z

Your result for The Golden Compass Daemon Test...

Calm Thoughtful Soul

You are a calm and restrained person, and you don't usually let your emotions get the better of you. Your friends and family are very important to you, and you enjoy spending time with them. However, you need to get away from them occasionally, because you need regular time to yourself to unwind a bit.

You are thoughtful and sensitive to the needs of others, especially your loved ones. You make an excellent listener, and your friends rely on you to be their rock in times of trouble. It is rare that you ask them to return the favour, however: you are a private person, and you rarely talk about your feelings. You don't like confrontation, and you don't usually react when someone hurts your feelings. You try to give people the benefit of the doubt, and you don't want to cause a fuss. You pick your battles, and when someone steps over the line, you surprise them with the vehemence of your emotions.

Your daemon's form would represent your poised, confident nature and your calm self restraint. He or she would probably rarely speak in public, but when alone, you and he/she could review the day, and he or she could provide the reassurance and comfort that you deny yourself by keeping your emotions bottled up.

Suggested forms:
Cheetah, Crane, Wolf, Raven.

Take The Golden Compass Daemon Test at HelloQuizzy

TM # 268 . . . The End

2009-02-05T09:21:59Z

The End

“The end,” the woman unlaced her short but elegant fingers and stood up from beside the child’s mattress.

“That’s it?” the curly haired boy peeped up from under his blanket. The woman’s naturally stern lips turned into a brief smile as she crouched down and tenderly touched him on the head.

“My little Sayid, everything comes to an end.” Retracting her hand gently, she stood once more and headed for the door. The young boy’s voice stopped her in her tracks once more.

“I didn’t like the ending,” he murmured, his quiet voice muffled by the blanket drawn up over his lips. Considering the size of his eyes and his small shoulders drawn up to his ears it had taken all of his courage to voice himself. She turned from her halted position and smiled at her wide-eyed son.

"My little Sayid," her reply was heartfelt and quiet as not to wake any others, "not everything ends the way we would like. Imagine a different ending." She drew the curtains back leaving the room in complete darkness. In the distance a brief disquiet of gunfire erupted. The young boy drew up but had nowhere to look. There were no windows in the room- the only light came from the interior of the house and was subdued by the curtain. The cotton barrier was thick, but not thick enough to eliminate the hurried voices of his parents. His father's was harsh and raised as usual, his mother's pleading but not nearly as effective. The gunfire picked up, louder this time, along with strange voices.

There was a piercing high-note followed by the scream of both his parents. His mother was terrified. His father was a mix of violent fury and a new kind of fear that made the fine hair on the boy's neck stand on end.

Panicked, Sayid shot up in his bed shouting out loud. He looked around hurriedly, hand immediately wandering to the gun underneath a pillow. This was not Iraq. This was not the island. A few course breaths escaped him as he got his bearings. He was on the couch of a hotel room.

A hotel room. With Hurley. He had been protecting Hurley.

"Uh, dude? You okay?" a voice from the bedroom caught his attention. Hurley was poking his head out of the doorway looking perplexed.

"I'm fine," Sayid managed to breathe out as if he were happy to hear himself say it. He looked away to replace the gun and hoped the other didn't notice the sweat on his brow or any further anxiety.

"Didn't sound okay," Hurley ventured but didn't sound like he was going to pursue it any further. "Maybe you shouldn't sleep on the couch. I mean...there's two beds in here and all. I don't snore that loud."

"I'm," Sayid repeated with a certain firmness that insisted he wanted to be left alone. "All the possible entrances to this suite are to my front. I'm keeping watch." He refrained from rubbing his eyes and chose to instead give Hurley a firm look. "Try to go back to sleep."

"Whatever, man," Hurley frowned and headed back towards the bed. Sayid could hear him muttering something to himself about someone (assuming it was him) being worse than his "abuela". Once he was alone Sayid sat back on the couch half watching the door, half wondering what had conjured up the mental image.from his childhood that had never happened.

