Random Chatterings [Ep. 14] - Random Chatterings OVA Pt. 1

The brothers celebrates 100 blog posts with a massive discussion about Japanese animation! In the first segment, the brothers talk about their first impressions of anime after watching Pokemon and Dragon Ball Z in their childhood. In the next segments, the brothers dissect what they’ve found interesting about the batch of anime they’ve recently seen! They include: Nichijou, Lucky Star, Ika Musume, and Yuru Yuri. Spoilers ahead!

DOWNLOAD [46:52]

(Google Drive music player can’t play files that are over 25 megabytes. Click on the download arrow at the top of the page to download the episode. Thanks!)

Part 2!

If it fancies you, you can now listen to Parts 1-4 in one place!

DOWNLOAD [2:40:33]

Technical info:

Recorded with Adobe Audition CC by Arlill and Gary Rodriguez

Edited with Adobe Audition CC by Arlill Rodriguez

Music Collected by Gary and Arlill Rodriguez

2015

EPISODE 13.5                                                             EPISODE 14.5

Full Music/Video Credits Below (w/ time-stamps)

Cold Opening

[0:00] Akari Yuru Yuri intro from YouTuber switch2740’s channel

[0:06] "Random Chatterings Theme Song (piano and orchestrated versions)" composed by Sergiy Turchyn

Introduction

[1:20] Cha-La Head-Cha-La composed by Chiho Kiyooka, arranged by Kenji Yamamoto with vocals by Hironobu Kageyama

[4:34] Pokémon Theme by Jason Paige

[7:49] Sonic X Theme written by Russell Velazquez, Joseph Garrity & Norman Grossfeld

[8:49] Sonic Drive: Music & Arrangement by Cher Watanabe, written by Takeshi Aida with vocals by Hironobu Kageyama & Hideki Takatori

[12:30] Yu-Gi-Oh! Theme composed by Wayne Sharpe

[15:45] Pokemon Main Theme (Melee version) composed by Juni’chi Masuda, arranged by Hirokazu Ando, Tadashi Ikegami, Shogo Sakai

[17:33] Pokemon Theme (Movie version) in Spanish by Alvaro Véliz and Daniela Aleuy

Segment 1

[19:15] Hyadain no Kakakata Kataomoi-C by Hyadain

[23:03] ZZZ by Sasaki Sayaka

[25:18] Motteke! Sailor Fuku by Aya Hirano & Katou Emiri & Kaori Fukuhara & Aya Endou

[29:29] Kumikyoku "Lucky Star Douga” remixed by Lucky Star no Minna

[31:53] Shinryaku no Susume by ULTRA-PRISM

[36:13] Metamerism by Kanae Itou

[38:19] Yuriyurarararayuruyuri Daijiken by Nanamori Middle School Amusement Club

[42:02] Yuru Yurin Rin Rin Rin Rin by Nanamori Middle School Amusement Club

[44:37] Koigokoro wa Dangan mo Yawarakakusuru composed by Nomi Yuuji from the CD Nichijou BGM & Radio Bangumi 3

"Mental" Notes: The Freshman Years (Pt. 1 of 2)

With this post, I premiere my new column, "Mental" Notes. It's meant to be a public way to flex my brain lobes during an intense period of writer's block. "Mental" Notes, although it is meant to be a type of public forum, won't have the same kind of grammatical attention as other posts will, as it's meant to be a stream-of-consciousness form of brainstorming. "Mental" Notes won't be a weekly column, and there's a chance two posts of "Mental" Notes might follow the other on the next day or have a space of a month without another post. 

College was a wonderful experience, at least during the first weeks. After that, it became increasingly difficult to get inspired enough to write anything so any idea that would cross my mind, I would immediately type it via Evernote, even if it meant getting certain details to be very specific or vague enough that I could recall it later that night. I would continue to complain to everyone I knew how most of my ideas were either repetitive, blockbuster-ish, nonsensical, or just terrible, although everyone still wanted to hear about it. If anything, the only thing holding me back this year was my own self-criticism. There were several projects that I've been working on for weeks, Semaphore being one of them, but the writing process has been such a pain that these once entertaining projects have now become a burden, one I wish I could just do away with. Despite my negativity, I plan to finish Semaphore this summer. In fact, every single time I type anything, it feels like I'm just regurgitating someone else's ideas and passing them off as my own. Maybe I'm facing reality at this point, realizing that since I'm in college, I have to think about a likely career which at this point is being a writer, but that's as ambiguous a career as you can get. Now that I've bored you all with my incessant negativity, let's get to the point. The following ideas are some of the bright points of my wallowing, obscure beginnings as a writer in college, the few times when just considering how an idea could work have been a joy to figure out. Since I acknowledged it, one thing I will work on over the summer is improving my outlook on life. Whether it'll make a difference by the end of the summer, I'll have to see. I'll post more information about the individual ideas in the comments. Enjoy!  

