Scawy

These are the final entries on Steven Mcnowitz's blog. The blog was started as a vehicle to chronicle Steven's adventures in searching for other people's junk to find prized collectibles. “America's Heartland: One Man's Trash is Another Man's Ironically, Quirky and Gimmicky Trash” always got a modest amount of traffic... that is, until nine very important days when the world really began to take notice of Mcnowitz's words. These entries were written by Steven in late 2007 and are his last known pieces of writing.

Day 1

I took a wrong turn tonight I was supposed to turn right at the corner of Glenn Road but for some reason, I went left instead. I didn't feel like I was going the wrong way though. I was trying to find something but I didn't know what. The snow was melting under the pale black sky and I really wished that I was at home. Glenn Road became a dead end before I knew it and just as I was turning around to backtrack out of here, I saw a bag. It was lying vacant by a wooden stump which, by the looks of it, used to hold a mailbox. Behind that was a gray house with a light on at the top of the stairs. I slowed down and parked my car against the sidewalk and crept up to the bag, not wanting to be heard.

It felt peculiar to me. I stood in front of what was surely a black compost heap for what felt like an entire wind ensemble performance. My heart raced as I felt my legs tense up and my temples thump. They began to thump at an alarmingly rhythmic pace. One and two and three and four and one and two and three and four...

“You okay?” A gravelly voice called out, jostling me out of my trance.

“Oh- yeah, yeah I'm fine.”

I turned around to catch a look at whoever it was that had knocked me out of my paralysis. I expected, judging from his voice, a chain-smoking old man. I got a guy who looked as if he was younger than me. His voice did not match his bright-orange hair, blue eyes and all-American good looks. He had a strange look about him too, though. His skin looked bleached and faded. A few hues away from being albino. And the rings under his eyes defied his otherwise youthful appearance.

“You shouldn't take that bag, man.” He warned out of nowhere.

“What? I wasn't-”

But he drove off before I could finish my sentence. I stalled on that last 't' before turning back around at the bag. I sighed. Why would I want to talk that bag? And what happened a few minutes ago. Who was that guy? I looked back at the house to see that the light at the top of the room had gone out. They must be calling it a night, I presumed. And I, too, needed sleep. But just as I was about to head home and maybe grab a nightcap, I noticed a piece of paper on the bottom of the bag, in danger of fluttering away into the chilled breeze. Before I could take a breath, my thumb and pointer finger clasped onto the paper. I tugged it away from the bag gently and slowly brought it to my eyesight. Written with practically bulging magic marker, it said: TAKE ME.

I laughed. How ironic. It says the exact opposite of what that guy told me to do. It must be a bunch of old stuff the people in this house don't want anymore. It's practically garbage, I bet. I grab the bag and lug it over to my car. Somehow this feels much heavier than I expected it to. But as I click open the trunk, I tell myself that it'll be worth it. I'll find some hilarious old knick-knacks and junk to spread around the new apartment. Yes, this could be legendary.

Curiously, the items in this bag don't feel all that solid. I expected them to. Not sure why.

- - -

Day 2

Jake's a great guy, one of my best friends. He's oddly tall, has a shaved head of bumblebee fuzz hair and has an unhealthy obsession with keeping our apartment as clean as possible. I shouldn't have been surprised at his reaction to the bag.

“Man why are you grabbing shit like that?” He moaned after I shared the big news.

“It's hilarious.” I replied, lacking any conviction.

“It's gross.” He said.

“You don't even know what's inside!”

“Do you?”

Okay, he's brought up a good point. I haven't looked in the bag yet. I feel like I'm waiting for some sign from above. I'm not a deeply religious person or anything, but I believe that I had had a spiritual awakening as I glanced at the bag last night. It held all the telltale signs of one: loss of recognition, shakiness and, of course, perception loss. It was either a spiritual awakening or I blacked out. And I hadn't had a drop of alcohol last night.

I really don't drink at all, actually. I'm not exactly straight-edge, but I read about the things that shit does to your body and I just can't see why anyone would wanna subject themselves to that. Granted, being drunk is pretty awesome but I like to feel like I'm in control of my life and that I'm not pummeling my kidneys.

And does he always need to use that tone? We're not kids anymore. He's not the junior lifeguard anymore and I'm definitely not the nerdy kid drowning in the ocean. Even though that's what helped us become such good friends, I feel like it's always given him some pretentious unreasonable proof that he is better than me. I can hear it whenever he scolds me for grabbing “useless” or “gross” or “stupid” shit.

You can call me silly but I'm waiting on a sign that I need to open up the bag. I know nothing special is in it, but I want to make the experience as memorable as possible. And it'll stay here. Jake's O.C.D-having-ass is gonna have to deal with it.

Here's a funny anecdote, even though I didn't have a window open or have my fan on or anything, the bag was still prone to the quietest of settlings and rustlings last night. Plastic garbage bags are the worst. I feel like a naïve little kid being scared by some inconsequential bumps in the night. So scaawy.

- - -

So I'm not sure if this counts as a sign or not but I found another piece of paper attached to the bag. It read 'open me...'. I'm not sure if this counts as a sign from above or as a sign that I am not very observant. I'm putting it in the latter camp. I chuckled and threw the slip of paper in the trash.

Couldn't get any sleep last night. I can't keep this bag in my room anymore. I'm gonna have to put it in the hallway closet for now, until I feel like it's time for me to open it.

- - -

Day 3

So after a night of sleep without the bag in my room, I wake up to find that it's propped up beside my open door with a note pinned onto it. Or should I say pasted. The glue or wet cement or whatever it was was still visibly fresh as I tugged it off the bag and it reeked. The note read 'Don't you want to see?'

I know Jake thinks my obsession with this bag is ridiculous but he's the one being weird right now. When I confronted him about it this morning, he acted as if he had not a single idea of what I was referring to. He even feigned concern.

I've been reading all the comments you loyal readers have been submitting and am thankful that most of you seem concerned. As always there are those commenters screaming “FAKE!!” and laughing at the improbability of my posts lately. I can understand that. I wish I could laugh along with you all, but it's just not funny.

Day 4

What crazy dreams I've been having lately. I know I've been talking a little too much about my personal life lately, but I'd appreciate it if you, my beautiful readers, could cut me some fucking slack considering the shit I have to deal with right now. Sorry about that. Anyways, in said dream, I found myself and Jake facing each other in the hallway. He was telling me that I didn't know what I was saying and, truth be told... I didn't. I heard gutteral and indecipherable sounds escaping and vibrating against my lips, only recognizing words here or there. Every noise I made was coated in spit and gurgles. My body shifted into motion and I charged at him with all my might. But no, this was not my might at all. It was as if the heavens were parting and letting free an amazing force from the sky propel and force my body to its limit. I fought back as hard as I could but my hands were headed straight for his throat. As I was at a standoff with my own body, forcing it into stillness Jake tackled me and I suddenly found myself awake. I wonder what this dream means. I don't usually remember my dreams in such vivid detail.

