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[Danrul]

The man's topic now was a ghost.
A skeleton devoid of posts,
Angry and tired,
Replies he desired,
He wrote badly whilst eating toast.

Sorry guys I've been busy, and haven't written anything good to post.  So I made this faux limerick.  I've been holidaying, and in 2 hours I set out to go to Noosa.  So, if in those 2 hours I make anything worth posting, I will post.  You guys should too.

[William Broom]

Ah, lucky you! I love the Sunshine Coast.

The old man sleeps in a filthy flat on the 88th floor of the city. He has a leprous dog and a small pile of expired elevator cards. The boys are scared and unable to leave. The old man opens his red mouth and says:

Everybody’s talking about this ‘new sound’. Kids! They’ve got no idea what they’re talking about. One new sound! In my day, there was a new sound every Saturday night. In my day we had real music. Oh yes. Don’t think I don’t remember the old days. Kids, I’m eighty-three. I grew up in those times. No, I’m not afraid to talk about it now. What are they going to do, kill me? Hah! They’ll have to hurry if they want to get their hands on this life. I’m already on my way out.
Where are you going, kid? Yeah, I know. Yeah, if you’re scared you can leave.
So you’re staying, buddy? Sure you don’t want to leave with your friend? That’s good. That’s good. Sit down because this might take a while. Where was I? Oh yes, the old music. It started in ’83, when the Proton War was just beginning. The north and south were at each others’ throats like a pair of dogs fighting in an alleyway, with a pair of rusty trashcans behind them and high bathroom windows on either side. Fat, brown-skinned women would stick their heads out of the windows and shout, but those dogs wouldn’t listen. They would never give up on each other. Every day for months these two dogs would meet in the alley with fangs bared and hackles raised. The mothers would call in their children who were playing in the dirt and the gang kids would take off to the corner shop to buy cigarettes. The whole block would go silent to listen to those dogs fighting, the whole block was locked up like a frontier town when the gunslingers have their showdowns at high noon. Dust eddies blow through the streets and the combatants chew tobacco and curl their fingers around the butts of their pistols.
A gunslinger remembers all the good times he’s had in the moment before the draw, because he knows that they’re not likely to ever come again. He thinks of the horses he’s broken, girls he’s kissed, parents he left behind. Even stupid things seem precious in that moment. The fear of the draw paints them in a different light, a golden light, as if they were not mere reality but artworks envisioned by a famous painter, who works long into the night with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He’s not a glorious painter, he paints things that are down-to-earth and real but they have a beauty instilled for his love for that kind of scene. He loves instant coffee, concrete, bong water, derelicts, malcontents, learning disabilities and fat people. He takes ugly things into his breast and makes them lovely, like a mother goddess, a goddess of rejuvenation, the one who was worshipped by dancers in the nether regions of human history. Those were the days when mankind was still young and fresh, and every wonder of nature was still magic instead of sad, explicable science. Lightning was the fist of the gods and rainbows were left in the wake of kirin flying overhead, on their way to the stars.
By firelight the people of the veldt released their kinetic prayers to the mother goddess and hoped for her to turn their mountains of shit into gold. Meanwhile those gods still older (gods of fear and doubt) were left to moulder in the backs of caverns. They muttered and grumbled like small animals, creatures that scuttle beneath rocks and leaves and chew their food to a paste before swallowing it. Nobody has seen these creatures, only heard them; nobody can say what they look like. Often they like to take pebbles and roll them into patterns when nobody is watching. The design of these patterns is something I have dedicated my entire life to studying. Among all the creatures of the world, only three are known to engage in the creation of Art: that is, the African Elephant, the human being, and these as yet unnamed creatures. It is a phenomenon more rare than altruism, more wondrous than the glittering waterfalls of South Virginia, which catch the light of the 4th of July to assume colours beyond the spectrum of mortal vision. Beneath this waterfall two lovers exist in close proximity. At first they kiss, then they shout, then they are still as stone. Then they are stone. Nearly a thousand years pass over this immortal pair before each simultaneously crumbles to dust. From each powdery pile of refuse springs a single tear, sparkling with all the warm colours of the universe. Both tears fall together, amongst the waters and yet separate from them. Downstream they leap out into the dry bowl of a beggar. The two tears wriggle down the dusty slope toward a solitary coin. They cluster around it like children around an old man, who sleeps in a filthy flat on the 88th floor of the city. He has a leprous dog and a small pile of expired elevator cards. The boys are scared and unable to leave. The old man opens his red mouth and says:

[Bree]

Phew! That's come crazy stuff right there.

Here's a really old bit I wrote for a Chrno Crusade OC fic:

Elijah's eyes darted back and forth. The horde of demons was as thick now as the black heavens above, their own beady eyes watching his every move. Some held back the wilder ones, as they drooled and slobbered over the dusty cobblestone road. In one hand Elijah gripped his pistol, the trigger screaming out to be pulled. A thousand red eyes watched him.  A bead of sweat trickled down his face, and past a mad grin. Elijah hated Sundays so very much.

His hands were trembling now. The horde's eyes grew wider, as did their mouths, tongues dripping out and panting. The trigger was screaming louder now, almost moving by itself. The eyes were like blood red moons now, widened so that the veins were bulging. The barrel of the pistol sang in harmony with the trigger, Do it, Do it, DO IT. The claws seemed longer now, the fangs much sharper. The begging from his gun throbbed in Elijah's head, beating the insides of his skull and threatening to crack it from the inside. An small, unwise demon leapt out, claws extended and fangs exposed.

His finger slipped...

BANG.

The ash fell like snow.

And the horde descended upon him.

[Smithy]

I pulled to the side and waited. It was a town cop. Town cops are not a threat. Everyone has always known that. The real authorities are the forestry wardens—they’re the people woodsmen have to be afraid of and dodge. Town cops are gutless grunts. I watched the mirror taking deep breaths and waiting for something to happen. Just had to stay cool for a little while.

The passenger door opened first. An officer with beady eyes and balding black hair stepped out and stood there a while. He turned to say something into the car, but I couldn't hear what. I rolled down my window. The driver emerged from his side. Had an orange mullet and wore reflective sunglasses--he was going for the TV cop look that was oh-so-stylish for hick-cops of the time to mimick. Hi 'one second' he gestured Leaned inside and pulled out a shotgun before he began walking towards the truck. Tweedle dum followed. And then a third officer made his way out of the passenger side, dark skinned, looked a little like the actor—Morgan Freeman. Something about him seemed less malevolent than the other two. He must have been sitting in the middle.

   I rolled down my window and a rush of cold air hit me as the three gathered around, mulletboy on the far right, balding on the far left.

   “I’m going to have to have you step out of the car a moment, said the mulleted one.

   I stepped out without objection. The three stood a few feet back from me. The balding cop was holding a pistol—a .45 magnum. The Dirty Harry revolver. It was shiny, polished. He held it directly at my face.

   “Holy cats!” I shouted, jumping back a little, holding my hands out in front of my face. As though the flesh and bone would be enough to stop any projectile. He just stared at his gun, smirking.

