karatetentacles

ok I started writing this thing it is not polished or done or anything but I don't want to blog really so you get this ok you're welcome!

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Strange how butterflies once so familiar looked so foreign.

Were they out of place, or was she?

So hastily stuck on once-bare walls, as a 14-year-old girl giddily peeled off stickers and haphazardly aligned them. She had intentionally varied the sizes and colors of the butterfly stickers, as to look more organic. Because nothing said "natural" like synthetic stickers on a white wall.

But the color wasn't white – it was "ivory." Or "eggshell." Or something else precise and specific and detailed. But to her, the walls were white. White, with the top adorned with multicolored butterfly stickers. At one point, a bed sat directly below the stickers. It was how the girl had gotten them that high to begin with. There were about 15 stickers, decently sized (approximately the same size as a baseball, though they varied), situated near where the white wall met the white popcorn ceiling. They looked so awkward, in such an unremarkable part of the room. The bed was now against the opposite wall, a desk too far to the left. What belonged below the butterflies?

A woman was staring at the butterflies. Or, more accurately, the spot underneath them.

-- Well now, this is sure to be a helluva story, Mr. William. These two were just "chilling" in the school parking?
-- Yes sir. They followed me to school.
-- From where, might I ask?
-- From my house, sir.
-- Right. A smartass.
-- Sir, I can assure you, Dodger and Betsey are well-behaved and would never, I mean never, stampede into a car without some sort of provocation!
-- Oliver William, we all know how you feel about James O'Brian. How might have Mr. O'Brian provoked these animals?
-- I swear, sir, Dodger and Betsey: they're the sweetest hippos in the world. They've been a couple forever, way longer than your marria-
-- My private affairs have nothing to do with these hippos, Mr. William. What exactly do you intend to do about Mr. O'Brian's car?
-- Sir, as Jimmy clearly did something to upset the hippos, my uncle will pay for half the damages to the car. You know, my uncle, the zookeeper, who I live with since the death of my parents...
-- Don't play that pity card with me, Mr. William. Now, I expect you to return the key to the hippo's cage to your uncle, pay full damages to Mr. O'Brian's car, and issue an apology to the custodial crew who have to clean up the... mess your "friends" made.
-- Mr. Frederickson, sir - can I call you Buddy?
-- No.
-- Buddy. Please. The hippos came of their own free will. I didn't steal my uncle's key! Jimmy O'Brian has always been immature, ever since he pantsed me in front of the entire school after I beat him in the spelling bee. This childish behavior must have been what provoked the hippos to stampede into his car!
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unfinished. let me know what you think. I wrote it today in writer's workshop. :)

the world in your head is never what it really is, but you don't know what you want anyway and you try so hard and accomplish so little and no one notices you but you try not to care and you try and hide your insecurities instead of trying to embrace them I am a million tiny feathers you have no idea what I've been through I was tame and now I am wild I have become something I never imagined for myself I have become something I've never wanted to be never dreamed of being it feels so good to be alive and on top but I cry but I have so little but I'll become my parents and no matter what I do I'm always myself because you can never hide because you will always find yourself and you don't need to run away and you don't need to go to Europe you are always with yourself and you always act like yourself you just don't act how others envision you acting and it's not your job to act how other people picture you because they don't act how you picture them and you can hide and you can cry and you can sleep it all away but eventually you will find yourself and they will tell you they can tame you, that they own you, that they will freeze you and break you, but I am the ocean. I will spread myself like wings. I am a million tiny feathers. You have no idea what's happened to me.

He has absolutely no idea who I am, but his hand is on my thigh like we're friends, maybe more.

I was sitting, in my low-cut shirt, my short-shorts, my hair up and make-up covering my face. Legs crossed, chest mostly concealed by my book: Catcher in the Rye. A favorite of mine. Funny, because I'm the phoniest person alive.

It was in Starbucks, the phoniest place I'd ever seen. My shoes were from Wal-Mart, and I had braces when I was younger. I stuffed my bra until I was 17. I'm 19 now. In college, majoring in psychology, mostly because I think I need a psychologist.

He had a crew-cut, and a winner of a smile. He couldn't take his eyes off me, but he could certainly not keep them on my face.

He walked over with a plain, black coffee in hand - I'd heard him order. He had said, very clearly, "I want the biggest-size black coffee, no sugar, no fruity shit." Obviously he was compensating for something. There wasn't much in his pants, I would later discover. I feign omniscience, but really I don't know anything. Really, I'm just faking.

"I used to play soccer," he tells me. He did have nice calf muscles. I smiled, and said, "I preferred basketball." It was innocent, it was flirting. I shift my leg so he knows that he can't touch me there. Not yet, anyway.

I had put down my book, my favorite book, to talk to this guy, this phony, about sports. That was where my life was.

"Hey, I've read that book," he had said. Brilliant pick-up line. The follow up: "I don't remember much of it."
"Oh, it's quite good," I said, trying to make it seem as though I wasn't interested. I knew he'd pursue me anyway, at that point.
"I bet, a nice girl like reading it, it has to be good."

"Could I get your number?" he asks, his hand now off my thigh. I smile slyly, and pull a pen from behind my ear.

I looked like a typical product of the system, the Combine, the Establishment -- but it was just a nineteen-year-long experiment. I could look like this and attract attention, or I could look like the girls like me and attract nothing.