(1) An average, normal day at Case Western Reserve University goes on as a junior takes a break from studying to read his favorite short story by Ray Bradbury. All is well and peaceful until a car drops from out of nowhere right into the middle of the street. The care lands nose-first and scrapes along for a few feet until stopping and dropping its back wheels onto the street. The junior looks away from the book and rushes over to the car. After struggling to open it, he uses his book to smash open the window, and opens the door with the door handle. He looks around for a second to see if anybody is inside when his entire arm is being held up a loud, growling noise. A dog leaps from the car and starts attacking the junior.
"This is what I get for saving your life?" he retorts as he slips off his jacket and drops it, which the dog continues to chew on. The junior cautiously enters the car, and notices something in the back. There are a stack of paint cans that cover most of the back seat. When the junior touches the can, all of them collapse on him and the junior is completely drenched in paint. After checking the labels, he's relieved in knowing that the paint is non-toxic but astonished when he realizes what year the cans are from: 2100(The current year is 2011). One of the dogs waits in the front of the car, shaking nervously, until it sees the junior approaching him carefully, and finally embracing him energetically with many licks on the cheek. The dog who attacks him tries again with the junior grabbing the dog's body and forcing it to behave properly. The dog gets half its body doused with "future" paint, as a result, so other people only see its backside instead of its front. The junior doesn't realize he's invisible until he notices a curious police officer paying no attention to him as the officer investigates the crash. The officer bumps into him and gets frightened, claiming that there's something in the car that can't be seen. The group of students try to approach the car but the officer threatens to punish anyone who does. The junior sees the dogs leaping out of the car and tries to follow them. The crowd screams in horror at the sight of the attacking dog's hind legs and tail.
"Where are you going?" says the junior to the dog. "Come on!" he picks up the two dogs and runs away.

One morning, when I was walking to class, a quick scene played out in my mind that involved a car landing nose-first and dragging itself on the road for about 8 seconds while the hapless college student can only watch. From that point, ridiculous plot points kept making more connections to the idea until reaching the conclusion that the car was part of an experiment that went wrong(not horribly wrong, mind you). At one point, during the original draft, I made an unnecessary joke about that the paint cans covered by the shroud resembled a corpse, scaring the junior to fall back on the car horn. To be fair, the plot is rich enough that I could consider it for a short story in the future, but far too advanced and technologically demanding for a short film.

(2) An R-rated movie for kids. A poorly timed music festival goes horribly wrong when riots threaten to destroy the entire city. The riots end after a week but the effect on the city doesn't. No one dares to try to leave their homes in fear of looters and graffiti artists. Two brothers, 13 and 8, do the unthinkable and go to the site of the music festival. They notice a banner that has been ripped from its pole but is still in pretty good shape. They go back home and try to make a kite of the banner. At the same time, a powerful gust of wind takes the two brothers, working in the garage, out of it, and into the skies, all 1000 feet of it. Hanging on tightly, the brothers begin fearing for their lives until they get high enough that they are able to see beyond the city and are amazed at the sight of it.  Brothers paragliding across the country using many large fabrics to get to their destination. Later on, they improve the design of the first banner, are able to find a second banner, and begin a ludicrous cross-country journey around the US. A frightening moment: bullies start chasing the two brothers and obtain a weapon to try to pierce the fabric.

This idea came about in a vivid dream I had one night. It began with both me and my brother running away from a manic who's shooting at us. A few bullets pierce bits of the fabric that we're holding. The maniac starts reloading bullets, just as my brother and I notice a steep drop ahead of us. At that moment, two of the maniac's cronies drop in from nowhere with automatic machine guns and RPG's. We have no choice but leap from the edge. We let the fabric unravel, open up, and the wind currents miraculously carry us into the skies. The maniac pulls out his own fabric (from out of nowhere) and chase us. The dream skips the chase and ends with my brother and I flying next to some hot air balloons. The background, about the ruined music festival, was included afterwards for the concept. This is a concept I'd love to return to in the future, possibly when I have a large enough budget to film it. 

(3) A man watching television is verbally assaulted by the television personality(TP) he's watching. After a few seconds of futile insults, the TP starts hurling glass bottles at him(that don't break)-(the man has difficulty reacting to the bottles hitting his head, only being able to slur out an inaudible word) until, finally, the man decides to turn off the TV and go for a walk. He opens the door, and takes a step, and falls 10-15 feet in a ditch that surrounds his house. For the next few minutes, the man struggles to pull himself out of the ditch despite his broken bones.

