Originally typed on April 2011.
With this post, I'll end the preceding warning for inappropriate content. I'm beginning to think that whatever I post here won't compare to the insanity the rest of the internet provides. This was written right after math class in 12th grade, on a particular day when almost everyone in the class acted obnoxiously to our teacher(and if I remember correctly, during a test, of all things). It was unfair, but nothing I could've said would've put the class at ease. This story is an alternate scenario, with other characters, of that terrible day. It's also very experimental with a mixture of 4 line dialogue and a short description that carries the story. I have a natural tendency to write blocks and blocks of dialogue, and although people have praised my dialogue in other stories for being rich and snappy, every bit of dialogue I've ever written has been an imaginary conversation I've had with myself, and the characters. In these idealized conversations, the characters never have awkward pauses(unless indicated in the text) or any moments of doubt; they speak their minds, even if what they're talking about can be interpreted as crap. This kind of writing does impair my real-life conversations with people, almost unfairly, and I'm still working on keeping those worlds separate or there might be a such colossal catastrophe that any amount of energy won't be able to electrify me back into coherence*. Technically, this was the first short story I worked on in 12th grade, and the only one until summer. It was very unexpected and a vicious attack on everything I hated that year. Although the pacing can be compared with Short Story and the amount of profanity to Accident on Freeman Ave, this story combines both elements well, but enough to introduce its own ideas. Like I said, it's rather angsty but like it or not, there it is.
What did it all mean, he wondered?
Why was it that every single time he thought, they were the words of a child who hadn’t been corrupted by society? By contrast, his mouth was filthy. Disgusting. And just as innocent as the child.
“What did you just say?”
“I said shut up.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“Well, it was part of it.”
He was the latest trend, the man who reached his limit and spoke against the class, the glass bottle that broke all of a sudden in the cafeteria and gained more attention than the dead fetus in some hospital. For the next few minutes or so, he would be the center of their attention.
“They were asking stupid questions.”
“No, they were asking productive questions.”
“Fine, sorry. The people in the back weren’t even talking about the assignment. Just some other crap.”
“Well, they weren’t disrupting the class as you have and continue to be.”
Each face made him sick. The assurance of a job well done. Morons. Usually, when he’s upset, he hates anybody who is in his proximity, even though he knows that some are innocent. But if you just ate lasagna and was next to somebody who enjoyed it more, won’t you still envy the dripping, calorie-filled lump on his plate?
“I’d like you to leave, if you continue further.”
“Fine. So long, everyone.”
“Bye-bye.” Said asshole while waving his hand. His delicate hands. He stepped outside and was walking toward the exit, just as it started to rain. Forgot his jacket, his gloves, pretty much any kind of covertures that would have prevented him from getting sicker.
“How can they talk to you like that?”
“It’ll suck even more when I have to go back to get my backpack.”
“Wait, arentcha only supposed to stay outside for five minutes?”
“Well, this is the first time this has ever happened to me. I guess I wasn’t aware of the procedure.”
He was good friends with Michel except recently, none of their encounters evolved into a sophisticated conversation; they always needed the support of others to do that. Nothing terrible was happening, and yet it made him question their friendship. What was it based on? Michel never wondered, he only claimed that such a thing was happening. He wanted to look for a trigger to get their conversations back on track.
“Did you ask her out?”
“I thought that you didn’t give a shit about what was going on in my private life.”
“I don’t, but it’s the only question in my head right now. And by due process of thought, it should lead to other questions.”
“I was rejected. No more questions. Back to class, man.”
The ground was stained with raindrops. For a moment, he wanted to imagine how many raindrops were needed to create a one inch puddle. He loves puddles. Probably the most exciting thing about a rainy day, besides the extra dangers of driving, walking, chance of sickness, pneumonia, among other things.
“Class is over. Get your backpack and get out of here.”
“Why do you take it?”
“Take what?”
“The abuse from those idiots. I can’t understand how oblivious a person can become to such abuse.”
The teacher adjusted his glasses. Then his face. And then his collar. He wasn’t the kind of person who adjusted himself in front of anyone. It embarrassed him. How some people had a sixth sense when it came to comfort and his teacher still needed a mother’s assistance.
