The Tunnel, Part 1

I'm not entirely sure how to introduce this story. This is the first part of a story which as of yet remains unfinished. I hope to upload more of the story soon. Also you should expect to the see the second chapter of "He Found Himself Alone" soon, though don't know exactly when. Okay now that I've made promises I think it's time for me to just let the story do its work so I should just let you guys read away, enjoy.
Man I really didn't think of a good way to introduce this story. Too bad.

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I want to kill myself.
Okay, that's a tad melodramatic. Just a tad. I do in fact like life and do enjoy being alive. But yeah, I still want to kill myself. You would to if you were in my shoes. Okay, maybe not my shoes, I wear size sixteen. That might be a problem for you. But anyways, you'd want to be dead too if you were me.
Why, you ask? Well currently there is a small stocky elderly man in front of me. Now don't get me wrong, I like the elderly, enough... But this man is not the kind of elderly people like. As of this moment he has not asked me if I want hard candy, nor has he pinched my cheeks, nor has he attempted to set me up with his granddaughter, who would have a much happier life if she could just meet nice boys like me. No, this old man is shouting. Why? I'm not entirely sure. He started off about his savings account and then kinda just rambled off. I stopped really listening a while ago, but I'm pretty sure he's ranting about the damn commies. So when I say I want to kill myself I really mean that I want to kill him. But I can't say that, or even think that. It's not professional.
Let me make this clear, I like my job, a lot. I get to meet new, interesting people all the time. I also meet people like this ornery old man, but I deal with them. Though at this very moment I do want to kill myself (I stress again that I don't want to kill him, that's unprofessional). Frankly the shouting is expected. I'm a bank teller, and thus money is involved. And as we all know wherever money is involved people are bound to shout, a lot. Even if they are really old. Or young. Or alive in general. I guess what I'm saying is that money makes people yell. Part of the job, I tell myself.
I also love my job because I get to play with money. This might sound petty to you, but just holding thousands of dollars in your hands is a power rush. It's absolutely wonderful. It's electric. It's nearly orgasmic. To me that's reason enough to put up with the shouting.
The old man has stopped shouting, though I'm pretty sure its because he's out of breath. I mumble off something about talking to the manager. I'm out of there before he can say another word. This newfound freedom can only mean one thing. Cigarette break.
The break room is a bleak and depressing place. But I can smoke in it, and its inside, and it’s really cold outside. I think you understand why I put up with the bleakness.
There is one other major reason I put up with the bleakness. COFFEE. I’ll argue with anyone who says it’s not a drug. Coffee is a drug, a beautiful, loving, caring, absolutely addicting drug. I love coffee; I get up in the morning in order to ingest coffee. It’s a crippling addiction and I fall apart after four hours without coffee, but I’m okay with that, life isn’t really worth living without coffee. I even broke up with a girl once because she made shitty coffee. All right, all right, she broke up with me. But her main reason for leaving me was something along the lines of her not really appreciating that I believed that instant coffee was for whores. She probably wouldn’t have been as enraged if I hadn’t said it to her mom. In any case I believe that I have substantially proved that coffee was at the heart of this break up. And it’s more than clear now how much I absolutely love coffee.
Luckily the coffee here is fantastic, which I believe is entirely for my benefit. I pour myself a cup. I breathe in the seductive scent of the coffee. I bring the cup to my lips. Oh shit, I dropped my pen. Ever damn day I drop my pen. My lucky pen. The one pen I’ve had since college, the one pen that I wrote ever exam I ever had with. And at this very moment it’s on the counter by the coffee machine, rolling towards the two-inch gap between the counter and the wall. I grasp for it and miss it. I can’t actually be sure, since I lack x-ray vision, but I’m pretty sure my pen has hit the floor with a soft thud. I groan. The counter, thankfully, doesn’t look to heavily. I tentatively push it with my foot, it moves, but not much. I bend over to push it to the side, my mind focused on the coffee that I left steaming on the table. I’m thinking of its smell, its deliciously sensual aroma. I’m thinking about how goddamn great it’s going to be once I get my beloved pen back. The counter is now substantially out of the way. I divert my eyes away from my coffee. What I see is completely unexpected.
First of all the coffee machine is not plugged into anything. This isn’t that unbelievable, it could have unplugged when I moved the counter. There isn’t a plug though. And the coffee machine is still on. And my coffee is clearly steaming on the table. Weird. I turn back to the wall where the plug should be. I blink. I blink again. I blink one more time for good measure. This can’t be right. Nah I’m imagining things. I close my eyes a fourth time, and keep them shut. I’m pretty sure enough time has past, the hallucination must be over, it can’t not be.
I open my eyes. Crap, still there. The wall, which the counter used to hide, has a rather peculiar quality. Mainly it seems to be made of stone, which is a sharp contrast to the drywall, which the rest of the room is made of. I reach out and push it. It moves back.
I bolt upright. I’m standing in shock staring at the stone. Oh god, what to I do? Do I put the counter back, pretend like nothing happened, maybe yell at the old man and go home? Do I leave it for someone else to find? Do I push the stone all the way? None of these seems right, but I think I’ve come up with the right idea.
“Scott!” I yell.
No answer. “Scott!” I yell again. Still nothing. If he isn’t downstairs that can only mean one thing. I bolt out of the break room and head for the stairs.
I feel like I’ve left out a small detail here, mainly whom this Scott I’m yelling for is. Scott is a co-worker. He is also my best friend. Scott is an eccentric and a character, but I absolutely love him. The reason why I figured he would be downstairs is simple, he isn’t a great employee and most of the time you can find him downstairs not doing anything in particular. But he isn’t downstairs, which means he can only be in one other place.
I rush up the stairs and make my way towards the offices. The bank manager’s door is closed. Scott’s in there. I open the door and slide in.
“Scott?” I half-shout. “You in here?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Find me.” Comes the reply.
“Christ Scott I don’t have time for this. It’s not a big office I’ll find you in no time.” I sound genuinely pissed off.
A large sigh escapes from the closest, I open the door. Looking up at me is what seems to be a rather comfortable and well-rested looking Scott.
“Hey.” He says in that voice of his that could make a mother grizzly bear whose children you just slaughtered calm down. He unleashes that ten million watt smile. I smile back.
“Are you sleeping in there?” I ask. “You’re actually sleeping in Mel’s closet? Aren’t you supposed to manning your cash right now?”
He nods, simultaneously answering all three questions. If you are wondering why Scott still works here it’s not because he’s a good employee or anything. Mainly he still has a job because he’s Scott. No matter what he does he is lovable, absolutely lovable. Scott has never been dumped in his life, nor has anyone ever said no to him. You just can’t, it’s his face, his voice, his smile, his demeanor, everything about him. Scott is Scott and he gets away with everything because he is Scott. The last time someone tried to fire him he walked away with a raise.
“Hey, Seth I have a question.” He says. “While I was in here I thought of something. There are a lot of nice suits in here, which makes sense since Mel is a bank manager. However I haven’t ever seen Mel wear any other suit then that ratty old one. What gives?” He stretches out his hand in order for me to help him up.
I give him a hand. “Well if you ask me I think he wears the old one so that people will relate to him more. That way when he denies an old woman a loan he doesn’t look filthy rich.”
“Doesn’t he own something like four houses?”
“Yeah, but you gotta admit he knows how to play the game.” I reply.
“I have absolutely no idea what game your talking about.” There’s a short pause. “Anyway, you should try sleeping in there, I tell you that you will never have a more comfortable sleep then on two never worn cashmere suits.”
“Will you forget about your damn sleep, there is a reason as to why I woke you up you lazy shmuck.”
“Yeah? And what was that?” He asks.
“Come with. It’s gonna blow your mind.”

