“Jesus, I’m going to be late!” he muttered to himself as he was entering the elevator. John was never late. In the 20-plus years that he had been working at the office he hadn’t once been late. “God, if that idiot driving in front of me would have just driven at least a little bit over the speed limit like people are supposed to I would’ve gotten here on time!” he thought, “Or if my wife didn’t make me recite her ridiculous prayer every morning I wouldn’t be rushed like this!”
John was a man of action. As a CEO of a large manufacturing company, he didn’t have time to think about whether or not to make a decision, he just made one and moved on to the next big decision. He also didn’t have time to believe in anything that wasn’t concrete or couldn’t be proven. He was a Christian by blood, but by belief he couldn’t care less. He practiced the religion of business and making money, and worshiped no one or nothing but himself and his business.
You could tell just by his presence that John was a leader. When he walked into a room one could feel the aura surrounding him; he had a power in influencing people. He also possessed not only the power in himself to always pin the blame on other people, but also to make people agree with him. He made people believe that nothing was ever his fault, always someone below him. John was overall a content guy. Who wouldn’t be? Who wouldn’t want to be a successful, confident man with the power to influence anyone who he desired? When he was high up in his office on the 50th floor of his building, he had power any other person in his entire office building could only dream of. In his own mind, John believed that he was God’s gift to mankind.
And today was no different for John, except that he was, unusual to his nature, running late. He practically sprinted into the elevator to go up to his floor, already an hour late for his board meeting. There was no one else in the elevator except for a janitor holding a mop and a bucket. Just like he acknowledged anyone who was so obviously below him in status, John just glanced at the janitor and gave him a slight head nod, nothing more.
“What floor sir?” asked the janitor, standing next to the array of numbered buttons, 1 to 100, anticipating John’s response. John turned to look at the janitor, obviously caught off guard by the question. He simply stared at the man for a few seconds, analyzing him, before he graced him with the pleasure of a response from the top businessman in the building. He was a short, scrawny little man, with a sort of high voice. Almost balding, his face looked as if he was an old man, yet his body looked like that of a small boy’s. His nametag read “Dog”. Certainly undesirable features that went well together with his undesirable name, John thought, chuckling to himself.
“Listen here, um… Dog,” started John, unsure of whether to refer to him by name, “That is your name, right?”
“Sure is sir.”
“Well then listen here Dog. I don’t need anyone’s help with anything, especially by someone of your… well, your status. But thank you.” With that, John walked over to press the button himself, noticing that the button reading “Roof” had already been pressed.
“Are you really going all the way to the very top of this building?” asked John, curious as to why a janitor would need to go to the top of a building a hundred stories tall.
“Sure am sir.”
“Why?”
“That’s where I work. When I’m high up on the rooftops of the world and above, I can watch over everything.”
“Well I don’t believe-” started John, until the bell dinged, informing him that it was time to get off the elevator. “Well there’s my stop,” he said to Dog, and he jogged out of the elevator to get to his meeting.
● ● ●
Several hours later, John finished his work day. But for John, finishing a work day isn’t enough. He didn’t just finish his work day, he conquered it. After arriving late to his meeting, while weak, mortal men would just give up, he strolled in with confidence and charisma, ready to accomplish what he had to get done. And he did. All of the odds were against him, or at least it seemed that way to a normal man, but with the confidence he possessed, he walked out of that meeting feeling more powerful than he ever had before.
He got into the elevator, ready to unwind at home, and started going back down to the earth, until the bell dinged and the doors opened, revealing Dog. He started walking towards the open doors to join John in the elevator, his face lighting up after he saw him. But John, anxious to get home and to not have to deal with this dimwit, pressed the “close door” button, while Dog’s face slowly transformed from excited to emotionless, but never angry. John and Dog maintained eye contact until the moment the doors shut in Dog’s face. The elevator slowly started moving down again, and John once again chuckled to himself about how pathetic a man could be. John kept snickering to himself, slowing building into loud chuckles and eventually uncontrollable laughter, until he felt something above him suddenly snap. And in seconds, all of John’s success came crashing down, while the elevator fell, to the depths of Hell.
Well, here we go again. It's the same story, some dude who thinks he's awesome but turns out not to be. I'm so unoriginal. I have to say though I like this one a lot more than the others of this same basic story. With the religious symbolism and the actual dialogue between the characters, this one seems more complex and has more depth. But it still could use more. A lot more. Oh well. And now, for the best musical performance in history.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Untitled
It was done. Yes, I know what I did was not the right thing. Yes, I know what I did was not the good thing. Yes, I know what I did was not the honest thing. But now, looking back on my poor existence, could anything I did be considered the right, good, honest thing to do? I lit a cigarette and took a step outside. I could feel the cool, damp rain splashing gently on my coat, but it didn’t bother me. Standing outside at that moment, without a home, a job, or even a person that remotely cared about me, I knew I would just have to turn myself in. At least then I’ll know that I did one right, good, honest thing in my life. It was a long walk to the police station, and I knew I had a lot of time to think. It all started back exactly one year and four months ago…
I was 25 years old, a tender age, not too young as to be immature, yet not to old because I was still able to look forward to new, significant chapters in my life. I had a job, working in an office, and I got payed a good amount. I enjoyed my work.
I met a man on the train on the way to work. His name was Bruce. He never told me his last name and I never asked. You could tell that he was a wise, take-no-crap-from-no one kind of guy just from looking at him: His jet black, sharp and straight hair rested on his tanned leathery skin. He was in shape, dressed cleanly and looked like an attractive man, as far as heterosexual men rating other heterosexual men go. But his eyes, those eyes were like a fire burning inside him. You could almost feel the heat baring down on you when he gazed in your general direction. They were a creepy pale green color, yet they were sharp as the tip of a knife. We talked for a while about various things, the rainy weather we’d been having, the Bears, but eventually my stop came. I said good day to him and hopped off the train. Some who knew him might say he was an evil man, some might say he was a righteous one, but one thing I knew was for certain; he was not what he seemed.
The train station was only a few blocks from my house. Everyday I would make the walk from my house to there, and everyday I would see the same scraggly bum in an alley begging for change. He had a big coat and a winter hat pulled down so I couldn’t see his face. Everyday I would walk by and not spare him a nickel, and everyday I thought why doesn’t he just get a job. But this day, for some reason, after I strolled by he became angry, and told me I would be sorry. Of course I didn’t listen and I continued on to the train.
