"I wish I had a boyfriend...": A response to Ingrid

This is your boyfriend:























This is your boyfriend:























This is MY boyfriend:

You Thought Wrong.

Yeah, so I lied when I said I wouldn't post soon, because I found this video. This is incredible. Ignore the awful narration on this, and just look at this guy. It's legitimately ridiculous.



It's things like this that make me feel bad about myself. Do I have any skills like this? No, and yet I will probably end up more successful (at least financially) than most of these autistic people who have amazing skills like this, only because I am considered "normal" and can communicate better. Most autistic people are amazing at something like this, but rarely do they get this kind of recognition.

You thought photographic memories weren't real. You were wrong.

Aww Yeah, Pt. 3 (Finale)

Apparently nobody wants to comment on the second part, so hopefully I'll get some comments (hint hint) on this before turning it in. This is the last installment of the story. I still think I like the first part the best, because I feel like it was the most successful at portraying Joyce's style of writing. This is a bit (a lot) shorter than the other two.

Upon reaching, he slid his way between tables, inconspicuously making his way towards his corner table, at which no single other person dared to sit. Upon seeing his face, a tall glass of ale was immediately delivered to the table, as if he were a respected member of the community, rather than himself, Donovan, who spent his time polishing silver and limping along with no aid. He allowed himself a few extra minutes at the pub that day, taking his time with the drink that soothed and burned its way into his familiar system. Tipping the last drops of ale into his awaiting mouth, he gathered himself up, sucking in his drooping cheeks, rubbing his hands together, and leaving a penny on the table. He slowly turned the lapels of his coat the correct direction, and stepped back onto the frostbitten path towards his house.

Loosened by drink, he slid about, uncaring, on the icy streets. Night had crept upon him, casting sinister shadows over everything in sight. Upon reaching his door, his walk having been uninterrupted by any passerby, he fumbled for his key for some time. Finally, he managed to ease his way into the home, and crumpled into his rocking chair, suddenly breathing heavily. The small of his back stood slightly away from the surface of the chair, although the rest of his body sagged towards the comfort of a seat. He closed his eyes. Immediately against his lids he could see the bearded figure that he had scorned so. The face of the man was not unknown to him. It was the face of a visitor at the pub. No, it was the face of a man whom he had known years ago. No, it was the face of his son.

He opened his eyes and padded over to the window, not bothering to remove his mustard socks. The background glowed a blue-black shade. In that moment, he felt that if he stood still for long enough, unseen and unheard, he might simply dissolve into his surroundings, hopefully never to be seen again.


Yeah, so I think this is collectively pretty much the best story I've ever written, because it had some semblance of plot in it, and it got finished (gasp!). Hopefully you liked it too. Comments and criticism welcome and...yeah, I'm dying for comments, guys. With that thought, goodbye for now. Don't expect posts for a while, I'm really busy. Early Decision is due in 3 weeks guys! Good luck!

Awww Yeah, Pt. 2

So, I'm not really sure what I think of this part. It's a little repetitive, I know, but it's hard to convey exactly how long this walk was for Donovan without being repetitive. As in, it was not a long walk in terms of distance, but for him it is a really long walk. This is probably the worst of the three parts of the story right now, so you have been warned. Also, thanks for the comments guys. Apparently I have a huge problem with the passive voice, aka I can't actually ever use anything else. Should probably fix that before I am murdered via English teacher. Also, there is some confusing switching of tenses going on in this story. The first part is in present tense, even though it's describing his past, and the rest is in past tense, even though that is what is happening in the story. It's intentional, but let me know if it's bullshit.

Donovan rose slowly from the rocking chair, and made his way over to the mantel. He observed his spoons, and noted a small spot on one of them. Picking up a square gray cloth, he polished the spoon until the spot was gone, and then placed it carefully back onto the mantel. He slowly limped over to the door, stopping to pull on thick yellow socks, the color of mustard. In the dim light of his home, he can barely find his shoes in the closet, but finally pulled out a clunking pair of leathers, and eased his feet into them. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside, hearing the brittle cracking of frost under his feet, and inhaling the bitter air.

