When the professor walked into the room for the first time, most of the class paused. They didn't do or say anything out of the ordinary, until he introduced himself. That's when they were shocked. They were shocked because he was ten years old.
I know the reaction because I was there, watching for it. Nobody in that room knew who the professor was or what he looked like, except for two men: me, and an assassin. I was there to find that assassin. He had the advantage of my not knowing who he was disguised as; I had the advantage of him not even knowing I was there.
While that class reacted to learning that they were around twice the age of the professor, I was watching the whole room, unseen. I needed to see all of their surprise, because I needed to see the one man who wasn't really surprised at all.
A single glance in a single instant was all I needed to see, and when I saw it, I knew I'd won.
All I had had left to know was where the danger was, but once I found it, taking down someone who'd kill a child for money was all that would be left. And that would be easy.
Why would it be easy?
Because I'm the goddamn Batman.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Mars
Gregory was about to shit his britches.
Well, you would be too if were the first man to walk on Mars.
Gregory, a veteran astronaut, had taken to talking to himself in his spacesuit with the radio off.
"Holy FUCK," he said to nobody in particular.
"Oh my-" he started saying to God, before he cut himself off.
"I cannot FUCKING believe it."
"I am actually walking
-- fucking WALKING --
on fucking MARS."
Well, you would be too if were the first man to walk on Mars.
Gregory, a veteran astronaut, had taken to talking to himself in his spacesuit with the radio off.
"Holy FUCK," he said to nobody in particular.
"Oh my-" he started saying to God, before he cut himself off.
"I cannot FUCKING believe it."
"I am actually walking
-- fucking WALKING --
on fucking MARS."
Description of a Room
There were two categories of dirty clothes in the room. In front of the closet were the clothes that had been worn only a few times and would be kept on for active duty; inside the closet lie the clothes that were retired from service - at least until next washing. A pile of socks sat to the left of his dresser. Atop the dresser, his alarm sat conveniently close to the bed; the snooze button well-worn. The rest of the dresser was piled with stacks of books, each with a bookmark nestled somewhere between the covers. The sheets of the bed were coming up from under the bottom-right corner of the mattress, and the blankets were half-hanging dilapidated off the side. Under the bed were assorted boxes, most half-full. The floor was, in general, filthy. Dust bunnies adorned the are where wall met floor like chintzy molding. A handful of insect carcasses dotted the hardwood floor. The walls were bare, excepting of course the hideous wallpaper the previous tenent had left behind. One of the bulbs in the ceiling light was burned out.
In the room lies a desk. The desk has atop it a ream of blank paper, pencils, charcoals, pastels, colored pencils, brushes, three rulers, a compass, four pen-holders, a quill, and a stick of chapstick left open. On the floor lies the crumpled-up corpses of used scraps of paper.
In the room lies a desk. The desk has atop it a ream of blank paper, pencils, charcoals, pastels, colored pencils, brushes, three rulers, a compass, four pen-holders, a quill, and a stick of chapstick left open. On the floor lies the crumpled-up corpses of used scraps of paper.
Three shortshort stories
John was in a coma. Looks like I didn't murder him well enough. Well, what should you expect from the lesser brother?
"My love, what say you to a night of happiness and music?"
"I have mace."
"That... that was not what I was looking for."
"Then please please try to be less of a creepy motherfucker."
"We've been over this before. You poison him, he falls into a coma, we murder him."
"Problem, sir: I'm not an alchemist."
"Well how hard is it to find some chemical that'll put a man into a coma?"
"Very, actually. Couldn't I just poison him _fatally_? That would turn it into a one-step plan and there'd be less room for error AND I'd actually be able to pull it off."
"NO! The plan is as written."
"... Look, how about we just murder him with poison, but then _tell people_ we poisoned him into a coma? No one would ever need to know-"
"NOO! THE PLAN. IS. AS WRITTEN!"
"... Why did you have to write it in pen?"
"It was all I had on me at the time."
"... Well why can't we just cross it out and write in a new plan?"
"NO! The plan - as written - is ABSOLUTE. It cannot be crossed out until it has succeeded"
"... Sir, I feel your compulsiveness is negatively affecting the organization."
"Nu-uh."
"Sir, I'm not the only one who thinks this."
"Well they're wrong too. My compulsiveness is THE VERY FOUNDATION OF OUR ORGANIZATION!"
"Sir, I'm the only one in here. And I don't care that you're posing."
"Well..."
"Sir, you are not helping your cause with this."
"My love, what say you to a night of happiness and music?"
"I have mace."
"That... that was not what I was looking for."
"Then please please try to be less of a creepy motherfucker."
"We've been over this before. You poison him, he falls into a coma, we murder him."
"Problem, sir: I'm not an alchemist."
"Well how hard is it to find some chemical that'll put a man into a coma?"
"Very, actually. Couldn't I just poison him _fatally_? That would turn it into a one-step plan and there'd be less room for error AND I'd actually be able to pull it off."
"NO! The plan is as written."
"... Look, how about we just murder him with poison, but then _tell people_ we poisoned him into a coma? No one would ever need to know-"
"NOO! THE PLAN. IS. AS WRITTEN!"
"... Why did you have to write it in pen?"
"It was all I had on me at the time."
"... Well why can't we just cross it out and write in a new plan?"
"NO! The plan - as written - is ABSOLUTE. It cannot be crossed out until it has succeeded"
"... Sir, I feel your compulsiveness is negatively affecting the organization."
"Nu-uh."
"Sir, I'm not the only one who thinks this."
"Well they're wrong too. My compulsiveness is THE VERY FOUNDATION OF OUR ORGANIZATION!"
"Sir, I'm the only one in here. And I don't care that you're posing."
"Well..."
"Sir, you are not helping your cause with this."
A list of story ideas
A society where shortness is preferable to tallness
Government conspiracy ultimately a cover for man's marriage proposal, gets rejected
Gay man tempted by succubus who learns the true meaning of friendship
Caveman invents masturbation, gets killed by tiger
Sometimes I hope you'd just choke and die. No, come back baby, you know I don't mean it. Well, okay, maybe I mean it a bit but- No no come back, come back. Sweetie, please.
Man named Doof McPain
You THREW a CAT at me
I threw my heart at her, and I broke it
"Where do you get your ideas?" "I don't 'get' ideas, I MAKE ideas!"
You think of these people who create as gods whose work is beyond reproach because their craft seems so intricate, so impenetrable. Then you find yourself two steps from that pedestal and you realize that they're just men and women like you, and they probably didn't have any idea how to start that story either.
A metaphor is like a simile versioned 2.0, and yes I realize how ironic using a simile there is.
I think the most ironic part of the song is how she clearly does not know what that means. Whether she did it on purpose or not is the line between genius and idiocy.
Zombie plan!
Revealing character through mundane, everyday actions
"His fingers slowly groped the alarm clock, looking for that one button with the extra plastic niblet on it. He found it, pressed the sleep button, and slithered his arm back under the covers."
"There's so much to set up when you use a computer."
"Kind of like in a story; you need a bunch of exposition before you can do anything interesting."
"I guess that's true..."
Suddenly a car crashed through the window.
"Are you a licensed medical professional?"
"No!"
"Oh. Good luck, then!"
Government conspiracy ultimately a cover for man's marriage proposal, gets rejected
Gay man tempted by succubus who learns the true meaning of friendship
Caveman invents masturbation, gets killed by tiger
Sometimes I hope you'd just choke and die. No, come back baby, you know I don't mean it. Well, okay, maybe I mean it a bit but- No no come back, come back. Sweetie, please.
Man named Doof McPain
You THREW a CAT at me
I threw my heart at her, and I broke it
"Where do you get your ideas?" "I don't 'get' ideas, I MAKE ideas!"
You think of these people who create as gods whose work is beyond reproach because their craft seems so intricate, so impenetrable. Then you find yourself two steps from that pedestal and you realize that they're just men and women like you, and they probably didn't have any idea how to start that story either.