I got to the office, and I barely walked in the door when my boss told me we needed to discuss something. He told me I hadn’t been pulling my weight and he was going to have cut me loose. This came as a huge surprise and shocker. I now had no way to support myself and no way to pay off my bills. I walked home very slowly that day, and I saw the bum still sitting there jingling a can with coins in it. He did not flinch as a dragged my feet past him, but under his breath I heard him mutter, “Strike two.” I paid no attention and kept on home.
When I got to my street I saw ambulances and firetrucks on someone’s driveway. As I got closer, I realized it my house. I sprinted now, like a lion chasing a gazelle, and I saw my house was burnt to a crisp. There was nothing left. I jumped in my car, which was the only piece of property I still had, and drove to a motel to spend the night. I started thinking about what that stupid old bum said, and his words were replaying in my head over and over again like a tape. “You’ll be sorry…strike two…you’ll be sorry…strike two…” I knew it had to be a coincidence. I was stopped at a light, and I saw that the bum was gong from car to car, jingling his can, asking for change. His hat was still pulled down over his eyes, and I could not tell if he was looking at me. I quickly drove away and heard him yell, “May god have mercy on your cold black soul.”
At the motel, I was really scared as to what might happen next, because now I did believe that bum. To try to get my mind off of it, I turned on the T.V. The channel that came up was the news, and I was about to change the channel until I saw a picture of my mother and father. I was caught off guard by what happened next. I saw the words on the screen, but I could not hear them. Both my parents were killed in a car accident. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kill myself. I thought I had nothing to live for. My whole life was in shambles because of that stupid bum. I pulled myself together and ran out of that room as fast as I could. I could see the rain darting from side to side in the light from the lamps. I hopped into the car and jammed my keys into the ignition. I drove off, not knowing where I was going, but relieved that I was going somewhere far away from that bum. I was on the highway, when I heard a familiar voice in the back of my car. I turned around and there he was, staring me in the face, our noses almost touching. He startled me and I veered off the road. I ran out of the car.
“W-w-what do you want from me?” I screamed.
“I want you…DEAD! Ha-ha-ha-ha…!” he shrieked. I was speechless.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, in an oddly calm tone compared to his last outburst. Frankly, I had no idea. He looked up and pulled off his hat, and I saw those creepy, pale green eyes glaring back at me.
“I hate people like you,” he told me. “Not even generous enough to spare some change for a poor homeless man. You haven’t changed since high school.” This caught me off guard, but I did vaguely remember him now that he reminded me.
“I was the loner, the outcast,” he explained, starting to sob, “But you were always the funny, outgoing one who picked the poor innocent nerd with no friends. Well now it’s time for revenge!”
I was in so much shock, I can’t really even explain what happened next. But I remember getting in my car and running over his body at least three times. I just stopped, staring at his cold, dead body.
It was done. Yes, I know what I did was not the right thing. Yes, I know what I did was not the good thing. Yes, I know what I did was not the honest thing. But now, looking back on my poor existence, could anything I did be considered the right, good, honest thing to do? I lit a cigarette and took a step outside. I could feel the cool, damp rain splashing gently on my coat, but it didn’t bother me. Standing outside at that moment, without a home, a job, or even a person that remotely cared about me, I knew I would just have to turn myself in. At least then I’ll know that I did one right, good, honest thing in my life.
If you couldn't already tell, I'm not the best with endings. This again stems from my impatience with writing. I always just want the story to end already, so after setting up a pretty cool beginning I'll just try and finish it quickly because I want the story to just be finished without any work really put into it. Wow, I don't think I realized how stupid that sounded unitl I actually typed it out. I'm one lazy shit. Anyway, in this story I was obviously still in my stage of writing things about stuff that I didn't have any idea about as opposed to things that I had experienced first hand. And I think that's why the ending to this piece sucks so bad. When would I have ever experienced something like this? A crazy bum who somehow can magically influence bad things to happen to you? Don't ask me where I came up with it. And after uncovering all of these pieces I've realized that all of these are the same exact story! Some rich dude who thinks he has it all but really doesn't because money can't buy happiness, make you a genuine person, or satisfy you. Sophomore year wasn't my best in terms of writing.
I was 25 years old, a tender age, not too young as to be immature, yet not to old because I was still able to look forward to new, significant chapters in my life. I had a job, working in an office, and I got payed a good amount. I enjoyed my work.
I met a man on the train on the way to work. His name was Bruce. He never told me his last name and I never asked. You could tell that he was a wise, take-no-crap-from-no one kind of guy just from looking at him: His jet black, sharp and straight hair rested on his tanned leathery skin. He was in shape, dressed cleanly and looked like an attractive man, as far as heterosexual men rating other heterosexual men go. But his eyes, those eyes were like a fire burning inside him. You could almost feel the heat baring down on you when he gazed in your general direction. They were a creepy pale green color, yet they were sharp as the tip of a knife. We talked for a while about various things, the rainy weather we’d been having, the Bears, but eventually my stop came. I said good day to him and hopped off the train. Some who knew him might say he was an evil man, some might say he was a righteous one, but one thing I knew was for certain; he was not what he seemed.
The train station was only a few blocks from my house. Everyday I would make the walk from my house to there, and everyday I would see the same scraggly bum in an alley begging for change. He had a big coat and a winter hat pulled down so I couldn’t see his face. Everyday I would walk by and not spare him a nickel, and everyday I thought why doesn’t he just get a job. But this day, for some reason, after I strolled by he became angry, and told me I would be sorry. Of course I didn’t listen and I continued on to the train.
I got to the office, and I barely walked in the door when my boss told me we needed to discuss something. He told me I hadn’t been pulling my weight and he was going to have cut me loose. This came as a huge surprise and shocker. I now had no way to support myself and no way to pay off my bills. I walked home very slowly that day, and I saw the bum still sitting there jingling a can with coins in it. He did not flinch as a dragged my feet past him, but under his breath I heard him mutter, “Strike two.” I paid no attention and kept on home.