On "On"

I realize that I haven’t been entirely clear with this blog. I jump around. I give you a story one week, some inane comment the next and then a month or so of neglect. I’ve tried to clear up the purpose of this blog a couple of times and I kinda just don’t want to go through it again. So instead I’m going to explain something fundamental about this blog. The titles. Each title of each blog has a meaning. Most of the time, when it’s a story that I’ve posted the title of the post is the title of the story. The way in which to differentiate between a work of fiction and an actual comment is a simple word in the title of all my comments; on. On is the indicator that what follows is a comment, usually on whatever the second word in the title is. The thing about these types of posts is that most likely they will be more common than stories, since, inevitably, a story takes a certain amount of effort of time, whereas these comments do not take a whole lot of effort or work to write.
I’m not entirely sure where I intended to go with this post. I felt it was necessary to properly explain why some posts have titles that start with “on”. Well this is the reason. I hope that clears some things up. Stay tuned for some more posts and hopefully a story soon. Stay positive.

On Neglect

Some of you may wonder what has happened to me. You may ask questions like; do you not love us anymore? Is all your creativity gone? Have you left us because you’ve decided to become a Somali pirate? Did you die? Well let me assure you, I’m not dead, nor am I a pirate, or uncreative, and yes I still love you. The truth is dull and uninteresting, for you see life is something that takes up quite a bit of our time, and though I truly love to sit here and type I often have very little time to dedicate to typing out my musings.
I actually wanted to start this post quite differently. I sat down here with the intent of writing a rather long and disturbing post on neglect. What I planned on doing was to compare my blog to a child, an infant. Actually compare is not the right word. I was going to use an infant as a metaphor for this blog. The plan was to say something along the lines of if this blog were a child it would now be dead and I would be imprisoned for child neglect or, more likely, homicide by neglect. In fact when the police would have found said child, i.e. the blog, they would have found an infant undergoing decomposition, surrounded in filth, and possibly partially eaten. There would also be lots of disgusting insects. Within days of my arrival in prison I would be shanked and because of my crime the prison doctor would not try very hard and I would die in a prison hospital bed. And the prison Chaplin would just spit on me instead of reading my last rites. Of course this is all a metaphor for my neglect of this here blog. And like I said earlier I decided not to use this metaphor, frankly because I think it makes me look like a horrible person.
So the point of this post was to tell you all that the neglect that this blog, and you, have experienced is now over. From now on I will try my very best to post as much as possible. So expect this blog to update more often. And don’t be entirely surprise if the tone and content of this blog changes. Things have a way of changing and most of the time it’s beyond our control. But that’s for a later post. Just be glad that there will be more posts more often. At the very least the metaphor me won’t get shanked if I do.

He Found Himself Alone... Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of a work that is yet to be completed but may one day produce a full novel. Maybe? In any case I do not have a super long speech to make right now because the first chapter is rather long. The story is rather dark, or at least this first chapter is, but to make up for the darkness of this story my next few posts will be of the slightly more cheerful variety. Have fun reading, comment away at the end if you want to. Oh, and don't forget to tell your friends.

