Life Outside the Funhouse

Now that I'm finally done with my JET application, I can finally get back to writing. But first...

Taken last week, this is the cleanest my desk will ever be

As you may or may not know, I got a job! Its just temp work, but I could get hired full time as long as I don't let my personality get in the way. So that's something to look forward to in case my application for a trip to Japan isn't accepted.

In case you cared, as most of my relatives seem to, the job is mostly as a mail boy (receiving and filing faxes, faxing and mailing exams when they've been processed) but the pay is good, the soda is free, I can listen to my iPod as long as no one needs me, I take regular smoke breaks, and I get to make annoying reminder calls to the clients to make sure they show up for their disability examination. All in all, its a pretty good job to have right now.

Unfortunately, a couple of the perks have come back around to bite me in the ass...

Yeah, I still haven't taken off the Halloween ribbon

As you can see, they gave me my own phone. Not only is the number a direct line to my desk, but it comes with a headset, voicemail, and it even has my name on it! I thought this was the coolest thing I'd ever gotten (if you didn't know, my last job was washing cars at UH Manoa, all day). It seemed great at first, until the shit started to hit the fan when I gained responsibilities (I hate when that happens). All the calls coming in became my problems to deal with, and by deal with I mean listen to doctors bitch, complain, and bitch again to me about new procedures I have no control over and ask questions I don't have the answers to. This has sadly taught me to become a lot more professional when taking calls but for a while there I would release a string of profanities every single time the phone rang (its safer to do it before answering).

Those paychecks I'm receiving also come with their price. Now that I actually have a substantial (just not sustainable) income, I now have money I don't feel guilty about spending on beer, cigarettes, whiskey, videogames, a round of shots, or comic books. Downside: to earn these paychecks means that I not only need to work while at work, but I need to show up to work so that I can work. In short, I now have drinking money but no time to go out and drink. Even while I was only earning cash from three days at the orchid farm I would still manage a happy hour once a week. I can't tell you how many times in just the last month that I've turned down going out because I was either too tired from work or knew that going out would mean not waking up on time the next morning.

Now that I've got a job, my wants have also been reduced to some pretty simple things:
1. An empty seat on the bus I can sleep on to and from work
2. Good specials at the two plate lunch places I eat at
3. My iPod to last the rest of the day (especially when I forget to charge it the night before)
4. A hot pot of coffee
and finally,
5. A clean, working toilet for when I release the mudsharks ("Legend of Neil" reference)

Thoughts That Keep Me from Greatness: Superpowers

Time Heals All Wounds: Assuming you were supposed to live for an precise period of time (precise like say eighty-three years, four months, twenty-three days, fourteen hours, twelve minutes, and two seconds rather than just "yeah, most people live til they're in their eighties"), subtract the time you have left to live in exchange to instantly heal whatever current wounds you have. Example: Let's say you have a broken leg (roughly 6 weeks to heal, I think). Trade in six weeks from your current total of time you have left and your leg will be healed. Trade in a bit more to account for rehab and you could be back to normal in minutes. One downside, of course: No one knows how long they're going to live. Perhaps you were destined to get hit by a bus in two weeks because of your broken leg was supposed to slow you down as you jaywalked across the street. Obviously then you don't have a full six weeks to trade to heal that leg. Within the minutes you were supposed to heal, you'll be dead though your leg should be partially healed.

Split the Difference: Assuming everyone's traits could be listed as statistics (ex: Strength-6, Speed-4, Ability to do long division-2, etc) this ability would literally even out two people until they have exactly similar physical and mental capabilities.

What you See is What you Get: Whatever one person perceives about you (true or not) becomes not just reality but a trait which becomes amplified in you whenever that person is around. Let's say someone's first impression of you is that you are an asshole, then you're an asshole whenever you're around them. To the nth degree. Pretty simple. Let's say you strike out the side at the next company softball game. You are now Nolan Ryan. Obvious downside: Pretty difficult to use when confronted with a group of people all with different perceptions of you.

Chekov's Gun: For anyone who doesn't know what it is, here's a quick link to Chekov's Gun - http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ChekhovsGun?from=Main.ptitlexn9xzsjd5fif. This will give a user a sort of "sixth sense" in perception and foresight. With this ability, a person will be able to "perceive" (through some form of sense like touch or smell) when a seemingly unimportant object will play an important role in the near future. These objects can either help or hinder the person depending upon how the object is used.

Walking the Timeline: Multiple existences existing independently at every minute interval but with the same consciousness and knowledge of the present self (thus past selves will not be able to see anything past your current self). Example: Currently failing a test but the you that exists last night now knows what is on the test and so knows what to study, as does the you that exists every minute between then and now.

A Boy and His Dog

They say there's nothing more natural than a boy and his pup. Watching the two grow and play in the yard, in the house, at the park. No cares, no worries, no thoughts. Existing not as two independent creatures but rather a flurry of actions and events resulting in the simple joy of just "being". A personification of happiness we only find in the deepest parts of our memories - memories not buried but rather forgotten through the daily stress of living - resurfacing only through nostalgia and dismissed just as quickly.

And as natural as it is to feel this resurgence of childhood happiness, it is equally tragic to see a boy and his dog. One still growing into his prime while the other's passed. To tell him he can't play as rough as he once could, but not find the words to say why. To know the boy is too old to believe in "The Farm" and yet too young to understand why his best friend no longer moves; why Dad is in the backyard with a shovel; why he isn't allowed out of the house until we finish filling the hole.


For Sammy and Rascal...
gone, but never replaced

Sadly I couldn't find a picture of Sammy and this was the only picture of Rascal I could find. I think all of our old pictures were on the old computer before it crashed. or else still in the pile of photos that still need to be put into an album.

And this is my sister's dog, Candy. Though she's been outside for about three years now, she still gets tangled around that stump in the picture of Rascal. She also refuses to sleep in that igloo house.

Moving Day

Twenty-four rooms in the hallway of my mind and the new room is just next door, the last one on the right. The new Tenant is already moved-in, a confused look on his face – unsure as to just what happened in the last year as if he wasn't a part of it, or merely too separated from it to remember.