- - -

Day 5

Those of you who have kept in touch with this blog over the years know that I've never been a huge fan of sleep. I feel like It's wasted time that I could be using to discover all sorts of new things. Nowadays, all I want to do is sleep. There is nothing for me to discover out there but different means and shapes of dread and death and varieties of self-harm. Tonight the world is a vampire and I am a cluster of pulsating veins. I want to sleep but I feel like I am doomed to stay awake forever. And I know I'm not the only one who isn't sleeping. I find it in different places every day. I'll go downstairs for breakfast and swear it's moved a couple centimenters. If I dare to leave the house I am petrified to see how far it's moved since I last saw it. It seems to be moving closer to my room.

Jake said he doesn't feel safe living here with me anymore. He's moving out tomorrow. I found this out after waking up this morning at 8am, seeing Jake coming back from what I assumed was a long night out.

“Hey man,” I said, grabbing a bowl of cereal, “Where you been?”

From the moment he laid his eyes on me, he seemed to be reading me in a completely different way. It was as if I eminated a color that human eyes were not yet able to process. He didn't say anything in response. He just stared.

“I said hey,” I repeated. “You just gonna stare at me or what?”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Most people say 'hello' or 'how are you?'” I replied.

“Do you not remember what you did a few days ago?”

Nothing came to mind. The only thing I remembered from a few days ago was the way the dots on my ceiling looked like raindrops caught in suspended animation. I'd been focused on my ceiling lately. I had this realization last night while desperately trying to get a full amount of sleep. But then I remembered my dream. I sat down at the table, un-tensing my neck and letting my face fall in my hands.

Jesus Christ, it was real?

“I... I'm sor...” I began. But I couldn't let that last syllable escape my lips. I felt an odd defensiveness take over my body. There was a faint ringing in my ears and goosebumps sprouted amidst my arm hair. If I apologized, he'd ask me why I did it. And if I told him the truth, that I didn't know why, then I'd look even worse. So I said this.

“I'm just going through a lot right now.”

He sat down at the head of the table, once again looking as if he was trying to look out for me. But I didn't have the energy to resent him for it.

“Look man, I don't know why it happened,” Jake began, “But between this and the way you've been obsessing over the things you're bringing here, I'm not sure I can keep living here with you. It seems like you've really lost the plot. I mean, did you even know what you were doing?”

“Yes.”

No.

“Well, listen man... me and my parents are gonna pick up the rest of my stuff in four days. And if you want, we can take you back to the cities. Help you find the help that you need right now. What do you say to that?”

“I don't need any help. Get the Hell out of here!” I yelled without thinking.

Please don't go. I thought.

“All right, but I hope you change your mind.”

Somehow I feel like I couldn't even if I wanted to.

- - -

Day 6

I will get to answering your guys' questions soon. But right now I have a question for all you readers: Is there a word for daytime nightmares?

Yesterday as I was watching television, my vertebrae began slithering and jerking on its own, bobbing my head up and down. I tried my best to stay calm and closed my eyes to avoid feeling too sick. But I felt a rattlesnake's tail-like tap on my right eyeball and I couldn't keep the discharge inside anymore. My uvula made way as I vomited all over myself and my couch. It looked dark pink, with little chunks of cereal and bread. The stench reeked like a burning farm, the power of shit and un-digested food stung my nostril's.

I ran to the bathroom to grab a towel, chunks falling off my plaid shirt which I haven't changed in days. Leaving a faint hissing sound as they touched down on the linoleum. I grabbed two bathroom towels and rubbed them all over my burning skin. What I saw in the mirror froze me in my tracks. I had become white as bone and dark circles were stretched under my eyeballs. The same dark circles as him. It's all starting to piece together and yet it's still managing to make less and less sense.

Day 7

Still haven't been able to sleep at all. It's been about 3 days since the Jake incident, I guess. Hard to keep track. I have kept the bag in the hall closet and it's stayed there. But I can still hear it shaking and rustling throughout the night. And when I don't, my body starts to get glimpses of how I felt a week ago. That rhythmic pulsing starts banging behind my eyeballs again and for a moment I feel like I'm about to descend and melt right through the floor and Earthly ground into a festering Hell. I am definitely experiencing something spiritually but not in a good way. My skin is burning up so much that my sweat dissolves upon secretion. I've decided that this is the sign I have been waiting for. This is not some holy spiritual quest. It's a nightmare. I feel sick. I'm just sitting here waiting and waiting and waiting and one two three four one two three four...

- - -

I can hear it growing. I hear the mush inside of it whirring about and growing. Becoming more solid. But it's not just making noise. It's attempting to communicate with its boiling fishtank, dying fetus moans.

Being all alone, I had no choice but to finally attempt to open the bag.. I can't seem to bust the knot. It's all full of slime and residue and the outside of it feels rough and scaley. I couldn't get a grip on it.I became vexed with frustration. I threw the bag against the wall. It's gotten heavier, its once invalid mush forming solid muscle. I collapsed, losing all my strength. As it sat vacantly against the kitchen cupboard, I couldn't help but stare. I forced myself up with my deteriorating muscles and lunged the hardest kick I could into the thing. Its melting licorice-flesh at first seemed to cave and wither at first; Then I saw it slithering around my calf. It wasn't withering, it was constricting. I dragged myself away as hard as possible. And then I ran up here to type this.

- - -

I don't know what made me feel worse. When I thought I was alone or when I realized I wasn't.

- - -

I'm through lying awake, listening to my heartbeat fluctuate. It's 4:51 and now is as great a time as any to spring into action. I grab the biggest steak knife I can find. And I can't find the black garbage bag anywhere. I search the kitchen, I search the bathroom, trying to remember if I moved it after the incident I had with it earlier this evening. For a moment, I think it is gone. But then I go into my room.

And it is back in the same place it was after Jake moved it. And it's rustling. And it's swaying. And I can't take it anymore. Now I know I have lost it and do you know why? Because I heard it mimicking my pulse. For a moment, in unison, we were both nothing but a pile of flesh creating a rhythm. One two three four. I lunged at the bag and stabbed it. One two three four. I scratched at it, I pummeled it with all my might and I cried out as I stabbed it more. I couldn't stop. Any semblance of humanity I had was lost in that moment. I stopped to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard the most horrific, ear-curdling scream I have ever heard in my life. It was as if someone had woken up a dead woman with millions upon millions of volts in a rainstorm. My heart exploded out of my chest and I scrambled to my window and thrusted it open. I gripped the slimy bag by its husk and threw it out the window into the outer world. It bellowed its deafening shriek as it fell several stories down. I feel safe for the moment. I think to myself that there is no way I will turn around and see that bag lying against my wallpaper like a macabre prop featured in the final scene of the macabre short film that has become my life. But as I sit here typing these words, I still find myself too afraid to turn around. And my heartbeat has been getting louder and louder. And I know that as soon as I hear it break into its familiar waltz that I must close my eyes and promise myself that I will never open them again.

- - -

Heaven forgive me.

Steven has been missing for the past two years. When his room was searched, all that was left of him were his clothes and an empty, unidentifiable black cocoon-looking specimen. Researchers are left baffled by its contours and scaling and are working hard to figure out what this is and how it could correlate to Steven's final blog entries and his disappearance.

