tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38553051565273632542024-03-13T22:32:39.340-07:00A Day is Worth 100 WordsScotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-56189625035293260922016-03-09T18:02:00.000-08:002016-03-09T18:02:44.887-08:00An Adventure"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream..."<br />
<br />
"If you sing that song one more time, I swear I will scream. Stop making the boat spin so much. Go left."<br />
<br />
"Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream."<br />
<br />
"Now we're turning right! Do you even know how to use a paddle? Give it to me. Look, now I'm all wet."<br />
<br />
"Near, far, wherever you are..."<br />
<br />
"Shut up! You never told me there would be rapids. I hate thoooooooose! I want to get out of this boat. My pants are soaked."<br />
<br />
"What do you say, Tower of Terror next?"Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-49196293665413990122012-08-20T23:09:00.001-07:002012-08-20T23:10:38.457-07:00The Same Coin<div style="float: left;">
Tap tap tap tap tap<br />
<br />
Oh God. Creepy guy alert.<br />
Ugh. You can see him checking me out.<br />
<br />
I wish he would stop clicking his pen<br />
Maybe if I say something…<br />
<br />
“Please keep it down,” I say.<br />
<br />
I briskly make my exit.<br />
<br />
I’ll avoid that seat in the future,<br />
obviously.</div>
<div style="float: right;">
Tap de da tap tap de da<br />
<br />
Sweet. Hot girl at 3 o’clock.<br />
She is totally sneaking glances.<br />
<br />
She’s got a booger on her nose<br />
A gentleman would say something…<br />
<br />
“Oh my god. Shut up!” she yelled.<br />
<br />
She storms off.<br />
<br />
Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow.<br />
Ah, the exuberance of youth.
</div>
Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-13107042032841417692012-07-02T18:16:00.000-07:002012-07-02T18:18:59.976-07:00Nothing happened today.<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me tell you all about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a flashback just now of a play I imagined in my tiny, tiny head during 7<sup>th</sup> grade. Titled “I Desperately Need an Omelette,” my masterpiece featured a boy with a sudden urge for that fluffy blanket of eggs. However, to his eventual and comedic dismay, everyone he meets knows nothing about the concept of an omelette. Eggs exist, frying pans exist, PAM cooking spray exists, but no omelette. No omelette! In his desperation he gathers the ingredients himself…and makes an omelette. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the extent of my creativity. Frankly, I’m jealous.<br />
<br />
<b>Also, I'm surprised that I'm still gaining followers (a few) despite being inactive for months. School's out, so I might as well write a few things to thank the new members. Look forward to it, perhaps.</b> </div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-58217594601376167232012-04-08T20:07:00.000-07:002012-04-08T20:08:21.083-07:00Butter?<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her silence dimmed the atmosphere, the colors around her were
as muted as her voice. Her calm demeanor made his anything but. Her cool stare
was directed not at him, but the opposite wall. He needed to know why.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, why are you so quiet? Is this some sort of punishment?
Is it my fault? Oh, ho ho, it’s always my fault, isn’t it? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her eyes twitched at this, a sign of weakness. He raised his
voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Tell me. Tell me! Why must I endure this treatment?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shut up! Watch the movie you antelope’s ass!” She drenched
him with popcorn.</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-9907843132273627432012-04-07T16:08:00.000-07:002012-04-07T16:08:41.325-07:00You have to admit, it's cheaper than therapy<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had me pinned to the wall by the collar of my shirt. My
left hand inched its way discreetly toward my pants pocket, and I pulled out
the one thing that could save me. My lunch money. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was only two dollars, I was used to it. The faster he
left me, the better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s wrong? You seem out of it today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m… being bullied.” I decided to be honest. He slackened
his grip on my shirt. I gasped for air.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Family troubles? Don’t worry, you can talk to me anytime.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he walked away with my lunch money.</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-13144947712319085202012-03-21T23:41:00.001-07:002012-03-22T10:16:06.567-07:00Short Story #2<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Every Friday, or
on days when Dad went on fishing trips, Mom would pick me up from school during
her break, and bring me to the Anchorage public library, where she worked at
the checkout counters. I would always look forward to these visits to the
library, because I was different. I had a superpower, one that only revealed
itself within those heavily air conditioned walls. Only it’s gone now, and I
know exactly who to blame.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
From the outside,
the library complex looked like a few fat cardboard rolls stuck together on the
top of a hill. Mom grabbed my hand roughly after I tripped running up the long
flight of stairs leading to the entrance. In winter, if it was snowing hard
enough, I liked to stand under the clear overhang, and watch the mini
avalanches crash softly into the asphalt below. If I stayed for too long, Mom
would come out and yell at me for “bothering people. Come inside, before you
catch a cold. Don’t you want to take off that itchy snow suit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
My snow suit was
very itchy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After nearly
busting my gut on the turnstile, I would, on most days, rush immediately
towards the youth section of the library. It was here that I felt the most
comfortable. Given the amount of time I spent here, I wouldn’t be surprised if
other patrons thought of me as a ghost, encumbered by regrets of taking Amelia
Bedelia far too seriously. I experienced a feeling of belonging every time I
meandered the aisles, searching for the next Encyclopedia Brown installment.