I've always hated new rooms. The lock is intricate, dead-bolt – complex to keep everyone out. The door is heavy, solid wood – restraining to keep everything in.

Inside the paint is an off-white color. Its only begun to dry and yet its already starting to fade. There's a crack in the ceiling and a creak in the floor. I can't tell if its the age or my flaws.

The room is already furnished. Organization becomes Compartmentalization as everything is hidden away in its proper place. Hobbies in a chest, Vices on the shelves, Problems under the rug, Secrets in a dresser, Nightmares in the closet.

But its all wrong. It shouldn't be this neat, not this clean. It needs to go, all the furniture needs to go. Scatter the remains of myself onto the floor. Because my Legos have never played Call of Duty; my Power Rangers have never met the Marlboro Man; my Teddy Bear never tasted Johnnie Walker; my Saturday Morning Cartoons have never seen my Friday Night Binges.

I remove the hinges and drop the door. Twenty-three pairs of feet shuffle in the hall. Twenty-three Tenants I've still yet to meet but already know too well. Twenty-three who stare horrified at the living landfill I've turned my room, my year, into.

Turning back I see the pile mix and mold, already starting to take shape – an ear here, a toe there. I don't remember if I'm supposed to water it or not. Its been too long since we've grown a complete Tenant but now's as good a time as any to start again. An itch on my neck reminds me I'll need to buy a screen door. I don't want mosquitoes getting in, after all.





I really did plan to update this on my birthday as a way to write a new Introduction piece for this next year (the first one was the first post I wrote). But like most plans, it was doomed to fail, especially after I found out the deadline for this comic script contest was in a week (later it got pushed back to Sept. 23). Thus everything I was working on, including job applications and resume revisions, got pushed to the back burner for awhile (this is actually one reason for my current, unemployed status). Luckily I finished and submitted my entry so I'm just waiting til tomorrow with my fingers crossed.

And now I've completely forgotten what I was going to say. I've always sucked with transitions (which is why moving into post-grad life has been a pain-in-the-ass). Honestly, aside from graduation, I can't really think of anything really big that I've accomplished in this past year. My only immediate goals seem to just be getting a job that I can at least tolerate going to.

"Happy Birthday [insert name here]!"

Because just saying “Happy Birthday [insert name here]!” never sounds like enough. What I mean to say is that, well, of course I’d be wishing you a Happy Birthday. It’s not like anyone would wish you bad things on such a special day (though how would I know what kind of enemies you’ve made after all these years?). Saying “Happy Birthday” just seems like something everyone says, or at least the other 379 friends who wish you the same thing do. It doesn’t seem personal enough, especially when it takes a notice from Facebook to remind me that you still exist, let alone that it’s also your birthday.

So why can’t I just take the five seconds to write the same post everyone else wrote and be happy with it? I guess it's because the only present I can give you is in words and so I want it to mean something, especially since I’m doing it through Facebook means that we are either too far apart to say it in person or else I’m too cheap to actually buy you a present. I assume at this point in your Facebook career you pretty much just scroll through your birthday messages until you finally see one longer than three words and a clever little emoticon or one of those semi-colon faces (which I’m assuming is the only reason the semi-colon is still relevant in today’s society). But to muster up something witty or heartfelt that would actually brighten your day for just a single, brief, fleeting second before you click “Like” and continue scrolling – that’s what I really do try to aim for.

Maybe it’s because I don’t know you as well as I should or as well as I want to. Or maybe we haven’t seen each other for such a long time that I’m not sure what’s appropriate to write anymore (“turning 21 – round 5” or “Fuck Adulthood” seems inappropriate now that a lot of people I know are looking for new jobs and would very much not like their co-workers or bosses see that kind of crap on their Facebook page).

Maybe it’s just because I’m so used to writing now that to provide a mere three words for such an important occasion makes me feel lazy to the point that it’s almost unprofessional. So for everyone who feels cheated when they receive just those three meager words on their wall to add to the dozens, if not hundreds, of the exact same thing, I really mean to say more but … ah, fuck it – its your fucking birthday so make your fucking wish, eat your fucking cake and have a fucking good time dammit!

full permission for anyone to use when they want to say more but can’t seem to find the words

Rapture Chronicles (Jack's story)

May 8

If there’s one thing I hate about Sundays it’s waking up for church. I don’t mind going, it’s just the whole waking up early thing I don’t like. A new family moved in down the street (met them at Denny’s after church, The Jacobsons?). They seem okay though I don’t think I’ll being seeing their kids at school (their son Steve is about Jack’s age while their other two kids look like they’re still in elementary school). Jack went out this afternoon. I think Dad’s still bugging him about getting a summer job before he goes back to college next fall.

May 11

The Thompsons (yeah, way off on that one) came by earlier tonight asking if we were going to church today. Apparently they saw us on Sunday (they came BEFORE moving into their new house) and thought we’d be going tonight as well. Luckily dad answered the door and politely told them we weren’t (he’s the reason we go anyways since he went as a boy). Spent the rest of the night playing online.

May 14

Jack left today. I don’t know where he went but he just said he needed to go. Said that he heard it in a dream. It happened right after the broadcast. At least that’s what everyone online is calling it. Dad called it some sort of global mental telepathy or something like that but he’s always been too much into sci-fi and junk. But it was like everyone, everywhere was hearing the same thing at the same time. I swear I saw a figure too. Like a man except he had wings, but not like a bird or angel. They were different. Just different somehow. Mom and Dad said they didn’t see anything, but they did hear it, the broadcast that is. It said the world was going to end. That the rapture was upon us and soon we would all be judged. That he would judge us. I thought it was just me, until I realized I was in my parents’ arms, all of us sitting on the living room floor. Their faces were wet with tears. Jack though, Jack was standing in the doorway. A duffel bag was slung over his shoulder and Dad’s rifle was in his hand. I remember just staring at him in the doorway. He said he needed to go, that he had a dream about this and that he needed to go. He said he would be back in a week, the same day the world was supposed to end. My parents just stared at him without saying a word. I thought he was nuts. I chased him out the door but I froze when I got to the porch. I didn’t even see which direction he went. All I could see was the sky. The afternoon sky covered in black clouds which still haven’t cleared. No rain has fallen yet, but still I can hear a rumbling from above. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I’m scared. My parents haven’t left the house. They just sit by the phone with the radio and news on (everyone says to carry on normally but I know they don’t believe it).

