Saturday, September 30, 2017

60 Seconds: A Poem

60 Seconds or one minute 
And you will not forget 
Anything could happen 
In a second ticking by 
Time flies 
When you stare into the sky 
Clouds floating around the world 
Twirling twirling twirling 
Whirling and spinning 
And you just grinning 
Sixty seconds in a group of ten 
Still not forgotten 
The hands spin 
To who knows when 
Then the clock strikes ten 
And the hands spin 
Round the face 
In a single space 
Circle, oval, oak 
Spinning like an artichoke 
Once we look to the clock 
Everything shakes 
Like a quake 
Looking to the comic cube 
Spinning on the cosmic hoop 
60 Seconds pass on by 
Now, without regret, we all die 
One minute at a time 
Continue with the rhyme 
Though you my be gone 
Your wisdom is not 
For you, this is not a second thought. 

Friday, September 29, 2017

Dr. Hounchell's Theory of Life and Everything: E-Mail

Today's topic is Email.

Why do emails exist? They are long form texts and non mail mail.

You would think that emails specifically exist because snail mail is slow hence the snail name, but though you would be corr... Or half correct, you would not be right.

Emails were created by aliens to learn how we speak. They never actually say, take me to your leader. They are actually saying take me to your liter! A liter a pepsi.

Because Pepsi is all emails are for.

Aliens want are Pepsi because it is cool and refreshing and it will put a pep in their step.

But what do I know? I'm not a real Doctor.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Tokyo Story #10

Know how my wife and myself went to Tokyo for our honeymoon? It was great and such as you should expect.
But when we were riding the metro, I lost the other half of my ticket, meaning it would be very hard to return. Instead of hoping the tiny fence between me and freedom, I stood there. I didn't want to cause some international incident that I couldn't explain to anyone.
I asked Grace to go get help, but she couldn't find anyone. So, I was trapped inside the metro by myself unable to go anywhere.
It was frustrating. I started making wild plans for the future. I could work for yen, carrying people's luggage. Then I could use that yen to buy snacks out of the vending machine.
It ended up that someone from the metro came over and opened the ticket eating machine, and let me through. So, I didn't have to stay there forever.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Poetic Movie Review of Lego Ninjago

Lego Ninjago is fairly decent
Despite my descent
I have to pull back
Because without knowing anything of the cartoon
The movie has proved
You can make a movie good
Without tons of lore to pull from
Though the best part is the Lego humor
That spread throughout the story
It's self-referencial
And that's what makes it special
From the villains who are aware
And the robots who are unaware
As Lego movies have been
They are told with a kid
It keeps the tension
Even through a lesson
It's a movie about acceptance
And making friends
And in the end
The way the move concludes
Is relatable too
If you love movies made with town design
Then this is made with you in mind
I give this a four out of five.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Bed: A Poem

My bed is like a sail boat
The floor is the sea
I lay upon my boat
And I dream where to be
My sail is a sheet
That traps in the heat
I travel every night
To make it to Port Sleep Tight
Though I am more like a pirate
Stealing time away
From the sheeps that play
I float atop the feathers
No matter the weather
Though I have companions
Often I make the journey alone
The bed doesn't move
But neither does the boat
It's the sea the moves
Just like my heart
I drift away into the deep
Maybe someday I'll find Port Sleep.

Monday, September 25, 2017

A Letter to my Grandma

Dear Grandma,

I've been thinking about writing a letter like this, for the blog, for a long time. I never planned on showing you, but somehow I think you'll know.

I'd like to think thank you. Not in the traditional sense either. Yeah yeah. You raised me and that's cool and all, but kids are like trees. Make sure they don't catch on fire or get chopped down and everything is fine.

No. I want to thank you for so much more than that. Thought there are other people that I could thank, I'm going to stick with you.

Thank you for staying with me. You stood by on every occasion that I wanted to write. You've bought me books. You've given me names for characters, but more than anything else, you never let me stop. No matter how much anyone puts me down, you're always there to lift me up.

