abp#7:old friends, brand new eyes.

first things first. to those of you who got the paramore reference, congratulations. please don't be ignorant, please don't play god, and above all, let someone be the only exception.

anyways.

to be honest, this isn't the first short story that i've ever written (well.. but it is the first one finished, at least). sure, the other stuff that i've tried my hand at were just total honest junk and trash (although there are some things that i've written which are not!) and storywriting is kind of an old friend that i keep meeting up with. however, it's an old friend that somehow looks different all the time. either that, or i'm seeing it through different eyes. also, there are some days on which i'm able to take a hold of the writing and really just craft beautiful worlds with my words--others, on which i cannot. take some of my blogposts. some of the postsecret stories are just not that good. sure, they could be better with (lots and lots of) revision, but sometimes, they are just bad. some of my muses are bad, and sometimes i'm just bad with words. to me, writing this short story has been revisiting my old friend, viewing it in a new light yet again. i've managed to choose my words okay, but of course writing begs and demands that i do it better.

abp#6: what insight, what wit...! why don't you say this normally. SOYMOO.

abp:
so. people are just Really Great sometimes over the interwebs. like they aren't afraid to open up and share their Nuggets of Wisdom with the world. i really recommend this person's blog because there is lots of incredible insight as well as just the general struggle of the artist determining exactly where to strike through with the truth, and where to cover up. also, this one is fun because the author just has hilarious things to say and it's awesome and Full of Win. lemme go blorp through the blogroll to see who else i stalk and if you are ever wondering what a story really means, go here because it's just up-to-date (mostly) and there's lots of wisdom there. also, POKEMANNNNNNN here and yeah. it's tons of fun. i think that's everyone who i stalk read on a super-regular basis. but in case you guys really wanted... just kidding, i'm lazy. go look at the blogroll and read some good posts. :)

also, since you have to verify your post on blogger, you have to type in a randomized letter code. i was doing this lately, and the code i got was "soymoo." just thought i'd share that with you guys.

EDIT:
one of my stalkers good good friends linked me to her blog. i thought it was interesting to read about her analysis of my writing--i think it's pretty accurate in what it says. you can see it here and read her wonder. :) also, her blog is just Things Made of Awesome and Wonder and Good. keep it up girl, i hope to see more from you. <3

edit2:
this post here is truly inspiring--one of the few inspiring posts that i have read. someone has said that i should be a motivational speaker, but i think the hidden words from this blogger should be used in a motivational speech from the person himself. keep it up, dude.

kuh-kuh-kuh-crazy. (pov practice)

side 1:

a crashing echoes through the house. i can instantly feel adrenaline rush from the tips of my kidneys to my head and to the nails on my toes.

'nobody's home, nobody's home with me, what in the bejeezus was that?!' i think, as my fingers start to tremble.

time slows down, seconds seem like an eternity, and the clock hands seem to have cast some sort of spell as i'm glued to my chair. the rest of my cluttered room seems to go dark--the only thing i can see is the little island of light created by my small, blue desk lamp. i glance around madly, trying to find some way of defending myself. nothing.

footsteps start up the stairs, ringing as loudly in my ears as my thunderous beating heart. who knew that a stranger walking up the stairs could sound like the end of the world?

my chair continues to hold me captive, as i start breathing rapidly. as i hear the safety click into the "off" position, my racing mind finally decides to let me know that the intruder has a gun. and then my brain switches into overdrive and i can't seem to think clearly anymore. everything has a foggy haze to it.

thunder crashes outside, and i finally realize that there's a humongous storm outside. 'maybe it's not someone,' i think, slowing down a bit. 'maybe i'm still safe.'

the report of feet in the all-too-empty hallway prove me wrong. my vision snaps to different places in my room, the hairs on my arm are standing on end, my heart decides that it's going too slow and the speedometer reads a thousand miles per hour. so much for fight-or-flight, i'm about as ready to move as a brick.

a knocking on my door. my eyes jerk towards the source, and i swear they start to bug out as the knob turns. a few, wispy, long and stringy white hairs blow in from the gradually opening doorway. my heart is still keeping way over race pace, and the door continues to inch its way open. a black trenchcoat, knee high leather boots, pale hands, ghost-white hair...

"holy shit!" i scream. "you're--"

the other side. the crazier one.

the house is empty, but he can still see the vibrating of a single soul through the closed window. thunder rolls through the heavens as rain continues to pour down in a relentless stream. the moon has vanished from the skies tonight, as has his sanity. his wild, unruly, long white hair billows behind him in an animalistic manner, even though it's sopping wet. he clenches his gun tightly. life's vibration needs to be stopped in that house.

raising his weapon, he brings it down hard against the door. it splinters all too easily, announcing his entrance with a cacophony of breaking wood. he can feel fear rush through the house like a tidal wave. perfect. he steps in, his tall, black leather boots echoing on the marble tile like heartbeats. too neat, too orderly. he releases the safety on his gun and continues his seven-step climb. his wet hand has sullied the elegant white of the railing and he smiles maniacally.