3) This idea came to mind shortly after a ridiculously long study session. I was walking back to my dorm, and an image of a man, whose fluids have been replaced by rancid toxins, watches an increasingly boring program. It was one of my many inspiring daydreams that temporarily replace reality with an unusual premise. It becomes a problem when I act out the scene in real-time to people in passing. The idea for the man to fall in the ditch was a way to surprise the viewer in my hallucinatory fantasy. Shortly after, I preceded to watch an entire web series, CrackedTV, from beginning to end…and it was still Wednesday.

(4) A college student, upon realizing he's becoming less and less social, decides to overcome his fear of greeting everyone while walking by deciding to embarrass himself and say "Ripe figs" repeatedly while walking in numerous tones(whispering and shouting).

After a brainstorming session about programs to consider airing on the college television station, I thought about an unusual PSA that encouraged people to say "Ripe Figs" as a way to break the ice in the college community. I would be the unfortunate guinea pig in the skit for Case Jackass (a show that sounds exactly like what you'd expect) and says "Ripe Figs" in a large crowd of people while someone would be filming from a distance. This is still currently a "private" idea but would be worth a shot as an abnormal experiment or at least a conversation topic for the cynics at Case Western.

(5) A short story/short film describing your trouble with making mac and cheese in college. It'll be called "Mac and Cheese".

This was my idea for my first short film before writing Semaphore. It would've starred myself as the hapless college student who forgot to practice making mac and cheese before coming to college. It would've been a combination of slapstick, visual gags, and exaggerated facial expressions (just like every other comedy). It was based on my actual first attempt at making mac and cheese one Friday afternoon when I was too lazy to head over to the dining halls which was a 2 minute walk from my dorm. I followed the instructions very closely but still made the mistake of drowning my macaroni in boiling hot water, causing the individual pasta pits to mend into a clump of fabricated greed. I poured the cheese on it and ate it, clump and all. It was the most embarrassing thing I'd eaten up to that point but I only had to wait two days for more disgraceful examples of sustaining myself in college.

(6) A short "foreign" film about someone who is with his friend, but then cuts his lips deeply. Done with gibberish and body gestures.

After writing the first draft of Semaphore, I took a walk and had this scene play in my head. It was supposed to be a heightened example of gestures being a way to express emotions coupled with buckets of blood pouring out of the lips (because that's funny, right?) Overall, this was more of an amusing thought than something I would consider making.

(7) Possible idea for a Spanish short story: the tale of a rat who survives a nuclear blast.

After I took Introduction of Spanish Literature, I realized that I didn't give enough attention to the Spanish culture as I should have all these years and in the spirit of the work of Julio Cortázar, I decided to write my own short story in Spanish. This was the first idea I considered. To be fair, it never went beyond this sentence and a quick little sketch I drew to visualize the impact, but it would've been a combination of prose and poetry, giving an impression of the explosion but never explaining where/why it happened. The rat would've been an interesting analogue for the aftermath of the blast. For some reason, I'm inspired by explosions, the look, sound, and feel of them, and like Hollywood, it's something I tend to heavily abuse during my daydreams.

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…)

Degas' Laundresses

Originally written in 11th Grade.

This was the following project after the short story. The assignment was to use a poem we discussed in class and make an adaptation of it, in the form of a theatrical play. Originally, the project felt like an obligation that I had to finish, as I couldn't connect well with the characters as I had in my previous projects, but later in the class when we had a chance to revise any project of our choice, I decided to revise this one since I felt it had lots of unused potential. The first draft(of 4 pages) was well-received in the class, more so than the short story, with some people being really impressed at how fully fledged out and three dimensional the characters were despite the source material. Some criticized the prose likeness but really, for any project, it's much easier to work with prose than with a proper screenplay. The version I'm posting is almost 11 word-doc pages. The play was a daring departure from my other projects, mainly due to the inclusion of female characters, and an attempt at a story related to life other than an exaggerated comical situation. Many told me it would've been a worthwhile inclusion in the school's playwright festival, but I wasn't sure it was ready for that kind of recognition. There were numerous amounts of changes I made, such as the character's names, the timing for moments, dialogue that wasn't period related; it was truly a difficult but worthwhile effort. I don't know if I'll ever come back to this project in the future, by then, much more diverse ideas will have come and gone, but the project as it stands is still an important part of my career as a writer, when only the characters and myself could dictate if it would be a success. Please enjoy the one-time only showing of Degas' Laundresses.