Because of you, I had my first, second, and my third contract signing. And I couldn't be happier.

So, here's to you. Here's to standing by young artists until they make something of themselves.

-A.M.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Just Your Type Writer

Want to make a billion dollars? Who doesn't? Want an idea for an invention ? Who doesn't? Want an invention idea that could make a billion dollars?

Well, here's an idea. It's an electronic notebook that analizes your handwriting, then after writing it into the notebook, you can upload the handwriting to your computer and it will translate it into type.

There are pens and special paper currently like this, but what I am suggesting, is more like an electronic notebook that I'd laid out more like a Kindle. A tablet that you can wrote in and turn the pages in, and turn them back at any time, without having millions of pieces of paper.

What will we call this brilliant thing?

And eWriter.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Defense: A Poem

Nothing makes a good defense
More than the fence
You set between you and them
Like the stone rim
Of a glass you built yourself
To keep out the hooligans, the vampires, the elves
No one should pass into your heart
Lest they be torn apart
By electricity andd bullets
That engulf your defense
Repeat, wash, rinse
As you set up your gate
Something you'll lock to separate
You and Us
But you are just lost
You split away
We stay together this way
A wall in self, is exile
For as long as forever, or a while
Stay there if you desire
Born in your hateful pit of mire
While we are safe beyond
Roaming free on our lawns
No iron fences
Or ire defences
Together we are always one
As such, we’ve already won. 

Friday, September 22, 2017

Moon Man Mike: A Short Story

There once was a man named Mike, who loved on Earth and owned shoes. His shoes connected to earth, ad they should. He had a normal hair cut. And he had a normal life.
However, one day when Mike was walking down the street, his shoes no long stuck to the Earth, and he began to float away. At first, he could grab the grass, but it could not hold his weight. Instead, he grabbed the trees, but his grip was not tight enough.
Mike was doomed to float into the sky. He floated away like a carnival balloon, and he floated further than the largest dog could see. He continued until he could see the Great Wall of China and then beyond.
Eventually, Mike Found himself one the moon, connected by his shoes. He stepped around and through, enjoying the view. Now, Mike had no choice, but to live in the moon. So, he dug a tunnel, and he built a home.
Mike in the Man in the Moon. That's his face on the pale rock in the sky. He doesn't leave often, because the meteors have it out for him.
For the most part, he does very little other than live on the moon. Often enough, Mike does his best to help astronauts and lost aliens. And they think he is a nice guy.
Someday, Mike hopes to go home. Maybe he'll buy new shoes.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Dr. Hounchell's Theory of Life and Everything: Time 2

Today's topic is time again.

Time, it exists, because we say it does. Time is a function that we created to understand the length of our existence. Anything could be a measure of time, but we chose seconds and minutes and hours.

But why? Why break it down into sets of 60 for it's smallest form?

Meh, I don't know.

But what if we measure time in a different way. This method would also have to be universal, so we would have to do something that is a constant.

Now, I am thinking that we should measure time via the amount of sneezes in a movie theater in the standard hour.

Perfect, right?

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

James and the Fly Peach

Want a billion jillion dollars?

Well, this idea isn't that. This idea is maybe to make a quick forty dollars.

You take a ball, smaller than a grape. And you attach it to a bunch of flies. It gets rid of the flies. And it's entertaining. It's fun to watch? How will you do it?

Hunt them down.

Why would you do this? If you have enough flies to carry a grape, you have a problem.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Veins of Blue: Poem

My veins are blue
But my ink is black
My page is white
But my brain is grey
My eyes are blue
But my shoes are green
I run to the future
To chase my dreams
Stuck in the clouds
Trapped in my thoughts
I wonder what pulsed through other's hearts
Mine is ink
I like to think
I'm a write or die
Kind of guy
So, as I chose the novel
Living in a hovel
I'll stay firmly here
Writing 365 blog posts a year
And though it may seem hard
It keeps me sharp
Like