"My name's Chet."
"Mine's... Heather."

It wasn't Heather.

I had woken up prematurely in order to go to work at the nursery with a bunch of squealing, baby children who like to steal toys and whine and make me play with legos. Of course, I was not excited. I didn't have enough time to brush my teeth, and my retainer, Waldo, felt gross, so I took him out of my mouth and left him.

Upon returning home, smelling of stale cheerios and teen angst, I trudge my aching body upstairs and collapse in my bed. There's a pain in my upper thigh, and at first I'm too tired to care. Then I decide that there must be something under my thigh (my bed is the home of several shirts, dresses, books, gum wrappers, a pay check, a dollar, and poptarts wrappers), and it turns out to be Waldo. I push him out from under my thigh, pull up the covers, and fall asleep.

Upon waking up, I fling the blanket off myself, unaware of the time or where I am. Disoriented and still exhausted, I hear a "clunk!" and discover Waldo MISSING.

Still exhausted, I'm too tired to care about the missing Waldo and trudge downstairs. I eat or something. I dance or something. I watch TV or something. Hard to say for sure, but eventually I walk back upstairs and realize, "Fuck. I don't have Waldo."

There is no conclusion for this blog, as Waldo is still lost, somewhere in my room. Perhaps he was eaten by my pillows. Maybe the rats under my bed decided to take it as their captive until I fulfill their ridiculous demands (they want an 24 hour all-you-can-eat ice cream buffet, and also all the pigeons to return to their rightful place on land. Either that or they want to have wings... yeah right, you filthy rats). I'm not sure where he is. I can only hope he's safe, waiting for the reunion with my mouth...

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This has been my 100th blog post. Now I'm going to look for Waldo.

Note: For my performance class in eighth grade, we did doing a play, but the only one our teacher could find was 30 minutes long, and she wanted to to be only 20 minutes. She gave the job to moi to cut it down, and, well, I pretty much totally edited to be Katy-fied. Hope you like it. ;D Anything in parenthesis is something the actor has to do. Sorry it's so awful.

Scaredy Cat

Characters:
GREG COLLIER, a private detective
HELEN PORTER, an actress – beneficiary in Leo Porter’s will
TOM DIXON, sarcastic – beneficiary in Leo Porter’s will
CYNTHIA MEADOWS, an aristocrat – beneficiary in Leo porter’s will
MR. FLEMING, executor of Porter estate
MS. MEGGS, housekeeper
BILL LAYTON, family black sheep
SUSIE, Cynthia’s maid

TIME: Late evening
SETTING: The drawing room of Leo Porter’s mansion
AT RISE: HELEN, TOM, CYNTHIA, and MR. FLEMING are seated in a semicircle, hands joined, at table downstage right, holding a séance. A lighted floor lamp stands next to table. Thunder and occasional gusts of wind are heard from offstage.

