Random Chatterings [Ep. 20.5] - Anger Management Audio-Book

This week, Arlill reads one of his short stories called Anger Management using the time-tested audio-book format! Or…as close to it as an amateur could do...

DOWNLOAD [7:58]

The original story: http://randomsquiggledwords.blogspot.com/2013/01/anger-management.html

Technical info:

Recorded with a Blue Yeti Microphone and Adobe Audition CC by Arlill Rodriguez

Edited with Adobe Audition CC by Arlill Rodriguez

Music credits:

“Summers, Eternal Tourist Trap [Earthbound OST]” composed by Keiichi Suzuki, Hirokazu Tanaka, Hiroshi Kanazu and Toshiyuki Ueno

“Sidewalk Shade - slower” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0

“Eastern Thought” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0

“Cool Vibes” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0

2015

EPISODE 19.5                                EPISODE 21.5

From the Sandy Shore by Spencer Burton

Picture taken by Arlill Rodriguez

For last month's contest, the group was asked to write a story based on the picture above. Here is the winning entry. Enjoy!

From the view of an onlooker, the sunny city cast against a pale blue sky, adorned with palm trees might seem like a busy city of enterprise. Why, one might imagine any number of goings on when viewing the scene from the pale beach. What happy endings may come to pass, and what love may blossom, as many ponder when in such a place. It is humorous how often this is misleading this instinctive desire to impose our own happiness on something as vast as a city may be. How horrible something may be in its heart.

I

This afternoon was to be the start of a new path for Ron Simmons, a young man from the outskirts of town. At first glance, Simmons appears like someone who has received the benefit of many years of sun and tanning at the beach, but it is truly the product of his parents – at least he assumes. His grasp of his early life is slim, and the Francisco Brethren Church never really educated him beyond that. He assumes his father, possibly even mother, were involved in gangs as many of his childhood friends' parents were, but the Sisters, Sister Isabella especially, was quite effective of keeping that life away from him. He holds nothing against them for that, since he never really saw much benefit in joining a gang other than to go to jail or die, but he had at times wished they readied him for something other than a life with the church. Still, his more structured schooling was ideal when he went off to college, and now he owes the church in a large way for getting the opportunity he has today in the city. In a joking way, Simmons realized that working in a high office building does put him closer to heaven than he would have on the streets. 

The phone interview had been as simple as being polite and confirming or defining what he had placed on his resume, and afterwards he had been told to report to a blue glass office building near the edge of town. It was close to the water but not the type of area where tourists go. Likewise, the tasks itself did not seem too complicated, and nonetheless used several of the skills he gained with his business degree. The only downside was that Simmons had to take a bus to work, which meant taking a late bus to go home. It wasn’t that it was a bad neighborhood, but Simmons never felt perfectly safe being out in the city at night – especially when tired and alone. It was just a lingering sense of paranoia which came from living in an urban area where crime and gangs are not uncommon. 

II

Simmons awoke with a strange feeling, most likely jitters, on what would be his first day. Though, this feeling was beyond simple butterflies in his stomach, as the saying goes. It was more like something had passed through him, sending not a chill but a sense of uneasiness about his surroundings. This was not completely shaken once he had finished breakfast, and persisted in small amounts once he had actually reached his new place of work. Perhaps it was that uneasiness that led him to see something odd amongst the blue glass, for a strange green glow seemed to expound from a higher up floor, though once again it was most likely a trick of the light. As Simmons entered the building, he was greeted by an older looking fellow, who seemed to have suffered from some sort of injury as the left side of his face was lightly bandaged. Beyond that though, he appeared as a common information assistant – perhaps to help direct guests to particular areas or to watch security cameras to alert police in case of trouble. The lobby itself was rather empty aside from a few structural pillars and doors, so perhaps one of those was this old man’s office and he had just stepped out upon seeing someone approach.

“Welcome Mr. Simon,”  the old man said in a quiet but audible tone. “It is Simon, right?”

“Simmons, actually,” Simmons corrected. “Are you this building’s doorman?” 

“Sorry about the mix up, Mr. Sermon.  I get confused by all you lot coming through. Must have been a new higher every day of the week for a long while. They told me you will be working on the fifth floor, room 4. The number should be on the outside of the door”.

Simmons was about to correct this man on his name, but stopped upon assuming the bandages must make it rather hard to hear. Moreover, he was intrigued with how the man revealed that he works for the company which hired him. He wondered to himself if the entire building was under the company’s ownership. “So, how long have you worked for the company? Are they good to work for?”

“Oh, I don’t get much company down here, aside from greeting new guests. Never was much on God and church myself. My wife always tried to get me to go, but she hasn’t be around since 1890, rest her soul. Odd of you to ask.” 

Simmons, realizing that he most likely wasn’t going to get straight answers from this man, decided to take his directions and head to the stairway – hopefully he had relayed the directions correctly. Simmons had reached the elevator when he realized he had not even asked the man his name. However, upon turning around to dismiss him he saw that he had vanished. “He must be spry for his old age,” Simmons thought, or he had greatly overestimated his age. Simmons considered the date the old man had said, but dismissed it as a lack of hearing on his part since it made no sense otherwise. 

The elevator was not too modern, and seemed to jerk a bit upon starting up the approach. From it though, Simmons noted that there were nine floors to the building, with two underground, making his office effectively on the third floor from the ground. It was a slight disappointment since he had hoped to have a high view of the city – assuming he was lucky enough to have a window – but it was also a blessing if he ever had to take the stairs. As he felt the hum of the elevator as it approached his floor he noticed a faint green glow again – though this time from the upper emergency hatch. This time Simmons could not as quickly dismiss this vision, but before he could take this to further thought, the doors opened and he was greeted to a short, but dimly lit hallway.