When I got to my street I saw ambulances and firetrucks on someone’s driveway. As I got closer, I realized it my house. I sprinted now, like a lion chasing a gazelle, and I saw my house was burnt to a crisp. There was nothing left. I jumped in my car, which was the only piece of property I still had, and drove to a motel to spend the night. I started thinking about what that stupid old bum said, and his words were replaying in my head over and over again like a tape. “You’ll be sorry…strike two…you’ll be sorry…strike two…” I knew it had to be a coincidence. I was stopped at a light, and I saw that the bum was gong from car to car, jingling his can, asking for change. His hat was still pulled down over his eyes, and I could not tell if he was looking at me. I quickly drove away and heard him yell, “May god have mercy on your cold black soul.”
At the motel, I was really scared as to what might happen next, because now I did believe that bum. To try to get my mind off of it, I turned on the T.V. The channel that came up was the news, and I was about to change the channel until I saw a picture of my mother and father. I was caught off guard by what happened next. I saw the words on the screen, but I could not hear them. Both my parents were killed in a car accident. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kill myself. I thought I had nothing to live for. My whole life was in shambles because of that stupid bum. I pulled myself together and ran out of that room as fast as I could. I could see the rain darting from side to side in the light from the lamps. I hopped into the car and jammed my keys into the ignition. I drove off, not knowing where I was going, but relieved that I was going somewhere far away from that bum. I was on the highway, when I heard a familiar voice in the back of my car. I turned around and there he was, staring me in the face, our noses almost touching. He startled me and I veered off the road. I ran out of the car.
“W-w-what do you want from me?” I screamed.
“I want you…DEAD! Ha-ha-ha-ha…!” he shrieked. I was speechless.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, in an oddly calm tone compared to his last outburst. Frankly, I had no idea. He looked up and pulled off his hat, and I saw those creepy, pale green eyes glaring back at me.
“I hate people like you,” he told me. “Not even generous enough to spare some change for a poor homeless man. You haven’t changed since high school.” This caught me off guard, but I did vaguely remember him now that he reminded me.
“I was the loner, the outcast,” he explained, starting to sob, “But you were always the funny, outgoing one who picked the poor innocent nerd with no friends. Well now it’s time for revenge!”
I was in so much shock, I can’t really even explain what happened next. But I remember getting in my car and running over his body at least three times. I just stopped, staring at his cold, dead body.
It was done. Yes, I know what I did was not the right thing. Yes, I know what I did was not the good thing. Yes, I know what I did was not the honest thing. But now, looking back on my poor existence, could anything I did be considered the right, good, honest thing to do? I lit a cigarette and took a step outside. I could feel the cool, damp rain splashing gently on my coat, but it didn’t bother me. Standing outside at that moment, without a home, a job, or even a person that remotely cared about me, I knew I would just have to turn myself in. At least then I’ll know that I did one right, good, honest thing in my life.
If you couldn't already tell, I'm not the best with endings. This again stems from my impatience with writing. I always just want the story to end already, so after setting up a pretty cool beginning I'll just try and finish it quickly because I want the story to just be finished without any work really put into it. Wow, I don't think I realized how stupid that sounded unitl I actually typed it out. I'm one lazy shit. Anyway, in this story I was obviously still in my stage of writing things about stuff that I didn't have any idea about as opposed to things that I had experienced first hand. And I think that's why the ending to this piece sucks so bad. When would I have ever experienced something like this? A crazy bum who somehow can magically influence bad things to happen to you? Don't ask me where I came up with it. And after uncovering all of these pieces I've realized that all of these are the same exact story! Some rich dude who thinks he has it all but really doesn't because money can't buy happiness, make you a genuine person, or satisfy you. Sophomore year wasn't my best in terms of writing.
Determination
The boy’s sweat dripped from his forehead down to his chin. As it passed down his rough skin on his face he could taste the sweat in his mouth, but he was too focused on the moment to take any notice. The boy concentrated on the ball and the impending shot. He knew that this was the time he would have to step up.
● ● ●
Being 15 years old was a hard time for the boy. He often became confused about his place and purpose in life. His parents would scold, yell and criticize him endlessly, it seemed, because he needed to become more “responsible” or more “mature”, yet society has placed limits on his existence. How can he take more responsibility for himself if he’s not even allowed to drive a car alone? How can he be expected to be more mature if he has to be back home by 11:00 on a Saturday night? Questions like this made the boy ask himself whether he really was a man or just a boy.
The boy could feel the presence of the scorecard to the right. 6-6 in the third set, 5-6 in the tiebreaker. The equivalent to a 10th inning tie game with bases loaded or a double overtime tie game with the ball at the 5 yard line, this was the time when the boy had to either step up and go home a champion or go home defeated. Like his coach has always told him, tennis is ninety nine percent mental, one percent physical skill and stamina. It was these situations that made the boy ask himself why he plays a sport that requires so much mental toughness.
He knew from the very beginning that this would be a tough match to pull out. Walking onto the court before the match, analyzing his opponent for any sign of a weakness, he already felt a sense of hopelessness. His opponent had to be sixteen years old at the most because of the age group of the tournament, but he looked like he could be twenty. His rough face looked like it was out for blood and needed a shave. His six-foot-something frame and well defined muscles showed the signs of a true competitor, as well as a mature man. As they stepped onto their sides, opposite on the court and opposite from each other, the boy dreaded the match that he was going to have to play.
After staying in the match for much longer than he expected, the boy was now faced with the defining point in the match. His optimistic side told him that he was only three points away from a win, but his pessimistic character loomed in the back of his head, always quick to remind him that he was also only one point away from a loss.
“Why does this always happen?” he whined to himself. He knew that he would blow this match, just like he blew the last two close matches that he had played. The boy was collapsing mentally, and he knew that he was not a man, but a whining, immature little boy who could not pull himself together mentally to pull out a close match.
It was the boy’s serve. He dragged his feet up to the baseline, forcing himself to make some sort of effort to hurry up and lose the point so that the match could be over as quickly and painlessly as possible. He lobbed an easy ball into the service box, expecting his opponent to slam a winner down the line to win the match. But to the boy’s surprise, his opponent was indecisive about his footing and he ended up completely out of position, only to flail his arms around, seemingly without any type of rational thought, and hit his shot straight into the net. “Goddammit!” his opponent screamed, piercing the boy’s eardrum and apparently the line judge’s as well, who called a point penalty on the boy’s opponent.
