The Marionette Man: Chapter 1

Authors Note: This is a story that got away from me, much like one of my previous stories, Stripes, this one exceeds the amount of words we had to write by hundreds. I got super excited about this, and this is actually only going to be Chapter One of a longer tale to come. It seems pretty light right now, but just like in everything I write, it will eventually become dark (or at least a little creepy). Strap yourself in because this one is going to have some plot twists.

The prompt for this story was “First and Last Famous Lines.” My first line is from Catcher in the Rye, and is underlined at the beginning of the chapter. My second line is underlined at the end of the chapter and it is from the 19^th century novel called Vanity Fair. A previous blog post of mine explains each line and the book they come from in more depth. As always I hope you enjoy my little tale and happy reading!

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is were I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like getting into it, if you want to know the truth. No matter what I tell you, you are going to try and trace every recent event in my life right back to my childhood. So I'll save you the effort and tell you that yes, my bunk of a father and my hoochie mom are probably part of the reason why I am they way I am today, but don't go blaming all of this on them. Since they weren't around all that much anyway I doubt they can have a lot to do with all of this. No, most of it was probably me just being me. After all. I'm  the one who did it, aren't I?

A better place to start is when I turned 21, and was hired at Bongo's Pizza Buffet. Bongo's is one of those sticky kids places, y'know, with ball pits and arcade games, kinda like Chuck E. Cheese. Well I had just quit my buzz-kill job at Domino's a couple months prior, which had seemed like a good move at the time, but after about a month of being jobless, I realized that strumming by beat up guitar on the street corner of Fremont and Sunset wasn't gonna pay the bills. I turned in a few applications here and there, mainly record stores and a few shoe shops, never getting past the first interview. I eventually tried other food joints as a last resort. Bongo's was more of a joke than anything; a dare from my roommate Vince. Ended up being the right place since it was within walking distance, well, maybe not so much the right place now, but it sure seemed like it at the time. Dave sure seemed to agree; hired me after one measly interview, probably because the place was low on bodies and about to run outta business. What else can you expect from a crappy knock off of Chuck E, Cheese?

My prior experience with pizza landed me a job in the kitchen, which was good because I didn't want to be around all those snot-nosed brats, but as I said before we were short handed, so after I had been at Bongo's for about two or three weeks I had to take a floor shift here and there. Floor shifts were also known as "Watch". A watchman sorta just stands around and makes sure the kids don't sneeze into the buffet, or try to get on stage with the animatronics, or try to pull the puppets off of their strings, or wipe their boogers on the arcade games, or piss in the ball pit... yeah, you get the idea. It's pretty much just a glorified babysitter position. If you could even call it that.

The most annoying part about floor shift was probably the uniform. Back in the kitchen, we wore simple white t-shirts and hairnets. On floor we wore black pants and those awful violet shirts with off-grey sleeves. We had to tuck those puppies in too. Still, that wasn’t the worst of it. We had to wear these ball caps that matched the off-grey of our sleeves. The ball caps resembled Bongo’s likeness, with flappy elephant ears on both sides of it and an obnoxious trunk that hung off the bill of it. Boy, did Vince and the other guys give me hell about that one.

Aside from the elephant hats and the sticky surroundings, after two months or so at Bongo’s I realized that working there wasn’t all that bad. I got used to the kids – at least as much as someone who dislikes children can anyway – I even began to learn some of the regulars’ names. Believe it or not, my job had benefits to it (besides my $6.50 an hour hook up, which was tight). Working at a kids place, you meet a lot of chicks; chicks bringing younger siblings, co-worker chicks, hell, even a few of those teen mom chicks were pretty hot too. I managed to snag some digits here and there, went on a few dates. You’d be surprised how many girls like a guy with a mullet and chin scruff once he tells them that he works with children. I got in a few relationships; dated a cute blonde with a chubby nephew who frequented the joint. She was 19 and fine, but she wanted to get serious after a few months so I bailed. Dated a brunette not too long afterword. She was 20 years old and boy, did she like to party. She threw slammin ones at her dad’s house. She invited me over after I met her while working floor; she was dropping off her little sisters at the place. I knew her sisters well, they came in almost every weekend and spent over a hundred dead presidents on arcade tokens. Their father sure was swimming in it. That one was short lived as well. Turns out girls that like to party don’t stop liking it. It didn’t tear me up too bad when I found out that she had cheated, not like I liked her all that much anyway.

