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[04 Apr 2006|12:03am] |
This is for the the genie story. For the most part, this is just set up. Nothing really going on, but I felt it was enough to share.
( That's not even remotely cool. )
Seeing how only two people are friended to this journal, I apologized for these being doubled up on your respective friendlists.
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| Brainstormed Ideers |
[02 Apr 2006|10:13pm] |
I'm still having trouble just deciding to sit down and write, but that hasn't stopped me from devising several ideas for stories. I've been sitting trying to obtain some information for one of them, but we'll see if I actually put ink to paper (or finger to keys, at this current point of time). Anyhoo, here are the ideas.
1) 5GING (Five Girls I'll Never Get), I was on such a roll with this story but I just kinda... stopped. I still wanna finish it, as it's the most work I've put in any idea. I want to rewrite the beginning chapter (a paltry three pages, but I it just doesn't work for me anymore). Also, I'm reconsidering one of the main plot ideas, which involved the main character Nick and the relationship around an internet acquaintance. The relationship will still be there, I just got to figure out how I'm going to get around to how they'll meet and everything. Once again, the story idea is about how Nick suddenly realizes that he's never been in a genuine relationship in all his years and then feels as though he never will. In confessing this to a friend, one who really could careless and is only around for a ride to work, devises a 'wager' of sorts. He writes up a sheet of paper, containing a list of five unnamed women. If Nick can fill the list with five girls that he's tried to form a relationship with but has failed to, then he probably will never fall in love. His friend thinks nothing of it, but Nick, over the course of a year and a half, attempts to find 'the one or something close enough'.
2) An Upworld Tale (Tentative title), This was a fantasy story I've been thinking about for YEARS, but I've failed at putting much of it down. I know virtually everything I want to do with the story (even with potential sequel ideas), but it just hasn't happened. It's the not the initial idea to which I came up with the name Dusk, but I decided the name works well for what I want to do. I did devise the name Farris for it (it was to be derived from a Ferris Wheel, but changed the spelling slightly because I knew a family whose last name was Farris). The main idea was that a woman in her early twenties returns home from what was supposed to be the rest of life in the Big City (all the names of areas in that particular part of story were intended to be plain and boring, so to show that nothing terribly amazing happens there, it's all ordinary) to pick up her youngest brother, who had been staying with her parents until they died in a car accident. When she arrives, he tells her of a 'staircase in the sky' that he had been seeing above their house and of a person she met that came from the staircase. It sounds peculiar, but truth is that she used to see something similar when she was younger, but pretty much convinced herself it was nothing but something her imagination came up with. Eventually, they head up the staircase. It leads to a world miles above their home. All they see beyond the buildings on platforms that appear to float is endless sky. From there, they become entangled into a tale beyond anything they could've imagined.
3) If You're Lucky, This idea was inspired by the Women's snowboardcross event during the winter Olympics in part. I'm trying to write this kind of how Syrup was written by Max Barry, which was in short titled chapters. It's in its infancy, but I know what I want to do. The idea is a kid named Jacob was about to become a sensational Snowboarding star, but lost in what was supposed to be his break after showboating in the final moments of the race. He comes home with pretty much no plan for his future. Instead of what should have happened, he's now a laughingstock. After a few weeks of emo that follow the disaster in his lifetrack, he encounters a man who feels that Jacob is trying to steal his thunder. The man has made a life out of being a local joke, and doesn't want Jacob to take away what he has embarrassingly made his life. What starts as sort of a rivalry, Jacob decides to try to return himself to glory, while giving the man (still unnamed) back his claim to infamy.
4) Unnamed Reality Show Story, I've only put the thoughts on this, but it's completely developed. The idea is that virtually no shows on TV exist other than reality shows. One particular boy has grown annoyed with it, but it only gets worse for him when he discovers his family is going to be among the stars for new show about suburban families. He decides, after the second or third day of filming, to run off and head to a camp he learned about on the internet that shares the same feelings he does. However, the producer of the show, a once hotshot producer of many shows that is on her last legs, turns the show about her family into show that allows for viewers to participate. The pitch: find the runaway of a family and recieve a multimillion dollar reward.
5) Unnamed Lawsuit Related Story, For whatever reason, I thought about that one lawsuit where the woman spilled coffee on herself and sued McDonalds (or whoever it was) for it. So I thought of this idea that's similar to the Reality Show idea, in which something more drastic happens in the world than you'd expect. In this idea, a lawyer (someone pretty new into law, but I didn't wanna go with paralegal or whatever other pre-lawyer thing there is) takes the case of his friend's, that involves him suing a corporation after he burns himself with coffee. Sure, there's the precedent of the original case, but the lawyer successfully splits hairs to the point where his friend wins the lawsuit and coffee cup warnings everywhere now are superspecific ("This beverage is hot enough to scold your skin, so do not spill it on yourself" or something as equally silly). Afterwards, the friend continues trying to achieve more lawsuits, but the lawyer doesn't want to continue trying his cases. Instead, the friend then sues him, saying that was no way of knowing that he would be as rude to him as he was. It's an incredibly outlandish idea, and I don't even know if it could actually work. I don't have any legal expertise and I'd like to make this is accurate as possible while stile coming up with such a ridiculous idea. I'm thinking of a title that's similar to a coffee cup warning. This Person Could Potentially Betray You or something.
6) Unnamed Genie Story, This is what I'm devising now. The idea is basically a person finds a lamp in an antique shop that just so happens to contain a genie. It's not going to be a typical Genie story (then again, don't most writers create stories of typical events and claim it's not a typical telling of it?), as the Genie is a bit of a smartass. She doesn't follow traditional genie ideas. She's become rather cynical, as its hard to convince the people of the modern times that she is actually what she is. The person is pretty skeptical, but when she puts some of his 'wishes' to work, he definitely becomes a believer. There will be a relationship there, nothing romantic, but I want there to be an interesting dynamic there. I just haven't decided yet.
So there you go. Hopefully some of these are good.
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| Sabrina v. Amanda (5GING Excerpt) |
[30 Sep 2005|01:01am] |
Now before I go any further, I think it would be appropriate to explain the… relationship between Sabrina and Amanda.
There isn’t one. Ever since a silly conversation approximately four or five years before, Breenie has hated her with a fiery passion. Amanda’s relationship with Gabe was about three or four weeks old when she was brought to the house for the first time. She cleared her way through the parents, as both of them grew rather fond of her pretty quickly. Much to his dismay, he had to introduce her to Sabrina and me at some point. He pretty much had no choice when his plot to perhaps make out in the living room fell through thanks to his siblings being at home rather unexpectedly. A shame that Gabe didn’t know that a teacher in-service sent all the schoolchildren home three hours early that day. I caught the twinkle of optimistic eyes and the beam of an open toothed smile that said, “I am pretty sure I’m gonna get some!” slowly morph into an angry gaze and a grimace of rage that shot directly into both Sabrina’s and my skull. I abandoned my controller and allowed my sister to take the victory as Gabe and his shiny new girlfriend stepped into the living room. She didn’t flinch or notice that I had conceded. Breenie was winning and that was all that mattered to her.
“Well hey there, Nick. Sabrina,” Gabe greeted us with an intensely obvious sense of disappointment and sarcasm in his words, “You’re all home early.”
“School let out an hour ago. Teachers had a workshop or something.”
“That right? Well that’s great,” he said with absolutely no conviction in his voice, then “Fantastic!” in a flat faux excitement and finally “Great…” almost to himself in a foul toned mumble.