Everything fit. The books appealed to my likes and dislikes, were easy to read,
and the authors didn’t say confusing things like “It was the best of times, it
was the worst of times.” Even the bookshelves were my size, and the entire area
felt spacious while I sprawled out over the brightly colored couches,
Encyclopedia Brown in hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When reading, my
power unleashed. Words transformed,
sentences merged into images before me. I would no longer see the page, and the
library walls would give way to the vast worlds that the books provided me. I
became a character, watching, not reading. I knew this was special, because
Mom, Dad, and Lucy didn’t believe me when I told them. Except I don’t have any
powers anymore, and it’s all her fault.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was a chilly
day in late spring, when threats of “Be home before sundown” were beginning to
lose their power. I had finished the entire collection of Encyclopedia Brown,
and all of the computers with The Oregon Trail were taken. I decided to explore
a bit, until I was bored enough to take a nap. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
To imagine the
library’s layout, it’s best to picture a giant doughnut. All of the sections
were centered around a large pillar, and each section looped around to meet the
others. From the entrance, taking a right would bring you to the youth books,
and making a left would bring you to the adult fiction. To the back of the
pillar hid a hallway of sorts, which connected the two. In this hallway were
two drinking fountains, one small and one tall. When Dad visited, he would tell
me stories while drinking from the fountains, out of earshot from both Mom and
Lucy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“When did you first
get to use the tall fountain?” I asked him once. “I want to be taller.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Dad tried to look thoughtful,
but the effect was lost while bending over a trickle of water. He wiped his
mouth, then hummed slightly in a low tone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know, that’s
a tough one. Maybe I’m just an old man, but I can’t recall the first time I
switched. By the time you’re tall enough to use it, you’ll be thinking about
other things. Or maybe you’ll just be really, really thirsty.” He looked at me
and smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you want me to
lift you up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What? No! That’s
embarrassing,” I squealed, and shied away from his outstretched arms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, come on, it’s
not so bad. Here, look.” At this, he kneeled down and began drinking from the
short fountain, his mouth barely reaching the stream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
As he did this, an
old woman passed through the hallway and gave Dad a funny look. When she left,
we both laughed until water dribbled down our chins.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Of course, Dad was
in the middle of the ocean on this particular day, so I made my way towards the
gift shop, which was nearly overflowing with mass produced trinkets with Eskimo
inspired designs. I never understood why anyone would choose to visit Alaska.
It was far too cold in the winter, and there were far too many bugs in the
summer. Just thinking about it made me cold and itchy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hi Mom. Whatcha
reading?” I stood on my tip toes to lean over the counter, where Mom was on
duty. She was reading a Nora Roberts romance novel with a particularly
embarrassing front cover. She closed it quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You wouldn’t like
it. There’s lots of kissing and cuddling”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Yuck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why do you read
those books? Don’t you love Dad?” She was starting to look annoyed, and tried
to find a customer to shake me away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Daddy isn’t the
romantic type, so I read these books to get my fill. Remember what I said about
bothering me during work? I’m busy right now.” And she went back to her Nora
Roberts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m sorry” And I
was. I decided to go bother Lucy instead, but Mom called me back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Charlie.
Charlie!” I turned around. “Look, I’m sorry, too. I know it’s tough when
Daddy’s gone fishing, so please be patient. How about this? I’ll buy you an ice
cream on the way home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Maybe Mom didn’t
know I liked the library. I wanted to cheer her up, so I put on my brightest
smile, and replied, “Awesome!” I skipped away, taking Mom’s own smile to be one
of genuine happiness, and not relief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
At this point I
had covered most of the first floor, so I took my exploration to the next
level. The stairs that led to the second floor were excessively large, being
both very wide and very short. Every time I climbed them, I felt as if I were
slowly rising to a higher plane. Which is exactly what stairs are supposed to
do, but the atmosphere between the two floors was markedly different. Home to
the reference books, there was a hushed silence that permeated the entire
perimeter. Both floors were quiet, but up there it was more tense, suffocating.
All of the scary looking books with scary looking titles made me feel small and
insignificant. The bookshelves were made of metal, not wood. Maybe this was
only my imagination, or the raised altitude, but it was chillier there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The only reason I
would ever venture up there would be to look at the picture exhibits showcasing
Alaska’s history, or to bother Lucy when she was working on her school papers
on the computers. Still committed to being thorough, I walked with feigned
purpose towards the exhibits. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I noticed an old
man that I had seen before on other days. I stood beside him and looked at the
signboard in front of us. It was a picture of the library before and after the
Good Friday earthquake of 1964. I was too young to know much about it, and even
Mom and Dad were young when it happened and had only fragmented memories of the
incident. I skimmed over the description, and looked at the old man. He stared
glumly at the carnage, detached from his immediate surroundings. I’m not sure
if he noticed me. Out of nowhere, he began to speak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I was standing
right here on Friday. Water. Water everywhere. It felt as though I were out on
the open ocean, that’s how bad the earth was shaking. I was rolling, rolling on
the ground. I wanted to go to my mother, but she…” He stopped there, and then
repeated his words again. And again. He was like a pair of headphones that
provided extra info at museums, only he was cheaper, and less avoidable. The
earthquake had shaken him so badly, he had remained rooted to the spot. I felt
bad, but I sidled away, taking my time at the other exhibits before heading to
the computers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I tried to sneak
up on Lucy, but she noticed my shadow, which meant she wasn’t paying attention
to her book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Go away, Piggy! I
have to finish this book.” She still didn’t turn around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s it
called?” I began to poke her, lightly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Lord of the
Flies. It’s pretty boring. You might like it, though, the boys are your age.”
She ignored my pokes, so I stopped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who’s Piggy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lucy, I should
mention, had a habit of calling me by the names of characters she disliked.
I’ve been everything from Fiver to Holden to Lenina, but I was used to it at
that point. Lucy was in high school, which meant she knew more than me, and she
enjoyed reminding me of this fact.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Piggy. Ugh! This
guy is a total loser. Kinda like you, Piggy. Now be a dear and leave.” She
looked like she had abandoned her book, and was writing something discreetly. I
leaned over her shoulder and read out loud, accentuating each word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Dear. Johnny.
Levine. Oh! Lucy has a boyfriend!” She crumpled the paper at this declaration
and grabbed my shirt after spinning around. She looked furious, but I knew she
wasn’t seriously mad. Lucy never got mad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, Pigster.
Two things. One. No telling Mom. Two. If she finds out, I’ll beat you. And
three. He’s not my boyfriend.” I got the picture, and raised my hands in
defeat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good.” She let go
of my shirt, and whirled back to the desk. “If you’re not busy, I have a job
for you. Get me this book from downstairs. I’ll write down the title.” She
quickly scribbled something on the paper in front of her, and handed it to me.