The Five Writing Rules Fiction Writing Has Taught Me

1. Shitty First Drafts Are Okay
I owe this lesson to Anne Lamott and her excellent chapter on the subject in Bird By Bird. I used to think I was the only person on the world who got frustrated with my perceived poor quality of writing when I read my first draft. "Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts," she says. "You need to start somewhere." The way she goes in-depth to explain how she fixes up her bad first drafts is incredibly helpful.

2. Research
Research is more important than I used to think. Thanks to our discussion board activity on the subject, I learned that research strengthens even those stories that are completely fictional. It's something that I'm going to take much more seriously now. After all: How can you describe something accurately if you're only basing it on your own guesses? It's like telling someone how bad a movie you've never seen is. Eventually they'll be able to tell by your lack of concrete knowledge about the film that you're just making crap up.

3. Let's Talk About Dialogue
This was from both Bird By Bird and Writing Fiction's chapter 8, Call Me Ishamel. Dialogue is a refined art that takes poise and understanding of the english language to master. It's not just about nailing out the way people talk in real life 100% accurately. In fact, Lamott says that good dialogue is good when the author knows what not to print out. If fictional stories all contained dialogue fashioned after the way people speak in real life, reading would be much more difficult and repetitive.

4. Character Construction
Another great use of dialogue is the way it can really form and strengthen who you want your character to be (as shown in Writing Fiction's "Building Character" chapter. Everything about the way you create your character is important. There can be significance in anything from the way he parts his hair to his fashion choice to his name. We learned that in week one when we talked about our names and why we were given them.

5. Someone to Read My Drafts
One of the final chapters in Bird By Bird is called "Someone to Read Your Drafts" and it's about finding a person who can give you honest and helpful critiques on your writing. It was very powerful for me because I am mostly left to my own devices for my writing and I realized that I need to find someone who can help me out in this regard. I would have my mom do it but then I would subconsciously think 'do I really want my mother reading this?' every time things got dark in one of my pieces. Oh well... I guess I just have to keep looking and continue my journey; in life and in writing.

Five Favorite Sites

The Loft
Fiction Matters
Poets & Writers.org
The Phronistery
Behindthename.com

What I like about all of these websites is the way that they are geared towards making our writing better. Making money through a blog is nice and a website that helps me with creating a bibliography is very helpful... but these five sites help cut to the core of what I took this class for. Behindthename is probably my favorite. It helps me understand that I shouldn't just shrug off choosing a character's name (which is something I've been guilty of in the past). It has enlightened me to the fact that there's always room to think about the decisions you make when you write.

Research For Scawy

A friend of mine once told me that he liked writing Fictional stories because he felt that it was easier. "What do you mean?" I asked, "Shouldn't fiction be much harder? In effect, you're creating something from nothing. At least with Non-Fiction you have to adhere to real events."

"Yeah," He agreed. "But you don't have to research for fictional stories." And that was all he had to say about it.

In theory you don't *have to* research for a fictional story. But the very best fictional stories are formed using research based on real events. Stephen King's landmark novel The Shining was based on a frightening hotel he stayed at. Writers who want to write accurate depictions of frightening events like abduction or murder should always look up what these events feel like for the people it actually happened to.

I am working on a story with the working title of "Scawy." In this story a man named Steven finds a strange dark plastic garage bag with a note attached to it. However, as the story progresses, it becomes clear that this garage bag is not just any trash receptacle. By the end of the story, the bag seems to be moving closer and closer to Steven, threatening him. It is obviously sentient and growing. Also growing in the background is tension and resentment that Steven feels against his best friend and roommate Jake. Nothing in this story is based on factual accounts or events.

But how will my research make it feel like it was?

- I will be looking through a selection of paranormal blogs where people describe strange unexplainable events that happen to them.

- I will look around the US for a small suburban city that gives me the right vibe I need for this story and use that location to help give this story's setting a new life. It's hard to get grounded in a story that seems to reside in nowheresville.

- I don't know if I described the albino character who startles Steven in the beginning well enough. I'm going to look at the symptoms of albinism.

Research

My story "Scawy" is based around an unknown, spooky happening in a suburban setting. What ends up causing Steven to disappear is not ultimately revealed so this gave me more freedom in not having to stay within a rigid closed-off attempt at being as realistic as possible. But perhaps my story could be strengthened in the following ways:

- Finding an actual setting. If the reader recognizes the town in the story, or the fictional town in your story feels like it could exist then you do a better job of placing the reader in your story. The town takes a backseat in my story and does not even get a name.

- Reading up on similar cases. Now I'm not sure there will be any real events that happened quite like the events portrayed in Scawy... but there is strange unexplained phenomena all over the planet. I could search for a website of all these stories and find a recurring emotion or feeling these people felt during these strange happenings.

- Add a bit of history. If I looked up some important events in several different locations, I'm sure I could find one that would fit in my story and help add another latyer to the lives of the characters in the story.

Bad Date

Oh my gosh, is he serious? Did he really just say that?
“And yeah, I figured... with this economy,” Steve explained, “I shouldn't worry about finding my own place. Plus it makes her happy.”
“Her? You mean...”
“Yep, my momz.” Steve said proudly as he took a swig of rootbear, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Well, failed experiment number 20, I guess Cheryl Rose thought to herself. This was just the latest in a long line of failed blind dates. And one would have to be blind indeed to not see what a tool this guy was.

“So what do you do for money then Steven?”
“Please, call me S-dawg! And well, I usually go down to the clubs and get naked and stuff for all the girls there.”
“So you're an exotic dancer?” Cheryl asked, thanking the stars that at least he had a job.
“Naw girl! I dont have a job per se but I figured that in this economy, you gotta find a way to make your own cash, even if it isn't one hundred percent ethical. You gonna finish those fries?

And with that, Cheryl felt as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment. Why is it that her friends always set her up with so many lame guys? Are those the only kinds of people her friends know? Or even worse... are those the only kinds of people left in this world? But then the worst thought of all popped into her head... maybe it's just her. Maybe her friends see what she doesn't: She deserves bad quality men.
She began to wonder if settling really did work. As her eyes gleamed secretively across Steve's face, she noticed qualities that she hadn't before. He did have luscious blue eyes, piercing dimples and obviously a killer body. Maybe there's something more to him. This could work out after all.
“Yo are you gonna finish those fries or what?!” Steve yelled belligerently.
Never mind.