“Do you have everything?”
“I think someone took my calculator.”
“I’ll try to be stricter tomorrow with them. Just try not to curse next time, okay?”
“We don’t have class tomorrow, Mr. Feldman. It’s an X period.”
Even with only a few folders and a pink, plaid pencil case, he couldn’t carry a backpack or even a tissue box out of that room. Suddenly, he felt as dense as a neutron star, and could easily penetrate the ground under him. His odyssey would be painful with the bits of earth scraping his skin, but at least it would end when his body would mix with the molten core.
“Detention isn’t as terrible as it seems. An hour alone in a silent room,” said Michel.
“Nothing is as terrible as it seems. Even a rejection is only a split-second feeling.”
“Right. Do you want to borrow my jacket? I only live about 5 minutes away.”
“Thanks, but it’s my problem. Sides, this could mean a day away from school.”
He shivered, and kept kicking his desk. 4’ o clock and apparently a long day for the aged faculty member who was snoring at her seat. The room was notorious for having the worst possible temperature conditions compared to the actual weather. What he need was a warm breeze, not a freezing chill that might’ve been congealing his blood veins.
“Gg-gg-g-odddammmit.”
“Zzzzzzzzzzzz…”
“Agh! Uh! I have to use the bathroom! Hey! Wake up!”
“Zzzz. Huh? Oh, go ahead. No screaming, please.”
He rushed to the nearest sink and ripped away many paper towels. The sticker hastily posted on the bathroom mirror reminded him of all the trees he had just killed. But if all he did was accidentally lean on the 300 year old tree which was bound to break at any minute, could it still be murder?
“Mom, I’m out of detention.”
“Why the fuck did you get detention today? Now you don’t even have a clean slate. That’s gone, son.”
“The kids in my class were acting like assholes. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“They weren’t acting like the dicks like in that other class? Or like the fuckheads in English? Seriously, does anyone in your school behave?”
His mom’s car was a recent model, had comfortable seating, and even a sun roof. Anytime, except on a rainy day, he could pop his head out of the sun roof opening just like a mole. There wasn’t a large enough hammer that could smack him back in his seat. His mom dyed her hair again. Wanted to try a tertiary color this week.
“Go to your room.”
“I know, I know.”
“Damn it; if you know, then why do you keep coming back? Why haven’t you learned anything?”
“I have. It might not seem that way right now but I have.”
His backpack fumbled slowly on the corner. His socks were on the floor. His pants hung on to the poorly made hook he made. Another failed project his mom knew he would fail at. He wondered how he learned everything from his mother but never learned anything by himself. His decisions have been consistently terrible but at least they were morally correct. He no longer wondered how people made so many friends. He wanted nothing to do with any of them. He placed his head on his pillow and shut his eyes.
*Thank you, George Costanza
Friday, September 23, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Another Comedy Routine
Originally typed in 12th grade.
Consider this one to be an especially ballsy post as this is one of many other comedy routines written in high school, each more outlandish and ridiculous than the next. I don't want to promise posting the other routines as such promises tend to go unfulfilled. The routines were written for our school's coffeehouses, a showcase of the students' impeccable talents. Since I was one of the performers, there wasn't a lot of talent to showcase. Each coffeehouse was a great one, many of the performances were particularly eclectic and unexpected and just now, I wonder what the line-up might be. A performance of a break-dance group while a poet is dangled upside-down and above a piano reciting The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe? I'd be surprised if it wasn't there. The following is my intended third routine, which unfortunately, wasn't completed before the coffeehouse. I was caught in between a rock and a hard place as to what I wanted to complain about for that routine. Would it have been a fake salutatorian speech that lambasts school principles and puts a spotlight on the silent voices or would I try to tackle on the holy grail of school events, the beloved Prom? As it turns out, both. After seeing the real Salutation speech and not attending Prom, I realized I had no right to criticize something I only had some recognition of and my fake speech would've been more serious and less entertaining. They're failed ideas, but they're ambitious failed ideas that, if I had more time, I could've developed enough and delivered an unforgettable performance at the coffeehouse. Oh, well. This can be considered as an outline for the routine, with some quick jokes and a few anecdotal ones, to be delivered in the form of Jerry Seinfeld and Demetri Martin, two of the most impressive comic minds at work today. The jokes can be unusual and unnecessarily vicious, but a comedy routine isn't meant to be taken very seriously although that doesn't denote a routine for being terrible or hilarious. Either way, I enjoyed writing them, and might try to write more in the future if they're any good. Some offensive content but again, not to be taken seriously. Enjoy.