   “Now, son,” said the mulleted cop, leaning his shotgun up against his shoulder, “you mind telling us why you’re recklessly endangering lives by slamming on the breaks like that?”

   I turned my attention to him. “Well, it was—you didn’t see it? There was..” I couldn’t get my mind off the cop with the gun. Kept looking back at him.

   He was staring at it so blissfully. Every time I looked at his face—the beady-eyed chrome dome was still just staring at his gun. His toy. He was proud of it. The non-standard issue big gun that he must have spent weeks saving up for, and no doubt used any occassion as an excuse to show it off.

   “We just want to get the facts straight,” said the reasonable cop in the middle. “there was something in the road? Feel free to tell us whatever you are comfortable to tell us. What was it?”

   “well, it was a.. an animal, I think.”

   The beady eyed cop was massaging the trigger. Cared for it. Loved it. In his world, there was room for nothing. Nothing but him, and his gun.

   “An animal?” the mulleted cop was smirking, smarmy. “My gut says you’s lyin.’”

   “sorry officer, it was…” I looked over at him, then quickly back to the gun cop. There’s nothing more incredibly distracting than certain death staring you in the face. The man was no longer aware of my existence. Eyes were a blank, he was zoning out, he had attained some strange form of enlightenment, floated off to another realm of being where it was just him and his gun, cuddling up next to each other for all eternity on silky soft lacey pillows. He wanted to shoot something. He made a strange, soft half-laugh grunting noise, looking at his gun. He massaged it with his thumb, loved it, smiled affectionately while looking at it.

   I tried not to pay attention, turn back towards the mulleted cop who was asking the questions. “Sorry, officer, what was the question, I…”

   The spacey man cocked his gun, I heard and saw it from the corner of my eye. It was simultaneously the sound of his life reaching the peak of its existence, and it was the sound of my thoughts falling to an absolute level of disgust.

   “Why don’t you pull the trigger already, fuckstick?” I asked. Couldn’t quite hold it in. The affectionate smile disappeared quickly as he glanced up from his gun and into my face. I shot him a look of contempt. He looked back down at his gun, and slowly lowered it, hanging his head in shame.

   I reveled in the minor victory. With renewed confidence, I told my story.

   “Well officers, I do believe it was a bear, either that or a—”

   “—He don’t like that. You mouthin’ off about his gun like that.” The mulleted cop cut me off in a low and threatening drawl.

   I felt my jaw drop. Lost control.

   “Well if you don’t like it, you can shoot me in the face.” I saidn

   The officer standing in the middle looked incredibly uncomfortable. His mulleted companion replied, “Maybe I will!” pulling his shotgun into view, pointing it at my face. He pretended to cock it, making sound effects with his mouth.

   “Chhhk chhhk, boom!” he shouted. “chhhk chhhk boom, chhhk chhhk boom, chhk chhhk BOOM!”

Goddamn town cops. If they didn't want to be 'recklessly endangered' when I slammed on my brakes, they wouldn't have been tailgating. I turned my attention to the uncomfortable cop in the middle.

"Hey. Which one are you? Moe, Curly, or Larry? Nevermind, you don't have to answer that. Mind telling your companion to put the gun away?"

"Um.. Stan? Stan? Um. The.. uh. The suspect wants you to--"

"I know what he said! Chhhk Chhhk! Boom!" he shouted.

A convertible coming from town drove by at a high speed, packed with kids, rich tourist types most likely. There was a girl in the back, standing with no shirt on, hair flying in the wind, breasts jiggling beneath a shiny pink bra.

"Stan! We've got hooligans!"

Mulletcop-Stan kept his eyes on me.

"Come on, we should get going if we want to catch them." The balding cop said, looking at mulletboy and averting eye contact with me.

"I don't want to. chhhk chhhk. This boy was mouthing off."

I couldn't believe what was happening. Goddamn town cops. We were in a stalemate. They had nothing to ticket me on, but they couldn't just walk away without losing a bit of pride. I couldn't be on my way until I dodged them.

The convertible screeched and made a tight U turn a little ways down the road. Came back our way. The second time it passed the shiny pink bra landed at officer Mullet's feet. He broke eye contact with me to look at it, the other two watched as the car made it's way back into town.

"Alright, what the hell are you two waiting for? Let's go!" he said.

They left me standing there. I got back into the truck, tried to start it. No dice. Battery was dead.

[Inanimate]

Really nice, definitely. Your style shows amazingly, and there was a lot of tension in that, in my opinion. Great job.

ALSO: NaNoWriMo is coming up! Going to be an awesome ride; any of you guys trying it out? In fact, my Creative Writing teacher is making it an assignment for us. Got a good idea, I'll share stuff with you guys every once in a while, and definitely will share the finished thing.

[Smithy]

It was a dream I had. Part of a recurring series of dreams in which cops pointed their guns at me.

I'll try it out. Might have bits of other short stories I already wrote and I might not finish in time, but I'll give it a try anyway.

[Captain_404]

Oh man, how did I not find this thread before now? This is awesome you guys!


I guess I could throw up a few poems I've written over the last year for your perusal, some of them are quite horrid


The titles are in bold and are not poetry.

A Light Mist Colored the Wind like an Energetic Child with a White Crayon, and I was Glad for It

empty sky
like the sound of a highway
shushing wind wrapped round a humming bus
in soundless rush

black trees spiral up
and throw out their branches
the fisherman’s nets
into a lake-like, lapping sky

they may catch the moon
to tug it down near the dirt
making tides run mad like a lunatic’s mouth
babbling waves reaching up
into empty sky


18

And I step outside,
to where the wind is loud,
and murky shadows pool the ground.

I feel warm bricks beneath my feet
whose cracks are filled with ants
from my childhood.

And I wash out their homes with a hose,
but they come back and rebuild
between the red and loveless stones.


Mundane’alicious

the mind is such a dull cage
to pace between the kitchen and the car
lost in circled thought
so much like a bird
he starts and struts and stops


It Seems That For Some Reason I Felt Compelled to Write a Haiku

The heart is a thing
tucked away inside my fist
hidden in the sleeve


After August Rains

after august rains
i am left to empty streets
neath yellow lighted poles that line the road
and cast a yellow glow
my hands, my coat
all bathed in it
in yellow hue

the black street
placid and cool
swallows up my shoes
and ankles
and knees
dipping into low slopes of road

the cars roll on
somewhere, beyond empty streets
the cars roll on, roll on
and morning dew glitters
and stretches like stars
untouched into eternity
well past the edge of sight
or any edge at all


The Hill

1.
there is an ocean of dirt in my mind
where the ground goes up and down
in motionless tides
where grasshoppers cling to razorblades of harsh grass
beneath an overbearing sun
and fireflies sleep in shadows
waiting for night
a patient pining for the night

2.
there’s lumber in the open lot
up on dead man’s mountain!
up there at the witch’s pot
they say she’s up there countin’
countin’ bones and toads for stew
stew made out of children
she can’t catch me, I’m too fast
I’d shoot her in the eyes
with a laser! Melt her brains!
then dead man’s mountain
will be mine!