Blue Moon

For 15 minutes, Bryan had a direct one-on-one conversation with God. God hadn't sounded anything like Bryan had imagined. His voice was a cinder block being dropped upon pillows of light. His words descended and ascended like the perfect melody, always ending with a perfect cadence. Bryan couldn't figure out why He would choose to speak to him and he never asked. He asked God why he could not see him sooner. God explained that he had been very busy lately and Bryan understood, having to watch over the whole planet and everything.
God looked a lot more normal than he thought he would. He was wearing a green polo dress shirt and khakis. He looked tired, dis-sheveled and a little more afraid than he was usually depicted. His hair was a dark olive oil-aided combover and his eyes were like after-dinner mints, with their red swirls.
Then he felt his surroundings change. Brian and his omnipotence were transported into a white field, surrounded in a beautiful otherworldy light. He felt creation and rebirth in these lights. God hovering over him, appearing to be pondering very serious things whilst speaking with him. Occasionally other voices would interrupt them but only for a moment. He made sure that Brian came first.
As Brian laid back on the bed of flowers, neck tilted upon the piercing light of the heavenly sky, he began to feel their discussion would soon be over.
“Hey God?” Brian asked.
“Yes Brian?”God responded.
“Am I gonna leave this place soon?”
God seemed perplexed at this question. He gulped and responded with a simple “Yes.”
Brian considered his next question carefully.
“Why did you visit me? Why not anyone else?” He asked.
“Because,” God explained, “You're my son. I love you.”
Brian pondered as he felt his very presence weaken. All his energy left him and he felt he could only stay there for a few moments longer. He thought of what the most important questions he could ask God would be, but his mind fixated on one that was very specific to him. He couldn't help it.
“God, why did my dad leave us?” The eight year old boy asked the omnipotent deity.
Confusingly, God burst out crying and rested his head on the bed of flowers Bryan laid upon. His eyes were forced shut as oceans of tears flowed from them. And Bryan would never hear the answer he seeked because a piercing white noise ended the eight year old boy's friendly conversation with God.

A Dreadful Nothing

Michael Rowland
Fiction Writing
March 08, 2010

These are the final entries on Steven Mcnowitz's blog. The blog was started as a vehicle to chronicle Steven's adventures in searching for other people's junk to find prized collectables. “One man's trash is another man's ironic gimmicky trash.” These entries were written in 2007 and are the last ones he wrote.

Day 1
I took a wrong turn there. I was supposed to turn right at the corner of Glenn Road but for some reason, I went left instead. I didn't feel like I was going the wrong way though. I was trying to find something but I didn't know what. The snow was melting under the pale black sky and I really wished that I was at home. Glenn Road became a dead end before I knew it and just as I was turning around to backtrack out of here, I saw a bag. It was lying vacant by a wooden stump which, by the looks of it, used to hold a mailbox. Behind that was a gray house with a light on at the top of the stairs. I slowed down and parked my car against the sidewalk and crept up to the bag, not wanting to be heard.
It felt peculiar to me. I stood in front of what was surely a black compost heap for what felt like an entire wind ensemble performance. My heart raced as I felt my legs tense up and my temples thump. They began to thump at an alarmingly rhythmic pace. One and two and three and four and one and two and three and four...
“You okay?” A gravelly voice called out nervously, jostling me out of my trance.
“Oh- yeah, yeah I'm fine.”
I turned around to catch a look at whoever it was that had knocked me out of my paralysis. I expected, judging from his voice, a chain-smoking old man. I got a guy who looked as if he was younger than me. His voice did not match his bright-orange hair, blue eyes and all-American good looks. He had a strange look about him too, though. His skin looked bleached and faded. A few hues away from being albino. And the rings under his eyes defied his otherwise youthful appearance.
“You shouldn't take that bag, man.” He warned out of nowhere.
“What? I wasn't-”
But he drove off before I could finish my sentence. I stalled on that last 't' before turning back around at the bag. I sighed. Why would I want to talk that bag? And what happened a few minutes ago. Who was that guy? I looked back at the house to see that the light at the top of the room had gone out. They must be calling it a night, I presumed. And I, too, needed sleep. But just as I was about to head home and maybe grab a nightcap, I noticed a piece of paper on the bottom of the bag, in danger of fluttering away into the chilled breeze. Before I could take a breath, my thumb and pointer finger clasped onto the paper. I tugged it away from the bag gently and slowly brought it to my eyesight. Written with practically bulging magic marker, it said: TAKE ME.
I laughed. How ironic. It says the exact opposite of what that guy told me to do. It must be a bunch of old stuff the people in this house don't want anymore. It's practically garbage, I bet. I grab the bag and lug it over to my car. Somehow this feels much heavier than I expected it to. But as I click open the trunk, I tell myself that it'll be worth it. I'll find some hilarious old knick-knacks and junk to spread around the new apartment. Yes, this could be legendary.
Curiously, the items in this bag don't feel all that solid. I expected them to. Not sure why.
- - -
Day 2
Jake's a great guy, one of my best friends. He's oddly tall, has a shaved head of brown hair and has an unhealthy obsession with keeping our apartment as clean as possible. I shouldn't have been surprised at his reaction to the bag.
“Man why are you grabbing shit like that?” He moaned after I shared the big news.
“It's hilarious.” I replied, lacking any conviction.
“It's gross.” He said.
“You don't even know what's inside!”
“Do you?”
Okay, he's brought up a good point. I haven't looked in the bag yet. I feel like I'm waiting for some sign from above. I'm not a deeply religious person or anything, but I believe that I had had a spiritual awakening as I glanced at the bag last night. It held all the telltale signs of one: loss of recognition, shakiness and, of course, perception loss. It was either a spiritual awakening or I blacked out. And I hadn't had a drop of alcohol last night.
I really don't drink at all, actually. I'm not exactly straight-edge, but I read about the things that shit does to your body and I just can't see why anyone would wanna subject themselves to that. Granted, being drunk is pretty awesome but I like to feel like I'm in control of my life and that I'm not pummeling my kidneys.
So yeah, call me silly but I'm waiting on a sign that I need to open up the bag. I know nothing special is in it, but I want to make the experience as memorable as possible. And it'll stay here. Jake's O.C.D-having-ass is gonna have to deal with it.
Here's a funny anecdote, even though I didn't have a window open or have my fan on or anything, the bag was still prone to the quietest of settlings and rustlings last night. Plastic garbage bags are the worst.
- - -
So I'm not sure if this counts as a sign or not but I found another piece of paper attached to the bag. It read 'open me...'. I'm not sure if this counts as a sign from above or as a sign that I am not very observant. I'm putting it in the latter camp. I chuckled and threw the slip of paper in the trash.
Couldn't get any sleep last night. I can't keep this bag in my room anymore. I'm gonna have to put it in the hallway closet for now, until I feel like it's time for me to open it.
- - -
Day 4
So after a night of sleep without the bag in my room, I wake up to find that it's propped up beside my open door with a note pinned onto it. Or should I say pasted. The glue or wet cement or whatever was still visibly fresh as I tugged it off the bag and it reeked. The note read 'Don't you want to see?'
I know Jake thinks my obsession with this bag is ridiculous but he's the one being weird right now. When I confronted him about it this morning, he acted as if he had not a single idea of what I was referring to. He even feigned concern.
- - -
Day 7
Haven't been able to sleep at all. It's been about 3 days since the Jake incident, I guess. Hard to keep track. I have kept the bag in the hall closet and it's stayed there. But I can still hear it shaking and rustling throughout the night. And when I don't, my body starts to get glimpses of how I felt a week ago. That rhythmic pulsing starts banging behind my eyeballs again and for a moment I feel like I'm about to descend and melt right through the floor and Earthly ground into a festering Hell. I am definitely experiencing something spiritually but not in a good way. My skin is burning up so much that my sweat dissolves upon secretion. I've decided that this is the sign I have been waiting for. This is not some holy spiritual quest. It's a nightmare. I feel sick. Jake decided to visit his parents for the weekend so I am stuck here by myself. Waiting and waiting and waiting and one two three four one two three four...
- - -
I just attempted to open the bag for the first time. I can't seem to bust the knot. It's all full of slime and residue and the outside of it feels rough and scaley. I couldn't get a grip on it.I became vexed with frustration. I threw the bag against the wall. It's gotten heavier and a lot more solid since I last checked up on it, so this took a lot of my energy. As it sat vacantly against the kitchen cupboard, I ran up to it and lunged the hardest kick I could into it.
And I swear to God I felt it kick back.
Do I want to open it? I don't even know anymore. I'm losing it. Why won't I let myself get rid of it?
- - -
I'm through lying awake, listening to my heartbeat fluctuate. It's 4:51 and now is as great a time as any to spring into action. I grab the biggest steak knife I can find. And I can't find the black garbage bag anywhere. I search the kitchen, I search the bathroom, trying to remember if I moved it after the incident I had with it earlier this evening. For a moment, I think it is gone. But then I go into my room.
And it is back in the same place it was after Jake moved it. And it's rustling. And it's swaying. And I can't take it anymore. Now I know I have lost it and do you know why? Because I heard it mimmicking my pulse. For a moment, in unison, we were both nothing but a pile of flesh creating a rhythm. One two three four. I lunged at the bag and stabbed it. One two three four. I scratched at it, I pummeled it with all my might and I cried out as I stabbed it more. I couldn't stop. Any semblance of humanity I had was lost in that moment. I stopped to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard the most horrific, ear-curdling scream I have ever heard in my life. It was as if someone had woken up a dead woman with millions upon millions of volts in a rainstorm. My heart exploded out of my chest and I scrambled to my window and thrusted it open. I gripped the slimy bag by its husk and threw it out the window into the outer world. It bellowed its deafening shriek as it fell several stories down. I feel safe for the moment. I think to myself that there is no way I will turn around and see that bag lying against my wallpaper like a prop. But as I sit here typing these words, I still find myself too afraid to turn around. And my heartbeat has been getting louder and louder. And I know that as soon as I hear it break into its familiar waltz that I must close my eyes and promise myself that I will never open them again.