-In AP Art History, I learned that Salvador Dali, master surrealist, co-director of the Andulusian Dog, proud owner of a large ego that made him believe he was a savior amongst other artists, had a wife. This fact alone gives me hope for the future.
-There are two kinds of conversations: the group conversation and the one-on-one. The group conversations puts a lot of pressure on the individual members as each of them has to keep adding details to keep the conversation alive. I prefer the one-on-one, a more intimate conversation option, depending on the person. If the conversation doesn’t work out, I awkwardly stick around and play a one-person staring contest. I always win.
-Recently, I saw a young couple hooking up near the bus stop. Their moment of intimate passion abruptly ended with me staring at them grimacingly. The guy asked, “You hate us, don’t you?”
“No,” I told him. “I hate your happiness.” Now, I won’t be afraid to state that I’ve felt the same way with couples here on campus, but since I was sure I would never see them again, I couldn’t let such an opportunity go to waste.
-The most insulting thing I’ve ever said to someone was “I couldn’t buy you a present even if I had the resources to get one.”
-Everyone who goes to this school is crazy.
-I have a problem with nail polish. It’s a small problem, but it’s still applicable. As human beings, we are very complicated. It doesn’t matter if you are someone making a crass comment during class or if you’re an arrogant person trying to prove your theory of crap is credible. You’re still very complicated. As an artist, I have noticed how much color people are made out of and it just have bothers me how some people are daring enough to simplify a concept such as the fingernail with one color. My most hated colors are red and black. Red and black are a presence. In a group of 400 people, the only thing you'll notice are the red and black nail polish flashing out in front of everyone, demanding your attention. There is an exception to the rule as there should be. If you have the Mona Lisa on your fingers, I will kiss each of them. You know what other event requires fingernail polish? Prom. THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. Marriage, kids? Feh, they don’t compare to the toxic amount of fruit punch you drank at Prom. There was one person who threw Prom away. His name is Mikey Sanders. He began his high school career as an Eric Cartman impersonator. (try to sound like Cartman) He wasn’t very good at it, however. Couldn’t quite capture the character’s sense of…ignorance and insecurity. He had to move on to other things. (End Cartman) He fell in love. That didn’t work out as it shouldn’t have. Senior year came along and most of Mikey’s dreams came true excluding the love thing again…with the same person. He went to all of his favorite classes, enjoyed every school production or attraction, talked to his friends every day, and lo, Prom was just around the corner. He bought his tickets on the first day they were available. He asked his best friend out and he said, “Sorry, I don’t think it’s customary for guys to go together unless they’re gay.”
“But we can be the exception to the rule” exclaimed Mikey with pleading eyes, “There always has to be an exception!”
“Sorry, dude.”
“Damn it.” The next day, Mike asked out his female best friend and she said yes. Sunshines were in bloom, and lollipops were in the air again. Mikey had a tuxedo all set, the limo, pretty much everything. There was only one problem, and his teachers and classmates knew it. He hadn’t contracted Senioritis yet. Now for some of us who give some sort of a damn, what is Senioritis? Well, until Mikey, it was only a legend, a myth. Supposedly, those who contracted Senioritis lose all sense of reality and appear to be in a distorted reality where grades don’t matter. Where attendance issues are just a slap on the wrist. Where caring about school goes to die. What Mikey and his cohorts failed to realize was that Prom was a school-sponsored event and the minute Mikey stepped into the increasingly gorgeous ballroom, his ambitions to enjoy Prom disappeared. One more joke before I sign off for tonight: His date(beloved friend) started shaking him furiously, telling him to “Dance! Mike! Just one dance!” as Mikey thought, “Hmm, that pearl necklace is really excessive compared to the rest of the getup”.