After this episode, the boy quickly glanced over at his opponent. For the first time in the course of the entire match, he could see the fatigue in his body and muscles and he could see the fear and hopelessness in his eyes. At this point the boy realized that the tables had completely turned. He was the one who was one point away from a victory and his opponent was the one who would now be forced to play catch up. His opponent knew this as well.
As adrenaline pumped though every inch of the boy’s body, he could feel the sweat dripping from his cheeks. He made eye contact with his opponent as his opponent walked up to the line to serve the ball. He now could see the weakness that he was looking for at the beginning of the match, and he realized that he was making incorrect assumptions about his opponent’s character based on his physical attributes. As the two enemies made this quick eye contact, the boy knew not only that his opponent was weak, but also that his opponent could see the boy’s determination. He could now see the fight and the will to win that was not previously there. This made the boy’s opponent feel even weaker.
Quickly and nervously the boy’s opponent tossed up the ball to serve. The boy watched the ball propel off his opponent’s strings and land in the box. With so much adrenaline pumping, the boy did not even think, he just bent his knees and moved his entire body through the ball, giving a deep, hard shot back to his opponent to hit. Nervous, his opponent wobbled to the ball and hit a surprisingly well placed shot. In the course of one shot, the boy was now the one out of position. Showing his true desire to win this match, he sprinted with everything he had to the ball and lobbed it back. His opponent looked much more at ease now and proceeded to run the boy around the court, confidently, like he was doing earlier in the match. But the boy was so motivated that he knew if he could just stay in the point long enough he would eventually get his opportunity to strike. And he did. After the crucial mistake made by his opponent of hitting a slower ball in the middle of the court, the boy knew that this was his chance. His sweat dripped from his forehead down to his chin. As it passed down his rough skin on his face he could taste the sweat in his mouth, but he was too focused on the moment to take any notice. The boy concentrated on the ball and the impending shot. He knew that this was the time he would have to step up.
The boy lunged forward and took his racquet back, ready to crush the ball in the backhand corner of his opponent’s court. He channeled his focus to only this shot, and he zoned out everything else around him. Time seemed to come to a standstill as he struck the ball perfectly into the corner. While his opponent was on the run, the boy sneaked into the net. His opponent could see that he was now standing at the net, but he could barely reach the ball and was forced to try and lob it over the boy’s head. The lob was not deep enough and the boy easily stepped forward and crushed it into the opposite side of the court, unable to be touched by his opponent.
He belted out a “C’MON!” and a fist pump as he made eye contact with his mom watching behind the glass. He let out an easy smile and pointed at her. He looked at his defeated opponent, on his knees with his hands over his head, and then he pictured himself, standing tall. He knew for sure now that he was no longer a boy, but a man. And he now knew what it really meant to be a man.
I have mixed feelings about this piece. Again, I feel like the implied message was a little bit too forced and obvious, but I feel like this piece flows and makes sense a lot more than some of the other pieces I wrote. The whole David and Goliath thing that I was trying to portray with the extremely old looking kid and me I thought I handled pretty well and I think I did a pretty good job of setting up the scene, the action, and the characters' descriptions. The ending definitely seemed a little forced but I feel like this was a good base for me to build off of in my later years, especially since I was starting to learn to write about things that I actually knew.
Life is a Highway
Dan thought he had a good life. In fact, he would often say he had a great life. But one thing was always true, he knew his life was completely under his control, and it was going exactly the way he wanted it to be going.
Dan had a wife whom he loved very much, and he also had a wife that he knew loved him very much. Along with their three wonderful kids, a well paying, respectable job, and fame throughout the entire town, Dan thought his life wouldn’t get any better; he thought it couldn’t get any better.
● ● ●
Dan had a wife whom he loved very much, and he also had a wife that he knew loved him very much. Along with their three wonderful kids, a well paying, respectable job, and fame throughout the entire town, Dan thought his life wouldn’t get any better; he thought it couldn’t get any better.
● ● ●
The day was finally over and Dan was just glad to finally get out of work. It was Friday and he was ready to get home to his family. On the ride home he was excited, hopeful for the coming weekend. On the radio he heard his favorite song come on, Life Is a Highway. Knowing all the words, he started singing along. But at that moment he felt something inside him shift.
He hopped out of the car like his seat caught on fire, suddenly and without hesitation. Dan felt empowered. He felt like he could conquer the world!! He slammed the door shut and began to jog the eight miles home, he felt motivated to accomplish something. As he ran down the long stretch of highway leading to his house and family, he noticed that he liked how he felt, powerful and motivated to be the best person he could be.
But like any high, you feel good for a bit, and then comes pain.
He was scared. He didn’t know who he was. However much he liked this different person he had become, he still knew that was just it, he was a different person; he was not the same Dan. He was not in control, he was an observer helplessly looking in but unable to influence the decisions of the body.
The feeling of imprisonment, the feeling of being trapped in a body you can’t control, the knowledge of knowing your life is at stake and you know you can save yourself but you can’t will yourself to make the effort to do it; this was what Dan felt. He started to run down that highway home, for he knew once he saw his house, and his family, and his old life he would return to his normal state.
Dan knew this was not real. After all, how could it be? He was Dan, the perfect husband, father, worker, and friend, all the time, how could he feel this way? He kept repeating the same words, you’ll get out of this Dan, you’ll get out of this.
As Dan got further and further down the road and more and more hysterical, he noticed there were less and less cars passing him on the highway. He used to be able to see and interact with all of the people passing him by, but now it just seemed as if everyone was just deserting him. “Dammit Dan,” he criticized himself, “You don’t even know these people, you’re fine, you’re okay.”
But he could physically feel himself spiraling out of control. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick from lack of control. Only he didn’t tell himself that. “You don’t have a problem!!! You’re fine!!!” He would scream to himself the entire time he ran that highway. Yet he was beginning to lose sight of his destination and his entire journey began to all revolve around the present spot he was in. He couldn’t remember which way he was going or from which way he came, only the exact spot he was in right that second, and he began to walk around in circles, never making any progress in either direction.
Dan now thought he would never see his family again, and although this was important to him at one time, he didn’t feel the drive to try and fix his problems.
