Exercise your brain. Or lose +4 Skill

This is exercise 5. I figured I'd do another original one. This goes out to all of the people who use Swype keyboards.
You may have noticed that Swype is horrendously wrong about 20% of the time. Let's use that to our advantage. If you run your finger around the keys for 30 seconds, picking it up whenever you want, you'll end up with strange words like:

Shamelessly flashbacks anonymous sponsorship subjectivivism pointsman windshields culminating.

Here I have 8 very random words. The goal is to put these eight random words into a short story or a collective idea. This strengthens the randomness of your tales while also giving you words you may never have used. Like subjectivism.

Wacky Wednesday: Pen Light

This wacky Wednesday, my new invention idea is the pen light! I've noticed as a writer that if I write in the backseat of a car at night time, and it becomes night time at like 5pm here, I have to struggle to see what I'm doing, or I have to turn on the bright overhead light and that is dangerous. This would be a small LED light that would be towards the tip of the pen, so that you could see what you are writing. In theory it could just be a mount that you put on a normal pen, so that you can write with your favorite pen. It would work as a sort of headlight. The band could be made of a flexible ring that wraps around the end of a pen. They can also be used in case of an emergency. Plus, this less amount light allows the driver to not be as distracted.

Poetic Justice: Cupcake Flavored Ambien

I was told to go to bed, not to sleep
Sleep is just a suggestion, I think
The TV is too loud, so I'll just read
Words on the page carry me to dreams
I jump awake every time the hero speaks
Darkness blurs corners of the room I'm in
Pocketing me in a bubble of light
My eyes have gone blurry with future sleep
The lamp warms me like the sun on my head
Am I under a tree in a dream world
Or still reading in my bed
This J looks comfortable, so I think I'll sit
My brain wonders what word I'm on
When I open my eyes the book is gone
I snuggle into J with my blanket
Repeating the letter, so I won't forget
I toss and turn, but I can't find sleep
I can't until I know what happens next
Sleep is important, but I don't need it now
I reach for the book with my other hand
I flip the page and flip it again
I cannot stop until I reach the end
The reward is sleep at 4am!

Running out of Time Part 3

I, now had half of a shoe, and no pride. I pulled the little bit of shoe that I had left off of my foot and threw it into a nearby trash can. I contemplated pulling my other shoe off, to at the very least complete my shoeless look. Two shoes: Sane. No shoes: Sane, but weird. One shoe: Raving lunatic that’ll probably kill you.

Without another thought I pulled the last shoe off of my foot and tossed it into the same trash can. Shoeless in Seattle. All I needed was a remotely interesting plot and a plane ticket to Seattle. Maybe I could butter Jones up, but that would basically defeat the purpose of getting the shoes, so that I could go meet Ketchup. Jones Jones Jones and Ketchup, regular all stars in my life.

The beeping of the crosswalk sign caused my eyes to list lazily toward the street. There was in fact a little old lady attempting to cross the street. The odds. The sheer odds. What the hell was she doing crossing the street? I mean obviously she was trying to get from one side of the street to the other side of the street. But why was she by herself? She yelled something at me, but I couldn’t hear her.

Then I noticed the reinforced truck barreling towards her. Time shifted, it wasn’t slower or faster. I could just perceive it clearer. The lady was not moving fast enough to clear the path of the truck. I wasn’t going to be able to move fast enough to clear it if I helped. I looked again, and I could see that she was wearing the shoes from inside the shop. Despite what I had earlier described as an old lady, I was now unsure of her age, she seemed younger as she moved closer.

The space between her and I was too large for us to both clear it in time. I had to decide in that moment, which one of us was going to die. The space between us seemed to grow larger and larger, but she became even more recognizable. “Run as fast as you can Greg!” She screamed. I went to move towards her, to help her, because I felt compelled to do something.

I twisted me head, just in time to catch the face of the truck driver. It looked like my face, but it was just different enough that it could have been someone else’s. His hands were wrapped in golden colored gauntlets that gripped the steering wheel. It was then that the crispness of time became distorted, flickering like the image on an old TV. I knew just then, that the truck was going to kill us both.

It was a strange thing to know that I was going to die, but I accepted it as a reality. Before the truck could hit me, the air was knocked out of my chest as a man tackled me onto the ground and out of the way of the truck. As I looked up, the truck was gone. “How the hell could you be that stupid? We had every opportunity to move out of the way, but instead you stood there staring at a freaking truck?” I looked over at the man who had rescued me from the mirage, and he looked like me too. I was starting to think I was egotistical. Why was everyone starting to look like me? Was I going crazy? “You are crazy. Stop being an idiot. How was I ever as stupid as you?” The other me, which I figured I would call Greg 2 moved closer to me. Greg 2 punched me in the nose and blood started to pour down my shirt. “I know what you are thinking. How about you call me Anthony. Every time you see yourself show up and he’s just as much as an asshole as you, from now on call him Anthony. If you show up, then call the other you Greg. Got it, Greg?”

“What kind of jerk punches himself in the face?”

“The other guy did it to me. So, I had to do it to keep the temporal flux or something. Wouldn’t want a hole ripping in the fabric of blah blah blah. I just felt like calling you an idiot and punching you in your stupid face? Is that so wrong?”

An anger flushed through me, and I punched him square in the nose. “Go to hell.”

Blueberries for your reflection are for your momther

            Reflection
      
      I was wandering through the woods as I usually did every afternoon. I was gathering blueberries for my mother’s pie. She liked to bake pies every single day with fresh blueberries, and I loved mother almost as much as I loved her pies. The patch was made of golden brick and it led straight to the one blue berry bush in the entire woods.

            I made it to the end of the brick road to find the bush void of berries. I searched all around the bush, and I found no berries anywhere on it. I looked underneath, and there was a squirrel with blue covering his entire face. “How could you do this?” I said.

            The squirrel laughed. “If it is blue berries that you seek, then go to the river for all that you can eat.”

            Despite the fact that I wasn’t really in the best shape to go down to the river, and mother had told me on several occasions to never go down to the river, I skipped down there. Once I made it down to the river, I saw a blue berry bush on the other side. It made my mouth water and the sheer thought of a blueberry pie. I pulled off my shirt and pants and hung them in a tree.

            Then as I went to step in the water, I saw my reflection. “Don’t do it,” he said.

            “But I want the pie,” I said back.

            “If you try to swim across this river, you will die,” the reflection said.

            “How so? It doesn’t look that deep,” I said back. You moved forward into the water until you were up to your navel.

            The reflection appeared in front of you again. “The current will pull you along, and you will drown.”

            “I’ll just be stronger than the river,” I said back to him. You moved closer until you were up to your chest in water, and you could feel the reflection pulling at your legs. “Stop trying to trick me, I can make it across the river.”

            “Child, I am not trying to trick you. I’m merely warning…”

            “I said stop trying to pull me in.” I took another step into the water, and I couldn’t hold me ground. The reflection pulled me into the water, and the water started to course into my lungs. I found it hard to stay above the water, but I saw my reflection move out of the water carrying berries. He waved at me, and everything turned black.

            “You should have listened!” He screamed back.

Dumb lyrics written by an eighth grader

Kissey Kissey Goo goo eyes
Don'tchu love those kissey kissy goo goo eyes
And to your surprise
Forget hello
Forget goodbye
Just see those kissey kissey goo goo eyes
They are true
They belong to a girl
Who likes you
These eyes
They tell no lies
Because the kissey kissey goo goo eyes
Leave you paralyzed
No matter what you say or do
You find it hard to even move
When you find the time to say something
You'll hear the familiar ring
Of a school bell's sing
Doesn't matter anyway

This was on some legal paper. From like eight grade. Why? Whose eyes? I don't now.

A deal with Satan/Santa.

S. Once you had had the woman pegged as the Devil, but then as you looked up, you realized what you had thought was red skin was actually a red suit. What you had thought was the point of horns was actually a red cap with a fuzzy ball on the end. How had you been so wrong? It was almost as if some unknown force had pushed you to deduce that the woman in front of you was the Devil, when she was in face Santa Claus.

            “So, do you want the contract?” Santa asked you. “It is a good opurtunity.” You pricked your finger with the pin and signed the contract. You had just made a deal with jolly Saint Nick.

            Then approximately 30 days later, you found yourself on a stage, getting ready to sing a version of Jingle Bells. Santa had you practice this version of the song every night since you signed the contract.

