What is life but a masquerade ball,
where pretense is the rule that masters us all?
It seems that I am alone in having the gall
to tear off my mask, and let it fall.
Suddenly pretenseless, I am defenseless,
ruse-less, tacitly screaming "Abuse this!"
Being maskless, I am by nature tactless,
affrontingly faithless, faceless, raceless.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Main Road - Chapter 5 - The Necklace
So I'm writing a book called The Main Road. Here's one of the semi-completed chapters. Enjoy.
It was my first real gift to her. By real I mean expensive. I was just a kid trying to make it in the world when we got married, so I couldn't afford to get her anything nice. I saved whatever I could from my inadequate paycheck, sometimes a lot and sometimes not. After about a year and a half of saving up and a simple first anniversary, I had enough. Since I had no taste or sense of jewelry, I brought a picture of her with me to the store.
The attendant was really helpful. I spent the whole afternoon in the store learning about the different cuts, stones, symbolisms, and prices. About mid-afternoon, the attendant presented a simple necklace with a platinum ring and a bar holding a small diamond in the middle. When the attendant brought it out from the case, a sparkle of light caught the diamond and reflected into my eyes. In the presence of the momentary blindness, I saw her smile.
I knew this was the one, and looking at the picture, the attendant said it suited. I expressed doubt, not because I wasn’t going to buy it, but because you don't show your cards until you agree on a price. I could afford it, but barely. After a little coaxing by the attendant and skillful bargaining by me, we agreed on a price. I had bought my first real gift to her.
I spent some of the leftover money on a dinner I was going to prepare. I thought about roses, but I just didn't understand them. I decided to keep the leftover money in a fund devoted just to her. I wouldn't use the money for any other purpose. I walked home up the main street, thinking about her smile in my blindness, and how happy she would be. I tried to imagine her with it on, but I couldn't picture it. I guess it would spoil the surprise.
I came home and she was in the back working on the garden. I hid the gift and put the food in the fridge. I went outside and told her to take a nap, wash up, and come down for dinner. I was going to cook today. After the initial reluctance she finally went upstairs. She knew I was up to something, but that was part of the fun. I sang while I prepared dinner, imagining her occasional giggle at my clever lyrics through the sound of the sizzling vegetables.
The smell of the food slowly rose up to her. "I'm going to nap now darling, wake me up when it's time to eat." It was the first time she called me darling. It was probably as enjoyable and flattering to me as it was to her saying it. I laughed heartily. I stopped singing, and meditated on all the good days we had ahead of us, and as much as I couldn't picture it, I thought about her wearing the necklace.
I set the table and went upstairs. I knocked lightly and peeked in. She was fast asleep, a black evening dress laid on the chair next to the bed. I smiled, as now I pictured her standing there in her dress in the soft light of candles. It wasn't a complete picture, but the picture was being filled. I showered and changed.
I awoke her with a kiss and told her to come down in five minutes. She protested. "Thirty. My hair is all messed up from the pillow." The food would've been cold and my mood would’ve been drowned by my hunger. "Ten." and I made my way to the door. A pillow hit me in the back. I turned around and picked it up, facing a lady with a mischievous smile. Normally I would've succumbed to the playfulness, but not today. I walked back to her side with the pillow in hand, my own mischievous smile showing. As she prepared for the worst, I laid it down on her lap. "I'll see you downstairs."
She descended upon a table full of food and candlelight. My words fail to describe her, and so I won’t try. All I could do was smile; I was at a momentary loss for words. Dinner went by with nice conversation, both of us laughing a lot. I don’t remember anything we said during dinner, as I was concentrating on finding the perfect time to present the gift to her. As she took the dishes to the sink, I slipped the box under her napkin. When she returned to the seat, she lifted the napkin and saw it. She looked at me confused. I couldn’t fight smiling. It wasn’t even a charming smile; it was like a little kid that just got candy smile.
She opened the box and her eyes opened wide. She was in shock for about 10 seconds. She closed the case, handed it back to me. “Return it.” My smile faded.
“What?”
“Return it please.” Now it was me in shock.
