Remnants 21 - Things I Wrote for Class but Never Put up Here until Now (Thing 2: Notecard Freewrite?)

At some point we were handed note cards, and on one side, it looks like we were supposed to just write whatever we wanted. Either that or it just seems that way because I always just write whatever I want. Random side note: when I was writing my short story, I had no idea that I had used the name Martin in this. By the way, these things aren't going up here in any particular order.

Remnants 20 - Things I Wrote for Class but Never Put up Here until Now (Thing 1: Looking for Something Lost)

Back to square one. This is the piece I was talking about in Remnants 1. As this series' title says, I wrote these things for class and I'm putting them up now, but I'm leaving them unrevised.

Short Story (v2) - The Hunger

It was one of those sweltering summer days where the early evening sky was that kind of fiery palette that was never the same red in any two spots, that kind of fiery palette made up of all the colors of a burning flame bundled into a single, fiery palette. Jonathan was facing the sun, where the light of day was slowly but surely disappearing from his sight. That is to say, his body was facing the sun - his face was pointed toward the ground, his unusually frightened eyes fixed pathetically at the tips of the glamorous red stilettos covering Carol's flawless feet.

Jonathan was on his knees in the deep red shadow of The Enchantress, The Witch, the woman whose absolute beauty could ensnare any and all men ignorant enough to disregard the devastatingly cruel nature of her black soul. Around the two of them, the people who were bustling around the square just moments ago had all stopped dead in their tracks, fascinated by the scene playing out in their midst. Jonathan, The Troll, The Beefy Jerk, the man whose absolute strength should have been able to easily dominated any and all women worthy of his princely looks, had just lost. There had never been a time when Jonathan had stooped this low for anyone, but even since his high school days he had tried everything to get Carol to like him. There had never been a time when Jonathan had stooped this low for anyone, but even begging didn't work. There had never been a time when Jonathan had stooped this low for anyone, but he had to do it. There had never been a time when Jonathan had stooped this low for anyone, but he had at last resorted to using his absolute strength to dominate the only woman worthy of his princely looks: Carol.

The onlookers started whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Hey look, it's The Beefy Jerk. Wait, that's Jonathan? Yeah, I couldn't tell; he looks so much smaller on the ground like that. How did he even end up like that? What did he do? What did she do? Wonder if anyone's gonna do something about it. Psh, as if; he deserves it, anyway. Heh, yeah, you're right. Besides, who knows what she'd do if you tried, after that...

Jonathan, upon hearing the townspeople's gossip, managed to tear his eyes from those glamorous red stilettos to look around him. Against the scarlet light of the sunset he saw towering black figures leaning into each other's ears, dark reflections of a people now turned against him. With each passing second he could feel their murky crimson shadows creeping to engulf him.

His eyes turned again to look for the spotless white stilettos Carol had been wearing that day, but all he saw was the fading light of the sun. Jonathan toppled over sideways, defeated and dazed. Eyes now level with the ground, he noticed that his own shadow, a kind of blood red like the color those stilettos had turned at sunset, was deserting him, rushing out from his body to meld with the black shadows of the townspeople.

Jonathan didn't move from that spot, even after the sun disappeared. He kept staring at his shadow, now black under the bluish glow of the fluorescent street lights. He was defeated; there was nothing he could do but rot away, unsuccessful in every way. He took one last look at the cruel world around him, now a light gray, colorless version of the world he once knew, and then closed his eyes.

.   .   .

It must have been a dream, and a fairly terrible one at that. Jonathan opened his eyes, then bolted upright with an absolute strength that shattered the roof of the wooden box where he had been sleeping for the past few months. Around him were the boxes housing his grandparents and their parents, in which they were all still resting peacefully. He gave a nondescript grunt, then made his way to the front door; he was hungry.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

It was one of those dreary, wintry days where the morning sky was that kind of light gray that evenly spread the buttery sunshine over everything, that kind of light gray that made everything that kind of light gray. Jonathan trudged through the snow that had built up on the sidewalk overnight, dragging one foot after the other, as he did every day. He left behind him two evenly-spaced channels as if he were laying down a new branch for the railroad that ran through the town, one that would take people straight to the town store.