“Hello, is someone there? I’m Ron Simmons, I was told my office would be here.”

Hearing no response, Simmons continued past several doors, until he came to the one the man in the lobby had directed him to. He knocked, but hearing only a resonating echo in response he concluded the room was empty. He jiggled the handle, and it opened. The office itself was surprisingly spacious, with a nice window view, bathed in a soft light glow from the ceiling. There was a polished sizeable oak desk adjacent to a metal file cabinet and a black wheeled office chair which looked comfortable. The surface of the desk held a series of baskets for papers of different sorts, a modern looking monitor with a keyboard and computer, and a large desk calendar and pencil cup. Faint light drew into the room through venetian blinds, but Simmons could not seem to find a way to open them further. He could tell, however, from the light that it was later in the afternoon – though once again he figured the light must be playing tricks on him as he had arrived no later than 10 am. A small piece of paper was placed in front of the monitor with the following instructions: “The files and instructions for what to do with the files are all on the computer desktop. Take care to work diligently. You may leave at dusk.”

Simmons turned on the computer, and sure enough there were file folders immediately present. Of course, something about this immediately troubled him. 

“What company,” he thought, “would not even have someone there to monitor and introduce a new employee to their job? Also, what type of instructions are work until dusk?” 

He was about to leave, but then a pang of uneasiness came about in his stomach, as if to remind him that he had worked hard to find this job, and that if he wanted to stay local this was a good option for him. Against his uneasiness, he sat down and read through his assigned task. It might not have fully utilized his skills – albeit disappointing – but the tasks at hand seemed simple. Taking a breath, he leaned forward and began work.

III

For what seemed like hours,  Simmons did nothing but add and alter numbers within what seemed like endless spreadsheets. He wasn’t even fully sure why he was making some alterations at times, and some numbers seemed unrealistically large to make any sense for a company. Still, he grinded through them. The computer had not been allowed unrestricted internet access, but an exclusive music radio station was available, offering him some company during his time. He guessed he must have ran through hundreds but he knew time might have seemed to merely run slow. There wasn’t a clock on the computer monitor, nor was there a clock in the room. In fact, Simmons realized the only way to tell the time was the light through the windows. Simmons closed his eyes as he pushed his chair away from the desk, and reclined far enough to crack his back in several places. He let some restful thoughts pass through his mind, then opened and turned his eyes towards the windows. To his surprise, the light did not appear to change from the setting sun color that appeared before. Furthermore, the light through the windows did not appear to change where it illuminated the wall. Simmons let out a large groan, realizing that he must not have worked for as long as he thought, but something still bugged him in the back of his head. He went back to the computer and worked some more.

For what seemed like ages he typed, and altered, and added, and changed, and fixed, and wrote, and typed, and changed, and added, and altered, and rewrote, and retyped and so on. It was as if the work would never end. He assumed that the endless stream that seemed to wear on before him would at least show signs of getting shorter, but he just kept finding more work. His eyes felt strained to a point that he figured if he kept on staring at the screen they would burst. Yet despite all this that should have made him feel exhausted he did not feel tired. He did not feel hungry. He did not feel thirsty. He felt no sign that should have told him instinctively that it was becoming late… and then he stared at the window again. The light had yet to change. Simmons swore with a passion, but this time he felt sick. He could not believe what was happening. It was as if he felt trapped. But he wasn’t trapped, was he? The door was right there. What was keeping him, his sense of pride? A note he found on this desk? He hasn’t even seen anyone, but there must be someone else. With this in mind, he triumphantly got up from the desk, and set out to open the door and find someone who could at least tell him what time it was and when he could leave. He tried the doorknob, and it would not move.

He felt a twinge of panic at the resistance, and tried harder. Still no movement. He tried shoving the door, lightly at first, then more firmly. He eventually tried to break down the door, and it still wouldn’t move. He almost collapsed from the last attempt, though by now he was wide awake with worry. Suddenly he realized he had not tried to look at his phone. He ran his hand through his pocket, but found it empty. It also occurred to him that he never glanced down at his watch, but realized that his wrist was bare. Even his wallet was gone. In fact, the receipt from the coffee he bought this morning  was gone. Nothing he carried with him to the job was present. He went to the window, and still not seeing a way to naturally open the blinds, he tore them down and gasped. There was nothing but the dim light he saw. It was as if he was staring into something beyond emptiness, as if the entirety of reality was collapsing in on itself, and the pale orange light was the very life force of what was being taken away. Wherever Simmons was, it was close to hell.

IV

Simmons was sure that days went on within this tiny cell which was his office, but he could never really tell. He never grew hungry or tried, but he was sure that time had passed. Maybe even a year had gone by without him knowing it. Occasionally he would still go to the computer and change the numbers. He made a game of it once, altering the letters in numbers into famous pictures, or paintings. Maybe he had gone crazy once, but it wasn’t likely. His mind never was able to wander very far, so whatever kept his body in a sustainable state must also sustain his mind.

V

One day, or afternoon, or night, a trickle of water appeared on the monitor.  It was incredible! Water! It might have been Simmons' own tears for joy when he saw it. He went to touch it and it was wet. He went to taste it, it was salty – like that of the ocean. He was almost repulsed by this reminder, when for so long this lack of reality was reality. He wanted to bath in it, but then a gust of wind hit him that seemed to knock him down. A further gust hit him and he flew against a wall. A final gust hit him which seemed so strong it knocked him over, and for the first time in ages he slipped into unconsciousness. 