“Make it quick.”<br />
Not
having the authority to defy my sister, I slowly descended to the warm lobby,
grumbling about the author who thought “Piggy” was an acceptable name. I went
to the left this time, and found myself among the tall, dark colored wood
shelves of adult fiction. I could only reach two thirds of the shelf’s
contents, so in the narrow aisles I always felt like I was being squished by
all the unfamiliar books. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I realized a bit
too late that the shelves were organized by author name, and I couldn’t
remember the author of To Kill a Mockingbird on cue. I zigzagged back and forth
in an inefficient pattern, hoping for the title to pop out somewhere. Reaching
the A-Co aisle, I nearly gave up. I was surprised to see a girl, about my age,
looking through the shelves as well. She noticed me, and looked just as
surprised.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey. Over here,”
she whispered, beckoning me with a quick hand motion. Curious, I complied. She
was nothing if not eye catching. She wore a bright pink top with a flamingo
print, and bright yellow shorts covered in bright orange flowers. Her bright
blond curls made it look like someone had dumped a healthy serving of macaroni
and cheese onto her head. I was nearly blinded, but I somehow arrived right
next to her, expectant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Great!” She
looked down at her bright blue watch, and then frowned. “Actually, I have to
go. Be here tomorrow.” And she ran off, leaving me slightly off put. If I
didn’t know better, it seemed like she left an afterimage behind, full of
brightly clashing colors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
However, soon
enough the shelves dimmed, and the gloomy atmosphere reminded me of Lucy’s
request. One of the librarians helped me to recall Harper Lee’s whereabouts,
and I passed the rest of the afternoon in a haze. That night, all I could think
about was the girl. Not for anything that she possessed, no. I was only curious
about her request. Why did she want me? Me. I was used to people pushing me
away. That’s all it was, curiosity. Either way, I decided not to tell Lucy or Mom about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The next day, I
looked forward to visiting the library even more than usual. I passed on the
comforts of Encyclopedia Brown and the Oregon Trail entirely, and waited for
the girl in the aisle of yesterday’s meeting. To pass the time, I went through
the many books, looking for anything interesting. I was disappointed. All of
the descriptions were about a boy and his father and a living room, or two
sisters trying to overcome their self-hatred by working at a hardware store, or
boring things of that nature. Where were the adventures? The mystical lands and
magical people? Even when I did find an exciting description, the words were
too complicated for my special power to activate, so I gave up. I finished the
A-Co aisle, then moved to Co-Ea, to Ea-Fe, and before I knew it, Lucy was next
to me telling me to get my butt over to the entrance, Piggy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The girl never
showed up. I was disappointed, but only just. Somewhere during that afternoon I
had lost my interest in whatever she was doing. The bookshelves still felt like
they were closing in on me, and I didn’t like the discomfort of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The next day, the
day of Dad’s return in the evening, I plonked down into a comfortable couch,
and began immersing myself in a worn copy of Watership Down. But something kept
my mind from fully concentrating on the rabbits’ tragedy, and before long I
found myself back among the suffocating shelves of adult fiction. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Heh. You’re
surprisingly obedient.” It was the girl, and her style had not changed, wearing
a bright red dress, long bright purple socks, and a bright green hat to hide
her hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Where were you?”
I asked. She scoffed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Humph. You can’t
expect me to be free every day, now can you? I was busy, that’s all.” She began
leafing through the books, and the impression I had built up of her in the past
two days was beginning to crumble.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So? What do you
need me for?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m looking for a
book. Only, I’m not sure if it’s even here.” She pulled out a large book,
thought better of it, and put it back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why don’t you ask
the librarian? My mom’s here, she’ll probably know.” This seemed like an
obvious thing to me, and I felt stupid for expecting more. Only, she turned to
look at me, her face scrunched up in a mix of disgust and confusion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What? Are you stupid?
No, you dork. I’m looking for a book that doesn’t exist in the library
records.” She lowered her voice at this, trying to give her quest a sense of
mystery. I didn’t buy it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wh-“ I paused for
a moment to hold back a sneeze. “Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Because!” Her
eyes widened, looking beyond the row of books before her. “Wouldn’t it be
exciting to look for something that might not even be there? Whatever, you
don’t have to help me.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It didn’t sound
exciting to me, but I understood the sentiment. Finding a hidden book, it was
like treasure, only worth a lot less.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Alright, alright.
What do you want me to do?” I tried my best to look interested. She snapped
shut the book she was reading, jerked her head in my direction, and smiled
excitedly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Great! Hmm, just
pick a book you’ve never heard of and meet me upstairs at the computers. We’ll
check the system for a match.” She ran off, leaving me alone with the mountain
of books. I perused the aisles, trying to find something that stood out as
inconspicuous. Realizing that I didn’t know a majority of the titles, I picked
one at random, and rushed upstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“The Sound and the
Fury?” she yelled quite loudly, apparently furious. “Who doesn’t know the Sound
and the Fury? Every library has a copy. I would know, I’ve been to quite a few
libraries. Ugh.” Apparently my strategy had failed. I caught Lucy smirking at
me, and felt even more embarrassed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, that’s one
down, right?” It was a weak argument. “What’s the book about, anyway?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She looked
flustered. “Uh, well, you know. Whatever! Let’s switch, I’ll look for the
books.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We spent most of
the afternoon searching for the book that didn’t exist. We would laugh at some
of the obscure titles, and she gave me lectures about the proper way to read.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t you read at
all? Books aren’t about adventure. They’re about, uh, what’s in here.” She
pointed to her brightly colored hat. I indicated that I was clueless, but she
continued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s not about
the what, it’s about the why.” She looked proud at this revelation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why?” I asked,
genuinely curious. She frowned at me, something I was beginning to get used to.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, I don’t know.
But you’ll know, you know? Whatever. Come on! Check for a match.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She handed me a
small, black, paperbound book that had no title. After flipping through a few
pages, the name revealed itself as “On Bullshit” by H.G. Frankfurt. It was very
mysterious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do you think
it’s about?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why, bullshit, of
course.” And she was right. Of course. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But what’s
bullshit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She stole the book away from me, and
flipped through a few pages.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s easy.” She
cleared her throat, but suddenly looked frustrated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey! This guy
says he doesn’t know what bullshit is.” She showed me, and she was right.
“That’s…that’s…” She seemed like she had a word on the edge of her tongue.
“Well, that’s something stupid, that’s what it is. I don’t like this book.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I typed the name
into the database, and to my surprise, no matches returned. We both sat very
still, not sure of how to react. I looked down at the book. It felt, wrong,
somehow. The girl started to laugh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can have it,”
she told me, and fell silent. And then she got up, pushed in her chair, and
left. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wait!” I stumbled
trying to get out of my chair, and hit my knee on the corner of the desk. She
was already halfway down the stairs. “Hey, wait!” I chased after her, but she
exited the doors with a hurried push. I stood at the entrance, but it was too late.