Thank you very much.
Consider this one to be an especially ballsy post as this is one of many other comedy routines written in high school, each more outlandish and ridiculous than the next. I don't want to promise posting the other routines as such promises tend to go unfulfilled. The routines were written for our school's coffeehouses, a showcase of the students' impeccable talents. Since I was one of the performers, there wasn't a lot of talent to showcase. Each coffeehouse was a great one, many of the performances were particularly eclectic and unexpected and just now, I wonder what the line-up might be. A performance of a break-dance group while a poet is dangled upside-down and above a piano reciting The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe? I'd be surprised if it wasn't there. The following is my intended third routine, which unfortunately, wasn't completed before the coffeehouse. I was caught in between a rock and a hard place as to what I wanted to complain about for that routine. Would it have been a fake salutatorian speech that lambasts school principles and puts a spotlight on the silent voices or would I try to tackle on the holy grail of school events, the beloved Prom? As it turns out, both. After seeing the real Salutation speech and not attending Prom, I realized I had no right to criticize something I only had some recognition of and my fake speech would've been more serious and less entertaining. They're failed ideas, but they're ambitious failed ideas that, if I had more time, I could've developed enough and delivered an unforgettable performance at the coffeehouse. Oh, well. This can be considered as an outline for the routine, with some quick jokes and a few anecdotal ones, to be delivered in the form of Jerry Seinfeld and Demetri Martin, two of the most impressive comic minds at work today. The jokes can be unusual and unnecessarily vicious, but a comedy routine isn't meant to be taken very seriously although that doesn't denote a routine for being terrible or hilarious. Either way, I enjoyed writing them, and might try to write more in the future if they're any good. Some offensive content but again, not to be taken seriously. Enjoy.
-In AP Art History, I learned that Salvador Dali, master surrealist, co-director of the Andulusian Dog, proud owner of a large ego that made him believe he was a savior amongst other artists, had a wife. This fact alone gives me hope for the future.
-There are two kinds of conversations: the group conversation and the one-on-one. The group conversations puts a lot of pressure on the individual members as each of them has to keep adding details to keep the conversation alive. I prefer the one-on-one, a more intimate conversation option, depending on the person. If the conversation doesn’t work out, I awkwardly stick around and play a one-person staring contest. I always win.
-Recently, I saw a young couple hooking up near the bus stop. Their moment of intimate passion abruptly ended with me staring at them grimacingly. The guy asked, “You hate us, don’t you?”
“No,” I told him. “I hate your happiness.” Now, I won’t be afraid to state that I’ve felt the same way with couples here on campus, but since I was sure I would never see them again, I couldn’t let such an opportunity go to waste.
-The most insulting thing I’ve ever said to someone was “I couldn’t buy you a present even if I had the resources to get one.”
-Everyone who goes to this school is crazy.
-I have a problem with nail polish. It’s a small problem, but it’s still applicable. As human beings, we are very complicated. It doesn’t matter if you are someone making a crass comment during class or if you’re an arrogant person trying to prove your theory of crap is credible. You’re still very complicated. As an artist, I have noticed how much color people are made out of and it just have bothers me how some people are daring enough to simplify a concept such as the fingernail with one color. My most hated colors are red and black. Red and black are a presence. In a group of 400 people, the only thing you'll notice are the red and black nail polish flashing out in front of everyone, demanding your attention. There is an exception to the rule as there should be. If you have the Mona Lisa on your fingers, I will kiss each of them. You know what other event requires fingernail polish? Prom. THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. Marriage, kids? Feh, they don’t compare to the toxic amount of fruit punch you drank at Prom. There was one person who threw Prom away. His name is Mikey Sanders. He began his high school career as an Eric Cartman impersonator. (try to sound like Cartman) He wasn’t very good at it, however. Couldn’t quite capture the character’s sense of…ignorance and insecurity. He had to move on to other things. (End Cartman) He fell in love. That didn’t work out as it shouldn’t have. Senior year came along and most of Mikey’s dreams came true excluding the love thing again…with the same person. He went to all of his favorite classes, enjoyed every school production or attraction, talked to his friends every day, and lo, Prom was just around the corner. He bought his tickets on the first day they were available. He asked his best friend out and he said, “Sorry, I don’t think it’s customary for guys to go together unless they’re gay.”