A metaphor is like a simile versioned 2.0, and yes I realize how ironic using a simile there is.
I think the most ironic part of the song is how she clearly does not know what that means. Whether she did it on purpose or not is the line between genius and idiocy.
Zombie plan!
Revealing character through mundane, everyday actions
"His fingers slowly groped the alarm clock, looking for that one button with the extra plastic niblet on it. He found it, pressed the sleep button, and slithered his arm back under the covers."
"There's so much to set up when you use a computer."
"Kind of like in a story; you need a bunch of exposition before you can do anything interesting."
"I guess that's true..."
Suddenly a car crashed through the window.
"Are you a licensed medical professional?"
"No!"
"Oh. Good luck, then!"
Blade
The blade in his hands was held firm. No opening for me to cut the arms. I hadn't seen him swing before, but I knew I would barely have an opening then, either. He was hard, trained. I pressed my killing intent against him with as much fervor as I could muster. He stood before me, unflinching, a rock against the tides. His eyes saw me. No; they saw through me, entirely. In that moment, he knew everything I was capable of, and he was unshaken. In that moment, I felt fear for the first time in my long life. In that moment, I knew that I was going to die.
Response to Responses to Ender's Game
In reading up on Ender's Game, I came across two essays that reacted very strongly (and negatively) to Ender's Game.
Here are my reactions to their reactions.
Here are my reactions to their reactions.
Ender's Game: short story discussion notes
These are some notes in something resembling an order of our presentation on the short story version of Ender's Game.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
still untitled
Have you ever had a dream that you thought was more real than reality? I've dreamt that I was a butterfly, soaring over lush fields, full of flowers and vibrance and life. When I woke up, I wasn't sure whether I was a person having beautiful dreams, or a butterfly having hideous nightmares.
I wished I was the butterfly.
I wished I was the butterfly.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Gettin' too old for this shit...
Goddammit.
I ain't got time for this shit.
Okay, let's be calm, be cool, be reasonable.
I am a fully-grown adult.
I am not going to let a car - no matter HOW new-fangled - beat me.
I've been programming for thirty years.
This is simpler.
Or at least it SHOULD BE.
I ain't got time for this shit.
Okay, let's be calm, be cool, be reasonable.
I am a fully-grown adult.
I am not going to let a car - no matter HOW new-fangled - beat me.
I've been programming for thirty years.
This is simpler.
Or at least it SHOULD BE.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Not based on a true story.
"Guess who!"
"... Nobody I know."
"AAH! Oh geez, I'm sorry I'm sorry! I thought you were someone else."
"Yeah I kinda figured."
"Wow, sorry... I mean, you look just like my girlfriend from behind-"
"Could you let go of my boobs now?"
"Aa, yeah, yeah sorry... wow... um..."
"It's not that big a deal. Don't freak out about it."
"Really? You're not upset? Oh thank-"
"It helps that my bear mace is at, like, the very bottom of my purse."
"... what"
"And if I thought you were dangerous-"
"Wellwouldyoulookatthetime. Nicetomeetyougottago."
"... Jerk."
"... Nobody I know."
"AAH! Oh geez, I'm sorry I'm sorry! I thought you were someone else."
"Yeah I kinda figured."
"Wow, sorry... I mean, you look just like my girlfriend from behind-"
"Could you let go of my boobs now?"
"Aa, yeah, yeah sorry... wow... um..."
"It's not that big a deal. Don't freak out about it."
"Really? You're not upset? Oh thank-"
"It helps that my bear mace is at, like, the very bottom of my purse."
"... what"
"And if I thought you were dangerous-"
"Wellwouldyoulookatthetime. Nicetomeetyougottago."
"... Jerk."
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Thirty essentials: Number six
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
And so it goes. There is no great genius without some touch of madness. Aristotle said that. And it works as a decent excuse for some of the things I do/write.
My latest piece, for instance. The story itself asserts that there's no real point to it. It doesn't have a plot. Oh sure it has characters, and it even has stuff happen, and some stuff even happens to said characters, but there's no buildup to anything and no real resolution. Well, currently, anyway. I'm probably going to leave it as it stands. Who knows. But, for the most part, it's just meandering babbling madness.
In this case, I'm trying to scare the reader shitless.
Usually though, madness is more fun. Sometime this week I plan on writing something funny, entertaining, or happy. Don't know how that'll work out.
But back to the crazy dumbsaint; I don't think an idea can work if you're not willing to regurgitate it from your unconscious mind pretty much as it comes. At least the first time around (you can edit that later / fix that in post). That means, no censorship, no explaining. My thoughts can usually be pretty incoherent, so there's generally some cleanup done between thought and page.
Oh, and rules are for jerks. Quote me on that.
And so it goes. There is no great genius without some touch of madness. Aristotle said that. And it works as a decent excuse for some of the things I do/write.
My latest piece, for instance. The story itself asserts that there's no real point to it. It doesn't have a plot. Oh sure it has characters, and it even has stuff happen, and some stuff even happens to said characters, but there's no buildup to anything and no real resolution. Well, currently, anyway. I'm probably going to leave it as it stands. Who knows. But, for the most part, it's just meandering babbling madness.
In this case, I'm trying to scare the reader shitless.
Usually though, madness is more fun. Sometime this week I plan on writing something funny, entertaining, or happy. Don't know how that'll work out.
But back to the crazy dumbsaint; I don't think an idea can work if you're not willing to regurgitate it from your unconscious mind pretty much as it comes. At least the first time around (you can edit that later / fix that in post). That means, no censorship, no explaining. My thoughts can usually be pretty incoherent, so there's generally some cleanup done between thought and page.
Oh, and rules are for jerks. Quote me on that.
Friday, April 16, 2010
rUn RuN rUn YoU sHoUlD rUn NoW oN oN rUn RuN oN
thoughts are tumulting over and over in my head and I'm wondering wondering where I am and how I'm going where I'm going what's going going on in my life at this moment and as I wonder wonder why why I'm here here here I think think hard to myself about every thing and what it all means and I come back and back and back to the same same same old thing it doesn't matter a bit a bit at all so why worry be happy don't worry be happy now I've yet to have a landlord make me pay my rent but all in all in all in due time I'll have to so there there baby there there we are failing that though I notice how fragmented the things I think I think think they sound so I pause and stop stop stop and wonder aimlessly skipping skipping skipping like a broke broke broken record which isn't fair it isn't fair it isn't fair I loop I loop I loop loop loop loop loop loop loop and a segfault happens and what is going on WHEREAS the state of what I think is my mind myghte be a tadd offtilt and WHEREAS I'm really retracing rudimentary ruminations and WHEREAS we find ourselves pondering ceaselessly over the nits and nats of overdrawn thought WE the people do find our way through another anyother an other day with our selves split in twain lying desperate broken on the sands do you see me can you hear me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me mommy mommy I'm hurt and I'm scared and I'm alone and I miss you come back come back don't say she's gone she's not not not why God why why why why why why why why and as I stitch up my mind my thoughts are found anew recentered and I feel I am whole once more but again I overlook the holes which become gashes which become completely disconnected chunks of my being can you smell me do you know what the rock is in fact cooking this evening are you prepared to chew ON MY FIST are you against the grain can we say die die die die die die die die die die die die die die die DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 011001000110100101100101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 010001000100100101000101 it hurts you know like this I mean it really really really hurts give me a break okay please please let me let me let me let me just rest just just just rest a while okay okay WhY aRe YoU dOiNg ThIs To Me what is it what is it what is it you want you accursed ghost go go go away Away AWAY aWaY I say away leave me in my castle of solitude mulling over the wickedness I wrougt before I
Angel
The day the angel came down was a day Thomas would not soon forget.
Thomas didn't realize it was supposed to be an angel at first; he thought it was a meteorite coming down, bringing with it the end of everything beautiful. It rocketed down from the sky aflame, with a thundering, great rage that Thomas felt would be the last thing he saw.