Along the way, Jonathan passed by a line of light gray, veteran automobiles, ones that knew how to tough out the harsh winters, ones that knew from one too many experiences the kinds of things that could happen out there if one got careless. In the light gray chrome lining on the cars shone distorted reflections of Jonathan’s already distorted figure. He was slightly hunched, so his head stuck out forward from his shoulders. He wore a pair of glasses whose lenses were always diffusely reflecting the light gray sunlight because they were always fogged over as a byproduct of the miasma streaming from his mouth, which was always open at least wide enough for his light gray teeth to be constantly bared. Over the light gray skin of his shoulders was a thin, light gray shirt draped a little too loosely for the season. This shirt was covered by a worn, light gray trench coat that would almost have been just right for a homeless man withering away in the dark gray shadows of the streets. Jonathan had been out of work for a while; he depended on Carol for a comfortable house and a home-cooked meal each night when he came back from his walks.

Jonathan was not affected by the severity of those winters. For one, his gargantuan figure was sturdy enough to tough through them. Still, though, like those cars he had had more than his fair share of violent beatings and deathly frosty bites. However, in his current state, he really could not care less what the weather was like. What he did care about (with good reason, too) was food, so every day, Jonathan walked to the town store. They always put the beef jerky packs right at the door for him. Jonathan liked beef jerky. Even though it was cooked to oblivion, he loved that sort of wrestling he has to do to get it chewed enough to swallow - it kept him occupied. Besides, even after having been reduced to this state, he still had at least enough class to generally avoid raw flesh.

Jonathan started the usual routine and walked in, tore open the sealed plastic wrapping, and started vigorously gnawing on a piece. As he turned to leave, he saw Martin the shopkeeper, who nodded to Jonathan, giving him the okay to take the package with him. Jonathan and Martin had this mutual understanding that even the closest of friendships could hardly compare with.

After getting his daily dose of jerky, Jonathan would walk about the town aimlessly. Ordinarily, people probably would have seen his grotesque figure as a highly unusual, if not disturbing one, but he had slumped around enough so that everyone in town had gotten used to his appearance. Even the shriveled, old blind couple knew who it was when they heard the smack-squish-smacking of his chewing on beef jerky with his mouth still open. Even in the summer, when people came to visit from out of town, Jonathan’s stalking generally became a normal sight for travelers within a few days.

Because winters in town were so extreme, daylight hours were fleeting, and thus Jonathan was usually only able to see about half of the town each trip. However, Jonathan always found himself walking past the park, and this time was no different from the rest. That park, for many people, held precious memories. For Jonathan, it held memories of an opportunity long gone; its snow-dusted emptiness reflected the bleak, light gray world he now found himself wandering through. He probably could have been in heaven now, if only he had pushed a little more, if only he had mustered up the courage to follow through.

.   .   .

It was a warm, colorful summer day. The sun was shining clear beams of brilliance that filled the soft blue sky and bounced happily about the greens, reds, whites, and yellows of the park. It was on that day that Jonathan found a little girl sleeping in the soft grass of the park lawn. Jonathan liked little girls. They had such adorable voices, and since they were always frolicking about, they were so lean. As Jonathan grew nearer to the slumbering child, a quiet breeze blew in his direction, carrying with it the sweet scent of the watermelon shampoo that lingered in her ribbon-tied auburn hair. It came to Jonathan like a whiff of heaven's grace, and sent a wave of incredible allure that caused him to shiver in uncontrollable anticipation. After the wind had passed, Jonathan knew that she was going to be the one. Jonathan reached out – he absolutely had to have this girl – and closed his grasp upon her soft skin.

That moment, ephemeral as it was, brought Jonathan more satisfaction than the beef jerky could even dream of giving. Throughout his body surged a passion like he had not felt in years – it even seemed like his skin was regaining some color. Jonathan felt truly alive again, felt that burning desire propelling him into a heightened state of vitality. When Jonathan was finally able to touch that tender arm he had been yearning for during the past five minutes he had spent walking toward the girl, she slowly awoke, confused and in a dreamlike wonder as to who was holding her. Head still lowered in the direction of the hand wrapped ever so gently around her arm, she moved her gaze upward with just the cutest look of worry in those droopy, puppy-dog eyes and saw Jonathan, mouth agape as usual. Shocked to see a stranger's face, she let out a tiny squeal of fright and anguish.

The girl stood up, wresting herself from Jonathan’s clammy grip. The two remained there awhile, mouths both open, eyes fixated on one another. Jonathan took a step forward to touch the mesmerized girl once again when a frantic voice cried, "Amber?" She turned, suddenly alert like those little meerkats on the Discovery channel, then the girl bounded off in the direction of her mother's comforting embrace.