I had been at Bongo’s for almost eleven months when our puppet guy quit. Dave pulled me into his office and asked me if I would like the position, but I told him I would stick to kitchen and watch, that I wasn’t much of a puppeteer. Dave sighed and scratched his head, mumbling about how we really couldn’t afford to hire another person right now. He let me off the hook though, saying he’d ask around and see what he could find. Turns out a girl from the night crew took the position. Her name was Cali, I didn’t really know here much since she worked on the night cleaning shift and only worked hours after I had left, but Dave told me she was hired around the same time as I was. On her first day as puppeteer I was watchman. Dave told me to keep an eye on her; maybe strike up a conversation or two, so she feels welcomed by the day-shift crew. When I saw her walk in that Saturday morning, I knew that I would be doing a lot more than keeping an eye on her. Cali was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. She was small, probably stood at 5’1 or so. Her dark hair, made a long ponytail which swung with pep back and forth with every step she took. She had stunningly green eyes and a smile like I had never seen.

She greeted me, before I even had the chance to make a move on her.  

“Hi!” She smiled. “I’m Cal. You must be Vlad, the watchman?”

I grabbed the bill of my hat and took the flappy thing off of my head, bending at the waist.

“The one and only,” I smirked, rising from my bow and placing the cap back on my head. Her red lips curled at the tips. “Cal huh? Short for Cali; I like it.”

Cal tucked a stray strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail back behind her ear, “Actually, it’s really short for California.”

I raised an eyebrow chuckling, “California?”

“My father was a stupid hippy obsessed with the sunshine state,” before I could comment she went on, “It’s not a big deal but I’d just rather go by Cal than California, but for the love of all things on strings, please don’t refer to me as Cali ever again.”

I couldn’t help but let myself smile a little at her seemingly quirky personality, I found it endearing in a way, as if I hadn’t just met her a minute before.   

“My bad,” I smiled, shoving my hands into my pockets nonchalantly. She smiled back. I started to say something else, but before I could two boys ran in-between us towards the arcade games. The tall one pushed the chubbier one into Cal, making her stumble back a bit. The chubby kid looked up at Cal, his face beat-red and sweaty. His friend was already halfway to the ski ball machine.

“I’m sorry lady!” The chubster said, before trying to take off again. I stepped in front of him, cutting him off.

“Not so fast kid, go tell your buddy to come over here and talk to me.” The kid ran over to his friend. I looked over at Cal, who looked intrigued enough to see what I was going to do. I gave her a wink before turning to the little brat who had scampered up to me.

“What do you want?” he asked impatiently. I bent at the waist, my hands resting on my bent knees, to get on the little rugrat’s level. Up close I could smell anchovies on his breath and see all the sauce stains on his Raiders jersey.

“Listen here kid, see that guy over there behind the prize counter?” I pointed over to the pimply new kid Jeremy, who was struggling with the ticket counter. “He’s a friend of mine y’see.” A prompt lie. “If I ever see you running around in this joint or pushing someone else again, I’ll tell my friend over there that your tickets are no good. Got it?” The kid nodded, still fidgety, but now in a different way. “Good. Now tell this lovely lady that you are sorry for pushing your friend into her.” I looked up at Cal, who seemed to blink at the word "lovely".

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the little bundle of nerves spouted quietly before looking back at me.

“Alright, you can go play ski ball with your friend now, but walk, you hear me? And play nice.”

The kid nodded, walking back to his friend with his eyes on the ground. I straightened, crossing my arms over my chest before turning back to Cal.

“Wow, you sure showed him,” she quipped, smile playing on her lips. I stiffened. Realizing that telling off a little kid is probably not the smoothest move in the book.

“Ah, well y’know,” I shifted my hat, scratching the back of my head, feeling awkward. “Kids gotta be put in their place sometimes, especially around here.” I looked around the arcade area, lamely trying to avoid eye contact with Cal. I blew it, I thought to myself. There isn’t anything impressive about a guy who takes joy in telling off kids, and it’s too late to play the whole “I love children” routine now. Dammit. I was wallowing in my mistake when that angelic voice brought my thoughts to a screeching halt.  