Pt. 1
Scene 1
Setting: 19th Century France, The Art Studio
Characters:  Merle, Corentine, The Artist

Curtain rises. Dim lights. Merle sits with her back to a large piece behind her, unaware that it’s been painted recently. Her legs stretch towards the audience, as if wanting them to come join her. She’s dressed in a simple white dress with some traces of dirt. She holds her fist tightly, covering most of her mouth. She allows one finger to be set free unknowing that the finger curls up on her chin. She stares with contempt at the audience for 20 seconds. She begins wincing in pain and blinks her eyes a few times.

Merle: (pinching her left arm as punishment) Eh, ah! Aaahh…ech… (Stops pinching) Ah… (Sighs)

Lights slowly become brighter, revealing most of the scenery. A tub of water is at the left side of the stage, with a small pile of clothes next to it. Merle stands up, her left leg slightly bent. She stretches her arms towards the audience, and then clasps her hands. The rest of her motions are simple stretches, no detail is needed for those. After she is done, she walks over to the tub of water, and puts her knees to the floor. She begins sweating almost immediately and uses her right arm to dry off. She forgets about the patches of dirt on her palm, and makes salty mud. She looks at her hand for a moment then dries off using a black smock from the pile. She grabs a white shirt from the pile and dunks it carelessly in the tub. She puts lots of pressure onto the shirt as if she is drowning a helpless victim, waiting to smack it back down if it comes up for air. She makes a puzzled expression as she quickly takes the shirt out of the tub. The shirt is now blue. She takes a closer look at the water, and then realizes what she has just done. She drops the shirt, and walks back to where she had been. Lights become brighter, revealing an enormous painting. The painting has a mixture of colors, near the bottom, almost like a tidal wave of colors that don’t fit with each other. It leaves a blank spot on the painting, as if it was trying to be erased. The woman’s position is halfway towards the painting, and half towards the audience.

Merle: No. No! No-au-ahhh! (Sobbing) Noooo! Aug-hu-ha! Ahhgggg! (Breaths deeply) Mmmm… Hoh! (Sniffles) Uh. (Coughs) (Sniffles)

There’s a loud knock. Merle attempts to contain herself by wiping away her tears with her dress. She dusts herself off and walks to the right side of the stage. She looks at the reflection from the doorknob. She gets frightened at what she’s become and cleans herself up more carefully, evening out the marks on her face. Another knock.

Merle: (coughs) (sniffles) Ex-excuse me one moment.

Corentine: Who said that? I thought this place was empty at this time.

Merle appears relieved to find that someone else is at the door. She grabs the doorknob, cautiously still, and opens the door. A woman, an inch smaller in height than her, wearing a similar white dress with a flower stitched on it, comes in. Corentine passes Merle, and stares in awe at the studio. She can’t help but walk nonchalantly around the stage, walking back to where she was. Corentine sees Merle.

Corentine: Oh, I’m so sorry. I did not see you there. (Clasps her hands apologetically) Please forgive my rude-

Merle: You’re forgiven. Who are you?

Corentine: What do you mean? You…did not know I was coming?

Merle: I’ve been here most of today (clasps her hands tightly)…and yesterday (Separates hands).

Corentine: Oh, how unfortunate! Do you ever eat or-

Merle: (Staring stupefied) Wha?! Kind of question is that?

Corentine: Sorry! I was just wondering how the services-

Merle: They’re fine. Don’t worry about that.

Merle walks away from Corentine, both arms tight and (frigid), and goes back to the pile of clothes. Corentine walks behind her, about 5 feet apart. Merle sits down and turns around, frowning when she sees Corentine right in front of her.

Merle: What are you doing?

Corentine: Is this where I’m supposed to be?

Merle: I don’t know! (Throws her hands up in the air) I don’t know anything about you besides your tendency to ask stupid questions! Are you supposed to be here?

Corentine: I…eh…yes. (Sits with an apologetic expression)

Merle: (Turns back towards clothes) then start folding. Don’t get in the way.

Corentine: (Like a toddler who misbehaved) Okay.

Merle goes back to washing clothes, forgetting that the water hasn’t been replaced. She dips a shirt in the water, splashing both of their white dresses. She pulls it out, noticing it’s turned blue.

Merle: Aaghg!

Merle molds the shirt into a ball and hurls it to the center of the stage. Corentine looks at the formation and departure of the ball-shirt with a curious expression. She can’t help but run towards the shirt, pick it up, and look at it.

Corentine: Wow. This is interesting. (Looks at the sleeves) Ooh! (Turns the shirt around)

Merle: (Scratching her head) will you stop that? There’s nothing special about that shirt. It’s blue and it’s useless. That’s all you have to know. Now get back here, right now!

Corentine: (looks away from the shirt and leers at Merle) Hold on a minute, I’m just…a little curious. I mean look at it! (Holds the shirt towards Merle) I mean how does something like that happen. It’s fascinating!