Jonathan stood there for a while longer, gingerly opening and closing his hand as if to recall the tenderness of that little girl in the park, or maybe imagining what might have happened if he had continued. If he had continued, if he had actually taken that chance to feel, to taste, to enjoy, to savor the tempting, the tantalizing, the heavenly flesh of that little girl, he would actually have probably been beaten to death and cursed to hell by the mother. Was it really such a sin, though? Could it possibly be bad to follow what God himself ordered: to multiply? Jonathan could not wrap his mind around the concept. All he knew was that standing in the park now left him with a pit of emptiness in his stomach.

Another breeze rose up to Jonathan's nose, sweeping away the lingering scent of her sweet shampoo. This time the air bore the smell of the beef jerky bag he still held in his other hand. When he reached in, he found a single piece remaining inside. He stood up straight, remembering he had to get back home to Carol and the kids, and then started off on his long daily commute after jamming the last piece of jerky into his gaping hole of a mouth.

.   .   .

Again the beef jerky’s scent brought Jonathan back from his sweet reverie of holding that little girl. That kind of opportunity would likely be considered once in a lifetime, but Jonathan would still probably never encounter it again. In the years since that precious scene, Jonathan’s hunger had been reduced to one that could be sated by the pieces of jerky with which he filled his mouth now. He left the park slightly downtrodden, just as he had all those years ago, and continued his daily walk.

Of course, after a couple more hours of stalking aimlessly through town, Jonathan found that he no longer found any beef jerky in his bag of beef jerky, so he had to shift his focus. When the light gray light melted into yellows and pinks at the edge of daylight, Jonathan turned toward home, where Carol and the kids were anxiously awaiting his return. Guided by the lure of Carol’s emanating warmth and vitality, Jonathan started off on the route that would take him back as quickly as possible; he was hungry.

It was completely dark by the time Jonathan finally made it home, but the lights from inside the house were glowing brightly and the gate of the waist-high, white picket fence was open as if to welcome him. After pounding on the door to signal Max to let him in, Jonathan stood for a moment in the frozen air, sheltered by the roof covering the porch, steep to prevent too much snow from piling up on top of it. As he waited, Jonathan turned once again to the blank white door, where his eyes painted a picture Carol, who was probably waiting eagerly inside for his arrival. He could see those prominent, rosy cheeks on her smiling face and her well-endowed figure. The image faded when Max’s scowl appeared in the doorway. Jonathan returned the disgusted-face greeting with a disgusting grunt-belch (they, too, understood each other well), then shuffled inside.

Whatever fragments remained of Jonathan’s vision of Carol disintegrated when he saw and smelled what lay on the kitchen table. It had been an entire day since Jonathan had last been given the chance to polish off a whole turkey carcass. Visibly delighted, he sat down and dug in. As expected of Carol’s famous cooking, the delectable aroma of that turkey was only the portal leading to the immense world of the turkey’s scrumptious flavor. Jonathan could feel the warmth of every single minute that the turkey had been roasting; could taste the saltiness, savor, and spiciness of all the seasonings that went into it, just by sucking on the bones. Indeed, Carol must have been the best cook in town.

When Jonathan finished his meal, he went and sat down in his usual spot on the tattered, light gray couch in the family room. There, Max was playing Guitarist Band Heroes: Ultimate 80’s – Rock the World VII: World Tour Edition featuring Tetrapot Melon Tea (with the limited edition guitar that his sister had bought him on his last birthday). Well he was, but then as soon as Jonathan took his seat, Max stormed off to his room and shut the door behind him. They understood each other well. When Max was younger, the two actually got along well, because back then, Max was still interested in Jonathan, and was still unknowing of the kind of person he really was. However, as boys do, Max outgrew his interest in Jonathan after he began to understand more about his character, and then started avoiding him as much as he could; he had no need for such a man in his life.

Max’s sister Meg, on the other hand, was different. She had always liked Jonathan somewhat, either out of sympathy or something else. Maybe she felt some sort of obligation toward him each time she saw that once-proud figure in such a state. Maybe it was just some reversed form of maternal emotions. Maybe she had some kind of weird complex. Whatever the reason was, she liked Jonathan enough to try to help him out as much as she could, even after she had to start instinctually avoiding him following the Amber incident. She lent her mother a hand for the housework, kept Max from attacking him too much, and got herself into the best local college – that way she could continue to support him through the years. She even offered to help with some of the finer tasks, like helping him bathe, but of course Carol would never allow that, for multiple reasons.