“Damn skippy. I hate kids.” 

It felt like my jaw had hit the floor. Nothing sexy about a guy with his mouth all agape; I quickly tightened it back up, closing my lips into a smirk, “Honesty I’m not a huge fan of them either.”

“I couldn’t tell,” she laughed. I chuckled with her, there was a strange warm knot forming in the pit of my stomach. “Tell me then, Vlad,” she continued. “Why work at a place crawling with kids if you hate them?”

I scoffed, shoving my hands in my pockets again, “I could ask you the same thing, California.”

She twitched a bit at the name, but her playful smile only widened, “Well cleaning up at night didn’t involve children, just the aftermath of them. I could deal with that. The only reason I accepted this new position,” Cal turned toward the puppet booth, eyeing the lifeless marionettes that hung out of the reach of children. “…is the puppets themselves. Puppets have fascinated me since I was a child, marionettes especially.” She came to face me again, her long hair whisking by my face. Suddenly she was blushing, “That probably sounds really strange, I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t help but smile at how cute she looked with burning cheeks, “Nah, it’s cool. It didn’t sound strange at all. Everyone is passionate about one thing or another.”

Cal flashed me a happy grin, “That’s right!” Her smile softened. “And, what is your passion?”

I smirked, leaning in closer to her, like I was about to tell her some sort of secret, “My passion is playing guitar, but even more than that, it’s talking to beaut-” I was interrupted by a big fuzzy hand that landed on my shoulder, making me jump a bit. I could be wrong but I would have sworn I spotted Cal stifling a laugh at my scare.

“Well, well, well! Look who’s distracting the new crew, the one and only Vladimir Fishback!”

“Hey Derrell,” I sighed, I didn’t have to raise up Bongo’s big furry head to know who was wearing the suit. Derrell was our main mascot man, and probably the most annoying co-worker I have ever had to co-exist with.

“Hey little man! What’s shaking?” he patted my back, hard. I heaved a little, rolling my eyes. Since Derrell was about 6’4, he called anyone shorter than him a little man.

“Not much Big D.” I exhaled halfheartedly. I glanced over at Cal, only to find her turned away, trying not to laugh. “What?” I asked her.

“Your…” she stopped herself with a snort. “Your last name is Fishback?”

I could practically feel the color rising to my face. I furrowed my brow, “Unfortunately.”

Cal giggled looking out at the children, probably to keep from embarrassing me further. 

I turned to Derrell, his trunk almost whacking me in the face, “Shouldn’t you be giving sticky rugrats hugs or did you have something to tell me?”

“Oh yeah, right,” Derrell turned toward Cal, almost giving me a smack with his trunk again. “You’re the new puppet lady right?” Cal turned to him smiling, as if she was still holding back a laugh. /she nodded. “Cool, cool," Derrell went on. Shows got to start soon see, I’ll give you a few minutes to set up before I round up the kiddos for ya, kapeesh?” Cal seemed a little startled to be thrown into her puppeteering without a warning. She rubbed her hands on her black pants, as if her palms were sweaty.

“Alright,” she nodded. She then looked to me, “I’ll see you later then?”

I raised my eyebrows, then lowering them, I tried to be cool. “Oh, um yeah sure thing.” I gave her a lax half wave before stuffing my hands back in my pockets and leaning nonchalantly against the wall behind me. I then looked toward Derrell and watched her turn and make her way to the puppet booth from the corner of my eye. Maybe hard to get was the right way to go with this girl, or at least, slightly hard to get?

Derrell gave me another one of his signature, hard pats on the back, “Hey little man, I gotta dip.” Before he left, he leaned closer to me, shoving his big fuzzy ear against my face. “By the way, you gotta 39 over in the ball bit, might wanna go take a looksee before Bossman gets wind.” With another pat, Derrell was off towards the middle of the dining room, to make a big announcement to the kids in his annoying elephant voice. I went over towards the ball pit then, trying to catch the 39 Derrell mentioned.