Merle: (Irritated) No, it’s useless. The great artist hates blue shirts. I wouldn’t be too concerned over this if the shirt became red or orange. That’s fine. But not blue. I have to get rid of the shirt.

Corentine: No! (Starts hugging the shirt) You can’t! (Hugging more tightly) Can I…at least have it?

Merle: Oh, now look at what you’ve done! Your dress is ruined, you fool!

Corentine pulls the shirt away from her and looks down. Blue drops of water tumble down and over the folds on her dress, leaving an intriguing pattern on her dress, similar to the calm painting style of a Monet.

Corentine: (Looking closer) Actually, I like this. It’s much more interesting this way.

Merle: Oh, for… Fine, you can have the shirt. And I really couldn’t care less about the way your dress looks, truthfully.

Corentine: (Eyes lighting up) Oh, thank you! You are so kind!

Merle: (under her breath) Right.
Pt. 2

Corentine walks eloquently back to Merle who has picked up the tub of water, and dunked it offstage. She comes back onstage and puts the tub back where it was. She sits back down, where she was, and grabs a white smock. Corentine sits next to Merle. Merle dunks the white smock in the water and tries to scratch off some of the dirt marks. Merle goes on with her normal routine as Corentine patiently watches on. 30 seconds go by. Merle becomes more irritated with each passing second, as she begins ripping her fingers through some of the clothing. 10 more seconds. Merle’s fingers curl up like the claws of a beast, waiting to tear into the entrails of a dying carcass. Time.

Merle: (Dunking the shirt, splashing both of them a bit) what are you even doing here, anyway?! You’ve done nothing but stare at me for what feels like forever! If you aren’t going to help, then just leave!

Corentine: I’m…I’m-

Merle: Sorry?! For what? For being incompetent? Useless? That’s your own damn fault!

Corentine: (Starts tearing up) I…

Merle: My god, what is your problem? Speak!

Corentine:  I had a chance and I took it! That is my problem! (A teardrop)

Merle: What are you…what?

Corentine: (Sniffles) A chance to work with the greatest artist in France. The one and only. (Starts crying, but hides her tears in her hands) The great one!

Merle looks at Corentine for a few seconds as Corentine’s tears scatter onto the ground. Merle reconsiders her next comment and thinks for a moment. 

Merle: Oh. Uh… (Still irritated but a bit sympathetic) so…you’re a painter?

 Corentine: (sniffles) Yes. (Sniffles) I’ve painted many things. Well, I am a painter but I want to be a better one.

Merle: (pinching herself over guilt) Eh! (Lets go) Listen, I understand your problem, but why did you come here of all places?

Corentine: I would tell you but…I can’t think straight right now. I just want to start by apologizing for being-

Merle: No, I’m sorry. I thought you were a laundress. Or my replacement. I overreacted. I do that from time to time.

Corentine: That’s fine. (Cracks open a little smile)

Merle: (almost as if the act is foreign, tries to mimic her smile) listen, you look like a wonderful girl but… you can’t work here. You wouldn’t learn anything that you don’t already know.

Corentine: What do you mean? (Wipes tears from the right side)

Merle: I…

Corentine: Yes?

Merle: (Stares at the ground for 8 seconds) I think…you might enjoy yourself here.

Corentine: (Coming closer) What?

Merle: (Looks up) YOU’LL BE FINE HERE!(Sees Corentine shaken) Oh-(pinches herself) Ah, ah, eh! (Lets go) You’ll-(coughs)You’ll be fine here. Make yourself comfortable.

Corentine: (A little stunned) Uh…why did you…

Merle: (Grabbing another shirt) Oh, that always happens. You will get used to it.

Corentine: (Jokingly, but still phased) Well, I hope that I do!

Corentine, tearless, feels gratified in learning that she can stay. Overdramatically, she begins skipping with joy around the stage while Merle proceeds with washing the shirt.

Corentine: La,la,la,la,ala,ala,laala-(trips) Ahh!(Falls on the ground, a few feet away from Merle, dragging her dress) Ohhh!

The noise alerts Merle, and she turns to see Corentine on the ground. She puts her shirt down momentarily and picks up a different one. She dunks it in the water. Corentine is sitting up, searching her body for injuries. Merle hurls the wet shirt. The shirt flies across the air, little drops of water drip on the stage, hitting Corentine directly on her chest, wrapping itself around her like a mother grasping her long, lost child.

Corentine: Ah!

Corentine removes the shirt and holds it on her arms.

Corentine: Why did you do that?

Merle: What are you expecting? It is my job and now it is yours.

Corentine looks at the shirt carefully, a bit disappointed that it isn’t as vibrant and wonderful as the blue shirt.

Corentine: Mmm…

Merle: Well? What are you waiting for? Get started!