Actually Meg had liked Jonathan ever since she knew of his existence. Once Carol was just having a terrible day, and in front of Meg she cursed a man named Jonathan for all her bad luck. Meg was immediately intrigued with this new facet of her mother’s life, and asked who this Jonathan was. Carol simply told her that it didn’t matter; he was gone from their lives before Meg was even born.

Of course, Meg wouldn’t just accept that explanation, being one of the gossip queens at school. She did her research, asked around, and found that this Jonathan was still alive and actually in town even. It seemed that he had somewhat of a bad reputation, but Meg knew better than to judge people before meeting them in person. So Meg set out to find Jonathan. Every day for about two and a half weeks she stalked through the town, not once crossing paths with the man they now called The Wayward Giant.

On the last day of her search, though, right as she was about to give up on Jonathan like the rest of society had, Meg saw him, and she knew it just had to be him. A wave of emotion came over her not unlike the kind that long-lost siblings must have felt once they were reunited at last. She knew it just had to be him. So without asking him, she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him all the way home to Carol.

Carol opened up the door to let Meg back in, but seeing Jonathan with her, she gasped. She gasped as spirits of evil began to chew away at her soul once again as her own daughter forced Carol to recall the dark ages of her life. Carol opened up the door to let her blackness back out. She swung it off its hinges with superhuman might and charged at Jonathan. She jammed her elbow square in his chest, breaking his now dry, fragile, and hollow heart a second way. Meg screamed for Jonathan, and started throwing a tantrum. She said she hated her and her misunderstanding everything, asked what the hell was wrong with her, called her a Witch.

Carol could deal with being hated by her daughter – kids will be kids and kids will get over it. Having let out all her evil now, though, Carol had no defense against the Witch burn. Having let out all her evil now, Carol couldn’t even smack her daughter, much less hate her and her misunderstanding everything. Carol heard the word "Witch" and broke down. She staggered back into the house, letting Meg waltz back in, tugging Jonathan along like a new puppy.

Carol (clearly) did not exactly love Jonathan, but after he had come back, she felt that keeping him around was probably best for the both of them, and the kids. Considering Carol’s highly desirable face, figure, and finesse in cooking, having a man like Jonathan nearby was quite beneficial. Almost no other men went after her – they would have Jonathan to deal with if they did, and no one really wanted to get anywhere near that creepy, messed up man. The exception was Martin the shopkeeper.

Carol generally did not mind the fact that Martin came over every day (although she probably did not mind anything much, with a man like Jonathan in her house). Jonathan always seemed to be okay with it, too – he was satisfied enough with his monopoly over Carol’s cooking that Martin’s visits were nothing major. After closing the store late each night, Martin would go to the house and eat whatever remained of Carol’s delicious dinners. This time, Jonathan’s ravenous appetite left hardly anything of substance for Martin, but Carol, always resourceful, quickly started to change that by using the turkey’s bones to make a watery, yet hearty soup that was more than enough for Martin given the fact that this broth was still Jonathan’s charity for him.

As Carol brought the broth to a boil, Jonathan smelled the savory scent of the spices in the soup, and he turned his head a complete 217 degrees to peer through his foggy glasses at the kitchen. His gaze was met by another bag of beef jerky from Martin’s store. However, instead of catching the bag of beef jerky that had just struck his face, Jonathan caught a glimpse of something he was never supposed to see. He saw Martin embracing Carol, their lips locked; he saw Martin eating Carol with a passion not unlike his own as he ravaged the turkey only hours earlier. He saw Carol’s eyes flick over to his, then back to Martin’s in a desperate panic. She pushed herself away from Martin and glared at him with a look that said, "Crap."

Martin was a meek, mild-mannered man. He was handsome, but skinny, with a meager amount of muscle mass that would never have stood a chance against the hulking, deformed giant that was Jonathan if the day ever came when the two would have to finally fight over Carol, her beautiful face, and her excellent cooking. Carol had always said to Martin, "We can’t keep living like this – someday he’s going to find out, he’s going to snap," and today was when that fate would play out.

Jonathan stood up on his piece of furniture, still facing Martin. Because he had uneven footing on the decaying cushions, he flipped over the back of the couch and landed on all fours, crushing the bag of beef jerky Martin had brought him. He stuck his head out further than he normally did and screamed a strangled, feral scream, letting out a rush of stale air. He scampered over to Martin, teeth bared all the way up to his light gray gums. No one, no one, was allowed eat Carol but him.