            “Welcome to Santos Mall! I’m one of Santa’s elves and I will be performing Jingle Bells in the language of Christmas!” You opened your mouth and everyone began to cheer. Everything was looking perfect and you had the feeling that you were about to gain a new notch in your CD. Figuratively, because a new notch in your physical CD would make it so it didn’t work. “Longa sals. Longa sals. Longa la de ra! Vo want sa ez tor law…” You started to realize that everyone was staring up at you. They were hypnotized by your incredible singing. You continued you to sing, and the people chanted along with you, until you realized that they were actually hypnotized.

            Santa appeared with a laugh. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Now, stand up and rise against the greddy children of this world and kill them all!” Santa yelled.

            “What are you doing?” You asked. “You are supposed to be a good guy.”

            “I’m a eliminating the evil of the world, what else could be more good.” The people of the mall pulled out candy cane guns and marched into the world. Now, you kind of wished you had made a personal deal with the Devil.

Exercise 4

To challenge yourself write a story missing a vowel. You can pick any vowel. By doing this you are forcing yourself to pick at your memory banks to find something that fits into the constructs that you have limited yourself with. This exercise challenge your vocabulary and your ability to make a story flow. If you like the story, then you can challenge yourself further to rewrite the story with vowels.

Colordize Spray Color Dye

As someone who works retail, every freaking business has a color polo that you want you to wear. Which means that by the end of my time at a particular retail place, I've amassed an outrageous amount of the stores color polo, which typically isn't the color of the store I'm going to next. So how about a spray bottle filled with strong dye that dries easily. You can spray it first with a bleach spray, then instead of buying 7 new $10 blue polos, you can buy one bottle of $10 blue Colordize. This also has design applications. You can customize a shirt on your own for less money. Do you like a blue shirt's style, but want it to be green? Easy.

Poetic Justice: Without Meter and Rhyme

Without Meter and Rhyme

In a world where even Satan would whine
Where all roads are at an incline
A place where moral quality is at a decline
This is a world without meter and rhyme

In a place where everything smells of pine
Where every cake is a land mine
A place where vending machines take only dimes
This is a world without a meter and rhyme

In a world where there's no twizzlers, only red vines
Where all the yield signs are stop signs
A place where sprite has lemon but not lime
This is a world without meter or rhyme

In a place where love turns to slime
Where every bathroom has a line
A place where clocks can't tell time
This is a place without meter and rhyme

Running out of Time 3

Another page of Running out of Time

On top of his insulting normalness, he was wearing a black polo and slacks. For some reason, I had been hoping that he would be a bearded two eye patch wearing man in a shady trench coat. “I have no need for such things.” There it was. The strangeness I was craving. “There’s no merchandise worth stealing, and no money in the register.” I almost fell from the sheer lack of an anomaly. Life was never as amazing as I wanted it to be. “What has brought you to shop?” The man said. His name tag proclaimed he was simply named, Jones. Whether that was his first name or last name I was unsure. It could have easily been his first, middle, and last name. Jones Jones Jones. Who was I to judge? I was GAW.

“I was attempting to help an old lady cross the street, but in the process she was mugged. I chased the guy down and in the process of beating some sense into him, I broke the sole off of my shoe,” I said. I lifted my shoe up so that the bottom of my foot was peeking through where the sole should be.

“Indeed.” Jones looked me up and down. Was he into me? Couldn’t tell. I probably wasn’t about to indulge in a date with Triple Jones before I met Ketchup girl. She was a preexisting thing. He wasn’t really my type anyway. I preferred long flowing blonde hair. “I cannot sell you these shoes.”

Jones grabbed me by the back and began to push me, on my heels, towards the door. “What? Why?” I asked

“You are not worthy,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“The shoes will not fit you. They are two sizes too big.”

He stopped pushing me as my nose pressed into the glass door. “Can’t I still buy them?”

“These shoes are meant for someone else,” he said to me. Was he expecting some sort of prophetic hero to show up and take the shoes? It angered me a bit to think that he didn’t think I had it in me to be some kind of hero.

“Still, I can buy them right?”

“It would be a waste, because you wouldn’t be able to wear these shoes. Please leave my shop. I hope you have a fantastic day, and come here for any of your ware needs in the future.” He pushed me through the rest of the way. The door opened in front of me, he removed his hands, and the door shut.

Short Story Sunday: One for the Money

One for the Money

                “So, your plan to fix our lack of rent is to rob a bank? Is that right or did I just have a flash of insanity?” Kyam asked his brother. The boy moved on the tattered couch, so that he could see his brother lighting up a cigarette.

                “That’s the plan. Think about it, it’s perfect. We wear elaborate disguises, and they will never know that it was us,” Godric said.

                “This can’t be good for our overall future,” Kyam said.

                The lights started to flicker heavily, and everything went black suddenly. Kyam could feel cold air blowing on his face like winter had sprang through the walls. As the lights came back up, Kyam was standing in the center of a vault holding a bag of money. Slung over his shoulder was an Ak47. He wasn’t exactly certain of what had happened.

                “We’ve got to go, bro. The cops are coming right now,” Godric said from outside the vault. He poked his head through the circular doorway, and gestured for Kyam to come to him.

                Kyam jumped to the door, and he was frightened to see several people lying on the floor soaked in blood. There were only a few people who were left alive, and each of them was cowering behind the teller counter.

                “What did you do?” Kyam asked.

                “I didn’t do any of this. You did,” Godric said. They moved towards the door, and the cops appeared in front of them.

                “This can’t be good for our future,” Kyam said absently. The lights began to flicker again, and even the sun went black. Caught in the empty blackness, Kyam could feel the cold air press through the blackness. The same cold air smelling of peppermint that had pressed into his apartment. As the lights came back on, Kyam was standing in an open field holding a handgun. He didn’t recognize the gun, but he was pointing it at Godric.

                “This isn’t you! What are you doing?” Godric yelled.

                Kyam absently cocked the handgun. There was a complete lack of control that was pulling his strings like he was a puppet. “I told you this wasn’t good for our future! You didn’t listen to me! This made everything worse.”

                “And you think killing me will make it better?”

                “I’m pretty sure it will. You aren’t my brother anymore! You are something wicked,” Kyam said.

                Godric moved towards Kyam, eloquent and fluid in his movements. He grabbed the gun and moved it down to his chest. “You aren’t going to shoot me,” Godric said.

                “This isn’t good for our future,” Kyam said. Kyam pulled the trigger just as everything went black. The empty blackness consumed him and the peppermint air cooled him to the bone.

                As everything turned back on, Kyam found himself strapped into a strait jacket inside of a padded room. “My borther, my brother, where is he?” Kyam pressed his face to the wall, so that he could see through a tiny fissure in the bricks. Beyond the bricks of his room was a shop that sold sweets. He could smell their chocolates and their peppermints.

                “You never had a brother,” someone called through the wall.

                “This can’t be good for the past.” The empty blackness flickered outside the wall, and even more peppermint air flowed through the fissure in the wall. The blackness consumed Kyam, and as the lights came back up, he was sitting across a table from a woman. Between them was a magic eight ball. She had a blue monocle in one of her eyes.

                “You want to fix your money problems?”

                “Yes,” Kyam said.

                He whipped out a gun and pointed it at the woman. “Give me all of your money!” He said as tears welled in his eyes.

                She slammed a stack of money onto the counter. “If you take this money. No more good things will happen for you. You are destined to be consumed with blackness.”

                “I’ll take my chances.”

Silly Saturday: Throwback to the Mirror

This is a throwback to my first attempt at a novel. It's bad. I leave it in its original formatting.