“You’re okay, Dan, you’ll be okay,” he kept whispering to himself. Just as he was coming over the final hill, Dan had vision of his house. He sprinted all the way up to the front door, turned the handle and ran inside. He made it! He was going to be okay after all! He called out the names of his wife and children, but nobody called back. He tried a second time but still nobody responded, and with that he collapsed onto the floor, still confident that he was completely normal and that his life was as good as it ever was. But just as he was dying, when he had only a short, short time to live, he made a discovery: he was not going to be okay, and he was going to die, and if he just made an effort to get better before he watched himself decay in front of his own eyes, he would be okay, and he would still have his family, his friends, and his life. He was finally admitting that he wasn’t fine, and with that came the surprisingly peaceful yet dark and lonely end to a downward spiraling life. All he had been doing all along was looking for his destination, but he didn’t realize that you’re destination is dependant on the path that you take to try and achieve it.
With this sudden realization, he simply curled up into a ball and waited. At this point, it was all he could do. He didn’t even think about how he ended up like this, he just accepted the fact. And after his existence finally reached the end of its steady decline, no one ever gave him a second thought.
He hopped out of the car like his seat caught on fire, suddenly and without hesitation. Dan felt empowered. He felt like he could conquer the world!! He slammed the door shut and began to jog the eight miles home, he felt motivated to accomplish something. As he ran down the long stretch of highway leading to his house and family, he noticed that he liked how he felt, powerful and motivated to be the best person he could be.
But like any high, you feel good for a bit, and then comes pain.
He was scared. He didn’t know who he was. However much he liked this different person he had become, he still knew that was just it, he was a different person; he was not the same Dan. He was not in control, he was an observer helplessly looking in but unable to influence the decisions of the body.
The feeling of imprisonment, the feeling of being trapped in a body you can’t control, the knowledge of knowing your life is at stake and you know you can save yourself but you can’t will yourself to make the effort to do it; this was what Dan felt. He started to run down that highway home, for he knew once he saw his house, and his family, and his old life he would return to his normal state.
Dan knew this was not real. After all, how could it be? He was Dan, the perfect husband, father, worker, and friend, all the time, how could he feel this way? He kept repeating the same words, you’ll get out of this Dan, you’ll get out of this.
As Dan got further and further down the road and more and more hysterical, he noticed there were less and less cars passing him on the highway. He used to be able to see and interact with all of the people passing him by, but now it just seemed as if everyone was just deserting him. “Dammit Dan,” he criticized himself, “You don’t even know these people, you’re fine, you’re okay.”
But he could physically feel himself spiraling out of control. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick from lack of control. Only he didn’t tell himself that. “You don’t have a problem!!! You’re fine!!!” He would scream to himself the entire time he ran that highway. Yet he was beginning to lose sight of his destination and his entire journey began to all revolve around the present spot he was in. He couldn’t remember which way he was going or from which way he came, only the exact spot he was in right that second, and he began to walk around in circles, never making any progress in either direction.
Dan now thought he would never see his family again, and although this was important to him at one time, he didn’t feel the drive to try and fix his problems.
“You’re okay, Dan, you’ll be okay,” he kept whispering to himself. Just as he was coming over the final hill, Dan had vision of his house. He sprinted all the way up to the front door, turned the handle and ran inside. He made it! He was going to be okay after all! He called out the names of his wife and children, but nobody called back. He tried a second time but still nobody responded, and with that he collapsed onto the floor, still confident that he was completely normal and that his life was as good as it ever was. But just as he was dying, when he had only a short, short time to live, he made a discovery: he was not going to be okay, and he was going to die, and if he just made an effort to get better before he watched himself decay in front of his own eyes, he would be okay, and he would still have his family, his friends, and his life. He was finally admitting that he wasn’t fine, and with that came the surprisingly peaceful yet dark and lonely end to a downward spiraling life. All he had been doing all along was looking for his destination, but he didn’t realize that you’re destination is dependant on the path that you take to try and achieve it.
With this sudden realization, he simply curled up into a ball and waited. At this point, it was all he could do. He didn’t even think about how he ended up like this, he just accepted the fact. And after his existence finally reached the end of its steady decline, no one ever gave him a second thought.
Here's another example of a story that had potential to be pretty cool but I completley beat the life out of this story by trying to hard to apply some sort of meaning to it. By sophmore year I was getting a little bit better, I feel like this story is better than the God-awful poem from the year before, but it still just isn't good. The main problem with this piece I feel is that instead of letting the story play out I'm just reciting everything that's happening as the narrator. Because of this it;s virtually impossible for the reader to identify at all with the main character because we get really no sense of what he is like at all, just some random narrator tellin you what's going on with him. In order to make this piece work I would really have to comletley start from scratch and think of ways to show, not tell, whats going on in the story and give the main, and only character, some depth. And maybe listen to Life is a Highway again. That's a damn good song. And here's another random video. As you can probably tell I'm new to the whole blog scene and posting youtube videos is then most fun thing I've ever experienced ever. Ever.
Everything
The man strolls down the road with a swagger in his stride
He knows that he is better than the average man
He has reason to believe this,
For he has everything
From the successful career
To the trophy wife
The fancy car and the Beverly Hills mansion
He has everything
He sees a another man on the sidewalk
With nothing but an easel and globs of paint
He paints with a serious stare
Yet with an carefree complexion
The man walking down the road stops and looks
He does not understand
“Why do you do this?” he asks
The painter slowly turns around with a casual look of disbelief on his face
Staring at the man as if he had green skin
“Why do I paint?”
“I paint because it brings me joy
I paint because it is what I like to do
I paint because I am an artist at heart
To do anything else would not satisfy my need to express my feelings through the colors and shapes of my artwork
Why do you do whatever you do?”
The man getting asked this simple question begins to laugh to himself
Knowing he is superior to this other human being
Why should he answer to him?