She was gone, I knew it. I felt angry, and I didn’t know why.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Bullshit!” I
yelled, and the silent library grew even quieter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Dad drove us to a
restaurant that evening, to celebrate his return, but a telltale gloom hung
over the table. Mom had yelled at me in the library for yelling in the library,
and I learned what the word bullshit meant. Everyone looked uncomfortable,
swirling their spoons absentmindedly in their split pea soup. It was Lucy who
broke the silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who was that girl
you were with today? She was pretty cute, huh?” She forced a toying smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t know.
How’s that project going, with Johnny Levine?” I would regret this later, but I
didn’t care.<br />
The
table returned to silence, and the soup tasted extra mushy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m not sure what
happened to the girl, but in the following weeks, she never returned, wearing
flashy clothes or otherwise. It took me a while to enjoy the peace of the
library again, but I recovered soon enough. Lucy stopped calling me Piggy after
she finished her Lord of the Flies, for some unknown reason. She said she
didn’t want to talk about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After that day, I lost my powers. I
would prowl the aisles of youth fiction, hunting for books that would allow me
to escape. But I knew too much. My imagination was blocked. I slumped down into
my favorite couch, but I no longer fit. Everything looked small.</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-14234477385421238792012-03-06T22:34:00.000-08:002012-03-06T22:34:17.334-08:00Burnt<b>Something I wrote for my creative writing class. It's nothing special, just a first attempt at writing anything of decent length. I'm halfway through my next piece, so I'll post that as well once I'm done, yep yep. </b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When I was around
10 years old, a group of men in funny clothing kidnapped me and bluntly
informed me that I had invented the pop up toaster. Or, more specifically, that
I hadn’t invented the toaster yet, but due to anomalies in the space-time
continuum, they had deemed it necessary to place me in a more desirable
temporal plane. If this is confusing at all to anyone, then please sympathize
with my feelings at the time, a poor boy without a clue as to what a toaster was.
Being kidnapped, yeah, whatever, that too. </div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Despite
my protests, and amid my confusion, I spent the next four years in the far, far
future, receiving both an education and excuses in regards to my abduction. It
was about this time that I learned never to expect the truth when asking a
question. A few responses stick out in my mind as particularly dumb.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
had been sitting in a small room filled with the only books I was allowed to
read, which were mostly restricted to Victorian romance novels and Edgar Allan
Poe. Bored of Jane Eyre one day, I asked a naïve question to the chaperone.
“Why go through the trouble of moving me through time? Why mess with time
travel in such pointless ways?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Oh,
it was no trouble at all,” he replied, wiping his sweaty face haphazardly. “Try
and imagine time as a complicated web. To the spider, the silk is just one
continuous line, beautifully woven. However, to the flies, the web is a tangled
mess. Our job is to make sense of the tangled mess, and guide the flies along
their proper path of life. In fact, you are a high priority fly! Be proud!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
was skeptical. “How could the inventor of the toaster be high priority?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know, I’m not so sure about that
myself.” He rubbed the back of his dandruff filled scalp for a moment, then
smiled at me in a very frustrating manner. “The toaster has been obsolete for a
while now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
None of these
events are particularly relevant to my current life. I’ll deal with these
memories in the same way I’ll deal with the memories of my best friend throwing
up on my birthday cake. With years of therapy if necessary. I only wish for you
to know why, on the morning of my first day of high school, I was unmotivated
to get out of bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Half
of my brain told me to at least be on time for such an important occasion. The
other half, unfortunately, controlled my muscles, so I remained in comfortable
inner conflict. What’s a few minutes out of the infinity, you know?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Bang!
Three sharp knocks…Bang! …on the door…Bang! …brought me back to semi
consciousness. It was Judy, the young woman assigned to taking care of me in
this timeframe. I had been unceremoniously dumped in the early 2000s into a
quaint suburb of Memphis known as Germantown. It had taken me a few months to
get used to the quiet, upper middle class atmosphere. Wide roads, picturesque
houses, and the spoiled children who inhabited them, as far as the eye could
see. My captors told me that the relaxing environs and the easy availability of
toasters would be beneficial to my historical destiny. They also mentioned that
this was mostly bullshit. At least
in this, I believed them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Hurry
and get up! Do you want to be late? This is why your friends say you have no
friends,” she yelled in slightly muffled discontent. I could feel the love
oozing from beneath the doorframe, its subtle fumes embracing me and causing me
to choke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“But
if I had friends, then…oh,” I mumbled, getting up with the only ounce of self
motivation I kept handy. When I opened the door, Judy gave me her best look of
shock, then nodded her head with her eyes closed, as if deeply impressed. I’ll
have to remind her about the difficulty of being patronizing so early in the
morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“See?
That wasn’t so hard. Now go make some toast. Don’t worry, I’ll get your
things.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Yeah,
yeah, whatever.” Her deliberate mentioning of anything toast related had gotten
irksome with time. If she expected an “aha!” moment out of a frozen waffle,
then she was sorely mistaken. The way she fidgeted and looked at my progress
while I buttered an English muffin disconcerted me. I couldn’t decide if she
hated me for taking away her freedom, or held me in high regard for inventing
such a useful device. Only, I hadn’t even given this fate of mine much thought
yet, so in both cases I ended up feeling guilty in her presence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
had to admit, though, that I shared her fascination with the pop up toaster. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
There was something morbid about
the way it ejected its products, irreversibly changed. The poor piece of bread
knew it was toast, yet the toaster gave no indication of when it would toss it
into the cold, cold air. The lack of a visible timer made no sense to me. It
was almost as if the creator had intentionally rebelled against a predestined
fate. Nah, I was overthinking things. I scarfed down the toast and left the
house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After walking a
few blocks on a slightly unsatisfied stomach, I reached the high school in no
time at all. The building was impressively plain, with a brick façade and
devoid of any curves or architectural flourish. Even the faded gold letters
displaying “Germantown High School” seemed bored in their proclamation. I had
no time to reflect on this in the midst of a flurry of students and teachers.
