Somebody get me out of here.

Time to Slow Down

The other day, I was sitting in the car next to my mom. We were stopped at a red light, in the middle of the smelly, dirty, shopping center we know as the Cumberland mall. As she talked to my sister, and my sister ignored her as usually, I was fixated on the sight in front of me.

I watched the cars go by, for 10 seconds that felt like an hour. For the first time, I realized a disturbing, amazing, extraordinary, shrinking, truth.

I every one of those cars, there is a human being. A human being with an entire life story, and an entire destiny that I know absolutely, positively nothing about. They go about their lives as I go about mine. The human race moves, it chugs and clinks like the parts inside a steam engine, as one.

I will, never, ever get to have a face-to-face conversation with everyone on planet earth. But I sure as hell want to try. I want to travel, almost as much as I want to make movies about the people I meet. I want to learn their stories, their routines. I want a little sip of their destiny soup, and mix all the flavors I've tasted into some ugly, gorgeous, delicious stew. The ultimate film, realized...

I'm only a freshman in high school. Why am I rushing my life? I'm laughing right now.

Peace

God

If people (besides you) are actually reading this, I want to say something. And honestly, its just because I want a reaction.

I don't believe in god.

       I don't think I ever have. Some days my mind will wander back a while and I'll be sitting in the pews at that hick church next to that grimy tire shop. It was, and still is the only place where I ever had a taste of what religion is. I didn't understand it. I knew only three things: sing when you're told, don't talk, and I got free crackers and grape juice.

       In some odd way, six-year-old me believed that it was a human being's duty to travel to some weird building every Sunday, sit down, and pray to Jesus or god or Moses or whoever that guy on the stain glass window was. I thought religion was, in simple terms, law.

        But, as people tend to do, I grew up. My mom stopped taking me to church. Besides the fact that I now had no coloring book time, I could have cared less, and I didn't question it for quite some time. Then came teenagedom, which hit me like a baseball bat to the gut. I thinned out. I gained muscle. My voice dropped. All that jazz. And with my new body came an entirely new perspective, and a new realization.

         I didn't HAVE to believe anything.

         Do I? I often wondered. But day after day, the thought dug deeper and deeper into my mind and eventually cemented itself, planted itself, and stayed. I had become a rational thinker. I had realized something that made me understand, that made my life easier happier, and freer. I was a new person.

         And, I was a rebel. Truly, Southern New Jersey is not exactly a safe haven for a person who is agnostic. When I was younger and my ecclesiastical ignorance bore its ugly head, my peers would simply educate me as well as they could. "Jesus is our savior" they said. "God lives up the sky!" the beamed. But, now that I had entered high school, I feared that me simply stating my doubts towards a huge bearded man in the clouds would quickly escalate, and many would view me as some mad atheistic prophet. So I kept it under wraps.

         I remember a conversation I had sitting on the bus on a chilly morning with my friend Matt. A stout blond kid with an infectious smile, he was also quite religious.
"I don't know If I really believe in all that," I said, shrugging. His grin twitched.
"So," he paused. "You're an atheist?" The boy stared at me with eyes that pulled out my reaction like a vacuum. I swallowed, but quickly, coolly smirked and said:
"Not exactly," His smile returned.
"Good, I was about to punch you in that face." He laughed his bumpy laughed, and I chuckled.

         Still time went on, and I soon came to the realization that I was NOT in fact, an Atheist. It is my humble opinion that Atheists are narrow minded, pessimistic bafoons. But anyway, I developed a slightly different view towards all people religious. I did not understand them. I had no desire to bind myself to some unknown deity and follow a set of rules.

         But I believe in something. Not a jolly man sitting in the sky. Not a fat Asian guy preaching karma and peace for all. Not something that can be skewed, abused, and misunderstood. Not something that shoves a set of laws down your gullet.

         Something pure. Something with no personality, no goals, and no favorites. Like a puppet master who has complete control. He moves his marrionetes. He can snap the strings. He can tie them back together. He can mend his worn down toys, or he can set them aflame and toss them off a mile-high cliff. But in the end, he only wants to put on a show. That puppet show, is our lives.