"truly," he whispers crazily to himself, "disorder and chaos are beautiful."

he clomps through the empty hallway, footsteps resonating and leaving even the walls trembling. a sliver of light from under a door. he knocks (for courtesy's sake, though she's been dead to him for some time) and opens the door. light spills onto his face. he raises his weapon and takes aim, but not before, "holy shit! you're--" breaks the silence. the gun screams, and once again, all is quiet.

abp#5: third wheel.

a/n: not sure where this is going to go, but here it goes. 
make friends with everyone; keep your feelings hidden 'cuz nobody wants to know; keep a smile perpetually on your face; walk ten feet behind couples; don't ever tell anyone what you're feeling; smile even when i'm not happy?; don't be a cock block; don't tell your best friend that you don't like her boyfriend; don't tell your friend that the real reason why you don't hang out anymore is because of her douche-y boyfriend; what's a cock block?; don't take anything seriously; actually take things seriously but look like you don't; smile at people you like; smile at people you don't like; smile at people you love so much you could cry; smile at people you hate so much you could die; make funny jokes at your own expense; try to never get involved in any drama; get sucked in anyway and find out you like people involved; go home and cry; do i really have to smile at people i hate?; don't ever say how you're feeling 'cuz nobody cares; walk slowly enough that the couples are always at least twenty feet ahead; walk quickly enough so that the one you like who is dating that person you don't like is always at least a hundred feet behind; cry quietly and only at night when no one's around; sing love songs like there's no tomorrow; sing heartbroken songs like there's no today; write sappy poetry about the one you love like there's no yesterday; and when you screw up, blame your sleep schedule.

k, i'd like some feedback, so if everyone who reads could please comment that would be All Sorts of Fabulous.

abp#4:constructing vodkaville. :)

winesburg ohio.
so a sufficient parallel should be vodkaville, wyoming. why wyoming i have no idea. but somewhere out in the states somewhere. or... vodkaville could be in russia. that would be great.

one side of town has a quiet tea parlor run by the most modest of owners. the old man also hosts secret karate lessons in the back of the shop. but across the river on the wilder, party-oriented side of town is a bar: the hammered nail. the owner had started small, purchasing a quaint building and installing several small booths along with the signature bar. however, as more patrons started frequenting the establishment, it had to expand. the new  building is a slick, chic place. thick, corrugated, steel walls rise from the ground, creating the single story of the bar. the roof is placed almost crookedly, begging a stylistic question. the parking lot circles the place, almost locking it into some sort of almost demonic pentacle (which is rather fitting, considering what happens inside).

in the building, there are many booths, several stand-alone tables with barstools, and a bar. the bar counter is made of slippery, smooth plastic--perfect for sliding drinks across. anyone who takes a job as bartender there is trained for several days on end in the way of perfect drink sliding. musicians and traveling performers visit the bar often. there is never really a night without any live entertainment. the place is always hopping with activity. in the wee hours of the night though, things get funky and the smoke machines start to work their magic. the patrons are hazily pushed out of the bar by almost ethereal hands of vapor, leaving the night crew to clean up any drunken mess anyone has left. and by the next morning, things are spotless, and the hammered nail is ready for hammering again.

assigned cs/abp3: big john bosh and that cali-girl white trash

cs:
time passes slowly in rural alabama. extremely slowly if you're retired. and that's what big john bosh is. a widower soldier, he spends most of his time in his hand-made rocking chair that sits lonely on his cabin porch. the single light bulb installed in the roof above his head has long since gone out. all he relies on to see now is daylight and his single oil lamp. visitors trip their way past his cabin sometimes, and he has dinner guests at least twice a week. other than the occasional visitors, it's just him, his rocking chair, and the birds. big john had retired from the military some time ago, sick of the rigid order of the whole establishment. he was struck by how free birds seemed to be, how they pinned their hopes somewhere in the sky and flew up to find them every day. the small breezes created by their wings throw waves of cool air over his nearly-bald head, barely protected by a decrepit straw hat. but strangely enough, he's not lonely all by himself in the alabama wilderness. the visitors and the birds are enough. his wife used to yell at him for staring too long at the feathered creatures. he runs his fingers over his worn, plaid, button-up shirt, remembering her before sighing again. a good riddance. he couldn't remember why he had married her in the first place--all they had done was fight about how seemingly lazy he was. but in the time that he spent watching birds, big john had honed several of his senses. he could hear things from almost a mile away, literally. he could tell when he was going to have company by the way the bushes moved, from the snap of a tree branch. which was very useful, so he would have enough time to sprint down to the nearest general store (only a 5-minute run), grab some extra cans of food, race back, and make something halfway decent. and each morning when the strangers leave his house, thanking him for warm food and shelter, he sees them off with a wistful smile. sure, he doesn't get lonely often, but sometimes, it'd be nice to have someone to watch the birds with.

