Log in

AU Meme

Elaia-Three nibbled on vat-grown proteins quietly, as she listened to reports of the latest ratings in her little corner of the pens. Her line had been made from two headliners, and but she'd rarely been used for any profile fights. Still, she was one of the lucky ones. The first two of her line had been put into impossible-odds scenarios when they were barely old enough to fight: the rumor had been that the rebellion lieutenant Windsong had inexplicably strong feelings about her offspring line, and Mojo wanted to make her suffer.
There hadn't been many acts of sabotage lately, but one never knew. So Elaia-Three ate her proteins and wondered if she would see another night.

II. Jukebox was probably the silliest codename ever. But she had to admit, a huge cacophonous distraction while the other X-Men slipped in had saved lives on more than one occasion. Especially when her cousins helped cover the visual stealth issue. She only hoped Momma would understand.

III. "Lucinda Denise Clarkson!" Caroline shouted it just once, but let it echo in the air a few times. "Have you been messing with your Daddy's things, young lady?"
"Momma, I woulda 'membered to put the fuel injector back where it was s'posed to go!" Lucy was even more indignant about her competence being misjudged than being falsely accused.

"Then why are your hands greasy?"
"Arm-wrestling with Triple-A."
Caroline frowned, and soon the house was filled with the reverberations of "ANTHONY AIDEN ALI CLARKSON! Get in here this minute!"

Writing Assignment

My mother was not supposed to be a person.

She was originally from a war-torn society with a strict caste system backed by a thorough eugenics program. Momma was bred, born, and raised to be something between a toy and a weapon.

The people who pour slabs of concrete never really want dandelions growing through the cracks. But it still happens. Many chose to fight the system that produced them. Nature, spirit maybe, fighting artifice where one would think it had no business doing so. They were all amazing people, these puppets cutting their own strings, and my mother was one of them.

I can't fully grasp the sheer force of will it took to survive in those kinds of conditions, any more than I can understand the culture shock she dealt with coming to America afterward. She worked hard to learn English, but twenty years later, she still mixes up her idioms. Cumberland, Kentucky isn't exactly Hell's Kitchen, but she still notes all the exits when she enters a building. She loves having a normal mountain-town life, but parts of her will always be so very alien foreign. In a few ways, even to me.

And while Momma's spoken to me in her native language since I was a baby and told me some stories and kept in contact with amazing distant relatives, she says it's good that, in just a few ways, I'll never truly know all that she's talking about. My having a better life is so important to her. She was so proud of picking out a name that could translate to 'Free Woman.' The ability to live as a woman and no one's puppet was something for which she had to fight and struggle so hard. For me it was a gift from the start.


Caroline M. Song

Latest Month

April 2009


RSS Atom
Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Tiffany Chow