Quantcast

Jump to content

» «
Photo

Cliche

7 replies to this topic
Wingman
  • Wingman

    Cayne

  • Members
  • Joined: 28 Jun 2003

#1

Posted 02 July 2005 - 06:46 AM

This is a short story I wrote after reading alot of Chuck Palahniuk books and I was trying to adapt to his style. I like the way this turned out, so I would appreciate it greatly if you would comment and tell me what you thought. And yes, I know that I took some sayings from Fight Club, and Lullaby, and from a few other sources. This was just a collaboration and although the story is true and my own, I have used a variety of sayings, songs, and influences. So enjoy.



---


Cliche'
A Short Story
Christopher James Teuton

There are times in your life where you are lost. You don't know what to do. You believe you are at rock bottom, but you're not. You're at that crucial moment, the time in your life where you have to make the decision. The choosing point.
This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

You wake up. You pour yourself coffee. The house is quiet. Everyone is gone. But it isn't a real quiet. It's a fake, a psuedo-quiet that envelops you like a wave. You hear the refrigerator on in the kitchen. The water from the sink, surging through the pipes. The air conditioner hums along, oblivious, it doesn't care. The sounds of silence. A cricket chirps.

Anymore, there is no real quiet. We, the people, are afraid of the quiet. Noise-oholics. Peace-phobics.

You call your friends. Some are busy. Some aren't. You do your chores. Maybe you get three eggs today, maybe you get four. It doesn't really matter. The eggs are hot. Outside, the air is dry. The phone beeps. Busy. You call again. Busy. The eggs are sitting where you forgot them, alone, on the top of the air conditioner. They are enveloped by the exhaust fumes.

Hum.

You call your friends and invite yourself over. You invite yourself to the tone of the busy signal. If the phone is busy, they must be home. They must want company. They must be missing you. You consider calling someone else, but no. You've called that number too many times. You donít want to be desperate.

It's a crazy little thing called love.

You get in your car and go to the gas station. Noise. Background music. The soundtrack to your life. The soundtrack to nothing.

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You get in your car, drive to someone's house. It's been so long, it doesn't matter whose house. Billy's, Dan's, Adam's, who cares. They're all there, wherever you go. They're always there, your other group of friends. And the phone beeps. It's off the hook. And this house, it's different from yours. It's loud. Full of life, while yours is a tomb. You laugh. You forget, at least for a moment, about how things in your life make you drink, or cry, or smoke. You forget about the person who you long to be with but can't. At least for a moment.

A minute, one minute, is all you can expect from perfection. And then it's gone. And you hear the clock ticking. And somewhere, downstairs, something hums.

Maybe this is not your life. Maybe everything you know is wrong. Maybe today is just a dream in the line of dreams. Maybe youíll wake up tomorrow and everything will be the same. But most likely itís not a dream. You wake up tomorrow and everything has changed. And then you know itís a dream, for real. Because dreams stay the same. Life changes.

This is your life. This is it. This is your other group of friends. The old group. The one friend you met first. The crazy one. The stoner. There they are. These are your friends, and they're ending one minute at a time. Dan, maybe he has to go home. Maybe he needs a ride. Maybe Adam offers. Maybe not. Maybe I have to go to work. Maybe I look at my watch, and I'm ten minutes late. This is my life, and it's ending ten minutes too fast. Maybe you say goodbye, but most likely you just walk out of the room.
Hey, you. Get off my cloud.

You get in your car, your old, brown, hot car. You roll down the windows and hope they roll back up again before it rains. You pull out of the driveway and smile at the house. You've been to the house before, Billy's, Dan's, Adam's, but every time you have fun. It's not your house. It's not your life. It's not you. You're a different person with these people than you are with your other friends. Maybe your more tense, maybe you are less tense. Maybe you are more 'you', or maybe you are someone else. It doesnít matter, they like you anyway, so they say at least.

They say the problem with being human is you canít read minds. Theyíre right.

You drive down the road, and you think about your friends. You listen to the stereo. This is your life, and it's changing one minute at a time. The back of the silver car, no lights, is bigger than you thought it would be. You don't remember the crash. You might not even remember the police, or the ambulance, or when the rain started. You remember the music, though. Right when you hit the car, the telltale sound of CLICK as the CD player changes to "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" and her face floats through your mind. The sound of a Hum as the disc starts spinning.
Hum.
Your world starts spinning.
Hum.
The crash of the car is quieter than you thought. There is no explosion. There is only the sound of bending metal.
Hum.
No PFFT as the air bag deploys. No air bag at all, actually. Maybe you bang your head on the steering wheel, you canít remember. Your legs crack against the dashboard. Itís time.
Please evacuate the plane in an orderly fashion.
The phone beeps.
Itís the driverís side door. Heís wondering what happened.
The phone beeps.
Itís the trunk. Whatís going on?
Evacuate in five, four...
Please make sure your tray tables are in the upright and locked position. This is going to be a bumpy landing.
Prepare to leave in four, three...
Hum.
The engine makes no sound.
Hum.
Itís the wheels against the road that make the noise. Itís the sound of the witnesses. Even now, itís not quiet.
Leave behind in two, one...
And the car stops rolling. And itís quiet. For a moment. One minute. And then the radio catches up.
I gotta be cool relax get hip!
Get on my tracks
Take a back seat
Hitch hike
And take a long ride on my motor bike
Until I'm ready
Crazy little thing called love