Note: I taped Jack’s crucifix to the bottom of the page (I found it on the steps outside). He’d probably be pissed if I lost it.

May 15

The sky hasn’t cleared yet, but the booming is getting louder. At certain times, I can see a faint glow in the clouds (sometimes it’s just one, sometimes many). The storm is all over the news and it seems like it’s happening everywhere, even in other countries. I think everyone else is trying to stay calm though I can see how tense they are just walking around. I don’t think anyone’s gone to work. I know my parents haven’t. Me and a couple of my friends tried to go to school today, but someone burnt it down. I just wish they had waited for Mr. Wallace to finish cleaning the classrooms. He really was a cool guy (even promised not to turn us in after he caught us smoking stoges that one time).

May 19

I know it seems like I would want to log down every day and everything I do until the world ends but for some reason I just didn’t feel like writing. I’ve been trying to carry on with my day normally though the constant lightning show is making it a little hard. Yeah, not just clouds anymore (the lightning is even red!) Luckily no one seems to have gone into the full-on-end-of-the-world mode. Well, except for the Thompsons who just moved in the other week. I mean, I think they’ve already abandoned their house because I always see them preaching on the street with their three children or else hanging out at church. Dad makes us go for about an hour every other day now (though I don’t even know if it’s going to help). The other day there was a slight earthquake and the McGrady’s house fell down. Luckily it was the only one on the street that did. Dad and a couple people went over afterwards (I assume they found all of them because they dug 4 holes in the backyard). I don’t know. I’m just really hoping Jack’s okay. Yeah, stupid tangent but it just popped into my head.

May 21

JACK’S ALIVE! HE’S ALIVE! WE ALL ARE!

It was the morning of the supposed final day of humanity when we woke to the sound of a helicopter outside our house and a convoy of black SUVs. I stood behind Mom and Dad as they approached the door. Then we heard Jack’s voice. I pushed through and opened the door and there he was. He was Alive!!! A bunch of other men in black suits were getting back into their cars but I didn’t care. My brother was home! We had a huge dinner that night. It was mostly canned food and bottled water. It was the best meal I’d ever eaten.

I know I should feel like there could be nothing better than having my brother back home, but I feel like something’s wrong. He wouldn’t talk during the whole meal. He wouldn’t tell us what he saw or what he did. A whole week’s worth of being gone from home and supposedly battling the Rapture and he won’t tell us anything. He still had that duffel bag but I could see the hilt of a sword sticking out the top. The only question he answered was about the crucifix around his neck (he said he found it). But I mean he must have some story to tell. Something must have happened. He just won’t tell me anything.

May 24

Everything is kinda settling back to normal though it still feels awkward. No one is going to work or school (I think they’re going to start rebuilding next month). Nothing strange or paranormal has happened since we thought the world was going to end. We’ve heard reports that the government was going to start sending out agents to collect information from everyone to assess things (whatever that means). But until then we all seem to be carrying along fine. We missed church on Sunday because of the celebrating and stuff but it seems like the Thompsons are gone. For a while they were on the street, preaching and stuff. I think they still think the Rapture is still coming. Or at least that’s what they would shout at people as they walked past. Except for me. They kinda just stared. It was really weird. Speaking of weird, it was a sword that Jack brought home. He just has it sitting in the corner of his room, point down. I walked in there last night when he was in the bathroom. It shines on its own and somehow hasn’t stabbed through the carpeting yet it feels sharp. Just being near it, its its like I don’t know… can it be called “pure happiness”? It’s like I just feel happiness when I was near it. Jack however, he just stares at it, eyeing it like it’s going to come to life or something. He still won’t tell me where he got it, just that “he won it” whatever that means.

May 28

Someone arrived to see Jack today. He looked like he was the same age as I was. Said his name was Mark and he was looking for his brother Tom. That Jack might know where he was. I tried to tell him that Jack wasn’t talking to anyone but nothing would make him leave. I showed him to Jack’s room and a couple of minutes later he left. I asked Jack about it. He said Mark was just the first of many and that if anymore came to just let them in. “Especially,” he said, “if her name was Laura.” (who was she?) I asked him what had happened and for a while he just looked at the sword. Then he looked at me and I thought I could make out tears in his eyes but I couldn’t be sure (the only light in the room was glowing from the sword). People began following him wherever he went though he didn’t know exactly where he was going. He couldn’t tell me what happened but he was the only one who made it to the end of the road. He said they didn’t understand why he was going through all this trouble even when he told them. He said he was afraid, afraid to die. He said they didn’t understand

June 1

Jack Jack I want to write it, but I don’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Jack’s dead. They came to the house today in their robes. At first it was just the Thompsons but then more showed up. They watched the house, but we were so busy we didn’t pay attention. They said they were believers. They said Jack had damned them, that he had damned us all. There was nothing anyone could do. That he had cost them all salvation. They were willing. They had accepted their fate and Jack stopped it, stopped it all. They said it was his fault. I couldn’t watch as they as they beat him. He didn’t make a sound except to say that he was ready. I couldn’t understand. Sorry it’s just too hard. The next part. I heard a shout. One of them tossed aside a red can as a flame snaked its way to Jack, lying motionless on the ground in the street.

The flames engulfed him as it is engulfing our house now. I can feel the heat of the flames now as it consumes the hallway outside my bedroom door. The crackle and pop of the wood drowns out the sirens as the flames march closer and closer. I can still hear mom and dad’s screams outside my door, but it’s too late. They just don’t know it yet




*I actually thought about writing several of these pieces to turn this into a series (I actually have two more that I'm working on) but, truth is, I'm bored of these already. Maybe I'll come back to them later.