After all, he has everything
The man continues to laugh at how pathetic and worthless this poor man’s life is
Yet no matter how hard he tries, he can not rid his brain of his question
“Why do I do what I do?” he asks himself
He did not have an answer
The man arrives at his house
Frustrated that he cannot remove the question from his mind
He tells himself that he is happy
After all, he has everything
But inside he feels the claws of insecurity scratch against him
And he doesn’t know why
His brain says he is content but his heart disagrees
And the battle inside tears him apart
He thinks about the painter and his question that he got from him
Admitting to himself that he is not a happy person
He thinks about the confident artist
Who may not be rich or successful
But paints for his passion for the artwork
The man sits at the piano
He thinks back to a time when playing for hours on end used to give him pleasure
He thinks back to a time of innocence
When it didn’t matter how successful or good looking you were
And he plays
He plays strongly yet beautifully
His firm stroke is as smooth as a stick of butter
The fingers on his hands move at a rapid pace up and down the instrument
without missing a single note
He plays with a passion
Now he cries
He does not bawl
He does not whine
Only single tears drip down his cheeks one by one
But these are not tears of sadness that he cries
He cries tears of happiness and intense emotion
Why shouldn’t he?
After all, now he has everything
Ughhhh........... I hate this poem. So much. I wrote it freshman year and haven't thought about it since. When I uncovered this poem after blocking it from my memory for three years I felt a knot tie up in my belly and I swear to God I almost puked. Holy shit, it's so bad! See this is where my writing started turning south, because instead of just having fun writing, I tried to give my pieces some sort of "meaning" just because I thought that's what i was supposed to do. But this shit sucks! I tried as hard as I could to write something that I thought was "deep" but I ended up with a cheesy little Aesop's fable piece of shit poem. Wow I hate this piece. But even though I hate this poem so much it was a great example for myself of what never to do, so I guess it was good for something. Ughh. Now I'm going to put up a video of someone really stupid so that I can feel better about myself.
HAHAHAHAHA! That's better. What an idiot.
He knows that he is better than the average man
He has reason to believe this,
For he has everything
From the successful career
To the trophy wife
The fancy car and the Beverly Hills mansion
He has everything
He sees a another man on the sidewalk
With nothing but an easel and globs of paint
He paints with a serious stare
Yet with an carefree complexion
The man walking down the road stops and looks
He does not understand
“Why do you do this?” he asks
The painter slowly turns around with a casual look of disbelief on his face
Staring at the man as if he had green skin
“Why do I paint?”
“I paint because it brings me joy
I paint because it is what I like to do
I paint because I am an artist at heart
To do anything else would not satisfy my need to express my feelings through the colors and shapes of my artwork
Why do you do whatever you do?”
The man getting asked this simple question begins to laugh to himself
Knowing he is superior to this other human being
Why should he answer to him?
After all, he has everything
The man continues to laugh at how pathetic and worthless this poor man’s life is
Yet no matter how hard he tries, he can not rid his brain of his question
“Why do I do what I do?” he asks himself
He did not have an answer
The man arrives at his house
Frustrated that he cannot remove the question from his mind
He tells himself that he is happy
After all, he has everything
But inside he feels the claws of insecurity scratch against him
And he doesn’t know why
His brain says he is content but his heart disagrees
And the battle inside tears him apart
He thinks about the painter and his question that he got from him
Admitting to himself that he is not a happy person
He thinks about the confident artist
Who may not be rich or successful
But paints for his passion for the artwork
The man sits at the piano
He thinks back to a time when playing for hours on end used to give him pleasure
He thinks back to a time of innocence
When it didn’t matter how successful or good looking you were
And he plays
He plays strongly yet beautifully
His firm stroke is as smooth as a stick of butter
The fingers on his hands move at a rapid pace up and down the instrument
without missing a single note
He plays with a passion
Now he cries
He does not bawl
He does not whine
Only single tears drip down his cheeks one by one
But these are not tears of sadness that he cries
He cries tears of happiness and intense emotion
Why shouldn’t he?
After all, now he has everything
Ughhhh........... I hate this poem. So much. I wrote it freshman year and haven't thought about it since. When I uncovered this poem after blocking it from my memory for three years I felt a knot tie up in my belly and I swear to God I almost puked. Holy shit, it's so bad! See this is where my writing started turning south, because instead of just having fun writing, I tried to give my pieces some sort of "meaning" just because I thought that's what i was supposed to do. But this shit sucks! I tried as hard as I could to write something that I thought was "deep" but I ended up with a cheesy little Aesop's fable piece of shit poem. Wow I hate this piece. But even though I hate this poem so much it was a great example for myself of what never to do, so I guess it was good for something. Ughh. Now I'm going to put up a video of someone really stupid so that I can feel better about myself.
HAHAHAHAHA! That's better. What an idiot.
Zoo Break
“Get him…GET HIM! Catch that hairy BEAST!”
It started out just like any other day at the Bridgeford Zoo. The macaws were screeching and the lions were purring in the cool early morning mist as the zookeepers stood their signs up and cleaned up all of the gorilla poop before visitors would come to experience the magic that the zoo had to offer. No one could have predicted the events that would take place that day, at what seemed like the innocent safe location of the Bridgeford Zoo.
···
The baboon didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going, he just acted on an impulse. He saw Pedro, the head zookeeper, standing directly in front of him with a net in his hands and an evil smile on his face. The baboon skidded to a stop and turned back around, only to find Susanna, the assistant zookeeper, ready to snatch him up.
Get him…GET HIM! Catch that hairy BEAST!”
To his right there were people, and to his left there was the wall to the rhinoceros cage. Zamboni, the name of the baboon, analyzed the situation to the best of a primate’s ability, and concluded that the only way to go was up. In one quick motion he bounced on the drinking fountain, off Pedro’s shoulder, onto the roof of the gift shop and came back down inside the rhino’s cage, right on top of the rhino’s back.
This rhino has a reputation throughout the entire zoo of being the outcast or the loner. He is antisocial and never talks, sort of the equivalent to the modern day emo kid, minus the heavy eyeliner. But Zamboni saw the mob of zookeepers and animal enthusiasts coming over the horizon, and he knew that this was his only shot at freedom. Pedro and Susanna saw Zamboni bend over to whisper something in the rhino’s ear, and for one moment, time stood still at the Bridgeford Zoo. The mob of people stared blankly in the direction of the two animals, partly in awe and partly in disbelief. Zamboni landed a cool stare back at the crowd and the crowd stared back. Zamboni blinked his eyes and a smirk slowly crept across his face. He stood on top of the rhino, on top of the world for all he knew, with his mane of coarse dark hair blowing in the wind. He enjoyed the control, he enjoyed the power. The zoo staff could only stand in shock and disbelief at the scene that was playing out before them. Zamboni raised his right hand into a fist, cupped his left hand over his mouth and let out a passionate cry of, “FREEDOM!!!,” a cry of destiny.