HELEN: Uncle Leo, can you hear me? (Pause) Uncle Leo, are you here with us? Can you give us a sign? (Thunder is heard; a cat screams. Greg comes on stage right with a large cat in his arms and flicks a light switch. Lights come on, Helen and Cynthia jump to their feet)
Cynthia: Oh, Gregory, you’ve ruined the séance, and on earth did that cat come from?
Tom: Cousin Cynthia, don’t be so hostile. Greg, won’t you join us on our creep-tastic way of communicating to the dead?
Helen: Oh, Tom, do be quiet, and respect Uncle Leo’s wishes.
Tom: You know you’re glad. What’s the point of this séance, anyway?
Fleming: It specified to do this in your uncle’s will. I wouldn’t question it.
Helen: Nor would I.
Tom: I wouldn’t trust anything in that will; it says Uncle Leo left 50,000 dollars to that cat! (Tom points to the cat in Greg’s arms)
Fleming: Your uncle was rather fond of Mr. Timothy-
Helen (cutting him off): As he should be. None of us have visited Uncle Leo in years!
Cynthia: I have an excuse! I was abroad!
Tom: Oh, Cynthia, you doll, I’m sure it was perfectly planned that our dear, sweet Uncle fell ill and died whilst your travels ended. You came running when you heard he left you some cash.
Cynthia: Oh, you think you’re so clever, Thomas. I’m sure you’re going to just give away your legacy.
Tom: Of course! It’s all going to the “Buy-Tom-a-Beach-House” fund for starving African babies.
Cynthia (yawning): Oh, ha ha. I’m going upstairs. I do wish this place wasn’t so terribly understaffed, Mr. Fleming.
Fleming: Well, Ms. Meggs is the only staff member, and she’s off visiting her sister who fell ill.
Helen: Oh, Ms. Meggs, I do miss her.
Cynthia (distracted): Oh, yes yes, Ms. Meggs, Ms. Meggs. I’m rather glad I brought Susie along, though. Come along, Tom.
Tom (sarcastically): Oh, my cousin, I would follow you anywhere! (They exit stage right)
Fleming: Well, aren’t they a pair?
Helen: An awful pair, indeed.
Fleming: Well, I’d best feed Mr. Timothy-he’s a very expensive cat, you know. (He exits stage left)
Greg: It’s just us now, I see.
Helen: I’ve been meaning to ask you. What are you doing here? I know about your little detective company. What’s this about?
Greg: I seem to be caught. You do realize how valuable Mr. Timothy is, don’t you?
Helen: I do, but why is that important?
Greg: People have been killed for less than 50,000 dollars, Helen. Mr. Fleming hired me to protect that precious cat’s hide. (Tom enters stage left with a Popsicle)
Tom: Aloha, senor, senorita.
Helen (confused): What happened with Cynthia? Where’d you get that Popsicle?
Tom: Her? Oh, I left her. Too much whining. Got the Popsicle out of the freezer. I just wanted to interrupt this very important almost-becoming-flirty dialogue with some even more important news.
Greg: That news would be… (Tom swallows the entire Popsicle.)
Tom: Mr. Timothy’s name would shorten to Mr. T. Just thought I should mention it. (Tom exits stage right)
Helen: That Tom. He never grew up.
Greg: Well, I’d better get to my job. (He winks at Helen. The two exit right. Susie enters left, sneakily, and peers around, then beckons to someone offstage. Bill enters)
Susie: I think you’re safe. Everyone’s upstairs: I’d better get there soon.
Bill: That Cynthia. She couldn’t tie her own shoes. (Susie giggles, but catches herself and straightens her blouse)
Susie: Well, she’s not so bad.
Bill: It sure was brave o’ you to sneak me in de basement, my dear.
Susie: It was nothing. Just don’t tell anyone it was me.
Bill: Oh, sure.
Susie: It was even braver of you to come back, knowing the family hates you. You lost your inheritance!
Bill: I had to come back, but not for the inheritance. Just to prove that I care about everyone and I miss them.
Susie: Oh, how noble! (Knocking is heard stage left. Susie looks around, panicked. She looks to Bill for support, eyes wide and mouth agape.)
Bill: Answer it! Just don’t let anyone see me!
Susie: Quick! Behind the drapes!
Bill: Yes, excellent plan! (Bill dashes behind the drapes, concealing himself. His feet are shown, but he hides them with a broom. Susie answers the door, Ms. Meggs comes onstage. She bows to Susie and removes her soaking wet coat and places her two suitcases on the ground next to the drapes, further concealing Bill’s feets.)
Meggs: Oh, what an awful night. An awful, awful, awful night.
Susie: Yes, indeed, ma’am. Thunderous and lightening-ous.
Meggs (laughing): Oh, how clever of you. Who are you and what is your business here?
Susie: I’m Susie, Miss Cynthia’s maid.
Meggs: Cynthia Meadows, yes, the name is quite familiar. I haven’t seen her, or any of the other children, in nearly 15 years!
Susie: So, are you Ms. Meggs?
Meggs: Oh, how rude of me. Yes, I’m Ms. Meggs.
Susie: I thought Mr. Fleming said you sister was ill and you were with her and couldn’t be here.
Meggs: Oh, Hazel, yes, that dearie-dearie-dear. She wasn’t ill at all! (Annoyed) The wire must’ve been sent by a practical joker! And I was needed so badly by you and my precious Adeline! How I’d like to get my hands on him! I’d ring his neck and hang his head as a trophy in my room.
Susie: That’s… violent.
Cynthia (offstage, in sing-song-manner): Suuusaaana, oh SUSAAAAAAAANNA!
Susie: That’s Ms. Cynthia. I best tend to her. (Susie looks at the drapes, hoping Bill understands. She begins yelling to make sure he knows) I’M LEAVING TO TEND TO MS. CYNTHIA NOW!
Meggs (slightly offended): My, dear, I’m not that old. Go on, I can take care of myself.
(Susie, embarrassed, bows slightly and exits stage right. Ms. Meggs removes her hat and places it on the rack next to her coat. She picks up her suitcase and notices the broom behind the drapes. Puzzled, she begins to think aloud.)