“You don’t like it?”
“I don’t know what to make of this. I love it, but I can’t accept it.”
I swallowed my pride. I explained to her everything. I told her how I felt like this was something I had to do for her as well as myself. I told her how I saved up, and how it was a reminder to put her before myself. I told her about how I saw her smile in the blindness, and that this necklace belonged to no one except her. “Someone else wearing your smile wouldn’t be fair to you.” is what I said.
After seeing my resolve and considering how she loved it, she accepted it. I let her put it on as I went to go grab a camera. “I had the hardest time imagining you in this necklace, so I’ll take a picture in case I have a hard time remembering in the future.” Besides, I was unable to describe it in words, so a picture would’ve been crucial for describing to people. I took a picture with just her, and then one together. After developing the film, she kept the one with us, and I kept the one with just her. That night was magical.
She didn’t have a jewelry box so she kept the necklace in the box that it came in. She hid it in her drawer, never wearing it. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I got it for her to wear, but she wouldn’t wear it. “It’s too valuable to wear everyday. It’s for special occasions.” she told me. It was hers now, so I let her decide what to do with it, but had it been me, I would’ve worn it everyday.
A while passed and one day I came home to an overturned house and a distressed wife sitting at the kitchen table. My first intuition was that we had been burglarized. I went and consoled her, but she wouldn’t look at me nor allow me to come close to her. “I lost it.” she said repeatedly to me. I didn’t understand what she meant.
The fact that she had to blatantly tell me that she had lost the necklace was probably torture to her. That’s what it took for me to understand what had happened though. It was strange now that I look back on it. Right after she told me, she looked up at me with desperate eyes, alert for any emotion. I remember her words registering in my head, and I fully understood their meaning. But what took precedence were her eyes. They seemed to show genuine fear. Before I could think of anything, my arms were extended towards her.
She withdrew and shielded her head. My arms wrapped around her, and I poured my love into them. She was confused, as was I, but this felt right. My reflexes reacted before I could come to the conclusion myself. Now that my mind caught up, I gently whispered in her ear. “It’s alright. Don’t be scared.” Those words hit home. She became real tense at first, but with each ounce of love poured out, with each passing whisper, she relaxed.
I felt her hands move. They went from protecting her head to wrapping around me. Her feet touched the floor. She stood up and accepted my hug for what it was. I wanted to talk to her and wash away all her concerns, but this was probably not the time for talking. We just held each other.
She loosened her grip and looked at me. Her eyes had changed. She was still slightly scared, but she mostly understood me. She was more important. I put my hand on the back of her head and placed it on my shoulder. I couldn’t say what I had to say staring in her eyes. I don’t know why, but it’s just how I felt at that moment.
In the softest tone I could, I said “You know why I got you the necklace right? The necklace itself is just metal. It’s just a symbol used to convey something. Love. For you, I wanted it to represent my commitment to put you before me. For me, it represented your smile. Now that the necklace is gone, I’ve lost one of your smiles. However, it’s nothing compared to the real thing, and I don’t want to lose that too.” I could feel her smile. I leaned back and saw it. Yeah, it was worth far more than 1.5 years of saving up. The night went late.
Thinking back, it wouldn’t have worked out if I looked at her saying what I said. I don’t know if it would’ve come out the way it did. Instead of concentrating on what I had to say, I would’ve been concentrating on her, her eyes. She would have been scanning my expression instead of concentrating on my words. The moment of preference saved both of us.
It was my first real gift to her. By real I mean expensive. I was just a kid trying to make it in the world when we got married, so I couldn't afford to get her anything nice. I saved whatever I could from my inadequate paycheck, sometimes a lot and sometimes not. After about a year and a half of saving up and a simple first anniversary, I had enough. Since I had no taste or sense of jewelry, I brought a picture of her with me to the store.
The attendant was really helpful. I spent the whole afternoon in the store learning about the different cuts, stones, symbolisms, and prices. About mid-afternoon, the attendant presented a simple necklace with a platinum ring and a bar holding a small diamond in the middle. When the attendant brought it out from the case, a sparkle of light caught the diamond and reflected into my eyes. In the presence of the momentary blindness, I saw her smile.