And you are brought back to reality.
You donít remember the accident. You donít remember the police. You remember the song. And you remember the hum of the wheels skidding on the road.
Hum.

When you get back home, the eggs over the air conditioner are boiled. This is your life, and is ending one minute at a time. In one minute, in that one moment of perfection, you realize, sometimes you have to hit bottom, sometimes you have to give up everything, before you can do anything.
Who wants to live forever?

The next day. You lay in your bed, looking at the ceiling. It was all a dream. There is no way, itís not possible, you lie to yourself. You donít not have a car. You always have had a car. Since you were fourteen. You need a car. You have to have a car. Like a symbiotic relationship, you have to have a car to survive. Your car is your alternate. Your life. The one thing you would never give up. You are your car.

The things you own, they end up owning you.

Your car is gone. I realize this when I try and sit up. The night of relaxation has really let my body go. I was tense ever since the wreck, and when I finally calmed down enough to relax, I am beginning to notice how sore I really am. I have cuts and bruises all over. I canít turn my neck to the left or raise my arms above my head. It feels good. Feels fresh.
You are not alone. Everyone has lost something. Everyone hits rock bottom at least once in their life. Your time is now. Please return your tray tables to the upright and locked position.
The stewardesses will be serving drinks momentarily.

The library. The computers with super-fast DSL connections. LAN networking. If you take napalm and roll it into a ball, then cover it in resin, with a small gasoline soaked rag, you have a homemade grenade. If you leave a candle sitting in the middle of a pool of nitroglycerin and wait till it burns down, you have a time bomb.
No one wants to live forever.

This is my new life, and itís taking itís sweet time.

Some people, the digital readout says, leave candles burning in a pool of gasoline and go on a trip. They come back, their apartment or condo is burned to the ground, and they collect on insurance. Some people are stupid, though. Gasoline, it in itself is not flammable. The GAS part of GASoline is flammable. The actual liquid is harmless. People blow their hair out, setting a candle in a fuming pan of gasoline.

Some people, they make their own bombs for fun. They like explosions. Some people do it for the hell of it.
Some people don't.

You can make a lye grenade out of a Mason Jar. Take an empty jar, fill it halfway up with Draino crystals or lye flakes. Then go out and buy a roll of aluminum foil. Roll the aluminum foil into tiny balls, about ten of them. Place the aluminum foil balls on top of the lye. Then take two teaspoons of water, put it in the top of the jar, and quickly screw the lid on. Shake it, and run like hell.
Lye is the worst chemical burn you can receive.

I have become comfortably numb.

You stand at the metal counter, water spilling in all directions. Water with chunks of meat, lettuce, bread. Disgusting. Maybe itís six fifteen, maybe itís six thirty. Time flies when youíre working hard. You wipe the counter off again. The Hum of the machine is starting to drive you crazy.

Iím going slightly mad.

The newspaper. Larry, he's talking about looking for a cheap car. His hands move so fast I think he's on LSD. His eyes are drooped low. He stutters when he talks. He's no on drugs, he's just slow. He points to the ad and says,
"1963 Ford Fairlane, good condition, no holes, needs work."
I say, 1963?
What's wrong with that?
Everything, I say.
"Fine."

The water burns your hand. This water, it shoots out of the machine at two hundred and fifty degrees. It lands on your neck and burns you, hot as a Draino bomb.

And the phone beeps. And itís another order. And you wash another plate. And you rinse another cup. And you wonder how youíre going to get here tomorrow. And you stop your rinsing and your washing and your drying and you stop. And you think. And maybe you cry. Maybe you just think about crying. You step outside, and for once this week it isnít raining.

In the old days, the real old days, with Indians, they used to see everything as a sign. When the sun rose, it was a sign. When the crops sprouted, it was a sign. When it rained, it was a sign.

Hum. Noise-oholics. Quiet-ophobics.