Rapture Chronicles (Tom's story)

May 13

We lost again, though 5-4 isn’t too bad. Went 1-3 with a double and finally got a stolen base. Made routine plays at second (nothing impressive like last game). Tom came home today. He’s back for just a couple of days before he goes back to Cali to keep looking for a job. I think he’s just slacking since he graduated from college last year. He’s said that he wants to do something meaningful but I wish he would just move back home and find a job here so he can help out too. It’s getting hard taking care of both Mom and Laura (though she could probably start helping with some of the chores now that she’s starting intermediate). Oh, and coach still remembers him though he always just brings up how Tom quit the team his senior year. He’s still never told me why

 May 14

I’m scared. It feels like the first time I’ve actually felt fear. And yet with it comes….I don’t know how to describe it…is it relief? It’s the end of the world and can I actually be feeling calm? We all saw, heard, felt it (I don’t know what word describes it). We were all sitting in front of the tv this morning and suddenly its like the entire living room disappeared into darkness and there was just this man I think it was a man and he said the world was coming to an end and we had just one week to prepare ourselves. What can I possibly do to prepare? And still I feel like there’s something I need to do. I know its stupid to think that when the sky outside is black with clouds and I swear its like a lightning show. Mom and Laura just sat on the couch after it was over. Tom went to his room without a word. Nothing. What the hell?! I don’t know what he’s going to do, but he better come outside soon and help. The wind is starting to rattle the windows and I should board them up soon. Hopefully its just a hoax and we can all just get back to our normal lives. Maybe the storm is just a coincidence too

May 15

Tom ran away. That bastard ran away with those people. They said they were going to stop the Apocalypse. That the guy Jack was their leader. He had a “dream” which told him how to save them all, us all, that it was his calling to stop the Apocalypse or some shit like that. They said he was their hero, their savior. I don’t trust him. How could they believe that? That just the 7 or 8 of them could stop the end of the world. Half of them already looked like they were on the verge of death and they said they still had miles to go. How could they think they had a chance against something which could control the weather, that could destroy humanity? It was too big. And Tom just went with them. He packed a duffel bag and just left with them. What chance does he think he has? He can barely find a job. He told me to take care of Mom and Laura, which is exactly what I’ve been doing THIS WHOLE FUCKING TIME! “It’s all I can do” he said. That’s stupid. He could do so much more by staying. I don’t know if I can still do this on my own

 May 18

I’m scared. Mom won’t let me leave the house after we barricaded the door with the couch. Tomorrow I’m gonna put up boards on the doors and windows like I saw other people doing. I can see buildings on fire from my window only two blocks away. When we went out this morning, everything looked fine and normal. Well, besides the sky (getting even darker now and the red lightning?) and the people (families packed close together on the sidewalk) it was normal. Mom and I grabbed a couple things from the store and as we reached to grab a case of bottled water some guy came out of nowhere and grabbed it right from my Mom’s hands. I mean, like he just snatched it and when she yelled, he just yelled back and took off running, screaming something about “The End.” It wasn’t even the last case, but as we tried to grab another we were swarmed by shopping carts and screaming people reaching and piling on as many cases as they could before bolting out the door. Tom should’ve been here. He should’ve been the one to go with her. I couldn’t do anything, anything to make her feel safe, to gather the things that we needed. I don’t understand, they were all perfectly fine just a minute before. Did they all finally just snap? When we got outside, every shop was covered with shattered glass and there were even a couple people lying in the street. We didn’t stop. We couldn’t. We just ran. It was all we could do

May 20

The electricity finally went out like I knew it would. For some reason the water is running. It’s quiet outside, and from the cracks between the boards I can’t tell if anything is going on outside. I’ve been using the small propane grill to heat up our food but I need to force Mom and Laura to eat sometimes. They still won’t leave their rooms. Mom just cries about her “lost son” Tom. Tom, who should be here helping me, helping us

The world ends tomorrow so I guess I’ll just say this now. I don’t know if I’ve completely accepted that this is the end. I mean, the fact that I’ve stocked food and haven’t done something insane yet kinda proves that I’m hoping tomorrow is coming and yet I I don’t know if I really believe that we are going to survive this. I want to live and I keep thinking that tomorrow we all die. I hate this. I just wish things could go back to the way they were and yet somehow this all feels like the way it was – taking care of mom and Laura ever since dad walked out, trapped in this house while Tom just does whatever the fuck he wants. I never wanted to die here and yet I guess that’s what’s going to happen. Stuck in the same damn place until I die still doing this crap. Sometimes I think I hate them for all this, but they’re still family, they’re all I got. We are all we have. I guess this is just the way it is

 May 21

We’re alive. I don’t understand it, but we are. I haven’t gone outside yet but I’m pretty sure I heard people screaming or cheering so I guess that means other people survived too. Maybe that means those guys Tom went with really did save us. Maybe they really did stop Armageddon. Now we need to survive this. Our food supply is low and the electricity still down along with the brown water now coming from the pipes. They were pounding on the door, trying to get in. Goddamn animals. I don’t know how well my baseball bat can defend us, but its worth a try. I don’t know what they want or what they’ll do to get it. We barely have enough for ourselves

May 23

It’s been two days and Tom still hasn’t come back. Our water is gone. I haven’t eaten all day (I had to lie to Mom just to get her to eat). I’m going to have to go outside to look but I’m scared of what I’ll find, or if I’ll even have the strength to just pry the boards down. They haven’t come back since yesterday when I yelled at them to leave (I’m just hoping they believed that I had really did have a gun). Everyone is probably having as hard a time as we are and I don’t want to see what they’ll do to save themselves. I mean, we are desperate too and I guess I’m scared of what I’ll have to do to save not just mom and Laura, but myself

May 24

I don’t understand how this happened. I don’t know what time it was, but they broke through. I didn’t wake up until I noticed the light shining through the door which they managed to break in half. I couldn’t lift my bat to beat them back much less lift myself off the floor. All I remember before I woke again was Mrs. Luke’s face looking down at mine (she’s the lady I think I helped with her groceries a couple months ago). Then I was on a mat under one of those pop-up tents in the park down the street. Someone came by and gave me some water to drink. The smell of the soup though made me puke on the floor. Mrs. Luke later said it was because it’d been a long time since I’d eaten. I think she meant “actual food”. I spent the rest of the day on that mat