Monday, September 18, 2017

Rain In the Sky: Poem

I was told there was rain
As I listened to it slap the window pane
It always want in
It didn't matter when
A begger and a creep
Tapping on my window while I sleep
Rain makes the flowers grow
As I should know
Every night
After daylight
I wake to the flowers reaching
For the sky, and screeching
They wanted the rain.
No need to explain
Free food and no eyes
That's to be sure
Until the sky opens and hears their cries
The dust would settle
And rain sits on each pedal
The thirst no longer hurts
The hunger has no words
So, let it rain
Give us food
Let the trees cry
Like they should
Babies to the mouth earth
Sprouting from her hearth
She'll feed them with her heart
And do her motherly part
The sky cracks like and egg
And down down comes the rain

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Dr. Hounchell's Theory of Life and Everything: Tennis Shoes

Today's topic is Tennis Shoes.

Without doing any actual research, I was pondering why tennis shoes are called tennis shoes, given that perhaps I know 3 people who can play tennis well enough to care about what kind of shoes they wear to specialized shoes.

Interestingly, on the same note. why are sneakers called sneakers? I know very few ninjas. Who is sneaking in sneakers?

My thought is that tennis shoes is actually a colloquialism for just shoes. Because shoes is one sylavic, and English tends to lean closer to the easiest thing to say. Sort of how sort of becomes sorta.

Sneakers however seems to be an older form of the same concept of shoes. That or everyone who says tennis shoes is unaware that there are ninjas everywhere wearing similar shoes to them and hunting them down.

But hey?
It's like a theory.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Poetic Movie Review of IT

It is unforgettable
It makes your fears tangible
The movie strong suit
Is not the clown suit
But rather playing against and with cliche
And ebb and flow kind of way
A cheap jump scare
Followed by an actual terror
Details are important if you want to feed
Fear is important if you want to eat
Though most of the kinds can act
Some of them have lesser roles
But it's a 1000 page book, so who knows
They act like kids
Stupid and brave
Bravely stupid
And the kind of Justice Billy craves
The chilling part
Isn't the clowns heart
Or the past story line
No what makes this movie fine
What makes it sparkle best
Is the adults and Pennywise
And the look they get in their eyes
Each of the adults has a chilling edge
Sharper than my father's pocket knife
None of the kids are ever without danger
Because it lurks behind every corner.
With this in mind
4.5 out of 5

Friday, September 15, 2017

Race: A Poem

The world is a race
A race to death
With no skip to next
Until nothing is left

We run and sprint this race
Until we are without breath
Knowing we can never skip
Or even turn left

Keep on Until There's no space
Until there is no more to breathe
And nothing to know
Except it's your turn

And when you run into the cold
Make sure to look, into the unknown
And though you may be alone
You experienced so much

You ran past the past
To the Future old
And now, here you float
Onward on heavens road

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Dr. Hounchell's Theory of Life and Everything: Water

Today's topic is water. This one is going to be a little different. Instead of one topic, I'm joining two.

The Earth is 75ish percent water and so is the human body. The thing that makes the body work is the flow of blood, similar to the flow of magma in the techtonic plates.

Perhaps, the microorganisms that call our body home are like us. To the smallest organism, it would seem as though there was nothing beyond us.

In this instance, what I am suggesting is that the Earth is not just a living being like us, but we are also a planet. We are a planet for the creatures that call our body home.

You're a planet, son.
Not a sun, son.
But a planet.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Fire: A Poem

A fire brushed through the brush
It streaked though the creek
And it smashed through the field
It destroyed things in it's way
And it continued this way
Pulling through the night
Burning more than just bright
It left a little line of ash
As it went past
And from this ash
The ground was scorched
Maybe even scarred
Then a partial piece of plant
Pushed up to see the sun
The burns protected the ground from disease
And the following year
The only thing that grew
Was in the streak here
Life continued from the destruction
Creating a contradiction
Of construction
To build
You must break
To mend
You must first ache

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Incubus: A Poem

I lost my pants
Perhaps even my mind
As I recant
A time I left behind

Lost my pants to a friend
Gained a pirate hat
And when my quest came an end
I sat in an incubus's lap