At Bongo’s we had a code for certain issues that could happen with the kids. Everything from 30-45 evolved food. A 39 was when someone takes food out of the dining or buffet area and into another area. I skimmed the pit, looking for the little brat who was the culprit. My eyes landed on a few slices of pizza that had been tossed into the pit, and when I found the little devils who were guilty I cursed under my breath. In the middle of the colorful sea of plastic orbs sat the chubby kid and his pushy friend from earlier.

I dealt with the 39 accordingly, getting someone to help me rope off the ball pit and deal with the mess and whatnot. When the boy’s parents came to pick them up I had to tell them what happened, and why I took their tickets away and all that. The rest of my shift consisted of pulling brats off of the stage, cleaning tables here and there, and the usual child who falls trying to climb onto their table that I have to pretend to console until I drop them off at the prize counter and put them in Jeremy’s care. Every now and then I would glance over at Cal’s puppet shows. For someone who really didn’t like kids, she was a really fantastic puppeteer, at least from what I could tell. I guess she wasn’t kidding about it being a passion of hers.

My shift ended at 2:30 and boy, with the day I had had, I was more than ready to get out of the joint. I walked by the puppet booth on my way out, Cal was doing another show, this time with hand puppets. I watched as one by one the puppets jumped out of the booth, as if they were falling. She had a distinctly different voice for each puppet as they screamed and landed in the children’s laps. The kids were in stitches: I found myself chuckling as well. I couldn’t imagine those voices coming out of little Cal. That knot feeling in my stomach tightened up again as I watched the final puppet poke his head out at the audience. He had a bow-tie and a little top hat.  

“Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.”  The puppet then flung himself over the side too. Immediately the children, started to place the puppets neatly into the little pull-out drawer that presented itself at the bottom of the booth. I felt my jaw drop a little again while watching them. As soon as all the puppets were in, the children in the front row shut the drawer. Cal popped up from behind the curtain, and the children clapped and a few even whistled for her. I stood there in awe, clapping slowly. She waved at them, bidding them a goodbye. They waved back, and soon they were all on their feet, scattering about the place; some to their parents, others to the prize booth, and about a whole line of them scurried to the bathroom. Soon I stood alone, still clapping. Cal looked up at me, her face turning beat red, but she smiled playfully nonetheless.

“Hey there, Fishback.”

I smiled back, that warm loop jerking in my stomach like never before. In that moment I realized, I was staring at the girl that was going to be the beginning of the end of me.

And boy, was I right.

            

  

Famous First and Last Lines.

Beginning Line:

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where i was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

This is the first line to the novel Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. Salinger was born on January 1, 1919, and died on January 27, 2010. Salinger traveled Europe and was a teacher before he became a writer. He also served in the military during WWII. He is one of the most influential writers of his generation.

Catcher in the Rye was published July 16, 1951. The story is about a rebellious teenager named Holden Caulfield who gets kicked out of a prep school. He’s the kinda kid who punches other guys in the face and tires to get lucky multiple times without a chance. He meets this girl named phoebe who seems to be perfect. Holden is a young guy dealing with depression.

This novel is one that I have always wanted to read. I haven’t gotten around to it yet, but now that I know more about it, I am definitely moving it up on my list. When picked out this line, I thought it was from this book, but I was not for sure. I am eager to use this line for the beginning of my story and I hope I can get my hands on a copy of Catcher in the Rye very soon. I think characters like Holden Caulfield are interesting.

Ending Line:

“Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.”

This is the final line in the novel Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray. Thackeray was an english writer from the 1800’s. Vanity Fair was one of his most famous works. His father died when he was a baby and he was separated from his mother at a very young age. He was born in india on July 18th 1811. He moved to England when he was five years old. His sudden death was caused by an bursting blood-vessel in his brain on December 24th 1863. He was 52 years old.

Vanity Fair takes place in the first half of the 19th century. The basis behind the book is that money does not always make a fulfilling and happy life. Most of the characters in the book have vain goals to help improve their social status. Becka Sharp is probably the most guilty of this. She goes from being an orphan to climbing up a social ladder to a lady of status. Once she claims this status it isn’t enough for her and Becka becomes so greedy that she becomes a social outcast once again.

