Feed a Fever - (Very) Short Story

I wrote this for a contest on Figment.com, a new website for teens to share their writing. The contest required that the piece be less than 500 words, hence the relative shortness. The top 5 "heart"ed entries are the only ones judged in the end, so if you like the story, please heart it up right here.

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Robert tried to nibble his apple, but he failed once again. He always tried to eat with her, but she usually ruined his appetite completely. Not in the way she ravenously tore through the meat, or the stains she left covering herself and the floor beneath her. He just couldn’t bare the idea. He still maintained the romanticised view that they should always eat together, that it brought them closer together. But watching Rachel always forced him to stop his own meal.

Rachel gnawed away at the remains, barely taking time to chew. She always acted as though her entire purpose was to get the food down her throat as fast as possible. She always ate like she hadn’t eaten in years.

But all he ever saw her do anymore was eat. As soon as she finished, she would ask for more. He always brought it to her - half out of hope that this would be the last time, half out of fear over what would happen if he didn’t. But even with the taste of food on her tongue, even in the face of all the horror she had caused, she was still hungry. Every single time.

Rachel tossed the remaining bones to the side. She stared at them for a moment, a feeling of emptiness and lost fulfillment on her face. Then she turned to Robert.

“I’m hungry, Robert,” she said slowly.

Robert swallowed a mouthful of spit. “But honey, you just ate.”

“I’m so hungry,” she replied as though ignoring him. “So, so hungry.”

Robert took a deep breath. “You know, Rachel, I don’t think you’re actually hungry. Maybe you just think you are.”

Puzzlement spread across Rachel’s face. “...think?” she said. “What?”

“Well, you just ate a nice big meal,” he stated calmly, controlling his breathing. “All you do is eat. Maybe you just...”

He couldn’t continue when he saw the tears swelling in Rachel’s eyes.

“Don’t you trust me, Robert?” she pleaded, her eyes filled with longing. “Don’t you?”

“Of course I do, dear, but-”

“I love you, Robert!” she cried out. “Don’t you love me? You said you loved me!”

“Okay, okay,” shouted Robert, trying to contain her. “I’ll go get some more food.”

Rachel stared at Robert for a moment. Then a smile spread across her face. “I knew you really loved me,” she cooed warmly.

Robert locked the door behind him as he left. The part that scared him the most was that she was right. He did love her, fully and completely, and couldn’t help it. But his love scared him, and it was costing him too much. The police would have to start noticing the disappearances sooner or later. And then they would both be sent away. But worst of all, they would be separated...

Robert tried to push those thoughts aside. He grabbed his knife off the wall. The blood hadn’t even had time to dry.

Rachel needed him. Nothing else mattered.

Soda Fountain Rag - Short Story

Before this week's story, I just want to tell you/remind you that I'll be hosting an Ari Herstand concert at my house. I don't want to put my address all over the weekend, so if you're interested in attending please contact me directly and I'll give you the details. He's a wonderful musician, and I'm really looking forward to the show. Here's a sample of his music.

And, without further ado, here's a short story I wrote for history class. Keep in mind that my primary goal was to put in all the 1920's references he demanded we did, but I feel pretty good about it.

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Barry’s fingers danced across the keys, his smile glowing just as strong as the joyous music that resonated from the piano. Every flapper and their man were dancing their hearts out on the floor that night. It was because of nights like this that Billy played jazz; with his head bobbing, his hands flying this way and that, and the whole crowd doing the Charleston like it was the last night in their life, the world seemed alive with music and soul, a way that no other experience could create.

Barry leaned into his microphone and sang,

How can I love you like I do

Without me coming home with you

Never again will you be blue

I swear, you’ll remember me!

Yeah, you’ll remember me!

With a final flourish on the piano, the song struck its last notes and came to a close. The crowd erupted in applause.

Barry grinned and told them, “Thank you, thanks for coming out tonight. We’re Barry Franks and the Ragtime Cowboys. Hope to see you next time.”

Everyone began to flow out of the club. As the crowd thinned, Barry spotted an old friend of his lingering behind. He climbed off the stage to meet him.

“Hey, Roger, man! Great to see you!”

Roger smiled. “Hey, Barry! It’s been a while.” The two heartily shook hands.

“Glad to see you could finally make it out to one of my shows,” said Barry.

“Oh, well hey, I figured I couldn’t keep avoiding it much longer,” laughed Roger. “And boy, that was really something. The crowd thought you were the bee’s knees, buddy! You’re real lucky to have all these flappers runnin’ after ya now. Boy, some girls! You could get to be quite the cake-eater. Nice these short skits let us see their gams, but I sure wouldn’t mind seeing a whole lot more, if you know what I mean,” he said with a wink.

“Well, I’m just glad you can appreciate good music when you hear it,” replied Barry.

“Oh, the music’s lousy,” said Roger with a grimace. “Can’t stand the hokum myself. But that don’t matter, ‘cause the act is brilliant. You sing, you play, you’ve got a great persona, and the ladies think you’re the cat’s meow… I don’t think you could ask for more.”

Barry sighed. “You know, the music’s what it’s all about. The rest don’t matter to me.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I think you’re playing the wrong kind. You’ve heard of Paul Whiteman, haven’t you? Now that’s some jazz I can enjoy.”

Now it was Barry’s turn to grimace. “Man, you don’t know the first thing about jazz. And neither does Whiteman. I’m telling ya, I’ve still gotta lend you Louie’s new album. ‘West End Blues’ is like nothing you’ve ever heard before.”

Roger looked confused. “Louie? Louie who?”

Barry put his head in his hands. “I need a drink.”

“Yeah, you and the rest of the country. There’s a speakeasy just around the corner. It’s a nice little place, and the giggle water ain’t bad, if you get one of the better bottles.”

