September 20, 2011...
Another week, another couple of pounds of brain fat at lost to thought. Whatever…that could mean. Things have gone well, but not swimmingly well yet. I have been working on my art history paper, due next Wednesday, my Spanish paper, due the following Wednesday, my Philosophy realization (which I’ll explain soon-Ed. note, I forgot to do that), and my presentation for SAGES, as well as my normal rations of homework. And that’s only till the end of the month! I knew the work was going to pile up, but I didn’t expect it this soon. If I just take it slow and steady, I might just be able to survive September with enough ligaments in my fingers for typing a seven-page paper. It has been an unexpectedly defining week, however. I’ve become closer with my roommate, my friend who lives across the hall, and with my own family. Something I’m especially beginning to miss is the appetizer sandwiches my mom occasionally made right before dinner. Standard ingredients: white (or wheat) bread slathered with mayo and mustard, ham, lettuce, tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and slightly toasted for a satisfying crunching sound. Simple, yet perfect. I am reminded of how often my family embarrassed me, and how I’d wish their personalities were tweaked a little bit, but I’m realizing that their personalities define them for they are and I’ll won't dare to change that. I had dinner with my roommate’s family on Saturday, that was lovely(aside from the fact that I hadn’t left my dorm all day) since I had a delicious dinner, a very invigorating conversation, and got to see the most astounding record collection. I also saw my first record player, and got to listen to my first record: Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd. The first chords silently slipped through the speakers, a warm orange glow surrounded the walls, and my roommate’s father’s tales of musical ecstasy enchanted me. It was the perfect evening until my roommate took me to the Ingeniutyfest. It wasn’t a terrible event, but it was terribly overwhelming, with the numerous colorful works that attacked your senses, the amount of people who were there, the amount of people as high as paint chipping, and the amount of products being sold. I did like a huge wall that you could draw on, a dazzling performance by a woman with flexibility and large amounts of drapery, and an artist’s photoshops of numerous landmarks. It’s a night I won’t soon forget (for the wrong reasons). This weekend also featured my first chance to work directly with one of the guys of IgniteTV. We talked about his career and how it boils down to many avant-garde projects made only for his amusement, and our first conversation about potentially working on one of my projects. He told me that I’d have to wait till Wednesday to pitch my idea and see if it gets approved, which is discouraging, encouraging, and nerve wrecking. If all goes well, I’ll be able to direct my first short film which is a lifelong dream of mine. As always, we’ll just have to see what happens.
NW? - Progress NW?- I Shouldnt've...
Showing posts with label Short. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short. Show all posts
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Accident on Freeman Ave.
Originally typed in 8th grade.
This is the beginning of my creative writing career, and the very first time I was able to express myself without censoring my thoughts. Also, it was the final project for my 8th grade creative writing class. Since this was my most enjoyable project of the year, it did take a while to realize the story is severely flawed and incomplete. The story has an interesting plot, but it moves quickly and never feels complete. I remember a generous ovation the first time I presented the story to the class, but for an eighth grade story, it is depressing and overly dark and paints a picture towards how my first year was in a new school. Even with a story like this, it still has to be acknowledged as an important first step in my exploration of a new idea, and as life shows, every mistake is a step forward. Inappropriate content ahead. Read with caution.
Part 1
This is the beginning of my creative writing career, and the very first time I was able to express myself without censoring my thoughts. Also, it was the final project for my 8th grade creative writing class. Since this was my most enjoyable project of the year, it did take a while to realize the story is severely flawed and incomplete. The story has an interesting plot, but it moves quickly and never feels complete. I remember a generous ovation the first time I presented the story to the class, but for an eighth grade story, it is depressing and overly dark and paints a picture towards how my first year was in a new school. Even with a story like this, it still has to be acknowledged as an important first step in my exploration of a new idea, and as life shows, every mistake is a step forward. Inappropriate content ahead. Read with caution.