An Incubus, the succubus of men
A part of a certain type
In a certain kind of den
It wasn't worth the pants I swipped

Never did he like me
Even after the dice had been rolled
My pants came with a fee
And I had been trolled

I returned to the quest
With damage to my brain
I tried my best
Finished my arc no need to explain

Monday, September 11, 2017

Poetic Movie Review of White Chicks

The Wayans family both wrote and acted
This movie that is underappreciated
You'll have to suspend your disbelief
And endure a bit of grief
Now, it's ideas my be dated
But it still exceeded expectations
It is a satire and a comedy
With political commentary
It isn't the Scary Movie Franchise
The kind of Wayans movies I despise.
It's written well enough
Even though the acting can be rough
It's good
Probably more than it deserves
Though the characters are flat
Unchanging until the end
But it's about FBI agents that are back
Playing White Chicks who are under attack
If you don't like the plot
That's fair I'd say
But the funniest part by far
No one questions the manly girls in anyway
They don't look like the actual girls
Who lost their mind?
What in the world
It's an experience of so good
You should give this 90s movie a look
With that in mind
Two stars out of five

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Dr. Hounchell's Theory of Life and Everything: Origin of Ideas

Today's topic?
The origin of ideas.

Perhaps, I have touched upon this concept before, but still I think about it. Still, I stay up all night wondering where ideas come from. I still think about the first person to think of heating sand to make glass. The first person to sprinkle salt onto food. The first person to think of drinking cow's milk.

Though most of the time I think of the origin of creative ideas, I believe I have a better idea of where these ideas come from. I understand that fiction is partial created around the answers to questions that have no answer and sometimes questions that were never asked. Fiction is created in stacks. X person thinks of fairies. Y person thinks of something to counter. Back and forth forever. Thus in this sense there only has to be on original idea to compound on.

Thus brings up the thought that there has to be a person who first had the idea to fight a bull. There has to be a first to drink poison. To roll in nuclear waste. To leap into shark infested waters.

This means that our understanding of the world and our ideas ce from trial and error. It is only from the vantage point of the future of a trial that we can be astonished.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

My Old Dog: A Poem

My old dog
Is fat as a hog
He loves to eat ice cream
And kick in his sleep
We used to run and play
Then he got old and grey
Until one day, he crumpled when he once stood
My old dog lies stiff as a board
And just as bored
Wouldn't fight a squrriel or bird
Probably wouldn't if he could
My old dog cant come along
Or run with me
And when I move
I'll have to let him be
I'll give him food
And his own room
But they only let one pet
And I have two
I know he wouldn't want me caught
When rent is due
So I'll give him one last day
One he'll never forget
But it is the last
I feel bad that I'm the one to Outlast
I love my old dog
I'll bury you myself
I'll hold the shovel
Rip my palms
I'll give you a grave
The day, I move away.

Friday, September 8, 2017

Heatstroke: A Short Story

Lucy’s shoes clip-clopped along the concrete like a sticky metronome. Approaching a hot dog vendor, she said, "What types of mustard do you have today?"
He responded, "I had a pure-breed Schnauzer but he only has three legs now." He then handed her a sweating bottle of water before turning away.                                                                                                       
A few feet away, a metal newspaper dispenser reflected the harsh sunlight. She stepped closer, blinking at the headline… THE HOTTEST DECEMBER ON RECORD CONTINUES.
“Again?” She muttered. A woman stopped to look at Lucy.
“When I pull the wings off flies, I call them walks.” She laughed, handing Lucy a hard candy.
“Okay,” Lucy said.
Lucy continued down the sidewalk, taking a swig from the water bottle. The moment the clear liquid touched her lips, she threw the bottle into the street. Whatever had been in the bottle cascaded into a drain. “What was in that bottle?” Another empty eyed person passing by stopped Lucy.
“It was just this bad yesterday. You’ll get used to it,” they said.
Before Lucy could speak, the strange person continued down the street. The harsh sunlight bounced off of the bleached sidewalk, and Lucy lost the person in the blinding haze. The light melted everything around it into a blank sheet of nothingness. Lucy had no idea where she was going.
“Hello?” She called out. Through the bright sheet of light, a man appeared.
“I stole her heart, because I love her more than she will ever know.” The man smiled at her, pressing a card into her hands. After taking a few steps, he disappeared. Lucy opened the card, finding an accurate drawing of a heart in maroon ink that was flaking away.
“I don’t understand,” Lucy mumbled. The sunlight caressed Lucy’s cheek, burning and blinding her simultaneously. “Will someone help me? Please, someone help me! Please.” The fire burned even more of her body, traveling the length of her torso. A man grabbed her by the shoulders, and he slapped her.
“Stop screaming, you’ll wear yourself out. You should conserve your strength.” He shoved Lucy into the whiteness, and she felt cold snow on her burning flesh. “You brought this upon yourself. You should have thought your actions through. Most consequences only occur during your life, but this isn’t one of them.”