He awoke to a loud scream as if something was tearing through the outside. He was in a room much like that of his long experience in his personal hell, but it lacked the desk, cabinet, or anything that made the office an office for that matter. In fact the room itself seemed to emit a faint green glow, though a color which some hour seemed to grow then wane in strength as he picked himself off the floor. A dark impression was left in the floor as if he had been laying there for a rather long time, and upon looking down on himself he noticed his nails had grown almost to an inch in length, and he held a beard. He had also soiled himself, thought that wasn’t immediately apparent to him. He had trouble standing at first, but as he grew more and more aware of his surroundings, and as he could stand taller the glow that emitted from the walls nearly disappeared. The smell of seawater was still strong, as a thin trickle seemed to drip from the ceiling. He knew the key to this was outside, but he was almost afraid to gaze out the window. After building the courage, his eyes were met to a danger of another kind. It seemed as if a hurricane was tearing through, though nothing on the news to his memory indicated a storm would come through. The city appeared dead, as all inhabitants must have fled from the destruction. The intensity of the storm must have cracked the building’s outer walls, allowing some of the water and sand to pour in and reach him as he laid on the floor. It almost did not occur to him that he might not want to run out into the storm, since he immediately bolted out the door with the intention to run outside. 

The hallway didn’t look too different from what he remembered, but the elevator was out of order so he had to take the stairs. He almost forgot that he was only two floors above the ground level, but that bit of memory remained. In fact, it seemed the greater distance he put between the room and himself his memory came back stronger. As he reached the lobby, he only then noticed that water was building up outside. Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Back away from the glass! It might rupture! It will be better if you stay in one of these rooms in the lobby!”

The old man who greeted him in the lobby was there. Simmons could not believe his eyes, but sure enough he was there to direct him to safety. He was almost hesitant, but there wasn’t the pang of uneasiness like he felt on the upper floors. He went to the man, who set him firmly down against a wall of a back room.

“Who are you?” Simmons tried to say above the roar of the storm. “How long have you been here? How long have I been here?”

“I can’t hear you that well over the storm! I figure you will be safe here though! Safer than what it is out there! They are moving their business more inland to avoid this sort of thing! I am afraid you might be out of work for a while, less you are ready to move!”

Simmons was going to release a powerful negative response to that, but suddenly felt light headed and for the second time he fell into unconsciousness.

VI

He awoke to sunny skies, and entered out into the remains of a coastal city that was torn apart by a storm. Everything was torn, but by luck he happened upon a piece of news paper. It was dated a month from when he was supposed to start his new career, but his time had felt so much longer. He was going to question how he could have possibly survived for a month in a lone room, but a more terrifying thought lingered. He had seen several lights from the building he had approached. How many more have been there, and what would have happened had a storm not torn through? What was the purpose? Maybe he was only fortunate enough to delay what he was to experience in that room, or perhaps he had a glimpse of the purgatory that those of his religious raising had taught him for years. He could not shake these feelings, and was left to wander to seek someone else amongst the storm torn ruins of this city not far from the sandy coast.

Edited by Arlill Rodriguez

Fredrick

There once was a bunny. His name was Frederick and he was on his death bed. He lived for about 10 years but was finally giving the go-ahead to the grim reaper to take him back to the essence of the universe. The rainbow-colored hospital dimmed in color as the entire place began mourning Frederick. His family, a bunch of money-grubbing social wimps, waited at bay for the appropriate moment to begin suing Fredrick's estate for his millions of carrots. The situation was too much for his son, Jeffery, to handle and he killed himself by choking on his cotton-ball tail. Frederick sat in his chair, staring outside of the window, watching the protestors walk by. His heart filled with joy when he saw the youth acting on their own beliefs rather than the systems. Little did Frederick know that the protestors were hired by a cigarette company to gain publicity.
The nurse walked to his bedside, holding her paws together.
"Mr. Frederick?"
"...ye, yes?"
"This is kind of awkward. Um, my husband, he loves your work."
"Oh, oh thank you."
"Yeah, but...here's the thing. He heard that you were in the hospital right now so he made an unusual request."
"What is it, my dear?"
"I can't say it out loud or I might get fired."
"Oh, okay, just whisper it."
"Um...all right."
The young rabbit, wearing the cutest red cross hat, hopped over to the wise hare, and whispered, “He wants me to french-kiss you. He only gets turned on by the saliva of his dying heroes.”
“oh, OH! Uh...well...okay, but I want my eyes closed the whole time. My faithful wife, Dorothy, bless her soul, would be devastated if she ever knew."
"No problem, and really, I don't mean to offend."
"I understand."
The wise hare closed his eyes. His illness slowed down his movements so it took him a minute to close them fully. The nurse closed the door. She slowly reached toward Fredrick's lips, and stuck her tongue in his mouth. She swiveled around for a while, sticking into molars and incisors until finally snake-wrapping it around Fredrick’s flattened tongue. The nurse did everything in her will to prevent her heel from rising up, reminding herself that she is not supposed to be enjoying this. She stops, and looks at Frederick, thinking he's dead.
“Oh,” Fredrick says, “you remind of Beatrice, my first companion."
"Really?"
“Yes. There's a reason why she was my first."
"Oh. Sorry, sir. I have to leave now. You understand, though?"
"Of course. Give him my blessings."
"I, I will. Farewell," said the nurse, opening the door, and hopping outside to reach her disturbed lover. Strangely, this was not the only time old Frederick received such requests. For his sake, I will not reprint the more absurd ones. 
Frederick was a watch maker. He had a shop in the town square. Against everyone's wishes, he built the quaint shop next to a shopping mall, and was almost sure that he would become bankrupt in a matter of days. His business grew and grew, and more bunnies preferred to line up to have their watches repaired than to watch the controversial remake of Deep Throat starring only children.
His secret? He was a fantastic conversationalist. Even in his early years, he resembled a rugged Socrates, a rabbit who understood how and why the world functions but didn't stop questioning when someone or himself was wrong. Frederick never swore, either. Never even thought about it. He offended people, accidentally, but he never went out of his way to be vulgar. His family couldn't stand him, thought he was a despicable disgrace who ruined the family name. He wouldn't hesitate speaking to his family if they ever came by his shop, but everyone in the town knew him as Frederick the watch-shop owner. And everyone waited in bated breath for the death of their famed conversationalist.

