secular.mosh.pit's blog

I usually write my stuff in Word and then post it up here usin' good ol' Copy-'n-Paste. This time is a bit different. I'm just going to write this. This is for the YWP. Written for you guys to hear what I've really been thinking about. I'm not going to put useless line breaks in like a good half of you tend to do when you complain. I'm just going to type. In paragraphs.

Everyone's been talking about the stock market. Should we bail them out? Will this be another depression? What will the presidential candidates do? How will Sarah Palin screw herself over next when talking about the economy? Are we completely and royally fucked beyond repair?
Simple answer: how much does it really matter?
The candidates talked constantly, saying the same thing over and over, about the economy in the debate. The debate was supposed to be about foreign policy. Economics took over.

Molly had been looking forward to that day for quite some time. She was bringing her new friend, Kayla, into school for. She had spent the last three weeks telling everyone at school how cool Kayla was, how funny Kayla was, how smart Kayla was. She hadn’t said it out loud, but she had been thinking to herself that Kayla was everything she wanted in a friend. She had been thinking that she was tired of her bland, practically feral, stoner school friends and Kayla was exactly the remedy to that. Finally she took the bus into school with Kayla, got out with Kayla and tried to introduce all of them to Kayla. They all seemed to turn the cold shoulder to Kayla. It was almost they couldn’t see her at all.

(I should start this by saying this is really politically incorrect and pretty inappropriate at times. Now you can't say I didn't warn you.
This is something I'm writing because of two things: 1) the election and 2) there's a chance the Drama Club at my school might produce something I write. It's for parody purposes, guys. I'm not as prejudiced as the people I write about.
This is still progress. I plan on adding to it more.)

Moderator: Welcome the First American Unreasonable Debates, where the two most unreasonable parties in politics will be discussing their platform wedge issues. I’m Shelly Bates, and I’ll be the moderator tonight. On my right is General David Butsch of the Fear Party and on my left is Former Senator Michael Quincey of the Apathy Party. David, your opening remarks?

(I'm sure you all have this experience. School hits you, your writing ideas evaporate, and if they don't your time to bring them to life does. This has happened to me. Thus, I am reduced to putting my school assignments up for comments. This is one such school assignment. We had to write a Socratic dialogue for Ancient Cultures. I realize the references to WWII European dictators is not something the Ancient Greeks had at their disposal, but my teacher said it was ok for me to use modern references. I've detained you long enough, here it is:)

Soc: Douchicus! Fancy seeing you out and about so early in the morning. Just what are you up to at this earliest of hours.

Dou: Why, Socrates, I am on a mission to save the good people of this city from being cast into the lake of fire.

Soc: And just why would our citizens be so unfortunate as to suffer this rather unpleasant event?

Dou: Because, noble Socrates, they are evil people and will be punished by God for that.

This is probably our nicest song yet. It took a lot of takes to get it right. I'm on the percussion, Zoom's on guitar and vocals.
I should also state that I wrote this song, and I've been told to say that to avoid any kind of confusion or delusions of substitution. I hope no one understood that.

(This is a rough draft of an assignment I got in history. We were to have a dialogue between a Minoan, an Egyptian and a Jewish Person to demonstrate our knowledge of the cultures. I thought you guys might appreciate it.)

Minoan: How ironic it is that us three travelers from three different lands should meet on this three-way crossroads.

Egyptian: I don’t think “ironic” is the word you’re looking for. It’s odd that I can correct your English despite that we all speak completely different languages that died out long before modern English even existed.

Jew: Well actually, my language is still in use in the modern wor—

Egyptian: Shut up, Jew!

Jew: But I—

Egyptian: In my land, when a filthy Jew speaks directly to an Egyptian, we don’t let him sleep until he’s done the full day’s work of seven men.

Jew: I actually know that, as I’ve come from your land, despite that we came from completely different directions.

Egyptian: Oh yes, that is odd.

(For all <3 of you who care that I've not been adding to Generally Untitled, I apologize. I haven't had any ideas for it.)

Empty eyes sent blank stares between the blackened bars. A seemingly endless row of pairs of depthless eyes, all staring directly ahead.
“And this is the children’s ward,” said Mr. Druges with a small hand gesture to the invisible end of the corridor. Mr. Druges was one of the most disgusting creatures I had ever laid eyes on. He was squad and balding with a daughy head that seemed to overflow and settle comfortably on his shoulders, disguising his neck completely. He spoke thickly, as if there was not enough room between his swollen cheeks for his tongue to form sounds properly.
“I see,” was my simple response. “May I take a look around?”
“Of course Mr. Rockford, but I warn you there’s very little to see. May I ask why you wish to see these particular subjects so urgently?”

Why yes,
I do see that.
You’re capable
Of putting line
Breaks in your sentences.
No,
I’m sorry.
That does not make
Your bitching
Interesting
To me.

(I've been reading some Stephen King for the first time lately. I'm liking it a lot. This is my attempt at a horror story. Feedback is very welcome.)