The first day was known as Orientation Day, and could be easily identified by
the large number of disoriented students, clutching at paperwork and each
other. I made my way to the gym, clutching my own batch of forms and envelopes,
and waited in line to take a picture.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One
uncomfortable pose and blinding flash later, I was handed an ID card. I looked
down, prepared for mild disappointment. Surprisingly, the smiling student
staring back at me was quite attractive, but…also a girl. Her beaming grin gave
off the distinct impression of “not me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Example Student B,” I read off the
card. Judy would get a kick out of
this, I thought, and immediately approached the lady who had handed me my
mistaken identity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Excuse
me…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’m
sorry, no retakes this year. Next!” Without bothering to look up, she continued
to organize the remaining IDs. Unable to spot mine, and with the line
temporarily empty, I continued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“But,
this card isn’t me.” I said, meekly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Yeah,
well, tough luck, kid. If we had the money to spend on every kid who sneezes
during a photo, there would be someone else doing this crappy job. The only
valid excuse is absence, and even then I have no sympathy. Next!” She remained
unaware of both my frustration and the empty line.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“No,
I don’t think you understand.” I said, perhaps not in the most polite tone.
This finally made her rear her ugly head, but it was too late to run away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“No?
I don’t think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> understand,” she
spat, emphasizing the “you” in the meanest way possible. I shifted
uncomfortably under her menacing glare. Even the mole on her cheek seemed
livid. She snatched away my ID card, and read the name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Example,
huh?” She frowned. “Well, Example, I don’t think you’ve made the best of
impressions on your first day of school. I think you should reflect on how you
want people to see you. Next!” She handed back my ID, and I scurried away from
the empty table. I resigned myself to a year of being identified as “Example
Student B.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
my rush to escape the gym, I dropped the mechanical pencil I had used to sign
various release forms. I hesitated for a moment, stopping suddenly with the odd
instinctual reflex that comes with dropping an object on the floor, but…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“’It’s
only a pencil,’ is what you were thinking.” Another boy had approached the
pencil, picked it up, and with an unnecessary flourish, pointed it in my
direction. Unimpressed, but mindful of Judy’s reminders of my social downfalls,
I humored him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Close,
sort of. You were right that I was going to leave it behind.” He looked
suddenly dejected, his exaggerated pose wilting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Hey
man, you have to remember ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ So, like, a
pencil is totally a strong staff or something.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Uh,
yeah, I guess so.” I felt stupid for agreeing with him, even if it was only to
be nice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Right?
Anyway, my name’s Zack. Nice to meet you.” I was entirely caught up in his fast
pace. He swiped my ID card, a distressing trend, and looked at the photo with a
widening smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Hoho!” he laughed, while turning
it sideways and scrunching his eyebrows. Suddenly a serious expression appeared
on his face, and he handed back the card and the pencil. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, everyone
has a hobby. I won’t judge.” And he walked away, hands in his pockets. I was
momentarily stunned, and it took a while for the background noise to reemerge.
Classes wouldn’t begin until the next day, so I headed home. My enthusiasm for
school had diminished more than it should have after an hour of mindless
paperwork. I endured Judy’s uncontrollable laughter throughout dinner that
night (pea soup, with toast for dipping purposes) and went to bed thinking that
maybe people would finally take me seriously if I told them I was from the
future.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Waking up at a
normal time for a change, I was seen off by a very chipper Judy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Remember, you
can’t introduce me to imaginary friends!” she waved. I waved back with a “haha,
very funny” smile, and trudged out into the wilds of suburbia. Avoiding eye
contact with fellow students who seemed desperate for it, I increased my pace
towards homeroom. Making a quick scan of the surroundings while inside the
classroom doorway, I found my target. Zack, just my luck. He was chatting
amicably with two other boys, so I swiftly sat down in a seat sufficiently far
away. My plan was to avoid him until the moment I could get him back for
yesterday’s humiliation. I was old enough to be petty, right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I passed though
homeroom in relative obscurity. The homeroom teacher, who happened to be our
gym teacher as well, spent the majority of the 20 minutes lecturing on the
benefits of running laps. The desks did not face him, instead pointing towards
a blank wall. Our only options were either boredom and a sore neck, or just
boredom, and by the end of the class, we had universally chosen the latter. I
kept my eyes on Zack, trying to scope out a weakness. Maybe he had a hobby I
could judge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I followed him throughout
the following week, only to completely admit defeat. Zack was perfect, in every
way. Every teacher commended both his depth and breadth of knowledge in every
subject imaginable, from calculus to cryptozoology. The English teacher had
even recommended his “What I did over summer break” essay to a well known
publisher. The entire school had become fast friends with him, won over by his
approachable atmosphere and natural wit. I gathered up my courage during lunch
and asked a senior about him, to which he replied, “Yeah, Zack, what a nice
guy,” in a dreamy voice, and sighed disgustingly. I ran away. The next break, having been asked to bring miscellaneous
trash to the dumpster outside, I noticed Zack helping an old woman cross an
empty street. It was too much for me. I imagined their conversation in my mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, Zack, you’re
a wonderful young man and a credit to youth today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t thank me,
Mrs. Smith, ma’am, thank science! Say hello to everyone at the old folks home
for me. I’ll visit later today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hohohoho”<br />
“Hahahaha”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Their laughs,
still echoing in my head, backed me into a corner. I decided to surrender during gym class.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If it were up to
me, I would have you run laps for the full hour.” Our gym teacher seemed almost
cheerful at this dreadful proposition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“However, due to the,
er, litigious nature of certain parents…” At this he glared at us accusingly,
correctly assuming that at least one of us would complain about running in
circles for an hour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ve decided that
we’ll keep it down to just 10 minutes. Now get!” While everyone groaned, I
gained a sudden awareness of the school’s monetary issues. Deciding not to
dwell on it, I ran towards Zack to concede. His pace was remarkably quick for
simple laps, so I chose my words carefully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, well, you
know, I think you’re extraordinary!” I gasped. It sounded even worse out loud.
But that’s when Zack did something truly extraordinary. He sped up. Unable to
keep up, and feeling too stupid to think about trying, I gave up on ever
redeeming myself in his eyes. Yet just when I had drowned out my dejection in
the rhythmic monotony of echoing footsteps, he lapped me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He tapped me on
the shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Dude! I think so
too!” Caught off guard, I was stunned for a second and nearly tripped. However,
he matched my pace.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You think I’m
extraordinary as well?”<br />
“What?