That’s odd. Brooms shouldn’t be behind drapes.
(Bill, scared, shifts around, revealing his feets. Ms. Meggs, curious, looks behind the draperies, and opens her mouth wide. Bill steps out from behind the curtains, head down in shame. Ms. Meggs, dramatically, while pointing at Bill, exclaims…)
BILL LAYDON, THE FAMILY BLACK SHEEP!
(Dramatic music – bum bum buuuum! – plays as Bill Laydon bows slightly.)
Bill: Yes, it is I.
Meggs: What on Earth are you doing here? I thought you were disowned! Forgotten! Away on random travels!
Bill: Well, I certainly haven’t been forgotten…
Meggs (with laughter): Well, how nice of you to join! (She hugs him, forgivingly.) Have you seen everyone else?
Bill: You found me behind a curtain. What do you think?
Meggs (continuing laughter): I see, well, let’s go join them. Oh, but first, I’d best get something out of my room.
Bill: What do you need?
Meggs: After your uncle’s death, I felt quite alone, so I ordered a license for a gun.
Bill: My, Ms. Meggs! You certainly aren’t the quiet old lady I thought you had become! (Ms. Meggs smiles devilishly and takes Bill’s arm)
Meggs: Let us be off! (They exit stage right. Clocks chime 11. Storm sounds are made. Helen and Greg enter stage right.)
Helen: (makes grunting noises) Mr. Fleming insists we perform that awful séance again. That just creeps me out.
Greg: Understandable. I think I’d best leave Mr. Timothy in his box by the stove, shouldn’t I?
Helen: I suppose. Will he wander?
Greg: No, Mr. Fleming says Mr. Timothy only stays in the kitchen and he used to go in the summerhouse.
Helen: Yes, I heard it burned down. Was Mr. Timothy hurt?
Greg: When I asked Mr. Fleming about it, he didn’t say anything. But he did chuckle a bit to himself…
Helen: Well, that’s weird. (Gunshots and screams are heard offstage. Greg runs off right, head turned toward the noise. Cynthia, Tom, and Susie appear from behind the curtain-center.) What happened?
Cynthia (out of breath): I heard gunshots and freaked out! Luckily, Tom and Susie were there to keep me from passing out! Ooh, I do wish I brought along some of my mineral water. I’m parched.
Tom (excited): Yeah, it was so weird! We were upstairs, and from the room next to ours, there were gunshots! Some girl screamed, and there were two “clunks” as people hit the ground!
Helen: Greg’s up there now!
Tom (sarcastically): Wow! How brave! Run in the face of danger, it is a sign of nobility! (Mr. Fleming appears from stage right, grabbing onto Bill’s right arm.)
Cynthia: William??!
Helen: Bill!
Tom (who was looking the opposite direction, turning to face Mr. Fleming and Bill): Huh?
Cynthia: William Layton. Our long-lost-cousin. Don’t you ever pay attention?
Tom (sadly): Not since I got off the drugs.
Cynthia: Cut it out. Be serious. What happened, Mr. Fleming?
Fleming: When I heard the gunshots, I rushed to the room where I heard them. I found Ms. Meggs on the floor, and Bill was passed out.
Bill: I didn’t do anything.
Cynthia: I thought Ms. Meggs was with her sister.
Tom: Who cares?! There’s a dead old bat on the floor!
Susie: How do you know she’s dead? (Greg enters right)
Greg: He’s right! She’s dead!
Helen: How horrible!
Cynthia: Dreadful!
Bill: Awful!
Tom (speaking quickly and precisely): Depressing! Alarming! Shocking! Atrocious! Pick your interjection!
Cynthia: Tom! Please! Bill, did you kill her?
Bill: Me? Of course not! There’s no motive, no nothing!
Cynthia: Why were you with her? Why are you here?
Tom: Yeah! Why were you with her? Why are you here?
Bill: I came to tell you all—
Susie (cutting him off): He came to tell you all—.
Bill (cutting her off): I came to tell you all that I still love all of you and don’t care about Uncle Leo’s money and I’m not afraid!
Susie: Oh, how noble! (Susie latches on to Bill)
Cynthia: Oh, Susana!
Tom (slaps his knee and begins playing imaginary banjo and singing): Oh, Susana, don’t you cry for me, ‘cuz I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee! (Helen totally slaps Tom upside the head.)
Cynthia (after a short, awkward pause): (cough) Oh, Susana! I don’t believe this!
Susie: Believe it!
Tom: NARUTOOOO! (Helen slaps him again)
Susie: I have a private life! I’ve known Bill Layton for quite some time, and you know what? You can forget your stuck-up little attitude and find yourself a new maid, because IIIII QUIT! (Tom applauds, Susie makes small bow)
Greg: Enough! We’d best call the police!
Tom: Yeah, the fuzz’ll save us!
Helen: Oh, Ms. Meggs! I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill her!
Greg: I can’t understand why she was home in the first place!
Bill: Well, when she came through the door, she said that she never got a telegram from her sister, and didn’t know where it came from.
Susie: Yeah, I remember that. Hazel wasn’t sick at all!
Greg: Why were you with her, Bill?
Bill: Well, Ms. Meggs was crazy-paranoid and had a gun and wanted to get it. Then we went to her room, and someone hit me on the back of the head and I fell over unconscious. Then, I guess Ms. Meggs got shot by her own gun.
Greg: Yeah, you do have a pretty nasty looking bruise on the back of your head.
Susie: Oh, you poor thing! How noble!
Tom (mocking): How noble!
Bill: That’s the truth, Greg. What do we do from here?
Fleming: Well, things don’t look too good for you, Bill. First of all, you weren’t invited here anyway and have a motive for killing as you get no money in the will. But Ms. Meggs didn’t share in the will, so that doesn’t make much sense. I guess you’re kind of safe there. But you were found next to our poor victim.