Maybe this not raining, maybe this is a sign. I smile. It is hard at first, I almost forget how. In three days, I havenít smiled once. And you smile. And I smile. And maybe our boss comes outside and asks us whatís so goddamn funny. And we get up in his face, his small, leathery, Greek face, and we tell him, we say ďI crashed my car yesterday.Ē

And the phone beeps. And itís Boomer. And we answer it.

They say that the problem with the Mona Lisa was that it was unfinished. Itís falling apart, they say, because it was never completed. I disagree. Maybe, just maybe, the artist wanted it to be unfinished. Maybe the quest for self perfection isnít the answer. May I never be perfect. May I never be complete.

And the hum grows louder.

It's a crazy little thing called love.

If this is my life, Iím living it. One minute at a time.

Another day, another new prisoner. I sit outside on the metal chairs, waiting for the others to arrive. The new guy, he gets here first. Boomer. Michelle's boyfriend. I'm told he's alot like me, but I don't see it. When both of us are around Michelle, she says, it's freaky. Whatever.

He sits down next to me. We wait for Adam and make uncomfortable small talk. At least, I am uncomfortable. I think he's fine. He's relaxed. Usually, he says, he'd be jealous of me hanging out with his girlfriend. But with me, he doesn't know, it just doesn't seem like that big of a deal. I agree. When he first found out about me, he tells me later, on our break, he didn't like me.

The first time I talked to Boomer, I was over at Michelle's house and he called. They talked on the phone while me and Christine watched South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut. We started doing Simpsons impressions, and Michelle tells me that Boomer won't do one. She tosses me the phone. I grab it and yell into the mouthpiece:
Do a f*cking impression.
And I toss the phone back.

And now he tells me, while we are washing dishes, that he's going over to her house tomorrow and that he might spend the night. And the hole in my heart opens up again, like the drain plug has been pulled.
Please evacuate in an orderly fashion.
I don't know why this hurts so much. I guess I thought that by getting him a job here, in my place of work, that maybe I would learn to really like him and see that he's a great guy and Michelle would be happy with him. But the more I learn the more I think that she shouldn't be with him, at least not in a serious relationship. If she wants him for a fling, go for it. But she deserves so much better.

Josie,
You're my source of most frustration.
Forget when I don't meet expectations.
Everything you wished came true.
In the end we all blamed you.
Even though, as they all know,
You weren't the only one, two, three, four.


Excuse me, flight attendant. Can I get a refill, please? Thank you.
Sometimes, I think the best way to lose something is to want it to badly.

I don't want this to be my life, happy for one moment and then it changes all the time. The phone beeps. And the battery, it's almost gone.

Heís not that bad a guy, really. I wish he was an asshole. I wish he was completely and totally wrong for Michelle, but heís not. They donít go perfectly together, but they go good enough, I guess. My throat gets swollen. I feel my tear ducts loosen. I canít cry at work.

The first memory of me and Michelle is in Spanish class, and Christine was still sitting behind me, and in front of me was Michelle and Moody, so the order went; Michelle, Moody, Me, and Christine. Michelle and I would pass notes back and forth. We would laugh and cheat on our tests. We became friends. Quickly.

There's something about her.

And the phone goes dead. The things you own, you can't let them own you. You are not your car. You are not your problems. You just are. After itís all said and done with, will you look back and like the person youíve turned out to be? What will you regret. What will you remember? Will you remember anything? Will you remember me?

Somehow, I doubt it.

In the end, I just wish you knew.

In the end, I just want to cry.

In the end, there is no finish. The end of the universe will not come together all nice and neat like the movies or TV. Relationships aren't magically fixed in one half hour, you have to work on them. And there are some problems you can't solve.

Some people do want to live forever. Not me. I know that the beauty of life is that it can end at any moment. Life is a very precious thing. This is your life. This is it. This is everything you've worked for. Sometimes, things don't always end as neat and tidy as they do in sitcoms.

Noise addicted. I turn off my stereo. It's time to sleep. You lay in our bed and I think about the day. It's time to leave.
Evacuate body in a calm and orderly fashion.
Hum.
Somewhere, something is on.
And I close our eyes.
And I sleep.
Please stay tuned for scenes from our next episode.

Over The Wall
  • Over The Wall

    Pumping Propaganda since 04

  • The Connection
  • Joined: 02 Sep 2002

#2

Posted 02 July 2005 - 09:17 PM

If I were to retitle your story to state the obvious, I would call it "Welcome to the Wingman's Real Life". I like your writing style and organization. It's very neat. I'm assuming the story is fairly accurate, (the girl problem I briefly asked about on MSN, the car accident you touched up on in the gang chat) and you do a very good job getting good details and information that you were otherwise reluctant to give up.