Thomas didn't realize it was supposed to be an angel at first; he thought it was a meteorite coming down, bringing with it the end of everything beautiful. It rocketed down from the sky aflame, with a thundering, great rage that Thomas felt would be the last thing he saw.
Giraffe
The spooniest giraffe-thing (alien?) accosted me in my madness the other day. Its body was upsetting in its nondescript-ness; it was yellow and smooth. Its 'eyes' were held above its head(?) with stiff straight stalks. The lids(?) mostly transparent, I could see lights beneath the smoothened surface flitter about as they looked in independent directions.
As it spoke, a small, motionless cartoon grin would appear where I thought its nose should go. Its voice was high-pitched and booming; the single sentence it said to me reverberated through my skull for hours after.
GO TO SLEEP, JACKASS
As it spoke, a small, motionless cartoon grin would appear where I thought its nose should go. Its voice was high-pitched and booming; the single sentence it said to me reverberated through my skull for hours after.
GO TO SLEEP, JACKASS
The tale of one man's epic yet ultimately futile journey to discover the true meaning of friendship vis a vis a hilarious series of events that wind up with him in Vegas with a monkey sitting on him in the trunk of an old Camaro which causes him to reevaluate his life and ultimately teaches him a valuable life lesson.
Wait... shit.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
意味がない
It's hard to write stories based around a single sentence when your unconscious mind keeps throwing up sentences like "And that's what made me the most popular girl in the burn ward."
I'm just saying, is all.
I'm just saying, is all.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Demons, revised
I carefully open my closet door. The demons don't seem to notice or care. Or they realize I'll just slam the door if they try and come out; better to wait for me, the sucker I am, to delve in and see which ones I can find to maul me.
I go inside. I shut the door behind me so no light will disturb me. So nobody will see me.
Surgery (flashback)
Surgery.
The word echoed through my head like a herd of elephants fucking in a cave.
Surgery.
I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes with as much force as I could muster. I don't want to pass out! I don't need surgery! I'm fine! I'll, I'll walk it off! Don't, just don't do this to me please!
How could you...
I forced my eyes open for what might be the last time. No! Stop this cart! Guerny. Gernie? How do you spell that? G-e-r-...
Focus! Don't let the drugs get to you... Don't pass out... Don't...
The word echoed through my head like a herd of elephants fucking in a cave.
Surgery.
I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes with as much force as I could muster. I don't want to pass out! I don't need surgery! I'm fine! I'll, I'll walk it off! Don't, just don't do this to me please!
How could you...
I forced my eyes open for what might be the last time. No! Stop this cart! Guerny. Gernie? How do you spell that? G-e-r-...
Focus! Don't let the drugs get to you... Don't pass out... Don't...
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Demons
I carefully open my closet door. The demons don't seem not notice or care. Or they realize I'll just slam the door if they try and come out; better to wait for me, the sucker I am, to delve in and see which ones I can find to maul me.
So I go inside. I shut the door behind me so no light will distrub me. So nobody will see me.
I walk around in the closet, passing demons to the left and demons to the right, hanging waiting for me to try them on again like old coats.
I walk past the time I told Kate from third grade that she was a big fat stupid and I didn't want to play with her. I ignore how terrible I felt afterwards because I knew she liked me - like, like liked me - and I didn't really think girls were icky at all really.
I walk past the time I punched John in the face in seventh grade because he wouldn't shut up about my momma, even though I knew he was just kidding and I felt even worse afterward because he was my friend and I didn't even get in any real trouble. I walk past the time in eighth grade when John didn't invite me to his birthday party and I knew we wouldn't be friends anymore even though he had been my best friend since kindergarten.
I stop briefly at the time when Jen broke up with me, saying I was "creepy". We were in Love and I thought that meant being completely inseperable but as it turns out some people feel things more deeply than others and "it's not her it was me." My hand brushes the sleeve of how I cried for a week and couldn't stop thinking about her for months afterward. I reach into the pocket of what a pathetic individual I was at the time and pull out the comb of how I'm smarter now than I was then, look at it fondly for a few moments before putting it back in the pocket and walking on.
I stop and brush the dust off the time I went to the hospital to see my dad for the last time in junior year. I run my fingers through the lining of how mad I was that he wouldn't stop smoking even though the doctors said he'd have a better chance of survival if he just quit, of how mad I was that he would just give up and leave us just because he had a Habit and that wasn't something he could just break, of how mad I was that he would just leave us like that, of how mad I was that he didn't think about how we were feeling even though we told him and told him and told him, but mostly of how sad I am that I would never see his kind face again and how devastated and empty mom and I were after he had gone.
I stare at this demon a good long time.
I walk past the time I told Alice I just didn't care about Us or Where We Were Going or whatever bullshit it is that Couples talk about.
I walk past the time Rachel asked if it was Just about sex and I said Yes.
I walk past the times I woke up in someone else's bed not knowing how I got there because I was too drunk to remember the night before. I walk past when my friends tried to stage an intervention and I punched Roger in the face for telling me that I was "just like my father," because my father was a great man and I am not like my father and at least I'm not killing myself with my drinking.
I walk past the time I quit my job because I was just some corporate cog who was easily replaceable and completely ignorable.
I stop for a while at the time Susan asked if We were Going Anywhere and I said Yes, but I was lying because we were where we were and I didn't know where we were supposed to Go from wherever we were except maybe marriage and death, but I lied and said yes because I'd finally learned honesty wasn't always the best policy. I straighten the collar of her realizing I was just going through the motions and I came back to our apartment to find a note saying Goodbye Forever because she had truly Loved me and how I Broke her Heart. I gently smooth out the wrinkles of my finding her dead in the tub, having drank a bottle each of vodka and cyanide.
I stare at this demon a good long time.
Finally I come to the demon I was looking for. I stare at it. My only having two or three real Friends. My being Alone. I frown. Who needs a lot of friends? Who needs to be With somebody? I have people I trust, people who care about me. So What if it's only a handful of people? That's more than most folks meet in a lifetime.
"You are not a demon," I say. "You are nothing. Look around you, look at your friends. These, these are demons." I pick it up off the rack by the hanger. "I've dealt with so much over the years, you are the least of my worries." I walk out of the closet. I stare at it again. Ugly. "You are nothing," I shout, "and I have no reason to hold on to you!"
I throw it out the window.
So I go inside. I shut the door behind me so no light will distrub me. So nobody will see me.
I walk around in the closet, passing demons to the left and demons to the right, hanging waiting for me to try them on again like old coats.
I walk past the time I told Kate from third grade that she was a big fat stupid and I didn't want to play with her. I ignore how terrible I felt afterwards because I knew she liked me - like, like liked me - and I didn't really think girls were icky at all really.
I walk past the time I punched John in the face in seventh grade because he wouldn't shut up about my momma, even though I knew he was just kidding and I felt even worse afterward because he was my friend and I didn't even get in any real trouble. I walk past the time in eighth grade when John didn't invite me to his birthday party and I knew we wouldn't be friends anymore even though he had been my best friend since kindergarten.
I stop briefly at the time when Jen broke up with me, saying I was "creepy". We were in Love and I thought that meant being completely inseperable but as it turns out some people feel things more deeply than others and "it's not her it was me." My hand brushes the sleeve of how I cried for a week and couldn't stop thinking about her for months afterward. I reach into the pocket of what a pathetic individual I was at the time and pull out the comb of how I'm smarter now than I was then, look at it fondly for a few moments before putting it back in the pocket and walking on.
I stop and brush the dust off the time I went to the hospital to see my dad for the last time in junior year. I run my fingers through the lining of how mad I was that he wouldn't stop smoking even though the doctors said he'd have a better chance of survival if he just quit, of how mad I was that he would just give up and leave us just because he had a Habit and that wasn't something he could just break, of how mad I was that he would just leave us like that, of how mad I was that he didn't think about how we were feeling even though we told him and told him and told him, but mostly of how sad I am that I would never see his kind face again and how devastated and empty mom and I were after he had gone.
I stare at this demon a good long time.
I walk past the time I told Alice I just didn't care about Us or Where We Were Going or whatever bullshit it is that Couples talk about.