Susie: Bill did not kill Ms. Meggs.
Bill: I did not kill Ms. Meggs. (Susie looks alluringly at Bill, eyes a-flutter)
Greg: Did Ms. Meggs say anything else besides the fact her sister was not ill? Anything at all?
Bill: Well…
Greg: Well what?
Susie: She mentioned something about Adeline and how she was needed by Adeline.
Cynthia: Who’s Adeline?
Tom (Baha Men style): Yeah, who? Who? Who?
Helen: Tom, for real, be serious.
Tom: Sorry Helen, that’s just not my thing. (Helen sighs and shrugs)
Greg: Well, I’m going to check upstairs in Ms. Megg’s room for anything suspicious. (Greg leaves stage right)
Helen: Wait for me! I want to help! (She chases after him)
Cynthia: I don’t understand. Who’s Adeline?
Tom: Oh, I don’t know, probably some creepy old lady-type friend who Ms. Meggs has over every Tuesday for some poker and potato chips. (Cynthia gives Tom “shut up” look and then looks at Susie)
Cynthia: Susana, for real, who do you think Adeline is?
Susie: I don’t know. It’s not Ms. Megg’s sister: that’s Hazel. Do you think… no, it’s impossible…
Bill: What?
Susie: Well… I snuck you in here, right, Bill? Well… what if… someone… else… (Susie’s takes deep breaths as her speaking slows)
Cynthia: Wait, are you saying someone else could be here?! Hiding?! Amongst us?!
Fleming: I assure you, that’s quite impossible.
Susie: But what if…
Fleming: No. I assure you; no one can get into this house without my knowledge or help from the inside.
Bill: Well, what if someone is helping from the inside?
Cynthia (defensively): What, are you accusing me? Is that what you’re doing, William? I knew it! I knew it! You hate me, you hate me; you’re getting back at me for all my years of beating you in croquet!
Tom: Holy inferiority complex, Cynthia! Man, you’re really worked up about this. That’s kinda funny. I thought you were some huge underwater basket-weaving fan.
Bill: Cynthia, I was not accusing you.
Tom: Yeah, he was not accusing you.
Cynthia: Well, you wouldn’t accuse your precious Susie, would you? No. And Tom, everyone knows he can’t think!
Tom: I resent that.
Cynthia: And… Mr. Fleming… (A look of realization appears on Cynthia’s face. Helen and Greg enter from behind curtain-center.)
Helen: Look at what Greg and I found!
Tom: A saucer! Does it fly? (Mr. Fleming looks around suspiciously, then sneaks out stage left.)
Greg: No, it’s a saucer for milk. For a cat. Look, there’s still a bit of milk on the side. We found it in Ms. Megg’s room, next to her corpse.
Helen: I have a few questions for Mr. Fleming… where did he go? (Greg starts talking to Tom, Bill, and Susie about Mr. Fleming’s crime in a very low whisper. Focus on Cynthia and Helen.)
Cynthia: Why do you need to ask him questions?
Helen: I think… (her voice lowers to a whisper) I think Mr. Fleming killed Ms. Meggs, and Mr. Timothy! (Cynthia almost screams, but Helen covers her mouth) Greg and I figure Mr. Fleming set the summerhouse on fire then sent Ms. Meggs away, but when she came back, he killed her! When I looked at Mr. Timothy, I realized it wasn’t a “Mr.”! (Cynthia gasps, and begins fanning herself with her hand. Greg and Tom join them, center-stage.)
Cynthia (in regular voice): Where is Mr. Fleming?
Tom: I think I saw him sneakily slip out the back door! Let’s go get him!
Greg: Here, here! (They all run off stage left. Mr. Fleming enters stage right, scared. Tom, Cynthia, Helen, and Greg all enter stage right, out of breath.)
Helen (slightly panting): We’ve got you now, you fiend!
Cynthia: Yeah! We know you killed Ms. Meggs!
Fleming: Me? That’s impossible, for you see… (he turns his back to the audience, puts on an alien mask, and turns back to them) I am an alien! (Mr. Fleming makes strange “ooh”s and “aah”s to scare the four people away)
Tom: PLOT TWIST! (Bill takes a step toward the alien.)
Bill: I’m not afraid of you!
Fleming: Keep back! I’ll sick my alien-type animals on you!
Bill: I’m going to get you!
Susie: Oh, how noble! (Susie is mocked by Tom. Mr. Fleming pulls out an alien-looking ray gun and shoots it at Bill. Bill ducks and flings himself at Fleming, pushing him to the ground. Fleming’s mask comes off, revealing his human face once again)
Helen: That’s no alien! Tom, Bill, grab him! Take him to the cupboard under the stairs! I’ll call the cops!
Tom: Well, that was totally anticlimactic… let’s go, partna’. Bill, you can stay here with your little girlfriend. (Tom winks and exits with Fleming in his arms stage right. Susie clings onto Bill)
Susie: That was the bravest thing I ever saw. I was so scared. (Susie looks longingly into Bill’s eyes)
Bill: Don’t mention it.
Cynthia: You aren’t hurt, are you? I suppose I owe you an apology, William. You saved us all.
Bill: It’s okay; it wasn’t a real ray gun, anyway.
Helen: It’s a shame you were written out of Uncle’s will. Wait, I’ve got it… you can have Mr. Timothy’s share!
Cynthia: That’s fine with me!
Bill: No, really, I couldn’t take the money… (Tom appears from behind the curtain-center)
Tom: I’ll take it!
Cynthia: Thomas, this is William’s time to shine. Is Mr. Fleming taken care of?
Tom: He won’t be getting out of THAT closet anytime soon. Not that he’d want to, though.
Cynthia: Well, I knew Mr. Fleming was behind that whole murder. I figured it out all by myself. But I’m still confused. Who’s Adeline?
Helen: It’s Mrs. Megg’s cat; the one Mr. Fleming told us was Mr. Timothy.
Greg: Well, that’s another mystery solved. I’ll see you guys later.
Cynthia: Toodles, Gregory! (Greg hugs Cynthia, then Helen, shakes hands with Tom and Bill, and waves goodbye to Susie, then exits right. Curtain closes.)