Corentine: M- Oh! Uh, I do not kn-

Merle: Oh, what kind of excuse is that? Come here and I will tell you how it is done.

Corentine: (Standing up with the shirt in her right hand) Oh… thank you. Thank you very much!

Merle picks up the shirt she had before and dunks it the tub. Corentine walks over to Merle and sits next to her, eager to begin her lessons. Merle moves a few inches away. Merle takes out the shirt and shows it to Corentine. Merle drops the shirt.

Merle: OH! I…forgot something! I will be right back!

Merle walks offstage. She returns a few seconds later with a scrub brush and a bar of soap.

Merle: I must have lost half a mind to think I could do this without soap. (Turns to Corentine) Pay very close attention. This is very simple.

Corentine nods and looks at Merle admiringly. Merle moves an inch away in alarm. Merle, quickly and without pause, teaches Corentine the basic steps of laundry.

Merle: And that is all. See, like I told you, it is simple.

Corentine: It is easy! Oh, I could do this in my sleep!

Merle: (under her breath) You would drown first. (Aloud) Maybe, but you still have to be careful. (Looks up and curls her eyebrows) You know what? I have taught you enough. Would you like to try doing this yourself?

Corentine: (Amazed, yet unsure) Oh, that would be splendid! But…I do not feel as if I know enough…you know? You have done this much longer than I have-

Merle: Nonsense! You will be fiiine! Do not worry. (Walks towards the door) You will be just…fine…

Merle sits with her back on the door, and her arms crossed behind her head. Corentine looks at the tub of water. She sees her reflection in the water and makes a face to it. She makes a few more. When she remembers what she was supposed to do, she grabs a shirt and gets started. She works for about one and half minutes until she gets to a shirt with a larger patch of dirt. Surprised for just a moment, she grabs a bar of soap and scrubs with the brush.
Pt. 3
Corentine: Mm! Mm! Eh! Eegghh…

Corentine, noticing that the patch doesn’t get smaller, furiously dive-bombs the tub, splashing the floor a bit. She gets the shirt at the edge to the water, like an amateur surfer who doesn’t want to stand, and scrubs more intensely, unaware of her own potential.

Corentine: Eegghh! Err! RRAAAHHH!!

Corentine pierces the shirt open, making a large hole. The shirt ripping makes a loud, unrealistic noise that can terrify the audience.

Corentine: (Staring deeply at the shirt) UH! Uhh…Rrr…GR! DAMN IT!!

Uncontrollably, she throws the brush, which hooks onto the shirt, to the center of the stage, while it becomes more difficult for her to breathe. The brush makes a loud clunk noise that vibrates across the stage, yet isn’t enough to wake Merle, who is fast asleep.
     
Corentine: Rrr! Ouh!(Breathes for a few seconds) Oh no. Oh no! Oh! What have I done? Oh!

Corentine turns left and right guiltily and looks at Merle. She looks back and begins staring at her own hands, shaking in horror.

Corentine: (Breaths deeply) Oh. Oh… What have I done? What have I just did? This is…wrong! Oh! Oh!

Corentine shakes for a few more seconds until she covers her face and begins crying uncontrollably. She gradually begins coming closer to the floor. Once there, she stretches her legs towards the tub, nearly tipping it over. She continues crying, more and more loudly. Merle, who looks to be at peace as if it was the first time in years, begins blinking her eyes, absorbing the scenery around her. She becomes displeased in realizing she’s still in the studio.

Merle: (Sniffles) Yeh! Aaaahhh... (Yawns) Oh no.

Merle’s eyes open wide and stare at Corentine. She strokes her hair and rubs her eyes in shock and amuse.

Merle: (Chuckling) What are you doing?

It takes a few moments for Corentine for process this comment. Once she does, she tries to stop crying to respond back, but is still lying on the floor.

Corentine: (Looking at Merle) Geh! Uuh! Bu-

Merle: You are embarrassing yourself. Come. Stop, okay?

Corentine: Uuh…Im…monstuh…

Merle: What?

Corentine: I’m a monster! Can you not seeee?!

Merle, beginning to feel a little sympathetic, walks until she sees the ripped shirt hooked onto the brush. She grows a little bit furious until she begins to smile. She chuckles and picks it up.

Merle: Good work! (Looking at the hole) You got the stain out!

Corentine: Eeee…augh! (Looks away from Merle)

Corentine continues to cry, making several high noises like a baby. Merle walks over to Corentine, and carelessly throws the shirt-brush into the water, splashing Corentine a bit. She kneels down next to Corentine and places her hand on Corentine’s hair, caressing a little bit. Corentine stops crying for a moment and begins moving her head closer to Merle’s knees. Merle, a bit confused, allows Corentine to do so until Corentine’s head and neck are placed on Merle’s lap. Corentine silently smacks and licks her lips. Corentine swallows whatever she had in her throat and clears her throat.