No! I think I’m extraordinary as well. You’re just, sort of, ordinary.” At this
blunt assessment, I could think of nothing in response, and he sped away. This
time I paid more attention to him. To my surprise, and at this point I had little
excuse to be surprised, he had been holding conversation with nearly all of the
other students. Truly extraordinary, and more than slightly insane. We
continued our conversation, talking about this and that, with the gym teacher
conveniently dropping his timer to reset it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I had a sudden
desire to run away, to escape the perfectly square hell. And despite all common
sense, I would totally do it. After all, I had no attachment to the school, to
my classmates, to this life. I was being dragged along, forced to do laps, but
I knew how it ended. A small detour or two couldn’t hurt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Something about
Zack made the opposite true. He could escape too, in a more spectacular fashion
than I could ever dream of, but it was impossible for him. He would keep
running his laps, with panache, with finesse, sure, but always the same laps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The gym teacher,
finally remembering the sue-happy parents of old, dismissed us to play
basketball. I was crushed. There was so much more I had to say to Zack, so many
things, but the laps were done, over. I hung my head at this realization, dribbling
my basketball, but my heart just wasn’t in it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, we can still
talk in the classroom, you know. Like, woah, what a concept.” I brightened up
considerably after hearing that, and from then on, we were inseparable. Or just
good acquaintances. I can’t be bothered to check.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If you had a
choice, would you pick free will or a predestined life?” I asked this during
homeroom, a few weeks after the gym incident.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He leaned back in
his chair, a phony frown plastered on his face in mock contemplation. “I could
argue both sides.” And that was all. After a few minutes I gave him an
exasperated stare. His smile was justifiably smug, and therefore justifiably
maddening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Alright, alright.
Okay, look at it this way. If we assume that free will exists, and that we
exert control on every choice we make, where does that leave us? In the end, we
can only make one choice, and all those infinite branches close off and we’re
left with history books and history class. It’s not fun at all. On the other
side, if life was predestined, if we lived with complete assurance that every action
we take was decided on before we were born, who cares? I may always choose to
join the tennis club, but before the decision, I’m in the dark. Essentially,
this debate boils down to a reminder of our perfect knowledge of the past, and
our imperfect knowledge of the future.” At this, he breathed loudly, and went
back to staring blankly at the blank wall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I could only laugh
nervously. The conversation had gotten a little too personal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, you always
have the perfect answers,” I sighed. He spun around at this, somehow angered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You think I’m
perfect, too, huh?” He shrugged. “Fine. I guess I can tell you a little story
about my imperfection.” I was hooked. I leaned in closer, as he did the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“During elementary
school, a school wide spelling bee was held annually, with representatives from
each grade, the older grades receiving priority, of course. I was chosen as the
only representative of the third grade. It was pretty rare for someone so young
to participate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Anyway, before the
actual event, they would enact a practice round, just to clarify the rules for
the audience and the spellers.
They chose easy words, like play, and cat, and rhythm. That last one was
a joke, by the way. There was no penalty for missing, so the atmosphere relaxed
considerably.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Anywho, me being
me, I decided to do a social commentary on the pressures of perfection in
modern education, so when I received my word, I purposefully misspelled it.
With extreme confidence, I shouted, ‘Girl. G-R-R-L. Girl.’ Pretty clever, huh?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Well, would you
believe it, everyone began to laugh. At me! For misspelling a gosh darned word.
I was disappointed, let me tell you. Whatever. To cut this short, I’ll just say
that I won that spelling bee. I think the runner up started crying. Her pocket
dictionary was totally the better prize, though.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We sat in silence
for a few moments as I tried desperately to ignore the stupidity of his story. So
perfect, and yet so dense. But I remained curious. He was extremely capable,
and yet he was sitting with me, half listening to diatribes on the essence of
cardio. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What, then, will
you do in life, with your many talents?” I asked. His face froze up, which was
unusual. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Stop right there.
I can see where this is going. You’re going to say that I’m wasting my life,
that I could be so much more, that if I chose a path in life, I could be
something special, that I need to get my head out the clouds and be serious for
one time in my life, that daddy left because of you, so goddammit Zachary
please just leave me alone!” The whole class stopped at this final outburst. I
quickly tried to diffuse the situation with a nervous denial.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, no, not
really. I don’t care either way, I was just asking.” <br />
“Oh.
Well that’s fine then. You might think that I’m perfect, but even I have things
I can’t do.” He calmed down, flipping through his book of expressions until he
found a smile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Like invent the
toaster,” I joked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s the thing
though. Even that’s relatively simple to do. I’d just run down to the patent office and grab a copy of the
original patent. But you’re right, the time machine would pose a problem.” He laughed,
and I felt something pop inside of me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-63944878385162705282012-01-13T20:32:00.000-08:002012-01-13T20:32:27.560-08:00BenchWarMer<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man clung to the left armrest of a bench that
comfortably seated two, or uncomfortably seated three. Currently, however, four
torsos were waging war against the others in a struggle for neither wealth nor
power nor a combination of the two, but for the excellent relaxation only a
bench can provide. The man had arrived first, and refused to abdicate. The
woman had just broken up with him, and could not leave in shame. The old woman’s
back had gone out, and the young boy was merely bored. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A passerby, amused, watched this scene from the opposite
bench, alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I'm back! Sort of. I'm taking a creative writing course this quarter, so I felt I should try and get back into the writing swing of things. As you can tell, I'm a bit rusty. 100 words are as cramped as a bench with four people on it. </b> </div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-43681850367941997872011-12-19T14:10:00.000-08:002011-12-19T14:10:15.878-08:00Don't read this"Do you believe in reverse psychology?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."<br />
<br />
"...Oh. Okay."Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-67838201420086854542011-11-15T15:40:00.001-08:002011-11-15T15:40:28.033-08:00I did not intend to write this. It just...happened, okay?Moew, said the cat, although it would be incorrect to say that it said anything really, as cats do not have the capacity to speak at all, which isn't really true, but if you look at speaking in the context of human abilities then you would understand my point, a point which really had no relevance to the story at all, the story of the cat speaking, meowing, whatever, you know what, just shut up okay I don't really want to talk about it my day hasn't been so hot I mean here I am talking about a talking cat.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-17825256286287196602011-11-05T00:22:00.000-07:002011-11-05T00:23:57.023-07:00Sanguinolent Tides<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow, the water is red!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, you’re right. Do you know the story behind this bloody