As they walked, Roger wouldn’t stop ranting. “I’m telling ya, you could be big. And I mean big. I mean, these days you could even sing in the movies, like you’d never believe. Have you seen that new flick, The Jazz Singer? That could be you!”

“Well, sure, I wouldn’t mind all that,” said Barry, “But I like what I have for now. And no, I haven’t, and I don’t plan to. Al Jolson doesn’t think about what his work means to the rest of the world.”

Roger chuckled. “You goofy sensitive Negros… Well, do as ya please. But if you ask me, the name Barry Franks could be in lights if you just try to get it there. Oh, and I do mean just your name. ‘Ragtime Cowboys’? Horsefeathers. Never even liked the song myself.”

“I’m sorry, why are we friends again?”

“Love ya too, buddy.”

The Mama’s Kitchen speakeasy was crowded, but they managed to find a table alright. Roger pulled a newspaper out of his pocket as they sat.

“You heard about this boxing game between Dempsey and Tunney earlier this week? Wow! What a fight. You know about this?”

Barry snorted. “’course I heard about it. You’d have to be living under some kinda rock to not to have heard about that game.”

“Well, I’ve been reading every scrap of news I can find on the guys,” said Roger as he glanced over the paper. “I know that in these Newspaper Wars everyone seems to be siding with one paper or the next these days, but I just take whatever I can find if I see one a them on the front page. Boxing’s always been my favorite, you know that.”

“Well, you keep reading and save our table while I go to the John.”

“Enjoy yourself,” said Roger with a wink.

As Barry approached the bathroom, he heard voices coming from inside.

“Hey, you think you can just get away with this? What do you take me for?”

“Look, man, it was nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it. She’s all yours.”

Barry stopped himself, realizing it didn’t sound like the best time to enter. He pressed his ear against the door to hear.

“Oh, really? Nothing at all? I would think that sleeping with a lady would mean a whole lot more than that! Or are you some drugstore cowboy, and my wife was just another Sheba for you to forget the next day?”

“C’mon, man, just let it be! Here, I’ll pay you to let it go. I have-”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

Barry jumped as he heard a gunshot echo from inside the room. His mouth hung open in shock, horrified at the events that had passed. Just as he started to get his thoughts back together again, the door swung open and he fell right into the arms of the killer.

As Barry looked up, the killer looked down, and their eyes met, they both realized the same thing: Barry was going to have to run awfully fast.

Barry leaped up as fast as his legs would let him, but the killer still managed to grab his arm, holding him back as he fumbled to find his gun again. Barry swung his other arm around and socked the man right in the kisser. As the killer recoiled, Barry rushed through an unmarked door, hoping to buy himself some time, if not lose him completely.

However, the door didn’t lead to a coat closet or storage room as he’d been hoping, but rather held an entire other room, filled with drinkers and poker players dressed similarly to the killer. They all turned to look at Barry and, seeing his unseemly outfit and complexion, grew confused looks.

The killer rushed in behind him and slammed him to the ground. Seeming to need no other cue, the other men jumped out of their seats and helped to pin Barry down.

“Kid, you messed with the wrong man,” Barry heard a voice grumble as a sharp blow hit the back of his head. The world went dark.

Barry woke up with his head throbbing, taking a minute to understand the dully lit room around him. As his vision came back into focus, he saw a desk and 2 men forming in front of him, one sitting while the other spoke in his ear. The sitting man smiled as the other man finished and departed.

“He was right, you know,” said the man. “You messed with the wrong man. ‘Cause now you’ll have to mess with this one.”

The light illuminated the man’s face as he leaned forward to put his arms on the desk. Barry noticed the three scars on his cheek, and his stomach sunk as his eyes grew wide with recognition.

“Scarface,” he muttered.

“Oh, so you’ve heard of little old Al, have you?” Al Capone asked him with a smile.

Barry shuddered. “You could say that.”

“Then you probably know I wouldn’t feel too comfortable letting you go right now. The man you heard doing his business is an employee of mine, not to mention a friend. If he gets in a pinch, I’m down a man, and that wouldn’t make me too happy.”

“I’d imagine so,” replied Barry, his eyes still wide.

“And you also probably know that I could kill you right now and not have a thought about it tomorrow. If you’ve seen my spiffy mug on the cover of the newspaper, it was for a reason, and I’m not about to have a change of heart.”

“I suppose.”

“Well, then, lets not waste any more time,” he said as he started to reach down for his gun. Suddenly, Al started to examine Barry closely, squinting his eyes as if he was trying to see his nose hairs. Eventually, after a nerve-wracking minute for Barry, he finally said, “Hey, wait a minute. I know you. I’ve seen you before. You’re that jazz singer, aren’t you? Barry Franks? And the Ragtime Cowboys?”

Barry sighed in relief. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s me.”

Al threw back his head and laughed. “Wow… think of that. That’s… that’s just great. You know what? I think were gonna have a bit of fun here.”

Al stood up and walked over to the tables behind Barry, which Barry hadn’t been aware were occupied with a group of other mobsters.

“All right, boys, drink ‘em up! Chug that goof juice down! Don’t wanna waste a drop now! That booze came a long way to get here, all the way down from Canada. Make Bronfman’s work worth it!”

The men all drank their bottles dry as asked. Al grabbed 5 of the bottles out of their hands and took them down to a piano at the end of the room, also new to Barry’s perception. He lined the bottles up across the closed top of the piano. When they were all evenly spaced, he backed away and patted the seat, looking at Barry.

“Have a seat, buddy,” he said with a smirk.

Barry hesitantly walked to the piano and sat on the stool.

“The piano’s here for jazz players that perform sometimes when we’re running this club,” explained Al. “We have Duke Ellington play here every so often. You know him?”

“’Course I do,” replied Barry, nodding. “I’ve heard him play. I’ve met him a few times.”