Steven has been missing for the past two years. When his room was searched, all that was left of him were his clothes and an empty, unidentifiable black cocoon-looking specimen. Researchers are left baffled by its contours and scaling and are working hard to figure out what this is and how it could correlate to Daniel's final blog entries and his disappearance.

Everyone's A Critic.

Today started off like any other day.

“Chuck, you're 45 minutes late!” Lynette, our dashing secretary told me with a shocked expression as if it had never happened before. As if I had never been this late before.

“Everything's okay, just this commute. Bad traffic.”, I say in a jumbled fragmented mess before settling at my desk. And it's nice that someone here seems to care when I get in. I know my boss doesn't. And I know Roseanne doesn't.

Roseanne sits about 500 feet away from me at the back corner of the office. She is a winter solstice and I am groundhog day. We are not allowed to interact with each other or the world would be thrown into chaos.

I check the mail, hoping to find something interesting. Instead it's the usual swag that is prevalent in this job. Band after band after t-shirt after DVD have arrived for me today. I don't know why, but as a music critic, it seems I have to maintain a 3.5 pounds of music-related stuff per day. I'm not sure if the labels who send this stuff know that I have already chosen the albums I am going to review next month and the month after that. It's like they've sent me a newly produced 2008 laptop which can be used as a coupon for the 2010 model that I really want them to send me.

I set everything in my cashmere book bag. Yes, I know it's a little silly but I love cashmere. I feel confident enough in my dude-factor to say that statement and still feel straight. I grab a pen if for no other reason than to get something out of my bag. I'm going to be typing at this desk for most of the day (and not all of the typing will be work-related, I'm afraid. The day AIM Express was invented was the day my daily workload was halved.

I decide to get to work on one of my reviews for the next issue. I mean, I don't know why I bother to write such long reviews. They always end up getting shortened by our editing staff. This is amazing but true: They are trying to make the magazine (a medium which functions on written language) less “wordy”. They want the pages to pop with literal images, not textual ones. What this means is that they will chop up my review of Katy Perry's next album so the world can see a few more inches of her flesh (which I'm quite confident, thanks to the internet, they are already familiar with).

I sigh and get to work. The album is decent. I'm not sure if it's a chore to listen to because Ive been doing this as a job for the last 5 years or because the performances aren't as energetic as they should be. The singer coos and whines in a typically innocent and indecent indie fashion. The guitars are rough and murky, the perfect counterpoint to the singer's complete lack of harshness and the drummer is average. I can't remember a lick of it once it's finished. It's the best new album I've listened to in about a week or so.

I check my e-mail. It's full of something I never expected to get when I sent my resume into this periodical: hate mail. Between agents representing artists (“your review is completely unfair and you have lost any chance of interviewing Kanye.”) to the artists themselves (“The only reason you prefer Burt Bacharach to my music is because you and your kind look like Burt Bacharach. You empathize with him because you are the eternal virgin, nird and loser. Regards, Gene Simmons.) I used to let these things pile up and get me down but now my heart doesn't even sink when I read them. This really is a thankless job. When an artist gets good reviews do they thank us? No. They say “Oh, I don't care about reviews. It's nice but whatever.” Then the second they get trashed, they badmouth us. Assholes.

As I get ready to leave, I glance at Roseanne who too is busy reading e-mails. For a moment, I fantasize that she is writing an e-mail to me that she is too nervous to send. It doesn't make me feel better. I stand up, glide in a weightless sadness to the coat-rack and stomp out grumpily without a goodbye to Lynette