          And for better or worse, we're the puppets.



     

I Had a Moment

It was night.
I got out of the car, walked over the craggy driveway stones, and put my hands on my knees like some used up wet dish rag.
I just stood there. Thinking.
But something told me to look up. Some weird itch crawling around in the back of my exhausted and emotionally unstable brain. So I did, and I saw the moon.
Bright. Blinding, even. The rays hit me like some sort of intangible freight train.
I breathed through my mouth.
The moon's glow crawled down my throat, dug into my ears, overwhelmed my eyes, and... I changed.
I forgot about everything.
About school.
About the useless jerks I'm surrounded by.
About my plans.
About girls.
About my parents.
About what was for dinner.
About the people I love.
About my best friend.
About an itch on the bottom of my chin.
I forgot about everything, and just stood there like an idiot staring up at the big white orb floating around in the sky. Then, my mind emptied. All I thought was whiteness, that of the moon, and black three words floating and immobile. I closed my eyes and thought one thing.
Life is bliss.

I Wrote a Haiku

The cold winds sings high.
Side by side, we laugh as one.
Nothing can change this.

The One Thing Everyone Deserves

Everyone deserves a best friend. Someone to be there. Someone you can talk to for hours and hours, avoiding awkwardness seamlessly. Someone you can empty your secrets too, and no that they are safer than a safe in a Swiss Bank.

And you know what? I have found that person. And I feel, so, so, so lucky.

Some Introductions.

 Here's a little snippit of a new story (or book? Or screenplay?) I'm writing. Just some brief character introductions. Enjoy, internet.

++++++++++++++++++++

 

Michael Brookstone woke up with an intense pain on the side of his head. He sat up in his bed, and held his face. He let out a sigh, and glanced at his wife. When asleep she looked so serene. So peaceful.

“Something wrong babe?” She opened her eyelids and exposed bright green, blazing pupils. She smiled her angel smile and stared at him. Michael touched her cheek.

“No, honey. Just have to go the bathroom.” Michael rose up, felt the cracks in his back. He stumbled into the bathroom and felt the cold tile in his feet. Gingerly, he grabbed the light switch, flicked it, and stared into the mirror. Jesus he thought.

His face was a book. An old, ragged book with the spine ripped off and with a hundred missing pages. A scruffy mustache. Skin wrinkled, eyes watery. His head hurt. Michael grabbed the chilled sides of the porcelain sink and looked down. Aside from the basin was a photograph. A younger, healthier, handsomer man stared at him, clad in a official NYPD uniform.

You can’t do this anymore. Old man. It whispered to him. Michael grabbed the side of his head and groaned. he went back to bed. Old man. The old man sat down on the bed and stared at his wife. For how long, he could not say. He touched her cheek, and slept.

Old man.

-=======-

Look at the sick puppies... they whimpered. They begged. They cried for their families, their friends, the police, the government. They cried for salvation.

But he would not allow it. In his hand, he held a small, rusted switchblade. He preferred knives. He always had. Guns were... fast. Easy. He hated easy.

Hands behind his back, he walked over to one of his captives. A woman, not even 30. She was crying hysterically; tears poured down her face like sniveling waterworks. He kneeled down. Stared at her.

Look at the sick puppy.

His gaze bored into her face with his black hole eyes. He stroked his beard, breathed into her mouth. No. Not this one. He got up, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked on. To the next.

-=======-

The Burning Question

          What makes a story amazing?

          When you talk to people about stories, books, or even movies, they'll oftentimes describe their favorite as "amazing". But what makes it amazing? This question, Dear reader has been bored into the side of my cerebrum for the last week. It pestered me and annoyed me and drove me to the brink of total insanity and grief until finally, like a ecclesiastical ray of light, it hit me in the gut.

             The villain. You absolutely, positively, have to have the best villain possible. The villain pulls the story forward and alarming rates, taunts the protagonist, and captures the reader's thoughts. Why did he do that? What will she do next? Can the hero stop this animal? Those questions are what push the tale forward and don't let the reader look away for a millisecond.