At that moment, the rhino took off and blasted through that cement wall. Zamboni and the rhino galloped into the desert night and they finally understood what it meant to be free from the stronghold of the zookeepers.
They traveled for hours, not stopping for anything, at the risk for getting caught by the zoo employees who were right on their tale. As the sun started to go down and the sky was a palette of various arrays of oranges, pinks, and purples, Zamboni and the rhino decided rest. They took a break to relax by the fire.
“Hey man, that was pretty cool of you back there. Thanks for getting me out of that hell-hole. But since you’re, well, you know, a rhino, and I’m, you know, a baboon, obviously the more advanced species, intelligence speaking, I think I better continue on without you.” The rhino didn’t respond. He sat there like a crab, shielding himself from the outside world.
“Oh, come on, like I don’t already feel guilty! I’m saying this only once more: I’m gone!” Zamboni started to walk away, but once he realized that the rhino was not saying anything, he couldn’t force himself to do it.
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Say something. What’s your name? You got a family? Let’s chat a bit.”
“My name’s Francis.” There was a long pause, and then Zamboni witnessed something he thought would never happen… Francis started to cry. And he wasn’t just crying; he was bawling. His eyes were like faucets, and not leaky faucets, I mean fully turned on, waterfalls pouring out of his eyes
“Oh buddy, calm down, what’s wrong? Oh, not on me, I just licked myself clean yesterday, Jesus!”
“T-t-they took m-m-my wife…”
“Ya…
“T-they t-t-took my k-kids…”
“Ya…”
“And they cut the one thin thread keeping my life worth living for.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the phone. Who did all this? What happened?”
“Pedro and Susanna. They transferred my whole family to the Wellington Zoo out west and left me here to rot, all alone. But you have been a friend, and you’ve showed me what life can be like. But I want to see them. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their arms around me. I…I…” Francis started to cry once more.
“ I w-want to see Francis Jr. and s-s-say to h-him, ‘W-wow, you’ve g-g-gotten so b-b-b-b-b-b-ig. Oh, I want to see them again, more than anything in the world.”
A light bulb went on in Zamboni’s head. He always had a taste for adventure and he always wanted to see the world. He also realized that this big crybaby, who may not be the swingiest vine in the forest, could be useful. Besides, he actually felt a bit, only a bit, sorry for the guy.
“Francis,” he said, “We’re going on a quest. A quest to the Wellington Zoo.”
To Be Continued
This was I think the first piece I wrote freshman year. Freshman year was actually a pretty fun year for me concerning my writing and I have to say that other than senior year it was probably my favorite year in terms of the material that came out of it. This story obviously has a playful tone, but I have to say that I'm pleased with the description of the setting and the description of the action in this story. I actually feel like this story could have potential to be pretty decent if I just spent the time to develop the characters further and develop some sort of a meaningful plot (again with the lack of patience that usually accompanies my partly finished stories. I tended to use the To Be Continued cop-out a lot). Overall though I remember having fun with this story, which is really the most improtant thing, before I started pulling my hair out trying to write something that I thought everyone would think was "good". By the way, here's another random video.
It started out just like any other day at the Bridgeford Zoo. The macaws were screeching and the lions were purring in the cool early morning mist as the zookeepers stood their signs up and cleaned up all of the gorilla poop before visitors would come to experience the magic that the zoo had to offer. No one could have predicted the events that would take place that day, at what seemed like the innocent safe location of the Bridgeford Zoo.
···
The baboon didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going, he just acted on an impulse. He saw Pedro, the head zookeeper, standing directly in front of him with a net in his hands and an evil smile on his face. The baboon skidded to a stop and turned back around, only to find Susanna, the assistant zookeeper, ready to snatch him up.
Get him…GET HIM! Catch that hairy BEAST!”
To his right there were people, and to his left there was the wall to the rhinoceros cage. Zamboni, the name of the baboon, analyzed the situation to the best of a primate’s ability, and concluded that the only way to go was up. In one quick motion he bounced on the drinking fountain, off Pedro’s shoulder, onto the roof of the gift shop and came back down inside the rhino’s cage, right on top of the rhino’s back.
This rhino has a reputation throughout the entire zoo of being the outcast or the loner. He is antisocial and never talks, sort of the equivalent to the modern day emo kid, minus the heavy eyeliner. But Zamboni saw the mob of zookeepers and animal enthusiasts coming over the horizon, and he knew that this was his only shot at freedom. Pedro and Susanna saw Zamboni bend over to whisper something in the rhino’s ear, and for one moment, time stood still at the Bridgeford Zoo. The mob of people stared blankly in the direction of the two animals, partly in awe and partly in disbelief. Zamboni landed a cool stare back at the crowd and the crowd stared back. Zamboni blinked his eyes and a smirk slowly crept across his face. He stood on top of the rhino, on top of the world for all he knew, with his mane of coarse dark hair blowing in the wind. He enjoyed the control, he enjoyed the power. The zoo staff could only stand in shock and disbelief at the scene that was playing out before them. Zamboni raised his right hand into a fist, cupped his left hand over his mouth and let out a passionate cry of, “FREEDOM!!!,” a cry of destiny.
At that moment, the rhino took off and blasted through that cement wall. Zamboni and the rhino galloped into the desert night and they finally understood what it meant to be free from the stronghold of the zookeepers.
They traveled for hours, not stopping for anything, at the risk for getting caught by the zoo employees who were right on their tale. As the sun started to go down and the sky was a palette of various arrays of oranges, pinks, and purples, Zamboni and the rhino decided rest. They took a break to relax by the fire.
“Hey man, that was pretty cool of you back there. Thanks for getting me out of that hell-hole. But since you’re, well, you know, a rhino, and I’m, you know, a baboon, obviously the more advanced species, intelligence speaking, I think I better continue on without you.” The rhino didn’t respond. He sat there like a crab, shielding himself from the outside world.
“Oh, come on, like I don’t already feel guilty! I’m saying this only once more: I’m gone!” Zamboni started to walk away, but once he realized that the rhino was not saying anything, he couldn’t force himself to do it.
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Say something. What’s your name? You got a family? Let’s chat a bit.”