I knew this was the one, and looking at the picture, the attendant said it suited. I expressed doubt, not because I wasn’t going to buy it, but because you don't show your cards until you agree on a price. I could afford it, but barely. After a little coaxing by the attendant and skillful bargaining by me, we agreed on a price. I had bought my first real gift to her.
I spent some of the leftover money on a dinner I was going to prepare. I thought about roses, but I just didn't understand them. I decided to keep the leftover money in a fund devoted just to her. I wouldn't use the money for any other purpose. I walked home up the main street, thinking about her smile in my blindness, and how happy she would be. I tried to imagine her with it on, but I couldn't picture it. I guess it would spoil the surprise.
I came home and she was in the back working on the garden. I hid the gift and put the food in the fridge. I went outside and told her to take a nap, wash up, and come down for dinner. I was going to cook today. After the initial reluctance she finally went upstairs. She knew I was up to something, but that was part of the fun. I sang while I prepared dinner, imagining her occasional giggle at my clever lyrics through the sound of the sizzling vegetables.
The smell of the food slowly rose up to her. "I'm going to nap now darling, wake me up when it's time to eat." It was the first time she called me darling. It was probably as enjoyable and flattering to me as it was to her saying it. I laughed heartily. I stopped singing, and meditated on all the good days we had ahead of us, and as much as I couldn't picture it, I thought about her wearing the necklace.
I set the table and went upstairs. I knocked lightly and peeked in. She was fast asleep, a black evening dress laid on the chair next to the bed. I smiled, as now I pictured her standing there in her dress in the soft light of candles. It wasn't a complete picture, but the picture was being filled. I showered and changed.
I awoke her with a kiss and told her to come down in five minutes. She protested. "Thirty. My hair is all messed up from the pillow." The food would've been cold and my mood would’ve been drowned by my hunger. "Ten." and I made my way to the door. A pillow hit me in the back. I turned around and picked it up, facing a lady with a mischievous smile. Normally I would've succumbed to the playfulness, but not today. I walked back to her side with the pillow in hand, my own mischievous smile showing. As she prepared for the worst, I laid it down on her lap. "I'll see you downstairs."
She descended upon a table full of food and candlelight. My words fail to describe her, and so I won’t try. All I could do was smile; I was at a momentary loss for words. Dinner went by with nice conversation, both of us laughing a lot. I don’t remember anything we said during dinner, as I was concentrating on finding the perfect time to present the gift to her. As she took the dishes to the sink, I slipped the box under her napkin. When she returned to the seat, she lifted the napkin and saw it. She looked at me confused. I couldn’t fight smiling. It wasn’t even a charming smile; it was like a little kid that just got candy smile.
She opened the box and her eyes opened wide. She was in shock for about 10 seconds. She closed the case, handed it back to me. “Return it.” My smile faded.
“What?”
“Return it please.” Now it was me in shock.
“You don’t like it?”
“I don’t know what to make of this. I love it, but I can’t accept it.”
I swallowed my pride. I explained to her everything. I told her how I felt like this was something I had to do for her as well as myself. I told her how I saved up, and how it was a reminder to put her before myself. I told her about how I saw her smile in the blindness, and that this necklace belonged to no one except her. “Someone else wearing your smile wouldn’t be fair to you.” is what I said.
After seeing my resolve and considering how she loved it, she accepted it. I let her put it on as I went to go grab a camera. “I had the hardest time imagining you in this necklace, so I’ll take a picture in case I have a hard time remembering in the future.” Besides, I was unable to describe it in words, so a picture would’ve been crucial for describing to people. I took a picture with just her, and then one together. After developing the film, she kept the one with us, and I kept the one with just her. That night was magical.
She didn’t have a jewelry box so she kept the necklace in the box that it came in. She hid it in her drawer, never wearing it. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I got it for her to wear, but she wouldn’t wear it. “It’s too valuable to wear everyday. It’s for special occasions.” she told me. It was hers now, so I let her decide what to do with it, but had it been me, I would’ve worn it everyday.