Puppy Love

“What's the deal here, Mark? It seems like whenever I am partying, I always happen to run into you! Wait a second, I think I get what's going on here... Oh God...”
Crap. She knows. I've been found out. I was way too obvious in my pursuits.
Melissa brushed her hair to the side and pointed right in Mark's face.
“You're stalking me!”
Nope. She doesn't get it at all.
Mark had been at the same parties as Melissa the past couple of weeks, but it wasn't so he could get to know her. He had asked if she would be at these parties, this is true but he was more interested in who she was bringing along.
It started on 11am two weeks ago at the school library. Mark was studying for his Human Genetics quiz that Monday. As if that wasn't bad enough, he also had a double-shift at his job at two PM. He felt the same way Clark Kent must have felt when he was assigned the task of reporting on a bank robbery. He frantically tugged at the side of his crop-top of chocolate-brown hair, eyes vexed in frustration. When he opened them, he saw a woman with the flawlessness of an oil painting standing right before him.
“Are you okay?” She asked, eyes wide with concern.
“Oh yeah, I'm just... really stressed.” Sighed Mark.
She nodded as if she understood him perfectly but her eyes still portrayed a sense of confusion.
“I mean, I have to study for a test tomorrow and then I have to work a double at work tonight.”
“What I do when I'm stressed,” She began, interrupting his pity party, “Is take a deep breath and clear my mind of anything. Once you give your stressful thoughts some time to settle, you'll find that they aren't obstacles that you can not overcome but tasks that have been placed before you for a reason.” She smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “My mom taught me that. Good luck.” She said as she walked away. And if it wasn't for the lump in his throat, Mark would have asked for her name. All he knew was that she was friends with Melissa. And he tried to figure out her name or have a real conversation with her for the next two weeks.
“So, um... Melissa, is that one friend of yours you always bring with you to parties here?” Mark asked, only aware of how creepy this made him sound after the fact. He winced at what he just said.
“Oh her? Don't worry about her. I'm stag tonight, Mark.” She batted her eyes suggestively.
Mark sighed and continued on. “What's her name anyways? I mean not like I really wanna know... no biggie.”
Man, now I am trying waaay too hard to seem normal.
“You sure are curious about her, huh? You almost had me going there.”
“What?” Mark balked in confusion.
You don't have to pretend you aren't interested, Mark. I've seen the sideways glances, the awkwardly long stares... I've heard you raise your voice when I'm near you so I can hear what you're saying to whoever you're talking to.”
“Look, this isn't what you think it is” Mark backtracked. But it was no use, because as you might have guessed by now, Melissa had had one too many drinks tonight.”
“Kiss me, Mark.” She leaned in to kiss Mark just like film actresses do, lacking only their poetic movement, grace and charm.
“I LIKE YOUR FRIEND!” Mark shouted.
Melissa stopped, eyes still closed. She was processing what she had just heard.
“I'm sorry... I've been coming to the same parties as you so I could get to know that girl you always hang out with.”
“That girl I always hang out with...” Melissa began, opening her eyes. “Is my little sister. And she's 16.”
“What?! What is she doing at this school?”
“SHE WAS VISITING LAST WEEK, YOU IDIOT!”
“Oh... that... that makes sense. So, what's her name anyways? Just wondering...”
Melissa let out a muffled and frustrated noise and stormed off, leaving Mark to stew in his own shame.

Weekend With Grandpa

"Are you guys ready to see grandpa?!" Martin asked his son James and his daughter Alexis. They both cheered in a drool filled and raspberry-blowing uproar. They were both two years old so they were not always able to give the most thought-provoking response. But they knew what grandpa meant. It meant a kindly old man doting on them, telling them stories and of course the intoxicating scent of peppermint.

But somehow Martin had been dreading this trip for the last week. He wasn't sure why quite yet. He was usually okay with visiting his dad with the kids but lately he had felt quite negative about this little adventure.

But his machinations were put on hold by the famous capital S driveway of Grandpa's cabinesque mountain house. "We're here!" He exclaimed to the dynamic duo who, it appeared, were trying to clap. "Yaaay!" He cheered, sounding less excited than he intended.

As he unleashed 'thing 1 and thing 2' out of their car seats, their grandpa Jack opened the front door of his pudding-brown house and cheered "Heeey it's my two favorite little sprouts!" James and Alexis' eyes both widened, which was then followed by nervous giggling. They knew what was coming next. Jack charged at them with a ferocity unbecoming of a man his age and gave them both a tremendous bear-hug, knocking the wind out of them. They coo'd and giggled as he picked them up and spun them around in the air.

"Careful, dad." Martin warned to no effect. He smiled to himself. It always felt great to see his kids and his dad together. Jack set the twins down and went to greet Martin without quite the same enthusiasm. He gave him a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. "How're you doin' son?" Martin offered a weak shrug and a smile, followed by a mumbled "Purty good... you?" Jack nodded. "I've just been trying to stay busy up here, you know? It's nice to have visitors." For the first time, Martin wished his mom and dad were still together and felt a rush of sadness hit him, but he quickly shrugged it off.

"Who wants some chocolate milk?" Jack asked as he opened the door to the fridge while Martin and his kids sat at the dining room table. He poured a big glass for himself and two sippy cups for James and Alexis. Seeing those sippy cups set off something in Martin... because they used to be his. To recover from the shock, he looked down at the table, but this too was the same kitchen table from his childhood. And then all he could think about was breakfast on the morning of the second day of 3rd grade.
***
"You're gonna be late Jack, come on! Hurry up!" Jack's mother Rebecca urged her son, glancing at her watch.

Jack picked up his glass of orange juice and prepard to take a big sip... but his grip on the glass was not what he thought it was. The glass tumbled out of his grasp and all over his shirt and the floor. "NOOO!!! Jack that floor is expensive!!! Clean it up!!" His mom shrieked. Martin stared down, petrified at what he had done.

Just then they both shuddered as they heard some booming loud footsteps coming from the bedroom.

"Shut the fuck up, both of you!" Martin's father ordered, deep circles under his eyes. He glanced at the floor and looked deep into Martin's eyes.

"Did you do this, Mart...?"

"It was an accident, dad! Honest" He spat out quickly. But as he looked into his dad's eyes, practically glowing with rage, he knew it was too late. He knew what was coming. With a ferocity unfit for a man of his age, Jack smacked Martin on his right cheek and pounded him with his fist in his side. "Don't ever let me catch you acting like that again, you little shit." He warned before turning around and retiring back into the bedroom.

"Oh Martin," His mother choked out quietly, tears flowing down her cheeks. "Are you okay Martin? Martin?"

* * *

"Martin? I said, do you want some chocolate milk?"

"Y...yeah sure." Martin responded, still not totally snapped out of his shocking flashback.

"Attaboy," Jack replied. "Don't let me catch you daydreaming like that when I'm trying to talk to you again," He joked. But Martin did not laugh.

Crossing Familiar Paths

Daniel Roman was in a hurry and he had no time to pause for idle chit-chat. It was bad enough that he had to use the public laundromat but he had to use some of the change he had saved up in his "Jar o' Quarters" which he created from money he gathered from customers at his infamous local italian restaurant "Italia HQ." He was what the people in Norfolk, Nebraska called "a big deal." Daniel fished in his pocket for the lousy two quarters that would be wasted on cleaning his fancy clothes and a book called "How to be a Big Fish in a Little Pond" he had just purchased at From Mind To Page, the local bookstore. But before he could pull out his latest pipe-dream fanning purchase, he caught sight of a face he hadn't seen in eons. A face that he had never stopped loving, despite its absence in his life for the past fifteen years. "M&M?" He said aloud, barely below a whisper.

Mindy Martin wasn't just any old flame. She was "the one." She was his first and possibly only true love. She was the captain of Norfolk High School's cheerleading squad and he always felt like she was too good for him and he was the luckiest guy in the world. Well he found out that his suspicions were true when she dumped him after their year-long relationship. She said he was a great guy but he was just too boring. It hurt Daniel when he saw her at prom a week later with Kevin Greene, the meathead quarterback of The Lancers, the school football team... but somehow this hurt more.

Her face was still the work of art it had always been. Her lips adorned with The Other Woman lipgloss, her eyes could light up the neighboring town of Dinkenberg.