Part 1
Everything is black. I don’t hear a noise. I guess no one else is here. I take off the sheets and try to walk. I fall straight to the floor. My back is really killing me, my feet feel like mush, and my spine seems as fragile as glass. Damn. That annoying ring tone is playing again. It seems like forever till I grab the cell phone from the table. I accidentally push some ornaments and they fall on the floor and break on impact, the water splashing on my fingers. I check whose calling me and at that moment, I lose my breath. I frantically crawl to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and gulp down a bottle of water. I check who it is again and find out it was from my friend Elizabeth. It was a text message that read, “GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! WE NEED TO TALK!” If Elizabeth doesn’t use the landline phone, I can tell it’s not good news. It feels like forever till I can finally stand up and walk normally. Forgetting that I actually have a car, I toddle to Elizabeth’s house while negative thoughts are pouring into my mind. Why does she want to see me? Why is she infuriated? Why in hell did she use the word ass? Walking nervously to the front door, I touch the doorbell and get an unexpected reaction. She opens the door and I become aware of her eyes filled with tears, runny nose, quivering mouth, she held tissues tightly in her hands, and says, “Curt’s dead!”
For a reason I can’t explain, I accidentally say, “whose dead?”
“That’s not funny!” she yells while wiping away her tears. “You know what I’m talking about, JOHN!” She’s right about one thing. I do know Curt but I don’t know why she’s yelling. Curt, a quarterback for the high school, known as a jock, always had a huge ego, and my best friend. He always acted like an ass at our high school years but we had been friends since preschool, always shared laughs and told ourselves inappropriate things at sleepovers. Yeah, nothing would keep our friendship apart…or so I thought. The day I thought as hell turned out to be more than that…it’s also death. “Do you remember that accident, John?”
“Don’t remind me about that day, damn it!”
“He was your best friend and you killed him because of your carelessness!”
“Now wait just a-“I stumbled back and sat on the couch by the wall. Killed Curt? Why the hell is she saying that I killed Curt? “That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t anywhere near Curt when-“
“Well you could’ve at least stopped him before he did the last decision of his life. You didn’t think at all of what could’ve happened and…” she went on and on and on for minutes but it felt like forever, the most painful torture I could ever get.
“Okay, I’ve had enough of this! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I leapt off the couch, stormed towards the door and flung the door open.
“You step out of my house and I’m calling the cops. Then you’ll become a runaway and your life will become so screwed up that you’ll want to commit suicide!” Those words flew into my eardrums, became transmitted into my brain, and chilled the rest of my body. But I still grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut. I start running for my life and wondered if she was bluffing but I didn’t want to take any chances. I immediately reach home and turn off all the lights. By this time, I’m breathless and fall to the floor. Can’t believe this. Of all the crappiest things that ever happened to me, this is the whole shitload. Things have happened and I can’t change it. But I still remember that accident clear as day and maybe I can reveal whose fault it truly is.
Part 2For a reason I can’t explain, I accidentally say, “whose dead?”
“That’s not funny!” she yells while wiping away her tears. “You know what I’m talking about, JOHN!” She’s right about one thing. I do know Curt but I don’t know why she’s yelling. Curt, a quarterback for the high school, known as a jock, always had a huge ego, and my best friend. He always acted like an ass at our high school years but we had been friends since preschool, always shared laughs and told ourselves inappropriate things at sleepovers. Yeah, nothing would keep our friendship apart…or so I thought. The day I thought as hell turned out to be more than that…it’s also death. “Do you remember that accident, John?”
“Don’t remind me about that day, damn it!”
“He was your best friend and you killed him because of your carelessness!”
“Now wait just a-“I stumbled back and sat on the couch by the wall. Killed Curt? Why the hell is she saying that I killed Curt? “That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t anywhere near Curt when-“
“Well you could’ve at least stopped him before he did the last decision of his life. You didn’t think at all of what could’ve happened and…” she went on and on and on for minutes but it felt like forever, the most painful torture I could ever get.
“Okay, I’ve had enough of this! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I leapt off the couch, stormed towards the door and flung the door open.
“You step out of my house and I’m calling the cops. Then you’ll become a runaway and your life will become so screwed up that you’ll want to commit suicide!” Those words flew into my eardrums, became transmitted into my brain, and chilled the rest of my body. But I still grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut. I start running for my life and wondered if she was bluffing but I didn’t want to take any chances. I immediately reach home and turn off all the lights. By this time, I’m breathless and fall to the floor. Can’t believe this. Of all the crappiest things that ever happened to me, this is the whole shitload. Things have happened and I can’t change it. But I still remember that accident clear as day and maybe I can reveal whose fault it truly is.