Vanity Fair sounds like an interesting story, though I am not sure that it truly interests me. I used to read a lot of Shakespeare and after a while I honestly got tired of it. I’m not trying to relate Thackeray’s works to Shakespeare, I guess I am trying to say that I am tired of reading things about England and people who belong to a higher class. Though Becka Sharp gets it served to her in the end, I am not sure I would want to read through the whole novel just for that one gratifying moment.





It will be interesting putting these two lines together into one story, considering their differences. I am excited to take the challenge though. I hope i can do these lines justice.



   

A Smirk for a Demise

Authors Note:  This is my Newspaper Black-out Inspired Story. I really really don't like news papers so I based this off of two of the Black-out pieces I made form the novel pages. The pieces are in bold after the story itself. I hope you enjoy my dark little tale!   

I was running as fast as I could; weaving in and out of trees. My bare feet were slapping against little sharp stones and pebbles, making each stride sting. My chest tightened further with every breath, as if it was going to collapse in on itself. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping my warn body from shutting down. 

I couldn't get the haunting image of her face out of my head. Her cryptic smile.... Those dreaded teeth....

I couldn't stop running. I had to keep going until I was as far away from where she lay as possible. I had to keep running until the presence of her is ridden away from my mind, never to set foot inside this cluttered head again. I had too keep running until my feet become as torn apart and ripped up as her flesh had been.

I spotted unknown shadows scamper around me in the damp forest. I heard a few hungry wolves howl to the heavens. I even felt as if the heavens themselves were watching me as I scurried through the darkness; as if the bearers of halos and harps had any sympathy for me. 

How could they, after what I had done?

I would have sworn on the grave of my dear, sweet mother, that my beloved had been lying with another man. It was only a hunch that began to grow after coming home multiple nights after work to a weird air about the small cabin that we shared. I found myself regretting acting upon my haste as soon as I walked into the cabin at nightfall, and caught a glimpse of her face. Instantly, I was gripped by the hands of Regret; as if a dreary illness had fallen over me. 

I had told the man I wanted her dead, not massacred.

When I forked the crisp bills over to him yesterday morning, I'd imagined my wife would be lying still with a small and simple hole in her chest; an eye for a metaphorical one. It was a sight that I played once over and again in my mind's eye, to prepare for the sight I would "stumble upon" while entering my home.

No number of imagery repetition could prepare me for what I had seen though.

The wonders of working adrenaline can only hold a man up for so long. The moon was overcome by a haze of clouds, dimming my midnight path. I stumbled over a tree root, limbs clattering to the ground; then came a cough. My body ached. With a defeated breath I cursed the heavens for the scampering shadows, for the howling wolves, for thick clouds, for hazy nights, and for damned tree roots. Most of all, I cursed a mysterious trench coated mercenary and a woman with a cheating heart.

A crisp growl seeped from the near darkness.

I tried to gain a bit of leverage from the stony soil, but my body felt lifeless and my bones frail. So I lied there in a collapsed state, alongside my likewise soul. I could hear Death creeping up on me, twigs breaking beneath his paws.

I looked through the trees and up at the heavens. I knew the angels where staring down at me, but I could not see them.

All that was before me was the gruesome image of my wife, sprawled across the floor, skin ripped to shreds, bones broken to pieces....and the same swollen little smile playing on her lips.

It is a disturbing sight to see a dead woman smile.

It is even more terrifying when you realize why she was.




A/N: The Black-out Pieces go as followed: 

"I need evil
 I need an agonizing death
 a suitably agonizing death."


"dead
 face drawn
 lips 
 curling."

The Future Seems Brighter

y

Yesterday we went on a fieldtrip to 417 Magazine. They had a lot of different presentations ready for us, ranging from all the different parts and pieces of the process of putting the magazine together every month. A found a few things interesting; one of them being how early they plan each monthly issue. I think it would be really difficult to plan something that is supposed to be “in the now” three months ahead. I also found it interesting how they thought we were supposed to be there until four. I find miscommunication intriguing, how do they even happen? Lastly, when my friend Victoria mention copyright conflicts, it seemed as if that thought never dawned on them. They’ve been a business for how long, and they’ve never had copyright issues? Strange.

I would have liked to ask more about what the art department does. That was the only part of the process that sparked my interest.