One of my questions though, is why do you even start to give up the fact that the whole thing might be a dream before you officially say it towards the bottom? It would be a completely different effect if you didn't mention it before making it official, and if you incoorporated some things that only occur in dreams or just some outrageous things (sizes of things, amount of something, etc) that will cause the reader to speculate that it is a dream, rather than the character. It works just fine as is, and if that is the effect you are aiming for, keep it. This is just a thought.

Very nice job though. Feel free to continue to vent these " fictional stories " here smile.gif

Wingman
  • Wingman

    Cayne

  • Members
  • Joined: 28 Jun 2003

#3

Posted 03 July 2005 - 01:35 AM

Thanks OTW for coming and reading this. I really wish more people would come and comment, so if you are talking to anyone and this comes up, please tell them to read this and comment for me.

In response to your question, I never really thought about trying to keep the dream alive throught the crash, it was just a fleeting thought that went through my mind as I ht the car and it passed. But I see what you mean, and perhaps this edit would demonstate it better?

QUOTE
Maybe this is not your life. Maybe everything you know is wrong. Maybe today is just a dream in the line of dreams. Maybe youíll wake up tomorrow and everything will be the same. But most likely itís not a dream. You wake up tomorrow and everything has changed. And then you know itís a dream, for real. Because dreams stay the same. Life changes.

This is your other group of friends. The old group. The one friend you met first. The crazy one. The stoner. There they are. These are your friends, and they're ending one minute at a time. Dan, maybe he has to go home. Maybe he needs a ride. Maybe Adam offers. Maybe not. Maybe I have to go to work. Maybe I look at my watch, and I'm ten minutes late. This is my life, and it's ending ten minutes too fast. Maybe you say goodbye, but most likely you just walk out of the room.
Hey, you. Get off my cloud.

You get in your car, your old, brown, hot car. You roll down the windows and hope they roll back up again before it rains. You pull out of the driveway and smile at the house. You've been to the house before, Billy's, Dan's, Adam's, but every time you have fun. It's not your house. It's not your life. It's not you. You're a different person with these people than you are with your other friends. Maybe your more tense, maybe you are less tense. Maybe you are more 'you', or maybe you are someone else. It doesnít matter, they like you anyway, so they say at least.

They say the problem with being human is you canít read minds. Theyíre right.

You drive down the road, and you think about your friends. You listen to the stereo. This is your life, and it's changing one minute at a time. The back of the silver car, no lights, is bigger than you thought it would be. You don't remember the crash. You might not even remember the police, or the ambulance, or when the rain started. You remember the music, though. Right when you hit the car, the telltale sound of CLICK as the CD player changes to "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" and her face floats through your mind. The sound of a Hum as the disc starts spinning.
Hum.
Your world starts spinning.
Hum.
The crash of the car is quieter than you thought. There is no explosion. There is only the sound of bending metal.
Hum.
No PFFT as the air bag deploys. No air bag at all, actually. Maybe you bang your head on the steering wheel, you canít remember. Your legs crack against the dashboard. Itís time.
Please evacuate the plane in an orderly fashion.
The phone beeps.
Itís the driverís side door. Heís wondering what happened.
The phone beeps.
Itís the trunk. Whatís going on?
Evacuate in five, four...
Please make sure your tray tables are in the upright and locked position. This is going to be a bumpy landing.
Prepare to leave in four, three...
Hum.
The engine makes no sound. The engine should be screaming. This isn't right.
Hum.
This is a dream.
This isn't real.
This can't be real.
Hum.
Itís the wheels against the road that make the noise. Itís the sound of the witnesses. Even now, itís not quiet.
Leave behind in two, one...
And the car stops rolling. And itís quiet. For a moment. One minute. And then the radio catches up.
I gotta be cool relax get hip!
Get on my tracks
Take a back seat
Hitch hike
And take a long ride on my motor bike
Until I'm ready
Crazy little thing called love
And you are brought back to reality.
You donít remember the accident. You donít remember the police. You remember the song. And you remember the hum of the wheels skidding on the road.
Hum.
This isn't a dream. This is your life, and it ended ten minutes ago.

When you get back home, the eggs over the air conditioner are boiled. This is your life, and is ending one minute at a time. In one minute, in that one moment of perfection, you realize, sometimes you have to hit bottom, sometimes you have to give up everything, before you can do anything.
Who wants to live forever?

ThaddeusMcKlown
  • ThaddeusMcKlown

    Relentless Pursuit of Progress

  • Andolini Mafia Family
  • Joined: 05 Dec 2004
  • None

#4

Posted 03 July 2005 - 02:09 AM Edited by Wingman, 03 July 2005 - 05:48 AM.

Man, I love your style smile.gif

I wish I could write like that.
-TM-


Thanks I'm glad you liked it, below is the updated version.