THE MIRROR

I START WITH A BOY WHO FINDS A MIRROR IN HIS ATTIC. HIS NAME IS JACK, JACK AND HIS SISTER ARE IN THE ATTIC LOOKING FOR A CHEST. WHEN THEY SEE THE CHEST THEY BOTH GRAB IT AND WALK TOWARDS THE DOOR. JACK TAKES 3 STEPS AND ALL OFF A SUDDEN!!!! CRACK! JACK STARTED TO TALK BUT HE WAS BEING SUCKED INTO THE MIRROR. HE LANDED ON HIS HEAD AND GOT A CONCUSION. WHEN HE WOKE UP HE WAS IN A BED SURROUNDED BY A (MALE) WEREWOLF (NAMED MAX)-A (MALE) HALF-VAMPIRE (NAMED COUNT ALUCARD)- A (FEMALE) FIRE LIZZARD (NAMED REDISH)-A (NON FEMALE OR MALE) ALIEN (NAMED TRI)-A GIRL (NAMED TASHA)- A DARK IMAGE OF JACK (NAMED KCAJ)-AND A WIZARD (NO NAME). THEY STARTED ASKING JACK QUESTIONS BUT JACK WAS TIRED HE OPENED HIS MOUTH AND YELLED ‘LEAVE ME ALONE’. AS JACK SAID THIS THEY ALL LEFT AT ONCE. JACK SLEPT AMD DREAMED ABOUT A HOUSE OF MIRRORS AT A CARNIVAL. WHEN JACK AWOKE HE WAS DRENCHED IN SWEAT. HE WAS BREATHING HARD HE LOOKED AROUND AND SAW NOBODY. SO HE GOT UP AND WENT DOWN STAIRS AND WALKED INTO WHAT LOOKED LIKE THE KITCHEN. INSIDE IT WAS A ROBOT THAT WAS WASHING DISHES THE ROBOT TOOK NO NOTICE OF JACK. JACK CAME TO ANOTHER FLIGHT OF STAIRS HE WALKED DOWN THEM. DOWN THE STAIRS WAS THE WIZARD. THE WIZARD SAW JACK AND STARTED BLABING, ‘JACK I AM GOING TO TRAIN YOU IN THE TIME-LESS CHAMBER.’ JACK TOLD THE WIZARD ‘ I UNDERSTAND’.

Chapter 2

BY THE TIME JACK LEARNED TO USE HIS NEW SWORD (ATLA) IT WAS TIME FOR BED. JACK WENT TO BED AND DREAMED OF HOME. WHEN JACK AWOKE THE GIRL AND THE MIRROR IMAGE OF JACK WERE STANDING ABOVE HIM. "DO YOU WANT TO COME WITH USE TO SCHOOL?" ASKED TASHA IN A NICE SOFT VOICE THAT FILLED THE ROOM. JACK HAD HIS EYES CLOSED WHEN SHE WAS TALKING, BUT HE OPENED HIS EYES AND ANSWERED, "YES I’LL COME TO SKOOOOOL." HE GOT UP PUT THE NICEST OF HIS MIRROR IMAGES CLOTHES ON AND HE STILL LOOKED LIKE A GOTH. THEY WENT OUTSIDE AND WAITED AT A: SUB STOP JACK HAD READ THIS TO HIM SELF, THEY WERE ALL SILENT. THEY GOT ON THE SUB WHEN THE SUB STOPPED. JACK AND HIS FRIENDS SEPERATED KCAJ WENT TO THE BACK, TASHA WENT TO THE FRONT, AND JACK JUST SAT DOWN. FROM BEHIND JACK HE HEARD A NOISE " WHAT SPECIES OF MYSTICAL CREATURE ARE YOU? (SNIFF) BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE A ELF TO ME, BUT ELF'S DON’T WEAR GOTH CLOTHES……………………" THIS WENT ON TILL THE SUB STOPPED AND JACK GOT OFF. WHEN JACK GOT OFF HE WENT INSIDE AND STARTED CLASS LIKE A REGULAR DAY. HIS FRIST CLASS WAS A CLASS HE HAD NEVER HEARD OF. AT THE END OF SCHOOL HE SAW HIS OTHER SMOKING OUTSIDE AND TASHA WAS GOING TOWARDS HIM AND ASKED, " DO YOU HAVE ANY GUM?" HIS OTHER SAID, " NO I DON’T HAVE ANY NOW BACK OFF" AND PUSHED TASHA OFF THE TOP FLIGHT OF STAIRS (THERE’S 120 STEPS) BUT WHERE JACK WAS STANDING HE CAUGHT TASHA. SHE HAD HER EYES CLOSED WHEN SHE WAS PUSHED. AT THIS POINT IN TIME SHE DECIDED TO OPEN HER EYES AND RIGHT ABOVE HER WAS JACK. JACK OPEND HIS MOUTH TO ASK TASHA IF SHE WAS OK BUT THE SECOND HE DID SHE WAS KISSING HIM AND HE KISSED BACK. BUT KCAJ DIDN’T LIKE THIS KISSING STUFF SO HE DECEDED TO GO DOWN THE STAIRS AND BREAK THEM UP. WELL HE WENT DOW STAIRS AND PUSHED THEM APART "GROSS YOU SICKOS KISSINGS FOR COUPLES." TASHA LOOKED UP AND SAID THESE EXACT WORDS "YOU JUST WISH YOU HAD ME KCAJ." KCAJ WAS RED HOT MAD AT HER NOW BUT HE MADE A COME BACK "NO SEE IF I KISSED YOU IT WOULD BE YOUR LAST." TASHA ONLY NODDED AND ROLLED HER EYES. THEY GOT ON THE SUB.

CHAPTER 3

THEY GOT OFF AT THE MANSION AND AT THE FRONT DOOR WAS THE WIZARD. THE FRIST PERSON TO WALK UP TO THE DOOR WAS KCAJ BUT THE WIZARD GRABBED KCAJ AND STARTED TALKING " DON’T COME ANY CLOSER JACK YOU EITHER TASHA." THE WIZARD CUT KCAJ’S RIGHT HAND OFF AND KCAJ SCREAMED BUT MORE INPORTANTLY JACKS LEFT HAND VANISHED. JACK MOVED CLOSER TO HELP KCAJ BUT IT WAS NO USE THE WIZARD TOOK OUT A PISTOL AND SHOT JACK RIGHT IN THE HEART. HE REMAINED ALIVE AFTER THE SHOT BUT NONE UNDERSTAND WHY HE LIVED. AFTER THE FIRST SHOT THERE WAS ANOTHER IT ALSO HIT HIS HEART. AFTER THE SECOND SHOT TASHA STARTED TO CRY BUT WHEN JACK WAS SHOT A THRID TIME SHE GOT UP AND PULLED OUT A DAGGER AND THREW IT AT THE WIZARD. EVEN THOUGH IT MISSED THE WIZARD, KCAJ WAS SAVED BUT THEY COULDN’T SAVE JACK. JACK HAD DIED BUT THE LAST THING HE THOUGHT ABOUT WAS THE MATRIX. JACK OPENED HIS EYES HE WAS IN HIS ROOM. HE GOT UP AND WENT TO THE ATTIC HE JUMPED ON THE MIRROR AND STARTED TO CRY NOT BECAUSE HE WOULDN’T SEE TASHA AGAIN NO IT WAS BECAUSE HE HAD MIRROR FRAGMENTS IN HIS BUTT. JACK STOOD UP AND WENT DOWN STAIRS. HE BRUSHED HIS BUTT AND MIRROR SHARDS FELL EVERYWHERE. BUT SOMETHING ELSE WAS BUGGING HIM, HE FINALLY REMEMBERED IT THE BUS (SUB) HE RAN OUTSIDE BUT THE BUS WAS ALREADY GONE. JACK HAD TO WALK 10 MILES TO THE SCHOOL. IT TOOK HIM 3 HOURS TO GET TO SCHOOL AND BY THE TIME HE GOT TO THE SCHOOL IT WAS OVER (NOT REALLY BUT CLOSE ENOUGH). JACK WENT AROUND TO HIS CLASS TO SEE WHAT HOME WORK HE HAD BUT HE HAD NONE. HE WENT TO HIS LOCKER AND GRABBED HIS FAV. BOOK ROMEO AND JULEIT HE READ ALL HE COULD OF HIS BOOK THE FARTHEST HE GOT WAS TO A KISSING SCENE BUT HE HAD TO STOP THERE IT MADE HIM THINK TOO MUCH OF TASHA. HE SLAMMED HIS BOOK SHUT AND WATCHED A PIECE OF PAPER FLOAT DOWN TO HIS FEET. HE READ IT ALOUD "FIND ANOTHER MIRROR~MAYBE THE CARNIVIL CAN HELP~TONIGHT AT 8." HE WAS GOING TO THE CARNIVAL BUT HE WOULDN’T LIKE IT.