Jonathan lunged at Martin, but what Martin lacked in strength, he made up for in speed. He hoisted Carol’s Crockpot of boiling broth and adamantly threw the savory soup immediately in the trajectory of Jonathan’s jump. The burning liquid melted Jonathan’s light gray skin, made it peel away like the plastic wrapping that those pieces of beef jerky came in, and exposed the dusty, stringy bundles of light gray meat that lay beneath that thin, translucent wrapper.

Jonathan fell short of Martin and started writhing on the ground like an ant caught in the focal point of a high-power magnifying glass under the fiery sky on one of those sweltering summer days. Carol gasped and took a few steps back. She looked around to see if there was something she could do to help Martin – Jonathan would recover and eat him if she simply stood around and watched the fight play out. Then she turned to her right and saw something that would probably be useful: a meat cleaver.

She slowly walked over to where Jonathan was sprawled on the kitchen floor, feeling the cleaver in her hands. She ran her fingers down its thick, wide blade, visibly lost in delusions of a world where there was only Martin, a world where they would never have to keep everything hidden away from Jonathan. She felt he heaviness of the knife in her hand, felt how it would come down on Jonathan like heaven’s thunder, the thunder he had coming for him for years, the thunder that should have came after the Amber incident. When she got to him, she looked down on the fallen giant for the first time, and a grin appeared on her face, a grin that had never appeared before, a grin that was vastly different from the pretty smile she normally wore. Martin, noticing the sudden darkness about Carol, quickly dodged out of her way and left the kitchen to find a more permanent solution.

She started with his fingers, that way he would never be able to grab anyone ever again – not her, not Amber, not Meg, not anybody. Jonathan was still squirming, still screaming, still too active to notice Carol’s gentle yet firm grip on his arm. She took her time, chopping off bit by bit as if his fingers were carrots, but kept her speed at one fitting of a skilled chef such as herself. She laughed softly, telling Jonathan that since the broth was gone, she had no ingredients to cook Martin a proper dinner, but that she really appreciated Jonathan’s contribution. She cackled a little more openly, then threw her head back and let out a jubilant squeal spiced with the maniacal joy of knowing that she would finally be free from Jonathan’s looming presence in her and Martin’s life.

Of course, by that point Jonathan had realized that Carol was holding him ever so tightly, and he (being the kind of person he was) decided to return her thoughts. With his other hand he reached out for her arm, much like he did for Amber’s, but Carol, seeing his sudden motion, snapped back to reality and instead grabbed his arm. Jonathan was strong, however, and he pulled his arm back, stretching Carol’s across his face and gaping mouth. That malicious grin quickly disappeared from Carol’s face, which now wore the cutest look of worry, just like the one on Amber’s face all those years ago. Jonathan opened his mouth wider, and started dessert.

This time, Jonathan did push a little more. Jonathan did muster up the courage to follow through. This time, Jonathan would get to heaven. He pulled Carol even closer to him, using his fingerless hand to press her body to his. She struggled for a little while, but gave in, knowing resistance was futile. Jonathan brought his face close to her neck, and she could feel the cold, musty air flowing from his mouth. Then he closed his teeth on her throat. He had chosen a great spot. There he could smell the light coconut scent of her hair, could hear the little gasps from her mouth as she entered a state of shock. There she would be dead within a couple minutes at most. As he was about to take another bite of the delicious coconut dessert had given him, Martin came back. He had a gun.

Jonathan let out a shriek of fury laced with satisfaction as chunks of Carol flew out of his open mouth. Martin was supposed to be weaker than him (that was why they were able to live in relative equilibrium), but he now clearly held the advantage. Martin must have finally gotten the nerve to ask the neighbors for the rifle they used for hunting, but the reasons for doing that were obvious now. He leveled the gun at Jonathan’s head and bit his lip before flinging out a curse muffled by the sound of the gunshot.

"Die already, you *BANG*-ing freak!"