Oh, I heard rumors too. The government was escorting the people who saved us back to their homes. I can’t wait til Tom gets back home

May 27

It’s been a couple of days and Tom still isn’t back yet. Things are getting along better than I ever imagined. Usually they send me and a couple other guys out to scavenge for supplies and also to let the people still boarded up in their houses know that there are other survivors. I’ve never been there to break open doors (mostly it’s the older group that does it). There doesn’t seem to be any fighting for stuff which I expected. We just kinda forgot about all that stuff before we thought the world was going to end (even that guy at the market apologized to my mom this morning before breakfast). Mom and Laura seem to be getting along a lot better now too, even helping Mrs. Luke and the others with all the chores we all need to do to get through the day

I heard that Jack guy lives just a couple hours away, but I’ll have to travel by foot. I let mom and Laura know that I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I need to know where Tom is

May 28

I went to see Jack. It took me half the day to bike where I was told he lived. Strange, I never would’ve thought that it looked a lot like my neighborhood. A small suburb looking place. His brother Kyle was in the yard and he showed me to Jack’s room. He said he hasn’t left there since the day he returned. I was expecting him to be some weirdo like I first saw outside out house just over a week ago, but instead he was just quiet, sitting on his bed and staring at the wall. Jack said that he expected more people soon. I asked about Tom. He said he liked Tom, that he had one of the most interesting reasons for coming – that it was all he could do. Tom wouldn’t say more, but Jack said he understood, as if such a vague reason was all he needed. He wouldn’t tell me his reason, but his brother Kyle assured me it too was stupid. After that, Jack wouldn’t speak; he just went back to staring at the wall, though I’m not sure if his eyes ever stopped staring at it.

I’ve been thinking about those words my entire trip back and I still can’t shake the possibility that Jack was full of shit. All he could do?! That’s ridiculous. He could’ve stayed. That’s one thing he could’ve done. But then maybe he couldn’t. The more I think about it now, especially with all the work we need to do now just for our group to survive. Tom never would’ve been any help to us, neither now nor during what we thought was the end. Is that what you meant?

Finally decided to try my hand at epistolary style (though this would be a character's diary rather than letters, but close enough)....I really need to start looking for a job

Always thank your muse

If there's one thing I've learned from writing that I can apply to everyday life is to always give thanks to my muses in whatever form they appear to guide and assist. Unfortunately, all I can afford is to post my thanks on this blog, which I use mostly to check on other people's blogs. Anyways, thanks

HalCali for Tip Taps Tip (I still don't understand this video... or the words)

and Scandal for Shoujo S (sorry I couldn't find the actual video on youtube)

for shuffling their way through my iPod, literally killing my nervousness, and getting me through the interview today. Got my first day of job training on Wednesday (I'm gonna try to sell vacuums) so I may need to find a new muse to get me through that one


I promise to start doing some actual writing soon...eventually... whenever I get around to it

May, 21 2011 or December 21, 2012?

Honestly, I've never really thought about the end of the world. Okay, that's a lie. A lot of the video games, movies, video games, comic books, and video games I play, watch, read or otherwise consume deal with the end of the world. Also, quite frequently my stories go through "Doomsday scenarios" (none of which I've finished though). But, I mean, they are never about the end of the world and characters working to prevent it. No, these stories are boring. Of course they need to save the planet and of course the audience will care about a character who is trying to save the very planet they are a part of. Besides, if the planet were to be destroyed, how could I write a sequel and make more money?

I guess what really should matter are the people. Yeah, a strange thing to think about when the whole world's falling down around you, but its true. Fuck the hero and his rag-tag team of flunkies going to stop what should spell humanity's ultimate doom. In all honesty, give me a few friends, a pack of cigarettes (preferably Smooths), a cooler of beer, and "Apples to Apples" for an hour or two while I wait for the apocalypse to arrive in all its glory. And if that means I need to go find those people or, God-forbid, a carton of Marlboro's so be it. At least it'll give me something to do while I wait.


p.s. Don't get me wrong, I still have my ascension bag packed in case I get called up to Heaven. I also have a bag packed in case I get left behind during the rapture.... its actually the same bag. I think it'll work in either situation.

The Final Case for Detective Jones (part 4)

            At night, as he’s done for the past week since the killings started, Master Grim sits at his desk. He examines the notes Jones emailed to him earlier. Like the other cases, none of the spells match with any spell used by the Four Arcana Houses. What seems strangest, he thinks as he stares at the pictures, is the physical harm the spells created. Most, if not all spells leave behind no marking or residue. These must be caused by a very powerful mage, he thinks, one who wishes to wage a war on all four of the Houses simultaneously. Master Grim feels what he thinks is fear for what feels like the first time in a long time but easily dismisses the notion. He is the Head of the House of Grim after all, and one of the four most powerful magi in the city.

            For reasons unknown, Master Grim decides to type Detective Christian Jones into his computer. The first dozen or so pages turn up old cases Jones worked on (all solved, of course): cases protecting his fellow ignorant New Men from attacks involving magic or punishing (i.e. killing) magi for attacking New Men. He skims page after page until he finally finds one that isn’t an assignment.

            It’s an old news article taken from a New Man newspaper. It’s an old article, roughly thirty-five years old. Too long ago for Jones to have been a threat to the magical community. Perhaps another person with the same name, he thinks. Master Grim reads on with curiosity. Witnesses stand around the wreckage of a bus fire. Probably a cover up of the reckless activities committed by another young mage playing god amongst the New Men. Master Grim knows he, back in his younger days, was the same way – thinking himself a deity compared to the abundant New Men. Master Grim sighs as he recalls the days (not too long ago actually) when showing dominance over New Men wasn’t so frowned upon.