A while passed and one day I came home to an overturned house and a distressed wife sitting at the kitchen table. My first intuition was that we had been burglarized. I went and consoled her, but she wouldn’t look at me nor allow me to come close to her. “I lost it.” she said repeatedly to me. I didn’t understand what she meant.
The fact that she had to blatantly tell me that she had lost the necklace was probably torture to her. That’s what it took for me to understand what had happened though. It was strange now that I look back on it. Right after she told me, she looked up at me with desperate eyes, alert for any emotion. I remember her words registering in my head, and I fully understood their meaning. But what took precedence were her eyes. They seemed to show genuine fear. Before I could think of anything, my arms were extended towards her.
She withdrew and shielded her head. My arms wrapped around her, and I poured my love into them. She was confused, as was I, but this felt right. My reflexes reacted before I could come to the conclusion myself. Now that my mind caught up, I gently whispered in her ear. “It’s alright. Don’t be scared.” Those words hit home. She became real tense at first, but with each ounce of love poured out, with each passing whisper, she relaxed.
I felt her hands move. They went from protecting her head to wrapping around me. Her feet touched the floor. She stood up and accepted my hug for what it was. I wanted to talk to her and wash away all her concerns, but this was probably not the time for talking. We just held each other.
She loosened her grip and looked at me. Her eyes had changed. She was still slightly scared, but she mostly understood me. She was more important. I put my hand on the back of her head and placed it on my shoulder. I couldn’t say what I had to say staring in her eyes. I don’t know why, but it’s just how I felt at that moment.
In the softest tone I could, I said “You know why I got you the necklace right? The necklace itself is just metal. It’s just a symbol used to convey something. Love. For you, I wanted it to represent my commitment to put you before me. For me, it represented your smile. Now that the necklace is gone, I’ve lost one of your smiles. However, it’s nothing compared to the real thing, and I don’t want to lose that too.” I could feel her smile. I leaned back and saw it. Yeah, it was worth far more than 1.5 years of saving up. The night went late.
Thinking back, it wouldn’t have worked out if I looked at her saying what I said. I don’t know if it would’ve come out the way it did. Instead of concentrating on what I had to say, I would’ve been concentrating on her, her eyes. She would have been scanning my expression instead of concentrating on my words. The moment of preference saved both of us.
Friday, December 26, 2008
bump
often i am afraid to write because music is a stronger medium. mere silence i feel is more powerful than any number of words (or absence of words). should i be playing music, which is often, then i will be more than intimidated. my inspiration will generally be blown away by the emotional power of the music; my mind does not rest on letters but on notes. they lift me up, so to speak, higher than the lines of my paper.
but yet i am always compelled to speak in words and not music; my expression comes through characters forming words forming tales. they are written down, paper or screen. each time i cry out soundlessly that no word could ever trump a noise in a rigorous demonstration of pathos; each time i do not cry out soundlessly for that in itself is music which is beyond my ability.
the catharsis of writing is then replaced with that of music. an overwhelming flood replaces a burning pen, and the soothing gushing melody comes through my ears to put out a flaming passion of dictional momentum. time and time again, you will not read of me for i am too busy hearing of you.
nontheless, here am i, the perpetrator of his own words, themselves paradoxical. i am writing to say that i cannot use words for i can hear well enough. for it must be done, as i am capable of no other route; i am a locomotive with motivation and here in this paper is my destination. my pen hangs over the paper through any blows and down always it goes to make ink splotches and run rivers of images where you can drink lots of literal anecdotes, rhymes that float, poems that rhyme, and please excuse me if this is no masterpiece, for everybody has their fair share of mistakes and botches. and now that here i am, please stand back as i prepare to generate a mass of prose that will inundate each line and page; no, i'm not one of the pros, but on it goes, saturating and liberating prisoners of the dictionary, words risen from the pages into fiction, diction coming out now to serve from previous dereliction. but i do not write to bring peace: i am not here to put you at ease; please, this piece will subject you to gees, will charge you to fees, will take out your knees. it's just not feasible to cater to all when there are just haters, but i do something greater because i move in one direction, like an elevator, which is up in perfection. you can dissect this all you like and sooner or later you will find that i am but a traiter, using unjust beats and unowned treats to achieve a feat of musical production which is this.