“But we can be the exception to the rule” exclaimed Mikey with pleading eyes, “There always has to be an exception!”
“Sorry, dude.”
“Damn it.” The next day, Mike asked out his female best friend and she said yes. Sunshines were in bloom, and lollipops were in the air again. Mikey had a tuxedo all set, the limo, pretty much everything. There was only one problem, and his teachers and classmates knew it. He hadn’t contracted Senioritis yet. Now for some of us who give some sort of a damn, what is Senioritis? Well, until Mikey, it was only a legend, a myth. Supposedly, those who contracted Senioritis lose all sense of reality and appear to be in a distorted reality where grades don’t matter. Where attendance issues are just a slap on the wrist. Where caring about school goes to die. What Mikey and his cohorts failed to realize was that Prom was a school-sponsored event and the minute Mikey stepped into the increasingly gorgeous ballroom, his ambitions to enjoy Prom disappeared. One more joke before I sign off for tonight: His date(beloved friend) started shaking him furiously, telling him to “Dance! Mike! Just one dance!” as Mikey thought, “Hmm, that pearl necklace is really excessive compared to the rest of the getup”.
Thank you very much.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Summer=Chicken Plate
During 10th grade, hidden far away from the critics of the world, I made my first recording about ‘my’ sitcom, The Presenters, with a story about how Harold was having difficulty relating to his son, Hal. He tries to remedy this by mentioning all of the girls in Hal’s life, expecting some kind of reaction. It became an obsession of mine and every single Monday, I would go back to my hiding space, located at the edge of the school, and let my ideas flutter away in the form of an awkward teenager’s constant ramblings. I’ve only told five people about the recordings, and probably won’t let others know about it since my voice is an acquired taste. Shortly after making the story recordings, I embarked on a journey even I wasn’t sure I wanted to take: to explain the machinations, the fascinations, and the folly of my mind. How the great essayists of our time could take the same journey and survive still impresses me. For 22 episodes, I became the question and the answer to all random thoughts. It’s something I’d like to share with everyone in a different way. Seriously, you can’t listen to a person’s terrible accents for twenty minutes even if you tried. Summer will be over soon and I couldn’t think of a better way to commemorate this upcoming event than with the transcript of when I pontificated on the meaning of summer. It was a year ago, summer had just began, and an 11th grade-going-into-12th grade boy sat quietly in his room, waiting for his thoughts to arrange themselves correctly...
...This is the special summer edition. (taps on the window three times) Thought the window was open. This is the special summer edition, where I’m going to talk about how excellent it is now summer. But, I’m not sure what else can come out. If anything. I know that it has been a few weeks since the last one* but that’s just because I’ve been occupied with my own, um, with my own...purposes. Bu, not purposes. I’ve been occupied with my own, um...I’ve been...busy. Simple enough. Okay, well, to start with...it’s summer. The temperature is going to get warmer, people are going to get...warmer, uh(nervous laugh), it’s just that time, it’s a transition from...let’s say a tight-packed piece of meat to something that’s been cooked for a couple of minutes and is going to get ready to be served. Somewhere in the, uh, nice, fancy restaurant. Summer is the time where we’re sitting on that plate, in that nice, fancy restaurant, contemplating all the mistakes we have made but not caring because we are about to get eaten. I think that’s the best way I, we can describe summer. At least, one of the non-poetic ways that I’ve come up with.
Now this makes more sense.
...This is the special summer edition. (taps on the window three times) Thought the window was open. This is the special summer edition, where I’m going to talk about how excellent it is now summer. But, I’m not sure what else can come out. If anything. I know that it has been a few weeks since the last one* but that’s just because I’ve been occupied with my own, um, with my own...purposes. Bu, not purposes. I’ve been occupied with my own, um...I’ve been...busy. Simple enough. Okay, well, to start with...it’s summer. The temperature is going to get warmer, people are going to get...warmer, uh(nervous laugh), it’s just that time, it’s a transition from...let’s say a tight-packed piece of meat to something that’s been cooked for a couple of minutes and is going to get ready to be served. Somewhere in the, uh, nice, fancy restaurant. Summer is the time where we’re sitting on that plate, in that nice, fancy restaurant, contemplating all the mistakes we have made but not caring because we are about to get eaten. I think that’s the best way I, we can describe summer. At least, one of the non-poetic ways that I’ve come up with.