Each of us was in our respective ‘little kid’ forms. We all looked typically 1998 in our own ways. Sabrina, at a mere eleven, was full blown tomboy in denim overalls, a long sleeved shirt, and the trademark ponytail every young girl raised by a sports loving father. Not that she was the product of our dad’s crafting in any real obvious way, she simply looked as such. I was essentially the same then as I was when I hung out with Amanda that night. Only then, I had poor taste in clothing. Nothing matched. Nothing blew anyone away. It was just on me and even it didn’t agree with how it was combined with itself. Gabe was overwhelming sporty, baseball shirt and track pants. Considering the overly dressy fashion he is accustomed to now, it was a complete polar opposite of that. And then there was Amanda, who I would’ve noticed more back then if I wasn’t a playful jackass who preferred to garner attention and then not know what to do with it. She didn’t put her hair up at all back then. I guess she didn’t begin to get overly creative with it until a couple years after that, as with that first meeting and each one after that year, her only real accessory to her hair was a peach hairband.
“Who’s the chick?” Sabrina asked, despite not actually seeing Amanda. Her eyes had yet to leave the TV screen, and she set up my defeat through the game’s multiple option windows.
“This is Amanda. I’ve talked about her around you guys a couple times before,” he then switched gears and did swift introductions, “Amanda, this is Nick and Sabrina. Nick and Breenie, this is Amanda.”
I shyly smiled and limped a quiet wave at her, to which she beamed.
“So she really exists,” Sabrina said, “I’m kinda surprised. I figured you were pulling our legs.”
Amanda and I both laughed, but I quickly petered off when I saw that Gabe wasn’t in the least bit impressed. “Don’t be silly. Of course she’s real,” he said flatly, almost robotic.
His girlfriend continued to giggle at the proceeding. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Sabrina responded, the game already beginning. I didn’t notice until after she spoke, to which I hustled to catch up.
“You’re as much a sweetie as Gabriel said you were,”
Neither she nor I believed Gabe would ever say anything along those lines. She probably said that to humor us or at perhaps to make her boyfriend a touch more comfortable.
About a minute of silence passed. I could see Gabe gradually becoming more and more uneasy, even though the only commotion was the sound of go-karts and explosions from the TV. Sabrina was content with the further kicking of my ass, and I, for the most part, had no chance to catch up. Amanda took a seat on the couch behind us, tugging on Gabe’s arm to inform him to sit down, at least on the seat’s arm. She broke the calm as she leaned into her beau’s side and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I don’t mean to be so forward, but Sabrina,” she said, “but I think you should consider a different look.”
Everyone, other than Amanda, took a face of complete confusion by the comment. Especially Sabrina, but the look slowly molded into one of total contempt, even before she heard the rest of what the girl had to say. Gabe’s face changed as well, to one that found the entire situation amusing. The three of us were, at that time, deep in our phases where anything that pushed the others’ buttons was fucking hysterical. Being the bystander in this exchange, I just waited to see what would come.
“Overalls are kinda cute, but only when you’re feeding ducks on a pond. It’s a little tacky when you consider the corner of suburbia we live in.”
Breenie paused the game, dropped the controller, and turned to her oldest brother and his girlfriend. Her eyebrows couldn’t arch and bend any more without tearing themselves off of her forehead. I’ve only seen her with that same expression a few times, and with each target of said expression, she officially declared a nemesis. It’s a rare sight, and I’m sort of proud to say that was the first of two or three instances in which I’ve seen it.
Amanda wasn’t finished, however.
“And I know you’re still a kid and everything, but that shirt is just too big on you. Far too puffy. It kind of makes you look chubby. I imagine that’s not what you were going for.”
The action in my sister’s head surely crackled with manic electricity. Now while Sabrina was known to get so riled up that she would threaten kill another human being, the fire in her eyes following Amanda’s well-intentioned yet rude comments revealed to me that she could very well have taken the girl’s life. Those tiny girl hands quivered with enough energy to squeeze the air passage of a person twice the size of her brand new enemy. Maybe even snap an iron girder if need be. Sabrina looked absolutely pissed. Yet, for as quickly as the lightning shot through her, it subsided. No, rather it transformed. Her demeanor switched immediately. She was still incredibly angry, but it was harder to tell than a moment before. Breenie was sly, and very, very, very foul while still sounding relatively composed as she responded, “I hope Gabe told you about his raging case of the Herp.”
As Amanda winced and asked, “I’m sorry, what?” Gabe shouted over her.
“Sabrina! I just remembered something I needed you to do. Could you come with me?”
He wasn’t asking. Judging by how he yanked her by her arm towards the front, he was telling her to follow. The only thing I could imagine as proper to do at that time was reset the game and hand Amanda a controller. “Wanna play a quick round?”
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| 5GING Excerpt |
[22 Aug 2005|12:58am] |
I vaguely remember previous encounters with Amanda when she was dating Gabe. Neither Sabrina nor I would go out of our way to hang out with her, but there were times here and there that we would wind up in the same room with her and have no real excuse to leave. During those times, I would often go into some show-offy, dopey routine where I bring up something I did the other day. It may have been anything not particularly important, but somewhere towards the end, I presented a clever line with a complimentary punchline that, in hindsight I found to be incredibly lame and embarrassing, but they always seemed to make her laugh.
And there she went again, chuckling at another silly and stupid line I made. “Well we can’t have that, can we? Let’s save the tiny offspring for tabbies.”
While she and I discussed the possibilities of my mother becoming pregnant with dozens of cats through Immaculate Conception, she took it upon herself to combine the remaining pepperoni slices with the last half of the Supreme pizza in one box. She took the empty box, held it open, and placed cans and bottles one by one inside. I grabbed the few on the far end of the table that she couldn’t reach from where she stood and placed them on the bare corners. With a quick “Thank you,” and a swift scoop of the crumpled and dirty napkins, she was off to the kitchen.
Once she left, I suddenly realized the time. Quarter to seven meant mom would be back soon, and she’d be packing Breenie with her. I wasn’t going to get too riled up about my mother seeing me entertain my brother’s ex-girlfriend, but I just knew nothing good would come from Sabrina the instant she saw me with Amanda.
On the other hand, with the sun down so early and the lights dimmed at a level suitable for afternoon lollygagging (which I just happened to be doing before she arrived), the evening would have been very romantic if not for the Domino’s in the center of the table and a movie designed more for a babysitting romp than a twenty-some trying to make a play on a very attractive woman in a slinky blue dress. I’ll take what I can get.
Amanda returned to the living room, but not to the loveseat. She rounded the couch from behind and stood to my right. “Mind if I sit here?”
“I see no reason why I should,” I said,
From how I sat while we chatted away earlier, a relatively large angle of free cushion was free between my legs and the back of the couch. I’d assume there was just enough space for Amanda to tuck herself in there, and with just a tad of shuffling and ‘excuse me’-ing, she managed fit in. From the looks of the pull in her dress and the form of her legs, I would say she was quite snug. She leaned into me and we went on watching the movie.
I had a virtual multitude of thoughts, most of which had to do with how her legs felt as she nudged closer to me. In the little instances where either of us pointed out something random during the movie, be it the Sydney Opera House or the lobsters that spoke in thick New England accents, I realized the sort of thing I figured Gabe noticed when he went out with her. She smiled at me and pointed out minor details I would have missed otherwise. Somewhere during these moments, the fucking piece of paper came to mind. I was going to have my way, and that sheet wouldn’t have a single name written on it. Maybe it was too early to claim victory, but things were going so well that I had no reason to think that I was celebrating too soon.