“My name’s Francis.” There was a long pause, and then Zamboni witnessed something he thought would never happen… Francis started to cry. And he wasn’t just crying; he was bawling. His eyes were like faucets, and not leaky faucets, I mean fully turned on, waterfalls pouring out of his eyes
“Oh buddy, calm down, what’s wrong? Oh, not on me, I just licked myself clean yesterday, Jesus!”
“T-t-they took m-m-my wife…”
“Ya…
“T-they t-t-took my k-kids…”
“Ya…”
“And they cut the one thin thread keeping my life worth living for.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the phone. Who did all this? What happened?”
“Pedro and Susanna. They transferred my whole family to the Wellington Zoo out west and left me here to rot, all alone. But you have been a friend, and you’ve showed me what life can be like. But I want to see them. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their arms around me. I…I…” Francis started to cry once more.
“ I w-want to see Francis Jr. and s-s-say to h-him, ‘W-wow, you’ve g-g-gotten so b-b-b-b-b-b-ig. Oh, I want to see them again, more than anything in the world.”
A light bulb went on in Zamboni’s head. He always had a taste for adventure and he always wanted to see the world. He also realized that this big crybaby, who may not be the swingiest vine in the forest, could be useful. Besides, he actually felt a bit, only a bit, sorry for the guy.
“Francis,” he said, “We’re going on a quest. A quest to the Wellington Zoo.”
To Be Continued
This was I think the first piece I wrote freshman year. Freshman year was actually a pretty fun year for me concerning my writing and I have to say that other than senior year it was probably my favorite year in terms of the material that came out of it. This story obviously has a playful tone, but I have to say that I'm pleased with the description of the setting and the description of the action in this story. I actually feel like this story could have potential to be pretty decent if I just spent the time to develop the characters further and develop some sort of a meaningful plot (again with the lack of patience that usually accompanies my partly finished stories. I tended to use the To Be Continued cop-out a lot). Overall though I remember having fun with this story, which is really the most improtant thing, before I started pulling my hair out trying to write something that I thought everyone would think was "good". By the way, here's another random video.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
So is this where my writing career ends? Shit let's hope not
My creative writing career has been, well, interesting, to say the least. For the past four years I have persevered through a whirlwind of different thoughts and attitudes concerning my writing. Since freshman year I've always sort of had a semi-passion for writing, ever since I heard that girls go crazy about a guy if he can throw some cool sounding sentences on a piece of paper and recite them in a deep, masculine voice. But my relationship with writing has always been a frustrating, resentful one because for the duration of my writing career I have always had a vision in my head of what I wanted to write about, get really, really, extremely excited to write about it, sit down at the computer, and then realize that the idea was not going how I planned at all and get frustrated and have to take a two week break from writing anything. Yeah, probably not the most efficient way to get pieces done. People say I'm lazy but I say that I'm just such a perfectionist that I can't work hard on stuff because no matter what I write it won't be close enough to where my original vision was. Well it makes sense in my mind at least.
But anyway, even though my writing and I go through rough stages, frustrating stages, stages where we don't interact for weeks at a time, and stages when I can't get a sentece to sound how I want it to sound so I bang my fists on my desk and scream at it, my relationship with writing has grown immensly since freshman year and I've learned a lot. Some of the things I learned were simple, like not ending a sentence with a preposition or remembering a title (both of which I still don't actually do often times). But some things have completley changed the scope of my writing and have moved me closer to the idealized vision of my writing that I've been talking about. It still seems like that idealized vision is sitting somewhere in my brain but runs away and hides everytime I look for it like some little kid im trying to babysit, but I feel like I'm getting closer and closer to finally pulling over the covers on the bed and seeing my vision sitting there with a big "ah, you got me!" smile on its face. The one thing that I've learned that I think has single-handedly changed my writing the most is to write about the things that I know. For a while I always tried to write about what I thought was "cool" or would be fun, but this year was the year I really learned to write about the things that I experience so that I wouldn't run into that wall that I used to always hit while writing before.
Even though I learned a lot I will still continue to struggle with certain things in my writing. I think the biggest problem that I still face with my writing is patience, or a lack of it. Like I said before, I always get these visions in my brain of what I want to write about, but when I actually sit down to write it, I always want it to just come right out and I don't always have the patience to sit down and figure out how to write it in the very best way possible. With continued practice I think I can learn to build up patience and learn to dig deep to uncover the very best writing that I possibly can.
So here it is, an examination of my writing from my entire high school career. Some of it's kind of cool, some of it's painfully terrible, and some of it's just embarrasing. But whoevers reading this I hope you enjoy. And if the writing doesn't entertain you then here's a video that will. Just keep watching. Trust me.
But anyway, even though my writing and I go through rough stages, frustrating stages, stages where we don't interact for weeks at a time, and stages when I can't get a sentece to sound how I want it to sound so I bang my fists on my desk and scream at it, my relationship with writing has grown immensly since freshman year and I've learned a lot. Some of the things I learned were simple, like not ending a sentence with a preposition or remembering a title (both of which I still don't actually do often times). But some things have completley changed the scope of my writing and have moved me closer to the idealized vision of my writing that I've been talking about. It still seems like that idealized vision is sitting somewhere in my brain but runs away and hides everytime I look for it like some little kid im trying to babysit, but I feel like I'm getting closer and closer to finally pulling over the covers on the bed and seeing my vision sitting there with a big "ah, you got me!" smile on its face. The one thing that I've learned that I think has single-handedly changed my writing the most is to write about the things that I know. For a while I always tried to write about what I thought was "cool" or would be fun, but this year was the year I really learned to write about the things that I experience so that I wouldn't run into that wall that I used to always hit while writing before.
Even though I learned a lot I will still continue to struggle with certain things in my writing. I think the biggest problem that I still face with my writing is patience, or a lack of it. Like I said before, I always get these visions in my brain of what I want to write about, but when I actually sit down to write it, I always want it to just come right out and I don't always have the patience to sit down and figure out how to write it in the very best way possible. With continued practice I think I can learn to build up patience and learn to dig deep to uncover the very best writing that I possibly can.
So here it is, an examination of my writing from my entire high school career. Some of it's kind of cool, some of it's painfully terrible, and some of it's just embarrasing. But whoevers reading this I hope you enjoy. And if the writing doesn't entertain you then here's a video that will. Just keep watching. Trust me.
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