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He found himself alone again. It was a feeling that he was fairly familiar with. Loneliness, some would claim it’s the human condition. Even surrounded by people a man can find himself alone, that is the human mind. Yet now he was in a situation where he was truly alone, entirely and completely alone. He was a tall man, thin, a little sickly looking, yet he had an air of authority, a presence of being able to command and lead people. Some would claim it lied in his face, which was attractive and striking, a face that stood out, that turned faces, crowned with a generous mane of jet-black hair. But I’ve always felt that it lay in his eyes. They conveyed strength, determination, leadership, I’d always had seen these things in his eyes. Yet his demeanor and his appearance currently meant nothing, because as I’ve previously mentioned he was alone, in the true sense of the word.
He was surrounded by complete and absolute darkness. He couldn’t see anything. He felt terrified that he might have lost his sight; he feared he had gone blind. But no, something within him told him he had not gone blind. He felt like he could see and he didn’t feel any of his other senses had increased. He also knew his eyes weren’t closed. Therefore, he figured, that he was in a place completely devoid of any light.
He was scared. It didn’t suit him; fear was not something that was often seen on a face such as his. But his fear was not without reason for he had but just woken up in this room. Or what he assumed was a room. He stood up, his body ached and he grunted in obvious discomfort. He was clearly in an enclosed space, the ceiling was only 6 feet high, and he was forced to bend down. He began moving around, and it was not long till he was fairly certain that he had properly mapped the room.
It was a room like no other he had been in, it had six walls, to create a shape reminiscent of a hexagon, though none of the walls seemed to have an equal length. The walls, floor, and ceiling were solid concrete, very rough solid concrete. He also had felt a door. It was cold and made of steel, it felt like it was thick and his knocking made not a noise. He was convinced that no matter how hard he would yell no one would hear him yelling it.
His other senses were finally beginning to wake up, and the first thing that hit him was the putrid smell. It was the smell of a sewer and bleach, it was disgusting; it was this smell that made him finally realize the severity of the situation he was in.
Wherever he was he was sure it wasn’t somewhere he’d want to be. He had just woke up in terrible pain, feeling not only that he had recently been beaten but also felt like he was out for days. He was in a pitch-black room that stank of rotten things. He was for the very first time in his life truly afraid, he didn’t know where he was or what was going on or if he would die here.
He sat back down, shaking quite heavily, he had begun thinking of reasons why he has here, what would lead people to beat, kidnap, and lock him in a dark room. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was here, what was special about him. Nothing, absolutely nothing made him worthy of this. Was there something he didn’t know about, he wondered, or maybe it was how truly unspecial he was that was behind his current situation. He didn’t know. Slowly he went over every aspect of his life in his mind.
He was a man in his late twenties, attractive, but nothing special. Like I’ve said he had a face of a man with great ambition, but his physical features never equaled to what he achieved. He never stood up in class when in school; he never spoke up till he was asked to. He was intelligent but never shone, he performed all his tasked well and properly, but he never took these cues to do something great. He loved books and he spent all of his earliest years reading, always reading. He never really had friends, but was never picked on, he just spent all his free time reading, and thus books became his first love. He went to university with the same love, majoring in English. Of course by this time he had made friends. By the time he graduated he had decided he had found all h needed in life. He entered the work force and lived a very simple life imersing himself in his first love. I don’t know if your expecting me to say that he worked as something fantastic like a novelist or a editor or something, but no he was a simple proof-reader, like I’ve said he never really showed ambition. But it was something he loved; his workdays and his free time were completely shaped around the written word. Having no ambition to go any further he settled into this life and loved it.
He had gathered himself a small group of friends. These friends made up his family. He’d moved away to study when he was younger and never left the city he now called home. It had in fact supplanted his real hometown ad the friends he created here had supplanted his family. His friends ranged from his college roommate to his current coworkers. They had all grown incredibly close, and even some relationships had bloomed in the group. But he was still alone. He lived alone in a loft downtown. He owned frivolous electronics, and his walls were lined with thousands of books. His loneliness however permeated all walks of his life. Here however he could only regard his friends as something he had lost, he was starting to realize that he had never truly been alone. Not like this.
The life he lived suited him well, but he often found himself drifting away from this life and into the worlds that other writers had created. He found himself often at work or during leisure reading entering into these stories he read, they made him feel alive, much more than he ever did in his real life. It was these daydreams, this futile escapism, which made him feel sometimes that he was meant for something greater, an adventure of his own. But ever since waking up he realized how wrong he was, his life was all the excitement he needed.
Dying wasn’t the adventure he needed, but that seemed to be the only thing he was now destined to do. It now dawned on him that he had been seating here, thinking, examining his life for what seemed like hours. He had become hungry and thirsty, and was wondering if anyone would come to feed him. But time continued to wither away. After what seemed like a few more hours he began to doze off, slowly he sunk into sleep. His last thoughts were that he remembered reading something once that said a man could last 3 days without water and two weeks without food. He also passed into sleep wondering whether or not he would indeed wake up the next morning, if it was really morning.
He woke up feeling like he was asleep for less than five minutes, and with not being able to tell the time he wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t only slept that long. No matter what he seemed to have not been dreaming, indeed he had awoken in the same dark room, with the same rough concrete. It was a bitter realization, his last vestige of hope was that he had just been dreaming but now it became clear that this was indeed real. He got up, remembering his hunger and thirst, and felt around the room to see if anyone had left him some sort of food or rink. After five minutes of feeling around in the dark he was fairly certain that there was no food anywhere within the room. He slumped down in one of the corners and sighed heavily.
The silence and darkness of the room were beginning to become oppressive. He deluded himself into sometimes believing that the sound of himself breathing or the sounds of his movement were the sounds of someone else in the room. But he refused to all these fantasies to become real for himself and he quickly shifted the focus of his mind.
His mind shifted to the dreams he had had during the sleep he had so recently had. He was having difficulty deciding whether they were some of his best dreams or some of his worst. The dreams of the previous “night” seemed to push the boundaries of nightmares and dreams.