IT WAS ABOUT TIME TO LEAVE SCHOOL, SO HE LEFT EARLY. THE TRIP TO THE CARNIVAL WOULD BE A LONG ONE FOR JACK. IT TOOK JACK FIVE WHOLE HOURS TO WALK TO THE CARNVAL. THE CARNIVAL WASN’T OPEN YET SO JACK TOOK A NAP. WHEN JACK WOKE UP THE CARNIVAL WAS ALMOST OVER. SO JACK RAN FOR THE HALL OF MIRRORS AND JUMPED IN. JACK TOUCHED EVER MIRROR IN THE HALL NONE TOOK HIM BACK. SO JACK DECIDED TO LEAVE BUT THE DOOR WAS LOCKED, JACK PANICKED AND SCREAMED, " HELP SOMEBODY HELP SOMEBODY." HE DID THIS TILL HIS VOICE WAS GONE. THEN HE LEANED ON A MIRROR AND TRIED TO GO TO SLEEP. BUT IT WAS NO USE JACK HAD ALREADY FOUND THE MIRROR. HE FELL THROUGH THE MIRROR AND LANDED SOMEWHERE HE HAD NEVER SEEN OR BEEN TO. HE WAS IN AN ATTTIC THAT LOOKED LIKE HIS. ONLY IT WAS THE OPPOSITE OF HIS. HE LOOKED IN THE CORNER AND THERE WAS A MIRROR. THOUGHTS WENT THRUOGH JACKS HEAD THAT HE WANTED TO IGNORE BUT COULDN’T THE THOUGHTS THAT WENT THROUGH IS HEAD WERE LIKE THIS. WHERE'S IT GO? IS TASHA IN THERE? AM I GOING TO GO IN IT? IS IT REAL? IS IT A TRAP? IS IT A SECOND WORLD INSIDE THE SECOND WORLD? JACK SHOOK HIS HEAD EXSPECTING HIS THOUGHTS TO CLEAR. BUT IT DID NOT CLEAR HE JUST THOUGHT MORE. BUT IN THE END HE JUMPED TOWARDS THE MIRROR.

CHAPTER 5

JACK LANDED ON A SAND DUNE IN THE CENTER OF A LAVA PIT. HE STOOD ON THE DUNE FROZEN WITH FEAR. HE TURNED AROUND AND SAW A LAVA TIDLE WAVE. JACK GOT SCARED AND WONDERED WHO IN GOD'S NAME WOULD SAVE HIM. HE DECIDED HE WOULD JUST DIE HERE. JACK COLAPSED ON THE GROUND AND WENT UNCONCSIOUS. HE AWOKE IN A HOUSE IN A BED. HE GOT UP AND LOOKED AROUNED HE FOUND A GIRL. JACK WOKE HER UP " WHA…. OH IT’S YOU WHAT DO YOU WANT?" JACK LOOKED AT HER AND SAID, "I HAVE TO GO SAVE MY FRIENDS." JACK NOTICED SHE WAS ABOUT TO CRY. HE STARTED TO LEAVE WHEN SHE GOT UP JACK LOOKED AROUND AT WHERE SHE WAS BEFORE HE COULD SEE HER. SHE SHOUTED, " DON’T LOOK PERVERT I’M CHANGING." BUT SECRETLY SHE WAS LOOKING AT JACK AND BLUSHING. JACK WALKED OUT OF THE ROOM AND WAITED WHEN SHE FINALLY CAME OUT OF HER ROOM SHE WAS DRESSED IN A SPARKLY DRESS. JACK LOOKED AT HER AND SHE SAID " FORGET ABOUT YOUR FRIENDS" JACK VERY CALMLY SAID, " MY HEART ALL READY BELONGS TO SOMEBODY." THE GIRL ONLY MADE A, "OHHH" SOUND. JACK LOOKED OUT THE DOOR AND AT THE GIRL AND SAID, " IF YOU ARE GOING TO HELP CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES I WILL WAIT, IF YOU WILL NOT HELP JUST STAY." THE GIRL WENT INSIDE HER ROOM AND CAME OUT DRESSED SEMI-NORMALLY. JACK GOT UP AND WALKED OUTSIDE. THE GIRL STARTED TO TALK RIGHT AS JACK SAY A CLUE, "SO WHERE ARE THEY." JACK PICKED UP THE CLUE WICH JUST HAPPENED TO BE A PIECE OF PAPER. JACK ANSWERED HER AND READ THE NOTE AT THE SAME TIME. " WELL THEY SEEM TO BE…" JACK READ THE NOTE WICH READ: TI NI PMUJ DNA RORRIM NIATPMAC EHT OT OG OOT SYAS EH ESUOH SYOB A TA ERA EW. THEY SEEM TO BE AT A BOYS HOUSE BEHIND THE CAPTAIN MIRROR." JACK LOOKED EACH DIRECTION AND LICKED HIS FINGER AND PUT IT IN THE WIND. JACK WAS NOW LOOKING AT HIS WATCH. "WICH WAY IS THIS PLACE" THE GIRL POINTED NORTH AN ADDED, " 12 MILES THAT WAY." JACK TOOK OFF THAT DIRECTION AND NOBODY TALKED FOR THE WHOLE TRIP.

CH.6

SO WHEN THEY HIT THE MIRROR PLACE THE SILENCE WAS BROKEN. "LOOK THERE IT IS" SHE HAD SAID THIS BUT JACK JUST WANTED TO GET TO THE OTHER SIDE. WELL THE MIRROR WAS PROTECTED BY A POND BUT JACK JUST WALKED THROUGH IT AND JUMPED THROUGH THE MIRROR ON THE OTHER SIDE. JACK SAW NOBODY JUST A SEMI-BLANK COMPUTER THAT READ: "WAKE UP."

CH. 6 ½

JACK WOKE UP IN A ROOM NOT HIS OF COURSE BUT A ROOM WITH PICTURES ON THE WALL HE HAD TO LOOK CLOSE TO REALIZE THAT THEY ARE ALL OF HIM. HE LOOKED AROUND A LITTLE MORE AND REALIZED IT WAS A GIRLS ROOM. JACK GOT UP AND LOOKED UNDER THE BED JACK FOUND IT A DIARY. HE OPENED IT AND IT SAID INSIDE OVER AND OVER AGAIN: I LOVE JACK BLUEE SIGN TASHA MARY FOXX. SUPRISINGLY THAT WAS JACKS NAME INSIDE IT HE CAME OUT OF THE ROOM ONLY TO REALIZE HE WAS IN A DIFFERENT UNIVERSE.

CH.7

DOWN THE STAIRS JACK WENT AND DISCOVERED TASHA HE RAN TOWRDS TASHA BUT SHE ASKED HIM "WHO ARE YOU?" JACK KNEW WHAT WAS HAPPENING NOW. SOMEBODYS SCREWING WITH TIME. JACK ANSWERED TASHA "I AM JACK" TASHA LOOKED AT HER MOM AND SAID, " I THINK HIS CRAZY MOM." BUT MOM DID NOT MOVE SHE JUST STARED. JACK WENT WITH TASHA TO SCHOOL AND HE WITNESSED HOW SHE GOT SUCKED INTO THIS. IT WAS A RIP IN TIME BUT WHERE DID JACK COME IN. 5 MINUTES LATER JACK SAW HIMSELF GET SHOT AND THE WIZARD TAKE TASHA AND KCAJ. THEN JACK WAS THROWN TO A DIFFERENT STORY ONE ABOUT ALUCARD IT SEEMS ALUCARD WAS A MYSCHEVIOUS BANDIT UNTIL HE GOT SUCKED IN TIME. MAX LED A NORMAL LIFE. BUT THE WIZARD WAS A BILLIONAIR WHO MADE A GENE SPLITTER AND KILLED HIMSELF. JACK SAW THE GIRL WHO WAS SO PASSIONATE TO HELP HIM AND HE SAW A PRINCESS BUT AFTER THAT HE SAW BLACKNESS THEN HE HEARD A BEEP~BEEP SOUND AND THEN HE SAW HIS ROOM.

CH.7 ½

HE SLAMMED HIS HAND INTO THE CLOCK AND IT BROKE. JAKE GOT UP AND SAW A PIECE OF PAPER TAPED TO HIS CHEST. HE GENTLY TOOK IT OFF AND READ IT: ALUCARD: Z STREET NB, MAX: CHESTNUT STREET TEXAS, TASHA: L STREET DC, WIZARD: WALLSTREET NEW YORK, PRINCESS: PARIS FRANCE F STREET, TRI: MARS, REDISH: PLANET XXX12, NO NAME: NEXT DOOR.