The long day was at its end. He needed rest, but not when endings even haunted his sleep.

TM Prompt -- The past is never dead...

2009-01-14T06:36:52Z

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun.

He cannot escape from what has been done. Essentially he wouldn’t be the same person if he could. Every order tossed at him, every victim and every loved one who lost their life and their physical in this world existed for a reason.

There are some days he realizes this. These are the days he withdraws himself from whatever society he may haunt. He reflects on how far he has come, what he has not accomplished but still cannot find the answer to the significant and ultimate question: Why? Why did people leave his life as quickly as they returned? Why couldn’t his trigger finger ignore the pleading of his heart? Why had he been on Oceanic Flight 815? Why was he still bound to it? From living in a country ravaged by the heat of the desert and conflict to a promised land that turned out to be as hungry for blood as any man. Now, he was back to the civilized world and felt robbed by the constant need for blood. For that liquid to be feeling his veins, he feels he has seen and sees far too much of it. It belongs to the heart.

Other days he does not know or he pretends as if things are different. He looks at the faces of those surrounding him in the café and wonders what makes them smile. That, somehow, they have cheated or avoided a terrible fate. Then he feels the heavy weight on his shoulders and wonders who put it there: himself or a terrible God. That’s when his fingers become truly powerful and can flick the tiny metallic trigger that is the deciding factor of life and death. Still, it is only some time before he returns to the previous state of mind.

Either way he feels as if he is truly an island. Perhaps he is surrounded, but still existing alone in the ocean. The past has caused a drift in the land, and yet here he remains.

334

scienceoffaith @ 2009-01-05T14:21:00

2009-01-05T21:24:10Z

I'll be going on hiatus until around January 12th. Getting moved into a dorm is a lot of hard work! Be well, play nice and I'll see you all soon :) You might even see a prompt or two go up here over the next few days.

<3 Rae

TM # 259 . . . I don't understand

2008-12-15T08:59:12Z

I don't understand…

He has always been older than his years, but he still doesn't understand many things. He does not understand how his life could be ruled by such passion. With the passing periods it still exists. People come and people go throughout his lifetime and yet he still manages to get attached.

He searched for Nadia, ambling through life on the daily belief that she was truly alive out there. Intercepted by some unseen force, he had found Shannon. He needed her just as much as she needed him, but she too was torn away. He buried her and felt a piece of his heart die alongside her. Upon return to civilization and Nadia it was as if that chapter of his life had been erased. She came with so much mystique and wonder. Laying with her (usually when she slept) he found himself wondering how she could manage to meet his eyes. After all they had been through... He would then wrap his arms around her, his palms guarding her burns, and he would fall asleep. As long as she was there to hold there was no need to wonder.

After she died there was only vengeance. There was no Shannon. There was no Nadia. No love in his heart. The only survivors were work and rectification. Elsa happened merely by surprise. The long-suppressed desire to reach out and be intimate with someone consumed him.

He killed her himself.

He hasn't slept since then.

And here he is today, emotionally gray on his better days.

"Why are you crying? Because it hurts, or because you were stupid enough to care for her?" The voice was harsh and accusing. If it were anything otherwise he would know he was not employed by the same man.

The word stung worse than the alcohol, more than the needle and more than the burning sensation underneath his skin. He had to draw in his lips in order to keep himself from shattering in front of the man. His cold, eerie eyes magnified in those glasses...

"These people don't deserve out sympathies." He could look back at Ben now. Was he offering an explanation? Anything was better than being left out in the cold. "Need I remind you what they did the last time you thought with your heart instead of your gun?"

Feeling that certainly crossed the line, he snapped back. "You used that to recruit me into killing for you." The coldness in his voice surprised himself. What had he become?

"Do you want to protect your friends or do you not, Sayid?"

He did. The conflict that brewed within him would have to wait. He had another name, after all. Another opportunity...another addition to the things that drove him on that he could not grasp.