so i find that regardless, there is music greater than any set of words i can produce. i myself am prone to falling into lyrical production instead of simply writing. but perhaps there is no right and wrong.
but yet i am always compelled to speak in words and not music; my expression comes through characters forming words forming tales. they are written down, paper or screen. each time i cry out soundlessly that no word could ever trump a noise in a rigorous demonstration of pathos; each time i do not cry out soundlessly for that in itself is music which is beyond my ability.
the catharsis of writing is then replaced with that of music. an overwhelming flood replaces a burning pen, and the soothing gushing melody comes through my ears to put out a flaming passion of dictional momentum. time and time again, you will not read of me for i am too busy hearing of you.
nontheless, here am i, the perpetrator of his own words, themselves paradoxical. i am writing to say that i cannot use words for i can hear well enough. for it must be done, as i am capable of no other route; i am a locomotive with motivation and here in this paper is my destination. my pen hangs over the paper through any blows and down always it goes to make ink splotches and run rivers of images where you can drink lots of literal anecdotes, rhymes that float, poems that rhyme, and please excuse me if this is no masterpiece, for everybody has their fair share of mistakes and botches. and now that here i am, please stand back as i prepare to generate a mass of prose that will inundate each line and page; no, i'm not one of the pros, but on it goes, saturating and liberating prisoners of the dictionary, words risen from the pages into fiction, diction coming out now to serve from previous dereliction. but i do not write to bring peace: i am not here to put you at ease; please, this piece will subject you to gees, will charge you to fees, will take out your knees. it's just not feasible to cater to all when there are just haters, but i do something greater because i move in one direction, like an elevator, which is up in perfection. you can dissect this all you like and sooner or later you will find that i am but a traiter, using unjust beats and unowned treats to achieve a feat of musical production which is this.
so i find that regardless, there is music greater than any set of words i can produce. i myself am prone to falling into lyrical production instead of simply writing. but perhaps there is no right and wrong.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
[A Work in Progress]
The faith on our faces fades,
the pigment draining to reveal true colors.
Undeath enthralls and embraces us all,
as we shamble toward eternal life.
Our sprint for the world
effects little more than a trudge
at the bottom of its seas of good feelings,
leaving us marinating, desiring
a chill to thaw the warmth.
the pigment draining to reveal true colors.
Undeath enthralls and embraces us all,
as we shamble toward eternal life.
Our sprint for the world
effects little more than a trudge
at the bottom of its seas of good feelings,
leaving us marinating, desiring
a chill to thaw the warmth.
Monday, September 29, 2008
"Weapon of Choice" Chapter 2 (Nickson)
Nickson was the sort of man that every man wished to be, a great man who stood in a position of absolute power and commanded terror from all those who were in his general area. He was superintendent.
Dodson got a call from Nickson the night of rag day, while watching Dumb and Dumber on TV.
“Hello.”
“Dodson, you bat, is that you?”
“Why yes it is. You must be administrator Nickson.”
“Of course you dumbbell, who else could it be?”
“Well I thought that it might be my wife since–”
“Dodson, I heard that you sent every kid who came to school home today.”
“Yes I did.”
“Why the hell would you do something like that?”
“Well, they all came to school in these ripped up shirts. It went against the dress code. Must be a new fashion or something.”
“If it’s fashionable, how can it be against the dress code?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask the person who wrote the dress code?”
“That person must be a damn idiot. How the hell do you write something that stupid? Who is that fool?”
“The one that wrote the dress code?”
“Yes, the nincompoop that wrote it.”
“Well, uh, that would be you.”
Nickson paused briefly, like a bull that had run into a wall instead of a person.
“I’m pretty damn sure that that dress code must be one fine piece of work then.”
“But you just said that it was stupid.”
“Are you saying that I’m a liar?”