“He wrote a song a good while ago called ‘Soda Fountain Rag’.”

“His first song,” Barry added.

Al smiled. “I take it you’re familiar?”

“One of my favorites, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, that’s just swell. Think you could play it?”

“Gee, I dunno,” said Barry regretfully. “That’s a damn fast song. Chords jumpin’ this way and that… It’s a tough one.”

Al sighed. “Well, that’s too bad. That’s just a damn shame.” And with that he cocked his pistol and shot the bottle farthest from Barry, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Barry jumped in his seat in shock.

Al leaned forward and grinned. “Why don’t you just give it your best try, okay?”

Barry looked at Al in terror, but quickly got his bearings and nervously started the song. Chord, flourish, chord, flourish… he made it through the intro with no problem. But as the song started to get its swing, Barry made the mistake of keeping one eye on Al, whose menacing glare was tearing him apart. Without his full focus on the piece, he placed his hand in the wrong place and let out a sour chord.

As soon as the sound pierced the air, Al cocked his gun again and shot the next bottle over.

The gunshot scared Barry and he stopped playing completely, staring at the remains of the bottles, the three bottles left and glancing back at Al’s smiling face.

“When did I tell you to stop!” shouted Al, and shot the next bottle.

Barry resumed immediately, with his complete attention on the keys and his fingers. But he knew that if those bottles ran out, it would be his head that got shot. The pressure was starting to destroy him inside.

As the song went on, Barry’s fingers started to sweat more and more with nervousness, making the keys feel slippery and the chords harder to place properly. About a minute into the song, his right hand slid to the soprano part of the piano for a few light triplets, but his hand slipped and slid too far. Barry gasped, but managed to keep playing.

Sure enough, Al cocked his pistol again and shot the next bottle. Only one remained.

“This is insane!” shouted Barry, still playing.

“Charles Lindbergh flew across the ocean in one trip, and you’re trying to tell me you can’t play some little jazz song?” Al shouted back, laughing and rising from his chair. “This isn’t screwy at all! This is just good fun!”

Barry kept playing, his breathing growing heavy, trying his hardest not to think about what could happen if he made any more mistakes. He made it another ways through, completely focused on everything he did, every move he made, following the music in his head.

But near the end of the song, a quick series of quick chords down the scale came along. The chords just came far too fast, and Barry couldn’t help but play one a note too high in the middle of it. Barry screamed inside, but he did his best to maintain a clean composure, hoping that Al wouldn’t notice.

Al wasn’t fooled, and another shot rang out, spraying glass across the keys.

“That was the last bottle, Barry buddy! Gonna make it?”

Barry’s chest heaved in and out. His fingers dripped with sweat and started to drip with blood when the glass made contact. But he couldn’t let any of it distract him, he had to focus, he had to keep his mind on the song…

And he was. He wasn’t making another mistake. Al’s pistol remained seated on his leg, though Al’s hands remained at the ready.

Finally, Barry reached the end. With a sigh of relief, he slid his fingers across the keyboard and played the final A minor.

A minor?

Wait.

The last chord was supposed to be A major.

Al cocked his gun.

Witness: Short Story

I can't even draw up the inspiration to write the short story I'm required to write for History right now... These days just come sometimes. I only write well when my mind feels like cooperating, and when it doesn't and I try anyway, the results are usually subpar at best. So nothing new for today.

Instead, I'm posting a short story I wrote for school last year. Interestingly, I wrote this story almost exactly 1 year ago, so I revisited it to see how my writing progressed over the period. I probably would make a lot of revisions now, but I feel like posting it as-is for preservation's sake Hope you like it. (Warning: strong language inside.)

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The rap beats pounded out the window as we rolled down the street late at night, probably waking every house we passed. To them, we’re just jerks. But they don’t know what it’s like for us. Blasting your favorite music for all the world to hear with no one to tell you to stop puts you in a real position of power.

“Man, this 2Pac really knew his shit,” my friend Jake mentions from the driver’s seat. “Hey Dwayne, you think you can write this good?”

“Aw, hell yeah. This guy’s my main man. He’s my big inspiration. I can do way better that him.” I knew I could be a rapper when I grew up. I had what it takes. Nothing was stopping me.

Jake shrugged. “Okay man, but you know, you gotta be real good to make it as a rapper these days. You know, Kanye, Jay-Z, Lil Wayne…”

“Man, Kanye can’t rap.”

“He can rap a hella lot better that you.”

“Aw, shut up, nigga!”

Jake laughed as we pulled up to a stoplight. The streets were clear except a couple off to the side. The man pushed the woman, yelling in her face.

I tapped Jake on the shoulder. “Hey, look at that.”

Jake glanced to the side. “Aw, don’t go gettin’ involved in someone else’s deal. Let ‘em have at it. And don’t just sit there watchin’, that’s just rude.”

I tried to look away, but the fighting couple attracted my gaze. The yelling got more and more intense, and the rage kept getting matched by the other side. Suddenly, the man slapped the woman in the face, and she fell to the ground.

I hit Jake on the shoulder again. “Dude! You seein’ this?”

Jake brushed me off his shoulder. “I told ya, stop gettin’ up in other people’s business!”

I started to protest when I saw the man pull a gun from his pocket. I started to cry out when he pulled the trigger. Blood splattered across the sidewalk as the woman fell to the ground.

We both saw the accident. We screamed in unison as Jake slammed his foot on the pedal, flying down the street.

“HOLY SHIT!” yelled Jake “DID YOU JUST SEE THAT?!?”

“OF COURSE I FUCKIN’ SAW IT! HE JUST FUCKIN’ KILLED HER! HE SHOT HER IN THE FUCKIN’ FACE!”

Jake tried to collect himself. “All right, calm down! Calm down!”