3.
the pitter patter rain on pavement
kids up the block
race sticks down the gutter
bumping over pebbles kicked aside
by grumpy people in overlarge cars
their mechanized thunder sputtering back at the clouds

4.
near a road, near crumbling pavement
leans a dying grey house on a mound
like a lump in the throat of an old man

5.
we are on a hill
standing, looking at the stars
we lie on narrow leaves, we lie in warm night air
fireflies sway through tall grass
crickets call to the back of my mind
I leave – but I stay
I speak – but I am silent
anywhere I am
I am here.

[Ashkin]

Nice writings, everyone.
Haiku, attack!!!

Softly birds alight
upon the red-golden leaves
Autumn's gentle touch
 

[Inanimate]

Work on the novel is going splendidly, but for a little break I practiced writing with a friend of mine. We both made up a hero we would like to write a story with... but we wrote a story for the other person's hero. Was great fun, and I love my friends character, which is as follows:

Travis
Serene and detatched, but can read people very well. Is quite intelligent, cunning even, but is kind of devious with his knowledge. He doesn't like controlling people- but enjoys watching chaos unfold, as they scramble about. And he likes being a part of that chaos

Another Night

Someone was slammed into a wall. A hand gripped this someone's collar, and spit sprayed on this someone's face as a large man yelled into this someone's face, making sure to jab a finger occasionally as well. Picking our someone up again by the collar, the man threw the certain someone onto the ground.

The someone got up, wiping blood off his lips, and was attacked again by the other man… but knew it was coming. The specific someone deftly ducked, and swung his leg, meeting the shin of the large man, who toppled to the ground, his suit crumpled. The someone stood straight, and stomped his foot into the large man’s face.

Our someone panted lightly, his nose dripping some blood onto the suit of the man he was standing on. He looked at him, eyes on fire in anger at being damaged this badly, and spat out these words,

“The bigger they are,” He said, smirking lightly, “The harder they fall.” He instantly felt terrible for saying such a trite line, but ran out of the grey concrete room, with its one desk, and closed the door behind him. He swore under his breath that he was caught, he had high hopes for this heist. He adjusted his collar, and ran down the hallway, careful to look for more guards. He checked his watch. It was 2:20, AM.

-

Travis Kunn was not a weak man, but he was neither a strong man. He was the rarity, the one who fits perfectly in the square hole at the top of the pyramid, the one who fits in the space for the king… the smart man, the leader. He was leader of a small crew in this city of Noire, a perpetually cloudy place in his opinion, always covered in a smog that rose out of the industrial district, and was known for not being a giant walking mountain of dumb muscle. He led carefully planned out attacks, and his crew, specially built of once pick pockets and thieves, snuck their way into their target, and exterminated everyone without a fight. To him, everything was cold numbers, but the numbers were chaotic in their own way. He didn’t enjoy the thrill of seeing those numbers bend to his will, topple each other down into his hands, and then grip them as he moved his knight, and then getting… checkmate… he enjoyed what ensued from doing so, the sheer frustration desperation of his opponent in this mind game, watching their countenance struggle from madness to flailing out of control, to despair, and then finally to acceptance… He enjoyed the thrill of the fight from the outside.

-

Earlier that night, Travis was surveying his comparatively small crew of six thieves. They were preparing for a heist, one of the better heists that would ever have occurred in that city, and he was watching them intently, making sure to note areas they should work on before the heist was set to occur, around 1:08 AM. This was one the guards of the Noch-less bank would switch out, allowing for approximately two minutes time to heist the bank out of near one million dollars in cash. Travis adjusted his black scarf, as jet black as his swept air, and watched his crew, his blue eyes darting back and forth as they got ready. He was perfectly ready at all times, however. He knew exactly what was going on, and knew what to do in case he didn’t know what was going on. Luckily, those times were rare.

-

It was one o’ clock, AM, and they were already making their way through the city. Getaway vehicles were not as useful as dashing over rooftops and across walls in the tight alleys and confines of the city, especially if one specializes in thieves. Travis slowly paced along the streets, into an empty building a few streets away from the bank. There, they had set up a small controls center, where he could chat with the thieves as they made their way through the bank. He patiently waited for the clock to cut through the time leading to 1:08, to carefully and delicately slice off each second and let if fall… he sat, a smile on his face, hand behind his head, staring down his eagle-like nose at the clock.

-

The rest of the crew was carefully waiting on the rooftops around the perimeter of the bank, and staring at their pre-synchronized watches for that fateful time, that 1:08, and making small talk occasionally, having mastered the art of hearing and speaking near-silence.  They sat on the roof, smoking and laughing silently, all sharing tales.

In refuge of their perceived excellence, they continued chatting as they waited for the time, sure enough that they could never be discovered, because they were just that good... in their heads, at least.

-

Travis ran through the halls, occasionally slamming open doors to impede the gang of people lying inside this damn building, and seeing the flight of stairs before him, and hearing the footsteps in the hallways behind him, and the slamming closed of doors, jumped off the balcony… rolling onto the ground, he sprung up and out of the door, turning to look down the street, and seeing no one, sprinted to the right.

-

Our hero was listening through the headphones, making sure to tell them to quiet down occasionally. He also noted who had brought the alcohol; he didn’t allow that, for it always made complications arise. He swiveled the chair he was sitting in, spinning slowly as the grey, near broken down room, with a singular metal table, and a singular laptop, and the singular clock hanging on the wall… he watched the clock fly by in his line of view… 1:04.

-

One of the thieves sitting on the stone roof, with the skyline in full silhouette from the soft light of the night behind him, checked his watch as they continued amiably chatting, and noted that there were only three minutes left. He picked up the gear, putting it back on, and everyone did likewise. They went dead silent, waiting for that destined time…

-

Travis was growing more and more tense by the second as the clock ticked out the time, slowly making its way past 1:07 and into 1:08…

-

A mysterious squad of men in black was making their own way across the roofs, carrying knives as they jumped from roof to roof, their black boots barely making a sound across the stone roofs they dashed across. Their grins gleamed in the moonlight, like a small crescent moon of their own. One man in particular stood in a roof in the distance, his bald head reflecting the moon’s light back, and watching his own crew make his way towards Travis’ crew, he took out a cigarette, and took one full smoke… he checked his watch, which was ticking past the 30 second mark towards 1:08.

-

Travis watched the clock reach 1:08. He waited for the radio chatter to pick back up… but it didn’t. Knowing something had gone wrong, he quickly flung off the headphones, and jumped out of the chair, running for the window. The door smashed in behind him, flying across the room and hitting the table, and two men ran into the room, holding their knives in front of them. One turned to watch Travis land on a fruit stand lying below, as should be done by any thief once in their lifetime, and roll safely onto the ground, running into the distance.

-

Travis ran across the streets, and knowing it was foolish to look back, just kept running, his suit sweeping up into the air behind him, his black scarf spiraling behind him, his blue eyes gleaming as he dashed, jumping onto cars occasionally. Hearing glass shatter behind him, and gunfire in the distance, he decided now would be a good time to duck into an alley. He glanced at his watch, which blinked out 2:25.