tide? Come closer. Long ago, a man
proposed to his beloved here. Such happiness. Yet, no love is perfect, and
soon the woman strayed. The man, enraged, brought her here again. Blinded by
anger, he lifted a knife, only to have another plunged into his back by the
woman. Even now, his blood flows through these waters, eternally betrayed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a fascinating story. Although, you could have just said
it was an algal bloom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remind me never to take you to the beach, okay?</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-88001844764766859472011-11-03T21:01:00.000-07:002011-11-03T21:01:04.712-07:00Board<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Son, having a conversation is like playing a game of chess. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It’s your move.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">You need to plan ahead, speaking and listening before either has taken place. You need to know what they will say before you ever give them the chance to say it. It is an art, son, an art.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And? It’s still your move.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And? And what?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And what if they don’t say what you want them to say?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In that case, you should stare blankly at them for 10 minutes, thinking of your next move. In both scenarios, your partners like to walk away.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Check mate.</span></div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-24110041421303134562011-09-27T22:50:00.000-07:002011-09-27T22:50:03.741-07:00I snack, therefore I am<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">I reject the assumption that there should be reasoning behind a like or dislike, or, if indeed there is such reason, that said reasoning should by default be made apparent to the liker and/or disliker. I feel this gives far too much credit to the human capacity for emotion, and the subsequent connections between these complex feelings and the reasoning centers of the brain and, likewise, the societal conscience that lives within us. To say that we like or dislike, that is all we can do with any certainty. Now, will you please leave me to eat this mayonnaise sandwich!</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-62423820769525265412011-09-23T00:06:00.000-07:002011-09-23T09:11:10.567-07:00The River, Again<style>
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Dragging someone out of a river is always a suspicious thing
to do, nearly as suspicious as dragging someone into a river. The boy,
realizing this, took as much care as is possible when dragging someone into or
out of anywhere, and made his way back to his family’s home, suspicious but
unnoticed. The girl, although she was not aware of this, had arrived at a fortuitous
time, as if fainting on the banks of a river could ever be considered
fortuitous. The boy’s father had been away on a fishing trip for quite some
time, and would continue being away on a fishing trip for quite some time. The boy’s
mother, well, he preferred not to talk about that. And so the two of them could
pass unnoticed in the small village by the river, although the boy had no such
intention. He wished she would awaken and say, “I’ve made a terrible mistake, I
must leave at once.” </div>
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The girl, having just woken up,
said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I must leave at once.” </div>
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“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said
the boy, though he was neither sorry nor very. However, he knew that it is
impolite to encourage a guest to leave, and added, “Although you are welcome to
stay.”</div>
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“Then I will stay,” said the girl,
and stay she did, to the boy’s dismay.</div>
Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-54156646798797356452011-09-21T23:46:00.000-07:002011-09-21T23:46:30.592-07:00The River<b>I don't know where this is going, and I don't particularly care. We'll see if I can finish it. No word limit, no editing, just an adventure to be had! And that's all you can ever ask for, really.</b><br />
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The boy stared at the clear, slow moving river that marked
the edge of the small fishing village. He would soon consider this peaceful
place enemy territory, with as clear a conviction as he now called it home. He
would often spend his afternoons here, wondering at the glassy surface of the
water, without even a ripple to mark a single disturbance. And this, to him,
was a sign of a good life. He was wrong, of course, not about his personal
philosophy, but about the large waves currently forming at his feet. A girl
swam quickly to the bank, and to the astonishment of the boy, crawled directly
toward him. “Well, that wasn’t too difficult,” said the girl, and she promptly
fainted.</div>
<b><br /></b>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-12799803334808038282011-09-08T21:17:00.000-07:002011-09-08T21:17:21.702-07:00A day is worth one year.Let me tell you a story, of both great and little importance. Exactly one year ago, give or take a few seconds, a boy was feeling unfulfilled and thoroughly humdrum. So he had a brilliant idea, to combat these doldrums by writing 100 words every day. He had no expectations, no intentions of continuing past a certain point. <br /><br />Fast forward, and that same boy (We'll call him Charles) has written more than he knows what to do with. Charles might not update with the same frequency these days, but he'll keep writing until his internet goes down. Thanks for reading.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-29505303535214422862011-09-02T17:21:00.000-07:002011-09-02T17:21:24.668-07:00Caught unawares by poetryThe poor boy was dumb, the rich boy so bright,<br />The former spoke not to the latter his plight,<br />His sad, muted countenance echoed the night.<br /><br />His friend, while well off, lacked in resilience,<br />Cursed by the light and the aches of his brilliance,<br />Not long had he left to make any difference.<br /><br />The rich boy, pains from his glow had contributed,<br />The smarts of his luminance to his death attributed,<br />His final desire, his riches distributed.<br /><br />And so the poor boy in his grief became wealthy,<br />lived on in his memory, always happy and healthy.<br />Or so they thought...Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-19158604053825000142011-08-31T23:47:00.000-07:002011-08-31T23:47:19.652-07:00Alone, ForeverI don't often think comforting thoughts when alone. So very alone. However, in an oddly comforting realization, I came to the conclusion that one cannot truly be devoid of company when one is in the presence… of oneself of course. I have separated my body, which functions as a representation of my lonely self, and my mind, a figment of the brain, and therefore the body. We have such fun, myself and I. Although, I can't help but notice that talking to myself has become a more frequent activity, perpetuating my solitude.<br />
<br />
…and also my stay in this mental institution.<br />
<br />
<b>Also, this is just a tidbit you might find interesting (or not), but this happens to be my 156th post. A number that holds a lot of meaning to me, as the fastest serve ever recorded in professional tennis in mph. Ahem...that is all.</b><br />
<br />
Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-75921386879310104042011-08-28T01:38:00.000-07:002011-08-28T01:38:10.359-07:00Showered with ideas"I've been feeling really exposed lately…"<br />
<br />
Oh no! Why?<br />
<br />
"you know, in the shower…"<br />
<br />
(Exposed… in the shower. Uh huh.)<br />
<br />
"But I've thought of this wonderful solution…"<br />
<br />
(Probably while in the shower.)<br />
<br />
"while in the shower. Listen to this."<br />
<br />
(If only I didn't have to.) <br />
<br />