I couldn’t believe him. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘calm down?’ He just blew her fuckin’ brains out! How the hell would I calm down?”

Jake turned off the music, his breath shaking. “Okay. We can’t do nothing about we just saw. That woman’s dead, and that’s it. We just gotta move on.”

There was a long silence as we sped down the street. The murder replayed itself in my head over and over again. I could tell Jake was seeing the same thing. We both were haunted by the image. I wanted to say something to make it better, to make it go away, but I knew there was nothing I could say. Neither of us had anything to say to the other, and yet we had so much to say to ourselves.

Eventually I couldn’t take the pressure of the silence. “Pull over,” I told Jake. “I’m gettin’ out. I’ve gotta have some time to think.”

Jake did as I asked without a word.

I stood on the side of the road, no idea what to do. Eventually I pulled out a cigarette and began to light it, but I stopped myself. I glared at the cigarette for minutes. That woman had just lost her life in seconds. She never saw it coming, and it was out of her control. If I could control my own fate, why would I do something like smoke when I can stop myself? I threw the cigarette on the ground.

Eventually, I turned around and rest my head on the wall behind me. Suddenly, my life was in complete confusion. I thought of all the deadly things I had done in the past – cigarettes, weed, my gang activity, all of it putting my life into jeopardy. I never thought about how little time I had on this earth before.

Then I thought about my dreams of being a great rap star. My dreams began to warp before my eyes. I only have so much time on this earth, and I want to contribute to the world how? With rap music? It all seems so stupid now.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually a car pulled up. The door opened, and Jake ushered me inside.

“C’mon man, let’s go home,” he told me.

That night, I didn’t sleep a wink.

Poem In Progress

This poem is actually finished. "Poem In Progress" is its title, not its status. It's the story the poem tells that's still in the making.

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Is it right?
Does it work?
Is it good?
Does it suit me?
More important, does it suit you?
Does it suit the masses?
My masses?
The right masses?
The world?
The speck?

The words say it all,
Should say it all,
MUST be right,
MUST be organic,
Organic grown from fresh brain juice,
No unnatural thoughts!
Do the words mingle,
Cooperate,
Assemble,
Coordinate,
Stun.
Awful and awesome is a simple line,
But a deceiving one.

Here they are,
No one else,
Walked to school with a little help.
Those aren’t mine - should be, but aren’t.
Thus, aren’t right.
Good, but already proven.
The story of this realm must transcend what it should,
Talk to those who care.
It may be for me,
But it’s for you.

Can it be right?
Am I plagued?
Are my seeds sullied,
My crops corpses?
Will there ever be enough?
I like to think so.
But emperor of the universe still has enemies.

It never feels right.
It wants to be right so bad,
It wants to be perfect,
It wants to be definitive,
But that which is defined is marked down,
Ruined forever.
And that for which I give a false definition will always be my definition,
Regardless of the scoffs or smiles of others.

Swagger tells a tale, but a dirty one,
Stained with sex, drugs and rocks and bones.
They are my idols, but topple with a touch of truth.
Love is not intimacy,
Despite the preachings of our prophets.
When two sides combine,
Unite,
Explode forth in passion and sensual power!
Ejaculation may mark the end, but signifies the beginning.
Or so it should, if these gods accepted the world they’ve rejected,
Decided was a lie
Before checking if it was the truth.
When their piercings spread and infect their brains further,
Years later, they can see us and finally realize their mistakes.

But will they really?
I’m happy, or so it seems,
But can it all last?
Can the stories of those before me transform into mine?
Can the tarantulas take shape and speak my language,
Translate the English into the language of Love?
What a word.
What a crazy fucking word.
Pardon my French, and no pun defended.

I like that word.
I hope it’s mine.
I hope that word and I get to know each other.
We can have coffee one day.
I don’t drink coffee, but I sure bet it does.
It has a lot of work to do.
We’ll pass by the hours,
Learning who we really are.
And with any luck,
I’ll eventually stop and tell it
That it looks familiar.

I like that word a lot.

The Creator - Short Story

Boy, it's been a while. Sorry, but with Our Town's opening and the need to focus on homework, I haven't had much time to write for this lately. But anywho, my band is playing at North High School's tailgate party tomorrow after school, so if you can be there, we appreciate all the support we can get.

Also, here's a short story I just finished. Formatting might get funky when I copy and paste from Word, but I can't figure out how to do anything about it. Hope you enjoy it.

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Strangland stared into the darkness.

Complete, utter, infinite blackness. That was all there was. That was all there ever was. At least, for a long time. What now surrounded him did intercept the unbroken blackness he knew so well. But the infinite blackness still remained, and though his attention now had other priorities, it lingered nonetheless.

Strangland held his hand in front of him. With light completely absent, he could not even see his own fingers as they wiggled into their now familiar form. He closed his eyes and brought back the amalgamation of ideas that had been brewing in his consciousness.

He could not remember how he entered the blackness. He had no memory of interacting with any other life. If Strangland had been alive before the blackness, it mattered no more, as none of it remained. All he knew now to be real was the empty void. For what seemed like a millennium, and very well could have been, Strangland simply floated through the thick, empty space, no direction to go, and, even if he had one, no means of propelling himself there. His mind remained blank; it had no experiences but those that were in the blackness, so he had no thoughts to develop, no language to use when speaking to himself. He had no sense of time or rhythm, as he knew of no measurement to determine how long he had lived there. Not even his body showed any indication of changing.

Yet somehow, something had seeped through the darkness. After an age passed in the darkness with no direction, the man found the inkling of idiosyncrasy in his mind: a light. It wasn’t strong or large; it wasn’t a beam, but only a tiny dot; and yet its presence was undeniably the most powerful force Strangland had ever encountered. Its presence baffled Strangland; he had no memory of ever seeing anything like it. This tiny glow suddenly became all that mattered to him. Once he had found the light in his mind, it never fully left is consciousness.