the meeting:
big john bosh's small, dinky cabin is far from any highway, but he knows a broke-ass car when he hears one. the clunking of the dying car along with the cursing of a young girl reach  his ears. he blinks as he hears the rustling of bushes in the distance. mentally perusing his pantry, he verifies that he has enough food for two. the bushes shake, and out jumps a young girl with the greasiest brown hair.

"hey old man!" she yells coarsely. "you got any tools in this hick-town?"

he nods dumbly. he's had nice, genteel hikers stop by his place but never someone like her. even he knows that she's cali-girl white trash.

"sure," he says softly, lifting himself off the wooden rocker. "what's your name?"

"kings. rochelle kings. yours?" she spits, swaggering after him.

"john bosh. but you can call me big john, if you'd like rochelle."

she smiles toothily, showing some of her missing teeth as he opens the door to his shed.

"thanks hon, but all i need is a couple of tools. i don't need none of yo' flirtin' with this girl here."

big john blinks at her in confusion a little bit before pulling the tools out of his old, rusty red toolbox.

"crescent wrench, monkey wrench, car jack, screwdriver, anything you need here."

rochelle stares at the toolbox with a somewhat angry expression on her face before snatching it all up.

"thanks big john," she says, sighing quietly. she smiles again, but this time it seems slightly more genuine. he nearly misses what she says next. "it's been a long time since anyone's been this nice to me."

abp#2: pulling myself from between the letters.

lemme say in short that i tend not to pay a large amount of attention to people.
i'm a big-picture guy, and the little details (unless hilariously creepy or just utterly funny) don't stand out to me. i know people's mannerisms, but only slightly. if someone were to do something, i could probably say, "i knew that they'd do that." and now you want me to answer this about my skills at recognizing styles? um.... it doesn't get any better. i can pick out diaz's style, only because it's so unique--he never really uses quotations, he italicizes, he has his own individual voice (which i like, i think) and... that's all i can really think of. to phrase it badly, "i know it when i see it." butler's style is harder--i don't think i know how to pick it out as well. i would feel safe saying that i probably don't even know how to pull it out from between the letters.

as for my writing... i myself cannot distinguish a certain pattern. ask more little-picture people about my writing, and maybe i'll say, "yeah, that sounds about right." i know that mostly in my muses, it's been a sad portraiture of my inner landscape, and maybe that's my style. i never seem to be able to write well when i'm happy--just in the midst of sadness or heartbreak, that's when the ink flows. well... that or when i'm feeling creative enough. when that is, i don't really have any idea. also, adding on to my big-picture-ness, if you've read any of my muses, you'll notice that there's no exact setting--i'm horrible at constructing a setting. make me an architect of a dream, and you'll just find yourself in a generic somewhere generated from a memory of mine (sorry, the connection had to be made). i miss small details of the setting, i give just barely enough to get by. why i do this, i don't really know. my signature, i guess, is... that's a good question, actually. what do you think?

assigned blog post #1: the truth, and nothing but.

“I should fictionalize it more, I should conceal myself.”  ~rick moody

to some point, i totally agree with this quote. the writer shouldn't be evident. a certain style can be, but never the writer themselves. in this way, we have a rather detached piece of art instead of one that the artist is especially involved in. but looking at my muses (most of them... 2/3?) and the writing piece that i was going to submit for the prompt "looking for something lost," i find that it is this personal touch that endears the writing to the author. as one saying goes, "all lies are based in a kernel of truth. finding that kernel in the lie is the hard part." since that kernel is so hard to find, we should all feel safe to write what we feel, and let think ink flow from our hearts, through our fingertips, and out onto the page be it electronic or paper. if you look back at previous posts from me in the muses (except for disgusting), you'll find a bit of me hiding there. now, what part of me is lurking behind the words is up to you (and if you get it right, congrats, you've got a window into my mind). so as the semester goes on, i hope with all my heart that we will not be afraid of sharing our truths with each other. we all are friends here, and we deserve nothing less. additionally, it is the stories that have truth for us that resonate the loudest with us--those that shake us to our core are the ones that are the most successful. those are the stories that inspire us to change our lives, and ultimately change the world.