He had dreamed what he had always considered to be his greatest and most cherished dreams. He dreamed of all the greatest times in his life, every moment that ever brought him joy in his life. They were such uplifting memories that even now he was beginning to smile. But unfortunately these were not the memories exactly as he remembered them. They were his memories of reading his first book, or of falling in love with reading, or other such great memories. But they all occurred in complete and utter darkness. All these wonderful memories experienced in black, terrifying, horrifying blackness. It was the worst dreams, the worst nightmares he ever had had. His greatest moments put in the context of the situation he was now in. It was the worst feeling he ever had in his life, the nightmares of the previous night had taken all shreds of hope and joy out of him.
These realizations were wrecking havoc on his mind. He had begun yelling, anything as loud as possible. He only stopped when his throat was incredibly raw. Hunger and thirst were overpowering him. He was feeling weak; he didn’t feel like he could even stand. In fact he was falling in and out of consciousness.
The next time he opened his eyes it was to a sight he had not seen for what felt like a very long time. It was light. His retinas were burning, but he felt its warmth, it gave him strength. He had closed his eyes but the light shone through his eyelids. The he felt a hand, someone had touched him, he hurriedly opened his eyes, but his eyes still could see nothing but bright white everywhere he looked. He reached at the hand, but he was grabbed by several other hands. They began to drag him, something seemed wrong, and for the first time in what seemed like ages he raised his voice. It was coarse and low, but it was his voice. “Who are you? Where are we going? Where am I? What’s going on? Help me! Help me, please!” All these questions flowed out of his mouth, like a torrent. Everything he had been contemplating for the long time he had been locked out began to pour out of him. What seemed like minutes later he finally stopped. It went silent; there was no noise but the heavy steps of the men dragging him, and the sounds of himself being dragged. No one answered his question, no one made a sound. Somehow this brought him to an even lower level of despair.
He was terrified now beyond comprehension. He was being dragged to a place unknown, by unknown people. They refused to answer his questions, he was too weak to fight back and he was unable to see anything. He tried to calm himself but was only successful in allowing himself to realize that he was being badly scarred as his back was being dragged on rough concrete. The burning pain brought all his concerns back to his mind. He felt like he was being dragged to his death. He just hoped he would get some answers before that happened.
The pain from the dragging was slowly becoming more and more bearable. After just a bit longer he was able to open his eyes. The blinding white was slowly becoming shapes and things, but it was still hard to distinguish things. He was sure he saw three figures that could be people, but he couldn’t be sure.
And then it all stopped. He was dropped and the room went completely silent. He was about to open his mouth again to voice his concerns. But his mouth met the full force of a kick before he was able to open it. He was kicked hard in the midsection and in the head. A third assailant was striking him in the back. He was having trouble gasping for breath. He was too weak to fight back; too weak to even protect himself. Someone was now stepping on his groin. He spat blood, just as someone brought another foot to his mouth. Someone was scratching at the cuts on his back. His hair was being pulled; his foot was being stamped on. His tears were mixing with his blood. He grasped for the leg kicking him in the face, but just as he got hold someone stepped on his arm. A foot made contact with his head, and then there was nothing. It was over, or at least he hoped so. He was gasping for air, spitting blood, crawling on the floor. He was muttering the word please. Yet nothing was happening. He was sure that many of his bones were fractured; he knew he had a broken rib, a broken nose, many of his cuts were deep. He wondered through the cries of pain going through his head whether or not they would bring him to a doctor. He crawled along for several more minutes and then he was grabbed once again and dragged just as roughly as before back to his cell.
He was unceremoniously thrown back in, and drifted off into a world of unconsciousness.
Once again he found himself alone in the dark. A noise roused him back into consciousness, he was sure he heard the door open, but the darkness of the room showed him that it was indeed closed. His body began to ache, pain he had never felt before, it was unbearable. He took his remaining strength and crawled towards the door. His hand struck something a foot away from the door. He felt it, and for the first time in days he saw some hope. What he had touched was a tray, a tray that held both food and water. It was a simple meal of bread and water, but it was one of the greatest meals he had ever had.
He wolfed it down, within seconds it was gone, and he felt some strength return to him. He sat down in a corner and tried to regain some of his strength. As he sat there his mind started to move towards the events of the previous day, or again what he assumed had been the previous day. His body ached from the beating but his mind wasn’t on the pain but rather on the question of why. Why was he beaten? Why wouldn’t the answer him? What was going on? But his mind could not think of a single plausible theory. All his theories were ridiculous, alien abduction, voter intimidation, torture for information. Nothing seemed plausible. His mind dwelled on the idea of torture for the sake of torture; maybe they were doing this just so that they could do it. It sounded barbaric and terrible, yet surprisingly likely.
This thought was all that was in his mind over the next few “days”. The pattern seemed to repeat itself, he would be starved for days, then beaten, then fed, and then it would start all over again. The second time they took him he realized that if there was a reason for these beatings they would not be revealed verbally. He also realized as his arm was broken that he was not going to be brought to a doctor, that they much rather have the damage compound itself. During his third beating he realized that no matter what they wouldn’t let hi die. This fact alone almost destroyed his spirit, he had previously reasoned that it wouldn’t be too bad because soon he would die, but he had been wrong, he would not die here. Thus it was with great difficulty that the fourth time he was taken for a beating he went without complaint or struggle. He took the beating stoically, he refused to let them get the better of him and for the first time he was able to open his eyes and take in the scene. He assumed that he was able to see because he had become used to the light, but he liked to think that an excess of courage had given back his sight. For the first time he was able to catch a glimpse of his assailant, there were three of them, all of whom seemed to be men. They didn’t seem worried about protecting their identities; they wore no masks or gloves. Two of the men were quite tall, and built quite well, they looked like brothers, square faces, hazel eyes, dirty blond hair. But he recognized neither face. The third man was a squat fat and balding man, he was shaped like a poorly made rather short snowman. He looked similar to what the Penguin looked like from Batman, but uglier. It was clear that this man gave the orders, it seemed he did not get his hands dirty. On all three of there faces were smile. These smiles were the last thing their poor victim saw before a kick to the face met his eyes, causing him to close his eyes shut. As always the beating ended a few minutes later.
He was returned to his room and ate his food as if it was a state dinner. He was getting used to it here, he hated it, it was torture but he was beginning to be able to take it. The more the days passed the more his mind was filled with ideas of revenge and hatred. He swore that he would kill the people doing this too him. But he didn’t think he’d ever get the opportunity. With these thoughts of revenge he fell into what he knew from the beginning would be a deep long sleep.