Corentine: I’m a monster.

Merle: (Softly) No, you are not.

Corentine: I am. (Sniffles) I am a beast.

Merle: (Softly) Nonsense.

Corentine: Then why did I-

Merle: You were frustrated. It is perfectly understandable.

Corentine: But…I’ve never…done that before. I felt like a demon from... Oh, I cannot say!

Merle: Go ahead.

Corentine: A demon from Hell!

Corentine stays silent for a few more seconds until she begins to rise from Merle’s lap.
Pt. 4
Merle: (Whispers) Stay down.

Corentine: (Surprised) What?

Merle: (Aloud) Nothing! I did not say anything!

Corentine sits upright near Merle. Merle, blushing a bit, stands up and stretches her arms.

Merle: (Breaths deep) Ahh. So what went wrong?

Corentine stands up, a bit shaken, and dusts herself off.

Corentine: A certain shirt tried to make a fool of me. And…ended up succeeding. (Nervously giggles) Really, I must apologize for my brutish behavior.

Merle: It is fiiiine! Do not worry about it! Sometimes, on a really difficult day, if rip three or four shirts, I try to rip two or three at a time to see how much more strong I have become. I could survive a brawl here.

Corentine: With how many men?

Merle: Two on a good day, five on a bad one.

Corentine moves her hand toward her lips, trying to stifle her laughter but failing to do so. Her laughs are unpleasant and strangely offensive to Merle.

Merle: Please! It is not that funny!

Corentine: (Laughing) No! Of course it is not!

Corentine lets her mouth go and her arms move at their own pace. Her body sways back and forth and she nearly loses her balance. Corentine begins laughing more and more manically. Her face starts becoming red and she can’t stop blinking her eyes. Merle grows more and more impatient until she grabs Corentine from the sides of her body and shakes her furiously like a child wondering what his present is.

Merle: STOP LAUGHING!!

Corentine opens her eyes wide, staring right into Merle’s countenance, and shuts her mouth tightly. She begins struggling to breathe and opens her mouth.

Corentine: Uhhua! Huu! (Coughs) Agh! Ooph… (Breathes) Oh. I am so very sorry. I have never heard a joke that vulgar.

Merle: What?! You stupid idiot!

Corentine: (Chuckles) Well, I am sorry but I have not.

Merle: What did you think I meant by ‘a brawl’? You know what? I do not want to know!

Corentine: (Guiltily) Oh, but I am very sorry! That was not what I was thinking! You are not that kind of woman!

Merle: Exactly! Wait…you were just joking?

Corentine: Of course. A brawl is a fight. Five men is a lot of men. Five on a bad day. It is funny!

Merle: (Staring intently) Funny. Funny, funny, funny, funny. It is what is.

Corentine: What is the matter? You did not think…that was funny?

Merle: (Thinking) I do not know. I do not what is funny anymore. (Holding her chin) I know one time in my life I would have gotten an aneurysm from laughing at that joke. Well, maybe not. It was the joke of an amateur.

Corentine: (Giggling a little) It was bad, was it not?

Merle: (Chuckling) Horrible. All right. Enough talk. Back to work. I know you will need my help after how badly you destroyed that shirt.

Corentine: That is not fair!

Merle: Life is not fair. What can you do?

Corentine: (Thinking for a few seconds) Make another?

Merle: Ha! The Artist’s paintings are the most famous and prized in all of Europe. I am sure a new pile of dirty clothes are waiting for me right outside. Come on. I will…show you exactly how it is done.

Corentine: (Smiling) Thanks.

Merle and Corentine sit right next to each other, only about an inch apart, near the tub. They each grab another shirt from the pile. Corentine sits and watches studiously at everything Merle tells her everything. They talk together for what seems like minutes, but is actually hours. The lights become dimmer to indicate it is now late at night.