Now this makes more sense.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Fifteenth One
Originally typed in 12th grade.
Typed on a late night, on my touch screen cell phone, a quick, little story about a young boy and a young girl. On record, I've admitted to hating stories like this, but this story is still really charming in its simplicity and length. Call it a little bonus for the weekend.
She watches me from across the hallway. The school has to become more on top of such coincidences happening. It could scare the hell out of somebody. I raise my pencil slowly and shake it. She smiles. She knows…or someone just told a joke and she didn’t think it was very funny. I’ve seen her in other places, that theory is definitely viable. That could potentially be a problem. People call me funny, she might not want that. She could be a serious person who wants someone to fulfill her purposes. She’s always wearing dark clothing, she doesn’t want to reveal anything or let something slip. Unfortunately for her, I am fully aware she is a girl, a beautiful one at that. Wait. She’s writing something. What time is it? OOH! Class is over! She’s coming this way! This is too much to bear! What could she have written? Oh, the possibilities! Paper’s in my hand. Let’s take a look.
“You’re creepy.”
She was the one who smiled.
Typed on a late night, on my touch screen cell phone, a quick, little story about a young boy and a young girl. On record, I've admitted to hating stories like this, but this story is still really charming in its simplicity and length. Call it a little bonus for the weekend.
She watches me from across the hallway. The school has to become more on top of such coincidences happening. It could scare the hell out of somebody. I raise my pencil slowly and shake it. She smiles. She knows…or someone just told a joke and she didn’t think it was very funny. I’ve seen her in other places, that theory is definitely viable. That could potentially be a problem. People call me funny, she might not want that. She could be a serious person who wants someone to fulfill her purposes. She’s always wearing dark clothing, she doesn’t want to reveal anything or let something slip. Unfortunately for her, I am fully aware she is a girl, a beautiful one at that. Wait. She’s writing something. What time is it? OOH! Class is over! She’s coming this way! This is too much to bear! What could she have written? Oh, the possibilities! Paper’s in my hand. Let’s take a look.
“You’re creepy.”
She was the one who smiled.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
A Polychromed Sequence
Originally typed on October 4, 2009. Completed on August 23, 2011.
The last assignment for the poetry unit in 11th grade creative writing class. My teacher noted about how the result to transforming the original text into a poem more resembled a story rather than a poem. Makes sense now that I think about it because poetry is really complicated to consider and some people are naturally poets, others are...well, what can you call us? Storyteller is too vague. Anyway, the following was my failed attempt at poetry and my successful attempt at a short story. A quick note about the original: we were told to close our eyes and write down whatever thought came to mind without explaining it or changing it. If you notice how grammatically incorrect the original is, you'll see quite a bit of mistakes. But that's what I wrote and that's what I'm posting. Revised is mainly what this post is about. The story is an unusual one but refreshingly unusual. The reason I'm posting it is that while I'm in college, things have an added significance and everything matters, somehow. This post harkens back to the experimental timeframe of 11th grade where anything made sense under a certain context. It may not in this story for some people, but if it does, you're in for a treat.
Original
Good morning. I see the bird in the sky.
The white is trying to win over the black.
It sees the eye inside my eye. Its opposite
color damn the mind. Lots of pressure have been
placed on my eyeballs. Many colors are flying, zooming
across the page. The colors are smiling at me. I try to
understand what they saaaay…Does this make any sense?
What am trying to do What is the purpose of these colors. What
Revised
The sky is showing off a beautiful ruby-sage combination,
mocking him with it across his field of view. The aggravated man
hurls his briefcase and breaks off the handle, his hands glowing
with a purple imprint. He strokes every flabby part of his face, waiting
for nature to take control it. His body becomes magnetized to the grass, and he has
no need to reverse the effect. His failures decide to leave the case,
one by one, single-file, to become next week’s trash. Horrible images
plague his mind, cold, heartless images want nothing else but
his suffering. His only haven is himself.