I walk past the time Rachel asked if it was Just about sex and I said Yes.
I walk past the times I woke up in someone else's bed not knowing how I got there because I was too drunk to remember the night before. I walk past when my friends tried to stage an intervention and I punched Roger in the face for telling me that I was "just like my father," because my father was a great man and I am not like my father and at least I'm not killing myself with my drinking.
I walk past the time I quit my job because I was just some corporate cog who was easily replaceable and completely ignorable.
I stop for a while at the time Susan asked if We were Going Anywhere and I said Yes, but I was lying because we were where we were and I didn't know where we were supposed to Go from wherever we were except maybe marriage and death, but I lied and said yes because I'd finally learned honesty wasn't always the best policy. I straighten the collar of her realizing I was just going through the motions and I came back to our apartment to find a note saying Goodbye Forever because she had truly Loved me and how I Broke her Heart. I gently smooth out the wrinkles of my finding her dead in the tub, having drank a bottle each of vodka and cyanide.
I stare at this demon a good long time.
Finally I come to the demon I was looking for. I stare at it. My only having two or three real Friends. My being Alone. I frown. Who needs a lot of friends? Who needs to be With somebody? I have people I trust, people who care about me. So What if it's only a handful of people? That's more than most folks meet in a lifetime.
"You are not a demon," I say. "You are nothing. Look around you, look at your friends. These, these are demons." I pick it up off the rack by the hanger. "I've dealt with so much over the years, you are the least of my worries." I walk out of the closet. I stare at it again. Ugly. "You are nothing," I shout, "and I have no reason to hold on to you!"
I throw it out the window.
Alone
What was I doing.
Of course I had to go ahead and come along on this stupid middle-school trip. Sure, no problem, just spend a week out in the woods a million miles from anyone with all your buddies from class around you. 'Course, I had about three buddies from class, and hated pretty much everyone else. Oh and look, my buddies are all at a different camping site because I had to do a stupid and have a different homeroom teacher LIKE THAT'S EVEN MY FAULT. So now they're all having a good time and I'm stuck here with these assholes.
Knew I should've faked appendicitis.
It's not all bad though. I at least get enough time alone to slip off and head down to the lake. There I can be alone, which while miserable is still leagues better than being with so many people I hate.
Of course, that's when she shows up.
'How did she find me?' I think to myself, not wanting to take the obvious answer.
"Hey, why are you over here?" she asks.
"Because I'm not over there," I nonanswer.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't really like people all that much." Please take the hint.
"Oh. Me either." Dammit. "So, what're you doing?"
"Just... sitting here. Trying to think." Please go away.
"What're you thinking about?"
"Stuff." Nonanswer. Go away.
"What kind of stuff?"
The kind of stuff that clubs you over the head and then tosses you into the lake to be eaten by fish and they'll never find your body. "Y'know... stuff."
"Why don't you want to answer?"
Because I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want me to answer. "No reason."
"... Is it about me?"
Yes. "No."
"You sure?" When did she get that close? Just a second ago she was right over by the trees and now she's a few feet away from me.
"Yes."
"I see... So what are you thinking about?"
None of your business! I do not owe you any answers! "Well, I was trying to think about how I don't really like people, but I didn't make it much past being alone." Damn it. One of these days I'll learn how to lie.
"Well, you don't have to be alone..."
Well I do if I want to get any thinking done. "I like it better than being surrounded by people."
"What about just one person?"
... Uh oh.
She's close now. Almost uncomfortably close. In fact, she is uncomfortably close. "What are you saying?" I ask, knowing full well what she's saying.
"I'm saying... I like you. You know that."
Yeah, I do. "Look... The thing is, I don't like you. YOU know that."
"I know... But-"
"But nothing! I don't like you. At all. It's not that I don't like-like you - I don't, by the way - it's that I don't even like you. You bug me, a lot. Please, please go away."
She nods and is silent for a bit. "Okay. I'll leave you alone."
"... Thank you."
Of course I had to go ahead and come along on this stupid middle-school trip. Sure, no problem, just spend a week out in the woods a million miles from anyone with all your buddies from class around you. 'Course, I had about three buddies from class, and hated pretty much everyone else. Oh and look, my buddies are all at a different camping site because I had to do a stupid and have a different homeroom teacher LIKE THAT'S EVEN MY FAULT. So now they're all having a good time and I'm stuck here with these assholes.
Knew I should've faked appendicitis.
It's not all bad though. I at least get enough time alone to slip off and head down to the lake. There I can be alone, which while miserable is still leagues better than being with so many people I hate.
Of course, that's when she shows up.
'How did she find me?' I think to myself, not wanting to take the obvious answer.
"Hey, why are you over here?" she asks.
"Because I'm not over there," I nonanswer.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't really like people all that much." Please take the hint.
"Oh. Me either." Dammit. "So, what're you doing?"
"Just... sitting here. Trying to think." Please go away.
"What're you thinking about?"
"Stuff." Nonanswer. Go away.
"What kind of stuff?"
The kind of stuff that clubs you over the head and then tosses you into the lake to be eaten by fish and they'll never find your body. "Y'know... stuff."
"Why don't you want to answer?"
Because I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want me to answer. "No reason."
"... Is it about me?"
Yes. "No."
"You sure?" When did she get that close? Just a second ago she was right over by the trees and now she's a few feet away from me.
"Yes."
"I see... So what are you thinking about?"
None of your business! I do not owe you any answers! "Well, I was trying to think about how I don't really like people, but I didn't make it much past being alone." Damn it. One of these days I'll learn how to lie.
"Well, you don't have to be alone..."
Well I do if I want to get any thinking done. "I like it better than being surrounded by people."
"What about just one person?"
... Uh oh.
She's close now. Almost uncomfortably close. In fact, she is uncomfortably close. "What are you saying?" I ask, knowing full well what she's saying.
"I'm saying... I like you. You know that."
Yeah, I do. "Look... The thing is, I don't like you. YOU know that."
"I know... But-"
"But nothing! I don't like you. At all. It's not that I don't like-like you - I don't, by the way - it's that I don't even like you. You bug me, a lot. Please, please go away."
She nods and is silent for a bit. "Okay. I'll leave you alone."
"... Thank you."
Crab!
I wake at night to my pans clanging.
"Robbers" I think; grab shotgun hanging
above the bed in which I'd been just laying.
And as I creep into the kitchen
resist an urge to scratch an itch and
strain my ears to hear what they are saying.
But in my kitchen on my shelf
what should I see but fear itself
a giant crablike creature sits there playing.
"Robbers" I think; grab shotgun hanging
above the bed in which I'd been just laying.
And as I creep into the kitchen
resist an urge to scratch an itch and
strain my ears to hear what they are saying.
But in my kitchen on my shelf
what should I see but fear itself
a giant crablike creature sits there playing.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Issues
I think you're an idiot.
I think you should shut the fuck up, how about that?
I think you don't want to listen to the truth.
I think you're trying to sabotage me.
I think you're being overly defensive for something you claim to be confident about.
I think you think you're a goddamn psychologist.
I think-
I still think you should just shut the fuck up!
Fine. Don't blame me when everything goes to hell. As usual.
... God damn it. Why are you always like this?
Because you're an idiot.
Fuck you.
I think you should shut the fuck up, how about that?
I think you don't want to listen to the truth.
I think you're trying to sabotage me.
I think you're being overly defensive for something you claim to be confident about.
I think you think you're a goddamn psychologist.
I think-
I still think you should just shut the fuck up!
Fine. Don't blame me when everything goes to hell. As usual.
... God damn it. Why are you always like this?
Because you're an idiot.
Fuck you.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Of all the Words of Mice and Men...
I'm sitting next to the most beautiful woman in the world. I glance at her.
I love you, I suddenly say. She's struck by the abruptness of it, as am I. It just slipped out of nowhere, out of my unmind, but it begins an avalanche of pent-up word that don't stop tumbling out of my mouth.