Having said that, I hadn’t asked if she would like to spend another night with me. After all, I couldn’t call anything I had tried that night a success if I didn’t see her again until the next time my brother backed out of set plans.
‘Allegedly’ backed out of plans.
The credits rolled to a pretty decent cover of ‘Beyond the Sea’, and Amanda motioned to her coat back on the loveseat. She pushed away from me to allow a little room to stretch over and grab it for her. “You have a little time off this week, right?” I asked,
She took the coat, but she held it in her lap. At least she was willing to hear me out. I had a minor fit of worry, where I thought she would have simply left once the movie ended. Then again, if she didn’t want to hang out, why would she have stayed any longer than the time it took her to discover Gabe wouldn’t be spending any time with her.
The fit lasted barely a moment.
“Well, like I said, he told me he would be in town much longer than he actually was,” she said, “So I set aside a few days of holiday time to spend with him and a day or two for myself afterwards.”
She cocked her head to the side and sighed. Her hands pressed down on the cushions on either side of her as she braced herself to stand. “Unfortunately, as I know what I know now, it turns out I have a full week of nothing to look forward to!”
A quick push and she was up on her feet. A quick stretch and yawn and her skirt rode up to just below her butt.
“Next time you hear from him, tell him I said hello,” she rolled her eyes as she slipped her coat on and continued, “and thanks. Thanks a whole fucking bunch.”
“You can decide whether or not to include the ‘fucking’ part. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
“I was thinking, though.” I said, mostly to gauge her reaction. With the desire to keep making potshots at my brother still fresh and heavy in her head, I wasn’t sure if I could steer her off that particular topic long enough to hear me out. She seemed curious at least, so I went on. “If you’re looking for something to do for the next week, maybe you could come over again and watch another movie or something.”
I can fake a nonchalant and smooth persona as well as the next person, but I absolutely blew any sense of confidence I may have portrayed in the matter of a few stuttered, run-on sentences. Worst case scenario, Amanda would laugh and reject the offer and show up months later, grinning to herself every time she saw me. And I knew it.
I went on with a long list of various ‘it’s okay if you don’t wanna’ responses.
But it’s just an idea. I’m not saying that you have to. I figured it would help make the week go by. Who knows, it could be fun. We’d only be hanging out. It’s not like I’m saying anything is gonna come out of it. You know, like… well, never mind that. Anyways, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. There’s no obligation or anything.
As though I was ensuring a purchase or the possibility thereof. Try before you buy. No money down. Satisfaction guaranteed. The Nick Clarett Fraternization Insurance Policy.
For as confident as I can portray myself, when I’ve lost control (usually by a fault of my own), I just cannot find the ability to shut the hell up.
Amanda chuckled, although I think she held it in a little so not to laugh too hard, “That’s very sweet of you, Nick.”
An answer of appreciation, but in reality an undecided non-answer. That sort of response worried more than I think a simple ‘No thanks’ would have. Maybe not as much as ‘Absolutely not, you creep’ or ‘Not if you were the last man in existence', but that was beside the point. “Tell you what,” she said, buttoning her coat back up and hiding all of that slinky number from view, “I’m not positive of what I’ll be doing tomorrow. I’ll check out if there’s anything I have to do. Y’know, with parents or friends and the like. If I’m free, how about I come here around the same time as today?”
I beamed because, to be completely honest, I wasn’t expecting that answer.
“And if I am busy, I’ll get a hold of you. You’ll be home all day?”
“Should be. Barring any emergencies or important meetings coming up, I’ll be here.”
A scoff and a grin, “Nick, when have you ever had an important meeting?”
“Hey, it could totally happen one of these days!”
“Oh, totally,” she snickered and smiled again at me. Her expression was bright and amazing, and only more so when I compared it to the shit-eating grin I figured I had on my face. “But yeah, if I can’t, I’ll call you. Otherwise, see you tomorrow.”
I really didn’t know how to respond, but a meek and rather shy wave came from my right hand as I said, “Take it easy, Amanda.”
She simply nodded and said, “You too.”
In a matter of steeps, she was out the door and I was absolutely amazed with myself. I’d have let an overwhelming confidence come over me if it weren’t for the fact that summoning up the courage to simply ask her to watch TV with me wore me out mentally. Soon after, I thought about how ridiculous it was and I laughed to myself for several minutes while trying to run another movie on the DVD player. Something a little less ‘first date’ friendly.
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| 5GING: HOLIDAY SNUGGLEBUNNY (excerpt) |
[03 Aug 2005|01:10am] |
We both went on, before and during the movie, about what we enjoyed about the movie. However, most of what we commented on didn’t seem to have much to do about the movie itself. Amanda went on about how she was an enormous fan of Ellen Degeneres, who played Dory. Seriously, she knew more than I could have ever cared to know about her. She has tapes of poor quality TV recordings of stand up appearances, comedy specials, and of episodes of shows she wouldn’t normally watch but did as she had a guest appearance. “That was the only time I ever watched ‘Will and Grace’.” She mentioned as described each archive of the woman’s career.
“Not many people know this anymore, but her old sitcom used to have a different title.”
I would’ve said something along the line of “Oh, really?” if I didn’t have a mouthful of pepperoni.
“Before they changed it to Ellen, it used to go by These Friends of Mine. I can understand why they would change it, though. It’s a pretty dull title, after all. Who the hell was gonna remember that?”
I laughed with my mouth covered, as I thought I would spit out the pizza on accident. Luckily I didn’t. When she mentioned that she may have been the only person she knows of that like the movie Mr. Wrong, I did spit out remnants of the slice I worked to finish. At least I had a napkin ready to cover and clean up.
Hearing Willem Dafoe’s voice a Moorish Idol reminded me of his portrayal of the Green Goblin in Spider-Man. I went on to explain that, despite overall opinion of comic books is rather indifferent, I enjoyed that movie. She followed me by explaining that, in my opinion mostly due to her overall opinion of comic books being rather indifferent, that she did not care for it and then every other comic book movie that came before. I didn’t know what to think when she dared tread over the Superman movies of old. At least the first one. I felt it better not to declare my opinion on the later films.
We went on debating, complaining, arguing, and then to the eventual joking, teasing, and heavy laughter. I recall more about her opposition to comic books and their movie adaptations than the flick she and I were so excited to see. The only part of Finding Nemo I can tie to anything we had done that night was the jellyfish scene. Around then was when I actually started watching. Amanda excused herself so that she may use the toilet, and in the five, six, or seven minutes I was left to myself, I witnessed Marlin save poor Dory as countless jellyfish closed in on them both. She came back, noting the mess that our dinner-and-a-movie became. Two pizza boxes sat kitty corner from one another greasy, sauce smeared napkins either underneath or on top of them. Any portion of the table not covered by the boxes or napkins was topped by Pepsi cans, half empty and quarter empty and fully empty bottles of water, Snapple, and unsweetened iced tea. “Knowing your mom, she would have kittens at the sight of this room.” She said,
A quick look and I’d be a fool not to agree, “She’d produce them by the litter for hours.”
I vaguely remember previous encounters with Amanda when she was dating Gabe. Neither Sabrina nor I would go out of our way to hang out with her, but there were times here and there that we would wind up in the same room with her and have no real excuse to leave. During those times, I would often go into some show-offy, dopey routine where I bring up something I did the other day. It may have been anything not particularly important, but somewhere towards the end, I presented a clever line with a complimentary punchline that, in hindsight I found to be incredibly lame and embarrassing, but they always seemed to make her laugh.