Anyhow, if I had to be employed by a magazine, I would probably choose Dramatics or something like that. Dramatics is a magazine for thespians and theatre enthusiasts. Honestly I don’t really read magazines, and I really really hate newspapers; so I can’t passionately answer that question.

In a year I would like to be in college and, honestly, far away from here (as in Springfield freak’n Missouri). I am going to college here though so...the later part is destined for doom. In five years I would like to be out of college and doing well with….whatever I am doing. Hopefully I have a steady relationship by that point, but i don’t imagine that I will be married yet. Hopeful kids aren't involved yet. A little house by the beach would be nice, or maybe somewhere exciting like New York.

I don’t really know much about what I want to do with my life but, I don't know that it will be creative and it won’t involve Journalism.

Six Word Memoirs

A Six Word Memoir About Myself:

"It's Hard to be Creatively Honest."

A Six Word Memoir About My Grandma:

"One more cigarette is more important."

A Six Word Memoir About My Mom:

"The sweetest person you'll ever meet."

A Six Word Memoir About Life:

"Don't Forget to Take Another Breath."

Favorite Quotations

"To infinity and beyond!" - Buzz Lightyear

"You know - it's amazing what you can get done when you don't concern yourself with right and wrong. When you just...do things for a laugh." - The Joker

"Life opens up opportunities to you, and you either take them, or you stay afraid of  taking them."

- Jim Carrey

"What annoys the hell out of me is the arrogance of some people. They don't even listen to our music, they decide in advance that they don't like it." -Billie Joe Armstrong

 

"I know Superman could squash me like a bug. But I know he won't, because deep down, Clark is a good person. And deep down, I'm not." -Batman

"What I do is temporary, but what I leave behind is forever." 

-Markiplier

"Imagine if men were as disgusted with rape as they are with periods."

-Anonymous 

A Memorable Passage

This passage is at the very end of Janet Lee Carey’s Dragons Keep. Spoiler alert. MAJOR SPOILER ALERT.

                “A peace gift from the dragons,” called Father Hugh.

                “Ah, see how it clings to her hand!” called Marn’s son, Gerbert. “As if she were born so!”

                I dropped my other glove and held my hands high, feeling the wind rush through my fingers.

                Ah, the freedom of this nakedness. That which I’d hidden so long from all, transformed by a kiss and held in reverence. Merlin had said the twenty-first queen would “end war with the wave of her hand.” But I’d not known till now the mage spoke of the war between humans and dragons.

                The talon had, all in a moment, become a sign of peace between us.

There is a few more paragraphs after that, but I would like to skip ahead to the last three lines of the book:

                 I raised my kissed claw higher.

    My curse – a blessing.

    From that night and on.

This whole story revolves around Princess Rosalind and her curse, which is seemingly getting in the way of Merlin’s prophecy about her. The whole book she struggles with this “mark”, which is a dragon scaly claw for a third finger. She wears golden gloves to cover her claw. She is insecure because of it, and even tries to cut it off at one point.  The whole book is a very intricate journey of this struggle and what it brings to her over a course of three years.

This passage matters to me because of how emotionally moving it is. Rosalind’s mark is finally accepted. She fulfills her destiny. Finally, for once in her life full of hardships – a life full of disappointment, death of loved ones, despair and utter betrayal – finally, everything is okay. She is on the throne where she belongs, as Queen of Wilde Island. Not only is she queen but the love of her life is sitting at her side as king, and she has brought peace among humans and dragons. It’s ironic, the way she fulfilled Merlin’s prophecy and brought peace among the land.

Rosalind is a character I felt I could relate to at a very young age. I remember feeling like I was trekking through her heart-wrenching journey with her, every step of the way. I guess this passage is so important to me because it made me feel relief. After everything Rosalind had been through, it was just so relieving to read those last three lines. I understand what it’s like to feel the need to be accepted by the people around you, and in this passage that is what Rosalind receives.

Honestly it’s just an amazing ending to an amazing book. 

Writers as Readers

A lot of genres interest me when it comes to reading. One of my favorite books is a fantasy novel about a princess and some dragons. I am also a big fan of the Twilight saga. I guess fantasy would be one of my favorite genres then. I also like horror and mystery. Poetry is fun to read too, but it is something I have to be in the mood for. When I was young I used to read A LOT of non-fiction books from the library. I liked to learn about dinosaurs and space.  I’ve read a lot of comic books throughout my life. I’m not sure what that genre would be. Action I guess?