              So that's what I'll do. I'll make a villain that people will love to hate. I will birth a sick, twisted animal that conducts unspeakable acts of discord for the sake of being an evil monster. A villain that has no boundaries, and no limits. It sounds sick and twisted, but it must be done.

             And, with the antagonist in place, the ultimate protagonist will come to fruition.

              So there you go. Great villain=great story=great protagonist. Now let's begin.

I want to write something.

Something big.

Something that will blow minds. Something that will change the way people think. Change the way they view each other, their lives, and the world around them.

And you know what? I really, really, think I can. I concretely believe that all you need in life is the ambition to do something great, to do something great.

All you need is that little tiny spark that starts in your head, and fires down into your fingertips and fuels the burning furnace that powers freight train that will become something exceptional.

All you need is that little spark.

I start tomorrow.

"The Feeling That You're Being Followed"

Hey all.

Here's a little story that I've been mulling over in my head for a while. I had three ideas going into writing this: nondescript, simple, and powerful. I'm planning on turning it into a short film for my schools film festival. For this reason, it may not be too terribly mind-blowing since its basically a premise. Nontheless, I'll keep you posted, and enjoy!

*********************************************************

THE FEELING THAT YOU’RE BEING FOLLOWED

He took another sip. What he was attempting to suppress was easy to see. Another. Another, another, and another. The man opened his locket, and two gleaming faces stared at him, motionless and unblinking. A gorgeous, fair haired woman, holding a sweet smiling man close. Her eyes were like the sun. A scene preserved, and a constant reminder.

If you saw him now, the resemblance is nonexistent. As he sat at the bar now, the man was dreary and clad in a black duster. Ragged hair, scruffy beard, a shadow of what he once was. Again he took a sip, but felt only cold glass on his chapped lips. His eyes shot, angrily towards the tender, who said nothing. The barman’s gaze met with the pile of empty shot glasses on the musty bar. The man at the bar’s face morphed into a scowl. An evil, angry, vein-pooping scowl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man’s eyes were red and foggy, clogged by drink. “You think you can just deny a paying customer? Huh?”.

He lifted a glass and hurled it at the wall; it shattered into gleaming snow. The beserker’s eyes drilled into the tender’s face. His rage was rising... he was going to come at him...

Ding. The sound radiated through the man like a ripple in a pond. It changed him. The man swiveled, open mouthed and fidgitting. The figure was barely visible in a long trench coat and fedora. It held the door open. Moitionless. Faceless. But the man felt something.

A pulling, a spark. He moved towards the person. What was this force moving him? The figure backed up as he approached. The closer the man got, the more agitated the figure seemed. The man broke into a run. Before the man could see or follow it, the spectre swooped out the bar’s revolving door, and was gone.

The man kept following. He ran outside, felt the icy snow pile on him. His arctic breath dissipated into the winter air as he breathed in and out. He realized he still held the shot glass in his hand. He smashed it to the sidewalk. It shattered into the gleaming snow  Its nothing. He thought. Its not her.

The man twisted his head and looked back at the bar. The barman would soon walk out in pursuit. He had to move. The man walked.

/***\

He trudged down the sidewalk. The man shivered like a dead leaf, and the mucus dripping from his nostrils froze against his scruffy skin. At last,he reached a crosswalk. The man stopped. There. Across the way. He saw the same figure.

It couldn’t be.

The force grasped him.

The man ran across the sidewalk, ignoring the orange hand gleaming on the sign. Horns blared. Cars screeched. The figure disappeared again, and he quickly was thrusted back into reality. He yelled at the cars. In frustration. In hatred.

In unrivaled sadness.

The man twirled around, searching for the person. In vain. Tears in his contempt filled eyes, he ran down the street, in no particular direction. Through the snow he thought he saw the figure slip into a house. The man ran. And ran. And ran.

The man barrelled through the antique door. Photos of children and happy lined the walls. A family sat in their living room and stared at him. The mother sheltered a little girl.

She had eyes like the sun.

The father was about to ask the man what he was doing, and approached with an outreached hand. The man felt anger and loathing in the face of the kind gesture. He slapped the father. The mother ran to the phone. The man heard sirens outside.

The man cried. He clenched his locket.