Anger Management

Originally written on August 2012. Unlike previous posts, I will post my thoughts about this story in the comments on a later date.

"Hi, everyone. I'm…Arley Rodriguez.""Hi, Arlee." says everyone.
"No, it's Ar-ley, not Arlee. Actually, it, it doesn't really matter."
This is his first meeting.
"I, um, have an anger problem, but, you, uh," says Arley while scratching his nose, "probably already knew that. I'm sorry, I tend to say really stupid things when I'm…"
Group 5 is made up of 12 heads, each of them as insecure as the next. 4 brown eyes, 7 blues, 1 with an eye tattoo. The 13th head is the leader of the group, Earl Morris, who liked to call himself "the leader". Earl places his comfortable "leader's" chair near the exit in case a session ended prematurely. The quaint classroom setting couldn't disguise the ravaging fury buried in the bellies of Group 5.
"…nervous. Um, I'm fairly young, 23 or so, and I'm still not completely satisfied with life. I…usually take it out on others when a day doesn't go as planned. No one really understands the day system and…shit, let me start over."
Group 5 has many eccentric people. One of them is a pyromaniac, targets objects that remind him of his long, dead puppy. One of them purposefully gets into bar fights to get a larger wound than the night before. One of them decided to exile themselves from society for two weeks after destroying a Girl Scout cookies booth.
"Okay, the day thing is one of the problems but there's many, many others."
"Um, Arley," says the leader, "I don't mean to interrupt but we haven't gotten all the way across the room yet and a few people still need their turn."
"Oh, right, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Tha, that's it." said Arley, slumping back into the rental chair.
The remainder of Group 5 got to share the rest of their stories, each of them ranging from immature to borderline nuts. Of course, Arley usually believes he's immature and insane, so to him, the stories weren't very thrilling. Focused on how much his life currently is, he can only feel condescendingly sorry for the others.
"Thanks to everyone who shared their stories-"
"Especially that fuckface, Arley," Arley whispers to himself.
"-I can only imagine how many unresolved issues you all seem to have and I can only hope that we will be able to resolve each of them in the next few months. Acknowledging that you have an anger problem and are willing to come here is the first step to recovery. Each of you have the capabilities to empower yourself to a happier life." says the leader, the man hired by the government to prevent these people from killing each other.
"Oh, god," mutters Arley as he covers his face with his right hand.
"First, we'll start with an exercise. Everybody, please join hands."
The group disjointedly straightens up, spines curving around on the seat backs. They look to the left and right and grab each other's hands.
"Good, good, that can be very difficult for some people."
Arley sits up, holding his own hands together.
"Now close your eyes. That's it. Relax your shoulders. Let your body ease into submission. That's it. If your fingers are tingling, that's normal because it's touching someone else other than yourself."
Arley starts shutting his eyes, although he couldn't stop blinking them.
"Whatever thoughts you have in your mind right now, acknowledge them and then let them go. Clear your mind of all thoughts. Think of only a blank, empty void of nothingness that's absolutely worthless. Don't forget to breathe. Breathe. Inhale."
Every minute that passes by, Arley's head bobs like apples in a rusted bucket. He knew he wasn't capable of many things, but thinking, that's something he mastered a long time ago. Thinking about nothing makes Arley wonder what an appropriate depiction of nothing could be.
"Ralei, relax. Don't think about it too much. Relax your shoulders. Just let whatever happens to happen. Acknowledge it and then let it go."
Buzz Lightyear closes his eyes, says his famous catchphrase and rolls on the tiny car onto the loop-de-loop racetrack. Two women, terrible actresses, pretend to hurt each other in skimpy outfits; Arley makes sure to include wrestling boots because he doesn't want to see their painted toenails digging into their thighs. An airplane smashes into another airplane, twirling around in the air for a few seconds until dropping onto a commercial airliner that explodes spectacularly. An anorexic 40 year old man stares at a television set advertising a useless product, a new spray specifically designed to get rid of that pesky ozone layer.
"If this is troubling you guys, please don't make an effort out of it. The first time is always the hardest."
Seinfeld making a joke about waves acting like burly club bouncers. Ellen Page sleeping in her comfortable bed as Arley smokes on the hotel balcony at dawn. Peggy Hill using happiness to say a dirty word. Arley,18, and his little brother,13, looking at the alarm clock beeping at midnight, holding their greasy, sweaty video game controllers. A 5 year old Arley bouncing on the couch announcing that he was 5 years old.
"Okay, now let go of your partner's hands, raise your head up and open your eyes."
The group follows his orders except Arley who already has his eyes open.
"How long was that?"
"About 30 minutes, the appropriate amount of time, I think. Now does anybody want to talk about their experience?"
Most people downgrade their "experience" as a moment of peace. Some people talk about how it was the first nap they had in weeks. Others talk about how it was a brutally difficult challenge trying not to think about all of their problems. One person feels rejuvenated. Someone else thinks it was a complete waste of time. Arley isn't sure.
"This exercise was meant to be a primary evaluation of your current state of mind. For some of us, the next few weeks will be a blessing. For others, it will be a continuous hell."
The leader's mandatory speech prompts others to speak more truthfully about their moments, admitting that it wasn't as much of a waste of time as they had believed. They even look more relaxed with less wrinkles on their faces, less visible veins.
"Okay, that's all the time we have for today. We'll meet back here next week in the same room, hopefully."
Everybody stands up from their rusted chairs and walk out of the room, leaving only the leader and Arley, his legs curled up on the chair.
"Arley, I was a little disappointed that you didn't share your experience to the group. You looked very eager to talk in the beginning."
"Um, well, it wouldn't have mattered anyway since I don't really have anything important to say. Ever."
"Now that's ridiculous. Everyone has something important to say. I was wondering if you had some difficulty with our exercise."
"Yeah, I had a lot of trouble. I don't think I've ever had a peaceful moment in my life."
"Well," says the leader while touching Arley's shoulder, "there's always a chance to let a little bit of peace into your life. Listen, you have plenty of time now. Take a few minutes to think about what happened today and think about what the next step could be. It could take a long time but I'm sure you'll find it."
"Thanks. Have a good night."
Arley did spend the next few minutes usefully, walking to his apartment without a single gunshot wound, opening his apartment door without pulling his muscles, walking to his desk without tripping on his dirty clothes, searching for other anger management classes.