-

The clock on the wall ticked the seconds away, its glass having broken off from flying pieces of the door, but not stopping the eternal march of time… it ticked towards 1:12.

-

Travis jumped on trash cans, picking up a lid just in case, and jumped off a wall over a metal fence. He had expertise in this, being a thief himself for around ten years in this hateful place, until he had finally risen the ranks enough to be graced with the title rightfully his, the title of Crew Leader. He had brought them into an epoch of wits and tactics, but alas, people lagged behind… snapping back to the present, he heard the footsteps of some of those primordial crew-members, and turned down an alleyway… into a sight full of knives. Whipping the trash-can lid in front of him, he blocked the knives, and then rolled, dodging more haphazardly swung knives as he launched up, kicking someone’s knees out, and then smashing another man’s head in with the lid. He grinned lightly, and ran off again, still holding the lid with him… until someone jumped off a balcony straight onto his back. His arm, sprawled out, blinked on and off, revealing the time to be 1:15.

-

He woke up later in a concrete room, and the first thing he saw was the overwhelmingly disgusting face of some large Russian man, who was grinning lightly. He said something in Russian, and our hero took a few seconds to figure out he was asking why Travis was going into the Russian’s territory. Travis just rolled back, and relaxed in the uncomfortable chair he was in, his hands behind the chair. The large man grabbed his head, and slammed it into the metal table in front of him.

Travis had been through this enough for it not to faze him. Lifting his head from the table again, his nose spurting out blood erratically, he stared into the eyes of the large Russian. The large man stared as well… for around three seconds, then he faltered. He made up for this with fists. There was a clock on the wall, to make it painfully clear how long you had been in here… it flashed 1:30 between flurries of fists.

-

Travis dashes up a fire escape, finding solace in the empty and clear rooftops, and spun around. He could see the bodies of his crew even from here, and swore under his breath at the prospect of having to find more good thieves. Seeing a clear path to the north, he stepped back a bit, and then dashes, jumping over the considerable gap between the roofs of the two buildings. As he ran, the clock on his watch flashed 2:45.

-

It was much later in the interrogation room, around 2:00, and our hero was still at the ignorance game, idly pretending the large Russian was not there. The large man grabbed him by the collar, and flung him into the wall. The Russian yelled into his face, occasionally jabbing a finger for extra emphasis. Travis nonchalantly looked around the room. The clock was pointing to 2:19.

-

Our hero kept jumping and dashing, never stopping for a second over the roofs. He could already hear the Russians following behind him, and occasionally failing to make the jump, hearing their screams. He dashed… until he heard someone step out from an air conditioner behind him, and unsheathe a short sword. No one used such a retarded weapon in this day and age except for the leader of the Russians, Leonid Svarsky.

Travis slowly turned to face Leo, and smiled, looking Leonid from the top to the bottom. He was a large man, but luckily not as stupid as those other gang-members… or rather unluckily. He had gotten with the times. He had a full deck of cards to use, and made sure to use them. He was a king of the territory… which was one of the reasons Travis had decided to go for his bank in particular. His bald head gleamed, and his black tuxedo was covered in the dark blood of Travis’ crew. He wore a jade green tie and sunglasses at all times.
“So,” Travis said, hands in pockets. He didn’t carry much of anything on him, just a butterfly knife. He did not feel it necessary to have a gun on him this time. He regretted this decision as he stared down Leo. “How has it been?”

Leo laughed heartily, and balanced his blade on his shoulder. Leo smiled, having perfect teeth, and said with a truck-load of charisma, “Not very well since you decided to take a heist of my bank, I must say,” he spoke with no accents, definitely a good factor about him compared to the rest of his gang.

“Well!” Travis said, feigning surprise, “… and who informed you?”

Leo again laughed, and swung the blade down. “A thief of yours displeased with your… pay.”

Travis tapped his chin, and then pretended to be shocked, “My! It was Sheldon, wasn’t it?” He had figured that he would be a spy, but didn’t think he had given him any chances to contact Leo. Obviously he was wrong.

“Indeed.” Leo tested the balance of the blade in front of him, still staring into Travis’ blue eyes with his own, as his tie also was, jade eyes. “Now…. I am regretful I had to… delete, a man of his talents, definitely. But eggs must be broken for… an omelet, it was?” He also was feigning, but for him it was stupidity. He was a master of giving the façade of a man who knew nothing about America, and he knew Travis knew that it was an illusion as well… he kept it up purely for fun.

Leonid stared at his blade, and lifted it, looking down it at the various notches caused by hitting bone.

“Regretful also to have to kill a man of your talent, Mr. Kunn.” Leonid was already crouching while saying this, but had sprung forward, blade swinging down, to attack Travis. He was annoyed to find Travis was already behind him, knife held in hand, dashing for the point where Leonid would hit the ground, and be momentarily stunned. Leo rolled on the ground, and spun the blade for where Travis would surely be… but was under him by around a foot. Travis landed hard on Leo’s back, and jumped off again, as Leo jumped up, which would have flung Travis off the roof, but luckily Travis was already standing in front of Leo. He held his knife in front of him, as Leo also held his blade. They slowly walked around each other, occasionally flitting their eyes to various perceived weak spots. Travis finally saw a point, and dashed forward, something that Leo was guessing he would do… but jumping back right when he had set his foot down for the first time, and rebounding off the air conditioner, he spun in the air, and landed behind Leo, and dashing over, grabbed him by the throat hard, choking Leo, and spun his knife, stabbing through his nose…. He let go of the knife, letting Leo fall to the ground, and looked at Leo’s slowly dying body. He took a cigarette from Leo’s pocket, and lit it with a lighter in his own pocket. Putting it in between his frail lips, soaked with blood now, he breathed in the smoke, and let it exhale itself from his mouth, as he held the cigarette between his fingers. He looked at the hanging full moon, basking the city with its soft light, and sighed.

Just another night.

[Shade Jackrabbit]

I think that beginning part with "this someone" is the worst part. It feels really repetitive and breaks the flow. Besides, you say he's a man. So give him a general name, like "the man". You could always say "the man" and "the brute", as one man is apparently taller.

Anyways, I wrote a short story, but it's too long for a post. So here's a link.

[Inanimate]

Ah, very true. I always love doing the intro with no names, but this time I couldn't get descriptive enough. Just thought of a new one, as well; the man in the suit.

[Smithy]

Anyways, I wrote a short story, but it's too long for a post. So here's a link.

Interesting. I get the feeling that your villain is lying about everything. Seems like the type.

Robert Hunter (Grateful Dead lyricist, great poet, not the best prose writer) wrote the same kind of story, (virtual reality games becoming ultra realistic) though from a different viewpoint. His version would say things like: "the water was good, but it wasn't perfect. You could see it if you looked closely, it repeated in places." He ended with the feeling that though the players enjoyed themselves, it wasn't as promising as reality, story didn't really have anything to do with government regulation.
/tangent.

Only nitpick:

"It resembled a shotgun, yet with a single huge barrel."

Strange thing to say. Most shotguns have single barrels.