            In the article, authorities claimed it was a gas explosion and everyone on board, all two dozen, were killed. In addition to the article is another picture – a little boy whose mother was killed. He skims the article. Diana Jones, survived by her son Christian Jones. “Shit,” Master Grim says as he hears a foreboding knock at the door. Master Grim feels fear he cannot ignore this time. Slowly he reaches for the wand which he keeps hidden under his desk.

            Jones kicks the door in, knocking both of Master Grim’s bodyguards to the ground. Both men reach into their coats for their wands. The first barely lays a finger on his before Jones puts a bullet into his head, splattering the floor with the back of the man’s skull. The second man manages to actually point his wand at Jones. Before he can open his mouth to cast a spell, Jones fires two rounds into his chest (magic is slower than bullet, after all).

            With the two men dead, Jones walks toward Master Grim’s desk, the barrel of his gun pointing squarely at Master Grim’s head. He wears a smile on his face, but no cigarette in his mouth. Jones carries a small red container in his hand. A familiar smell wafts through the room.

            “You know, I almost gave up searching. Then I saw your wand, heard your alliterations. What really gave you away though was your spell signature, that distinctive green light,” says Jones as he takes a seat across from Master Grim. “Before you die, I want to tell you a story, though I’m sure you’ve heard this one before.

            “Thirty-five years ago, a single mother boards a bus to her second job after getting off a graveyard shift just three hours earlier. She waves at her son as she leaves him to wait for his school bus. As she boards the bus, a man approaches the boy. The boy is wary of strangers and so the stranger introduces himself and lets the boy know that they can be friends. He asks if the boy wants to see a magic trick. The boy, curious as all boys are, agrees. The man pulls a stick from his coat and, with a wave, a ridiculous rhyme, and a green flash, the bus he just saw his mother board erupts into flames. The man just laughs. The man who introduced himself as –”

            Master Grim finally seizes his opportunity. He has no intention of dying at the hands of a filthy New Man. Master Grim pulls the wand from under his desk and points it at Jones. “Wrathful, raider, righteous, –”

            “Jonathan Grim.”

            The light at the end of Master Grim’s wand fades as he feels power flow out of his body. For the first time in his life he feels frailty, weakness, powerless, helpless. He feels the approach of Death. Jones holsters his gun and Master Grim sees on his face the smile of bloodlust. Jones’s broad grin consumes his view such that Master Grim doesn’t even see or feel what hits him next. When Master Grim awakens, he finds himself tied to his chair and Jones standing over him with the red container. He hears the sloshing of the liquid moving back and forth.

            “I bet now you wish she hadn’t taken a window seat. I might have just put a bullet in your head and be done with this ordeal.” He opens the container and the smell of the liquid wafts throughout the room. Master Grim tries to struggle free but the rope holds him tight. He calls for help but the walls suppress his voice. He begs and pleads but his captor’s mind is focused on revenge. The gasoline drenches him from head to toe, seeping into his clothes and filling his nostrils.

            The door bursts open and several magi stand in the doorway, wands in hand. They arrive just in time to see Jones drop his cigarette onto Master Grim, his body erupting into a pillar of flames before their eyes.

The Final Case for Detective Jones (part 2)

           It is a good five minutes before Detective Jones can stand again. When he does, Jones kicks a trashcan at the door while muttering a string of profanities. He walks to the car and grabs his bag from the trunk as well as another pack of Marlboros.

            When he reenters the bar, Jones pulls a lantern from the bag and, with a match, lights it and his cigarette before hanging it from the ceiling (the lantern, not the cigarette). It casts an odd glow on the room, or rather a spotlight on only the things worth looking at. Obviously the two bodies are illuminated, their magical wounds glow the brightest. Around the room several other spots on the wall also glow. With a digital camera he photographs the wounds, making sure to capture the blue glow. He jots a line or two into his notebook. Typically Jones would take better notes, but he has no interest in the case before him.

            Instead Jones thinks about spell signatures: that glow on the wand that occurs when a spell is cast. How they are different down to the slightest hue. How they vary from one magician to another. How no two are exactly alike: like snowflakes; like fingerprints; like striations on a bullet.

            Jones jumps into his car and drives down the wet streets of the city. He drives with the radio off. Distractions prevent people from noticing their world, or rather the magic that lies hidden within it. Most people (or New Men as Master Grim calls them) don’t even perceive it exists, but it’s there. They avoid the supernatural, allowing things like The Recession, The War, The Climate Change to consume their thoughts. They flood their senses constantly with devices like their iPods and cell phones so much that they don’t even notice the magic all around them.

            During this drive though, Jones distracts himself with thoughts about spell signatures, bus fires, and Master Grim.

The Final Case for Detective Jones (part 1)

Four men walk into a bar (it sounds like a bad joke, but that’s what happened). The first man, older than his companions, pauses at the door having been there an hour ago. His bodyguards (the next two men) pause with him. The fourth man, middle-aged and lacking the magical abilities the other members possess, pushes through and takes in the scene without breaking his stride. He circles the room twice, once looking only at the two corpses and the second time to examine the rest of the room.

“What am I looking at here?” Jones says after he finishes inspecting the bodies. He lights a cigarette, his only vice besides drinking, gambling, and anything else he can drown his sorrows in. Jones looks at the older man he’s been told to call Master Grim (or else), head of the House of Grim. He’s dealt with magicians and their secretive nature before. So secretive that they forbid giving their real names to those outside their House in fear that they could lose their powers. Jones, unfortunately, has a problem with those who do not introduce themselves properly (along with a customary handshake, of course). Besides, he doesn’t normally team up with magicians, but rather deals with them through the barrel of the .44 magnum he holsters inside his trench coat.

Master Grim looks at the younger man with a sneer. He hates involving himself in such mundane tasks. Honestly, the only thing he hates more is involving New Men in the affairs of The Arcana. New Men, he thought, with their lack of magic and their focus on science. They aren’t even able to perceive the magical world of The Arcana right under their noses anymore.