As he watched the light in his mind, he realized he could manipulate it to an extent. He could make it grow a bit or shrink, and he could make it lighter or darker. After enough practice, he found he could alter it to no extent. The light could glow bright enough to light several universes, and could grow to fill his entire consciousness - but could never leave his mind. He eventually managed to change the mood of the light as well, even though he didn’t understand how. The light became warmer, cooler, bitter, angry, joyous, terrifying. Strangland didn’t understand what changed in the color, or how to describe it, but this may have been because this was his first encounter with emotion. He still had no words to realize what he was feeling, and nothing to compare it to, so Strangland still didn’t know what to think. (Later, as his understanding of the nature of his inventions became clearer to him, Strangland realized these elements to be color.)

On one occasion, the light had reached its fullest potential in his mind when the darkness around him illuminated as the light exploded from his consciousness, immersing Strangland in a blinding flash. Strangland’s eyes burned in agony, never having been exposed to anything but complete blackness. In mere moments, the light dwindled back into nothingness and Strangland saw the world around him to be as nebulous as ever. The sudden and brief radiance baffled him entirely; how had these mental images manifested themselves into reality? How had the light come to him in the first place? Could some external power interfering from afar? Could there be another being in this existence? Strangland grasped for answers, but as was the case with the rest of his life, he found nothing but emptiness.

Still, he dwelled in his mind, using the light to his enjoyment, his one comfort in a bleak existence.

The light continued to evolve as Strangland experimented with his control over it. Soon he found he could contort it beyond a simple rounded glow to form shapes of increasing complexity. He discovered the forms of basic geometry on his own accord, and in time he even managed to develop three-dimensional shapes.

He found that the flash of light he had seen was not a fluke, as he realized he could manifest the more basic shapes in front of him as well. He could not maintain them for more than an extremely brief period, and his attempts to create anything stronger resulted in failure, but he noticed that he became more powerful with each attempt, closer to keeping the shapes for longer, closer to creating whatever he pleased. His improvement felt slow, and developing his skills would take a considerable amount of time, but Strangland knew that he had no shortage of time. So time and time again, he incessantly exercised his skills.

Indeed, given enough practice, he could create shapes of enormous proportion and hold them in existence for as long as he pleased. To test just how powerful he had become, he decided to develop the first constant in his world, something to interrupt the blackness forever.

Strangland held his hand in front of him and focused all his attention on the space inside it. The tiniest speck of light appeared between his fingers, completely unnoticeable and powerless. But as Strangland stressed his muscles, clenched his jaw and concentrated every speck of his energy on the matter he created, the speck grew and grew and grew into an enormous flaming ball of light, thousands of times larger than Strangland himself. And Strangland found that, in enough time, the manifestation could remain without hardly any effort on his part.

Strangland worked unremittingly from then on. He made shapes of all varieties: objects formed of just a few of his basic shapes, developed with thousands of the ideas he had created before, or even those with no geometric background whatsoever. To practice, and to test his strength and endurance, he developed a practice he would repeat from time to time: he would create an enormous sphere, filled with tiny abnormalities to make its development more strenuous, then cast it so away from himself that the massive ball appeared only as a speck. The size and distance made the maintenance of these forms extremely difficult at first, but in time, he found he could control millions at a time with ease, and even dispersed more balls of light among them.

But these creations were merely distractions in comparison to his primary endeavor. As soon as he realized it could be possible, he began experimenting in his mind relentlessly. The process was slow, and Strangland hit dead ends constantly. No matter how often he found himself clueless as to how to overcome an impassible dilemma, he had confidence that, if he examined and manipulated not just large shapes and figures, but if he designed the tiniest microscopic elements of an object to interact with each other properly, he could create an object that could move and operate without his assistance or observation. With enough work, he might even be able to make one that could think and make decisions as he did. He could create another being.

Now, with all his designs full and complete in his mind, he was ready to bring them into existence. His fingers formed the way they always did for his creations. It was time to create his final project.

After this, he would rest. He might make slight changes to his universe from time to time, but most of his creations would be able to function on their own accord. He had performed the most precise mathematical operations to be sure of it, and had adapted every detail to fit these equations. Besides, he would no longer need to create - he would have the one thing he wanted.

The matter spun and formed a sphere as it had thousands of times before, but Strangland knew this one would be different. As it grew larger, he formed deep crevices and peaks, and filled the lowest geographical points with a material he found to be essential to maintaining the well being of his creations. He called it water in English. He had decided to separate his life forms, allowing for the most fascinating variety of possible means of living. English was only an element of one of these styles.

The planet grew just as large as the rest, an enormous spinning ball of dirt and water. This was the moment. This would be the climax of all that Strangland had created. He took a deep breath, and...

Life sprung forth from the planet. The dirt covered itself in green, forests sprouting up in a matter of seconds, filled with plants and animals of every type, all ready to interact with one another in a means that would provide for a perfect and stable environment. Civilizations that should have taken ages to advance became present instantly. The water exploded with creatures that ranged from whales of colossal size to tiny organisms, hardly visible. Every one of the beings that Strangland brought into existence had been designed with excruciating detail to have its own personality, its own way of living, its own view of the world that developed around it.

Each of these creatures began going about its business as if this day was no different from thousands that had come before it.

Strangland descended upon his world. He had chosen a desert, completely flat for miles. There were far more luscious spots on his new “Earth”, but something about the desert he found to be simple, to be beautiful.

A woman was waiting for him there.

“Hello, Strangland,” she said as his feel touched the sand and rooted themselves upon the ground.

She smiled and extended her hand. “I imagine you’ve been alone for a long time.”