Wingman
  • Wingman

    Cayne

  • Members
  • Joined: 28 Jun 2003

#5

Posted 03 July 2005 - 05:45 AM

user posted image


There are times in your life where you are lost. You don't know what to do. You believe you are at rock bottom, but you're not. You're at that crucial moment, the time in your life where you have to make the decision. The choosing point.
This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

--

They say that itís the bad things you do. Lie to people, and youíll go to hell. Drink alcohol, and youíll go to hell. Have sex before marriage, hell. Smoke, hell. Cheat, drink, smoke, lie, f*ck, everything, you go to hell. And the only way to get out of it, this endless cycle of self deformation and destruction, well, you have to beg. Get on your knees, your old, tired, burned, scarred, bruised, aching knees, and beg for forgiveness from the man who gave you this temptation.
My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus. Maybe Jimmy Buffet had it right.

God gave us the world, so then, how is it our fault when we take up the torch, when we gain opportunity, when we use our means of power. If God made alcohol, and I drink alcohol, then how am I to blame? Am I not, as they say, drinking Godís gift to me?

They say, and who they are, it is never clear, it is always a nice, quiet they. They as in them. They took my job. They caused me to stop having fun. It was them. It was never me. They say it gets easier with time. It doesnít.

They, whoever they are, well, they lie.

Itís been almost a month, a little under, maybe, a little over, maybe, exactly. It might have been two days. Time has a funny was of chasing you around. Time, like love, is relevant. Different, yet the same. I tell whoever will listen, I say, things werenít always like this for me. God, even He started off with a good side.
He wasnít always like this.
He had his good times.

Thirty percent of all people wonder what would happen if a meteor crashed on the Earth. Death. Another Ice Age. Frozen malls, Wal-Mart popsicles. Lost. Cold. Alone. This is how they would feel.
Twenty nine percent of all serial killers have accomplices. They need someone to share the blame. Me, I have no one to share with. I am an Ice Age within myself. This, this is a love story in the coldest sense of the word. They say, you always kill the one you love. And now they say, it works both ways. The one you love, that person kills you. That is what They, the all knowing, all seeing They, it is what They say.
The one I love, she's killing me.

Her breath smelled of sugar, her hair smelled of fruit. Her hair, it had once fallen down to her back. Almost to her ass, just above, maybe. Black hair, brown in spots, dark red in spots. Beautiful. Then one day it was gone. Face castration. Her hair stopped at her jawbone that day. She showed me the picture.
ďItís JosieĒ she says ďFrom Josie And The Pussycats. Do you like it?Ē
I say, it looks different.
Thatís not what she wanted to hear.
I say, no matter what your hair is, I think it looks good.
She smiles. She turns. She walks away and sits down. I sigh. Christine comes up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder.
She asks, ďHave you told her yet?Ē
No.
ďWhy not?Ē
I donít know.
ďYou guys would be great together.Ē
I say, I know.
And I turn around and sit down.

You wake up. You pour yourself coffee. The house is quiet. Everyone is gone. But it isn't a real quiet. It's a fake, a psuedo-quiet that envelops you like a wave. You hear the refrigerator on in the kitchen. The water from the sink, surging through the pipes. The air conditioner hums along, oblivious, it doesn't care. The sounds of silence. A cricket chirps.

Anymore, there is no real quiet. We, the people, are afraid of the quiet.
We need noise like a drug.

You call your friends. Some are busy. Some aren't. You do your chores. Maybe you get three eggs today, maybe you get four. It doesn't really matter. The eggs are hot. Outside, the air is dry. The phone beeps. Busy. You call again. Busy. The eggs are sitting where you forgot them, alone, on the top of the air conditioner. They are enveloped by the exhaust fumes.

Hum.

You call your friends and invite yourself over. You invite yourself to the tone of the busy signal. If the phone is busy, they must be home. They must want company. They must be missing you. You consider calling someone else, but no. You've called that number too many times. You donít want to be desperate.

It's a crazy little thing called love.

You get in your car and go to the gas station. Noise. Background music. The soundtrack to your life. The soundtrack to nothing.

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You get in your car, drive to someone's house. It's been so long, it doesn't matter whose house. Billy's, Dan's, Adam's, who cares. They're all there, wherever you go. They're always there, your other group of friends. And the phone beeps. It's off the hook. And this house, it's different from yours. It's loud. Full of life, while yours is a tomb. You laugh. You forget, at least for a moment, about how things in your life make you drink, or cry, or smoke. You forget about the person who you long to be with but can't. At least for a moment.

A minute, one minute, is all you can expect from perfection. And then it's gone. And you hear the clock ticking. And somewhere, downstairs, something hums.

Maybe this is not your life. Maybe everything you know is wrong. Maybe today is just a dream in the line of dreams. Maybe youíll wake up tomorrow and everything will be the same. But most likely itís not a dream. If you wake up tomorrow and everything has changed, then you know itís a dream, for real. Because dreams stay the same. Life changes.