A normal, cloudless afternoon, students from campus with vehicles would drive away to hang out with their girlfriends, or go to the movies, or whatever the hell they would do after school. I, on the other hand, would just drive home and type on the laptop for hours and hours and hours, thinking that I’ve wasted my entire life. Then there’s Freeman Ave, a crosswalk which gave me frozen nerves, every time. I had a certain feeling that sometime, at that very crosswalk, chaos would strike. And strike it did. Kurt was driving next to me in a Honda Accord, in shimmering jade. I drove a Volkswagen Buggy, in unembellished red. By the millions of times he was beeping that horn, I could tell that he wanted to race. No damn way was I gonna risk my neck in an insipid stunt as that so I drove away, trying to lose him. Unfortunately, I had just “started” the race so he tried to catch up. I couldn’t take this any longer so I called him on my cell phone and screamed the F-bomb in his ears. He knew that I wasn’t kidding so he said fuck back at me, told me he was gonna find some other sucker to race, and then hung up. Curt began screaming towards random people to race and they either called him drunk or a mentally retarded ass. One person reluctantly agreed and the race was on. This would be his fatal mistake. I drove behind them, in case anything happened. It was an intense race with twists, turns, and nearby runovers. Ironically, the next street coming was Freeman Ave. Curt was in the lead. He didn’t look at the traffic lights. From our side, it turned red so the other side just became green. The cars kept driving even though Curt was in full view. I jumped out of my car before someone rammed into it. The other guy smashed Curt’s car from behind and pushed it forward. Curt’s car was instantly crashed from the left and began spiraling when another car smashed it from the front. People began dialing their cell phones and calling for help. When his car began to spiral, I just ran away from the scene and hoped that he was okay. I had fainted while running and then everything went blank. The last thing I remember is the wailing of ambulances.
My god…the worst thing that could’ve happened but I survived and he didn’t. And it’s my entire fault. Had I’ve told him not to insane enough or imprudent enough to race in the hazardous, urban city he would still be alive right now, enjoying popularity, acting like a big ass big shot, and snapping twigs while playing football. I grab my skull tightly and massage my brain to think clearly; what do I do, should I accept his death, should I move on, should I…cry? A big boom disables my concentration and suddenly the door flies off. It’s smashed into the wall and breaks into pieces instantaneously. That bitch did call the police and wants me to pay for my crime. Another option pops into my head and I choose it immediately as it came: Run. I climb from the floor and rush to the bathroom. Bullets are instantly fired and destroy everything in sight. I nudge the window open, inch by inch and leap out. It’s a painful landing as I fall on some razor-sharp, bristly bushes. I wait for a while and quickly rush under the sewers. One sniff and I start coughing like hell. The odors of dead animals, shit and urine from all over the city mix with the sea green, chocolate-imitating liquid all in one ostentatious aroma. Well, are you happy now, you bitch?! I’m a runaway from a murder which is believed to be my entire fault, police are chasing me day in and day out, and you’re dead, Curt! Form loss of blood, smashed bones, shards of broken glass piercing your skin, I don’t know how it happened but you’re dead…and very soon, when the cops find me, I’ll find you so we can do that race that you wanted, no matter how long it is.
My god…the worst thing that could’ve happened but I survived and he didn’t. And it’s my entire fault. Had I’ve told him not to insane enough or imprudent enough to race in the hazardous, urban city he would still be alive right now, enjoying popularity, acting like a big ass big shot, and snapping twigs while playing football. I grab my skull tightly and massage my brain to think clearly; what do I do, should I accept his death, should I move on, should I…cry? A big boom disables my concentration and suddenly the door flies off. It’s smashed into the wall and breaks into pieces instantaneously. That bitch did call the police and wants me to pay for my crime. Another option pops into my head and I choose it immediately as it came: Run. I climb from the floor and rush to the bathroom. Bullets are instantly fired and destroy everything in sight. I nudge the window open, inch by inch and leap out. It’s a painful landing as I fall on some razor-sharp, bristly bushes. I wait for a while and quickly rush under the sewers. One sniff and I start coughing like hell. The odors of dead animals, shit and urine from all over the city mix with the sea green, chocolate-imitating liquid all in one ostentatious aroma. Well, are you happy now, you bitch?! I’m a runaway from a murder which is believed to be my entire fault, police are chasing me day in and day out, and you’re dead, Curt! Form loss of blood, smashed bones, shards of broken glass piercing your skin, I don’t know how it happened but you’re dead…and very soon, when the cops find me, I’ll find you so we can do that race that you wanted, no matter how long it is.
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