He wondered if he should he talk to her. Why was she still in town? Wasn't she able to get a scholarship? Maybe she was just visiting her folks. Oh, her folks. Her father Tom never did like Daniel much, he recalled, until he found out that they shared the same favorite rock band in Easter Clothes. And her mom had to be the best cook in the town if not the state. He smiled at these memories and clutched his fist confidently. I'll start off our conversation slowly, ask her how her parents are and then see if she wants to get lunch tomorrow, he thought to himself. He took one long stride forward, quickly took the same mammoth stride backwards and smacked himself in the head. "Don't ask her to lunch, you knucklehead!!" He croaked to himself, as the patron next to him wondered if this sweaty man had had one too many hits of Perfect Days.

She probably doesn't even remember you, you putz! Just finish your laundry and get out of here while you still can. He thought as he stood beside the metallic, growling machine. He tapped his foot impatiently. If she approached him, he would pretend he had i1Pod1 and shrug.

When his load finally finished, he quickly grabbed his clothes, put them in a plastic Target bag and briskly walked out the door. He gave Mindy a quick look and a nod as if to say "Though I do not know you, ma'am, I hope you have a good day nonetheless." And he really did, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he never stopped thinking about her these last 15 years. Even if he were on Calyzio, he knew his thoughts would stay set on her. But she wouldn't care to hear about that. It was obvious that she didn't remember him. He decided to eat at Granny's Cupboard with the same person he always ate with: himself.
- - -
See Mindy? Of course he doesn't remember you. He moved on and you're old news. He's a success. Why did I have to break his heart? He was the best guy I ever had and I left him and for what? So I could feel more excited? I mistreated too many people. I guess I'm paying for that now. I wish I could have gone to college. I wish I could tell him I still think about him. I should have asked him to lunch.... God, I feel like I'm on an episode of Living and Trying...

The Task To Become A Man

FRIDAY
I can't believe they're bringing Bob back. The worst manager in Steak and Bake history has been brought out of retirement because Sam "wasn't cutting it." All too soon, I am going to cross this parking lot, walk into this shithole restaurant, change in our vermin-infested locker room and walk out to see that balding buffoon that doesn't deserve the title of "Restaurant Manager" (and that's not really saying much). I decided to sit out here and savor my last few moments of freedom. The dashboard clock read 8:47. I flipped open my lighter and grabbed a cigarette, preparing to suck ash.
 
And just as the warm embrace of nicotine tucked me into the bed I slept as a child, I was awakened by a terrible noise. Bob's '87 Toyota Camery's chainsaw motor came screeching into earshot. I looked up to the heavens and prayed for an accident. My wish was not granted.
 
In his two months off, Bob had not taken up regular use of Rogaine. He also had not improved his posture as he crocheted to the front door in his lower case r style. I was the only car in the lot besides his. He didn't even bother to look at me though. As if I didn't exist. As if "Customer Relations Associate" meant nothing. And even though you and I both know it doesn't, it's his job to pretend that it does. And as soon as he got done hocking a loogie onto the sidewalk (which he did every day before opening Steak and Bake) I would walk out of this car and pretend to wish him a good morning.
 
I tapped my cigarette on the tip of my open window and gritted my teeth, feeling the gray hair tickle my gums.
 
"Good morning, Bob!" I greeted. "Good morning Peter." He said quietly, as a formality. He had his face practically smashed against the clipboard he was reading. I grabbed walkie-talkie (which we never used) and barrel out of there before I had to listen to him any longer.
 
As I walked out of the break-room, I saw Sam arrive. The time was 8:55 AM. As the store owner, this was unbecoming of him. He usually got here at 8:50 sharp every day. Something was up.
 
"Sam, what's going on? Why is he here again?" I asked, forgetting to greet him.
"Good morning to you too, Peter." Sam said, offering a weak smile. He looked dejected. Weak. I couldn't believe that corporate decided to fire Sam an dbring back the same guy that they had gotten rid of just months prior.
"Well, Peter... I guess I just can't do it all." He sighed, "I wanted to run the place and manage... you know, balance this bureaucratic bullshit with some real human-to-human interaction... but it looks like I'm stuck here."
I sighed, "Sam, why did they hire Bob again?"
"Bob got results. They know that he was a pain to work with for the crew, but sales numbers matter more than morale. They didn't want to take a risk hiring anyone new or promoting someone else. They wanted a sure thing."
 
"Wait... who were they thinking of promoting?" I asked, more anxious than curious.
"I really shouldn't say..."
"Was it someone who's been working here for 8 years?"
"Peter..."
"Someone who has never left this company no matter how many permanent grease burns I've suffered... someone who chose meager compensation over a steady sex life?"
"Look Peter... yes, your name did come up." Said Sam.
 
"Whoo!" I cheered triumphantly, forgetting that I would not get the job.
"Don't tell them I told you this, okay? Look, they told me that they were considering you but that they needed proof that you would lead the other workers in both a positive and effective way. I didn't have any proof of that, so we had no choice but to go with Bob's more effective style. Besides, they couldn't being in someone unexperienced to handle Staek Saturday..."
 
Steak Sunday, by the way is what I think Hell feels like. It's hot enough, loud enough and smelly enough that I actually begin to believe that I have died and am serving an eternity-long sentence with the troublemaker downstairs. Anyways, back to Steak Sunday... SnB has a little shindig every 2nd Saturday of the month where you buy two steaks and you get one free. It's two impending  heart-failures for the price of one.
 
I scratched the back of my head, letting all this information Sam drilled into me sink into my skull. I don't remember the rest of that conversation, but it doesn't matter. Nothing else that happened that day mattered except for the moment when I hatched an idea. A terrible idea. A terribly, terribly brilliant idea.
 
SATURDAY
"Welcome back, Bob!" I cheered at my self-arranged "Welcome Back, Bob Party." You might be wondering why I threw this party for someone I clearly despise.
 
"Gee, thanks everyone," Bob muttered, not wanting to be there anymore than any of us. Clearly he still resented all of us for reporting him to corporate so much.
 
"Now since it's the end of your shift, we thought we'd give you a little gift to officially welcome you back!" I announced, peppering this statement with the occasional obnoxious, teethy grin. I set a box with blue dinosaur themed wrapping paper on the table. Under that wrapping paper was Bob's favorite cereal "Wheaties" with an extra helping of some sprinkles of Hepicap and Night-Time Tylenol.

SUNDAY
“Guys, it's 9AM where the Hell is Bob?!” Sam shouted to a crew of about 15 or so assembled, pasty, zitty teens (this did not include me, of course. I have the complexion of a twelve year old Hawaiian and have impeccable hyigene). We open at 11AM on Sundays to accommodate the churchgoing sect of our “client-base” (as they called it on our first day) but we had to spend two hours making sure the store is ready for the rampaging crowd of ungrateful, hungry customers that would be heading our way soon.

“Oh man, oh man...” Sam muttered as he paced the hallways back and forth, back and forth. He had the rhythm of a grand-daddy clock. Everyone else was frantic and confused in their own quiet, timid way... that is, except for me. Today was gonna be my day to shine and earn that seal of approval from corporate. The seal that read "Management Material."