The blinding white light continued to burn Lucy while the snow forced her breathing to slow. The white light was eventually taken over by dark nothingness. The metronome of her steps continued. It sounded like the knocks onto an iron gate. It was so hot for a December, she felt like it had been hot for an eternity.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

SAND MAN BANd

In another land
Not this one, but another
Somewhere far far away
Opposite the sun and the moon
Meandering across the street
Nodding to the beat of the AC Unit
Impossibly tired and always awake
And breathing to the beat

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Writing Exercise: Or Not

This writing exercise may be count-intuitive at first, but it will eventually make a lot of sense. Put your writing utensils away and go about your day. DO NOT WRITE any of this down. What you are going to do is just create a character, and look at the world around you. Look around and see how the character would interact with the world and the people. All you have to do is see how the character walks, how they run, how they hum to themselves. How they make a sandwich. Just do not write it.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

The Situational Blowtorch: Day 1

January 1st:

You find yourself standing in front of your bare steel walls. As we all usually do. It is the dawn of the new year, and you just received a blowtorch for Christmas. Because of the nature of Christmas and the end to the holidays, you have yet to use it.
Still, you've committed to using the blowtorch in a different way, every single day. Today, you were standing in front of the wall, holding your sheets of metal that comprised your calendar, as we all do on the first day of the year.
Your first action with the blowtorch was to soften the edged of the calendar and slam it into the wall. Now, you at least knew what days you had left. Most of them.