Lucky Night at the Trunk Space

Last night I saw 5 bands perform in the span of a few hours. Cuckoo Chaos, Porches, Father's Day, Treasure Mammal, Andrew Jackson Jihad. I had only heard the names of 2 of them before the show. I had only ever listened to one of them. I didn't own music from any of them.

It was fantastic.

True, the Led Zeppelin II vinyl and cool new people probably helped, but the music was what made the night. And I have a feeling that my lack of familiarity with the music was a large part of why.

This isn't the first time this has happened - I hear a band for the first time as an opening act or at a music festival, enjoy them immensely, then buy their album and completely lose what I loved before. I mean, the album is usually alright, but never as good as the show. This was the case with Against Me!, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Apostle of Hustle, The Bravery, and probably a few more bands that I can't remember right now. It is rare that I'll hear a band for the first time live and enjoy them very much on my iPod. Actually, I think it's only happened once: Reel Big Fish. And the album I got was still a live album.

I think this has to do with something I've been saying about concerts for a while now. There are three components to the quality of a concert: the initial quality of the music, the energy of the band, and the energy of the audience. A great show only forms when all three are combined. 3 Doors Down was a lousy show, not just because it was 3 Doors Down, but because I seemed to be the only one there who wanted to have any fun. The Heavy had good music and an excited crowd, but everyone but the singer looked like they were just on stage because they were getting paid to be. Part of the reason that I practically refuse to see a show in a non-standing room venue is because the third component is largely lost when everyone is just sitting.

Sometimes the quality of the music can even be secondary if the other two parts are strong enough. Father's Day last night was actually some fairly terrible music in my opinion. I would never, ever buy one of their albums. But the show was a complete blast, because everyone there was having a fantastic time. The band interacted with the crowd and had fun, and the mosh pit was one of the best I've ever experienced.

Now, when you only have the CD, you only have one component, and so you inherently focus more on the tiniest flaws in the music. If the crowd is good and the band knows how to perform, the experience as a whole will be strong, even if the music itself isn't that great, not to mention the basic thrill increase of live music compared to studio. The concert atmosphere almost acts as a buffer.

The thing is, no one wants to take a risk and go to a show from someone they've never heard of, even if it could turn out to be better than one they do know. Even with all I've said, I'm guilty of the same. But I think that's because most casual listeners don't pay much attention to the local music scene and they only go to shows of bands they know well. I don't blame people for not wanting to drop $60 on someone that could be lousy. But the Trunk Space show was $5 for 5 bands and an entire night of entertainment. And even though Porches was only mediocre and Treasure Mammal wasn't really my thing, the show was great as a whole. If nothing is good, you only lost $5. That's less than a CD, and, as I've said, could easily be better than one.

So hang out around the Trunk Space sometime. I'll see you there, enjoying someone I've never heard of before.

Have a concert story? Think I'm an idiot? Comment to your heart's content.

Social Mediating: Why We Embarrassingly Use Social Media

Social media websites are fantastic tools. Most people don't think of them this way, but they are. Now, if I want to organize a big party, I don't have to call up 30 different people to give them my personal info, or print dozens of paper printing invitations that they'll probably forget about - I can just invite them all on Facebook. And Facebook will remind them when it is for me. Instead of having to call half a dozen people to find one that knows the page numbers for the math homework, I can just post a status about it and it's safe to assume that someone will respond.

Beyond making life easier in those types of cases, some major things that would be otherwise near impossible are no longer thanks to these sites. Protests have been organized on Twitter. Search parties have shared information on Twitter. I remember my freshman year, when tons of my classmates shared research information for a major project, all on my friend Cleo's Facebook wall. All completely seamless.

But all these require that a person already be using these sites. I could invite people to my party on Facebook, but if my friends didn't already use Facebook for other reasons, no one would see it. We could say it's to meet new friends, but most of our friends on Facebook are people we already know in real life. We could say it's to be able to easily chat from one place online, but Facebook's chat system is downright terrible, and there are dozens of other, more capable ones. So what brings us to these sites?

I think that it's because human beings are naturally awkward as a whole. When we first meet a new person, it can often be difficult to find a smooth conversation with them, as we have nothing to launch us off. Meanwhile, Facebook breaks the ice for us. One friend of mine was the perfect example of this; I've had dozens of conversations regarding Metal Gear Solid, video game music, and other nerdiness over Facebook with him, and before it, we barely even spoke a word. I probably wouldn't have even ever learned he liked all of the things he does without his posts, and vice versa.

Though we don't want to admit it, vanity is a big part of it. If I post something on Facebook, it's because I think people really want to hear about it (and this comes from somebody who's posted pictures of kielbasa sandwiches and Guitar Hero high scores - you're welcome, friends). Sounds dumb and self-serving, but it's true. Looking at my news feed right now, I see people complaining about too little sleep, wanting to buy sunglasses, boasting about what their dog can do, and other similar details of everyday life. No other reason could persuade us but to think that people are truly interested in our nothingness. That's why a link to my Facebook page is to the right of this article right now: because for some reason, I assume people care.

And yet they do, to a degree. Ashton Kutcher's Twitter is mostly valueless. Tons of tweets about football, and one recent tweet as of posting proclaims "I would like to dedicate today to sitting on my ass and doing nothing!" Hooray. And yet he had nearly 6 million followers - so what gives?

Embarrassingly, we all indulge in this nonsense. After becoming hopelessly addicted to the awesome podcast Talkradar, I began following the Twitters of each of the usual hosts. Though it is handy to see them posting about recent articles they wrote for the corresponding site GamesRadar, I already check GamesRadar daily, so it seems like I continue following for the other, completely unimportant stuff. But why?