“No, of course not. I just pointed out that you already said that your fine piece of work was stupid.”
“Now why would I say something like that?”
“Because it goes against fashion sense.”
“Who said anything about fashion sense?”
“I did, bu–”
“Then you’re just a complete idiot.”
“Wait just a sec–“
“You even sent all those kids today! Now why the hell would you do something like that?”
“I already told you, they all came to school in ripped up shirts.”
“So what?”
“It goes against the dress code.”
“Well it damn well should. We can’t let those kids show an inch of bared skin anywhere on their disgusting bodies.”
“So then why shouldn’t I have sent those kids home?”
“You sure as hell should have. Why didn’t you?”
“Um, I did send them home.”
“Good for you Dodson. Keep up the fine work. Good night.” Click.
Dodson hung up with a sense of wonder and turned back to Dumb and Dumber. He found that he could no longer watch after his conversation with Nickson, and turned it off to read a magazine, only to find an article on popular fashion, in which a slim model was posed wearing a ripped shirt with half a mouse on it. The phone rang again, and this time it was his wife, Mary.
“Sorry honey, I’m running a bit late today, I got hung up at the office because my boss insisted that I go out and get him coffee and donuts since he’s putting in overtime today.”
“Sure. See you later then.”
Dodson hung up and wondered vaguely if Mary was cheating on him. Feeling bored, he turned the TV back on to find Desperate Housewives. The phone rang yet again.
“Dodson? You are an imbecile.”
“What?”
“Did you know that ripped shirts are all the rage now? It’s called fashion, you nimrod. Those kids were being fashionable.”
“Yes, I said that.”
“No, I said that. Are you dumb or something?”
“No, I’m not. I just said that I already said that those kids were being fashionable.”
“And I just said that you are a nimrod.”
“Yea, well– Huh? Is this Nickson?”
“Of course, you nimrod. See? I just called you a nimrod again. If you let yourself get pushed around like that all the time how are you ever going to advance in life?”
“Are you saying that you want me to stand up for myself?”
“Yes. What are you, a buffoon?”
“No, I’m not but I’m pretty sure that you are.”
Dodson sat waiting in his own sweat for Nickson to reply, which he did after a good two seconds.
“Dodson, where the hell did you come up with that sort of freshness?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Who told you that you could be so fresh with me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re supposed to say that nobody did so I can rub your nose on my sleeve again.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“The question is why wouldn’t you want to say nobody?”
“I didn’t.”
“And that was the problem! See, now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Where are we trying to go?”
“Nowhere, you monkey. Now who told you to be so fresh?”
“Nobody?”
“Then why the hell are you being so fresh then?”
“Because you told me to.”
Nickson’s voice quavered like a sick cow when he continued.
“I did most definitely not tell you to be fresh.”
“But you told me to stick up for myself.”
“Now why would I do something supportive like that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It seems like you aren’t sure of anything at all. Are you sure your wife isn’t cheating on you?”
“Of cour– Hey, how did you know about that?”
“Know about what? Are you saying I’m not supportive?”
“Yes, I mean no.”
“You’re a pretty wishy-washy man aren’t you? You should stand up for yourself more.”
Nickson was the sort of man that every man wished to be, a great man who stood in a position of absolute power and commanded terror from all those who were in his general area. He was superintendent.
Dodson got a call from Nickson the night of rag day, while watching Dumb and Dumber on TV.
“Hello.”
“Dodson, you bat, is that you?”
“Why yes it is. You must be administrator Nickson.”
“Of course you dumbbell, who else could it be?”
“Well I thought that it might be my wife since–”
“Dodson, I heard that you sent every kid who came to school home today.”
“Yes I did.”
“Why the hell would you do something like that?”
“Well, they all came to school in these ripped up shirts. It went against the dress code. Must be a new fashion or something.”
“If it’s fashionable, how can it be against the dress code?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask the person who wrote the dress code?”
“That person must be a damn idiot. How the hell do you write something that stupid? Who is that fool?”
“The one that wrote the dress code?”
“Yes, the nincompoop that wrote it.”
“Well, uh, that would be you.”