Ch.8

JACK WENT ON WITH HIS DAY NORMALLY. UNTIL HE FOUND ANOTHER NOTE WITH DIRECTIONS ON IT. HE TRIED TO IGNORE THE FRIST ONE BUT THIS ONE WAS IMPORTANT. JACK READ IT ONLY TO DICOVER HE HAD TO GO HOME ALL HIS FRIENDS WERE THERE. JACK RAN DOWN THE HALL, RACED UP THE STAIRS, JUMPED OUT THE DOOR, ONLY TO STOP AT A HAT THERE. JACK TRUNED AROUNED SO HE WAS FACING HIS TEACHER. "WHERE ARE YOU GOING YOUNG MAN?" THE TEACHER ASKED. JACK REPLIED "HOME" AFTER SAYING THE E IN HOME. JACK WAS OFF AGAIN, RUNNING UNTIL HE COULD NOT SEE HIS TECHER ANYMORE. WHEN HE FINALLY GOT AWAY HE WAS PROUD. THEN HE WENT IN A DAZE AND WHEN HE CAME OUT HE HAD HIT A DOOR, HIS DOOR. HE OPENED THE DOOR AND THERE WAS TASHA AND THE PRINCESS. THEY WERE THERE WAITING HE WALKED UP TOWARDS THEM AND HE SAT DOWN THEY WERE SO GLAD TO SEE HIM TASHA GAVE JACK A BIG KISS. JACK BLUSHED AND ASKED THEM HOW THEY GOT AWAY. “SO I’M GUSSEING YOU TASHA ARE THE PRINSASSES SISTER AND THAT’S THE PRINSASS. WHO WAS TH GIRL WHO TRIED TO STEAL ME”? “YOU ARE CORRECT, BUT WE HAVE BIGGER ISSUES” SAID TASHA. TASHA LEAD JACK AND THE PRINSASS UP THE STAIRS. “LOOK” JACK LOOKED AT WHAT LOOKED LIKE SHADDERED GLASS. “YOU BROKE THE MIRROR.” JACK SAID THIS AND THEN THERE WAS SILENCE. “YES SADLY WE DID, BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY ME, MY SISTER AND KCAJ HAVE TO LEAVE WITH YOU” THESE WORDS CAME OUT ALL IN A JUMBLED MIX BUT JACK STILL UNDER STOOD. “YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, OH YEAH” AND THEN THEY LIVED (YOU WISH HAPPILY EVERY AFTER) HAPPILY EVER AFTER TILL THE DAY THE MIRROR WAS PUT BACK TOGETHER, BUT THAT STORY WILL BE TOLD ANOTHER TIME. /

END

Contractual Obligations Part C

Part C of my multiple choice novel Contractual Obligations.

C. You signed the contract, because obviously she wasn’t the Devil. You actually weren’t even that religious, so the fact that thought had even crossed your mind was kind of bewildering. You released a new album in nearly a year later titled My Life is a Living Hell. It turned out that it didn’t matter if she wasn’t or was the Devil, you were still in Hell. With all of this money and all of this fame, you had finally accomplished all of your goals and had nothing to strive for anymore.

You fell into a deep depression on that lead to a river of booze and fish made of drugs. You would go to jail and handful of times and eventually have as many DUIs has you did hit songs. You would find yourself actually wishing you could go back to your bland and boring life, but you knew that wasn’t really an option.

There wasn’t even an option to stop producing music, because you were contractually obligated to release a record every two years for the rest of your life.  The night you died of drug overdose, you dreamt of quarters being rubbed together. For a least a moment, you were happy, and in that moment you died.

Exercise 3: Writer's Block

When I was a wee lad of near ten years old, I had hit a problem in my road to write my fist book, The Mirror. I don't particularly remember the problem, but it existed. To alleviate it, I figured I would wrote my two favorite authors, Dean Koontz and Stephen King.
Stephen King's letter came back about a day later with a stamp indicating it wasn't his actual his address.
So this exercise is to be used if you suffer from a strong sense of writer's block. All of you have to do is take a couple of minutes to write a letter to someone. It doesn't have to be Dean Koontz.
Mine was similar to:
Dear Dean Koontz,

I'm a big fan of yours, and I am suffering from writer's block. What do you do to make writer's block go away?

-Alex

He wrote back to saying that he doesn't suffer from writer's block, which was enough to help me get over it. Now every time I think I can't write, I am at that letter, and I feel like I can.

Wacky Wednesday: IamMySecretSanta.com

So, I had this idea, recently. Lots of people have amazon wishlists with things of varying price. This website would import your amazon wishlist, then you would give them a predetermined amount of money. Let's call it $50, then the website would secretly buy you some of your amazon wishlist items that come up to $50. After that they send you these items, and you don't know what they are until they get to your house. Thus you got yourself a gift. If they don't use all of the money then they include a check. Boom! IamMySecretSanta.com. Plus, you could use it to buy other people gifts with a set amount of money, and you'd get them things they want.

Poetic Justice: Tribute

This is a poem.

Tribute

I had the greatest poem in my head
Greatest thing never written
Ironically, I couldn't find a pen
So, as I laid in my bed
The sands of time rewrite what I said
Instantly forgotten
Was there a word I had invented?
Try as I might
The next day, I could not write
I threw a tantrum, a hissy fit
Still, my foresight was poorly lit
And all that was left
Before the hazy memory theft
Was the beginning, not the end
Before I pressed reject instead of send
Was: In a bar walk two turkeys
The bartender was dressed as Hercules
The rest, never to be known
The dog never got his bone

Running out of Time Part 2

Here's another couple pages from my novel Running out of Time

Ketchup is good on everything. People put ketchup on meatloaf to make it tolerable. That’s to say the food, and not the girl.

            As I was coming to grips with what the mystery woman’s name could be, I lifted my foot to step above the curb that must have been three inches from the road, and as I lifted my foot, the sole of my shoe caught on the cement. As I continued forward, the cub gripped ahold of my shoe and ripped the sole clean off. “Are you serious? Right as I am going to go on a date. The great universe decides, oh hey, screw you Greg. Hope she likes hobo feet. I hate the universe, and its pretentious assholery.”

            The universe and I were not on good terms. The universe thought it would be funny to break the handle off of my bathroom sink while I was shaving my face, and attempting to conserve water, because I care about the planet. Even if the universe was a dick, I would have been more okay with it, if it hadn’t been stuck on boiling hot water, so that not only was I forced to waste water, but I was also forced to fill my entire apartment with steam. Once I had left it was like a sauna in every room but the kitchen.

            A man set his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, man? I don’t know what your beef with the universe is, but I gotta say this is pretty groovy.” Shaggy from Scooby-Doo pointed at a nearby store, which boasted a sign claiming shoes were buy one get one free.

            I left the sweaty grasp of Chin Beard the Magnificent, and hobbled over to the store front. I honestly couldn’t remember what had occupied the space where the store now was. Actually, despite the shoe sign, the only other indication that I     was about to step into a story was a tapestry on the front window that simple had WARES stitched into it. And as I thought about it, what kind of deal was buy one shoe to get one shoe free? Wasn’t that the same as buying a pair of shoes? Shoes typically came in pairs.

            I stepped inside the business? Inside was just a narrow shop with a standard glass counter top on one side. A few shelves on each side of walls. The shelves were relatively bare and remarkably dusty. There was one shelf full of just blue lucky rabbit feet key chains. There was a shelf with a snow globe of what I could only describe as Gotham City. When I picked it up to shake it, I saw that the flakes were bright orange and red. There was a genie lamp on one side that was missing the cap. A copy of a book with the gold embossed letters starting to flake off. It was impossible to tell what the book had once been, because it was utterly blank. There was a jar of some shadowy black ooze that had sense grown an ice colored fungus on the inside of the glass. There was black wide brim hat with RZ printed on the white band on the top. Then there was small white dagger that seemed to be luminescent.

Then finally there was a white unbranded shoe. It had a blue star painted on the outer side that had a red gemstone glued into the center. It was at the very least a corny looking shoe that under any other circumstance, I would never wear. But right now I needed to find shoes, so that I was guaranteed to make a good enough impression that my date might actually want to sleep with me.

“Oh. My name is Dazzo the Hobo Clown. Would you like to share a bread stick with me?” I could see that working in maybe two alternate realities. No more or less. A wisp of cold air smelling of dust smacked into my right side, informing me that someone was approaching from the back end. “It isn’t too smart to leave your front desk unattended. What could stop me from taking your “wares” or your money?”

The man, who despite everything I wanted him to be, was very average looking. He didn’t have a suspicious looking eye patch or two golden teeth. Instead he had dirty blonde hair cut close to his head, and a moderate amount of stubble coating his face.