And with that, my 4-month break begins. But don't worry if you still want to get some kind of "blog" fix, the Tumblr blog is still avaliable for those services. And while you're at it, join the Facebook group or follow me on Twitter. My little brother Gary will take over the blog for now and he might post something zany so keep an eye out for that.

Middleness

Originally written in 12th grade.

In the creative writing club, one of our most popular projects had our group creating characters only with a few descriptions that defined them and then writing a story about these characters. I ended up with a bitter old man living in Russia and a 14 year old girl trying to find some kind of connection in the world. The story itself doesn't make much sense since the old man and the girl meet in Russia under serendipitous circumstances and an drunken Russian boy who can communicate perfectly with the old man and girl, as well as a planned subplot of the old man being a spy undercover who is trying to behave like a 95 year old when he is in fact, 72. And if there's one thing Russia is known for, it's drunken people and spies. Clearly, I have a very biased perspective on Russia and in order to complete the story, i would have to extensively research Russian culture and give a hint as to what would invite the girl to come to such a place. The story also deals with the problem of acceptance in a complicated world that rejects others, in this case, the innocent girl running away from the law, and the old man who couldn't stand to be around people he understood and moved to a country where he can remain as the foreign treasure. Originally, I wanted the girl to fall in love with the old man, but I realized that spinning a story with that kind of angle would be difficult to believe. I might eventually complete the story but only when I'm not boggled with other projects to worry about. Please leave comments and thanks for reading, if you do.
 
Characters by Creative Writing Club ’11

Masks of different kinds lined up his closet. Each looked like a fog of color that oversimplified its meaning.
“Rrrg.”
He trotted towards his drawer and picked up his glasses shaped with dark, thick frames and a 5-cm diameter circle. With the glasses, he could see beyond his field of view. He stumbled back to the closet and picked out today’s mask, a bleak expression that could remind someone of a fierce and unholy battle. Upon the slipping the mask on, he left his house and walked to a bar. He hated using a cane; he thought it was a sign of weakness even though he could seriously bludgeon someone if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’ll stumble off and get to a liquor store though he doesn’t figure it out since both places have similar odors. The bright lights confused him, the swear words even more so.
“You’re too young!”
“So what if I am?”
“Go away! And don’t come back!”
Kye stood for a while outside of the bar. Every time she saw the bartender, she made a face.
“Nyag!”
Inaudible. John bumps into Kye.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, old man?”
“That’s a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old man,” he said while adjusting his glasses. “People usually call me a geezer or a wiseass but not old man. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What-uh-whadda ya mean?”
“I’ve walked on this street for the past 47 years; never have seen someone as thin as you. Did you move in recently?”
“You can say that.”
“Now why did Frank do that earlier? He doesn’t give a damn about the drinking age.”
“Oh, he saw me staring at one of his sons, it seems, and got worried that they might be taken by my beauty.”
“Frank’s son is almost 20.”
“Well, he’s still a man.”
John slowly nodded his head. Compared to the lesser-minded individuals he was forced to interact, day after day, there hadn’t been a reason to nod at anyone. For a moment, John thought he was nodding incorrectly.
“What’s your name?”
“Kye. What’s yours, old man?”
“John. John Smith. You can laugh at the mediocrity later, ok?”
“What’s mediocrity?”
“Literally middleness. Halfness.”
“(chuckles) Seriously?”
“Very.”
The bar door swings open, smacking and dividing Kye away from John. A blue coated boy stumbles out of the bar, carefully choosing his next step. He opens up his coat and sees a broken bottle.
“Aw, shit! That was for my (burps) mother.”
“My fucking nose!” yells Kye, closing the door.  “You little-“
“Easy, Ki. Don’t’ forget you walk this way to go back home.”
“Right. I always go-um-wrong way.”
“Tell you what,” says John holding his cane with both hands. “How ‘bout I take you home?”
“Ok.”
John holds the little boy’s hand and walks carefully so the boy doesn’t throw up on his shoes. Kye, still massaging her nose, walks behind them. It’s a wonder, she thought, how much more attractive the old man was compared to the bartender’s son. Has it really been that long, she wondered.
“Mommy wanted the bottle. But it’s broke. She wont want it now.”
“Well, maybe I can take care of that, too.”
“Jesus, it’s cold out here!”
“Well, how long were you in there?” insisted John to Kye.
“A few hours, maybe minutes.”
The sidewalk remained consistent with the same pattern, gray, black, gray black. The walls of each street were colorless in nature and display, even the paint cracking under was a bleak eggshell white, not nearly as exciting or as whimsical as the snowflakes vibrating above their heads.
“We’re almost there. Keep your head up, boy.”
“I’m try (spits)’n. It’s (burps) nasty.”
 “Ki, how much can you lift?”
“Uh…some amount.”
“Would you mind carrying the boy?”
“Nnnno…if he doesn’t spread his mouth shit.”
“Sure. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kye approached the boy carefully. Never had she seen a more delicately constructed creature. His features were perfectly symmetrical, eyes were a glowing green, and even the little spittle at the side of his mouth reminded him of a teardrop that only a sensitive person could create. She gently lifted him up and carried him in her arms. Like holding a feather.
“Brooul!”
“Ugh, uh, ew!”
“You shouldn’t have picked him up that fast.”
“I..couldn’t help myself! He’s so cute. Ugh!”
“Urp…sm…I’m sorry.”
“It’s..okay, I guess.”
They continued walking; leaving behind the only original color the sidewalk will have for a week. In a short while, they arrived at John’s doorstep.
“I thought we were going home,” exclaimed the boy quizzically.
“We are. I just don’t want you to come empty-handed.”
John opened the door, and Kye stepped in, wanting to drop the boy on the couch. What surprised her, aside from the house smelling appropriately, was the lack of furniture.
“Jon, where can I drop him?”
“On the floor, I guess. Just don’t make another mess.”
As he commanded, she carefully placed the boy on the floor, unusually colorful and confusing from the repeatable tessellations she’d seen before.
“Here we go,” said John, looking at the only furniture at his house: a liquor cabinet with a beautifully engraved handle of a dragon on it. “Have a little vodka left over from my birthday party. Hope your mom likes this.”
“Thanks. I hope she does, too.”
“Do you want to leave now?” asked John.
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“This feels like Kindergarten.” replied Kye despondently.
“How so?”
“Sitting on the floor like misbehaving shits. Looking up at the teacher and listening to her. Or watching her lips open and close. Like a fish.”
John chuckles.
“What grade are you in, little boy?”
“The one you say. Kinder-garter.”
“Do you like it?”
“I no know. I was there once. But not again.”
“Hmm…mmm.” So innocent. So little.
“Ki.”
“Hm?”
“So what’s a sweet, innocent girl like you finding drunk, impotent men in Russia?”
“Well, (clears her throat), I’m an emancipated minor, my parents…were horrible people, and I’ve been traveling the rails, as they’d say in the 1800’s. I was at a library once, looking at pictures of buildings, when one of Russia’s (put her hand on her chest) in-credible buildings caught my attention. I was flabbergasted at its design, its colors, its inventiveness. I just had to see it. Just once. Touch it once. Oh. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not at all.”
John was a detail-oriented person, in thought and execution. He cross-examined Kye’s words, dissected every gesture and pulse she made. If Kye was aware of John’s ulterior motive, she would’ve been flattered.
“It was tricky, but luckily, I was able to sneak onto a flight and was on my way. To touch that building. I couldn’t wait, but life had other plans. Shortly after, the airline became aware of the stowaway and I ran, till I got to the bar. Eh, shit happens, Jon.”
“Amen.”
“By the way, is it J-O-N?”
“No. With an h.”
“That’s all right. Like I give a damn about my name, anyway. Yours is K-I?”
“No. K-Y-E. I give a bit more of a damn, but enough, it seems.”
“Thing is,” said John, sitting upright and moving his hands, “if you corrected your name every single time someone mispronounces it, it becomes a chore and your name’ll lose its initial significance.”
 “Huh. You’re right.”
“This time, Kye.”
One spoke, the other responded, an instinctive act neither of them had accomplished in a while. Inside, both of them wondered why the other hadn’t left yet.
“Hungry, Kye?”
“Oh, fucking. Whaddya got?”
“Well, let’s see.”
(TBC…)