And there she went again, chuckling at another silly and stupid line I made. “Well we can’t have that, can we? Let’s save the tiny offspring for tabbies.”
While she and I discussed the possibilities of my mother becoming pregnant with dozens of cats through Immaculate Conception, she took it upon herself to combine the remaining pepperoni slices with the last half of the Supreme pizza in one box. She took the empty box, held it open, and placed cans and bottles one by one inside. I grabbed the few on the far end of the table that she couldn’t reach from where she stood and placed them on the bare corners. With a quick “Thank you,” and a swift scoop of the crumpled and dirty napkins, she was off to the kitchen.
Once she left, I suddenly realized the time. Quarter to seven meant mom would be back soon, and she’d be packing Breenie with her. I wasn’t going to get too riled up about my mother seeing me entertain my brother’s ex-girlfriend, but I just knew nothing good would come from Sabrina the instant she saw me with Amanda.
On the other hand, with the sun down so early and the lights dimmed at a level suitable for afternoon lollygagging (which I just happened to be doing before she arrived), the evening would have been very romantic if not for the Domino’s in the center of the table and a movie designed more for a babysitting romp than a twenty-some trying to make a play on a very attractive woman in a slinky blue dress. I’ll take what I can get.
Amanda returned to the living room, but not to the loveseat. She rounded the couch from behind and stood to my right. “Mind if I sit here?”
“I see no reason why I should,” I said,
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| Short Story, New Leaves (Teaser Excerpt) |
[16 Jul 2005|01:36pm] |
“I should go get a haircut, though. I dig how it looks, but it may be a tad too shaggy.” He noted,
Yet another thing he could have gotten down a month ago. In the long run, he’d have saved a couple boxes of dye worth of cash if he did everything all at once. He’s not that practical, though.
“Considering what you did to your ear, it’d be quite a waste if people couldn’t see it underneath that mop your drape over that thick head of yours.” I said,
“Fuck you, dude. I think it looks cool. Kinda gives me an edge.”
An edge, I thought, that had you crying for a couple hours. “But you’re right, though. Can’t really see it at this point.”
He turned his head to display the right ear in the mirror. He flipped some of the covering hair to flash the jagged rip on the fattiest part of his earlobe. Somewhere between the dye job, where ‘Medium Auburn’ meant in Anthony’s case ‘Rotten Tangerine’, and the box of ‘Powdered Cocoa’ that was ‘supposed to be like three or four times lighter than my normal color’, he asked me to tag along with him to get his ear pierced. For at least twenty or thirty minutes at one of those girls’ accessories mall outlets, this toothpick of a man with ‘arms gaining more and more shape every day’ (Which I knew meant he swung five pound dumbbells around for twenty minutes every third day of the week.) in more black than what was suitable for a person of his nature tried to choose between a silver stud and a brassy pirate loop with the decision making skills of an antsy eleven year old girl. Speaking of which, there was girl probably of that age waiting for him to hurry up. It was, as I overheard her mother say, her birthday and she would be late for her party if this numbskull doesn’t hurry and make up his mind.
He opted for the hoop, since he suddenly got a ‘great idea’ while not making a choice.
“I want you to yank it out.”
“You just got the fucking thing put in.” I said. I honestly didn’t care what the hell he wanted to do with it, but the sensibility in me just didn’t see how this would have any relevant point.
“I know, I know, I know, but it’ll be cool. This’ll give an edge.”
Again with the edge. The edge the stereotypical leather jacket gave him. The edge barbed wire cuff tattoo gave him. The edge that, in reality, was every stereotype the common loser would pull to make himself look cool. It was almost as though he picked up a book on every clichéd notion of hip and neato and chose the things he felt would work for him best.
“I’m asking you to do it, so it’s not like I’m gonna get pissed off or anything.”
So I sat up from his couch, more tacky black vinyl that he paid four figures to replace more old family heirlooms, and jerked the bastard clean off of his head. He cursed and shrieked like a female horror movie victim. “I wasn’t ready! God damn it! That really fucking hurt!”
I had to take him to the hospital, where he whined and insisted that the doctors not stitch the wound back together, but to bandage it so that it would heal with a permanent separation.
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| Possible Chapter Insert for 5GING |
[14 Jul 2005|08:30pm] |
This is something I had to write to get down, and it may or may not be included. I probably will, but we'll see. It's mostly just a funny situation of I thought of that could be perfect for the later end of the story. It's NOW completely done. Behold!
( It involves a bathroom. )
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| The Crecenza Memoirs - The Ruby Children, Part 1, Proper Hellos (TEASER) |
[08 Jul 2005|11:21am] |
It has been a shade over fourteen years since the expedition to the continent of Noriander. It was the journey that I had longed for for many years before. It was where I learned many lessons and suffered through countless hardships. I met hundreds of people, made new friendships, strengthened old ones, but unfortunately broke and lost just as many. During those years, I stared death in the eye. I also stood face to face with life, which I felt was a larger accomplishment.
It has been a shade over fourteen years. Fourteen years that changed me in my own eyes. Fourteen years that defined me in the greater public’s eyes. The Noriander Expedition became the reason I came to be. It was why my name is told to school children and commented upon by more scholars than I could possibly imagine. My command over the long and arduous investigation of the mythical ‘Home of the Gods’ led to new beliefs and new philosophies.
I know this seems so horribly vain, but unfortunately it’s the reality I have come to live with. Do not believe for a moment that I regret anything I have done or anything that has happened to me as a result. There really is not a better way to explain it.
When I was merely the young assistant to Mister Stillshire, the curator of Regan City’s Museum of Mythology, he took a risk and assigned me to head all operations for the highly anticipated study. Many valued investors and friends of the museum funded the expedition, and for the entire project to be assigned to essentially an inexperienced girl was a brave and considerably foolish decision. For that, I thanked him and at the end, I present the Regan Archive.
The archive consisted of stacks upon stacks upon stacks of leather bound journals, wire bound notebooks, and folders of assorted sizes of loose leaf sheets when I originally turned it in to Mister Stillshire and my old friends from the museum. After days of organization and storytelling (I know I had many tales, as did my staff), we transformed a meticulous mess into nine hardbound books detailing everything I had discovered on Noriander.
In a matter of weeks, the Regan Archive was presented to our investors and eventually printed by the thousands for the rest of the world to see. The rest, as they say, is history.
There was something, however, that didn’t settle inside me. I am proud of the Regan Archive. I do not want anyone think otherwise. It is just... there is something missing. The archive has long been produced, for at least five or six months as I write this, and I could not possibly ask that a new edition be produced so soon after the original. The feeling I have probably would not fit into the archive, anyhow. It essentially would be repeating the story over again.
However, I feel it needs to be done.
The Regan Archive went into extensive detail about numerous mythological beings. Gods. Each and every revelation was carefully described and explained. Virtually no stone was left unturned. As far as I am concerned, the Archive could not be any more complete.
But, there was something missing. Something I could not put my finger on until just recently. The archive is definitive and precise, but it lacks any real soul. It has become nearly thousands of pages of definitions and terminology. I had created an encyclopedia. It had occurred to me that the finest events that happened while I was in Noriander for fourteen years were never properly documented. There were many things the greater public will never know beyond what I have presented in the archive. There were many times that I can only hope never leave my memories. My staff began with myself and two fellow associates from Regan City. It ended with me, two dear friends, and three additional pairs of hands that the final product would not have come to be if not for their help. The minutes to hours to days I spent with them compiling our lives’ work certainly became one of my finest times.