To be continued…
...
...
...
Introduction:
I’m a bit thankful yet, hateful towards this project. Thankful that I’ve gotten the opportunity to experience the life of a writer, if only temporarily, imagine his or her choices, and how they can unexpectedly affect what the finished work will become. Hateful that this change is difficult to transplant into my work. This class(Creative Writing) has shown me that indeed, that kind of cooperative input can be greatly beneficial in the long run, so long as that help is well, helpful. The comments I wrote for this class, I could never(at this moment) write for an essay. I can’t spot those obvious errors and points even though it seems as though everyone else’ flashlights are working and pointing directly at the problem and I can see it, my flashlight stopped working and now I’m off to the store to buy some new batteries. Indeed, this class has been incredible with their input, with its diversity, and never again will I put down the potential everyone encases…until I forget what I just typed tomorrow. So thanks for being that teacher to give me that opportunity. Now onto the story… I’m beginning to grow fond of this one. As I mentioned in class, I thought it was a disturbing failure, an interesting idea that might’ve benefited at the hands of another writer. Now I say…STAY AWAY! THIS IS MINE! One of the major changes I made, which will be noticeable the 6 or 5 seconds you look at the front page is the name change from Collette to Merle. While I’m not sure how unexpectedly drastic this change was though, now that I think about, Merle is becoming her own character apart from Collette which may be completely accidental. At first, it would be that one of the laundresses was the experienced one, the other a newbie; the experienced knows what she’s got herself into and knows there’s no way out and knows the same will happen to the other woman, but has lost most of her humanity and couldn’t care less about what happens to Corentine. That was Collette. But in an unexpected change to a moment that would’ve been comical, it turns out that Merle used to be a mother in her previous life before becoming a laundress, making the situation and the destruction of Corentine’s future inevitable yet much more compelling. Well, at least that’s how it’s become so far. I might change Merle back to ‘Collette’ if the mother idea doesn’t work out but it seems to have much more potential. Of course, in a similar style to most of the great dramas of our time, her life as a mother is implied with how she takes care of Corentine. This is just the intro and you probably don’t know what I’m talking about, but consider this after you read that moment then you’ll see what I mean…maybe. It’s up to interpretation. I thought about changing Corentine’s name but I’ve grown strangely affectionate towards that name. It captures the fanciful and limitless potential of Corentine’s imagination. It’s also a word that comes up on Spell-check. I think I’ll name my daughter Corentine. Another change was making Degas into ‘The Artist’ which works beautifully for this play. Upon revising the Degas lines, I saw how quickly that could’ve derailed the whole production into an early finish. Plus since my characters are interesting to watch, I felt it would cheat the audience if a third character was suddenly thrown in who wasn’t not given as much care and attention as Merle and Corentine. Making the character a surrounding presence makes the whole production much more interesting to watch and it makes the climax much more striking and horrifying to watch. It could also be silly and laugh-inducing since it’s going to be a voice talking to Corentine as he’s about to rape her. I don’t know, I’m imagining that and I feel like cracking up. I’m not at that point yet but it’s something to consider. As for making it historically accurate as far as dialogue goes, I have no idea if it‘s right or wrong so far. I’d have to consult with a professional if I want to pursue this any farther. I changed the ‘yeah’ which had been hidden deep in the original draft since that was from the early 20th Century. I had no idea that ’yeah’ was a modern term. Someone mentioned in class that the play has to be more theatrical since it reads more like a short story at the moment, and I agree, but I’m having some trouble throwing those elements in this. At the moment, the only theatrical moments I know I will incorporate into the play are some sound effect to dramatize the objects that are thrown to center stage, the voice of ’The Artist’ and the tub of water being capsized, spilling large amounts of water across the stage; it’s a possible health hazard, however. Also, at the very end, the two unfortunate souls will pose in the same way as the painting. The curtain comes down, revealing a large size version Degas’s famous painting. Much like Merle has, this idea might change in the long run. I’ve written more that I should’ve. Much like some people have an unexplainable passion that captures them, I feel this class was certainly that as the homework assignments never felt like homework and writing those comments never felt like a chore unless there were previous time restraints. In a similar way, this intro paragraph had the same effect on me. I mean, look at how much I’ve written! I must be out of my mind. Thanks for reading this far.        

To Adam Howard, if he ever finds this blog post, and Creative Writing Class('09-'10).

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

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.

Leaving dust behind

Originally typed on September 17, 2009.

This was an assignment for the creative writing class I took in high school. I found poetry to be a difficult thing to familiarize myself with, especially since every poem I wrote always had elements of prose. Poetry, however, was a more loose and imaginative writing style that challenged my abilities and ,every so often, produced respectable results. The class was easily one of the greatest I ever took at Harvard Westlake, and I am eternally grateful to Adam Howard for teaching it. Thorughout the summer, I will post some of the assignments of the class including some constructive exercises. This poem was designed to be written in the style of a poem we read in class. When I remember what the poem was, I will mention it.

You run because you have to. Cities
And countries become confusing blurs, thrilling
Events in history become calendar markings,
Anniversaries of the great adventure.

You jump because you need to. Every canyon
Is just a one inch step and back;
Blown-up machines and a broken bone
Are both kinds of luck.

You run due to adrenaline, curiosity,
A sense of wonder. Much like an infinite path
You will keep traveling until the impossible end,

You will never realize how much the sea reflects
Upon you, in its color and its grace, as its waters
Recede back into its rightful place.