Words That Don't Stop

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

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.

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.

Short Story

Sorry, we are currently experiencing some technical difficulties and will return with our regularly scheduled programming as soon as this blogging interface becomes less broken. Thank you for your patience.
  
Originally typed in December of 2009.

Pt. 1

I arrive a minute before the deadline, 11: 59 am, in tattered clothes and ripped jeans. This is my evening wear; my noon wear is still at the Laundromat’s. I think it’s been there since yesterday or Friday at the least. I know certainly in that period of time that the pink shirt with a blood splat on it and the plaid jeans have to be in the cart at the Laundromat’s, I just forgot to collect them. They should still be there. Anyway, I’m feeling pretty confused right now. I can hear the electrical surge from the neon sign, attempting to advertise a product at the worst possible time. People can read the sign since it’s in huge letters and it’s daytime. Why would you have the lights on at this time of day? I blame the restaurant owners’ laziness on this one. For some reason, everyone who’s passed me in the seconds I’ve arrived here has chuckled when they saw the sign. It’s a stereotypical neon sign, an aggressive shade of orange, in all capitals, nothing original. It has to be an inside joke of some sort, a city-only kind of joke. I would never know since I’m from Cincinnati.

48 seconds have gone by. Make that 52. I look in both directions to see if the girl is coming. It would be a better impression on her if I was already there, with a rose in my hand. No, too clichéd. Chrysanthemums, she’ll love those. Maybe.

The door handle feels like it was imported from Antarctica, my fingers are magnetized to it, and it feels as if every cell in my hand is becoming converted into frozen drops of water. It wouldn’t be a superhero kind of thing since only my hand would be affected; it would actually be a deformity.

The place looks okay, but I don’t see what the big deal is. The walls are painted professionally, but I sense an illusion happening here, that I can grab a part of the wall, tear it right off, and discover…something. Each waiter, despite having a fancy appearance, seems to be the kind of people who spit in your water, many times so I wouldn’t know what’s up. But I can tell. They are the gossiping individuals who continually complain about the client they had, pointing out every single flaw they could detect from him or her. I don’t know where they can get to with that information, maybe use it as a conversation starter at a party. Stepping into the place gives me an instinctual reaction to grab something and pull me out of a pit. The poor guy who took his time to paint this abomination on the whole floor. I commend him or she to have carefully dotted the floor in different colors to give a realistic interpretation of what sand may be like. What a shame. My table’s not too bad; it is right at the window with scarlet red squares and circles as part of the fabric’s design. The lighting reminds me of a theater, with the closing monologue seconds away from happening. Bit terrifying in a strange way; I can’t really see any of the other patrons. I can hear them, but it seems as though as I am all alone. That’s an exaggeration. It’s not that bad.