Days not spent on Noriander were spent on, what I firmly believe was the finest vessel to cross the seas. The crew of Mara’s Mercy was just as essential to assuring this long-term project saw completion. I saw many comrades lose their lives, to which I hold a place in my heart for. To those who remained with me and my team, either from the beginning or anywhere during the expedition, I could not appreciate their time and assistance any more than I do. I saw three captains each take the helm of the Mara’s Mercy, and to each of them, you have my eternal gratitude. It may be years before I ever step foot on another ship, as my engagements involving around Regan Archive keep me on solid ground for an undetermined period of time. When I do, I can only hope it will be the only true home I have had since I left Regan City aboard it.
All the people whose lives intertwined with my own will never get the true recognition they deserve. Their stories just would not belong in the Regan Archive. In that regard, my story would not belong. There were many trials and pitfalls that no man or woman will never know about. The loss of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, friends, and lovers will rot and decompose in time, as no one will learn what they died for. My life and thousands of other lives were changed in the course of the Noriander Expedition, and it is not fair that it will become a mere a folktale.
And that is what willed me to write this memoir. I do not wish to see a disservice done upon everyone who had a part of any size in expedition, so I felt I need to give my personal account of my years on the country known as the birthplace of the Gods.
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| 5GING - THE HOLIDAY SNUGGLEBUNNY PART (TEASER) |
[03 Jul 2005|07:50pm] |
Amanda walked into the living room strapped tight in a dressy, elaborate coat. It hung down to half-calf, so I could see her bare legs above a pair of blue heels. I didn’t want to stare, and luckily I could turn my head ever so slightly to alternate between the television and her not-too-pale-not-too-tan legs. At first nothing. Just silence. I suppose she expected me to be the first to say something. In normal circumstances, a leggy young woman walking into my house completely out of the blue may incite some sort of reaction. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a regular event for Amanda to just barge in, especially considering she hasn’t been with Gabe, at that time, for nearly eight months. I would’ve guessed that maybe she still had a house key, but Gabe didn’t live at home while dating her. He may have given her one in the off chance of an emergency or something. I kind of doubted it.
Then again, I may just have forgotten to lock the door. She probably just let herself in. Our family wouldn’t really have a problem with that. The break up between her and Gabe was relatively amicable, and the rest of the family could tolerate her. Except for Sabrina, but she tends to hate any and everyone at some point.
She looked at me, and continued to until my alternating between looking at the TV and her legs switched back to her and I had to catch her eyes. Once I did, she asked, “Nick. Is your brother around?”
“We like you and all, Amanda, but common courtesy should’ve told you to ring the door bell or at least call us before just strolling in.”
...
She shook her and regained the little composure she lost from my reaction. “I’m sorry. Is Gabriel around?”
Amanda only called him ‘Gabriel’ when something serious was happening. Seeing how they haven’t seen each other since the early summer of that year, I figured she just really needed to see him.
“You missed him,”
Up to that point, she was straight as an arrow. Even though the coat covered it completely, Amanda stood in such a way that she was in full view of any and everyone. Her stance presented all of her best features, not an inch of her dress (I assumed dress. There isn’t much in the form of wardrobe, at least that I’m aware of, that compliment three inch heels and creamy vanilla skin.) creased improperly under a hunched body part. Once I relayed the message, she slumped and sunk maybe an inch. She frowned at me and sighed, “Seriously?”
“Afraid so.”
“Will he be back in the next couple of hours?”
I felt awkward, and knew she wouldn’t take what I was about to say well. Not like I had anything to do with it, but I knew Amanda would not like the answer. So I felt bad. But I shoved myself back in the couch as though she was going to become so irate that she’d attack me. A fairly unnecessary response, but I couldn’t think of a more suitable reaction.
“He already left for home, Amanda.”
Her frown quickly became of a glare of surprise with a dash fiery rage.
“Gabe told me he would be here for the holidays.”
She always called him ‘Gabe’ whenever he pissed her off.
“He was,” I told her, “but he left about three or four days ago.”
Her hands balled up into fists. She wasn’t going to use them. They simply shook in gradual degrees. Light tremors, then a rougher shaking, and eventually the quaked as though she were squeezing the life out of her own palms. “He told me he would be here for a month.”
“That was the plan, but his job prevented him from staying that long. He was lucky to get the two weeks he ended up spending, from what he told me.”
“That son of a bitch,” she tried to say under her breath, but I managed to hear her, and she said out loud where I could intentionally hear, “that son of a bitch always does this!”
She sounded furious and appeared as enraged as all hell, but her eyes told a slightly different story. They grew red and watery, and once the tears dropped down her face, the rest of her anger faded and she appeared weak. She unbuttoned her jacket and wrapped it around her left arm before sitting down on the loveseat to my left.
I assumed correctly. What was hidden under the bulk of her thick yet elegant coat was a slinky number in a deep blue. It may have been a couple shades darker than her heels, but that could have been the lights reflecting off of her. I could only guess it was silk. It appeared quite soft to my eyes, even though it clung firmly to her. Not tightly, mind you. It hugged her body enough to detail her every contour, but it certainly didn’t squeeze at her as if it were a size too small. It held on firmly around her hips and chest and only displayed the briefest moments of slack as she sat down. Even then, only the spaghetti straps limped slightly and hovered over her shoulders for just an instant. There wasn’t even an impression from the straps over her gradually reddening skin.
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[25 Jun 2005|05:49pm] |
( Five Girls I'll Never Get - The Part With The Lesbian )
I must be honest here. I don't like how I ended this piece. It's not clicking. The introduction to internet aspect of one Nick's conflicts just isn't coming off how I want it to.
I also have another problem. I don't know exactly who I want the first girl to be. Damn it.
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| The Types that Shop in EB/Video Game Salesmen (5GING excerpt) |
[22 Jun 2005|07:27pm] |
I’ve been in that Electronics Boutique more times than I could possibly remember, but I constantly find myself on edge whenever I go in there. By no means is it a dirty, unkempt store. It’s one of the nicer looking shops in the mall, in fact. I suppose my main argument is that I feel completely out of place inside it. The sort of people that shop in stores like this are not from the same mold as me. Maybe I’m kind of an elitist prick, but there are three kinds of people that frequent this sort of place, and I just don’t feel like I fit in with any of those.
Of course, there’s the diehards. Like Beth and me, they’ve played since they could talk. The only real difference, and maybe I can only speak for myself, is that I haven’t become a know-all, tell-all gaming genius. I remember being happy with being able to reach the Warp Zones in Super Mario Brothers. The store lures the high school and college boys who can clear The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past without dying. The ones with record time Mega Man 2 clear times. The ones that can finish all the Metal Gear Solids without killing anybody. Guys with completed ‘No Junction’ Final Fantasy VIII save files.
I stand by these guys and feel dirty and ashamed that I haven't accomplished what they have.
Then again, I stand by these guys when they buy their limited edition versions of games that come with ten-inch statues of assorted video game vixens and their booster packs of the latest trading card game, and I feel I got relatively lucky.
Standing behind them in line are popular guys. The varsity basketball team or wrestling squad. These are the people who gave the hardcore nerds wedgies in middle school and slept with their sisters. They grab titles like Halo and Grand Theft Auto and talk about how ‘video games rock!’ I ask myself why they even bother buying here, as they would appear a little more fitting if they purchased their games, the yearly Madden, the flavor of the month first person shooter, at Target. But then I see them make the ‘nerds’ uncomfortable, and I ultimately answer my question.
It’s a half-assed turf war with no real progress in either direction.