IT’S THE END!

opinion piece -- online journalism "practice" writing.

George Washington Carver - scientist, botanist, educator, and inventor - is famed for his many discoveries involving that useful little nut we've grown accustomed to: the peanut. Peanuts are high in protein, the "good kind" of fat, and are just generally tasty. Though sometimes they can leave that feeling in your mouth - the one leaving you salivating, with a need for water or a nice soda, - it seems the general opinion is that peanuts are awesome.

There are some, however, who don't find peanuts quite so "awesome."

There are those who are allergic, those who are still worked up over the peanut butter salmonella scare and those who find the choleric intake too much to handle. Being allergic is one thing, but the other two claims are ridiculous. If we, as a human species, were to be perpetually afraid of every product ever infected by salmonella, we'd have nothing left to eat! Well, nothing delicious, anyway.

Personally, I am a big fan of peanuts. Writing this article makes me hungry for a big jar of peanut butter and a spoon - no other products necessary. And peanuts are the perfect snack food, according to four people at bestuff.com.

And another great thing about peanut butter? Pine Cone Bird Feeders! Endless entertainment, and it costs practically nothing.

So whether you're looking for a tasty snack or some great fun, peanuts and their byproducts (most of which were invented by George Washington Carver) are great things to consider.

and I will dance.

I will dance on the highest building, when the world is falling apart,
I will dance as the waves come in, crushing all, suffocating,
And while the world is sleeping,
waiting for doom,
hearing the sirens,
knowing the end is near,
not willing to accept their fates,
not willing to take on their destinies,
I will know the time has come and I will dance.

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kansas -

when I stand here, see the plains stretched across for miles and miles,
I see straight into the future, see straight into the past.
I need to escape this constant plane of time,
where all is visible.
it s t r e t c h e s so far, but not far enough:
I want to know more about past and future,
I want to know what's coming, I try and find,
search for answers, frantically,
terrified of what's to come, of what I've done.

but when mountains surround me,
I find peace.

------------

People always claim that nature is calming.
I have my doubts.
You've heard the birds chirping into the late night, all hours of the day, constantly fearing for their lives, for their safety, hungry and searching and calling out to others? The birds aren't calmed, they're alert.
And you've seen the ants, always busy, always working.
And the flies and bugs and beetles: always buzzing, even at five in the morning, getting in the way and becoming a nuisance.
And walking in nature -- not a walk in a park. Not even a walk in the park is a walk in the park. It takes concentration, focus, no time to let thoughts wander. Look out, a stray stick, a stray rock! Head's up, dog shit, horse shit. That rock looks loose, that one seems safe, tread with caution.
This is not peace.
This is chaos, this is nature.

Alright, so I have this shirt.

This shirt allows me to manipulate the sudden, random, and extremely consequential physical shifts in the universe in my favor. In some complicated, unscientific manner, I can, by channeling the power of this shirt, reap the benefits of the cosmos. It's awesome.

Some might call this a "Lucky Shirt." But no, I don't believe in luck. I believe in sudden, random, and extremely consequential shifts in the physical universe.

I've decided that the source of all this "luck," this portal to my manipulation, can be traced to the Hallows and Horcruxes Ball 2009. I'm sure you've all read that blog post, about how awesome my night was and all. I was wearing this shirt. And I think all that Awesome allows me to harness the powers of the Cosmos.

Anyway.

I've been looking through my old journal. Actually it's not that old, just a year, and it's just now filled up. My earliest entries express the same thoughts I have today:
"What's sexy about saliva?"
"wordswordswords... and that's why I hate gym class."
"Question: How did Jell-O get popular and why did they move into pudding territory?"
"My bladder is full, but I refuse to pee."
"Is it bad that I remember which way is east because of the term 'East Coast?'"

Just a sample.

I feel awkward posting my writings up on the internet. I have no problem sharing the innards of my deepest, angsty, personal moments with the internet, but there's something so much different about my writing. I think it's obvious of what I'm more embarrassed. I think it's because I know that my feelings aren't unique, but I'd like to think the words that I put on a page are unique, and posting them puts them up to scrutiny, but that's my soul, that's where I live; in the pages of my notebook(s), in the post-its on my wall.

Anyway, enough of my inner-workings. Maybe gonna film a video I've been wanting to do. I have a few other rambles that I should write out, but I won't.

I miss writing.

I still "write," but I haven't produced anything I really love in a looong time. Not even last NaNo's was all that inspiring.

I miss seeing a blank page and imagining it as opportunity. Now I see it as an obstacle, a challenge I'm just not up to.

I miss sitting in a quiet room and hearing my thoughts bounce around happily, creating a little story for only me. Now I have to turn on music, otherwise it's just overwhelming.

I need my muse.

I need inspiration.

Maybe that's why I'm so desperate to leave. I need new experiences, I need to live. I used to be so content, I used to find inspiration in the smallest things.

I'm going to try to write something. I'll let you know how it goes.

Eff eff eff I can't find my Cuckoo's Nest journal. My pristine, awesomesauce, hours-spent Cuckoo's Nest journal. D: D: D:

I stupidly let a "friend" borrow it since she was all "I don't really get what to put," and I was like "Fuck, I really don't want you to copy this, but I'll look like a jerk if I don't give it to you, but you make me feel bad about myself a lot, so whatever. Here." Ugh such a big mistake. She gave it to me earlier today, but now I can't find it!! I'm not blaming her, I'm just mad at myself. This is why peer pressure is so stupid... and why my life is so sad.