This is your other group of friends. The old group. The one friend you met first. The crazy one. The stoner. There they are. These are your friends, and they're ending one minute at a time. Dan, maybe he has to go home. Maybe he needs a ride. Maybe Adam offers. Maybe not. Maybe I have to go to work. Maybe I look at my watch, and I'm ten minutes late. This is my life, and it's ending ten minutes too fast. Maybe you say goodbye, but most likely you just walk out of the room.

Hey, you.
Get off my cloud.

You get in your car, your old, brown, hot car. You roll down the windows and hope they roll back up again before it rains. You pull out of the driveway and smile at the house. You've been to the house before, Billy's, Dan's, Adam's, but every time you have fun. It's not your house. It's not your life. It's not you. You're a different person with these people than you are with your other friends. Maybe your more tense, maybe you are less tense. Maybe you are more 'you', or maybe you are someone else. It doesnít matter, they like you anyway, so they say at least.

They say the problem with being human is you canít read minds. Theyíre right.

You drive down the road, and you think about your friends. You listen to the stereo. This is your life, and it's changing one minute at a time. The back of the silver car, no lights, is bigger than you thought it would be. You don't remember the crash. You might not even remember the police, or the ambulance, or when the rain started. You remember the music, though. Right when you hit the car, the telltale sound of CLICK as the CD player changes to "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" and her face floats through your mind. The sound of a Hum as the disc starts spinning.
Hum.
Your world starts spinning.
Hum.
The crash of the car is quieter than you thought. There is no explosion. There is only the sound of bending metal.
Hum.
No PFFT as the air bag deploys. No air bag at all, actually. Maybe you bang your head on the steering wheel, you canít remember. Your legs crack against the dashboard. Itís time.
Please evacuate the plane in an orderly fashion.
The phone beeps.
Itís the driverís side door. Heís wondering what happened.
The phone beeps.
Itís the trunk. Whatís going on?
Evacuate in five, four...
Please make sure your tray tables are in the upright and locked position. This is going to be a bumpy landing.
Prepare to leave in four, three...
Hum.
The engine makes no sound. The engine should be screaming. This isn't right.
Hum.
This is a dream.
This isn't real.
This can't be real.
Hum.
Itís the wheels against the road that make the noise. Itís the sound of the witnesses. Even now, itís not quiet.
Leave behind in two, one...
And the car stops rolling. And itís quiet now. For a moment. One minute. And then the radio catches up.
I gotta be cool relax get hip!
Get on my tracks
Take a back seat
Hitch hike
And take a long ride on my motor bike
Until I'm ready
Crazy little thing called love
And you are brought back to reality.
You donít remember the accident. You donít remember the police. You remember the song. And you remember the hum of the wheels skidding on the road.
Hum.
This isn't a dream. This is your life, and it ended ten minutes ago.

When you get back home, the eggs over the air conditioner are boiled. This is your life, and is ending one minute at a time. In one minute, in that one moment of perfection, you realize, sometimes you have to hit bottom, sometimes you have to give up everything, before you can do anything.
Who wants to live forever?

The next day. You lay in your bed, looking at the ceiling. It was all a dream. There is no way, itís not possible, you lie to yourself. You donít not have a car. You always have had a car. Since you were fourteen. You need a car. You have to have a car. Like a symbiotic relationship, you have to have a car to survive. Your car is your alternate. Your life. The one thing you would never give up. You are your car.

The things you own, they end up owning you.

Your car is gone. I realize this when I try and sit up. The night of relaxation has really let my body go. I was tense ever since the wreck, and when I finally calmed down enough to relax, I am beginning to notice how sore I really am. I have cuts and bruises all over. I canít turn my neck to the left or raise my arms above my head. It feels good. Feels fresh.
You are not alone. Everyone has lost something. Everyone hits rock bottom at least once in their life. Your time is now.

Please return your tray tables to the upright and locked position.
The stewardesses will be serving drinks momentarily.

The library. The computers with super-fast DSL connections. LAN networking. If you take napalm and roll it into a ball, then cover it in resin, with a small gasoline soaked rag, you have a homemade grenade. If you leave a candle sitting in the middle of a pool of nitroglycerin and wait till it burns down, you have a time bomb.
No one wants to live forever.

This is my new life, and itís taking itís sweet time.

Some people, the digital readout says, leave candles burning in a pool of gasoline and go on a trip. They come back, their apartment or condo is burned to the ground, and they collect on insurance. Some people are stupid, though. Gasoline, it in itself is not flammable. The GAS part of GASoline is flammable. The actual liquid is harmless. People blow their hair out, setting a candle in a fuming pan of gasoline.