Dennis Lexington’s palms were sweaty. They were very, very sweaty. The gun in his right hand slipped a little. He repositioned it.

I don’t want to die.

You have to.

He gulped. Sweat dripped slowly, painfully into his eyes. He didn’t wipe it away. The only movement he had made for the past fifteen minutes was the involuntary shaking. It was a constant. The pistol’s quivering barrel clattered deafeningly on his front teeth.

I don’t want to die.

You have to. It’s the only way out.

Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe there was nothing to it. The visions of a stressed-out young teacher. Nothing to them. He relaxed a bit. He moved his thumb to let the hammer of the gun down.

Crawling.

He screamed, throwing his sweat-soaked to the hardwood floor.

Writhing.

This is a message broadcasting to all broken transmitters.
Let the word be out that thought is a lost art.
The scientific language has become gibberish to the common ear.
Blue collar voices are drowned out by their own swear and tears.
While the universal currency of blood is poured into sand banks.
Can we reclaim it all as anything but oil and imaginary souls?
Can the utopian lifestyle we never had be returned to us?
Flesh is charred by the spirits of now-dead zealots.
Blind eyes can be turned if the suffers are different.
Blind eyes can be turned if torturers are the same.
If ignorance is bliss allow the world to die smiling.
Hellfire is the only option to those who are sure it is not there.
Permanent skepticism is useless.
Undying faith is harmful.
Religion is the tool of the stupid to bring down what they cannot understand.
Reason is the tool of the intelligent to stand idle by.
Homogeneous politicians disagree with themselves.

(This is part of the larger story I'm writing. On the whole, the entire story is experimental, but this piece is especially so. I'd love feedback on it. It is also highly inappropriate, so it should go unread by the sensitive.)

Knock, knock, knock.
“Sure, come on in.”
“Yeah, hi sir. Nancy said you wanted to see me.”
“Yeah, uh, sure. Why did I want to see you?”
“Well sir, I called this morning to say that I wouldn’t be in today. From Nancy’s description, you seemed rather upset about that.”
“Really?”
“Yes sir, you did.”
“It’s, uh, not that big a deal, just go back to work, ok?”
“That’s the thing, sir… I’m just stopping by to see you face-to-face and tell I’m sorry, and that I won’t be into work for the next few days. Something pretty serious has come up.”
“I don’t really care right now. I’ll see you.”
“Thank you sir! Goodbye.”
“Yeah… sure… uh, Mr. Dickenson?”
“Yessir?”

(This is the second installment of a story I may never finish. I realize that it has pretty much the same plot as the Big Lebowski so far. I'm trying to figure out how to remedy that.)

Danny got kicked out of the Starbucks without his coffee. Joshua followed him outside. A tap on the shoulder brought Danny whipping around to face Joshua.
“And what the fuck do you want?” he demanded. “Oh, it’s just you Josh. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Danny I really need to talk to you…”
“Walk with me.” Danny took Joshua’s coffee and began walking up the street. Joshua followed obediently.
“It’s just that… I got beaten up by this big Hispanic guy who wanted money from me on behalf of some guy names Big Louie. I was wondering if you knew about this guy.”
“Why should I know anything about him?”
“You’re kind of a criminal, aren’t you?”

(This is kind of my return to writing. I was in a play, and my brain didn't really want to write. That might have been a good thing, because I didn't have too much time for it anyway.
In any case, I now have tons of ideas. I just started writing, and I'm going to see where this story takes me. I don't have any plan of attack.

Quick Edit: This particular piece is rather vulgar, so now you can't say I didn't warn you.)

There were two people in the small, green and white apartment. One was in pain. The other was inflicting the pain. The person in pain was a young white man with short dark hair, white collar work cloths on, and a large, throbbing spot of red on his forehead. His name was Joshua Dickenson. The person inflicting the pain was a big, heavyset Hispanic man in a basketball jersey. His name is unimportant.

I'm really sorry I haven't been around. I'm in a musical, and it's completely dominated my life for the past month. It's almost over now, so hopefully I'll be able to start writing again afterwards in a serious way.

_____________

They went everywhere and did everything together. A short walk around the park, a tour through the library, a game of shuffleboard on the boardwalk. Together. Always Together. And death was no exception.

A human carpet lies over the world. It bustles about, doing its chores, jobs, learning. It follows the law, or it suffers the consequences. What creates the laws that the collective must obey? What dictates what is right or wrong? What is ignored and respected, and what is watched for and prevented?

You do.

You sit in your throne, situated atop a pile of your enemies’ bones. A lowly serf comes to you for a favor, hat in hand and head bowed. You commend him for his bravery before he is decapitated and added to your throne’s base. You cackle with egotistical glee.
“Guard!” you bellow. “Publicly execute some people right!”
He nods and jogs away. You smile, envision the bloody, pointless deaths of the innocent. “Make some of them children!” you shout after him, hoping he heard you. And still the doctors just watch you as you rock back and forth on the white pads.