I just finished reading the book (it's really good) but now I can't do the stupid assignment (that I actually kind of enjoy doing). Ughhhh.

Also, I'm wearing my headphones. On either head phone (...?) there is either an R or an L, signifying... you know, right or left. I think it's more comfortable to wear the L on my right ear and the R on my left. REBEL I KNOW RIGHT.

Today it rained. Everyone is either like "OMG I LOVE RAIN" or "OMG I HATE IT," but I really don't care either way. I hate being wet, though. I hate getting out of showers, so usually (this is gross) I tend to not take a shower for as long as possible (although I usually only last two days, maybe three tops, but still). I just hate being wet, because it gets everything else wet, and then things have to dry...

Reminding me of Writer's Workshop, in which Ms. Beachy read us sentences sent in as "Worst First-Sentences for Novels" for some contest... thing. One of my favorites:

Her name was Mauve, like the color of paint, which was apt: not only was she "pretty as a painting," she was also "smart as paint," and certainly as thin (assuming sufficient solvents had been added); she was, however, Arnold discovered when she stepped from the shower, a lot more fun to watch dry.

Steven W Alloway
Granada Hills, CA
for more...

The year is finally winding down. I'll have a decent grade card for the first time in a long while. (By "decent," I mean no C's.) Also, BEDA is ending. This is my, and every other participant's, penultimate post. It's sad. But it's a good pre-NaNo exercise. I need the sort of writing-every-day activity, just to get pumped for it. So expect a possible second BEDA... only this time it's Blog Every Day AUGUST! 0:

BEDA 29: pwned. <3 you all.

Remember that Lavender Fields piece I posted here a while ago? Well, I reworked it a lot to go with another writer's workshop assignment: model a piece after an author you like. Now it's Vonnegutized.

---------

1
LAVENDER

The glass window was not the only thing that separated me and the lavender fields. I could almost feel the breeze on my cheek, but I never would. Everything was fuzzy, fading, a dim overcast, since I fell.

My brother, or good as, lie parallel to the floor in his cot, with no pillows to support his head. He called for his mother. He was twenty, two years older than when he first left home. He was a little boy who made a rash, stupid mistake. Maybe I was, too. He came from a traditional family, like they all did. His mother supported the war, supported his going. They cried over each other, when he left.

I chose to go to the war. I chose to leave. I was an escape artist. I didn't cry. No one did. My mom hated it.

He came from Idaho. He and his mother and his farmer-father and his little sister, growing ripe in college; they all came from Idaho. They came from the little lavender fields in Idaho. They hated the potatoes. Once, when we were separated, I found some lavender, and I stuffed my pockets full of the stuff. He always smelled of it, from growing up eating it and bathing in it. So I stuffed my shirt, stuffed my socks, stuffed my bag -- and I smelled like him. I didn't ever give it to him, though.

I blink. When I open my eyes, I can't see him. I can't see the lavender. I'm blind. I blink again. I can see again. I looked over at my brother, or good as, and coughed. He looks over at me, but couldn't say anything. Not yet. Too traumatized, said the Doctor. He could only call for his mother. I could hear him crying at night, see the tears on his bed sheets, smell the piss since he could hardly get up anymore.

I blink.

Everything goes dark.

I blink again. It's enough.

He fell apart, when he caught up with me in the lavender fields. It tore him to pieces. He remembered it, remembered his home, remembered his mother and his sister, remembered that he was German, remembered that they were German, and he lost it, got shot, fell back, broke his leg. Now the infection is setting in, slowly killing him, says the Doctor.

The Doctor didn't realize he was already dead. He had been dead. He was just continuing his deadness until eventually his mental state and his physical met, and he would be dead for the Doctor.

I had suffered damage to my Occipital lobe. Funny how I fell backward and went blind. Or I'm going blind, says the Doctor. We'll all go blind by the end of it. The Occipital lobe isn't strong enough for all of us, we can't all see everything.

We'll keep getting pushed backward, kept getting farther and farther away from the Enemy Base. We're going to wind up in the ocean. I could almost see the ocean now. By the time we made it there, though, my Occipital lobe will be beyond repair.

I wonder what will happen when we die. Because I'm as close to death as he is. Will we get an obituary? I hear a groan from my brother, or good as.

“Hey,” I grunted.
“Yeah?”
“You alright?”
I thought I saw him smile. Another groan.
“Might be. Not sure. Yet,” he said. A pause. “You know what, I think I'm going to die.”
“You'll be fine.” But he wouldn't be.
“Yeah. Maybe.”

And I lie parallel to the floor and wonder about an obituary.

2
IMPORTANCE OF ERNEST

Survived by his mother, younger sister, and father, Ernest Wilde was a foot soldier in the Second World War. He always smelled of lavender. He had many friends in the Army, but wanted to fly planes more than anything else. It was too late to get involved in the Air Force, but that never stopped Ernest! He was the perfect soldier, followed orders, and never backed down. His sense of humor kept everyone, even the superiors, laughing for hours! He never whined about being hungry – unless the meal was potatoes! - and never complained about missing home. But don't let that fool you – he loved his family and would have done anything for them or his friends. He was such a powerful force in This Man's Army, it's a wonder what we'll do without him.