The only thing I know about this girl is that she’s a grammar freak. Contractions, prepositions, if it’s not in a sentence, it’s not hers. She gave me an unenthusiastic answer towards what she would be wearing when she comes here. White shirt and blue jeans. Lots of ‘Shelly’s have passed by, some of them guys. When the world at my normal field of view becomes boring, I begin to stare at the chand-no wait, ceiling…FAN! That’s right, ceiling fan!… I look at the fan. Such a fascinating piece of furniture. Wooden in each ‘blade’, a redwood oak kind of color, held together by a cylindrical figure of the purest white chemical science can deliver. Vrwhrrr, vrwhrrr. Such a peaceful noise, you could get a group of toddlers to stop crying simultaneously with this miracle from non-existent heaven. I can look at this fan for ages. I try to find one ‘blade’ and wish to join it on its never-ending journey by circling my head in rhythm with the fan.  Achieving Nirvana…

“Hey, stupidass!”

Damn. I stop moving my head to search for the origin of the screaming banshee. It’s a guy, at the table across from mine, mid-30’s, facial hair apparent, brown hair, blue business suit, and the typical ‘much too expensive for your own good’ type of watch. Can’t quite see the company name, maybe a Ro-

“Hey! Dumb fuck, over here!”

“What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“Do you have some kind of mental problem or something?”

“I don’t think it’s up to you to know that kind of information.”

“Well, there must be something wrong with you. Why the hell are you looking at the fan?”

“The, the fan?”

“Y...yes?”

“Well, um, you see that, um-”

“Whoa, what’s the problem? Can’t admit you’re a dumb fuck or what?”

"Is this the place for that kind of language?”

“Just answer the question."

“This fan…means a lot to me. It is a part of me, the indescribable part- Wait, who are you calling?”

“My girlfriend, Betty. She’s not gonna believe this one bit, that I finally met a client for her services.”

“What’s her job?”

“Psychiatrist. Ugh, this takes forever.”

“Wait just one goddamn minute! I’m not crazy. I’m just in love.”

“In love with what?  Something that in a few years will end up at the dump?”

“Hey, you and I are headed towards the same place, too! Cept mine will be nicer and with a marching band to boot. And…1, 2, 3...19…13 mourners!”

“287.”

“That’s impossible! That can’t be the amount of people who love you.”

“Oh, but it is…and counting.”

“Good for your ass. I’m gonna go back to what I was doing.”“Telling your beloved Kenmore how you enjoy kissing her 4 extra arms? What are you even looking at anyways? There’s no point in following one ‘blade’ around in circles. The quick rotations of the blades make the whole fan seem like one unit. There’s no need to go around in circles when you can just look at ONE, single unit!”

The spectators around us shouldn’t be letting this happen. Just like in a dogfight, all they do is watch patiently as the two dogs bite into each other’s flesh. They don’t care about the emotional connection between me and my beloved, and for that, I don’t care about them. I was seconds away from pushing the dude’s chair, when the waiter walked up to him, holding his dish. Sandwich at a restaurant? Whatever, it’s that guy’s life, that guy’s choice, and…that guy sucks.

“Here’s your sandwich, sir! Hope you enjoy it!”

“Yeah. Can you get…a bag, a doggy bag, please? I think I’ll eat it later.”
“Um…sure. Let me, um, direct you to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Strangely enough, my hatred towards this person made me that much more curious about him. Why is he really uptight? Did he have a difficult time at work today? More questions kept popping out, some of which I began to write down on a napkin. I wanted to see this guy again, still hate him, but more learn more about him so that my hate seems sensible instead of careless. The guy turned around and approached my table. Casually, but I still felt alert and grabbed the salt shaker.

“Here.”

“What’s this?”
“Betty’s card. You might want to hold on to that. Just in case.”

The smug bastard. I can’t believe he…Ooh, she’s cute. 

Pt. 2

Shelly should be here any minute now. All she’s told me about her so far is that she loves horror movies, preferred junk food is raisins, and plays part-time basketball, so for some reason, I can imagine her as a tall person. There could be many possibilities as to what a person can be if the only thing you've seen that's theirs is digitally reprinted text on a screen. Maybe it's her imminent appearance or the argument I had with the jackass, but suddenly I'm not very hungry. Strangest thing, I had a craving for a turkey sandwich with pumpernickel bread, slathered with honey mustard, and now, nothing. Not even water.

Shelly comes, skipping into the restaurant, politely speaking to the-wait...who's the person called? whatever, she talks to him, the guy points toward my table, and she walks to it. Turns out I was wrong about Shelly. She's pretty short, actually, reaches my neck, at least I think. Much cuter than Betty at least. Brunette, one line of hair that covers 5% of her left eye, pretty outfit. She's pretty. Oy, I'm a jackass. There's more to her, absolutely, but...right now, nothing particularly descriptive jumps out about her. Her shirt's blue, has a pocket protector, don't really know. Oh god, look at that color. Blue on every finger. Why do people do that to themselves? Does that really make them more beautiful, painting those already hideous abominations. I can't even look at my own  group of those bastards. Shelly sits at my table, on the seat right across mine. She...oh, it's not a shirt-takes off her jacket, revealing the white shirt she promised. Cept its more white than I imagined. I don't know if it's her Mona Lisa-esque face, or her simply divine combination of colors in her eyes, but something is making that shirt so damn bright. Ach, my eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Some dust flew into my eyes."

"Are you sure it wasn't sand? Ha, ha, ha!"