I couldn’t possibly think of myself as one of them. Their cocky attitudes and assholish natures are the kind of traits I would never like to show. Besides, I sucked at basketball and I couldn’t make the wrestling team even if God willed it so.
And then there’s the mothers. After dragging leagues of children through housewares stores, bath and beauty shops, and every clothes outlet in the mall, it only made sense to let them have a look at something a little more acceptable to their tastes. Not until they finish their kids’ meals, mind you. Maybe they’d prefer the toy store, but that sits on the far end of the northwest wing and EB is right there in the food court. The little ones are just as tired as mom at this point, and it’s not like checking out video games are a bad thing. So, they opt for it instead. Bless mothers’ hearts, but the average woman with 2.4 kids doesn’t know their joysticks from their memory cards. They’ll humor the ‘gimme gimme gimme!’ shouts from their sons and daughters. They’ll ask the attendants for help and advice, only to bite off more than they can chew. And finally, they’ll buy something that will inevitably annoy them. Mothers will regret the day they bought them once the children become so entranced, they forget their being shouted at to turn the damned things off.
Obviously, I couldn’t fit into this group. I lack the proper parts to be a mom, for one. As for children, my current problem is makes it a little pointless to look that far ahead. One step at a time.
Beth picked up two copies and held onto both as we waited in the relatively short line. “I’ll pay you back,” I said,
“You bet you’re paying me back,” she said with a slight snicker, “You can expect me to round up my money the next time you get paid.”
I counted up from the last payday. Fourteen days on ten digits worth of fingers and thumbs, but I figured it out. As I tapped a finger per day, Friday-Saturday-Sunday-Monday-and-so-on, our turn in line came. “This Friday, it seems,”
“Even better,” Beth declared, then turned to the cashier, “Hey there.”
“How are you two today?” he asked us, in that false positive tone of voice they probably teach in training videos or business seminars.
I don’t know if the people they hire there are naturally that fake and smarmy, or if they teach them how to appear so slimy and bothersome. It was just the one guy there that day, but I know of at least four or five other employees that split hours there. Every last one of them acts in nearly the same fashion.
The guy that helped us had worked there than any of them, He was the example the others tried to duplicate.
The Video Game Salesman douchebag cookie cutter.
He dressed like his wage could actually support it, which I doubted. A dark long-sleeved dress shirt almost elaborately tucked into his black slacks. With a woven belt and slightly beat up leather dress shoes to finish his look, I pictured him thinking, after finishing a late shift the night before tending bar at an executive bar, that his uniform looked nice enough to wear to his second job.
This sharp dressed man complimented the whole arrangement with a thick black lanyard, the words ‘Electronics Boutique’ printed repeatedly on one side, around his neck. A small clip dangled from the lanyard, which bit into a plastic name tag.
The names of the people who worked there were not of this world. They were not names of real people. These were soap opera stars. English or French waiters who swept dinner guests off their feet with their ‘lovely accents’ when they read the wine list. These names belonged to men painted on romance novels. They fought elves and unicorns. They weren’t supposed to sell me a computer game.
Blaine. Hunter. DeVaughn. Kingsley.
Our wonderful helper’s name was Caleb.
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| The Bathroom Horror (5GING Except) |
[19 Jun 2005|11:40pm] |
“It couldn’t possibly been as bad as what happened a couple weeks ago.”
“Is this the one where some dude clogged a pair of skid-marked briefs in the sink drain?”
“That was gross, yes,” she grimaced when she recalled her own story about the shitty underwear in the sink, “but this was infinitely worse.”
A short line developed, consisting of a skinny blonde and her relatively new offspring hanging from her back in a sling, a greasy trucker in greasy overalls with greasy hands scratching his greasy beard, and a random punkass kid clearly skipping school. She handled each of them quickly and efficiently, clearing her space in a matter of a minute and a half. Beth despises the general public, yet manages to deal with them in quick but remarkably friendly manner. She once told me she heard that she was up for Employee of the Month once, but she toned the enthusiasm to allow the chubby girl who runs the diner register. Fuck if I ever have my picture lined up in the break room with all the other losers, she once told me.
“I was lucky enough to have to pull a triple shift that night, and around three in the morning, about half dozen guys come strolling in. They’re just absolutely bombed from what I can tell. A couple of them were laughing at everything in sight. The ice cream freezer, the chip rack, the shelf of used cassette tapes; they cracked up laughing at it all.”
They browsed briefly, she said, and then eventually made their way to the men’s room.
“I knew I’d wind up having to clean up after them. Drunks have a knack for that sort of shit.”
Beth then sold a fat, sad looking woman fifteen dollars in quick-pick lottery tickets. She paid with a twenty, and demanded the change in quarters. Low on change herself, Beth directed her to one of the other counters. “I can’t tell if she’s needing the coins for the Laundromat down the way or for the video poker machines in the back,” she told me, “Anyway, I figure I’m gonna have some maintenance in there after they headed out. Y’know, a little pee here. A little pee there. I waited about a minute after they left the restroom, bought a few bucks worth of junk food, and motored away from the truck stop before going in there with a mop bucket.”
She removed her glasses and wiped the lenses with her shirt. The look on her face told it all, but she went on. “I’ve heard some really heinous stories from co-workers about the things people do in those bathrooms, but this was easily the worst I had ever seen. I suppose it wasn’t that bad in comparison, but it was still pretty damn retarded,”
She paused for effect. “There was piss everywhere. Not just puddling outside of the bowls and urinals. I’m talking everywhere. It’s like they all took their peckers out and had themselves a little pee party.”
They left no part of the room uncovered. There was piss on the floor, dripping from the stall walls, and flowing over a couple toilet bowls and even a sink. She had to pluck a gigantic wad of toilet paper out of the drain. Even though she was wise enough to remember the pair of rubber gloves in the maintenance closet, I imagine Beth was not too pleased in placing her hands in a bathroom sink full of urine.
“You remember that Coke clock that we used to have in there?” she asked me,
“Oh yeah, the one you were gonna give to me when they bought a new one?”
And then it occurred to me, just I asked, “Wait. What do you mean by ‘used to have in there’?”
Those drunken bastards yanked the clock clean off the wall and threw it into the one of the urinals.
“The damn thing reeked of pee. I think a couple of those guys ate a plate of asparagus or something. It smelled so fucking bad.”
“Did you clean it?”
I thought about it later. I really don’t know why in the hell I asked that.
“What are you, nuts? I was pissed off enough having to clean five, six, seven grown men’s piss throughout the fucking bathroom. What makes you think I’d take the effort to clean a pee clock?”
“Well, I really did like that clock. Why else would I have asked for it?”
I also thought about this comment. There’s no way I’d keep a urine-covered clock, even if it was properly cleaned off.
Beth looked at me with one part contempt, but at least three or four parts disgust and a hint of nausea, “Christ, Nick. I thought you said you lost your appetite.”
I didn’t really notice it myself at first, but about halfway through her story, I grabbed the tray of fries again. I guess I was just too hungry to pass it up. She snatched the tray and threw it in the wastebasket below her register.
“Even though you’re a sick motherfucker, you’re going with me to lunch,” she said, “You’re gonna have a meal that doesn’t look like human waste and you’re gonna like it.”
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| 5GING - THE PART WITH THE LESBIAN (TEASER) |
[17 Jun 2005|10:42pm] |
You can completely blame someone, as she introduced it to me that same Monday I took up the challenge Jamie devised. After I dropped him off at the mall, I considered returning home for the next couple hours before I had to work. Instead, as it was about two or three miles from my house anyways, I stopped at the J & D, a truck stop just off the interstate where my friend Beth works.