I've always loved you, from the day we met, even though I didn't realize it then. I feel something, something I can't describe every time I see you. When you smile it is the warm sun breaking through the ice in my heart shining your light in places I'd forgetten were even there.
She's smiling now.
Everything about you fascinates me, I continue, from the way you wear your hair, to how you walk, the way I can always hear you think about what you say before you say it, the perfume you wear, the almost-snorting laughter that fills the room. I want to be with you, now and forever. I've come to know you and you know me and I know this is presumptuous to ask but if you could find a spot in your kind heart to-
She cuts me off with a finger pressed against my lips, just the softest touch. She's smiling. She nods slowly and then leans toward me. We kiss and it is perfect, and everything is perfect; I've never been happier and I could die content right now at this very moment but better still than this perfect moment I can see stretching out ahead of us a lifetime filled with these perfect moments and there's nothing to hold us back from our dreams and I take your hand in mine and smile more completely than I ever have before and-
"Yes?"
"Hm?"
"It's just, you've been looking at me. You need something?"
"No... Nothing. Sorry."
I love you, I suddenly say. She's struck by the abruptness of it, as am I. It just slipped out of nowhere, out of my unmind, but it begins an avalanche of pent-up word that don't stop tumbling out of my mouth.
I've always loved you, from the day we met, even though I didn't realize it then. I feel something, something I can't describe every time I see you. When you smile it is the warm sun breaking through the ice in my heart shining your light in places I'd forgetten were even there.
She's smiling now.
Everything about you fascinates me, I continue, from the way you wear your hair, to how you walk, the way I can always hear you think about what you say before you say it, the perfume you wear, the almost-snorting laughter that fills the room. I want to be with you, now and forever. I've come to know you and you know me and I know this is presumptuous to ask but if you could find a spot in your kind heart to-
She cuts me off with a finger pressed against my lips, just the softest touch. She's smiling. She nods slowly and then leans toward me. We kiss and it is perfect, and everything is perfect; I've never been happier and I could die content right now at this very moment but better still than this perfect moment I can see stretching out ahead of us a lifetime filled with these perfect moments and there's nothing to hold us back from our dreams and I take your hand in mine and smile more completely than I ever have before and-
"Yes?"
"Hm?"
"It's just, you've been looking at me. You need something?"
"No... Nothing. Sorry."
McChunk
I'd like an extra-size McChunky's combo with barbecue sauce to go please.
Yes, barbecue sauce.
Look, I know, firstly, that you have barbecue sauce, because you offer it as an option with the chicken strips. I know secondly that this barbecue sauce is free with paid order, because it doesn't cost extra when it comes with said chicken strips. Therefore I can conclude that you have an ample supply of babecue sauce, and I would like some on my burger! Q.E.D.
... Do I need to draw you a flowchart? Don't think I won't do it.
I don't care that you think it's weird, it's what I want!
Look, I am the customer. I pay your slave wages! The very absolute least you can do for me is pretend that you won't screw up my damn order!
Thank you. I am honored to be able to pay seven bucks for the priviledge of dealing with people like you to eat my heart-attack-inducer of choice.
Because it is a damn tasty burger is why.
Yes, barbecue sauce.
Look, I know, firstly, that you have barbecue sauce, because you offer it as an option with the chicken strips. I know secondly that this barbecue sauce is free with paid order, because it doesn't cost extra when it comes with said chicken strips. Therefore I can conclude that you have an ample supply of babecue sauce, and I would like some on my burger! Q.E.D.
... Do I need to draw you a flowchart? Don't think I won't do it.
I don't care that you think it's weird, it's what I want!
Look, I am the customer. I pay your slave wages! The very absolute least you can do for me is pretend that you won't screw up my damn order!
Thank you. I am honored to be able to pay seven bucks for the priviledge of dealing with people like you to eat my heart-attack-inducer of choice.
Because it is a damn tasty burger is why.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Tick
Goddammit, why's the damn lightswitch on again? Dammit woman you are KILLING THE EARTH. More importantly, I have to pay for all the damn electricity it uses. I flick it off. Then walk around the entire damn house and turn off every damn electric-sucking THING we own. Why do we even have all this damn hardware? Why's the hall light on, nobody's in here. Turn it off. Why's the TV on, ain't nobody watching the damn thing. Turn it off. Why's the kitchen light on, it's three-thirty, noone's makin' nothin'. Turn it off. ... I guess I better leave the fridge on... But why's the damn stovelight on? Dammit woman you don't need this much light! It's still light outside, the windows're still workin', and your eyes ain't THAT bad yet.
Oh What's all this ruckus? Dammit woman I will tell you what this ruckus is; it's you leavin' all the damn lights on again and again- don't give me that Oh but it's Energy-star non-sense. You know that's just a marketing ploy. No I do not think Every damn thing is a marketing ploy, but dammit woman who measures this- oh I KNOW your name isn't Woman but dammit woman- alright you know what FINE I'm going out for a smoke.
Dammitall. One o'these days I'm-a hide all the damn lightbulbs see who can't find a damn thing. No I don't care if that'll show'er, it'll be damn funny 'swhat. Oh don't YOU start on me now...
Oh What's all this ruckus? Dammit woman I will tell you what this ruckus is; it's you leavin' all the damn lights on again and again- don't give me that Oh but it's Energy-star non-sense. You know that's just a marketing ploy. No I do not think Every damn thing is a marketing ploy, but dammit woman who measures this- oh I KNOW your name isn't Woman but dammit woman- alright you know what FINE I'm going out for a smoke.
Dammitall. One o'these days I'm-a hide all the damn lightbulbs see who can't find a damn thing. No I don't care if that'll show'er, it'll be damn funny 'swhat. Oh don't YOU start on me now...
Six word stories
Man dies alone; son spends inheritence.
"Don't worry; drink, smoke, you're dying."
"But-" "Do it now! ... Oh God-"
Homeless man, dead, passed by.
Give man a fish, then backstab.
I've fallen, and won't get up.
Have Kindle, will travel... Need food.
"Don't worry; drink, smoke, you're dying."
"But-" "Do it now! ... Oh God-"
Homeless man, dead, passed by.
Give man a fish, then backstab.
I've fallen, and won't get up.
Have Kindle, will travel... Need food.
Waken
She turned over in her sleep, and the noise of it woke me from my halfsleep. How long had I been out? I checked my watch; half an hour. Thirty minutes longer than I should've been gone. I rubbed my sleepy eyes with my left hand, the right still around the rifle in my lap. I glanced up at her sleeping form, sprawled on my bed. She was the porcelain angel from a Christmas tree given flesh, so pristine she looked. The edges of her shape set apart from the dreariness of her surroundings.
She moved slightly. A low moan escaped her lips. Bad dreams. She whispered for her papa. An inaudible sigh from deep in my chest. She was safe for now, that I could take solace in.
The door knocked.
I rise from the chair and silently creep to the door. Gun in my hands, I took a quick look through the peephole. I see three men in dark suits I don't know, and answer the door. A bullet bursts outside just slower than sound. I hear one of the men hit the hallway floor. No following noise confirms the kill. The remaining give me an answer of their own, and dozens of gunshots perforate my entranceway. A place where I do not stand.
In the seconds it takes me to get back to the bedroom, she's already awake. Without a word she hopped on my back and we were out the window, out of reach.
She moved slightly. A low moan escaped her lips. Bad dreams. She whispered for her papa. An inaudible sigh from deep in my chest. She was safe for now, that I could take solace in.
The door knocked.
I rise from the chair and silently creep to the door. Gun in my hands, I took a quick look through the peephole. I see three men in dark suits I don't know, and answer the door. A bullet bursts outside just slower than sound. I hear one of the men hit the hallway floor. No following noise confirms the kill. The remaining give me an answer of their own, and dozens of gunshots perforate my entranceway. A place where I do not stand.
In the seconds it takes me to get back to the bedroom, she's already awake. Without a word she hopped on my back and we were out the window, out of reach.