Jonathan’s head was blown to dust with the force of the impact. His mouth finally stopped chewing; his stomach finally stopped yearning; his lungs finally stopped expelling noxious fumes as he finally stopped breathing. His life was finally over, this time for real, and his spirit was finally freed from its unholy prison. His body fell limp, as did Carol’s. Martin ran over to his wife, tears streaming from his eyes. He dropped to his knees in front of Carol, who was still struggling to see her husband’s face one last time. He wailed with regret that he had never been strong enough to protect her, never been strong enough to take over Jonathan’s role of keeping all the other men away from his beautiful, beautiful wife. Carol told him that it would be okay, that he could now live without the fear of having such a creature living in his house. She smiled that soft, precious smile of hers, only bringing Martin even more grief in knowing that this would be the last time he would see that smile. She asked him to kill her, and he knew he had to do it. He would not let her die like this.

He picked up the gun once again, this time leveling it at his wife’s face. He closed his eyes, letting tears of regret stain his cheeks, and pulled the trigger. Carol was gone.

Martin got up slowly, gun shaking in his unsteady hands. He stared with huge, watery eyes at the bloody mess splayed across the kitchen floor, the mess that was once the gorgeous face that every man in town would die for, just as Jonathan once, now twice, did.

There was no denying that Jonathan used to love Carol, even more than Martin did now. He even had a lot going for him: he was big and strong, fabulously fashionable, and actually quite charming (he was for Carol, at least). Carol, however, had no interest in him; she turned down his every attempt to get her to like him. Yet Jonathan never gave up. He pursued her, followed her everywhere until one day, Jonathan just broke. He had avoided being The Beefy Jerk in front of her, but he had exhausted all other options. So he attacked her. In his eyes, Carol was a goddess. There would have been no way for him to imagine the amount of evil she had built up in her heart because of him. Even after Carol unleashed the entirety of the blackness in her soul and kicked him to death (tarnishing her favorite glamorous white stilettos in the process) he could not understand what had hit him. None of the other men around her at the time of the beating bothered to help Jonathan. Not only was he a total jerk to everyone but Carol, they had no intention of letting her opinions of them go down the drain for a man who was really just more competition. None of that mattered, though. Not the beating, not the stained stilettos, not the other men, nothing. Jonathan had vowed to keep loving Carol until she loved him back, and he kept that vow no matter what happened to him.

Carol’s heart began plunging into darkness again once Meg somehow persuaded the family to let Jonathan live in the house. Carol had that family now, though, so she was able to keep the evil influence to a minimum. However, when Jonathan finally snapped like she said he would, so did Carol. This time she had sacrificed her whole body to kill him. This time something like stilettos could never have been enough. She wanted him dead, not just dead, and she destroyed herself to achieve that.

Martin now had permanently freed Carol from Jonathan’s mutually malicious love, and Martin now had no reason to keep living. Carol was gone. Martin turned his gaze to stare intently at the gun, still rattling and shaking in his hands. He had brought it up to his mouth and had opened up to take a bite when Max, who had been sleeping in his room, stumbled out into the hall after hearing the commotion. His vision was still blurry, so he started slumping over to the kitchen to get a better look at the mess spreading quickly in the grooves of the tile floor.

Martin slowly swiveled his eyes toward his son’s room and saw Max creeping closer with his worn, light gray pajamas were draped loosely over his body. His back was hunched, his arms limply hanging. Max stuck his head out and looked with half-closed eyes at his dad, and opened his mouth to ask what had gone on. Martin’s eyes widened and he took the gun out of his mouth, instead aiming it at Max’s.

"He got you too?!"

"Whaaaa..."

"Oh God, NO! That da–*BLAM* Jonathan!"

In a fit of rage and anguish, he pulled the trigger. Max was gone.

Martin could not take any more torment, could not take any more punishment for being too weak to free his family from Jonathan. He shoved the gun’s barrel into his mouth like a foot-long hotdog and squeezed the trigger. Martin was gone.

.   .   .

"Hey, Amber?"

"Yeah, what’s up, Meg? Oh wait, I heard what happened to your family..."

“*sigh* Yeah, I’m fine, but I’m just so confused… Jonathan, he--"

"IS HE DEAD? FOR REAL?"

"Mhm, he’s gone. For real this time. But like, I just... why would he do that?"

Meg’s eyes welled up as she brought her hand up in front of her face and closed it halfway like she was holding on to something that was no longer there.

"HA, I don’t care, as long as he’s gone. That creeping, godforsaken, mindless..."

"DON’T CALL HIM THAT! He was more than that... He was a person, too... He was just... just misunderstood..." Meg struggled to find the right words.