[Smithy]

The last time I had spoken to my brother, he told me Bigfoot was out to get him.
He had been parked on a grown-in logging trail, picking moss off the rifts of granite that jut out from the forest floor and loading it into a bag when he heard something knock into the truck. He turned to see a large and furry blur make off with one of the bags he'd already loaded into the back. All he ever saw was a blur and bits of the netting from the bag wafting through the air.

He didn't think too hard about it at first. Just decided to cut his losses. Load up quickly and get the hell out of there before anything came back. Each full bag was about four feet by three feet, worth about five bucks to some arts and crafts warehouse down in Glidden. They'd buy in bulk from woodsmen and then cut the sheets of moss into tiny squares that went for well over six dollars apiece to artistic tourists, though whatever use they served I'd never know. Apparently bears like arts and crafts as well, because that’s probably what it was that stole the bag.

Mack wouldn't believe that, though. Turned out the DNR had underestimated the bear population by about fifty percent, but he remained staunch in his belief that it was a meddlesome Sasquatch. "It was bipedal," he said.

Moss season was months ago, so I guess it was a while back. Easy to lose track of time.
He was standing out in the forest, watching my front door when I came outside that morning. The green flannel jacket he’d always worn had tears opening up at the seams and his beard was taking over his face, but I recognized him. I didn’t expect to see him again since he’d split to take up lodging with our once-rivals at the Karkauss farm. But there he was, staring pensively at our old trailer, and then at me when I opened the door. I broke the silence as best I could.

“So. Mack. How’s life been treating you?”

   “Fine.” He said. And then after some thought followed up with “Not fine. Not fine at all. Bad actually. Shit’s hitting the fan all around me. A lot of shit and a lot of fans.”

“What else is new?”

For a second it was like he never left. He only hung around for a few hours though, filling me in on the Bigfoot occurrence. Seemed equal parts pissed and frightened. I thought it was pretty damned comical that he'd come to the conclusion that a Bigfoot must have taken the bag. He told me he was serious. Also said that he didn't feel safe at the Karkauss farm anymore, though he didn't mention why and he dodged further questions about it. Told me he was just going to go back to the farm to pack a few things, then he was going to move back into the trailer. Never did, though. Months passed. That was about the time that people started disappearing from my neck of the woods. Guess it was only a matter of time before something showed up at my doorstep.

The vehicle Mack had been using had been impounded after being left in the parking lot at Mike's tavern way out in the town of Mud Creek for a few weeks.

I woke up one morning with no recollection of who I was. That happened a lot, in the trailer. You develop a certain sort of morning forgetfulness after a while. Results from a mix of starvation and isolation, I guess, you forget who you are sometimes. There's one large `Plexiglas' window in the room I had converted into my den. It looks out into the small clearing in which the trailer was situated, and the view sometimes helps my mind boot up in the mornings. It's always quiet. A scarlet maple tree was sticking out amongst the rest of the minor yellows and oranges of fall. Forest so deep it swallows people whole. Even under the dulling hue of a gray sky, it was bright. The trampled foliage and blades of grass around the building were frosting, and the cold had already seeped in.
Living in the trailer wasn't much different than living in a giant empty soda can--walls are paper thin and made of tin. The path leading to it is too encroached by the trees for a truck to drive down, but the building itself is just close enough to the road that power lines were able to get to it. Heat builds up and magnifies in the hot parts of the year; cold gets through when it’s freezing. Didn't have any sort of furnace, so I kept a large electric heater next to where I slept. But it was dead. Flipped the switches off and on. No dice. Everything was dim inside. Ants took up lodging in the empty light sockets and the walls were covered with layers of old blankets, carpeting, mattress covers--any insulation I could scrounge. The mice had their own little city in there. Not sure if that made me the mayor or their variation of Godzilla, but if I found they'd chewed through a power cord things were going to get bad for them real quick, I'd see to it. As I was gathering up the cord searching for defects someone began knocking, violently.

"Hey!" the man outside shouted. "You there?"

It was the blond haired cousin from the farm, come to make talk. The people at the farm called him Blondie; said his genes were all bad, too much Irish in him. Same thing they always said about me. He was one of the minor Karkausses, on a low tier of the hierarchy; the only person lower than my workhorse brother Mack.

"Yeah." I said. "What's up?"

Figured there was no harm in answering. Blondie was always a nice enough guy.

"You owe me a truck!"

When he wasn't out for a fight.

"What?"

"You owe us a truck."

"Sorry, I, uh, I can't hear you."

"Then I'll come inside."

"Hold on, the door is locked, I'll come over there."

Lock on the door had been broken for a while now, but he didn't know that. He took my word for it. I pulled my tool bucket from out of the closet. It had been left to me by my father, antique construction tools he had used when he was young. Cement was stuck to the sides and flaking off in large chunks. I searched through the old hammers and wedges for something I could use as a defense, but ultimately decided against it. Blondie yammered on, outside.

"You know your brother--Mack? Yeah, he skipped town. Driving our truck."

"Huh."

"Your blood, your problem."

He had a point, so far as any local court would be concerned. Backwoods insta-justice. Part of the simple life suburban people yearn for. Blondie was bleached in sunlight and wouldn't be able to see in, but I could see out. He had a cocky smirk and I couldn't see if he had anything in his hands.

"I'm sorry, the door seems to be jammed. Meet me at the back, we'll talk this over," I said, after some hesitation.

"Yeah, alright."

I waited for him to disappear around the corner and quietly opened the door to step out. The rickety metal staircase was slick with ice. My trailer was propped about two feet off the ground by stacks of stone blocks; there was enough space for me to slide onto the concrete slab underneath. I squirmed until I was underneath the bathroom.

The piping system under the trailer was made up of garden hoses--moldy and generally unsafe to drink out of. But you had to get water somehow. The hoses had been drained so they wouldn't burst when things froze. I unscrewed a short length and coiled it, then watched his feet by the backdoor, waiting for him to lose patience. It wasn’t a long wait. He climbed up the stairs, inviting himself inside.

His footsteps eventually placed him in the living room above. I squirmed out from under the trailer with my hose and entered behind him. He sensed my presence and started to turn but I had already wrapped my arm around his neck and pressed the nozzle into his back with my free hand. His reflexes took over; he elbowed me in the gut, hit me in the knee with something sharp—I could feel it penetrate and recoiled. The hose uncoiled and an end fell to the floor, making a light tapping sound, but he didn't notice. I was lucky for that.

"It's a gun!" I shouted, pressing the nozzle harder so he could feel it. He slowed and stiffened as his adrenal inertia slowed down.

Blondie always had something to prove. Nice enough guy to your face, but he was a bit of a loose wire when he wanted a fight. Last year he came from behind Big Pete, his own father, and cracked his skull with a tire iron. The guy made me nervous. Didn't sit well with me, him coming from behind people like that.

The hose was just between his shoulder blades on his spine, where the skin was sensitive. He turned his head to get a view of me, and I was relieved and a little amused to see panic in his eyes.

"Eyes forward." I said. "Look out that window in front of you." It was hard enough keeping a straight face without seeing the fear in his face. "So why don't you tell me why you're trespassing? Why you've broken into my home?"