Nickson paused briefly, like a bull that had run into a wall instead of a person.
“I’m pretty damn sure that that dress code must be one fine piece of work then.”
“But you just said that it was stupid.”
“Are you saying that I’m a liar?”
“No, of course not. I just pointed out that you already said that your fine piece of work was stupid.”
“Now why would I say something like that?”
“Because it goes against fashion sense.”
“Who said anything about fashion sense?”
“I did, bu–”
“Then you’re just a complete idiot.”
“Wait just a sec–“
“You even sent all those kids today! Now why the hell would you do something like that?”
“I already told you, they all came to school in ripped up shirts.”
“So what?”
“It goes against the dress code.”
“Well it damn well should. We can’t let those kids show an inch of bared skin anywhere on their disgusting bodies.”
“So then why shouldn’t I have sent those kids home?”
“You sure as hell should have. Why didn’t you?”
“Um, I did send them home.”
“Good for you Dodson. Keep up the fine work. Good night.” Click.
Dodson hung up with a sense of wonder and turned back to Dumb and Dumber. He found that he could no longer watch after his conversation with Nickson, and turned it off to read a magazine, only to find an article on popular fashion, in which a slim model was posed wearing a ripped shirt with half a mouse on it. The phone rang again, and this time it was his wife, Mary.
“Sorry honey, I’m running a bit late today, I got hung up at the office because my boss insisted that I go out and get him coffee and donuts since he’s putting in overtime today.”
“Sure. See you later then.”
Dodson hung up and wondered vaguely if Mary was cheating on him. Feeling bored, he turned the TV back on to find Desperate Housewives. The phone rang yet again.
“Dodson? You are an imbecile.”
“What?”
“Did you know that ripped shirts are all the rage now? It’s called fashion, you nimrod. Those kids were being fashionable.”
“Yes, I said that.”
“No, I said that. Are you dumb or something?”
“No, I’m not. I just said that I already said that those kids were being fashionable.”
“And I just said that you are a nimrod.”
“Yea, well– Huh? Is this Nickson?”
“Of course, you nimrod. See? I just called you a nimrod again. If you let yourself get pushed around like that all the time how are you ever going to advance in life?”
“Are you saying that you want me to stand up for myself?”
“Yes. What are you, a buffoon?”
“No, I’m not but I’m pretty sure that you are.”
Dodson sat waiting in his own sweat for Nickson to reply, which he did after a good two seconds.
“Dodson, where the hell did you come up with that sort of freshness?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Who told you that you could be so fresh with me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re supposed to say that nobody did so I can rub your nose on my sleeve again.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“The question is why wouldn’t you want to say nobody?”
“I didn’t.”
“And that was the problem! See, now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Where are we trying to go?”
“Nowhere, you monkey. Now who told you to be so fresh?”
“Nobody?”
“Then why the hell are you being so fresh then?”
“Because you told me to.”
Nickson’s voice quavered like a sick cow when he continued.
“I did most definitely not tell you to be fresh.”
“But you told me to stick up for myself.”
“Now why would I do something supportive like that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It seems like you aren’t sure of anything at all. Are you sure your wife isn’t cheating on you?”
“Of cour– Hey, how did you know about that?”
“Know about what? Are you saying I’m not supportive?”
“Yes, I mean no.”
“You’re a pretty wishy-washy man aren’t you? You should stand up for yourself more.”
Nickson was the sort of man that every man wished to be, a great man who stood in a position of absolute power and commanded terror from all those who were in his general area. He was superintendent.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
My encounter with the Devil
I've decided to quote this story from the middle of what I wrote:
I then realized that I had night-vision on the scope. I could flick it on, but my courage seemed to fail me. It was a good three hundred meters away from me, but I could sense its power, its ferocity, its wildness. My hands moved without telling my brain. Click. The safety’s off. Click. And a there’s a high-pitched whine as the night-vision turns on. I freeze.