"Alright, you’re the one misunderstanding him. Do you have like, any idea of what it was like when he--"

"Well, I know, but--"

"No, you don’t know! I was like, scared for my life, okay? If I was standing there any longer, I would have been eaten alive. And you know what? Sometimes I wonder whether it would have been better if he did! No one really cared as long as he didn’t touch anyone, but my mom would have totally killed him if he even licked me!"

"But he never--"

"Don’t you get it? Nobody wanted that freaking zo-- that thing around, except you. And now, because of how messed up you are, your mom, dad, and brother are all dead. They aren’t like him, you know. They aren’t gonna just pop out of the ground one day and come back, okay? They’re gone."

"..."

"You know what? Whatever. If you don’t care, I’m not gonna keep trying to explain it to you. I hope you feel better soon."

Meg heard a dull click through the receiver. Amber was gone.

Remnants 17 - The Writing Life: Thoughts

Uuuuuuh...

So as is probably expected of me given my current views on writing, I found Chapter 1 of Annie Dillard's The Writing Life to be somewhat...tedious.

Remnants 16 - A character

I haven't made a huge number of characters, and a couple the ones I have made are all kind of a joke. For this likable unlikeable character contest, I'll try my best to create an unlikeable character that ends up liked. And yes, restating the prompt will totally help.

Remnants 15 - Hiatus

Sorry I forgot to put some kind of greeting in that last post. I had one in Remnants 13, but as you may have read, that went offline recently after it went online. Anyway, I'm back after a random break from writing I decided to take after wracking my brains trying to come up with a decent ingredients post for my short story. Maybe that break helped me with totally ruining my Stanford application, but whatever - I liked it, so if they don't then I still have no regrets in writing it. Today, I feel like writing one of those generic shorts I pretend to hate so much. Thus I present to you "Hiatus".

Remnants 14 - A wise man named Peter

A wise man named Peter once came and said to me something about how posting my Stanford responses on the Internet was probably a bad idea, but Remnants 13 - A new year, a new wtfdidijustwrite will still remain available, as it is still sitting as an unsaved pile of words and HTML in notepad.exe. Email me if you want a couple of fresh, unique responses to some otherwise generic questions from one of the most highly selective schools in the nation.

Mix 7 - the colored ice cream [choice dreamer colet]

Daisy Colet never asked for anything.

Ingredients 4 - More Short Story Drafting

q|o O|p
\D/

**WARNING**

What I have here will be disturbing. Please note that the fact that I know it is disturbing is a clear indication that I am not disturbing.

In case you want to spare yourself from having to read disturbing things now, I've put all the disturbing things after the break. I will, however, write this post with some level of effort to make you want to read it, just so I can laugh internally at your disturbance.

Anyway, last time I wrote about my short story, I introduced Jonathan. I'll tell you now that Jonathan is not the kind of person you think he is, unless I've already told you in person what kind of person he is. When you read the excerpt later in this post, you will clearly see what I mean. Even if you do read the excerpt, though, you will still be mistaken.

See, my reason for writing this story (besides it being required) is not to subtly share some kind of deep, emotional, soppy experience in my life. I'm not trying to let you in on issues with my family or my love life. Even if I had one of those kinds of stories to tell, frankly, I'd think it's somewhat silly to have to use the mask of a "fiction" piece to pour my heart out. You know why fact is stranger than fiction? It's because people are too weak to write fact as it is, so instead they think they can get by by writing some "fiction" thing that dumbs it down enough so that others can experience the "same" feelings that the authors did. In the world of fact, there is no feeling that can be expressed exactly through words, so don't even try. Different people feel different about different things, and the more you try to cater to those differences, the more unclear your story becomes, and then it loses its original intent.

...Sorry, that was me just ranting about how I feel like what I've been reading is so generic. Somewhere, deep down, I do enjoy reading stories like that, so keep writing them, people.

I digress. For some reason or another, I've decided to build my story upon a premise that no one has any true experience with, something unreal. Try as you might to understand Jonathan by imposing your realities on his actions and descriptions, you will not understand fully until I tell you. Maybe I wanted to feel somehow superior to all of you by keeping you in the dark. Maybe I was just tired of reading the same thing over and over, so I thought I'd be the one to MIX it up. Maybe I actually am trying to share my true, inner feelings with the world (although I certainly hope not). Maybe...

Read it, criticize it, analyze it, do whatever you want to it. Just keep in mind that even I am not completely sure what my intents are in writing this story.

Remnants 11 - You have the power to believe

This post is in part a response to Lich Arr's post on states of existence.