Short Story Sunday: The Hybrid and the Princess

Back in the day, I wrote this story for a contest that's only guideline was that it had to be under 800 words. It is 799 words. I had plans to turn this into a novel, but only got about a chapter and a half our of it.

             Cantrell wasn’t your average vampire, actually to be brutally honest he wasn’t really a vampire at all. He was the sole bloodline of his species between a demon and a vampire. His veins ran black with pure evil and he was the prince of darkness himself. Though even with that said, he didn’t really like being evil or maybe the thought had never struck him. The most evil thing he had ever done was run away from the underworld and joined the normal people above the surface.        

            Now he lived in the purest kingdom in his whole land. Ironically his job was to take care of the king’s flowers. He found solace in clipping flowers and watering flowers. Every other day, the princess would take a walk through the garden. Cantrell sort of had a crush on her. She was the sweetest and kindest person he had ever laid eyes on.

            However he dared not look at her long fore he was scared that being a mere commoner and being that there were guards posted just about everywhere, he could very well look at her long. Perhaps he could if he didn’t like where his head was currently located. Which was on his shoulders, he didn’t really want it floating around in a random basket.

            One day as he was trimming the flowers, he heard a scream. It was a voice that sounded familiar one that he knew very well. It was indeed the voice of Princess Lunia. He rushed to her aide, he ran faster than any man had ever ran, although he wasn’t a human completely or even at all.

He appeared from the bushes and saw the princess with a thorn in her hand lying on the ground. The thorn was from the rose of death. A distinctively black rose that held the power to kill anyone with its venom. Her veins were already beginning to turn to a shadow of her life.  There were no guards within a considerably close distance.

He pulled the thorn from her hand, and dragged his fingernail across his wrist creating a deep gash. His evil blood began to ooze out. He held his hand above her mouth and dripped a single drop into her mouth. In a matter of seconds her other delicate white arm began to turn black. His more dominant evil would fight the other lesser evil off, even if it was destroyed in the process. All he could do now was wait patiently and hope his heritage was that of a fighter.

Only minutes later one of the guards appeared. At first he drew his sword to kill Cantrell for meddling with royal affairs. Then the guard settled down and they both watched as Princess Lunia’s arms went back to their marble appearance.

“Cantrell, you have done me a grand favor. I hereby grant you the day off. You may do whatever you please.” The guard smiled and carried the princess away, but she wasn’t completely healed. The tip of her little finger was a solid shade of black.

Cantrell looked up at the position of the sun. It was almost high noon. He still retained a vampire’s hate for the sun. Though he could tolerate it, once it got high enough into the sky, he felt sleepy and it began to irritate his skin.

            He went back to the small shed that he called home, though it also kept the gardening tools safe from thieves. The floor was made of a sheet of wood he had fashioned in his free time. He lifted it above to reveal a grave sized hole in the ground. He laid down in it and began to drift to sleep. No one quite understood the point of a vampire sleeping in the ground. It wasn’t what most people thought. Cantrell slept in the ground because he wanted to be close to his family and the world below the ground that he called home. He was woken abruptly as a strong hand stuffed him into a burlap sack.

“I’m sorry Cantrell.” The voice belonged to his guard friend. He felt like he was being carried away and his gut said probably to his death. He used the razor sharp talons that he called fingernails and ripped his way out. He felt right to his feet and was in a fighting stance.

“What have I done?” Cantrell said through clenched teeth.

“The king says you have dishonored his family and made his daughter impure. I’m very sorry, you were my friend.” The guard snapped his fingers and it began to rain arrows and they landed in Cantrell’s chest. His will may have been strong but it seemed to be the end of him. When they dragged him away he was still breathing.

Silly Saturday: College Paper Intro

This silly post is the intro to a college paper that I got a B on

     The word epic, gets thrown around a lot. Man, the wave was totally epic. That peanut butter and jelly sandwich that my mom made was epic. I highly doubt that either of those is true. However, there was once a time when the word epic was used to describe a style of poetry. In this style, a hero would typically go on a quest to prove himself. A great example of this phenomenon of epic poetry is Beowulf, but I am to prove that Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is more of an epic than a romance. I'll pick apart each story in chronological order to see if they match up in any significant way.

He wrote in the margin, original and engaging opening.

Fantastic Friday: Part B!

Here is the second choice of Contractual Obligations, which will be the only multiple choice novel in existence.

B. You went to sign the contract with a nearby pen, but she slapped the pen out of your hand. You noted that she had slapped you hard enough that it burned ever so slightly. “Anyone can sign your name with a pen.” She said with a low growl. “I need you to sign with your DNA.” She handed you a pushpin, and you pricked your finger and signed the contract. “Excellent.”

The ground behind your register began to crack open, revealing hundreds of feet below red figures dancing around a pool of lava. You found that you were firmly locked in place despite the desire to want to leave. You fell, and shortly you found yourself burning in eternal pain.

Even through the flames that caked your eyes, you could see your old bland life through the crack. You wanted to go back, but you had signed your life away.Your new album would be titled Screaming Head/Burning Eyeballs. It was mostly filled with music of you screaming in agonizing pain. It did not have an ending. It continued eternally.

Terrific Thursday: Exercise 2!

For this exercise, I'll attempt to write a story where the mundane becomes extraordinary.

Getting Milk

     I raced away from the cop. So far, I only had one following me. I clutched the cold jug of milk between my legs. It was experimental hot chocolate milk. The first of its kind.
     A bullet smashed through the back window of my car. "It's not like stealing milk is a federal offense!" I yelled. Granted it actually was a federal offense now that cows were mostly extinct. Most of them had been kill by an epidemic of cow flu.
     Another cop appeared beside the one behind me like they had split apart like two cells. I watched the two cops become four and then eight. Then came a rain of gunfire. They were not going to let me go.
     I flipped my wheel and headed towards a portion of the road that lead to a ravine. Quickly I strapped the bottle of milk to my chest with Velcro and unbuckled my seatbelt.
     The cops stopped following me once they knew I was headed towards the ravine. I climbed onto the roof of my car, keeping low so that I wouldn't fall. Then I stood tall and saluted the cops as the car plummeted into the ravine. I leapt off of the food of the car, and with my flight suit, I soared to my saftey.

Wacky Wednesday: Fan Breeze

Okay. If you liked Peanut Better, wait until you hear about Fan Breeze. This is a simple invention idea consisting of a clip that is previously scented, shaped like a chip bag clip. You would clip this to your ceiling fan, so that it spreads the smell around the room in a breeze.
You could even have a designer line where the clip looks like a fancy decoration. If the smell isn't strong enough, then you can add similar clips to the other blades of the ceiling fan, and you can mix and match scents.
Plus, people may accidentally buy this instead of Febreeze because of the similar name.

Poetic Justice: Finals Poem

Fin Alley

Finally, can't you see?

No, one plus one isn't three.

My pen won't write on surface

Was Beowulf part of nobility

What's even the purpose?

When will I need this?

Am I paying six grand a year

To know the theme of King Lear?

My mind is a haze of mist.

Write a poem as a list?

Do you hear that sound?

The tune of the Final Countdown?

I can finish this test

Oh no, I finished before the rest

I should quit; throw in the towel

Others are following me, wow.

I'm the leader of my classmates

I can lead them to an Ace

I'll be at the system with my pen

Find a job in tomorrow's when

Let's leave this place

There's an entire world to face.

Short Story Sunday

This is where I'll post Short Stories. I'll come up with them somehow.

The Golden Guitar

Back in the day of guitar riffs and drum solos there was man who was the greatest rock star of any time. He wasn't just a great man on set, he was also a great dad, and husband too. Tragically he died when a plane crashed mysteriously into the Pacific Ocean. There were no survivors. The fans played his trademark song, The Golden Guitar in the street. And his family cried his name to the heavens. Or at least that's what my mom says. I honestly can't remember him. I am Trip Blackwell the only heir to Ace Blackwell's throne, and I have zero musical ability. That's right I can't even whistle or snap my fingers. I know that I should be just as ashamed as my father's fans, but I'm not. My abilities lie within my distinct admiration for poetry.

“What are you doing?” Zack Zaneth said. That's my best friend. He claims that he can play the guitar, but I'm sure that he can only play a few chords. It's not like I would tell him that. And even if he can only play a few chords, he can still do more than me.