I met Beth Duffy about three years earlier one day after heading into the J & D to gas up my car. She had been working there for a little while before that, but up until that day I had never seen her there. She opted for morning shifts, and only three or four months after the fact did they actually start shifting at those times. Anyway, the first time I met her, nothing really came out of it. I told her I had twenty bucks on pump four, she asked for the money, I obliged, she told me to have a nice day and I thanked her. Nothing out of the ordinary. Although, it soon became a bit of a routine. I frequently stopped into the stop for gas or food or drink or whatever, and she always happened to be there when I came in. Stupid, idle chat about the crap I was buying soon turned into stupid, idle chat in general. From there, we started talk about all sorts of shit. She was big into collectable statue sets. I told her how I dabbled a bit in that silly card game my brother played religiously. We agreed that country music was, as a whole, an atrocious abomination. We also laughed at how fitting it was for the both of us to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, which so happens to be ripe with shitty country music radio stations. About a month into the regular conversations, we started having lunch and hanging out together whenever our specific schedules allowed it. It worked out pretty well, as we both enjoyed the fact that we loathed the same type of people. The common grounds for us were the mostly brain-dead masses of the mall, and we could spend an hour or two shaking heads at them all while looked over various movie memorabilia in the three or four stores that specialized in them.
And from the handful of times I visited her with Jamie in tow, she couldn’t stand him just as much as I did. She didn’t know why I drug him around sometimes, but figured there was a suitable or at least hilarious reason and simply let it go from there. Like I said, he bugged the shit out of her and she often declared how she’d like to shoot him out of a cannon. That was reason enough to be friends with her.
Yes, the idea of the list had occurred to me as I approached the gas station. No, I wouldn’t put Beth on the list. For the three years I’ve been talking to her, it had been completely on a friendly level. I never saw any interest in me from her and it’s been roughly the same for myself.
That and she’s a lesbian. I considered that a huge exemption.
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[17 Jun 2005|12:24am] |
Saving titles for future use...
Big Filthy Charisma
Big Sweaty Charisma
(potential short story involving slick Cell Phone salesmen)
Fifteen on Four
(potential short story on a gas station holdup)
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| The Truth about Breakfast Cereal (5GING excerpt) |
[14 Jun 2005|11:53pm] |
I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen around nine, nine-thirty to find Jamie Roswell sitting at the dining table with a bow of Trix and a commentary that began to scare my mother.
“Oh thank goodness, Nick. You need to tell your friend if he can’t appreciate a free breakfast, then he either needs to supply his own cereal or find somewhere else to go in the morning.”
...
“Jamie, I thought I told you to quit freaking out my mom.” I said,
“I was simply making a point. A pretty damn valid point, if you ask me.”
He said that while crunching a mouthful of fruit shapes and milk. A light drip of two percent dribbled from the crease of his lip and down his chin.
“Enlighten me then.”
“This cereal,” he pointed to, while still scooping Trix into his face, “is everything that’s wrong with children today.”
“He claimed that by buying this brand of cereal means I support children acting like,”
She paused, “like… like,”
I knew exactly what she was stalling on. Mom hated profanity, especially when anyone in the house used it. It was kind of difficult for her when she had two sons and a daughter that dropped f-bombs like they were going out of style.
“Like assholes,” Jamie completed the sentence for her,
“Watch your mouth while you’re in my house,” she ordered,
He waved apologetically while and I glared at him in confusion, “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Nick! Did you just hear me?”
“Sorry, mom,” I said, but continued immediately into my questioning, “What are you talking about, Jamie?”
“Well, there’s always talk about how rowdy and disrespectful kids have become. I say it was merely a matter of time. Can you believe some of the crap cereal and their complimentary commercials tell kids to act?”
I figured Mom had the same reaction as I did, as she couldn’t say anything that could describe how bewildered she was by Jamie. I was equally as speechless.
“Like this, for example,”
He raises a spoonful of Trix for us to see, but gave us less than ample time to notice it before jamming it in his mouth. “Trix is a pretty good, wholesome looking breakfast cereal,” Jamie mumbled and ate, “Pleasant looking. Pleasant tasting, that’s for sure. But!”
He actually exclaimed that ‘But!’, and spat a fair spray of the mush in his mouth in every which direction. I shuffled back after I thought I may have been struck by it. I lucked out, and also witnessed a disgusted wince develop across my mom’s face.
“But, do you see how the children in those fucking commercials treat that rabbit! How the hell could they do that to him! He’s the TRIX rabbit. How can you not allow the TRIX rabbit to have a bowl of Trix? It’s like they’re saying, ‘It’s okay to tell people they can’t have the stuff they want. Fuck ‘em. Who cares about them?”
Mom, grasping onto the sink counter in an absolute but subtle rage, glared at Jamie and said, “Jamie, I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Dude, Lucky Charms are the same fucking thing!”
She just gave up and stormed out of the kitchen. “I’ve got to run some errands in a bit, so I’ll be upstairs getting ready. You work in a bit, Nick?”
“At noon, yeah.” I said, “I’ve gotta take Jamie to the mall, too.”
“Fantastic. I don’t wanna see him in the house when I get home.”
Almost as though she wanted Jamie to hear how upset she was with him, she stepped as heavy-footed as she possibly could upstairs. He turned to the direction of Mom’s stomps, but then turned back to me when the slam of the bathroom door banged loudly.
“The fuck was her problem, Nick?”
“Jamie, you know my man can’t stand cursing.”
“Oh,” he shrugged, somewhat embarrassed, “shit. Sorry, dude.”
My mom hated when Gabe, Breenie, and I cursed, but we were in no way as bad as Jamie. He would make sailors and prison inmates uncomfortable.
“What was I saying? Oh yeah, the Lucky Charms guy.” Jamie went on, but only after another shovel of cereal lemons, raspberries, and oranges went was tossed into his mouth, “Same fucking thing, man. Children chase after the poor bastard all the time. All he wants is some fucking Lucky Charms!”
Somewhere in the middle of this, I’ve filled a bowl of cereal for myself and taken a seat. To avoid anymore of this stupid rampage, I grabbed the box of Special K from atop the refrigerator. The gallon of milk was on the far side of table, on Jamie’s right, so I had to motion to him to pass it to me. “Not that I blame him, because that cereal is beyond delicious.”
I just hoped I could crunch loudly enough to be able to mute Jamie. I thought about the box of Raisin Bran we also had, and how it would be more up for the job. It was too late at that point, so I poured the milk on and ate.
“I’m telling you, kid’s cereals promote horrible practices. The mascots for Cookie Crisp are a dog and a fucking burglar!”
“They changed that, though.”
“Huh?”
“It’s only the dog now.”
“That’s not the point. They had a criminal promoting they’re cereal for years and years. A change just recently doesn’t mean shit.”
He then went on about Barney Rubble, Fruity Pebbles and Cocoa Pebbles. “I used to be a fan of the Flintstones until I started watching those Pebbles commercials,” he said, “but now I realize was what a cock Barney is. How cheap is he that he has steal cereal from his best friend? A box of fucking Fruity Pebbles probably costs like three or four… shells? What the hell is the currency in Bedrock? Is it shells? Stones?”
“Clams.” I said flatly, and then continued with my Special K.
“Oh yeah. Clams. It’s like three or four clams. Is he that much of a cheapass? Fred should beat his fucking ass. Like, hardcore kick his ass.”
“At least there’s Tony the Tiger. He seems to be pretty wholesome.”