I pray and pray. I listen for the rustle. All I can seem to hear is the inaudible whining of the night vision as it gives me away. I hear no rustling. I concentrate all my control to my right eye, and it opens. I bring it up to the scope and look through. I can’t comprehend what I see; a creature, standing on its hind legs, walking with a slight forward lean. There are massive horns atop its head, and a tail that sways back and forth as it walks. Diablo. Its eyes were two bright green spots on my scope, scanning back and forth as I followed it. I couldn’t see the face, but I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I was already losing control of myself, my body wanting to fly from where I was, my mind trying to shut itself off and pass out. My eyes, wanting to fade-to-black and be rid of such a horrid sight… but I couldn’t.
Without consciously thinking about it, my sight went down to its back. Muscles spewed from every angle. I locked on to where the heart should be. I noticed my hand on the trigger. It would be a clean shot. I could get a nice hit. Perfect angle, no wind, no twigs, nothing. Maybe this was divine. A perfect lined shot to take out this unholy creature. It was facing away from me.
I have five bullets in the magazine. I would have to manually load the bullets after each shot, but I could get off all five shots theoretically, before it could get me… if it ran like a bear. I started to hear voices inside my head. They told me to take the shot. Shoot it. Rid the world of such an abomination. The devil, with his back turned to you, unaware. You have a shot. Take the shot. The voices never got above a whisper. They did not consume me. They were merely suggestive, and I still had control of my own actions. It would not be long before it would be out of range.
I watched its muscles move as it walked. Flex and unflex, flex and unflex.
But I couldn’t do it. I felt my hand loosen up and switch on the safety. I followed its figure until it was out of sight, turning off the night vision. I couldn’t feel anything, my entire body was numb. I struggled for breath. I felt hot tears steaming down my face as I closed in my eyes in prayer. I was muttering gibberish, but I needed to be in prayer. That was the only thing that could save me.
I felt myself repeat the words, “How can you shoot the devil in the back? What if you miss?”
I then realized that I had night-vision on the scope. I could flick it on, but my courage seemed to fail me. It was a good three hundred meters away from me, but I could sense its power, its ferocity, its wildness. My hands moved without telling my brain. Click. The safety’s off. Click. And a there’s a high-pitched whine as the night-vision turns on. I freeze.
I pray and pray. I listen for the rustle. All I can seem to hear is the inaudible whining of the night vision as it gives me away. I hear no rustling. I concentrate all my control to my right eye, and it opens. I bring it up to the scope and look through. I can’t comprehend what I see; a creature, standing on its hind legs, walking with a slight forward lean. There are massive horns atop its head, and a tail that sways back and forth as it walks. Diablo. Its eyes were two bright green spots on my scope, scanning back and forth as I followed it. I couldn’t see the face, but I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I was already losing control of myself, my body wanting to fly from where I was, my mind trying to shut itself off and pass out. My eyes, wanting to fade-to-black and be rid of such a horrid sight… but I couldn’t.
Without consciously thinking about it, my sight went down to its back. Muscles spewed from every angle. I locked on to where the heart should be. I noticed my hand on the trigger. It would be a clean shot. I could get a nice hit. Perfect angle, no wind, no twigs, nothing. Maybe this was divine. A perfect lined shot to take out this unholy creature. It was facing away from me.
I have five bullets in the magazine. I would have to manually load the bullets after each shot, but I could get off all five shots theoretically, before it could get me… if it ran like a bear. I started to hear voices inside my head. They told me to take the shot. Shoot it. Rid the world of such an abomination. The devil, with his back turned to you, unaware. You have a shot. Take the shot. The voices never got above a whisper. They did not consume me. They were merely suggestive, and I still had control of my own actions. It would not be long before it would be out of range.
I watched its muscles move as it walked. Flex and unflex, flex and unflex.
But I couldn’t do it. I felt my hand loosen up and switch on the safety. I followed its figure until it was out of sight, turning off the night vision. I couldn’t feel anything, my entire body was numb. I struggled for breath. I felt hot tears steaming down my face as I closed in my eyes in prayer. I was muttering gibberish, but I needed to be in prayer. That was the only thing that could save me.
I felt myself repeat the words, “How can you shoot the devil in the back? What if you miss?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)