The Same Coin

Tap tap tap tap tap

Oh God. Creepy guy alert.
Ugh. You can see him checking me out.

I wish he would stop clicking his pen
Maybe if I say something…

“Please keep it down,” I say.

I briskly make my exit.

I’ll avoid that seat in the future,
obviously.

Tap de da tap tap de da

Sweet. Hot girl at 3 o’clock.
She is totally sneaking glances.

She’s got a booger on her nose
A gentleman would say something…

“Oh my god. Shut up!” she yelled.

She storms off.

Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow.
Ah, the exuberance of youth.

Nothing happened today.

Let me tell you all about it.

I had a flashback just now of a play I imagined in my tiny, tiny head during 7^th 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.

This was the extent of my creativity. Frankly, I’m jealous.

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.

Butter?

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.

“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?

Her eyes twitched at this, a sign of weakness. He raised his voice.

“Tell me. Tell me! Why must I endure this treatment?”

“Shut up! Watch the movie you antelope’s ass!” She drenched him with popcorn.

You have to admit, it's cheaper than therapy

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.

It was only two dollars, I was used to it. The faster he left me, the better.

“What’s wrong? You seem out of it today.”

“I’m… being bullied.” I decided to be honest. He slackened his grip on my shirt. I gasped for air.

“Family troubles? Don’t worry, you can talk to me anytime.”

And he walked away with my lunch money.

BenchWarMer

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.

A passerby, amused, watched this scene from the opposite bench, alone.

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. 

I 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.

Sanguinolent Tides

Wow, the water is red!

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.

What a fascinating story. Although, you could have just said it was an algal bloom.

Remind me never to take you to the beach, okay?

Board

Son, having a conversation is like playing a game of chess.

It’s your move.

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.

And? It’s still your move.

And? And what?

And what if they don’t say what you want them to say?

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.

Check mate.

I snack, therefore I am

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!

A 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.

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.

Caught unawares by poetry

The poor boy was dumb, the rich boy so bright,
The former spoke not to the latter his plight,
His sad, muted countenance echoed the night.

His friend, while well off, lacked in resilience,
Cursed by the light and the aches of his brilliance,
Not long had he left to make any difference.

The rich boy, pains from his glow had contributed,
The smarts of his luminance to his death attributed,
His final desire, his riches distributed.

And so the poor boy in his grief became wealthy,
lived on in his memory, always happy and healthy.
Or so they thought...

Alone, Forever

I 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.

 …and also my stay in this mental institution.

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.

Showered with ideas

"I've been feeling really exposed lately…"

Oh no! Why?

"you know, in the shower…"

(Exposed… in the shower. Uh huh.)

"But I've thought of this wonderful solution…"

(Probably while in the shower.)

"while in the shower. Listen to this."

(If only I didn't have to.)

"Imagine a piece of clothing you could wear, that absorbs water while you shower. What do you think?"

I think you just invented the swimsuit. With all due respect, you're a moron.

"Well! Maybe you should learn to respect genius when you hear it! See if I ever talk to you again!

I feel exposed...

Waiting for the Speedwagon

He 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.

Expertinent

The 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.

Back to the 100 word routine at last

There 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!"

A Scarred Existence

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

A Blog is Worth 150 Posts

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.

“Run to me darling, or I shall never look back.”

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.

“Couldn’t you have driven?”

A Page's Mistake

I had been reading in the library for far too long, when the lights shut off. Now, I try to be inconspicuous for the most part, but surely the staff wouldn’t lock me in. I wandered the shelves, until...

“Hey! Over here! Do you think we’re stuck?”

I had never seen her before, but tonight fate had intervened. We would sit down and talk about silly stories that we had never told anyone else, retracing the steps our lives had taken to this darkened building.

“No wait, I’ve just tried the door. Boy, that could have been scary. Goodbye.”

Goodbye.

She walks alone

It has been a while since the last guest submission, but fear not! The drought ends today. This story comes from Kate Warren. But wait...read on.

She walks alone. The cold night beckons. A car slows and draws up close. Words are uttered. She shies away. Her feet ache. It’s been a long night. She pulls her jacket tight into her. Not far now. Oncoming headlights temporarily blind her. She staggers as her heel catches a raised paving slab. She turns the corner. Street lights in the distance. Taxis rushing, girls are singing and lads fighting. Police lights flashing. Head down, she crosses the street, footsteps quicken. Wolf whistles, shouts, the stench of fast food; a typical Friday. She will soon be home, but wait …..