“What? Are you freaking kidding me?”
If she was down here, Mom may have found the sudden use of a cleaner curse rather odd.
“What, are you telling there’s something wrong with Tony the Tiger?”
“Fuck yeah, man! He’s the worse of them all! He’s the Michael Jackson of Breakfast Cereal Mascots!”
I practically choked on a mouthful of puffed rice. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Dude, I’m serious! Think about it for second. Big burly dude like Tony, right? He surrounds himself with dozens of children, treats them to breakfast, takes them out to carnivals and shit, makes them run around and, quote-unquote, exercise, making them all sweaty and crap—“
“Oh my fucking god, Jamie!” I shouted. I dropped my spoon, and it quickly made its way to the floor.
“It’s the goddamn truth, man! Those commercials are video proof of how deranged these crazy fuckers are!”
I was at a complete loss at this point. The only thing I could think of saying, while I’m fumbling around on the floor for my spoon was, “Now wait a second. You’re talking all this crap about the Trix Rabbit and whatnot, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem to be stopping you from eating it.”
He seemed to finally reach a total stop. Jamie just shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Dude, it tastes fucking great.”
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| A Little On Brothers and Sisters (5GING Excerpt) |
[11 Jun 2005|10:17pm] |
I had to confess all these sad and sorry feelings to someone. Unfortunately, the usual suspects weren’t exactly the sort I wanted to tell these particular things to.
My brother and sister? I’d have to be fucking nuts to tell them. If they knew that I moped the entire weekend because at least seven years of ‘no hard feelings’-style rejections suddenly led to a bout of loneliness? Jesus, I’d never hear the end of it. Gabe and Sabrina—especially Sabrina… oh lord, would she do a job on me if she found out –would make sure I’d never hear the end of their ridicule. For three weeks at worst, a month and a half to two months at best, those two would brand me with all sorts of titles.
Softy. Crybaby. Fucking pussy.
“You’re such a bitch, Nick.”
Breenie’s said that to me many times, but in an instance like this, it would have more weight.
And honestly, I wouldn’t blame them. Shit, I know I’d be the first to mock if I were in their shoes. It’s a sort of privilege. When you have brothers or sisters, you are entitled to mock their pain, belittle their accomplishments, shatter their dreams, and if you are so inclined, whip their asses. I would fully understand why they would do that to me, even if all it did was make me feel worse. It just means I would bust either Gabe or Sabrina’s chops at the very moment I heard of any of their own personal woes.
Siblings are important and relatively caring, but they’re also brutal and considerably rude when they need to be. There’s a brand of pain, suffering, and embarrassment that only siblings can dish out, and in the long run it’s something I am probably better off having been a victim of such.
It just means I owe the both of them a vicious punch in the back of their heads.
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| I Know What I Like (Prelimary Rough Draft/Teaser) |
[10 Jun 2005|04:29pm] |
“Dude, I don’t even know why you fuckin’ bother.” My buddy Dave told me, “You’re not gonna read any of those.”
That’s total crap. I don’t just buy these books not to read them. So I’m like, “What are you talking about? I bought that one book,”
And at that moment, I can’t even think of what it’s called. Two or three word title, fantasy novel, fairly well-known author. I think he was one of those guys who tote around that fake initial like it really means anything. If I were to become a writer, I would just use my actual name. Then again, I suppose mine sounds kinda writer-ish. Brand new novel by literary extraordinaire Adam Lourdes. I guess it already has a ring to it, but still. Some of these author names I just cannot stand. Walter J. Poindexter. Albert S. Fischer. Henrietta R. Pufnstuf. Crap like that. Middle names are nice and all, and I’m sure they’re very lovely and everything, but keep them out of the books. Such pompous and pretentious garbage, and all produced by a single letter! I suppose it could be worse. I could browse an entire shelf here and find at least five or six names that just awful. Like, GOD awful. Just horrible. These are obvious pen names, and it’s like they don’t even try to make them sound like actual names. Devin Claymore. Amy Van Silverbaum. Lucrecia Hawksblood. Wilbur Redrover. Peter Paulinmary. Crecember Lilliputia. N. Bryan Decemberween. Some people don’t even try with names anymore. I suppose nobody wants to read a book by Bill Smith or Sarah Anderson or Jim Robinson. Perhaps the general thinking is that you can write something profound and utterly amazing if you don’t have fifteen letters in your last name. If you don’t hide your first or middle or both names by slyly initialing them. Maybe no one would give a shit about Crime and Punishment if Fyodor M. Dostoevsky was instead Chris Brown. I know that’s total crap, though. I know this guy, who went to school with me, who used to have me read these short stories he’d come up with. His name was Matt Crosby. They were fucking brilliant, but he’d never get any of them published. It’s a fucking shame, because if he could get someone to put it out for him, he’d make millions. He could sell the rights and have it made into a movie. Like some big budget summer movie that releases on Fourth of July weekend. Well… maybe not then, perhaps just before Memorial Day weekend. Kind of one of those flicks that kick off the summer movie season…
Wait a second, where was I going with this?
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| 5GING - THIS PART IS NOT YOUR TYPE (TEASER) |
[07 Jun 2005|10:06pm] |
Allow me to dispense a little information about myself. My full name is Nicholas Isaiah Clarett. Most people find the initials clever. N. I. C. Funny, huh?
I’m a prisoner of the American Midwest. The middle child of a military father and his overseas bride, I’m the unfortunate one. Gabe’s out and about with his fancy position and college is all but determined for Sabrina. I put it off for the first year following high school and it snowballed from there. I work in a department store on the edge of town, smack dab where all the tourists and out-of-towners can shop without getting too lost.
I feel remarkably short for someone who’s six foot one. It could be because I’m the shortest guy in my family (Gabe and Dad are six-four and six-three, respectively). It could just be a brain thing that happens when I go through these pansy emotional hissy-fits. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell.
I’m never gonna be able to grow facial hair, but it’s not like I was really trying to. Apparently it’s one of those genetic things. My dad has told me on many occasions that he wasn’t even able to grow a full moustache until he was thirty-five.
I’m not scared of spiders, but if something small like a spider suddenly scuttled across my body, it would probably frighten the piss out of me.
For me, water and juice over soda.
And it’s ‘soda’. Not ‘pop’.
I prefer my pancakes in stacks of three with a pat of butter and enough maple syrup to put a small child in a diabetic coma. I’m more of a ham and eggs type of guy, but I’ll take bacon if it’s crispy enough. French toast, I can tolerate, but only in small portions.
In order of preference in the morning: orange juice, milk, and then coffee. But only if there’s absolutely nothing else.
None of this really matters, considering I eat breakfast maybe a half dozen times a year.
When I was younger, I thought of plenty of the things I would be when I got to the age I am currently. I would be married (I was eleven when thought this). I would drive all the girls crazy (fourteen). I’d be an excellent kisser (fifteen) and pretty good in bed (sixteen).
Very good in bed (seventeen).
Extremely good in bed (eighteen).
Most of those and plenty other predictions are you to be determined as true or otherwise. I have, however, learned many other things about myself as told to me by plenty of girls. I’m a sweetheart. I’m a great guy. Cool. Wonderful to be around.
“You have a great sense of humor, Nick.” Countless people have told me, “You’re hilarious.”
I’m told I have lovely eyes. A great smile.
I have a cute butt.
According to the those I’ve talked to, I’m quite a catch. There are girls all over that would love to be with you. One day, I would make a woman very happy.
This sounds delightful and all, but that’s only half of it. It gets better.
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