An Adventure

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream..."

"If you sing that song one more time, I swear I will scream. Stop making the boat spin so much. Go left."

"Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream."

"Now we're turning right! Do you even know how to use a paddle? Give it to me. Look, now I'm all wet."

"Near, far, wherever you are..."

"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."

"What do you say, Tower of Terror next?"

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.

Short Story #2

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.

Burnt

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.

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.

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. 

Don't read this

"Do you believe in reverse psychology?"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."

"...Oh. Okay."

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!

The River, Again

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.”

The girl, having just woken up, said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I must leave at once.”

“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.”

“Then I will stay,” said the girl, and stay she did, to the boy’s dismay.

The River

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.

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.

 

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.