My first reading teacher was my mother.  When I was young she was a stay-at-home mom; something I am very grateful for. She taught me my ABC’s (with the assist of Elmo and more of his friends from Sesame Street). She taught me how to read, and she read to me up until I was about 11 or 12. She had me reading before I even stepped foot into preschool. Because of this, my scores on reading tests have always been very high. Honestly if it wasn’t for her, I may not to love write as much as I do. I feel like writing and reading go hand-in-hand.  

One of my best memories related to reading is probably the time I met Janet Lee Carey. She wrote my favorite book Dragon’s Keep. I met her at some-sort of Authors Day at MSU when I was in 4^th grade. She did a presentation about the books she had written. My class sat in the first row. Most of her books are fantasy based. They all sounded pretty interesting, but the most interesting was Dragon’s Keep. After we listened to her, we heard a few more authors speak. Honestly, I can't remember who the rest of them were. At the end of the day we went into this big room that had stands that had the authors’ names on the front of a table with a display of their books. Most of the stands were empty, but Janet Lee Carey was sitting at hers. I was shy at 11. I sauntered over and fidgeted as she greeted me. I picked up a paperback version of Dragon’s Keep, only to find that I had just enough money to buy it. Janet offered to sign it for me and asked me what my name was. I remember having to spell it out for her, and smiling shyly and thanking her before getting in the long line to pay. It’s weird looking back on that day. I had no idea I was buying a book that I would read six times over, and probably more to come. I had no idea that I was speaking to my favorite author.

Dragon’s Keep is the first book that made me excited to turn the page, and the next, and the next after that. The last time I read it was my sophomore year, and I found myself having that experience with it again; it had been a while sense I had read it. Funnily enough, All My Friends are Dead was a page-turner as well.

I know for a fact that I will write a book someday. Whether it be a short novel, or a children’s book with my own illustrations, or even a graphic novel, I will write a book.  Hopefully more than one. I have a lot of ideas, a whole sketch journal full. It is just hard to find the time to put them into action sometimes. I’m not sure what the “About Author” column will say, but I know that the first book I write will be dedicated to my mom. Like I said before, she is the reason I got a head start in reading, and probably the main reason I have always found so much enjoyment in writing. 

Dream Threads

I convince myself that if I dream long and hard enough it will come true.

Maybe because I believe if I dream long and hard enough I will never wake up.

Dreams are enticing in the most delightful way. They twirl and twist reality until it is a mangled up, yet beautiful mess.  They contain intricate loose-ends that can seamlessly sew themselves back together in the brink of an instant.  Who wouldn’t be addicted to such an appealing state of existence, where there is no right or wrong, and where up is down and down is up and so forth? And even so, who could blame one for being hooked on such a thing?  

Life is difficult, and there is absolutely no question there. To live is to be weighed down with mind boggling tongue twisters of an elders wisdom; things that can never be understood. To breathe is to wish upon a star, only to be crushed in the straining process and to find yourself pondering aimlessly why you ever started to breathe in the first place.

When I check my pulse, I can feel my heart alive underneath my fingertips.

I just want to ask it, “Why?”

Why does it keep pulsing, never missing a beat?

A dream is refreshing. There are no mind boggling tongue twisters. There is no disappointment, heavy enough to crush the breath out of ones lungs.

In a dream, there just is. While in life, there just was.  

As I lay down at night, I feel every burden from the day gently lift from my shoulders, as I drift off into my Wonderland. While there are no smiling cats or mad hatters, there is a rabbit hole, and as I fall, I think nothing will catch me. 

If I Were in Charge of The World

If I were in charge of the world

I’d cancel politics,

bedtime,

the Kardashians, and also

raisins.

If I were in charge of the world

there’d be enchanted forests,

real-life cartoon characters, and

a lack of dehydrated grapes.

If I were in charge of the world

you wouldn’t have stress.

You wouldn’t have burnt orange.

You wouldn’t have scabs.

Or “Eat your raisins!”

You wouldn’t even have raisins.