Monday, September 4, 2017

The Last Paper I Wrote For College

The Wicked Webs We Weave


In Japanese literature, men are always dragging women down. Whether this means the general perception of women or if it means womanly virtue, men are always trying to find a way to pull women down. The idea of women being lesser is firmly rooted inside of confucianism. The husband/wife relationship is one of one-way respect, much like the ruler/subject relationship. Women are supposed to listen to men, especially their husbands. Therefore, it is easy to drag women through the moral dirt, when they are portrayed as not listening to their husbands.
This moral fraying of women can be portrayed in several ways, either metaphorical or quite literal. For example, Tajomaru from Rashomon is trying to pull down the Samurai's wife, literally. Granted the entire story of Rashomon and the court is about how different people have different self interest. Each of the four characters, who tell their version of the story, tell the story from their point of view. This makes it easy for them to bend logic and truth.
From the Samurai's point of view, he doesn't care as much about Tajomaru’s actions, but instead cares that his wife is willing to leave him. Her leaving is in direct conflict with the confucian ideal of what makes a good husband/wife relationship. A good wife would have stayed by her husband, even if it meant death.
To be fair to the wife, Tajomaru’s side of the story indicated that the Samurai didn’t care about his wife either. He follows Tajomaru into the forest, despite feeling suspicious of him, just so he can get discounted mirrors and swords. During this time, the Samurai was willing to leave his wife unattended in the woods. Interestingly, this aspect of the story does not appear in the Samurai’s point of view.
 In his version of the story, she even utters the phrase, “kill him” to Tajomaru. Even the thief in that version of the story seems a little put off by that. Whether or not she actually said it, is part of how the story unfolds. This would be my version of literally pulling women down through perception.
Another version of pulling women down can be found in Tanizaki’s “The Tattooer.” This version of pulling women down is highly symbolic. For one tattoos, though applied, and eventually permanent. If someone were going to get a tattoo of their identity, then it would represent them for a long period of time. Not much unlike a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on an old man's shoulder.
Tattoos were eventually banned from Japan because of what they represented. Enter Seikichi, the tattoo artist in “The Tattooer.” He desires to permanently add a spider onto a woman's back.
The tattoo is a symbolic expression of how women are viewed as whores, sluts, predators, when they don't meet a certain criteria in the eyes of men. In this way,the tattoo symbolizes that women will never be viewed as equals even when they are strong individuals capable of murder.
Consider that Seikichi only gave the women the tattoo because he found her beautiful. A tattoo artist’s job is to ruin people's skin. Skin is an outside reflection of who someone is. Whereas morals are inside reflection of who someone is.  Sikichi cares very little about how his actions change people’s lives. And he seems uninterested in the symbols he inflicts on people, because his main purpose is create pain. Seikichi loved to inflict pain on people, which was why he was obsessed with being a tattooer. 
In Japan, tattoos were used as two different ways throughout history. One way that tattoos were used was a form of spiritual expressing, sort of a mimicking of the inside morals of someone. The other way that tattoos were used was as a method to identify criminals. Certain tattoos would be given to individuals that had done certain crimes. Even today, tattoos are a method used by the Japanese Mafia, the Yakuza.
In this story, the tattoo artist has all of the power. He desires to inflict pain on the woman, because it will bring him joy. Seikichi ignores another aspect of confucian ideals. As a person, he chose to not care how he treated everything. In the story of the tattooer, it seems evident that Seikichi’s actions have caused the woman to become a killer.
By giving her the tattoo, he didn’t represent what her moral content was. Instead, the spider tattoo changed her. Again in a Japanese medium, the man was in direct control of how the woman was perceived.
This is not unlike Rashomon either. The story is told from four different point of views, each of them counter the other. The woodsman, the Samurai, the Thief, and the wife, create their stories around a fundamental idea of being seen a certain way. This is just like the tattooer. Each of the characters wants to put on a front, much like the symbol of a tattoo, so that they can be perceived in a particular way.
The Samurai does not want to be perceived as a coward or as weak. We are to believe from previous stories that Tajomaru was the one who killed him. In fact, several of the stories indicate that Tajomaru killed the Samurai. Obviously, the samurai does not want to be remembered as a man who was killed by thief, because that is not honorable.

So, he finds a way to drag his wife through the mud. He frays her morals in his story to the point that she seems like a wicked person capable of unspeakable evil. The Samurai even mentions that she was the one who put him in this dark place. She forced him, because of honor, to take his own life.
            Each of the women in these two stories is perceived as weak and moldable by the male characters. Yet, each of the women was the cause of death of the perspective male character. So, no matter where woman go in Japan, they are viewed as being weak or as being spiders, waiting to lure men. Either way, this strips women of their agency and of their identity. 

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Dr. Hounchell's Theory of Life and Everything: Spiders

Today's topic? Spiders.

First and foremost, you've seen a spider, because who hasn't. The chill in corners of room, they walk across walls, they hand out in sticky structures that come out of their butts.

Spiders aren't bugs. As in insects, that's clear. But what if they are bugs, What is spiders were designed by the NSA to watch us from within our homes. I mean, spiders are versatile, people are afraid of them, and they eat flies on the wall. Who would except a spider of being a plant or a bug? Think about the last time you saw a spider eating in real life.

Yeah.

Yeah.

That's right. You are always being watched by an eight-legged freak.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

The Perfect Remote: An Invention

The perfect remote is the greatest invention I have ever come up with.

Using a microphone, the remote analyzes outside ambient sounds and their loudness levels. Then when say, the air condition ticks on or a lawn mower goes by the window, the TV will turn the volume up to accommodate.