The world becomes half-covered in complete black, then full.
A second goes by, then a few more. Hold on...
A red being is plucked from the ground. Then a yellow, and a blue.
The general keeps plucking till almost every possible color is at his control.
He energetically lifts his hands and his soldiers follow the command.
At the other side, the general’s nemesis, plucks out her own
warriors. It’s very easy, she sees a shadow of herself, grabs it, and makes it
tangible. No thought process or special technique needed.
An entire army created under 27 seconds.
She lowers her hands, bows her head, and sits with crossed legs.
The assault begins.
As a rainbow floats across enemy lines, a sharper whip of shadows
slices it in two. A torrent of color splashes onto the ground,
soaks into the grassy fields. The droplets levitate upwards
and attach themselves to the shadow troops, sending out a surge of electrical
punishment, illuminating the grass to colors on a neon sign.
Her emotions are a mystery, as she can express nothing.
Fists clenched, one index finger in each hand is let go, falling carelessly
To the ground. The digits spiral like a DNA strand, drilling into Mother Nature’s
brown flesh and traveling at an incredible rate. The general turns back to his soldiers
and describes his fears. The digits fly out, under his feet,
like a geyser, and self-destruct. The impact instantly
destroys almost all in its proximity.
About 200 meters, to be exact. Instead, it gives the general a sinister shade of red.
A splash of it, across his body. He is uninjured, but his soul has changed.
Confidence expels the general’s fears, and quickly, his troops regroup, and with
one swift motion, pointed fingers, the troops are emblazoned with red.
Her fingers shoot back up to her hands. Her troops watch with pause.
She swings her head back, strands of hair spreading out in all directions.
Each strand attaches to the arms of the shadow troops, forming a powerful
Blade. The general’s troops, without pause, charge toward the shadows.
The general stares out towards his opponent and smirks with arrogance.
In a panic, the shadows explode, attaching themselves onto the red troops.
The resilient warriors try to remove the sticky blackness from their bodies.
All the while, the confident general steps onto the battlefield, and approaches his
Nemesis. She looks up for a moment, then returns to her calm stasis.
The general makes his first expression, one of homicidal excitement. The troops stop fighting, confused by the change in events. Without notice, the general grabs the leader’s head and holds it tightly. His arms lose their fluid appearance and
become physical bars of matter. She remains still. Quickly, streams of black sprinkle from her face. Her head shrinks in size until resembling a child’s. The general squeezes harder. Her head recedes into her body. The general loses his grip and collapses into her body. A wave of black splashes across the field. The black spreads until every single corner of the screen is black.
Half of the world is covered with black. Then none.
The man feels his face, then looks around. Only the natural
shadows of the world are present.
Suddenly, he panics and searches for his briefcase. All of his frustration leads him
to a single sheet of paper, hanging carefully on a branch. He notices that it’s a page from his briefcase. At once, many brilliant ideas come to his mind,
all that would suit the page perfectly. The man giggles with joy,
And tries to grab the sheet and get to work. He forgets about how
short he is compared to the tree. For an hour, he effortfully leaps
without promise towards the branch, touching it only with his fingertips.
The sheet slips right through the branch and flies aimlessly towards the horizon.
The last assignment for the poetry unit in 11th grade creative writing class. My teacher noted about how the result to transforming the original text into a poem more resembled a story rather than a poem. Makes sense now that I think about it because poetry is really complicated to consider and some people are naturally poets, others are...well, what can you call us? Storyteller is too vague. Anyway, the following was my failed attempt at poetry and my successful attempt at a short story. A quick note about the original: we were told to close our eyes and write down whatever thought came to mind without explaining it or changing it. If you notice how grammatically incorrect the original is, you'll see quite a bit of mistakes. But that's what I wrote and that's what I'm posting. Revised is mainly what this post is about. The story is an unusual one but refreshingly unusual. The reason I'm posting it is that while I'm in college, things have an added significance and everything matters, somehow. This post harkens back to the experimental timeframe of 11th grade where anything made sense under a certain context. It may not in this story for some people, but if it does, you're in for a treat.