If I were in charge of the world

a chewy chocolate chip granola bar

without raisins would be a vegetable.

All raisins would burn.

And a person who sometimes “forgot” to eat raisins,

and sometimes “forgot” not to hate on them,

would still be allowed to be

in charge of the world.

Caged Bird Inspired

Why does the caged bird sing?

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Two questions lay before me on a dreary fork in the road.

One path a whimsical riddle.

The other something more.

In my foggy haze I stand and contemplate.

For a moment I am unsure.

Then…it dawns on me.

What if the caged bird….

…is the raven? 

Writer's Dreams

When it comes to writing, I am not very comfortable using other languages. I have only taken a couple of Spanish classes and I passed those by the skin of my teeth. When I write I try to stay away from foreign concepts. I feel that in order to write about something, you need to have moderate knowledge of it. Before I would even consider including a foreign language in one of my stories or poems, I would study the language first.

Speaking of language, talking is something that I do way too much of. I know that I would learn a lot if I would just shut my trap and listen to people. In fact, I decided that I would start a mute study soon. I am going to come to school and not talk unless it is utterly necessary. I think that will really help me open my mind to more things.

My memories stay fuzzy but I do have total recall of a lot of my dreams. I kept a dream journal for about a year. Honestly I wish I had kept that habit. I lucid dream as well, but not as much as I used to; it takes a lot of practice. When it comes to memories though, I think my clearest memories are the funny and tragic ones. My Dad is a really funny person, so I have a lot of funny memories from every part of my life. I have a few tragic ones as well, and those are pretty clear. I think those stay with me because laughter and tears are both caused by very strong emotions and I am a very emotional person.

Having a history in lucid dreaming in all of that I have had my fair share of nightmares. Personally I do not think that talking about bad dreams gives them “too much power”. I think talking out a nightmare can be good for you. By drawing attention to it in real life, you are reminding yourself that it wasn’t real. Every time I had a nightmare as a kid I would tell my mom about it, and I honestly felt like that helped me cope with it. I will say that I haven’t had a nightmare in a long time. Maybe because I have seven dream catchers over my bed?

I would say that writing is hard work. Sometimes the words don’t stop flowing and it seems easy. Writing is something I’ve done my whole life along with drawing. I have struggled with “Writer’s Block” off and on throughout my life. I am able to write short stories but not novels. Someone once told me that writer’s block isn’t real; that it’s all in your head. I told them, “If it’s in my head then it’s real enough to me.”

Color Story

            White is a very annoying color, and it always has been. Even before I arrived here, I hated it. Take snow for example. It is just too damn bright; blindingly so. Winter in general just screams static noise. Staring at blank walls and florescent lights all day and every day kills me from the inside out. So does the disgusting glow of these scrubs they make me wear. All so bright…it’s sickening.

            My psychiatrist reminds me of an old greyhound. His hair (or what is left of it) shines with a dull gleam under the fluorescents. He is withered, with a monotone voice, and he has wrinkles on his cheeks that sag to the concrete floor. His daily dress is monochrome – from his collared shirt to his worn down loafers – he looks like he stepped out of a nursing home for the rich. When he speaks, his drone words slip into one ear and spill out the other. This asshole is supposed to help me “work through” my emotions. Might help if he had some himself.

            Red is a pungent color; angry. Yet splattered over the blank walls like little rose petals, it is comforting. Little lady bugs dance on my scrubs. The wang of sirens accompanied by a flashing ruby glow breaks the deafening silence. Soon there are multiple stings. Tubes run this way and that – little swirly slides of cherry Kool-Aid. My chapped lips curl into a tight smile. Suddenly winter becomes more bearable.

            Black is poison – like the widow spider that bit my dreary older sister when I was young. My memories are hazy, if not blocked out. Maybe the spider bit me too? I feel his thorn-like legs pricking my arms. I feel his venom run through me, darkening the brightness around me. The winter is fading. There is a presence of something heavy, like an anvil on my chest, my body. My eyes become hooded with sleep as the anger starts to fall away from me.

            What’s white, red and black all over?

            A grey failure.  

Authors Note: I struggled with the prompt and rules for this story. While it developed into something I did not expect I hope I haven't offended anyone.