It's all part of the magic of what made the internet what it is. The whole point is to bring people across the world together, and social media does that with celebrities in a way never done before. When we watch our favorite musician on a talk show, it's not just because we like their music; they aren't playing anything while we hear them talk. It's because we want to know more about this person, who they are, what makes them who they are. Now, instead of just seeing Ashton Kutcher's stupid, shallow characters, we get to see his stupid shallow lifestyle as well. But we love it, because this person means something to us. Basically, social media gives us the illusion of friendship with celebrities.

So yes, social media sites are a fantastic tool, and they make life easier in a lot of ways. But the reason we all spend so much time on them every night might be a bit embarrassing.

Feel free to disagree - as long as you do so in the comments.

Here's How to Waste Your Evening

Sorry, but I'm just not gonna have time for a regular blog post tonight. Homework is not in favor of that happening.

On the other hand, I'd like to show you guys this really cool new thing. We all love Mario, right? We all hate games that are too hard or too easy, right? Mario games are usually pretty solid as far as difficulty goes, being easily accessible to those who know little about games and especially deep or difficult at times for those who are more hardcore. But this takes it to the next level.

Essentially, Infinite Adaptive Mario observes how well you do and adapts the game accordingly. If you die a lot, there are more coins and less enemies that appear. Kick ass, and the opposite happens. Essentially, they've taken the AI from the Left 4 Dead games (which did essentially the same thing) and plopped it in Mario. Also, it's free.

I don't think this should be the new standard to any degree. I'm in favor of games being a more guided experience that the developer designs to be played a certain way. Plus, games like Mega Man and Demon's Souls are hard intentionally - spicy food is good because it's spicy. But some games could benefit from adapting the number of enemies or powerups based on your performance. It really worked for Left 4 Dead.

Here's where you can read into the details and download the game. Have fun not doing what you're supposed to be doing.

http://eis-blog.ucsc.edu/2010/09/infinite-adaptive-mario/

My Personal Batman

Dammit, forgot on Thursday again. Which is weird, because I had almost nothing to do on Thursday. Practically no homework to use as an excuse. I did, however, get to use my extra time to watch Batman: Mask of the Phantasm, a movie based on the Animated Series. I had... mixed feelings.

I feel like it needed to be darker, but it was really as dark as it needed to be. So it was strange. Batman is really important to me, but I just feel like I prefer to see the series in a more realistic light. The fact that it was a cartoon in the first place hurt that, as the animation felt somewhat stilted, but most of the Batman I consume is in comic book form, so that isn't the issue (no pun intended?).

I guess I just feel like it needed to be more... real. I wanted the characters to make expressions that felt like real expressions. I wanted Batman to act like I felt Batman should act; I don't know what that is, but it wan't what I saw in Mask of the Phantasm, because he felt to animated and not real enough. I want the Joker to act like a real insane man and be able to kill people and do things with consequence - as much as I LOVE Mark Hamill's voice for him, the character as a whole just didn't do it for me.

By no means does that mean they have to be like Christopher Nolan's interpretation of the series, which is the only means by which the majority of the population sees Batman nowadays. His movies are about as grounded in reality as Batman could possibly be. But in a way, that damages what makes Batman special. After seeing Scarecrow's fantastic rendition in Batman: Arkham Asylum, Liam Neeson's version completely paled in comparison. Because in Arkham Asylum, even without the fear toxin, Scarecrow is a scary fucking dude, which is exactly what Scarecrow needs to be. By making him just a guy in a sack, he was more realistic, but less of what the character needed to be.

And more importantly, Heath Ledger's Joker. Heath Ledger did one of the greatest performances I've ever seen in any movie. But he did not play the Joker. He played a completely different character than you can see in any other Batman piece - unless you count the graphic novel Joker, which followed the movie, and was probably the greatest piece of disrespect I've ever seen to everything the Joker is. Heath Ledger was immensely entertaining, but he simply didn't pull off the wacky (murderous) clown nature of the Joker that I know and love.

So those are my thoughts on the Batman I don't like. In other news, you should all read The Killing Joke, because it's goddamn legendary. And Year One, which, in a series with at least a dozen different origin stories, is probably the definitive one. And Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth, for some of the best art you will ever see in a comic. And the entire 5-graphic-novel-long No Man's Land series, because it's just fantastic. I can lend all 5 to you if you want them.

Have your own favorite Batman piece? Disagree about Ledger (I wouldn't be surprised) or The Animated Series (yes, Robert, I know)? Read the article at all? Comment away.

Sad Songs for Happy People

I was sharing a lot of my old songs with my girlfriend a little while ago and she eventually asked me, "Where are all the happy songs?" She was surprised that every single one of the songs I had shown her was sad, angry, existential... none of them happy songs, love songs, or anything of the like. The thing is, I was surprised too. I figured I had to have written some happy songs at some point. But I didn't - or at least, I didn't finish any. The one song I pointed to as a happy song was indeed a song about being happy, but it was still disguised as a song about being sad.

I consider myself a happy person. And I'm often an optimist to a fault, much to the dismay of my bitchier friends. So this lack of happy songs really struck me as odd. Then, looking back at the various unfinished projects in my song journals, I saw that there were indeed happy songs. They just never got finished, for the most part. Because they sucked.

And I find that my own songwriting isn't the minority. When I think of my favorite songs, I don't think a single one of them is inherently happy. More often they discuss severe depression or the inherent pains of life. But these songs make me happy. I can't explain why, but the songs about hate are the songs that make me love.

Above: This is a love song. It's also extremely sad. It's also beautiful.

On the other hand, when I think about the bands I listen to that mostly write happy songs (Reliant K, Jacob Tyler Lucas, early Beatles), I find that those are also the bands where I love the music, but find the lyrics extremely corny and stupid. I feel as though they convey none of the emotion that I find powerful in my favorite songs. These are the bands that, as a lyricist, hurt to listen to. The one man I listen to that seems to write consistently great happy songs is Jason Mraz. And even with him, who I consider the master, bridges on corniness sometimes, especially with his earlier work. And my favorite Mraz song is "A Beautiful Mess" - once again, a really sad love song.