“I'm writing my autobiography it's kind of a bummer story right now, but in a few seconds when that bell rings, I know that this summer I will become a legend,” I said. The teacher turned around and looked at me and Zack. She brought her finger to her lips and silently shushed us. I couldn't believe it, I was about to be by default a senior. That would mean that I would never have to see Mrs. Holloman again. She had been nagging at us to stop being creative for two semesters. Now it was down to the last twenty seconds. Everyone in the room started to count down as the time quickly ticked away. And just twenty-eight seconds later me and Zack were out of the school and discussing our summer plans.

           

“So, what are your plans for the next three months?” I asked. Zane smile became a crescent moon. He pulled his bag off his back and he looked around like he was super paranoid. He yanked a folded blue piece of paper from his bag and handed it to me like it was the most top secret information he had ever held. I unfolded it, and I was surprised to see that it was a lyrics page of my dad's trademark song. “Why are you so paranoid? Everyone and there mother has heard these words, and most of them have heard it personally.”

“Read it carefully and tell me that it doesn't sound suspicious.” I looked at it, then back at Zack, he told me again to read it. Even though it sounded like the beginnings of a blubbering mad man, I still read it. Beyond the land of Notred'nal, in a place where pass the darkest day. Here I have put my guitar to lay. You must seek the treasure. It will be your pleasure. Find my golden guitar. I have lost it and you must find it. Or it can become an artifact for another world. It's simple as one, two and three. First, find the place with the man tree. Go down into the deepest pit to another world. Second take a leap of faith and be tossed and whirled. Below this pit you will find where my guitar stays. Third, it's as simple as taking it from where it lays. Play one chord and cease being bored. Strum one note. If you don't you can take a swim in my everlasting moat. Do not fret and do not place one last bet. Each strum is worth one. Have a lot of fun. I. Have. Lost. My. Guitar. But. It. Hasn't. Gone. Far. You must find it, because I have lost it.

My stare was blank. I didn't see anything new. It was the same old song as before. “What did you want me to see?” Zane held up one finger to signify me to give him a second. We continued walking in silence, Until we came to my house. “Well, I don't want to be rude, but did you have a point with showing the lyrics to me.

“Yes, but you won't believe me. I think your father hid his precious golden guitar before he died. I think it's a map.” I rolled my eyes and sighed. He was off on another one of his rants about hidden messages and treasure I headed towards my front door with every intention of playing video games when I got inside, but Zack stopped me. “Notred'nal is our home towns name backwards. The guitar hasn't gone far because it's under the street your house is on. And the man tree is right there.” Zack pointed across the street at the oak tree the shaded my front porch.

“I never wanted to saw this, but you're a psychopath. You know that right? Do you remember when we pulled the tiles up at the library after you saw Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Plus, that tree looks nothing like a man.” Zack grabbed me by the arm and dragged me across the street to the tree. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me nose first into the bark of the tree. There was a carving on the tree, but I couldn't make it out given that I was going cross-eyed looking at it. “Okay let me go!” I yelped. Zack let go and I pulled back. Somebody had carved a stick figure. It was a male stick figure, or so I started to be believe.

“Lead the way. I will follow you until there is danger involved then I will leave. That is the best friends code.” Zack opened up his bag again and pulled a six inch crowbar from it. “What are you going to do with that? Are you going to open a bottle of root beer with it?” Zack swung it and it extended to three feet long. He strutted to the middle of the road and looked down at the manhole covering. He place the crowbar into the side and pushed down with all the force he had, yet manhole did not come open. I walked like a sane man to his side and looked to it. Oddly enough it had my father's initials and a series of notes written on it.

“Well, I'm ready to give up,” Zack said. He was keen on finding the adventures and plotting them out, but he couldn't pull it off. Every time he ran into a snag or a knot in his rope of plans, he gave up. He began to drag himself away in shame. I walked onto the metal disc cover, and hummed the notes. They were strangely familiar like notes that I had heard thousands of times before. Could they be? I thought to myself. “I have lost it. You must find...” I was hesitant to finish. I was tampering with musical mysteries that hadn't been unveiled in almost sixteen years. “It.” The manhole cover opened and I fell through.

I landed on a grate in the sewer. It smelled rank like dirty socks, underwear, armpit, and spoiled eggs mixed in a dumpster with a few dead ca..., well you get the point.  “Hey Zack!” I screamed at the manhole, yet even through my best shouting efforts I couldn't get him. I even sang the tune, but it looked to be a one hit wonder, which wasn't much like my father. Suddenly somebody tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I turned to see a man with a long beard, sunglasses, and musical notes tattooed on his eyelids. He didn't look eager to open his eyes either.

“I am Slick Rick. I am the drummer of the fabled band that Ace Blackwell was in. To pass me you must play a drum solo. Or you can stay here forever! The choice is yours.” Slick reached into his jacket and pulled out two golden drumsticks, then he stepped aside to reveal an old set of drums. I was frozen with shock. Not only was the song actually a map. It also didn't speak of any challenge. “What are you waiting for mortal?”

I began to sweat and hyperventilate. Slick took a step back and sighed. “You must play! Nobody has been down here in years. At least try. What would your parents say if they saw you quit?” I walked over to the drum set, sat in the chair, and I drummed my heart out. I stood up sweat glistening off my brow and I laughed. “That was pretty good for someone who was holding the sticks upside down. Though the point of this test was not to prove that you could play the drums. It was to prove that you had the courage to try. May the beat be with you.” Slick stepped aside once more. As I passes he opened his eyes to see me. “And don't be discouraged my son.” It sounded heartfelt, but I wrote it off as a Star Wars thing.

I walked to the end of the grate. Though it ended at a sort of sewage waterfall, then as the water went down it swirled around like the water in an unplugged bathtub drain. “Second take a leap of faith and be tossed and whirled,” I whispered. Was I going crazy? I made a quick double take over my shoulder and saw that Slick and the drums were no more. Was I sleeping in my bed? It was a really realistic dream then. I could smell Slick's nasty breath or perhaps that was sewer. Either way, I was standing at the only known way out. The question was; if I would risk drowning for a legend. Did I even have a friend named Zack? I slapped myself. “I am trip. So, I can't be blatantly ironic and think that I am tripping.”

There was only one thing to do. I jumped into the swirling vortex. For a few minuted I panicked as I swirled around, but nothing compared to going under. I couldn't catch my breath. Then I hit a gate, I rolled across the gate, and I was in another pipe. Only this one didn't have sewage flowing through it. Another man helped me up. This man looked like a hippie, he had a tie-dyed shirt, and he had dreadlocks. And not that it mattered, but he smelled like toast.

“Man, you totally pulled a James, uh, uh, Ja, Jesse.” Again I had a confused look on my face like I had seen a unicorn. He smiled and patted me on the back. I followed him without question for a few seconds until I saw a wireless keyboard strapped to his back. He turned back and laughed. “Wait, I think I might have jumbled up my pronouns, I might have meant to say James Bond. And I think I'm actually James Uh Uh Jajesse.” He inhaled deeply and it was like a light bulb came on above his head. “I think that might be a hippie name. Oh yeah and I was suppose to say something when I saw you.

I think it might have been like this. Play a little ditty on this keyboard thingy.” He pulled a keyboard from his back and handed it to me. I held it with one hand and with the other I played a re-imagined Jaws theme that could probably have been called Gums. “That was like a total mind blower. The golden guitar is up those stairs.” Again when I was a few dozen feet away, James mumbled something. “I love you, man.”

I walked up the stairs. I was in denial when I saw that there were raging rapids between me and the golden guitar. I was standing on one side and twenty feet away through twelve feet of water, there stood the guitar. It was leaning in a taunting manner, and shinning like an unreachable star. “You have to swim to the top, just like Ace climbed to the top.” A man said from the distant shadow beside me. “Who are you?” I asked. “I am the triangle player from Ace's band. My name is Trey Anagle. Like I was saying you must swim to the top.” My reaction was almost robotic. I jumped and I swam with all my might, but I was barely holding my own. I made it just close enough to pluck one string, then I was yanked below the unforgiving sea of sewage.

Trey jumped in after me and pulled me to cement land. I was slowly leaving consciousness. Trey blinked and I saw that he had notes tattooed on his eyelids. He smelled like toast too. “Trip, don't you recall I didn't have a triangle player, keyboard player, or drummer in my band. It wouldn't matter to me whether you could write poetry, sing, or anything else. I just want you to believe in yourself. Be the best Blackwell you can be. I love you. I know this may be strange, but through the power of my golden guitar I was able to come back and say these things to you. Good luck trip.” My dad began to walk away and before he was gone. I opened my eyes again and say that I was in a hospital bed, he came back. “By the way. I named you Trip because of the irony that I knew you would never trip up. Bye.” He kissed me on the cheek and dissipated into a cloud of notes.

