No Left Turn

Originally typed on June 16, 2011.  

The following was written as a reaction to one of my friends' paintings, one from her concentration, a series of paintings with one related theme, in high school. Like a fascinated but also somewhat annoying person, I kept reminding her that I wanted to "canonize" her masterful work in some shape or form, and after trying to criticize her work thoughtfully, I instead opted for a short story, one that became an obsession of mine to complete during the summer. Unfortunately, I have no way of showing her image to you, the reader, so that you have some idea of how the brainstorming process worked for properly interpreting her piece. Something that struck my attention was how her theme is "Home", and most of her concentration were little sections of her home in the Palisades and although she is a wonderful painter, I felt her theme hampered on the execution of most of her paintings, and with her goal of completing 12 paintings by the end of the school year, she began rushing towards completion of her series. One day, she brought along her next painting, one with no title. It surprised me how empty and yet lively this painting was compared to the others. I don't want to describe it since I know my description will be inaccurate. The painting features as a sign saying "No Left Turn" which I have named the story. I admit that I'm posting this story also with haste as I no longer want to worry about it and move on to other projects, and that it is a story that resolves itself very quickly and that the descriptions lack the underlying bitterness of my previous stories, but overall, it's still a pretty good story that could be improved. Let me know what you think about it in the comments, and thanks for reading if you do.  

 

A lone pebble in the middle of the street balances the neighborhood. At the earliest hour, it makes a shadow that reaches the far end of the block up to the stop sign. Some pranksters cut out a side of it to fool exhausted drivers. The paperboy knows about the cars that could potentially crush and mangle his bike, so he always watches the road after passing the stop sign. His newspaper sack feels heavier than usual. So did his arms. People make fun of him for wearing sunglasses everywhere, but his eyes are that deplorable and could only function properly for 15 seconds until becoming defunct. It was the paperboy’s last day on the route. He pulls out each paper and flings it at every direction. A quiet summer morning is spoiled by the paperboy’s terrible aim. Mrs. Flutterman’s precious daises are flattened by the LA Times. He breaks his fifty-first flower pot. The lone pebble catches onto the wheel and shreds the tire. The paperboy tumbles to the floor, a stunt he had rehearsed a few times before. A few scrapes don’t stop the paperboy. Only the sight of his rented bicycle rolling by itself and then crashing into a moving car do. Words from the newspaper editor swearing at him makes the paperboy shake in turmoil. For the next few minutes, the only things the paperboy sees are the sidewalk and his own shadow.

The paperboy shakes his head and looks up. He panics and searches for his sunglasses which are just near his shoes. Taking a moment, he begins putting them on when something catches his eyes. The neighborhood has the most vibrant palette of colors he’d ever seen. Every house has its own personality, its own traits and behaviorisms. The house filled with whimsical colors designs, seemingly being lifted off the ground: Animator. The house covered by another house’s shadow, revealing only parts of its exterior but daring others to see what the interior has to offer: Prostitute. He pulls out his schedule and checks the number. Yep, he was in the right place. Carrying his bag, the paperboy steps carefully onto the sidewalk. Wind chimes, garden gnomes, doghouses, basketball hoops, at once he tries to imagine the people who purchased these things. He imagines the wind chimes at some sterile department store in the midst of many customers passing the wind chimes to. The paperboy looks at his own shirt and reconsiders the thought. People in the neighborhood had confidence in the world, enough that none of them had any kind of security system to defend their homes with. The paperboy walks up to the house and looks at the wind chimes. A small breeze begins the chimes’ lovely tune. He hums the tune and sways his head in rhythm with the chimes. Though he wants the chimes on the porch of his parents’ house, it killed him to realize he would only be getting a similar, yet flawed replica. He looks out and realizes this was the last house to deliver. He pulls out the paper and places it gently on the doormat. He sits on the steps and looks at the neighborhood one last time. Though he never saw it in a truthful light, it had been his home and it took care of him as well as any mother could have. His parents call him later in the day, wondering if his shift is over. The paperboy tells them that there’s still a few more papers to deliver. He puts his bag aside and watches the neighborhood. He’ll return home by lunchtime.          

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.    

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.