Routing
It had been eighty years since the formation of the Galactic Congress. It was a stupid, egocentric name. We only had around a dozen colonies, and the span of our emprie was less than a thousand parsecs, but the name polled well and we've got "big plans" to cover more. I didn't really care too much about interstellar politics - or politics in general for that matter - but the Congress paved the way for new, necessary advances in technology.
They made a faster-than-light Internet.
It was pretty much necessary, really, what with there being dozens of lightyears between the closest of worlds. Conventional communications would have decades of lag between sent and received messages, and interplanetary relations would invariably fall into an amusing aside; a facade kept up by people trying to look good. And to a degree, that's what Galactic Congress was. For the most part, people paid more attention to their local, planetary governments. It was similar to the pre-World War III United Nations. But this is getting off-topic.
To make communications feasible, a network was set up. It was similar to the Wide Area Network setup of the first public Internet, that there were redundant connections along an ultrafast backbone of routers that connected, in turn, everything else. These routers, however, weren't connected to each other with cables. They were connected with pairs of entangled particles.
I'm not a physicist, but the gist of it is this: a pair of particles are made that reflect - instantaneously - what the other is doing - without regard to the distance between them. This means I can send packets of information out to Andromeda just as quickly as I could across the room! Or at least, I could if I had a connection to Andromeda. Each of these connections is a quantum bit (qubit) that can be read by either router. Because they change instantaneously across space, this means that the only limit on data transfer speeds is how quickly the qubits can be processed by the routers.
I think I've downloaded the entire Internet. Twice. Because I can.
They made a faster-than-light Internet.
It was pretty much necessary, really, what with there being dozens of lightyears between the closest of worlds. Conventional communications would have decades of lag between sent and received messages, and interplanetary relations would invariably fall into an amusing aside; a facade kept up by people trying to look good. And to a degree, that's what Galactic Congress was. For the most part, people paid more attention to their local, planetary governments. It was similar to the pre-World War III United Nations. But this is getting off-topic.
To make communications feasible, a network was set up. It was similar to the Wide Area Network setup of the first public Internet, that there were redundant connections along an ultrafast backbone of routers that connected, in turn, everything else. These routers, however, weren't connected to each other with cables. They were connected with pairs of entangled particles.
I'm not a physicist, but the gist of it is this: a pair of particles are made that reflect - instantaneously - what the other is doing - without regard to the distance between them. This means I can send packets of information out to Andromeda just as quickly as I could across the room! Or at least, I could if I had a connection to Andromeda. Each of these connections is a quantum bit (qubit) that can be read by either router. Because they change instantaneously across space, this means that the only limit on data transfer speeds is how quickly the qubits can be processed by the routers.
I think I've downloaded the entire Internet. Twice. Because I can.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Toys
1)
He picked up the tiny man, tested the articulation of his joints. Yep, everything moved pretty well, except the left knee. Wonder if he could work that out? He moved it back and forth, back and forth. Pushed it a little furt- SNAP. Aw, he'd broken it. Oh well. He threw the little man in the pile.
The giant toddered off to find more toys.
2)
He waved the gun around, pointing it at imaginary enemies. BANG BANG, he'd cry as he shot them dead. OHH NOO, their imaginary voices cried out. BILLY WHAT ARE YOU DOING the man yelled at his son. THAT ISN'T A-
BANG then gun screamed back, cutting him off. Billy wasn't sure he did it right; daddy hadn't cried out anything after. He checked again on mommy.
3)
"Back in my day, we didn't have any of these new-fangled FANCY game machines"
"Oh for the love of-"
"You kids have it soooo gooood-"
"You OLD MAN. Do NOT start with this again!"
"Noooow you listen to me; when I was a kid, Mario was TWO-D. TWO. There were four buttons on the controller, and Select still did something"
"You're like three months older-"
"AAAAND, we didn't have time for fancy 'health meters' or whateveritis you kids call'em; one hit or miss-step took you straight back to the start of the level!"
"I hate you."
"And saving the game! Wheeew, don't even get me STARTED on passwords-"
"I WON'T!"
He picked up the tiny man, tested the articulation of his joints. Yep, everything moved pretty well, except the left knee. Wonder if he could work that out? He moved it back and forth, back and forth. Pushed it a little furt- SNAP. Aw, he'd broken it. Oh well. He threw the little man in the pile.
The giant toddered off to find more toys.
2)
He waved the gun around, pointing it at imaginary enemies. BANG BANG, he'd cry as he shot them dead. OHH NOO, their imaginary voices cried out. BILLY WHAT ARE YOU DOING the man yelled at his son. THAT ISN'T A-
BANG then gun screamed back, cutting him off. Billy wasn't sure he did it right; daddy hadn't cried out anything after. He checked again on mommy.
3)
"Back in my day, we didn't have any of these new-fangled FANCY game machines"
"Oh for the love of-"
"You kids have it soooo gooood-"
"You OLD MAN. Do NOT start with this again!"
"Noooow you listen to me; when I was a kid, Mario was TWO-D. TWO. There were four buttons on the controller, and Select still did something"
"You're like three months older-"
"AAAAND, we didn't have time for fancy 'health meters' or whateveritis you kids call'em; one hit or miss-step took you straight back to the start of the level!"
"I hate you."
"And saving the game! Wheeew, don't even get me STARTED on passwords-"
"I WON'T!"
Stranger
I met someone strange recently. I think she was an alien, but then again I've been playing and thinking about Mass Effect so much that I'm not quite sure whether my head's really on straight.
Okay so, for starters, she's kinda weird. Like, really really weird. Now, normally with me that's something of a plus, but in this case, she's kind of far out there. She eats celery with peanut butter on it; I mean, who does that? And she's got this funny kind of accent... wait no, that's a character from the game. Or does she have an accent? Hm. I don't remember. That probably says something about where my head's at right now.
More than that, there's something in her eyes. I don't mean like green stuff between your teeth (yeah that's been bothering me for the past few minutes, sorry. Would you mind picking it out? I'D do it but something tells me that'd be awkward. Thanks. Little left... Okay, got it, fantastic), but more like a sparkle. Like staring at the sun, only you don't need sunglasses, except you DO, because her eyes are so intense it looks like she's staring at the back of your head and she can see right down to the dirty innermost thoughts you're having and you just want to scream but -
Crap, I think I'm in love. Or suffering from heatstroke but I haven't been outside in a week and right now it's freezing out there. So, love. With an alien. Or someone I think is an alien. Or someone who I had a dream about meeting or something, I don't know anymore.
No wait, I definitely met her because she's in my phone. And there's pictures on my desk. Oh, right, she IS an alien. Forgot that the whole eye thing was because there were three of them, each as big as my fist. I know I have small hands but still, that's pretty big. And apparently she's got this chitinous exoskeleton. Huh. Don't know how I missed that. Might've been busy thinking about Mass Effect...
Oh well. I care more about what's inside anyway.
Okay so, for starters, she's kinda weird. Like, really really weird. Now, normally with me that's something of a plus, but in this case, she's kind of far out there. She eats celery with peanut butter on it; I mean, who does that? And she's got this funny kind of accent... wait no, that's a character from the game. Or does she have an accent? Hm. I don't remember. That probably says something about where my head's at right now.
More than that, there's something in her eyes. I don't mean like green stuff between your teeth (yeah that's been bothering me for the past few minutes, sorry. Would you mind picking it out? I'D do it but something tells me that'd be awkward. Thanks. Little left... Okay, got it, fantastic), but more like a sparkle. Like staring at the sun, only you don't need sunglasses, except you DO, because her eyes are so intense it looks like she's staring at the back of your head and she can see right down to the dirty innermost thoughts you're having and you just want to scream but -
Crap, I think I'm in love. Or suffering from heatstroke but I haven't been outside in a week and right now it's freezing out there. So, love. With an alien. Or someone I think is an alien. Or someone who I had a dream about meeting or something, I don't know anymore.