On Purposes

So my next post will in fact be an entire first chapter of a work that I haven't yet completed. It is ot the longest thing ever written, but it will inevitably be a long post. Thus I feel that before I assail you with a copious amount of words I may as well assail you with a slightly more manageable amount.
In previous post I have mentioned in passing the purpose of this blog, but I feel I've reached the point at which it becomes necessarry to actual outline why I am writing this and why it is actually important.
This blog is primarily a home for stories. A home for those people who just want to read said stories. And most importantly, a home for writers of said stories, who have yet to share their crations with the world. Yes, other types of posts will appear, such as this one or the one before this one. These posts deal with the blog itself, and allow me to explain myself more clearly. It is true that sometimes I may rant, or go on about some subject, but I want to make it clear that this is not one of those blogs in which I voice my opinion about politics, celebrities, or the officiating of a particular hockey game. The purpose here is not to make you think like me, it is to simply give myself a place to put my short stories before they disappear into the void that is my mind. So just read and enjoy. Don't forget to tell your friends, and if your a writer too, send me an e-mail because I'm always looking for new writers to add to this here blog.

On Spelling and Grammar

So I've decided to not post any other stories for a bit. The main reason behind this is so that new readers (God I hope I have new readers) can get to read these early posts and not have to backtrack through the Archives. I fully intend to keep posting stories, in fact the very next one I will post will be the very first chapter of... well Actually I think its best if I wait to explain that when I actually post it.
Anyway I decided that since I won't be adding a story for a bit I may as well actually blog, which is something I've never really done and look forward to. (Complete sidenote: I am currently listening to the Barenaked Ladies "Be My Yoko Ono" and I can't stop giggling). The question then becomes what can be so important that it needs to be said over the internet, what important tid bit of my knowledge do I want to impart to the world. It's an important question when you think about it. It's really a question about what type of legacy you would like to leave behind you. But that's a bit to deep for this particular post. What I want to impart onto you, my dear reader, is my views on Spelling and Grammar.
Why? You may ask. Well its simple, my spelling and my grammar may often be incorrect. Wrong. Non-sensical. So I feel that it is important for me to justify these errors.
I am not an editor, nor do I have one. I also don't like letting people see my raw un-refined work. Thus before it gets posted only two eyes see what I'm posting. Those eyes are my. I do review my work, but often small grammatical or spelling errors will make it past me. This unfortunate, but I frankly believe that it is something that you should be able to deal with.
However there is the possibility of some of it being intentional. At least when grammar is concerned. For instance I love commas and use them often, in fact I often do not finish sentences for many lines, which is a problem my english teachers have noticed since high school. Luckily I have read Proust and he had sentences that went on for paragraphs, so I no longer feel bad about using them. Each writer has their own style, mine may come off as weird and incoherent, but it helps me express myself.
I think that sums up what I wanted to say. I really do hope that you've enjoyed what I've already posted, and I look forward to putting up more.
...Oh and if anyone wants to become my non-paid verbally abused editor then just drop me a line.

The Wedding

Okay so this one is a short story. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote it, but its part of my "treating the ridiculous seriously" series. I don't have much pre-amble for this one. Enjoy.