Or maybe that's just what they want.

3
DOCTORED

My name is...

I don't think I can write my own obituary. It seems a bit off. Maybe I'll ask Ernest to do it for me... if he wakes up again soon. Otherwise I'll forget. I might be blind by that time. Not even the Doctor knows.

He won't give anyone a straight answer. We all wait, wondering when we'll be better, when we'll be cured. But he never says, just keeps to his rounds, keeps to himself. Says we're going to die, even if it's not right now, so why does it even matter? The nurses bring us the food and he tells us we're going to die. A lot of people go mad, off themselves with homemade nooses or just stop eating. No one really notices if it's their own fault or the Doctor's or just the actual ailment.

For Ernest, it's going to be the infection.

4
BLIND

I blink.
I open, and there's nothing.
Blink.
Nothing.
Blink, blink, blink.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
“I'm blind,” I say.
“We're all blind,” I hear, but I can't tell if I said it or if it was Ernest.

READ FIRST.

writer's workshop class.
prompt: use these words --

glass / breeze / lavender / wild / enough

He could almost see through the glass, almost see the lavender fields, almost feel the breeze against his cheek. But he never could -- never again. His vision was fading quickly, the war taking it's toll. He would never see clearly again, and soon his vision might be gone forever. The soldier was home, in his Idaho home, back with his mother. It was enough for him, the relaxation. He had no sense of touch, no sense of taste, no sense of self anymore. He laid down in bed, parallel to the floor, no pillows to support his head.

His mother came in. Even though he was 20 now, 2 years older than he had been when he first left, to her he was still a little boy who made a rash and stupid decision. He wasn't drafted, he left. He was set for college, set for life, but he came back. They were a traditional family -- they supported the troops, but she never thought he would become one. Her brother was a Navy officer, her father a soldier in the first world war. And now, her son. She had married her husband for his lack of military involvement in the family tree, and thought that would be enough to save her son -- it wasn't. He was immensely interested in military strategy since a little boy. He was brilliant, and it scared her. She made him play piano and guitar, neglected sending him to boarding school to keep him from other rash boys desperate to join in on the fighting. It wasn't enough, though. He found a way.

He looked at his mother, but couldn't see the tears on her face. He smiled widely, beckoned her, and she came to his bedside. He couldn't say anything, not yet, too traumatized, said the doctor. He grabbed onto her mother, the tears flowing wildly, but he couldn't tell, saw her smiling.

She left, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. He turned back to the lavender. Idaho was known for its potatoes, but here, in this piece of heaven, was acre after acre of beautiful lavender. There had been lavender in the war -- he remembered seeing it, remembered yearning for home, remembered picking as much as he could, stuffing his socks with it, smelling of it, bathing in it. They had stopped for a few hours, maybe a day, but it was enough to destroy him. After that, he was overcome with the desire to go home. After that, he couldn't be a soldier. He couldn't remove himself from the battle any more. When he saw a gun in his hand, he saw his mother crying. He saw the people he was killing, but they weren't the enemy, they were boys, away from home, just like him.

He had survived so far, keeping his head, keeping away from the gas, but he let it get him. He was short because he refused to shoot. He fell, hit his head, his eyesight now leaving, now recovering at home, with his mother.
---------------------------------

I am so proud of myself. For the longest time, I've always thought of writing as just collecting interesting things, idiosyncrasies of people. I've always thought of literature in terms of characters. Now I realize that characters are just a tool. They aren't the whole story, just tools to help you realize the theme, the point, the reason why the book was written. You need to use symbolism and imagery and metaphors and all that, and you need to consciously make a point about something, which I've never really done before. But I've done it now.

Yes, it's crudely done, horribly obvious, but the basic tools are there. There's an idea, and it's not subtle at all. It's blatant, staring you in the face. I need to fix that, but it's present, no? That's the job of the writer, the good writer: making it subtle yet present, making it understandable yet not obvious.

writer's workshop.
need to look like I'm doing something.
soooooooo blogpost!

la la la.

have ever-annoying information?
meet ladder-sail!
good for the environment!

ladder-sail has no annoy!
ever meet information?
now sail! have ladder-sail!

ladder sail has magic!
can save the annoying environment!
wait...

I mean... have you met
environment information!
comes with ladder-sail!

what I wrote.

meet sail!
wind on face,
heart on water.

more information about the environment
than any pamphlet or studies.

falling overboard,
annoying ladder,
can't climb,
sinking.

someone pulling.
gasping, choking
have never felt so close to death
and have ever cherished life more.

meet sail!
meet adventure!

also what I wrote.
earlier.
now I'm just copying and pasting.
twitter is being dumb and is updating my mobile updates several hours after I send them. and the other night, I couldn't turn mobile updates off via phone-ular, so I had to manually do it from twitter.com.

gosh. annoying.

dailybooth is still lame.
I love wheezywaiter.
I failed at truth or fail.
I got tired of not tom.

heard some gossip. so-and-so likes what's his face.
excited for this weekend. even though I have a test Monday for which I'll scarcely be able to study.
feel like @crayolaawonderr blogging like this.
I love @crayolaawonderr.
by the way, I too am on book 7, and I plan on finishing tonight. since I won't be able to over the weekend.

:)