Original
Good morning. I see the bird in the sky.
The white is trying to win over the black.
It sees the eye inside my eye. Its opposite
color damn the mind. Lots of pressure have been
placed on my eyeballs. Many colors are flying, zooming
across the page. The colors are smiling at me. I try to
understand what they saaaay…Does this make any sense?
What am trying to do What is the purpose of these colors. What
Revised
The sky is showing off a beautiful ruby-sage combination,
mocking him with it across his field of view. The aggravated man
hurls his briefcase and breaks off the handle, his hands glowing
with a purple imprint. He strokes every flabby part of his face, waiting
for nature to take control it. His body becomes magnetized to the grass, and he has
no need to reverse the effect. His failures decide to leave the case,
one by one, single-file, to become next week’s trash. Horrible images
plague his mind, cold, heartless images want nothing else but
his suffering. His only haven is himself.
The world becomes half-covered in complete black, then full.
A second goes by, then a few more. Hold on...
A red being is plucked from the ground. Then a yellow, and a blue.
The general keeps plucking till almost every possible color is at his control.
He energetically lifts his hands and his soldiers follow the command.
At the other side, the general’s nemesis, plucks out her own
warriors. It’s very easy, she sees a shadow of herself, grabs it, and makes it
tangible. No thought process or special technique needed.
An entire army created under 27 seconds.
She lowers her hands, bows her head, and sits with crossed legs.
The assault begins.
As a rainbow floats across enemy lines, a sharper whip of shadows
slices it in two. A torrent of color splashes onto the ground,
soaks into the grassy fields. The droplets levitate upwards
and attach themselves to the shadow troops, sending out a surge of electrical
punishment, illuminating the grass to colors on a neon sign.
Her emotions are a mystery, as she can express nothing.
Fists clenched, one index finger in each hand is let go, falling carelessly
To the ground. The digits spiral like a DNA strand, drilling into Mother Nature’s
brown flesh and traveling at an incredible rate. The general turns back to his soldiers
and describes his fears. The digits fly out, under his feet,
like a geyser, and self-destruct. The impact instantly
destroys almost all in its proximity.
About 200 meters, to be exact. Instead, it gives the general a sinister shade of red.
A splash of it, across his body. He is uninjured, but his soul has changed.
Confidence expels the general’s fears, and quickly, his troops regroup, and with
one swift motion, pointed fingers, the troops are emblazoned with red.
Her fingers shoot back up to her hands. Her troops watch with pause.
She swings her head back, strands of hair spreading out in all directions.
Each strand attaches to the arms of the shadow troops, forming a powerful
Blade. The general’s troops, without pause, charge toward the shadows.
The general stares out towards his opponent and smirks with arrogance.
In a panic, the shadows explode, attaching themselves onto the red troops.
The resilient warriors try to remove the sticky blackness from their bodies.
All the while, the confident general steps onto the battlefield, and approaches his
Nemesis. She looks up for a moment, then returns to her calm stasis.
The general makes his first expression, one of homicidal excitement. The troops stop fighting, confused by the change in events. Without notice, the general grabs the leader’s head and holds it tightly. His arms lose their fluid appearance and
become physical bars of matter. She remains still. Quickly, streams of black sprinkle from her face. Her head shrinks in size until resembling a child’s. The general squeezes harder. Her head recedes into her body. The general loses his grip and collapses into her body. A wave of black splashes across the field. The black spreads until every single corner of the screen is black.
Half of the world is covered with black. Then none.
The man feels his face, then looks around. Only the natural
shadows of the world are present.
Suddenly, he panics and searches for his briefcase. All of his frustration leads him
to a single sheet of paper, hanging carefully on a branch. He notices that it’s a page from his briefcase. At once, many brilliant ideas come to his mind,
all that would suit the page perfectly. The man giggles with joy,
And tries to grab the sheet and get to work. He forgets about how
short he is compared to the tree. For an hour, he effortfully leaps
without promise towards the branch, touching it only with his fingertips.
The sheet slips right through the branch and flies aimlessly towards the horizon.
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