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I'm not going to say I'm surprised. I'm not. I'm not going to say I told you so either, it's class-less. I have class. Don't I? Am I always this insecure?
It isn't really his fault. I can't blame him. He's a product of his environment, of his education, his friends, his family. I can rationalize it that way can't I? But displacing responsibility doesn't fix the problem. The problem is still there, glaring us all in the face. The awkward silence hasn't abated, I doubt it will. The eyes of every person are focused towards the center of the room. The women on the floor weeping, the drunk on the floor throwing up. Tomorrow some poor migrate worker will come in and have to clean up the mess he created on the floor, but no detergent, no bleach, no cleaning solvent will wash away his words. They'll stay in our heads, all of our heads for the rest of our lives.
She's crying. Poor girl. She should have known. It's her own fault. Isn't it? Can I say that after what he's said? God, those words. They weren't his. It was the alcohol. Wasn't it?
Okay, fuck it. I need to tell this right. I can't just start from the end, it raises too many questions. I'll start at the beginning.
The event which preceded the events I just questioned my way through are best described as a wedding. Best described because they were in fact a wedding. I've always particularly liked weddings, maybe because of the happiness that it seems to create in me. Maybe is that I get to wear a fancy new dress. New shoes too. My little cousin was getting married. We grew up together. I babysat her when she was young. We talked about boys. I knew going in that the wedding would be like losing a sister, losing a sister to a man I never trusted. Ever.
I liked him though. Everyone did. How could you not? He was funny, witty, charming, the man oozed adjectives, good ones. Tall, handsome, chiseled, I can go on for a while. He came from a good family, well maybe not good, but one filled with money and that helps. What I'm saying is that I know why she fell in love with him. How could you not? He had everything going for him. But even with all that being said I can still say I never once trusted him. Not fully, not ever. He had a great personality and a good temperament, but I saw something in him, something no one else ever saw, something which made me completely unsurprised when he said those words. It always became clear to me when we would go out with friends. No one ever saw it, but he drank too much. Seemingly unnoticed he would drink copious amounts, yet somehow keep his composure. It was an amazing feat, one which only I noticed. And I kept my mouth shut, can't say why, I just figured no one would ever believe me. And the worst part was that every time he did drink too much he would always end the night on some incredibly offensive statement or comment. Like I said I'm not at all surprised by what's just happened.
The entire night he'd been putting them back. At his own wedding. At his own fucking wedding. And worst of all it was at a rate I'd never seen before. I'm not surprised at all.
And I guess now we come to the important point of this story, the long awaited conclusion, the answer to the "what did he say" question. It was supposed to be a nice beautiful moment. Everyone cleared the dance floor, just the two of them. A nice slow dance. She kissed him, held him tight. She opened her mouth and said, "I love you". And then he opened his mouth to respond, pulled away slightly looked her in the eyes, and spoke those horrible, hurtful, destructive words,
"I killed your fucking dog."

Pie

This isn't really a story nor is it a random thought... It's whatever you want it to be. It kinda fits into my taking something ridiculous and pretending its serious genre... which I unfortunately(fortunately?) do a lot.

I'm sitting down in front of this computer, thinking to myself. My mind never rests on one specific thought. My mind is always in motion, its thoughts always changing. Except right now. Right now everything is clear. I am completely under the control of one and only one thought, a thought so powerful that it has forced me to sit here in front of this computer and type at furious speeds because of an overwhelming fear that the thought will be gone before I have shared the thought with the world.The thought is complex in its simplicity. In fact it is a thought which, when expressed in the English language uses only three words. But the power of these words has turned my focus entirely upon the subject of the thought.
The thought itself is simply this; I like pie.
I hear your laughter, your smirks, your comments of "he can't be serious". I assure you I am serious. I have never been more serious in my life, for prior to this moment I have never possessed a thought so meaningful.So let me tell you about pie, and all its majestic wonders.
Pie is round, and as any scholar, doctor or priest will tell you the very best things in the world are round. Examples are; the wheel, pizza, the moon, the sun, Earth, balls, cool shit in general, and of course pie.
However its roundness is not its only amazing quality. Another amazing quality is how delicious it is, the moon is round, but is it delicious? Probably not, but pie is both. I can only attribute such a fact to magic, maybe even black magic. And don't even think about saying that pizza is also delicious and round, pizza is technically a pie.
But wait, there's more. Pie, which since the early twelfth century has been called God's treat, also has the amazing property of variety. It comes in so many different sizes and flavours. Apple, blackberry, blueberry, raspberry, pumpkin, eel, meat, to name a few. All this pie, all delicious. Truly how can one live without the sheer miracle of pie.So laugh all you want, smirk all you want, it doesn't matter to me. The thought I had was and is profound, it touched me deeply, and in writing this I hope to have touched you deeply, not literally of course. So as you sleep tonight think not of me or of celebrities, think only of pie.
All hail Pie.

Isaac

This is an old story I wrote awhile back, was supposed to be part of something bigger but I never got around to it. Do I like it, probably not, but it was sitting on my hard drive not doing anything, so I guess you can try to enjoy it. All song lyrics are not my own and are copyrighted materials of the artists, writers and record labels.