I guess I eventually realized that I focus musically, in what I listen to and what I write, on the most emotionally critical moments in my life, and those are rarely happy moments. Because I'm usually happy. Plus, songwriting largely acts as a coping mechanism for me. Instead of punching a pillow or shouting at someone over the phone, I write a song.

Above: The absolute happiest I can stand for a song to be and still be able to love it. Maybe because it's painted with a thin layer of depression and existentialism.

So... that's about it. Please freaking comment, because it took a lot of motivating to get me to write something today, mostly because I don't feel like anyone ever reads this. So if you're reading, comment, whether or not you have something to say.

Cynicism - A Short Story

Totally forgot to update this Thursday. I don't know how many of you feel truly betrayed, but I felt like I missed out on an obligation. So sorry folks.

To compensate, I'm doing a big post now - my first piece of creative content. Here's a short story I've been working on for a while now, and just finished up this week. It's not great, but I felt like writing after finishing reading Fight Club a little while ago.Hope you like it. And please comment. (Note: this story is about a fictional character and in no way represents my real-life opinions.)

*****

The robot hollered at me from beside my face, eager to reach me and fulfill its purpose. Today was a big, important day with an entire new realm of possibilities and opportunities awaiting.

The robot knew this, and it simply had to tell me. It was all it knew.

I tapped the button on the machine's head, my binary equivalent of calmly stating, "Thank you very much for the effort, Mr. Alarm Clock, and I deeply appreciate that you were thinking of me, but you can go fuck yourself."

The robot was lying.

Today was not a big, important day. Nothing of great cosmic significance would happen, as far as I would observe.

Today was, instead, a Thursday.

After thirty-seven minutes of performing actions required for my survival as a human being and actions supposedly required for my survival as a member of modern urban society, I was behind the wheel of my car, another insufferable machine that I would avoid if possible. But the benefits simply didn't outweigh the costs. Though taking public transit would require less mechanical work, it would also require me to occupy the same space as the human beings I knew to be venomous, disgusting, dangerous to my impermeable state of accepted depression. And walking was obviously out of the question. So the car it was.

I sipped my Magic Liquid Support Group and Motivator while I carefully maneuvered among the organized assembly line of industrial Phoenix. I was attentive, for I had been taught since I was 16 to respect the programming we all held crucial to our perceived success. One mistake, and the others would require bothersome reprogramming. One big mistake, and the whole system could be thrown out of order.

This is the way I perceive the world. In units of an insane global Routine that seems devoted to destroying whatever our original purpose on this Earth was supposed to be. At least, I assume this isn't our purpose. or the world's grand plan is awfully illusive.

Sometimes - No, every day, I wonder how we all ended up in the Routine. Who was the choreographer? Why this dull, emotionless piece, over and over again? Did we have a chance to resist? Did we try?

If we did, it didn't work. So now I was trapped in the Routine, going to the same job at the cell phone company day after day. But there was a reason, I've been told. I'm going for the benefit of myself, for the benefit of family, for the benefit of my customers, for the benefit of my pride, for the benefit of my parents' pride, for the benefit of the economy, for the benefit of our society, for the benefit of our world!

And yet none of them will notice. The economy would survive without me just fine. My mother will never call me to say, "Oh, honey, I heard you fixed a glitch in a menu today. I'm so proud of you." The world would never notice if I disappeared.

Depressing, maybe. But I'm already depressed, so I've got nothing left to lose.

You know, I wasn't always this way. I used to believe in a coherent world with meaning and reason. I used to think I was happy.

I lived in a strong, upstanding family. Dad, mom, daughter, son. The nuclear family rigged to explode. My parents taught me how to pretend to enjoy vegetables, to pretend to miss my relatives on the phone, to pretend to smile in the presence of a camera, to pretend to be the people we were supposed to be.

My father spent his entire life living polite society's Routine. He got good grades in school, graduated from a quality college, got married at 23, found a well-paying executive job. Never smoked, never did drugs, never drank except when it was proper. Raised two beautiful children. The world would be pleased.

Then, driving home from work one day, he spotted a hitchhiker on the side of the road, thumb up and expression hopeful. Dad knew the risks, and he knew that hitchhiking in our state was, god forbid, illegal, but he was feeling generous that night, and he had never broken the law before. So, after a quick mirror check for police cars, he pulled over and opened the door.

I wonder which hurt Dad more as the man jumped in, the bitter irony or the instant karma. Or maybe it was the knife that pressed against his neck as the hitchhiker ordered him to get out of the car.

Dad didn't think; his foot instantly slammed on the gas.

I don't know if the hitchhiker had the guts to actually kill my dad, or if it was just an empty threat. But as the car lurched forward, the man's muscles tensed and his arm jerked, so it didn't make a difference.

All this was recounted to us when the car was tracked and the man was captured two weeks later.

When I heard the story, I cried. But not because I was sad or angry at the death of my father. It was because I was seeing the world I'd been painted my entire life collapsing into itself. Everything I'd ever been told about how things worked, how I should be, what I should do, what the key to happiness was, was all finally seen to be a lie. My dad thought he knew all those things, but it didn't mean a thing in the end. It was all just a sadistic game played by madmen and politicians who didn't know the rules. The realization was terrifying. But... refreshing. The truth hurts sometimes, but it's still the truth. My tears of fear and grief were mixed with those of joy.

Now I live in the real world. Once the silk roads and fake smiles have been shed, all that remains is a shriveled, cowering embarrassment that we try to hide away. Most of us don't even know what we're hiding. But if we saw it, it would defeat the purpose.

I've seen it. And now I see it everywhere.