Another thing that this magical remote could do is make sure that the volume on the TV is consistent as oppose to commercials being mega loud and programming being quiet.

  Design it and make a billion badollars.

Friday, September 1, 2017

A taste of a New Novel: Dead Dad Beat

Chapter One

There was a screen when David opened his mailbox. For the past six days, he had been receiving birthday cards for his eighteenth birthday. Almost every relative he had sent h a card and a check. The envelopes were usually crisp, and his name was typically written across the front in swooping letters. During those six days, his mother had been joking that he'd have to pay the rent, because he had the most money in the house. And though she meant it as a joke, he had more money than her generally, but he didn't want to embarrass her.
It was hard enough for her to raise a child on her own, she didn't need to be reminded that he made more money than her. No. Instead, he took her out once in a while on mom dates, just so she was reminded that he loved her. She never really questioned the dates, because they were spread out far enough.
This time, a week after his birthday, things were similar. The top two envelopes were from relatives trying to give him birthday wishes. He tore them opened and found a grand total of $50. Not bad. It was the kind of money he expected from great aunt's and uncles, since they grew up during a time when gasoline and soda were the same prince.
The third and finally letter in the stack was jet black with a stark white sticker across the front. It had his name embossed across the front, David Meyer or resident. This time, he happened to be both.
It had a different kind of weight. It wasn't a check or cash. The black letter was he one that drew him in. He tore that one open, and it wafted a clean smell into his lungs. Artificial like a hospital. It was the kind of thing, he expected from a hospital.
Inside was a short letter and an article out of a newspaper.
The letter stopped him in his tracks, hitting him like a cold breeze in a hot summer day. It started simply with:
Dear David,

I'm your father. And I'm going to die soon.

Before he could read anymore of the letter, he slid it back into the envelope and tucked it into his cargo shorts. For David, his was the first time he had ever gotten a letter from his father. In fact, it was the first time that he had been contacted by his father at all. He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't want to deal with his deadbeat dad asking for money. In fact, he could only hope that he'd get another letter saying his father had passed away. At least then, he wouldn't have to worry about what the man wanted.
He climbed the wooden steps up to the apartment door. It was faded from the bright red when they had moved in, resembling more of a pink instead. He nudged it open with a crack and tossed his father's letter onto their table. He had every intention of throwing it away but not in that moment.
He needed to start dinner before his mom got home from work. Tonight, he was thinking about making something simple. Maybe a casserole.
A quick check indicated that his best bet was a breakfast casserole. He yanked the pans from under the stove, and the eggs from the fridge. As he went to crack his first egg, there was a knock on the door. It caused him to break the egg in hand and dropped the yolk on the floor.
“You in there?” It was his friend Jamie. She was always coming around at the most inopportune time to talk about her latest gaming conquest.
“Door’s unlocked as usual.” Jamie shoulder her way into the apartment and stopped short of walking in.
“What's with the death letter?” The letter was still sitting on the dining room table.
“Who told you?”
“Told me what?”
“That the letter is from my dying father?”
“I didn't know that. I just took a stab in the dark. That's awesome. I mean…” Jamie paused to calculate. “No. I'm not going to switch it up, it's awesome"
“Don't touch it.” David cracked an egg into a bowl.
“I definitely didn't already open it.”
“I swear to God!” David said, cracking another egg. The shell fell to the floor smashed to bits. David heard Jamie's echoing footsteps behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to catch Jamie holding the letter from before.
“You really shouldn't swear to God. I can't imagine that's good for health.” David smashed the remaining egg in his hand and let the yolk fall away.
“Put the letter down.”
“Don't you want to know how he's dying? Cancer? War injury? Execution?”
“No.” David grabbed the letter from Jamie and tore it to bits. He let the wet egg white soak into the letter fragments, blurring the ink in his palm.
“I could still tell you, if you really want to know.”
“I don't.”
“You might though.”

“I won't,” David said. 

Poetic Movie Review of The Proposal

 There are three types of RomComs There's the ones that are corny The kind that are raunch and porn-y Then there's ones filled with ...