----------


Everyone's afraid of their own lives
If you could be anything you want
I bet you'd be disappointed, am I right?
Am I right? And it's our lives
It's hard to remember, it's hard to remember
We're alive for the first time
It's hard to remember were alive for the last time
It's hard to remember, it's hard to remember
To live before you die
It's hard to remember, it's hard to remember
That our lives are such a short time
It's hard to remember, it's hard to remember
When it takes such a long time
It's hard to remember, it's hard to remember

…

Blinding White

…
January 26th, 1994

Anonymity, he was thinking, seemed to be one of the single most depressing concepts of humanity, to be utterly unknown, forgotten, overlooked. Isaac sat in the corner, pondering, set into thought by the disappointing seating arrangement. From birth, he considered, we are told to be something, to be known, to be seen, to be admired, watched, looked up to, listened to, heralded about from mountain tops, and to achieve anything less is failure. Anonymity would be, in the eyes of the culture, society, world that we live in, any human’s greatest failure, to be unknown, in the shadows, would be failure.
And yet, he reasoned, we are told that the greatest and most important things in life, things like love, sadness, happiness, grief, humility, friendship, moments that last a lifetime and all the other finer points of life, all happen behind the scene, hidden from the public eyes. We are told that it happens away from the cameras, and the press, and those who herald it from mountain tops, that life is meant only for those who are sharing in it together.
But Isaac had lived most of his life in the back, in the shadows, behind the scene, and real life had never happened to him, it all passed by, others would experience life, nothing for him. He sat there brooding, imagining that his life was set in stone never to achieve anything, to stay in the shadows and see if life comes to him.
His now concluded frame of thought ended and he raised his head just in time to watch the curtains open and see the movie begin. Just one more thing, he thought, that he had been in the background to create, and no matter how much of himself he put into his work, he would forever remain in anonymity, his name, he reminded himself, would still only appear forty three seconds into the credit roll. He smiled, thinking how ironic it was that the only place you see life happening in the background, behind the scenes, is in film, for everyone to see.

…

What a beautiful face I have found in this place
That is circling all round the sun,
What a beautiful dream that could flash
on the screen in a blink of an eye
and be gone from me soft and sweet
Let me hold it close and keep it here with me.

And one day we will die and our ashes will
fly from the aeroplane over the sea,
But for now we are young let us lay in the sun,
And count every beautiful thing we can see,
Love to be in the arms of all I’m keeping here with me.

…

Blinding White

…
October 6th, 1997

The sun was slowly rising over the buildings, sitting in the café Isaac had a limited view, but he could appreciate it nonetheless. He smiled, he loved the sunrise, in it he saw the renewal of the Earth, the world and it’s people, each morning a new beginning. The concept energized him, made him smile, and reminded him that their always is hope, since tomorrow is just another morning, another beginning.
He continued to gaze into the rising sun, out of the corner of his eye he caught a reflection in the glass. She was perfect. She was cute, black hair, his age, but more importantly it was her eyes, what he saw in them. What he saw was what he truly had been looking for all his life, someone who understood him, he knew that the first words out of her mouth would win him over, forever. She smiled.
He continued his gaze at that majestic rising sun. she stood up, picked up her cup and walked towards him. His heart swelled. She sat down across from him. She looked up and said, “Hello stranger”, and with those words he was hers. Everything about her became perfect, true love can happen.
She sipped at her cup of tea and gave him a smile, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, forget the sun, he thought, her smile, the one she saves for me, renews the Earth, humanity, everything, every time she smiles that smile, the one only I can see, there is hope, hope for everyone and everything. They just sat there, looking at each other, knowing, their gazes would be broken every so often by one of the smiling and then giggling, but neither of them spoke. The words “I love you”, broke the silence, he had uttered them, she knew it was true, she felt the same, she smiled, leaned over and kissed him. They never did look back.
Isaac was thinking about something that had once discouraged him, the concept of anonymity, being in the background unknown. He was thinking that maybe life can happen in the background, maybe the stuff we see publicly is just a sort of façade, a silhouette, a shadow of what real life is. He realized now that he had spent his life looking for life in the spotlight, but here he was in the background, anonymous, unknown, living what life was supposed to be.

…

lightning crashes, a new mother cries
her placenta falls to the floor
the angel opens her eyes
the confusion sets in
before the doctor can even close the door

lightning crashes, an old mother dies
her intentions fall to the floor
the angel closes her eyes
the confusion that was hers
belongs now, to the baby down the hall

…

Blinding White

…

April 12th, 1969

Isaac, lay in his crib, barely a week old, his father looking over him, his father’s eyes glazed over, tears swelling in those eyes, tears of joy, pride, love. He loved his son, imagined him as anything, an astronaut, a scientist, a writer, an actor, anything, he imagined his child making him proud, he tried to foresee the future.
Years later both Isaac and his father would wonder how those eyes stopped giving tears of joy and pride and began giving empty stares and scornful looks, wondering when that innocent baby became the man that Isaac would be. But at that very moment, none of this had happened, all that their was, was a father mapping out his son’s life in his head, imagining everything his son could do, he was happy.
It was at this moment that Isaac’s father, who was by no account a wise man, gave Isaac the speech that would shape his life, the speech that would motivate every thought and subsequent action. Of course Isaac could not understand any of this speech, he was much to young, but his subconscious would always remember this speech, it would guide him.
“Son, I know you can’t understand what I’m saying. Maybe you can, but that’s beside the point. My father never cared about me, he was never there for me. I don’t want to be that, I don’t know how to be a better father, but I’ll try. I love your mother, I love your sister, and I love you. I never want you to forget that, ever.
“I know it’s crazy for me to be saying these things to you, I know you’re a baby and I’m basically talking to a wall, but I want these words to stick with you, somehow, I don’t know how, but somehow. Son, I want you to know that I believe that you could be anything, do anything, be anyone. I know that you’ll make me proud, and I know that I will be there for you.
“I love you. Make me proud, become something, I know you will.”
That was it, those were the words, they would guide his life. God the repercussions from a simple wish. His father was quietly leaving the room, looking at his son, a smile on his mouth, a tear on his eye. Isaac lay there sleeping, he twitched, winced, turned over, and continued to sleep.