TM #258 . . . What words would you like to see added/removed from common use

2008-11-22T01:09:55Z

What words would you like to see added to/removed from common use?

I think there are enough words in any language. It's silly to add or subtract from something when it functions. Still, there are words and phrases that can become lost in translation. Putting words in place of other words from a different dialect is hardly a fair translation. The momentum of the words is lost. If there was a way to make this possible I would very much like to see it happen.

One phrase that I find myself thinking of is أعمل الخير وأرميه فى البحر (A3mal al khair warmiha filbahr). In English, this translates roughly to "Do good and then throw it into the sea". You would have to understand (different from able to speak) Arabic in order to realize the shortcomings of this translation. The saying itself isn't common in Iraq. I first heard it when I was attending school in Giza. It is a common thing for mothers and fathers to tell their children. Performing a good deed does not necessarily mean you will be rewarded. They can become overlooked or even lost. When releasing good into the world the effects may not be seen in your lifetime, but it is free. People should be content with it and harbor no ill.

Its meanings isn't lost only to English speakers. The proverb is often forgotten by adults. Life becomes complicated. "Good" becomes a blurred term.

Certainly there are more phrases like this in countless cultures. I don't think about such things often, but one thought leads to another. If there were means of understanding phrases without such barriers I would like to see that put into effect. I strive to understand more than I do to eliminate or add anything to a language.

scienceoffaith @ 2008-11-16T23:55:00

2008-11-17T06:56:21Z

Perhaps I am too ambitious.

Post a CONFESSION Meme

T heatrical M use application

2008-11-05T23:25:32Z

BOO! How would you go about scaring someone?

It felts like centuries that he had struck fear into the hearts of the accused. Those days, however, were left behind. She had made the nights so much easier. The faces had started to dissipate. All there was was her. Nadia.

She had gone to the market to get the essentials. He hated allowing her to go places on her own because he feared she would never return. She usually indulged him, enjoying his company, but today she had something to prove to herself. He watched her from the window anyway and waited for her return.

Patience worn rough and thin, Sayid ceased his pacing when he saw her approaching the building with the basket tucked under her arms. It was hard to imagine her ever as the brutish girl who pushed him in the mud and led the jeers of the other children. He smiled a little at the thought out of fondness and a rare jolt of playfulness hit him.

-----

She entered the apartment and found it dark. Perhaps he had taken her advice and laid down for a nap. Still, she promised to assure him she had arrived home safely. She leaned in to get a peek into the bedroom. No one- the bed was made. Her fingers curled around the rim of the basket. "Sayid," she said in a raised voice expecting a response. "Sayid, where are you?"

Nothing.

Impulsively she reversed her steps towards the entrance in the kitchen. The aura of the room did not feel right. Horrible scenarios flooded through her mind, and before she could set down the basket on the counter behind her and reach for the phone she felt a strong set of arms seize her around the waist. She shrieked in terror, thrashing with her elbows while her legs got ahead of her. She went down and brought the assailant down with her...the laughing assailant whose lips and whiskers were now teasing her neck. Stunned, she looked back and saw him not only smiling widely, but laughing.

"Idiot!" she reached for the spilled fruit and food packets, "do you know how frightened I was?"

"I didn't know you could move your arms that quickly," he chuckled.

Her eyes flamed and she jutted out of her lower lip to openly show her disgust. Before she knew it she could see the laughing little boy just before she shoved him straight into the mud puddle and the tears welled up in his eyes. Slowly but surely she started to laugh and leaned back against him on the ground.

"Don't think you'll get away with that again," she muttered into his neck.

"Boo," he leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

"One small victory for you, Sayid," she waved him off playfully. "I hope you're ready to pick up this mess."

"Not now," he purred, and persuaded her further by holding her closer and tighter. There was silence as they indulged in the comfort of each other.

"What am I going to do with you?" she sighed wearing a content smile as she moved her fingertips over his wrist.