He started to sputter. Whatever he was holding dropped to the floor with a metallic clang. It was probably just a length of pipe, I figured. The underhanded weasel.
"Hey, man, I didn't do anything. I wasn't going to do anything. Just put down the weapon."
"Better tell me what's up. I have stuff to do today, I'm a busy guy." I looked down and saw blood. He had hit me in the knee, where my pants were torn and the exposed skin was bleeding from a small gash. It made me grin.

Every day, something goes wrong. Mack left one day. My truck exploded the next. Blondie cut into my knee. Every day, something. Usually unforeseen. Hell, one day I stepped outside and there was a horse in the clearing, staring at me. An aggressive and untrained appaloosa mustang stallion that'd escaped the clutches of its owner, wanting someone to take out its anger and just happened to wander by my trail. Lowered his head and came at a trot, to snake me out of my own territory. Every day, it's something.

I used to have an office chair, in the living room. It was dusty and black and I forget where I scrounged it, but it was one of my prized possessions. It broke, out of the blue--that was another thing--but before it broke it had been one of my hedges against the night. Every time, every time something went wrong, I spent an hour on the chair, spinning around, listening to the one radio station that reached the area but only if you wire the radio just right to the metal frame of the trailer, shouting `weeeeeeeee!'
My electric heater busting and Blondie coming to visit, leaving me with a bloody kneecap--these were just the latest things. I'd deal. State motto of Wisconsin is "forward." Repeat it to yourself when things go wrong and you realize things aren't all that bad. That was the first trick I'd picked up from the forest. Your engine sounds funny, you turn up the radio and shout "Forward!"

"Eyes Forward!" I shouted. Blondie was trying to look back at me again.
He nervously looked back at the window and began weeping, terrified. "He--he cut out of town, man! We don't know where he went! He just left with the truck. The cops found it parked outside Mike's tavern, it'd been there for weeks and eventually it was impounded. Bastards didn't call, just impounded it!"

"But your phone is disconnected.. It's always been like that."

"They still should have called! Look, man, all we want is for you to sort this out--that's all. We just want our truck back! Mack left, he's gone. Don't shoot! Oh god, don't shoot!"

And that was how I found out my brother was another missing person story. I pressed the nozzle harder into Blondie's back. I could see tears tracing their way down his neck. Weasel crybaby.

"Ow! Come on, man, be cool!"

"Walk, forward. Don't turn around. Get out. Front door. Move."

Jabbed the hose forward and he stumbled. He started walking, his legs shaking. He turned the corner to get to the front door. Everything would have gone fine if I hadn't started to laugh. Just the tiniest of chuckles and he saw me from the corner of his eye. Looked at me out of reflex. `weee.' I said, quietly. He saw the hose and you could see the dots connecting in his face.

"Hey... That's not a real gun!"

Good job, Captain Obvious.

Problem with Blondie is he's a helluva lot bigger than me.

Gave me a thrashing. Knocked my head into the wall like a ripe cocoanut and stood triumphantly as my knees buckled. Don't want to talk about the details. Nothing really works out right, in the end. Should have shot him when I had the chance.

He was holding the coiled hose, must have got it during the struggle, and for a while he stared at it, and then down at my neck, then back again. Old tears still streaming down his face. I lay on the floor and held out my hand to block any more blows. He cooled off a bit and started yelling, thinking in words again. I guess I'm lucky for that.

"You... You..." he reached through the anger, trying to find a good word.

"...Bastard?" I suggested, between gasps.

"Yeah! Yeah! Bastard! You have a week, bastard. One week! Get the truck back! It's my truck! Don't you understand that? He lost it and it's mine!"

Yeah, alright, I nodded. Okie dokie.

He left.

I heard a truck struggling to start up on the road beyond the clearing. I guess he was borrowing one of the other Karkauss trucks, or he was using one of his less reliable backups. I got up and looked around. Found the weapon my bleeding knee had been struck with.

It was one of my own pry-bars. He had taken it out of my tool bucket when he realized he was alone in the trailer, must have been spooked. I should have put the bucket back into the closet, didn't think of it.

***

   Let me tell you a little something about life. Something you might not have figured out yet on your own:

Actions have consequences. And they always stink.

   For example:

Action: leave out tool bucket.

Consequence: knee injury.

Action: discover fire.

Consequence: severe burns.

Action: Resolve to live life to the fullest, regret nothing, and spend every day without inhibition!

Consequence: A whole lot of outstanding arrest warrants plus generally being banned from places.

See? It’s unavoidable. You have to go through life with the right frame of mind, and buddy, I’ve found it. So it stands to reason that I should have known things would go wrong every step of the way during the investigation. I didn’t, I’ll have to deal with that—it’s my problem, not yours—I’ll have to deal with it. Point is, actions have consequences. And they always, always stink.

I’ve known a lot of people, some have accepted it, some haven’t—but the people in Mud Creek—they fight, they steal, they accuse each other of made-up crimes—but they’ve come to terms with the consequences. I mean, they don’t throw an indignant fit if and when the bubble bursts; not the smart ones, anyway. Maybe we’re not the cream-o-the-crop when it comes to good, principled living, but I’ve never met anybody more obsessed with doing wrong and getting away with it than tourists and outsiders. Or at least the kind that areas like the forest tends to draw. So at least we’ve got that going for us.

Suburbans. I’ve never met anyone with more disturbing minds than the suburbans visiting from downstate. Cruising through at high speeds on an ATV or snowmobile, cutting through farmers fields and trespassing on old-timer retiree land, mucking things up, playing “Easy Rider” on their toy Harley’s, flipping people the bird because—what the hay, why not?—they don’t know anybody. It’s a strange, childlike way of looking at things, but it’s the way things are anyway. People in Mud Creek and the forest are fighters, some of them are insane, most are sadistic towards strangers, but at least they don’t take pleasure in the novelty of it. Town is just one of the places that suburbans go so they don’t have to carry on the polite act, so they can be complete pricks to anyone and everything around them. You want a grasp on the human psyche, try living in a place that panders to tourists for a while. It’s revealing.

I was in a coffee shop one day, about a year ago. Sipping four dollar coffee and listening to the rich folks at the table nearby, two wealthy women who looked like they had helped themselves to just a bit too much fat-o-the-land. My coffee was an investment to get near them—it’s a good idea to key in on the gossip of the rich sometimes, might get lucky and find a way for their richness to rub off on me, just a little. No such luck on that day, though.

Thing one says,

“You know, dem wooolves, they’re so dumb! They’re a bunch of dumb-dumbs, don’tcha know? I ran over a whole pack in the hummer da other day, they just kept on running down da road in front! Wouldn’t duck into the forest, just stayed on the road because it was a clear path! An’ I squished ‘em! Mushed ‘em up real good, don’tcha know!”

Thing two follows up with,

“That’s pretty funny, mm-hmm, you betcha!”           ((((((Goddamnit! This part is nonfiction. Pisses me off sometimes. Didn't trust the wolves, Cattle farmers always fired a few shots when they were spotted by herds and I could understand that, but damnit, tourists coming and squishing them on the road with vehicles when their brains are wired to take the clearest path is not very sporting, especially considering it's a protected species. Goddamn. Still pisses me off.)))))))))