…

I hit the city and
I lost my band
I watched the needle
take another man
Gone, gone, the damage done.

I sing the song
because I love the man
I know that some
of you don't understand
Milk-blood
to keep from running out.
…

Blinding White

…

February 17th, 2001

The sound was deafening, no one cared, turning the speakers down would have ruined the mood, and the mood needed no ruining. Isaac was in the corner, surrounded by his wife, his friends, and ten to twenty people who wanted to be someone, ten to twenty nobodies hoping to attach themselves to someone the world knew, Isaac. He had become somebody, a big movie director, no longer relegated to the dark corners, but given the best seats. He was not anonymous, forgotten, ignored, he was at the top of the world. Perhaps life happened behind the scenes, but he would have none of that, why should he have to, he was now in the spotlight, none of his life had to be in the background anymore.
One of the wannabes was moving towards Isaac, acting like a big shot. Isaac couldn’t care less. The man approach Isaac, looked him in the eyes and asked him a shattering question. “Want to be somebody?”
“I am somebody!”, Isaac growled back.
“Are you?”, the stranger replied. He handed him a needle, heroine, Isaac knew it. He was silent contemplating the question put out to him, was he somebody? Everyone watched him, adored him, followed him, yet was he really someone, or was he some anonymous stranger, some nobody, just another celebrity, nothing special. He didn’t know, he couldn’t figure it out. He looked around him, all these people, he thought, were just here to attach themselves to a concept, not a person, they didn’t care who he was, they only cared about what he did, and he didn’t do anything others had not done. He wasn’t anything more than a copy, a replica of others before him. What he was made him special, but not who he was, he had once again failed to escape anonymity.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“I am somebody”, he muttered.
He plunged the needle into his arm.
“I am somebody.”

…

Is this just another day,... this god forgotten place?
First comes love, then comes pain. Let the games begin,...
Questions rise and answers fall,... insurmountable.

Love boat captain
Take the reigns and steer us towards the clear,... here.
It's already been sung, but it can't be said enough.
All you need is love

Is this just another phase? Earthquakes making waves,...
Trying to shake the cancer off? Stupid human beings,...
Once you hold the hand of love,.. it's all surmountable.

…

Blinding White

…

September 14th, 1989

Isaac smiled. The crisp autumn wind blew across his face, shuffled his hair. He was supposed to be in class, but he was sitting on a park bench, his eyes closed. He wasn’t even thinking, he had just shut down, it was the most calming experience he had every felt, god did he love it.
But he couldn’t avoid thinking, be alone in silence on a park bench on a beautiful day can keep you entertained for so long without your mind beginning to wander. He opened his eyes, looked up saw children playing, dogs being walked, people talking, the smile remained on his face. All these people, they were alive, enjoy the joys of being alive. They were experiencing life, and this was all behind the scenes, no one would write about this, or make it into a movie, no it wouldn’t be know, it would be his personal private moment forever. Life was hidden from all, he thought, what is seen by the world isn’t life, it’s nothing, a sham, bullshit. Anonymity was nothing to get depressed about, it was a good thing, it made you human.
He stood up, began to walk, a golden retriever came up to him and rubbed up against him. He kneeled down, pet the dog, and smiled. God, he thought, what a moment, what a day, what a memory. This is the stuff true life is made of, these moments. Let yourself be unknown, he understood know, it wouldn’t matter, and as long as he held onto this moment he would never forget it.
He started to walk away, the dog barked, he waved and walked off, imagining this moment being filmed, accompanied by a perfectly fitting song.
Life does happen, he thought, it just did.

…

Cracked eggs, dead birds
Scream as they fight for life
I can feel death, can see it's beady eyes
All these things into position
All these things we'll one day swallow whole
And fade out again and fade out again

…

Blinding White

…

July 29th, 2003

“We’re losing him!”
“He’s already lost.”
“He’s still breathing, there’s still a pulse, we can save him, don’t just stand there.”
“Why save him, who is he that he needs to be saved? He a god-damned drug addict like the rest of them, he doesn’t deserve life anymore, he deserves this!”
“Who is he? He’s a freaking celebrity is who he is, he’s famous he needs to survive this!”
“He isn’t anyone, he’s nothing special, just one more overdose, one more statistic.”
“You’re a doctor for Christ sake.”
“He’s already lost.”
“But….”
“But what? He’s already lost. He’s just a nobody”
He flat-lined, he gave up, he wasn’t anything special, he went out in a cloud of anonymity, he had found life in the shadows but had left it, fled it, for one in the lights.
It’s amazing how we always go out in life the same way we came in, unknown.
He smiled.

…

Blinding White…

And thus it begins...

Right, I guess it's proper for me to first welcome you to my humble internet abode. Welcome. This is my first post and I frankly don't feel like writing more than I need to, which means that I won't do much more than describe what the point of this blog is. This blog is pointless, its more for me than it is for you. The purpose is to give me a place to expel useless thoughts and rants, some interesting, some meaningless, some infuriating. This blog also allows me to take some of this useless little ideas that come into my mind and course down from my head into my arms and fingers and become words that are written, telling fantastical stories, some good, most not. So there you have it, the point of this blog is to rant, think out loud, and share my creativity. I hope that some of you find it enjoyable.
The Great Journey begins now. Huzzah!