Some people, they make their own bombs for fun. They like explosions. Some people do it for the hell of it.
Some people don't.

You can make a lye grenade out of a Mason Jar. Take an empty jar, fill it halfway up with Draino crystals or lye flakes. Then go out and buy a roll of aluminum foil. Roll the aluminum foil into tiny balls, about ten of them. Place the aluminum foil balls on top of the lye. Then take two teaspoons of water, put it in the top of the jar, and quickly screw the lid on. Shake it, and run like hell.
Lye is the worst chemical burn you can receive.

I have become comfortably numb.

You stand at the metal counter, water spilling in all directions. Water with chunks of meat, lettuce, bread. Disgusting. Maybe itís six fifteen, maybe itís six thirty. Time flies when youíre working hard. You wipe the counter off again. The Hum of the machine is starting to drive you crazy.

Iím going slightly mad.

Me and Boomer, we walked outside for a smoke break this one time. We thought we saw Shawn walk out here before us, but when we walk out no one is there. You hear something and look around the corner. There he is, licking a piece of wet, red paper.
Itís acid. The paper is really white, with red spots. He sees that we see him. He shoves the paper in his pocket, but we walk up to him anyway.
ďItís cool, manĒ says Boomer.
I say, donít worry about this sh*t, weíre not saying nothing.
ďYou sure?Ē
Yeah, I say.
ďOf course.Ē says Boomer.
Shawn looks at us for a moment, and then takes the paper back out of his pocket. He sucks on it.

The newspaper. Larry, he's talking about looking for a cheap car. His hands move so fast I think he's on acid too. His eyes are drooped low. He stutters when he talks. He's not on drugs, he's just slow in the head. He points to the ad and says,
"1963 Ford Fairlane, good condition, no holes, needs work."
I say, 1963?
What's wrong with that?
Everything, I say.
"Fine."

The water burns your hand. This water, it shoots out of the machine at two hundred and fifty degrees. It lands on your neck and burns you, hot as a Draino bomb.

And the phone beeps. And itís another order. And you wash another plate. And you rinse another cup. And you wonder how youíre going to get here tomorrow. And you stop your rinsing and your washing and your drying and you stop. And you think. And maybe you cry. Maybe you just think about crying. You step outside, and for once this week it isnít raining.

In the old days, the real old days, with Indians, they used to see everything as a sign. When the sun rose, it was a sign. When the crops sprouted, it was a sign. When it rained, it was a sign.

Hum. I just bought a new CD. Addicted to noise.

Maybe this not raining, maybe this is a sign. I smile. It is hard at first, I almost forget how. In three days, I havenít smiled once. And you smile. And I smile. And maybe our boss comes outside and asks us whatís so goddamn funny. And we get up in his face, his small, leathery, Greek face, and we tell him, we say ďI crashed my car yesterday.Ē

And the phone beeps. And itís Boomer. And we answer it.

They say that the problem with the Mona Lisa was that it was unfinished. Itís falling apart, they say, because it was never completed. I disagree. Maybe, just maybe, the artist wanted it to be unfinished. Maybe the quest for self perfection isnít the answer. May I never be perfect. May I never be complete.

And the hum grows louder.

It's a crazy little thing called love.

This is my life. Iím living it, one minute at a time.

Another day, another new prisoner. I sit outside on the metal chairs, waiting for the others to arrive. The new guy, he gets here first. Boomer. Michelle's boyfriend. I'm told he's a lot like me, but I don't see it. When both of us are around Michelle, she says, it's freaky. Whatever.

He sits down next to me. We wait for Adam and make uncomfortable small talk. At least, I am uncomfortable. I think he's fine. He's relaxed. Usually, he says, he'd be jealous of me hanging out with his girlfriend. But with me, he doesn't know, it just doesn't seem like that big of a deal. I agree. When he first found out about me, he tells me later, on our break, he didn't like me.

The first time I talked to Boomer, I was over at Michelle's house and he called. They talked on the phone while me and Christine watched South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut. We started doing Simpson's impressions, and Michelle tells me that Boomer won't do one. She tosses me the phone. I grab it and yell into the mouthpiece:
Do a f*cking impression.
And I toss the phone back.

And now he tells me, while we are washing dishes, that he's going over to her house tomorrow and that he might spend the night. And the hole in my heart opens up again, like the drain plug has been pulled.
Please evacuate in an orderly fashion.

I don't know why this hurts so much. I guess I thought that by getting him a job here, in my place of work, that maybe I would learn to really like him and see that he's a great guy and Michelle would be happy with him. But the more I learn the more I think that she shouldn't be with him, at least not in a serious relationship. If she wants him for a fling, go for it. But she deserves so much better.