No wait, I definitely met her because she's in my phone. And there's pictures on my desk. Oh, right, she IS an alien. Forgot that the whole eye thing was because there were three of them, each as big as my fist. I know I have small hands but still, that's pretty big. And apparently she's got this chitinous exoskeleton. Huh. Don't know how I missed that. Might've been busy thinking about Mass Effect...
Oh well. I care more about what's inside anyway.
Playing
In a garden watered with my Hideous self-doubt, a black rose grows shows its nose about the place space waste waste such a bloody waste this hideous thing, this mockery, is. It looks like the smell of feet and gives off the color of a dying cat's wail. It perforates the ground with no respect for borders sense reason rationale comfort contortionism or personal space. It is all my memories of childhood abuse stuffed into a little box of a man then turned inside out in a torrential outburst of relentless self-destruction bleeding out from every pore this this this THING I find myself staring at. It hangs over my head like a dirtied burrito rubbed on an open sore festering pustulating granulating decay into every Fibre of my Being it taunts me so. Relentlessly does it thrust undulations of lamentation and degradation to my station in place of an overwhelming sense of rightful belongation. Capricious overarching diatribe attributes my recollection toward a forward board hoard insistful of bleakened future rotting about the seams. My intellectual condensation falls off the tips of my tongues into beads of sweat on the morning dew. A ravenous vegemite overwhelms the necessity of the self on the way to destruction and decompresses the morning channel. A lipid bilayered highway is all that stands between me and the deepest reaches of the untold unfolding universe. A drop of sand in my eye rinses out the tears for mankind's earliest ancestors and is lost forever in a mountain of self-preservation. My feet wrinkle the grass' breath as I hope for a better tomorrow. A deepfried chalice affixes noodles to my soul.
Surprise!
I was panicking.
Right there, on the stairs, I had kicked him square in the junk.
In retrospect, this was not the best of ideas. He was athletic, I was overweight. He ALREADY didn't like me. I had serious doubts about whether or not my friends would back me if it came down to a fistfight. But in my frustration I had made my bed, and now I had to sleep in it; maybe forever, depending on how badly he was gonna get back at me.
Needless to say, I was panicking.
I looked around, and saw ab-so-lutely nobody. Shit. In my panicked state, I forgot the most important rule in not getting your ass kicked: "NEVER BE ALONE." Sure enough, there he came up the stairs after me, quickly, angrily, looking for a confrontation. Shit. It had been maybe forty-five seconds and already things had gone completely to hell. Sometimes I have the worst luck.
He caught up to me and pushed me up against a bed of lockers. "What the HELL?" he yelled, presumably having just regained his breath.
I decided that honesty was the best policy. After all, how much worse could things possibly get at this point? "Well," I began, "you've only been bugging me ALL YEAR for no good reason."
"Still, I can't believe you'd kick me in the balls. What the hell?"
"And I'm sorry for that-"
"Damn right you are!"
"-but not sorry that I kicked you."
"Wh-"
"In general. I'm sorry I kicked you in the balls, but not sorry that I kicked you."
He looked at me for a minute then, like a bull considering charging. I stared back. Really, what did I have to lose?
After what felt like forty years, he let go of my shirt and walked away. He might've been shaking his head as he did, I was too busy being grateful for being alive. I knew in the back of my head that this reprieve was only temporary, and he'd be back soon with friends and they'd all kick my sorry ass and technically I'd deserve it too.
But, miraculously, I was wrong.
He never did come by a-reckoning, probably figuring that we were even at that point. Or that he should mess with people less inclined to retaliate. I walked away from the experience - for which I was grateful to do AT ALL - with an important life lesson: Sometimes solving your problems with violence works.
Right there, on the stairs, I had kicked him square in the junk.
In retrospect, this was not the best of ideas. He was athletic, I was overweight. He ALREADY didn't like me. I had serious doubts about whether or not my friends would back me if it came down to a fistfight. But in my frustration I had made my bed, and now I had to sleep in it; maybe forever, depending on how badly he was gonna get back at me.
Needless to say, I was panicking.
I looked around, and saw ab-so-lutely nobody. Shit. In my panicked state, I forgot the most important rule in not getting your ass kicked: "NEVER BE ALONE." Sure enough, there he came up the stairs after me, quickly, angrily, looking for a confrontation. Shit. It had been maybe forty-five seconds and already things had gone completely to hell. Sometimes I have the worst luck.
He caught up to me and pushed me up against a bed of lockers. "What the HELL?" he yelled, presumably having just regained his breath.
I decided that honesty was the best policy. After all, how much worse could things possibly get at this point? "Well," I began, "you've only been bugging me ALL YEAR for no good reason."
"Still, I can't believe you'd kick me in the balls. What the hell?"
"And I'm sorry for that-"
"Damn right you are!"
"-but not sorry that I kicked you."
"Wh-"
"In general. I'm sorry I kicked you in the balls, but not sorry that I kicked you."
He looked at me for a minute then, like a bull considering charging. I stared back. Really, what did I have to lose?
After what felt like forty years, he let go of my shirt and walked away. He might've been shaking his head as he did, I was too busy being grateful for being alive. I knew in the back of my head that this reprieve was only temporary, and he'd be back soon with friends and they'd all kick my sorry ass and technically I'd deserve it too.
But, miraculously, I was wrong.
He never did come by a-reckoning, probably figuring that we were even at that point. Or that he should mess with people less inclined to retaliate. I walked away from the experience - for which I was grateful to do AT ALL - with an important life lesson: Sometimes solving your problems with violence works.
Shit
"Shit!"
No one responds to my exclamation, which is good because anyone who did would be a figment of my deluded mind. No, there's nobody in the room.
Wait, there's a response. The fat lady upstairs stomps at me once. Or she fell out of her chair or something. That'd be pretty funny actually; her lying on her gargantuan behind, stublly arms pawing helplessly at the air. She'd be saying "help... I've fallen... and I can't... get up..." if she were like me (slightly unstable) and talked to nobody at times.
No, there's another stomp. So she's fine AND more than likely didn't hear me. She's just walking waddling plodding around up there, I should write some of that down. Anyway, it's ultimately a shame that she's fine, the hateful bitch. I swear she's trying to kill me. Or at least she would if she could fit through her doorway.
Anyway...
...where was I?
Oh, right. Shit! I start way too many stories with the word "shit". At first it was my brainchild; an element of pure unadulterated genius! Now though I've overused it to the point of derivativeaty. Derivativity. Derivativoracious? Screw it. It's become derivative. I need to mix things up (DAMN YOU FAT LADY QUIT WITH YOUR CEASELESS THUNDERATIONS FOR ONCE) before I get too stale.
Hm... Where to begin... Remember my training: grab the reader's attention with the first sentence...
I can do this...
"Damn..."
It was a dark and stormy night.
No one responds to my exclamation, which is good because anyone who did would be a figment of my deluded mind. No, there's nobody in the room.
Wait, there's a response. The fat lady upstairs stomps at me once. Or she fell out of her chair or something. That'd be pretty funny actually; her lying on her gargantuan behind, stublly arms pawing helplessly at the air. She'd be saying "help... I've fallen... and I can't... get up..." if she were like me (slightly unstable) and talked to nobody at times.
No, there's another stomp. So she's fine AND more than likely didn't hear me. She's just walking waddling plodding around up there, I should write some of that down. Anyway, it's ultimately a shame that she's fine, the hateful bitch. I swear she's trying to kill me. Or at least she would if she could fit through her doorway.
Anyway...
...where was I?
Oh, right. Shit! I start way too many stories with the word "shit". At first it was my brainchild; an element of pure unadulterated genius! Now though I've overused it to the point of derivativeaty. Derivativity. Derivativoracious? Screw it. It's become derivative. I need to mix things up (DAMN YOU FAT LADY QUIT WITH YOUR CEASELESS THUNDERATIONS FOR ONCE) before I get too stale.
Hm... Where to begin... Remember my training: grab the reader's attention with the first sentence...
I can do this...
"Damn..."
It was a dark and stormy night.
The Storm
"It was a dark and stormy night-"
"Like hell it was. I was THERE."