Master Grim points at the two bodies on the ground. “These two magi are from my House, the House of Grim. As you know someone is murdering the magi of the Four Arcana Houses. Due to the trust issues between the Houses, we have selected you as the neutral party to assist us in this investigation. In three days you will present to the four Houses your findings and thus allow us to deal with the matter. If you fail, it could mean another war between the four Houses,” says Master Grim. He straightens out his tie and jacket as if he’s sullied himself from just speaking with a New Man.

Jones flicks his cigarette at the feet of Master Grim. “I still don’t see why I should help. A mass genocide amongst you magicians sounds perfectly fine to me.”

Master Grim refuses to reason with a New Man. Instead he pulls his wand from under his coat. It’s not as elegant or fancy as one might expect a person named Master Grim, Head of the House of Grim, to own, but it is still effective enough to get Jones to shut his mouth and focus his gaze upon it. “Test me again, boy, and I’ll make certain you don’t live to see another day.”

Jones’s eyes grow wide as if he sees a ghost, or perhaps his life flashing before his eyes. In fact, he sees both. The apparition of his mother smiles at him, unknowing of the fate that lies before it – or rather the fate that it already experienced. It’s the only case Jones has yet to solve, the death of his own mother. Once again, like so many times before, there is a flash of green as flames engulf the illusion. The delusion lets out a soundless scream, a scream which pierces Jones’s soul rather than his eardrums and he vows once more to find her murderer.

Jones awakens from his hallucination and remembers the threat in front of him. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge. Moreover, he will die before he allows a simple magician to prove him a coward. Jones lets his ego do the talking by drawing his own revolver from his coat and he plays with the cylinder, clicking the chamber with every turn. “I’m saying that maybe –”

Master Grim, however, is also a man of action. “Wretched, refusal.” Master Grim’s wand glows green as an equally green aura surrounds Jones. The more he alliterates (he likes the “r” sound, though no one knows the reason), the brighter it glows, the wand as well as the aura. Jones lets out only a slight yelp, but soon enough he falls to his knees, breathing heavy and sweating profusely.

No one in the room sees any change on Jones’s skin – no bruises, no cuts, no broken bones – but everyone knows what’s happening. The brighter the green aura glows, the more pain Jones feels. Like needles, like daggers, like flames. After a minute the aura outshines the fluorescent lighting of the room, blinding everyone including Master Grim. Jones withers on the ground, his gun falling out of reach. He lets out a scream that tears at the eardrums of everyone in the bar. Master Grim stops and puts the wand away.

Jones lifts himself to all-fours, slowly, panting. He sees his gun and tries to crawl toward it. Master Grim delivers a swift kick to his ribs, flipping him onto his back. “I’ll see you in three days, Detective Jones.” Master Grim and his cohorts walk out the door and vanish in the sunlight without a second glance from a passer-by walking down the street, headphones in his ears.

Third Wheel, or Kent Tells a Tale

Tom and Lily sit on the soft sands of the beach, their images lit by the white glow of the moon. At their backs sits the fading nightlife of a city readying itself to finally turn in for the night. In front of them is the dark mysteries of the night wrapping itself around the vast emptiness of the ocean, its waves trying desperately to lick at their feet. Lily slips free from Tom's embrace to inch her way closer to the shoreline. Tom tries to pull her back to him. Both finally concede to the other and get close enough for only the most determined waters to wet their naked toes.

Kent grabs a pebble and flings it into the ocean, watching it disappear into the shadows of the waves. Tom and Lily have now become a single creature in his drunkenness, communicating in whispers and hushed voices. How many bars did we hit tonight? He looks around again. And where the hell did everyone else go? He pulls apart the Velcro of his wallet. How much did I drink?

Kent trips over the shadowy mass of Tom and Lily, planting his face firmly in the sand. He gets to his feet and dusts off what sand he can.

Tom, having taken the brunt of Kent's drunken assault and forgiving, asks, "How you doing dude?" His hands slide upon Lily's tanned arms, pulling her back into his embrace.

"You know me," Kent says with a slight sway to his stance, "just buzzing like a bee."

Lily laughs at his unconscious rhyme and so do the other two. Taking this as a cue, Kent bends into what can only be described as a drunken bow of aristocracy and begins

"The light of the moon shines upon the beach.
The lovers walk alone upon the sand.
The stars, they glow just out of reach.
The night moves just as it was planned.

"The lovers walk alone upon the sand.
The waves ebb and flow on the shore.
The night moves just as it was planned.
A classic tale since the times of yore.

"The waves ebb and flow on the shore.
He says to her and she whispers to him

"Wait, you're just repeating lines now," says Lily, what looks to be a pout upon her face.

"I think that counts more toward style than it does cheating," Kent says with a smirk on his face. He notices the tracks in the sand, his footprints, circling their little area. He tries to stand in place, at least he tries.

"Could you make your story more about us?" Tom asks and no one can tell if he's joking, not even Tom himself, but they all laugh anyways.

"Will it get me to best-man status?" Kent says, and once again no one can tell if he's joking, but he probably is.

"How about you write the best man's speech for him," Tom says, just to be safe.

"Tom and Lily were childhood friends.
Who would've thought their stories would end
With them embraced hand in hand,
Staring out to sea sitting in the sand"
Jeez that last verse is looking really bland.

"Under the stars they drunkenly dance
A simple sway as if in a trance
At each other's dishevelment they glance
And feel the feelings of romance."
I'm so drunk I can't keep one stance.

"Each glance puts into words
Neither could speak true
Since the images they paint
No words could do.

"In a minute they fall down to the floor.
Standing again feels like a chore.
Drunken bodies all out of sync
Cannot respond to the thoughts they think.

"And under Tom's jacket the two embrace,
Cementing a love time cannot erase.
He says to her and she whispers to him.
While my chances of getting home are looking grim."

"Dude, what the hell are you babbling about?"
"Yo hand me a cig. I seem to be out."
Tom tosses Kent his pack and a lighter as well.
If he wants them back, Kent's too drunk to tell.

Kent inhales once and his head starts to spin.
There's no telling now what kind of trouble he's in.
Kent sprints down the beach as his head starts to whirl.
His knees hit the water as he starts to hurl.