And then they have a good laugh while I make my way into the parking lot looking for a hummer that needs its tires slashed. But maybe I’m starting to get off track. Somebody else beat me to the punch there anyway, big guy, smashed in the windshield and took off into the woods behind the shop, don’t know why, barely got a look at him.

Suburbans. They try to look tough and conceal their fat beneath leather jackets that barely shut and put on biker bandanas that come pre-tied from the store, they go in bars and try to act manly and in-your-face, and then they get their legs broke and have to be carted out on a stretcher because they don’t realize the locals in the bars don’t have much to lose even with an assault charge sending them off to correctional institutes. It’s always worth a laugh…

Yeah, I’m getting off track. Outsiders. You can never trust them. More on that later.

After Blondie had left I put on a light jacket and stepped out, made my way through the forest where his vehicle had been parked. There was a cloud of light red dust covering everything from the iron ore in the gravel being disturbed as he drove away.

There wasn’t much choice as to which direction to follow the road. The nearest neighbor to the left was the Karkauss farm, and there was no neighbor to the right—just the forest, mile after mile growing thicker. So I went left. After a mile the road became paved—a low quality and heavily bowed stretch of asphalt. Potholes were abundant. You could see where pockmarks and bubbles were forming in the asphalt, weaknesses stretching out for miles, eventually crumbling into the open sores in the road where water pooled and the red of the earth bled through.

[Smithy]

Mack—he used to tell me that this place wasn’t meant for people. That it’s hexed ground. Even before the melancholy history of Mud Creek, even before the town was founded—the natives wouldn’t even touch this land. They’d pass through, but they’d never settle. He used to think this is just one of the places that people were never meant to be. Things were always too volatile.

“Maybe the land is just a bit hormonal.” I’d reply. It was funny, the way he clung to superstition.

Another mile and the forest on both sides started thinning out into fields—and a mile after that, an old barbed wire fence appeared on one side, nailed to rotting and dry posts, breached in places. Karkauss farm. The fields where rusted out cars and old junk grow in abundance. There was an irrigation ditch before the fence, and a thin layer of ice over the water that pooled within. That’s where I was when I met the outsider.
It was driving in a truck, way out in the distance, coming up from behind. I could hear it coming and turned to see it. Red dust kicked up in its wake and then dissipated as it reached the paved stretch and drove in my direction. I just kept walking. When the outsider reached me, they it slowed to a crawl and followed.

Everything was wrong about it. About the truck. Could tell it was  driven by an outsider just by looking at it. Red and shiny, ‘new,’ Nevada license plates. I couldn’t see in through the tinted windows.   

 Thing that bothered me the most was that the truck—it was bigger than mine had been. Course, mine exploded a while back, leaving me to survive on old firewood sales and out of work. But it still bothered me.

I stopped walking and waited for it to pass. It stopped moving as well. I continued walking. It continued following. That was when I started to become truly unsettled by it. Thought about jumping the ditch and taking off into the field, but ultimately decided against it.

 I stopped. Turned around and walked towards the passenger door, then waited. The dark window rolled down to unveil a young woman, face half concealed by sunglasses.

“Need a ride?” she asked.

“No.” said I.

“Sure?” she asked.

“Yes,” said I.

“You look like you need a ride.” She said.

“I honestly don’t know what gave you that impression.”

“Your boots are falling apart.”

I looked down at them. The front of one boot was exploding open, exposing layers of fabric, plastic, and my foot. The soles were completely rubbed off. But they were fine.
 “Are not.” Said I, looking back at her.

 “Ok, well, I’m just going to keep driving ahead here.”

Good riddance, thought I...

“Yep. Just driving on my own without you,” she said, as she slowly passed. “Buh bye.” She waved.

Yeah, good riddance… Except, town was ten miles away. And I risked being discovered and hassled by a Karkauss if I were to walk. She began pulling ahead, inching forward barely past my walking speed.

“Wait,” I shouted, “hold up.”

The brake lights flashed and she immediately stopped in front of me. A petite hand swung the passenger door open.

“Take a seat.” She said, as I came around.

Action: I climbed in and sat down. She jerked ahead when I closed the door and it occurred to me that she wasn’t the best of drivers. If nothing else, it was good to be out of the cold.

Consequence: She was quite drunk, as it turned out. Her alcoholic stink overcame me the second we started moving Forward. She managed to hit every single one of them as we swerved around on the road and I realized I had made a mistake. Scenery was whizzing by the windows at a lightning quick rate.

“I’m not lost.” She said.

Consequence: she was clearly lost, trying to find her way back into town. That explained why she was in the forest.

Consequence: she ended up swerving away from a pothole and into a ditch. In the panicked stop, my swelling and hurt knee slammed into the dashboard, causing it to go into a stinging pain.

   “Maybe I should take the wheel.” I suggested.

“Maybe you should… should take the wheel.” She said, slurring everything together slightly. “But I’m not losht.” She added.

I got out. She slid into my seat. Got in and set the truck into four wheel drive. Backed up. “Forward in your backwardness!” as Mack no doubt would say. Managed to get out of the ditch.

“So where are you from?” I asked.

She came out of a daze. Looked at me. Blinked once, trying to focus.

Consequence: “Who the hell  are you, and why… why are you in my truck?” she asked.
“The tooth fairy.” I said. The tooth fairy indeed. She accepted the explanation with a laugh.
   
   “I'm June,” she volunteered, slumping against the window. Her eyes drifted to the ruts in the ditch while we drove by. “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” She said, smiling drunkenly.

   “Mreh. Only a matter of time before you ended up here, then.”

   “Huh? Hmm? What’sat?”

   “You’ve never been here before. In this area. You’re new here.”

   “Yeah..”

   “Poor you. I'm heading to the town of Mud Creek. You are going in the same direction.”

   “That's where I need to stop, actually.” She said, slouched back against the window, safety belt off.

   “What a happy coincidence.”

I managed to dodge every pothole moving at a steady pace.

Usually I’m not so talkative, but being in other people’s vehicles is an unpleasant experience for me. Too many bits of the owner’s lives are strewn about in the cab, they feel like antibodies trying to push other people out. I was about to say something else, but I forget what it was. Not important, she looked as if she had fallen asleep. Nothing left to do but to follow the road ahead, past the scattered villages to the place where the highway ends, the town of Mud Creek, the last place Mack had been before dropping off the map.










That's the NaNoWriMo material so far. Not making daily quota, probably won't be done by the end of the month. Don't have a plot yet, just a conglomerate of characters and angry rants. Starts off too slow. Consistency issues in the beginning. This one is mostly fiction.

[team_q]

I really enjoy your stories.

[Shade Jackrabbit]

That previous story I wrote now has a sequel, which is a lot better.

I'd put it here except it would screw up the formatting.