"Well, it was a little stormy."
"Yeah, maybe in our tent. Kev here ate like four bowls of chili-"
"Cheryl."
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it wasn't that dark, and it sure as hell wasn't stormy out-"
"Cheryl."
"-I mean it's something that's always bothered me about the phrase; 'it was a dark night'. Well no shit Sherlock, it was NIGHT ferchrissakes-"
"Cheryl!"
"Right, yeah. Well, someone's got to start talking and you're just sitting there twiddling your thumbs and-"
"SO ANYWAY it was nighttime."
"Yes, yes it was."
"I had gone to the bathroom-"
"And for a while there I thought you fell in or something. You were gone for what, an hour?"
"I think, but I was only on the toilet for about half that."
"Which is still a long-ass time. Or a long ass-time."
"... Dammit Cheryl."
"What?"
"Nevermind..."
"Whaat? What did I say?"
"You know what? Screw this. I don't need this."
"Where you going?"
"Out!"
"Don't fall in a toilet again!"
"Go to hell!"
"Like hell it was. I was THERE."
"Well, it was a little stormy."
"Yeah, maybe in our tent. Kev here ate like four bowls of chili-"
"Cheryl."
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it wasn't that dark, and it sure as hell wasn't stormy out-"
"Cheryl."
"-I mean it's something that's always bothered me about the phrase; 'it was a dark night'. Well no shit Sherlock, it was NIGHT ferchrissakes-"
"Cheryl!"
"Right, yeah. Well, someone's got to start talking and you're just sitting there twiddling your thumbs and-"
"SO ANYWAY it was nighttime."
"Yes, yes it was."
"I had gone to the bathroom-"
"And for a while there I thought you fell in or something. You were gone for what, an hour?"
"I think, but I was only on the toilet for about half that."
"Which is still a long-ass time. Or a long ass-time."
"... Dammit Cheryl."
"What?"
"Nevermind..."
"Whaat? What did I say?"
"You know what? Screw this. I don't need this."
"Where you going?"
"Out!"
"Don't fall in a toilet again!"
"Go to hell!"
On the act of Contemplation
He was waiting for a revelation to turn his life around.
It was a long time since he had started waiting, and he would wait a good deal longer. Or at least, he WOULD, if there were any justice in the universe. Pretty soon though he'd meed a woman who didn't disgust him and they'd fuck and have kids and get married and get old and die and that'd be the end of it forever.
At the moment, however, he was in something of a rut. He spent at least an hour each day doing nothing but sit around, mope, and contemplate the miserableness of his poor pathetic existence and how things came to be this way. He'd continue this increasingly-masturbatory exercise until he got hungry, had to shit, or someone bothered him.
And they always Bothered him; oh, how they bothered him. Frankly, it was ridiculous. Here he was, wallowing in his own self-constructed misery, and he had the gall to view these clearly well-adjusted people as being somehow deficient, as if he even knew what it was like not to have Problems. And of course he always let himself be plucked from his mental self-indulgence, regardless of how much it annoyed him, the self-sacrificing son-of-a-schmuck. He did it just so he could try and tell himself how he was such a "good person" that he was willing to listen to people he didn't Want to listen to, do stuff he didn't Want to do, all for the "good" of others.
Really, he had no plans. He wasn't going anywhere. He was a thirty-four year-old man caught up with adolescent issues. He refused to grow, to change. He worked a dead-end 9-to-5 job at Kinkos because he never looked for anything else. He had dropped out of college two and a half years in to his Chemical Engineering degree because of grades. This was just a few years after he declared a mental war on himself.
What had happened was, he had gotten this vague kind-of-a-feeling that he might not have been happy. So he thought about how he should be happy, how he could be happy, what happiness really was, what made people happy, how unhappy people might decieve themselves into thinking they're happy, and a whole lot of other pointless noise. The more he thought about it, the less happy he became, and in a truly unprecedented act of self-sabotage, he decided that the best way to go about fixing his happiness problem was to think more.
The really amusing part is, the part I told you about earlier, where he stops waiting? He never does find his revelation that makes everything better. He just finally - FINALLY - stops thinking about whether he's happy or not. And the best part? He never understands - or even contemplates - why he's suddenly so much happier.
It was a long time since he had started waiting, and he would wait a good deal longer. Or at least, he WOULD, if there were any justice in the universe. Pretty soon though he'd meed a woman who didn't disgust him and they'd fuck and have kids and get married and get old and die and that'd be the end of it forever.
At the moment, however, he was in something of a rut. He spent at least an hour each day doing nothing but sit around, mope, and contemplate the miserableness of his poor pathetic existence and how things came to be this way. He'd continue this increasingly-masturbatory exercise until he got hungry, had to shit, or someone bothered him.
And they always Bothered him; oh, how they bothered him. Frankly, it was ridiculous. Here he was, wallowing in his own self-constructed misery, and he had the gall to view these clearly well-adjusted people as being somehow deficient, as if he even knew what it was like not to have Problems. And of course he always let himself be plucked from his mental self-indulgence, regardless of how much it annoyed him, the self-sacrificing son-of-a-schmuck. He did it just so he could try and tell himself how he was such a "good person" that he was willing to listen to people he didn't Want to listen to, do stuff he didn't Want to do, all for the "good" of others.
Really, he had no plans. He wasn't going anywhere. He was a thirty-four year-old man caught up with adolescent issues. He refused to grow, to change. He worked a dead-end 9-to-5 job at Kinkos because he never looked for anything else. He had dropped out of college two and a half years in to his Chemical Engineering degree because of grades. This was just a few years after he declared a mental war on himself.
What had happened was, he had gotten this vague kind-of-a-feeling that he might not have been happy. So he thought about how he should be happy, how he could be happy, what happiness really was, what made people happy, how unhappy people might decieve themselves into thinking they're happy, and a whole lot of other pointless noise. The more he thought about it, the less happy he became, and in a truly unprecedented act of self-sabotage, he decided that the best way to go about fixing his happiness problem was to think more.
The really amusing part is, the part I told you about earlier, where he stops waiting? He never does find his revelation that makes everything better. He just finally - FINALLY - stops thinking about whether he's happy or not. And the best part? He never understands - or even contemplates - why he's suddenly so much happier.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sometimes, I don't Think
I lay there, wide-eyed, battling the demons of insomnia. Turning over and over in my mind the last words she ever said to me. Never mind that they're not the most important of the words she said to me. I don't think about that. I don't think about the day she held me while I cried. I don't think about the day she told me she would always love me. I don't think of the moment when our lips touched for the briefest, most fluttering of instants. I don't think of the first time her expression changed forever, telling me how it would - could - never really work out. I don't think of the time things she said when she ripped down the foundation of my self-esteem. I don't think about the the way we used to scream at each other for hours at a time, rubbing ourselves emotionally raw. I don't think about the last time she smiled and the whole world was just me and her for hours and hours. I don't think about the way her eyes pierced my very existence when she glared.
I think about the soft music of her voice. I think about the sweetness of the scent she carried with her day-to-day. But above all, I think about the last words she had to say to me. I think about the way she said "goodbye," with sadness, hesitance, but a finality. I think about the last look she gave to me, her eyes nearly bursting, her lips bracing back her tears as she told me it was over.
When I think about all these things, I remember that it's all in the past. I think about the tears that she didn't shed that day that will one day fall if I ever should say another word to her. I think I should let her go, in my heart as well this time.
I fall asleep with a damp pillow.
I think about the soft music of her voice. I think about the sweetness of the scent she carried with her day-to-day. But above all, I think about the last words she had to say to me. I think about the way she said "goodbye," with sadness, hesitance, but a finality. I think about the last look she gave to me, her eyes nearly bursting, her lips bracing back her tears as she told me it was over.
When I think about all these things, I remember that it's all in the past. I think about the tears that she didn't shed that day that will one day fall if I ever should say another word to her. I think I should let her go, in my heart as well this time.
I fall asleep with a damp pillow.
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