"Dude, are you okay," Tom says from afar.

Kent pulls his head out of the waves just long enough to respond and give the two a thumbs-up. He stumbles back to the two of them and collapses on his back without care of the sand which would follow him into the car in the morning. Through all this, Kent still continues as if possessed

"They stare at the stars,
They stare at the moon,
Knowing too well
This night will end soon.

"They embrace each other
And lock their lips
The beauty of it all
Will all but eclipse

"The majesty of the sun
Or that of the sea.
But I just wish
You were here with me.

"How the smell of your hair
Overpowers my smoke.
How you always choose Pepsi
When I only drink Coke.

"The sound of your laugh
At all my bad jokes
Especially in public
Your embarrassment it cloaks.

"The feel of your skin.
The way you drive clutch.
Its too simple to say
I miss you so much.

"Your presence in my mind
Is all that I need-"

"Yo, Kent! We still got time before last call," Tom shouts from the street, one arm around Lily's waist as his jacket hugs her shoulders.

Kent walks off the beach and dusts the sand from his clothes. Why not, he thinks as his eyes focus on the couple silhouetted against the neon lights, Maybe one day they could be us

The Woods

Free time or just need an escape from your life? Sit at the edge of the woods one day. Just sit and stare into the trees. Through the trees. See the birds, the squirrels, a fox? Do you see a clearing? Keep on watching.

You'll see them, only a glimpse, to let you know that their realm still exists - that they are still real. Who? The ones lost in the woods of course. Don't tell me you've forgotten them and their fairytales already?

Don't go into the woods. Don't try to follow them. Our people left the woods behind long ago. Its not our place, not our home, not anymore. We cannot survive the tests and trials of the woods no matter how much we want to. We can't go back to believing in the same magic that defeats a gingerbread witch or helps a red-clad girl escape from a wolf. A magic allowing them relive, again and again, their own happily-ever-after forever. A magic lost to the world we created outside the woods in the realm of adulthood.

Its the same magic which stops them from learning calculus or holding a minimum wage job. It binds them to the woods left behind from our diaspora to the outside world. Our stories take place in cities now; towering trees replaced by towering buildings, cruel trolls swapped for cruel bosses.

And you may hate it when you go back to the city and leave the woods in your rear-view mirror. You may dream about going back and leaving your life in the city behind. You can't. Some have tried and instead polluted their own imaginations, corrupting the pristine landscapes and fables of childhood.

So just sit and watch and remember. Later return home. Unlike the ones lost and left behind in the woods, you still have just a single story to bring to a close. One day you'll return and look for hours into those same trees, not hoping to catch glimpse of the fantastic, but merely to search for why it was that you used to come here so long ago.

The Cliff

Could I stand at that ledge forever, lost to time, just watching the waves crash upon the rocks? It wouldn't be right to turn back after climbing so high, but its still terrifying to leap off.

So why climb, why aspire so high in the first place? We are taught that to achieve what we want we must climb. But what if we don't find another mountain to conquer on the other side to take us further skyward, but rather a cliff to halt our progression? Unable to climb further, I seem to have plateaued and the only safe bet is to turn back, to try another path to achieving success.

And yet I can't seem to turn back yet. I've worked so hard to get here I don't want to give up. At least I'd like to enjoy my own personal glory for a bit. Have you ever tried to accomplish something only to stop when you knew that you couldn't go any further? To see that no matter how hard you work at it, you still can't climb any further because your path is gone. The only thing left on your ascent toward the sky is the blue sea stretched below. Its vast and rough and you know that if you fall it'll swallow you whole and spit your tattered corpse onto the rocks.

But if you stand long enough at that cliff you'll eventually need to look up to see the goal stretched above you. That was my desire anyway - to reach the sky. And I see the birds, the masters of the sky, as they soar from the mountain into the heavens. And I realize how the great ones really climb to the heights we find them today. The trail becomes, not a test of survival, but rather one of devotion. And to get to the very pinnacle you need complete devotion: to give yourself entirely to your aspirations. But there's still the dread of falling as I stand at the ledge. To make that last leap only to find failure - that is what's truely frightening. To know that once I jump its all up to Chance to stop me from crashing onto those jagged rocks. Chance, Hope, and a little bit of Luck.

Because the best don't climb after all. They fly





so ends another Tale from Blood Talon Cove

My New Year's Resolution

Dear Marlboro,

We've had a long run together (can you believe its been almost a year and a half already?) but we both knew this was coming. This has been my longest relationship to date (except for the one with X-Box, but that's still an on/off thing). I promise it isn't because there's someone else though I guess you have some right to be jealous. I know I've been having weekly rendezvous with College Football Parlays but that relationship brings more pain than pleasure. Besides, I've only hit it once so it shouldn't really count, right? I also know I've been neglecting you for Alcohol more times than I can remember, and I seem to have developed a thing for Irish Car Bombs but it feels like another one of those passing phases. I will admit to you that Johnnie Walker and I are close but no matter what we will only be co-workers.

Though this is goodbye, let's not forget our long history together. Our families had known each other for a long time already. Your cousin Now was always there to greet me at the door everyday when I got home from school. But its been 5 years however since he and my dad have spoken to each other and I guess that shows just how much times have changed. My family was not happy when they found out about you and I. Some of my friends even went to extreme efforts to try to separate the two of us, sabotage what we had. Do you remember the time Allison tried to drown you that night we all went out drinking? You were good to me during that time of my life but now I think its time I make a decision that's best for me.

I know we will always be friends, maybe even hangout every once in a while and I may even one day realize I've made the biggest mistake of my life and come, literally, crawling back to you. Until then I just want you, need you to know that we can no longer be what we once were. Please don't make this any harder than it has to be for the two of us. No silly games to catch my eye - a different streak of color across your carton or change in blend for a smoother taste. I know we will see each other again - across the counter at the 7-11 or at parties, you with new flame. And whether it is a good or bad memory that strikes when we lock eyes, let's just leave us at that, a memory.





fuck, now I want a smoke...