His image was replace by Zack's. Dude, they found you floating in a pond. You're lucky you survived.” He leaned in close. “Did you find the guitar?” I smiled big. “You could say that.        

Silly Saturday: Arrow to the Heart

Saturday, I'll post a snippet from the Arrow to the Heart Manuscript:

Did you ever notice that no matter where you are, the moon is always looking at you? You could shift to the left or to the right, but it is always looking at you. It was something that Josh Quincy had noticed for the past week. For the past seven days, he had sat on the overpass contemplating his approaching death. He had made his mind up about ending his life, but every night, the moon was watching from the sky.

            Despite not having a single person that mattered to him, or more accurately, no one that he mattered to, he could not bring himself to disappoint the moon. It was a cosmic entity that surveyed every night. It was somewhere between being a goddess and being a superhero. Thus he couldn’t bring himself to death while the moon watched.

            The last seven nights he had come to bridge, he had been hoping that there would be an overcast. This night was as close as it had gotten, with two fat clouds chasing the moon up the horizon, and hopefully when they blinded the moon, he would have his chance to go headfirst into the next life. It wasn’t that he was afraid, but that the moon had been a symbol of his hopes and dreams. It reminded him that everything was possible. Or that everything had once been possible.

Granted the moon wouldn’t look back at his life with a teary expression, he still found it hard to do something so dark near light he cherished so much. It had never done anything harsh to him, which meant it wasn’t right to die by moonlight. The moon and the stars flashing in the sky, reminded Josh that his life wasn’t going to flash before his eyes.

No matter how he looked at it, he was 100% certain that the drop to the pavement wasn’t enough to retell his life. How could such a short fall dissect any aspect of his life? That was certainly a myth, probably perpetuated by the notion that people regretted their bad decisions. It made sense that people would make up myths about dying, like the light at the end of the tunnel and a newfound retrospective.

They both made clear that even when you felt alone, you have some sort of guidance, perhaps the notion of looking back hindered some people, but not Josh. He would die just as he lived, not believing in fairy tales and myths. Too many warm fuzzy feelings came from fairy tales and myths, and that wasn’t how life panned out every time.

He didn’t particular enjoy much of his life, and the good moments were not going to be enough to reset his decision. Though the more he thought about it, he figured that he deserved a recap, just like any crappy sitcom. He would just try to limit himself to thinking of only the good memories. It would be a forceful version of his life flashing before his eyes. After all, he felt like he deserved to have existed and that he had once had meaning like a show that had outlived its original concept. Those memories were just buried in the attic of his mind.

He pressed his fingers to his temples and concentrated on the pink light wavering through his eyelids. The fondest memory that he could recall was of his bike. While he was watching Saturday morning cartoons on his tenth birthday, his mother pushed a perfect purple bike in front of the television.

His memories the qualified as fondness centered on the couch that sat in the living room. It was only eight feet away from a fat TV that was near the size of the couch itself. His mind focused hard on the couch, trying with difficulty to tether his mind to it. It was a white couch made of some textured blue fabric. On the back cushions there were embroidered flowers that were raised with sequins at every tenth stitch. There were 59 sequins in all, Josh had counted them several times in his youth.

Fantastic Friday: Contractual Obligations

I have this idea called Contractual Obligations, where you can choose in multiple choice form a deal with the Devil. You'll understand when you read it. One option will be added here every Friday.

Your life had a soundtrack. Not an especially good one like one from a movie, but it was the sounds of your life. It was uniquely yours, and it went to the album you called Bland. Whether it was going to be your only album was up for debater, but Bland was not going to win a Grammy. But you did always wonder why someone would want a trophy in the shape of outdated tech anyway. You’d sometimes ponder similar situations. Oh, here’s your math trophy in the shape of an abacus. Oh, here’s your surgeon trophy in the shape of a bottle of whisky.

            Your album had four distinct tracks to a slow and boring tempo. The first track was a constant low like one a printer did when it finished printing. It was a precursor to predetermined destiny, because in the end things played out exactly how they were supposed to. Seldom had you grabbed a piece of paper that a printer had inked up that was supposed to have homework on it and found that in bold and italic uppercase letters the words: FUCK YOU. To start the track you had to force yourself to give eye contact to people who thought they deserved it.

            The second track was the simple utterance, “Would you like…” set on indefinite loop. It hardly mattered what was said after the phrase as long as somewhere in its confines it contained the word, ‘but’. In practice it sounded like a robot gurgling gravy saying something such as, “Would you like to go to a great school, but to do so you have to get stupidly good grades.” Even if what you said didn’t contain ‘but’ you were still the butt of the joke.

            The third track was the sound of rubber or plastic being opened. It sounded just as much like a doctor opening a glove for a prostate exam as it did a bag of lucky charms being opened, but it contained none of the excitement of either.

The last track, though the shortest was the reminder that the album had a definitive ending. For you, hearing it was like smelling bacon or hearing and ice cream truck jingle A microgasm for one of your senses. The track was satisfying like the sound of two quarters being rubbed together.

The worst part about the album was the once it started playing, you didn’t really have a choice other than to continue to listen to it 200 times. You had to listen to it, because you were living it. You were making music to the slow boring beat of your own drumlike sequence of tones.

Until one day, while working at your shitty retail job, a woman walked up to your register. She was wearing a bright blue blazer and a white blouse. He shoulder length brown hair was nearly ruined by two cowlicks at either side of her head. “Did you find everything all right?” You asked as though you cared.

“Seemed easy enough to me,” she said back. With one hand she set some small items onto the counter, and you organized them so that they were all facing upwards. Then it slow succession, you scanned them all. He head twisted until it was perpendicular to her shoulder. Though her eyes were firmly planted on your hand, she seemed to be looking through you.

Taking advantage of her distant look, you decided to ask, “Would you like to sign up for our credit card?”

“No.”

“But you would save 10% off if you were approved.” This time instead of dignifying your comment with a response, she waved your voice away like an insect. You noticed finally that her skin was thoroughly sunburnt giving her eyes and almost sunken look. It had been hard for you as a cashier to tell if people were genuinely weird or just tweaking.

You slipped your fingers into the plastic bag and slid her items in with minimum resistance. Her head turned again almost impossibly as it began to pass her shoulder. “Your total is $43.11.”

Still quiet, she flipped open her wallet and handed you three crinkled twenties. Then as she continued to stare through you, she spoke. “I like your soundtrack very much.” If she was talking about your metaphorical sound trach, then she was definitely on drugs. She reached back into her wallet, attempting to grab something with her long talons. From it she yanked and old piece of parchment, and she slammed it onto the counter.

“What is this?” You asked.

“A music contract. I want to buy your soundtrack.”

You decided to play along. “But it is boring.”

“Perhaps, but I can give you anything for it. Anything.”

“What do you get out of this?” You asked.

“I get all of the music you make for a very long time.”

You heard rumblings of a fifth track appearing on your album. The sound of thunder before a heavy rain. If you took the deal, you could make less bland music. You could do anything.

Was it in your best interest to take the deal? The woman flicked her lips with her fork tongue. You got the impression that she was getting impatient. Your options presented themselves as if answers to a multiple choice question.

A. “Are you the Devil?” You asked her. She laughed.

“No, I’m just a music agent. What gave you the impression that I was the Devil?”

Looking back you did think it was kind of stupid. Her skin wasn’t even that red. “I just had a weird feeling about it is all.”

“Well, how about you channel all of that energy into a brand new song.” She handed you a pen, and you signed the contract. In five months you released a new album called, The Devil in My Mind. It became the number one song overnight, and you became the first artist to go double diamond in a week. You had all of the money you could always ask for, and only a shred of memory of what once had been. Your life couldn’t be better.

For one of your albums in your later career, you went back to the shambles of the store you had once worked at. You dug through infinite boxes of crap in the dilapidated stock room. Until you found the register that had once been yours. Remarkably it still had two quarters in the drawer.

You took it to your enormous penthouse, and you fixed it up. In the last song you produced before you retired from the music business, you made sure the last note was the sweet sound of the drawer of your cash register opening. This way you could remind people that from just two quarters, you can become something.