Remnants 9 - I have issues

So a couple minutes ago I read this post on Wesley's blog and it made me reflect a little on something I've reflected on increasingly in recent times.

That aforementioned something is my ability to set my priorities straight, or lack thereof. Or maybe it's my general laziness. Or my selective dedication/determination/willingness to exert myself. Or m...

Whatever that something is, I'll be describing it in this post, so allow me to introduce you to one of its little quirks that I think really helps define it.

Mix 5 - in the name of love [flame on the vine o']

Damn. Damn it.

I need to make a decision. Now. Continuing to stand here would be dangerous. Think. If I drop down to the left, I can make a quick enough getaway to keep myself relatively intact. But that means I'd have to start over again. I've come all this way; there's no way I'm going to back down now. It's taken relatively little energy to lay low and avoid capture, so I should have no problems fighting. But I didn't plan on ever getting caught. I didn't plan on fighting, so I didn't even consider how many of them I would be up against.

Damn it.

Ingredients 2 - Short Story Drafting

! ! !

A second INGREDIENTS post, and it's on something that isn't a post!

Assigned Blog Post 06 - YOU SO CRAZY!!!

(yes, caps and multiple exclamation points were necessary)

So, over the course of this course, I feel like I've gotten to know a lot of my fellow classmates much better, and a lot of that can be attributed to what I read on their blogs. Not only do these blogs give me an opportunity to steal delicious infos about the people with whom I spend about 1/4 of each day, they provide me great pieces of writing to simply enjoy as a normal person, someone who lives life and goes through all of its joys and pains and whatever else gets thrown in the mix.

Remnants 8 - Late-night Limbo: Part 4 (Living Dream)

Remnants 6 - Late-night Limbo: Part 3 (Life Balance)

Life Balance by Nagisa Cosmetic. Listen to it here AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Life Balance. IT'S DANGEROUS. When I mentioned seeing how high you and a friend can get yourselves in Late-night Limbo: Part 1 and self-induced limbo in Part 2, I was talking about Life Balance.

Life Balance is a special song (to say the least) that brings about a special type of limbo. Wesley said that this song keeps him up at night. Unlike all other forms of limbo that I've discussed, this kind actually allows retention of consciousness and maybe even promotes body activity. This, however, says nothing about the exact level of mental processing that goes on while the mind is suspended in Life Balance. I'll tell you this upfront - it's low. Please don't expect much from this post, because I'm writing it while listening to Life Balance on repeat.

Remnants 5 - Late-night Limbo: Part 2 (Piecewise Fail)

Today is one of those days where I surprisingly don't end up in late-night limbo by 11 o'clock (incidentally, I employed a combination of fruit juice and timed explosion of Hatsukoi Limited to keep me afloat). Therefore, I will detail my findings on a second form of limbo that I have encountered.

This form of limbo is similar to my 11 o'clock Fail in that a total loss of consciousness is reached. What differentiates the two, however, is that Piecewise Fail is just that - a version of late-night limbo that comes in defined waves of high and low strength, leading to periodic moments of relative awareness that cause even more confusion than 11 o'clock Fail.

Remnants 4 - Late-night Limbo: Part 1 (11 o'clock Fail)

I've always been pretty good at doing the limbo, not just because I'm short. I have good enough knee and back strength to bend into a bridge from standing. I think at some point in middle school we for some reason were doing a limbo competition thing and I won.

But late-night limbo is something else entirely. It's still focused on the concept of "how low can you go," but more in a mental sense, rather than physical. See, late-night limbo is all about having a competition with yourself to see just how low-level your mental processes become before you just lose and fall asleep from exhaustion. It's generally a single-player thing, but sometimes you can bring a friend along and see who loses first, or see how high you can get yourselves before falling back down to normal thought patterns.

Late-night limbo is not just an activity, but also a state of being and possibly an alternate dimension. Within the coming weeks I will seek to chronicle my trips into late-night limbo and its various forms.

Remnants 3 - ay, where's mah creativity at?

So lately I've been working on a really long mix, but beyond that I feel like I'm not having any ideas of my own.

Assigned Blog Post 04 - Bindleton? Milderweicht? Luza Bay City?

So...names for our version of Winesburg, Ohio. Bindleton sounded like a good name for a kind of mellow town with a humdrum sort of life. I guess by having an underlying mundane nature for the town I figured we could have fun unmundane-ifying it. Milderweicht just sounded cool, and apparently it means "mild softened" in German.