"Well," he shrugged, "next time you'll just have to take me with you."

[536]

Coffee time! [for not_a_savage]

2008-11-01T23:52:09Z

The weather outside was dismal much like the mixed feelings within himself. The early afternoon was gray with clouds but the air was thick with smog and the city life. Once Sayid stepped into the coffee shop he could feel a slight sense of relief underneath the lighting and the welcoming smell of the brewing beans.

He was here to meet an old friend...it had been a long time since he had spoken with anyone from Oceanic flight 815. Seeing Jack could bring up both good memories and the doubt he harbored since the Island. Still, he did want to see his friend. Well aware he was slightly early he took his coffee and sat a table that already had a newspaper on it. All he had to do now was wait.

scienceoffaith @ 2008-09-23T01:04:00

2008-09-23T08:15:19Z

1. Where is your cell phone? Bed.

2. Your significant other? Deceased.

3. Your hair? Up.

4. Your mother? Protective.

5. Your father? Expectations.

6. Your favorite thing? Tranquility

7. Your dream last night? Disturbing

8. Your favorite drink? Cappuccino.

9. Your dream/goal? Defend.

10. The room you're in? Empty.

11. Your fear? Harm.

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happy.

13. Where were you last night? Away.

14. What you're not? Content.

15. Muffins? Please.

16. One of your wish list items? Love.

17. Where did you grow up? Iraq

18. The last thing you did? Visit

19. What are you wearing? Robe.

20. Your TV? Idle.

21. Your pet? None.

22. Your computer? Offline.

23. Your life? Complex.

24. Your mood? Melancholy.

25. Missing someone? Yes.

26. Your car? Parked.

27. Something you're not wearing? Shirt.

28. Favorite Store? Debatable.

29. Your summer? Lazy.

30. Your favorite color? Orange.

31. When is the last time you laughed? Forgot.

32. Last time you cried? Forgot.

33.Who will/would re-post this? Debatable.

scienceoffaith @ 2008-09-06T23:50:00

2008-09-07T06:40:47Z

Your Personality at 35,000 Says...

Deep down, you vastly prefer being with others to being alone. You love to engage people in conversation.

You are not too sure what your place in the world is yet. You often feel invisible in a crowd.

Your gift is having a way with words. You know how to express yourself well.

You are inspired by what is unknown. You are drawn to the exotic.

Your life has a lot of ups and downs, but things generally end up being pretty positive. It's one big emotional roller coaster, that's for certain.

The Personality Test at 35,000 Feet

scienceoffaith @ 2008-08-29T01:53:00

2008-08-29T08:43:22Z

The Giant fangirl post of DOOM

justprompts

2008-08-20T08:59:47Z

Pain is just nature’s way of saying “HEY! You’re alive!” –Ares

Physical pain...explaining the emotional aspects is time wasted on the intangible. One of the prices we must pay for life is the endurance of pain. It can be as brief as a paper cut or it could last a lifetime. Whatever we endure and survive we are told only makes us stronger. But we never ask for this pain: it is a trial that is sprung upon us by immeasurable force. When we take it upon ourselves to make another human being suffer...that is when the true purpose of pain becomes clouded.

I have seen many people reach their breaking points. In my heart I understood many of them had done horrible things to harm innocent people, but their faces still haunt me. They are those of familiar faces, women among them...acting out of passion. This in no way justifies what they have done, but I am no better than them. Their names are now synonymous with hot oil, reeds slipped under their fingernails, electricity coursing through their bodies and the word pain itself.

Myself...I have taken more bullets than anyone I know. That physical pain does not begin to compare to the memories of the pain on their faces. Pain that I inflicted. This is not Nature's doing, but its reaction is still present. It was a way to make a living- to stay alive. I wouldn't be here without that time in my life. Much has been taken from me. Though I have left my occupation behind the habit seems to linger. Pain- it is a firm reminder: we must fight to survive or give up.

I continue with a heavy heart.