I get it. Floor looks like sand. Ha.

"So, what'd you do to get here?" I asked politely.

"I drove."

"You...uh, didn't...have any trouble? Didn't...um, crash in the middle of the way? Pick up...a murderous hitchhiker or(cough, cough)"

"Are you nervous, Darren? There's nothing to worry about. It's just us and other people we don't know."

"No, of course...(cough) Waiter!"

She's so fucking beautiful, I can't comprehend it. Suddenly more descriptions about her appeared like menu options, right in front of her face. Hair: Each strand could be used to knit together the most beautiful sweater fit only for Venus' apparel, but, then Shelly would be bald... ...hm. Nose: Only the likes of Michelangelo could carve a perfect replication of the curve on her nose. I would kill any other artist who would attempt such a feat. Eyes: The amount of colors in her eyes could be found and identified in a Kandinsky piece, yet each color meshes together into a united front of... color! Brown has never been this beautiful. That's just the face area, being described right now, I could spend weeks, literally weeks, describing every definitive aspect of her body, except then, I would have to assume a new role: Darren, recently graduated college student, mama's boy, stalker. Not worth it. 

"Do you need some water? I have a water bottle in my bag."

"Ach, yes, prease-"

She grabbed the bottle, and threw it across. Bad idea since I'm such a butterfingers. The bottle bounced off the right side of my palm, then the left, hit my forehead, and then stopped. Tightly in between my hands. It wasn't going on anywhere. For some reason, I couldn't get that damn cap off, twisted it, smacked it on the table. I had to ask for her help but, almost immediately as I thought that, her slender, perfect fingers tapped the bottle, a slight twist, and the cap was off. She must've understood my struggle as she threw away the cap. Or maybe she does that with all caps, I don't know. 

"(chuckle) Go on. Drink up." she said, with a humorous smile.

As you wish, my darling. Must've been either out of my mind or trying to impress her as I drank the whole bottle in one gulp. Kept burping the rest of the time, also. I apologized for every burp I would make, even some that we both couldn't hear. Such an interesting woman, obviously I was wasting my time with those chat conversations we had on the intershit. Okay, it's not that bad, but face-to-face conversations are my preference to one-line-one-minute--wait-two-minutes-for-response conversations. Really loves horror movies, she retold the first 15 minutes of The Exorcist in descriptive detail. She can watch Child's Play and tell me all about it so people can stop bitching to me about never seeing it. That  fucking red-haired midget. Plays basketball, but actually is a professional at golf. She could give me some pointers. Grammar freak, maybe two months ago, but not so much anymore. She's trying harder now to switch from her essay voice to her casual voice. It must've been her parents' fault for that, switching from whatchyall doin' to what are you all doing. She actually has a pretty impressive vocabulary; She could help me with some of my job resumes and make me sound smarter than I really am. This could work out.

Pt. 3

"You wouldn't believe this guy. He just starts barking at me, for no reason, just cause I was looking at the fan. He has no sense of furniture appreciation," was my attempt at chit-chat.
"I know what you mean." She puts her arms flat on the table, holding her head up and staring dreamily at me. Or is she bored? Huh. "Once, I came to an electronic department store to purchase cables for my high-definition surround sound system, and I just couldn't stop looking at this fascinating component that hung up on the wall. The-Most-(word to be determined later) component I have ever seen. I still don't understand why to this day."

I chuckled, a bit too loud, however. I just couldn't stop looking at her face, until my neck started aching. This was a chance to really observe the scenery. 

"Sorry, my neck hurts a little. I need to-move it around. You know."

"I don't but, heh, go on ahead."

Turned to the left, the right, up, down, diagonal, oh shoot.

Blue. Fingernail. Paint. I completely forgot she put that on her gorgeous fingers. Ugh, I can't understand why she had to do that to herself. What does that improve, anyway? Is it a beauty issue? I just don't understand. She's definitely not my counterpart if she does that to herself. How dare her! Damn that blue, it keeps tempting me to stare right back at those things, those careful brushstrokes repeating themselves over and over. The crime was done, a few days ago, at 8 pm, in her room, with every light turned on. She had to staple her fingers to the table to do this crime. The light's suddenly went off, but she kept going, torturing those terrified fingers till the deed was done. Heartless...harlot! "Is your neck getting better?"

"Uh, kind of."

You dirty, fucking bitch.

"So...what are you going to get? I think the waiter's getting impatient," said the siren.

"Uh, I don't know. I'm not really hungry."

"I think I'm gonna- Sorry, I mean, going to get something with fish."

Too bad that those fish don't have any nails so you can plaster your shit all over their fins.

" Maybe I’ll get some appetizers. Tiny burgers, or crackers with cheese."

"Mmm, the salmon looks good. Mm,mm!"

I can't take it anymore! I just can't look at those things any further. From my perspective, all I had to hide those freaks was to...well, I can't quite describe it, but with my hands together, I placed them right below my nose, closed, and squinted my eyes for to put the focus only my hands. She wasn't an idiot, she knew something was going on.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry but I just can't look at those things anymore."

"Excuuuse me?!"

"Those things. I can't look at those things anymore."

"And why can't you look at those things anymore?"

"Well, they're right there, right in front of my face, presenting their supposed greatness to the world. And just to make both of us clear, they're not that impressive, either."

It took her a few seconds to comprehend that line, and a split second for a rebuttal. 

"You know what? Fuck YOU!!!" 

She stood up, grabbed a cup from a table, and splashed it right in my eyes. My manliness told me to just stay quiet, and swallow this unfortunate occurrence with dignity, but my common sense told me to scream and never stop screaming, till it was appropriate. A week later, I told my mother about this incident, and she told me, clearly and offensively, why Shelly became offended.

 

Oy, I'm a jackass.