[Jrsquee]

i wrote an essay for college
i think it's good enough to share

-=-=-=-=-

     I don't want to tell you about my childhood stories. I don't think you want to hear them either. My 8-year-old self is not applying to college; my right-now-year-old self is applying to college. I could write an essay about how I want to save the world (as noble a cause as that may be) or write some filigreed and excessively verbose fairytale about my summer vacation. But I don't want to. That's not who I am. I am an 18-year-old male with brown hair and brown eyes. I am five feet ten inches tall. I like to take photographs. My best friend is named Dylan. I have never been in love. I wear a size 10 1/2 shoe. Sometimes I forget to cut my fingernails.

    Sometimes I'm disillusioned with college. Sometimes I don't know why I'm applying. There's a terrible social stigma against those who don't spend the 50k every year to buy a gold-coated party venue with 400-person lecture halls with 400 drunk people sleeping in front of one professor. I'm sick of being a robot. High school is crap: the best thing it teaches you is how to follow rules, unless you're lucky and smart and take things into your own hands. I want to learn practical things. I don't want to take standardized tests or sleep in a standardized bed or live a standardized life with 2.5 kids and a two-car garage. It's 2010: I want my flying car, I want to be living under a glass dome on Mars. Where's my Smell-O-Vision™?

    Here's the truth, the straight and sharp and real spicy truth just for you: Originally, I was applying to CMU only because it had a good math program. But here's the straight and sharp and real spicy truth just for me: I'm smart, and creative, and confused, and scared, and uncertain. I was homeschooled all the way to 9th grade. I did things my own way. I learned about things because I wanted to learn about them, and because they were important to me. I was curious. Then I went into a box, and I had to stay there and recite the Pledge of Allegiance every morning with everyone else at the same time so we all became the same voice and sat in rows of the same kind of chair and at the same kind of desk every day so we could crawl out of the box as basically the same person as everyone else 4 years later.

    I am an artist.

    Or at least, I like to think I am. Maybe I'm not—I like math, and that's usually not art (although sometimes it is). I take a lot of photos. I've had an art show in a local gallery with my second best friend (Shane). Just my photos and his photos and the walls and glass and wire and the technical wizardry that happens when a photon bounces around inside some glass and then smashes against a camera sensor. We had an Artist's Reception. It was really cool; lots of friends came (and some strangers too). We didn't sell a thing (oh well).

    I've been looking forward to finally being an adult and finally doing adult things and finally having the solutions to all my problems, like the world energy crisis or shopping for Christmas gifts. Once I turn 25 or so, it'll all finally come together. I used to find it difficult to split a tab at a restaurant. Four people go into a restaurant, four people order four things (and maybe a drink) and then you'd think that each person would pay for their part of the meal and the tip for just what they owe. Somehow it always turns into a big deal and no one can figure out how to make it fair and even and someone winds up paying too much or the tip is too small and the waiter frowns at you on the way out. I long looked forward to that day when, as an adult, I'd finally manage to split a tab. But you know what? It's isn't getting any easier. These days I'm thinking that it's the kind of problem that never goes away, and I don't think shopping for Christmas gifts will get any easier either, even when I am 25.

    I tried to write this essay three times. Do you know how hard it is to try to sell yourself without coming across as too flamboyant or too understated or too cliche or without falling into any of the dumb tropes that plague college essays? It's tough. It's tough to make everything about yourself seem special. After the second attempt, I gave up embellishing and decided to just be honest. This is who I am, not who I want you to think I am. My name is Jackson Potter and I really want to go to Carnegie Mellon University because it might be totally different from high school. I might learn some things. I might be inspired. I might go out and look at the sky. I might make a super-important scientific discovery in my spare time. But, really, I might figure something out about myself.

[droqen]

Jrsquee, I enjoyed reading that a whole lot.

Did you get in?

title   soon, even lines will be prophets

01   do you see those
02   insignificant people
03   pretending they are
04   on an even
05   plane with us? they, in their
06   less important world;
07   they know
08   we are
09   important, that they are
10   nothing, and yet
11   they keep going. never do
12   we pretend we are
13   they; we have
14   everything.

If you don't get the title, or do not figure out... uh... the hidden message, let's say, you really must read the spoiler below.
It's rather important that you do, because nobody yet has figured it out on their own. Quite unfortunate!


SPOILER: Read every OTHER line, starting with the second. Read only the even-numbered lines.

[Bood_war]

If essays are allowed, this is my favorite of all the ones I had to write for english this year, though the conclusion is a bit weak.
|-=_=-_-=_=-_-=-|
By Tanner Petch
     A dot, a speck, a particle more minuscule than the smallest quark in the colossus that is the universe. This is our home, the beloved planet that is the Earth. As dear as it is to us, the Earth (in all truth) is one of a trillion trillion planets hurling around a billion billion stars contained in a million million galaxies. We are NOT unique! In all likelihood, there aren't U.F.O.'s observing us, or aliens living with us, but the chances of no life other than that which resides upon the earth are so astronomically small, they might as well not even be an option.
    
     Let's take a moment to tally up these chances, shall we? In our cozy little universe, there are, on the conservative end, roughly ten trillion planets thought to exist. That's 10,000,000,000,000 planets. Only a small number of these might have earth-like conditions, however. About one in every million. If we take that from ten trillion planets, then ten million (10,000,000) planets have livable conditions. If Earth is the only of these to have such conditions, then only one ten-millionth of a percent(or .00000001) of earth-like planets have life. That's just unreasonable to think that that's correct, and that's not even considering life that's not earth-like!
    
     Now most of our feeble little human minds cling to the misguided thought that any life outside our planet has to be like life here, as in, needing water and oxygen to be able to live. Darwin's Theory of Evolution, however, states that a creature will adapt to it's environment, so therefore, if life were to develop on a planet of mustard gas ans sulfuric acid, it would need both to survive. This means that any world might be able to sustain life, it's just a matter of adaptation.

     It's time to get a little controversial, as I hear you saying "But we're God's creation, he has made us unique!" Let's take a moment to define God. All-powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing. In other words, omniscient. He's everywhere in the universe, all at once. Why would he choose one planet out of a few trillion to sow the seeds of life? In all probability, he didn't, and there are multiple places where "humans" exist. I mean, if you were omniscient, why would you only spread you infinite love and wisdom on one very very very small part of the whole universe? It'd be like a toddler having complete and total control over a toy store, but only playing with a single marble. That just wouldn't make sense, and neither would God just endowing a single planet with life.

     There just has t be intelligent life out in space! The probabilities of this are so large, they might as well be certainties. Our science tells us that life could evolve anywhere. Even our religion, and it's definition of our deity point to this. Then there's the fact that they haven't contacted us.

[Jrsquee]

Jrsquee, I enjoyed reading that a whole lot.

Did you get in?

I don't know yet.  They'll probably get back to me in like april or thereabouts.

title   soon, even lines will be prophets

01   do you see those
02   insignificant people
03   pretending they are
04   on an even
05   plane with us? they, in their
06   less important world;
07   they know
08   we are
09   important, that they are
10   nothing, and yet
11   they keep going. never do
12   we pretend we are
13   they; we have
14   everything.

i like this. i don't like how it's not rhymed (I prefer rhymed poetry usually.  unrhymed sometimes just seems lazy) but i still like this a lot.