Daddy's Job

Eric sure liked being in this, what was it called again? Oh yeah, the V.I.P section. He heard the shiny-headed bald man dressed up as a policeman call it the backstage. The fact that he was back here was utterly unfathomable to him.

Usually he would have to spend nights like these at his grandma and grandpa's house. They'd make him supper, tell him a story, he'd tuck grandpa in as he dozed off while watching the 9'o clock news. But tonight grandma and grandpa were going to a get-together across the street and they could not look after Eric so he was forced to go to work with his dad.

This place was even louder than lunchtime at his preschool, he thought to himself. People ran past him, by him and nearly knocked him over. It seemed like the whole city of New York was back here and to Eric, that very well seemed feasible. There were frantic men holding clipboards yelling at other frantic men who were carrying shiny lights. Eric held onto his sippy cup and took a sip while watching three scantily clad women walk by.

Things began to slow down backstage and soon Eric heard a loud noise coming from in front of the egg-white walls which encased him and these other people. It sounded a little bit like music, but it was much more agressive. It was as if the music was angry at him or something. He glanced at the man who was dressed up as a cop; he was having an interesting conversation with the scantily clad women. Eric decided to see what all the ruckus was for. He dropped his sippy cup and went off to investigate.

He strided toward the jet-black door with the gracefulness of a rhino suffering heat-stroke pushed off of his tippy-toes and reached up to the doorknob. It was the heaviest thing he had felt but he knew he had to open. He set down Norbert, his favorite teddy bear and used both his clammy hands to pry open the door. He danced around in triumphant victory, took one last look at the VIP area where one of the men who was holding lights beforehand was now drinking out of a tiny little sippy cup of his own, though this one foolishly had no top.

Eric walked down a dark and scary hallway. This was always how he imagined what walking alone in a scary forest would be like, although there were less trees. Suddenly, a light at the end of this hallway beckoned him, as did the rhythmic and animalistic noise. It grew in volume with each step he took until he was at the end of the hallway. What he saw (and heard) changed his life forever.

His dad was grwling into the microphone like an angry wolf and he was pointing at people in the crowd who he surely did not know. His dad had always told him to never do either of these things! He was saying some mean things to the audience and even swearing. Eric couldn't believe his ears. His dad was even sticking his tongue out at people! Eric gasped and held onto Norbert's paw as his father jumped on top of these poor innocent people and they pushed him back onto the stage, obviously frightened of his violent ways. THIS is what dad did for work? Eric pulled Norbert up on his shoulders and laughed because his dad was gonna be in big trouble once he told mom about what he was doing at work.

It caught me in between dreams. Like clockwork, I heard it tap against my window, seemingly right when I rolled back over. I glanced at the clock, it was somewhere between 4 am and 5am, that blurry baguely unreal time that we never seem to recall perfectly in the morning. I don't know what I want to happen. I just can't believe that, for the first time in my life, I am seeing a deer outside of my bedroom window, chomping away at the unkempt grass. And when it finally left at a time closer to 5:30 than 4, I settled back into my bed and wondered what deers dreamt about.

But when I woke up, my thoughts were much more razor-sharp. And all I could think about was how such a beautiful moment had been wasted on my sleep-riddled vision. I tried to tell the story to anyone I could but their reactions never satiated the pit in my stomach which craved some sort of resolution, or maybe some way to sum the whole event up.

"That's great, Cody," My mom said, "That's one of those special memories that'll stay with you forever."

But as she told me to get going to school, I knew that it wouldn't. Because memories fade in order to make room for new ones and this one would definitely be one of the first to go since it wasn't necessarily an important one. And maybe it's not important in the grand scheme of things... even in the more modest scheme of things, it was only a deer eating grass outside of my window. But it was important to me and that was all it needed to be to become beautiful.

As I sat by the ledge with my camera in hand, glancing at my alarm clock every so often, I knew he wouldn't come. I knew that soon, I wouldn't be able to remember the scruffy white patch of fur beneath his chin. The way his dark black baleful eyes told a story of impending death, the way he chewed so modestly, despite not even knowing I was watching him.

And as I set down my camera, I knew that I could still remember the beauty of that dark blue dawn, if I could just write it down. Because a picture captures the truth, but our words let us create our own version of the truth. A happier one. And I know that no matter what happened to that ten-point Buck today, he'll always be safe here. Roaming the forests and the backyards, free to chew on whatever grass he wants. It may not mean much but it means a lot to me. And that's all that matters.

My Ideal Writing Life

"What I've learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head."
- Anne Lammot, Bird By Bird

My ideal writing life may not start off quite like you would think because unlike most would-be writers, I don't want to sleep in past noon every day. Instead, I would wake up around 4:30 or so because that is my favorite time to wake up and it makes my days feel very long and fruitful. Next, I would eat breakfast, grab a can of Sunkist and flip open my laptop. I would have several new music releases queued to listen to on my iTunes and prepare reviews for as one of the reviewers for the music magazine Q. Once I finished preparing first drafts of those reviews, I would maybe go for a run, play some music and then get back to work, only this time I'd be posting a blog entry for my fans (or detractors) to read. At around 3pm or so, I would get ready to rehearse with my band and when I got home that night I would be prepared to work on my latest book (by now I'd have released several, which is why I got hired by Q Magazine in the first place.

That dream couldn't be further from my reach than it is right now (which isn't true because it was probably a lot further from my reach back when I couldn't read or write). The reason I selected the quote I did from chapter one is because it really boils all my writing problems down to one key statement. I always over-criticize my work until it is no longer enjoyable to read. I second-guess every adjective, over-think every piece of symbolism. If I could estimate how many starts to a story I have deleted because "it just sucked" then I would say I would have enough pages to write the next great american novel (although the continuity would be a problem). I actually do wake up at 4am almost every day so I don't foresee having too much trouble finding time to write (in fact, my desire to write more is why I decided to wake up so early). Thanks to this class, I vow to fight back against my inner critic... or maybe just let him catch a few more hours of sleep while I write in the morning. :)

They were burning beef in their backyards, brown burly men with beer cans. I was always petrified to talk to them. Not because of their color or anything like that. It was more this foreboding vibe they gave off. It was like seeing a car in front of you swerving and changing lanes dangerously often. You just can't help but worry that something is happening in that car. Something terrible. It wasn't that I thought they seemed like bad people, menaces to the neighborhood... it was that the way they acted and never seemed to *look* at anything or speak a real word... they didn't even seem like people at all. Like, if there was any trace of humanity in them in the beginning... it had left so long ago that they had forgotten what it was like to have it.And when I happened to catch them on a walk out of the neighborhood last week, following them them far behind on my bike, I saw them do something I can never forget, even when I close my eyes. In fact, closing my eyes leave me only with those millisecond nightmares for my subconscious to feast upon. Sometimes we can only feast on that which our mind tells us not to. We are as compulsive as animals and just as easy to catch. People sometimes forget about how similar we are to animals. I never will again.