Maybe you don't go to hell for the things you do. Maybe you go to hell for the things you don't.

Josie,
You're my source of most frustration.
Forget when I don't meet expectations.
Everything you wished came true.
In the end we all blamed you.
Even though, as they all know,
You weren't the only one, two, three, four.

Excuse me, flight attendant. Can I get a refill, please? Thank you.
Sometimes, I think the best way to lose something is to want it to badly.

I don't want this to be my life, happy for one moment and then it changes with the wind. The phone beeps. And the battery, it's almost gone.

Heís not that bad a guy, really. I wish he was an asshole. I wish he was completely and totally wrong for Michelle, but heís not. They donít go perfectly together, but they go good enough, I guess. My throat gets swollen. I feel my tear ducts loosen. I canít cry at work.

The first memory of me and Michelle is in Spanish class, and Christine was still sitting behind me, and in front of me was Michelle and Moody, so the order went; Michelle, Moody, Me, and Christine. Michelle and I would pass notes back and forth. We would laugh and cheat on our tests. We became friends. Quickly.

There's something about her.

And the phone goes dead. The things you own, you can't let them own you. You are not your car. You are not your problems. You just are. After itís all said and done with, will you look back and like the person youíve turned out to be? What will you regret. What will you remember? Will you remember anything? Will you remember me?

Somehow, I doubt it.

In the end, I just wish you knew.

In the end, I just want to cry.

In the end, there is no finish. The end of the day will not come together all nice and neat like a television show. Relationships aren't magically fixed in one half hour, you have to work on them. And there are some problems you can't solve.

In the end, things seldom turn out how you expected. The other times, well, you've sealed your own fate. You just have to trust that whatever's supposed to happen, it will. And, somehow, you always seem to end up with the person you're meant to be with.

Some people do want to live forever. Not me. I know that the beauty of life is that it can end at any moment. Life is a very precious thing. This is your life. This is it. This is everything you've worked for. Sometimes, things don't always end as neat and tidy as they do in sitcoms.

--

Noise addicted. I turn off my stereo. It's time to sleep. You lay in our bed and I think about the day. It's time to leave.
Evacuate mind in a calm and orderly fashion.
Hum.
Somewhere, something is on.
And I close our eyes.
And I sleep.
Please stay tuned for scenes from our next episode.

Octember
  • Octember

    propaganda inc

  • BUSTED!
  • Joined: 29 Oct 2004

#6

Posted 03 July 2005 - 06:20 AM

that's actually something i really, really enjoyed reading.. i'm starting the second story now.

nah, keep it 'cliche...' that's what caught my eye.

Sweets
  • Sweets

    Pяopagaиda Iиc.

  • Feroci
  • Joined: 18 Dec 2004
  • Unknown

#7

Posted 03 July 2005 - 03:54 PM

Well, I'm no writer, so don't expect any useful critisism. I think it's good. I like the first version better. But I think this section from the second is obviously a good addition.
QUOTE
Her breath smelled of sugar, her hair smelled of fruit. Her hair, it had once fallen down to her back. Almost to her ass, just above, maybe. Black hair, brown in spots, dark red in spots. Beautiful. Then one day it was gone. Face castration. Her hair stopped at her jawbone that day. She showed me the picture.
ÔŅĹItÔŅĹs JosieÔŅĹ she says ÔŅĹFrom Josie And The Pussycats. Do you like it?ÔŅĹ
I say, it looks different.
ThatÔŅĹs not what she wanted to hear.
I say, no matter what your hair is, I think it looks good.
She smiles. She turns. She walks away and sits down. I sigh. Christine comes up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder.
She asks, ÔŅĹHave you told her yet?ÔŅĹ
No.
ÔŅĹWhy not?ÔŅĹ
I donÔŅĹt know.
ÔŅĹYou guys would be great together.ÔŅĹ
I say, I know.
And I turn around and sit down.

Also, I'd lose the parts that you didn't do yourself. This is good enough to stand on it's own. Those parts almost make it seem like it needs help which it doesn't. Meh, I'm probably not wording that right. Anyway, I liked it.

Wingman
  • Wingman

    Cayne

  • Members
  • Joined: 28 Jun 2003

#8

Posted 04 July 2005 - 01:06 AM

@Oct: I'm glad you enjoyed reading it. I think that the main problems with writing storys is keeping intrest throughout the whole thing. Glad you liked it.

@Sweets: I am trying, slowly, to lost the parts that I didn't do myself. On each edit that I do of it, I add some more stuff that I came up with and delete some stuff that I took from other places. The reason I used other stuff is because sometimes I have trouble getting my message across and this way I can show a work in progress without anyone being confused.




1 user(s) are reading this topic

0 members, 1 guests, 0 anonymous users