"Imagine a piece of clothing you could wear, that absorbs water while you shower. What do you think?"<br />
<br />
I think you just invented the swimsuit. With all due respect, you're a moron.<br />
<br />
"Well! Maybe you should learn to respect genius when you hear it! See if I ever talk to you again!<br />
<br />
I feel exposed...Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-64475139028541440132011-08-24T00:12:00.000-07:002011-08-24T00:59:47.379-07:00Waiting for the SpeedwagonHe had battled sleep for too long, but he was determined to fight this drowsy feeling for a while longer. Melting behind the bus stop glass, he was practically a candle in the window of a warm, bright, summer's day. He nodded off, only to meet the stimulant of a solid wall. He knew that the bus would likely win this battle, and he had forgotten what he had started waiting for. Even as he wandered, he had lost sight of his dream. The bus arrived, as buses sometimes do, and he went farther than he ever thought he might. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-37244539115013116192011-08-19T22:51:00.005-07:002011-08-19T22:51:36.524-07:00ExpertinentThe world let out a collective groan when poor Eric decided that his goal in life was to be an expert. His decision, rash though it seemed, spurred Eric to greatness in a field no one had ever heard of before. After hours and hours of field research in the Amazon rainforest WIkipedia page, he nearly gave up. Yet, through the very action of advancing knowledge further than anyone had ever dared to advance, he guaranteed himself remembrance in the hallowed archives of "Bee Mine Magazine" And so the world breathed a collective sigh as he retired in relative obscurity.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-31988228218650658202011-08-18T23:01:00.001-07:002011-08-18T23:01:53.141-07:00Back to the 100 word routine at lastThere will come a time in everyone's life when they must be tested. There are a great many tests, spanning a variety of pointless subjects, from math to spelling to the proper care of cephalopods, but none of these tests are as universal as the one I am speaking of. Once you have taken this test, all future tests will be rendered ineffective, and you will understand why. The test is simple, consisting of but one phrase, the response to which will forever determine your standing in this world. The test is this: "Look! There's gullible written on the ceiling!"Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-82921483438382007292011-08-09T16:55:00.000-07:002011-08-10T00:17:07.915-07:00A Scarred Existence<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">I know I promised a longer piece of writing to break my hiatus, but I have realized that after writing just one page of it (tentatively titled “Wanted Undead or Alive: or The Spelling Zombie”) I'll need a bit more time to complete it. So in penance, I’ll tell you an embarrassing tale from my childhood. I forget my exact age in this case, such is the curse of childhood amnesia, but never will I forget the mental trauma incurred on that fateful day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As with most Scotts, I have been subjected to extreme, and in some cases excessive, normalcy. My first name, and indeed all three of my names, strike fear in the hearts of very few, if any at all. I can’t say how many times I have knocked into someone, quickly stuttering an apology, and then realizing that I had inconvenienced a trash can, an object which no doubt did not appreciate or even care for my politeness. Stupid trashcans.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anywho, by the time I had reached the second or third year of my elementary education, I decided that I need an image change. Scott, so plain, forever destined to like vanilla ice cream and enjoy the company of drying paint. I cast aside my old identity with a wave of my hand, a hand that waved directly into the dining table’s sharp corner. Undeterred, I looked at the small cut I had received, and my new name was born.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Scott?” my teacher had called the next day. I went obediently up to her desk, er...I mean, badassly up to her desk. “Ahem, I couldn’t help but notice that while you received a perfect score on your spelling test, you put your name down as Scar.” I smiled. My plan was working perfectly. The teacher, who determined the fates of all her charges, had recognized my new name, and soon all the wood chips in the playground would tremble at the mere whisper of my new identity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Scott? Are you listening? Please stop using that name, I’ve seen it on your other papers. If you continue, I’ll have to mention this to your parents.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so my dream, my fantasies of a life of adventure and proper first aid were crushed. Thus concludes my embarrassing memory, and I hope you will be blushing so furiously as to remember my cautionary tale. Think of my warning not from Scott, your lovable blogger, no. Always be yourself, says Scar. Be yourself, or else.</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-54116848984001097742011-07-30T23:19:00.001-07:002011-07-30T23:19:40.753-07:00A Fuzzy Update<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Dear readers,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not the type to use that expression, but I know someone who absolutely hates the phrase, so there you go. I don’t have writer’s block or anything, but I feel like a short break from the blog is good every now and then. I guess you’ve noticed that I don’t live up to the title here even in the most productive of times. However! I’ve been thinking of this interesting idea during my time in the shower, and gosh you didn’t need to know that. But hey, Camus was a well known shower thinker, and look at him now. Dead. Um, but alive in all of our hearts, you know? What a guy. Ahem, so yes, that should be a somewhat longer piece of writing, and as soon as I finish it, this will be the first place to see it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Interesting story, by the by, and I say that very lightly, as interesting things rarely happen to me. I settle for the mediocre. Well, I was playing tennis the other day, about the only obsession in my life, and I had an interesting realization about my vision. For those who don’t know, and I will assume that’s all of you, my eyes are about as effective as a drunken eagle’s. So...halfway decent. I have an odd mix of one eye which is far sighted, and the other near sighted. I’ve never really used glasses, though, so my brain has grown accustomed to managing. It manages all right, almost too well. This became rather apparent to me when I tried to put on a new pair of glasses while playing tennis. With the new correction, I could barely see the ball at all! As it came toward me, it split into two images. Weird, I know. So after whiffing on a few balls and hitting a few unlucky pigeons (that’s not true) I took the cursed pair off. It turns out, and this is just an educated guess on my part, that my brain shifts from one eye to the next as their respective strengths are needed. When the ball is far away, I use my left eye, and as it comes closer, I use my right. After playing for years and years in this manner, it’s too late to go back, and my brain keeps the same tactic even with glasses on. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So...no punchline, just something I found fascinating. Until next time. </div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855305156527363254.post-9375274295784058972011-07-19T23:23:00.001-07:002011-07-19T23:23:51.488-07:00A Blog is Worth 150 Posts<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">He was in it for the long haul, an appropriate expression considering the hefty backpack he was currently lugging cross country. Though his legs felt heavy, his supplies had become as light as his starved frame. He pulled out his last Powerbar, and began to hallucinate, of the woman he loved.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Run to me darling, or I shall never look back.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so he followed her words, clung to them, until finally he collapsed onto her doorstep. The mat beneath him read, “Welcome,” but only her words could confirm this. As the door opened, she gasped.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Couldn’t you have driven?”</div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12665484449990629468noreply@blogger.com5