He was going back to the pub, though he had been twice in that day already. Thinking of Ellen always made him thirst for cheap ale, or perhaps some whiskey to feel the burning in the back of his throat. The sun was just behind a passing cloud, and he could look directly at a faint orange sphere as it was setting, casting blood rays over his home. He scarcely glanced at it, walking on as firmly as he could, leaning towards one side slightly. The road to the pub was slippery, and he was at a disadvantage with his legs, and no cane. He brought his hand to his mouth, gnawing on raw cuticles with his chipped and yellowing teeth. If he slipped and fell, he knew it would mean many days at home, and he couldn’t do without his daily ale. He stepped carefully over small chunks of ice, cast aside in snowball fights, and a grimace pulled at his cheeks as he remembered his sons flinging bits of snow and rock at each other, and his wife, with her cheeks red and puffed, holding the boys apart from each other, her voice raising octaves in seconds.

--Ah, Ellen, if you could see me now, he muttered to himself, you would look in disdain at my very being, feeble and helpless as I am, the very embodiment of everything you scorned.

The pub was not far, but the streets were beginning to empty of people as they went to their homes for hot suppers. Donovan much preferred an empty street to a full one, and so he walked on, considerably faster and more cheerfully at the thought of being so close to his drink. So quickly, in fact, that he hardly noticed his foot as it landed only a sliver away from a hand that was resting on the icy ground. He only glanced down when the hand raised towards him, and the man to whom it belonged whispered coarsely, but fiercely--A penny sir, for a helpless man like me. Donovan felt the rage begin to rise up into his stomach, the bile in his throat. It was the word helpless--perhaps if the man had used a different word, a penny would have fallen into his hand, but Donovan looked at the man whose beard almost covered his face, whose squinting eyes blinked quickly and looked at him hopefully, and scornfully turned away and walked still more quickly to the pub.

Comments and criticism welcome and encouraged (I'm on my hands and knees). Part 3, the final part of this saga, will be posted soon. Also, if you haven't recognized it yet, this is based on one of our beloved English teacher's own life stories.

Aww Yeah...

So, we are writing essays for Modernism right now. One of the possible prompts is to write a short story. This prompt made my cry and jump for joy at the same time, for two reasons--one reason for each reaction. I jumped for joy because I enjoy writing fiction much more than writing analytical essays, and we have already written a shorter essay about James Joyce. Oh yeah, did I mention this was all about James Joyce? I cried because I am really bad at writing fiction. Ah well, I said to myself, screw it all, I'll just write a short story anyway. And so I did. Because the short story is fairly long for something I write, I am going to post it in parts. Also, this way I can get feedback on smaller sections before submitting the actual thing (aren't I cruel?). In case you didn't notice/infer by the way, this story is supposed to be imitating the style of James Joyce. Story is so far untitled, open to suggestions.

Part 1:

He is an embittered man, one who bides his time staring at his mantel, which holds a collection of silver spoons, and rocking back and forth in his chair. One of his legs is shorter than the other, and he has never bothered to buy a cane, nor could he afford it. Pennies of pension are spent in the local pub, where he drinks cold beer, sipping at the despised white foam that has formed, and clenching his throat against the tides of guilt that beat against the back of his mouth.

Donovan’s face was once cherubic, but his apple cheeks have hollowed and sagged into pouches with yellowed spots of skin and a windburnt complexion. His stiff white mustache seems to constantly be bristling with anger, or quivering with sorrow. He wonders sometimes if it would have been better to simply die alongside his wife, young and full of life, but here he is, unbeautiful and defeated, polishing his silver spoons and thirsting his days away.

He has two sons. They have moved away now, but he thinks of them every day with a passionate rage, working himself into vexations by thinking of how they have abandoned him in his rocking chair, vicariously living through them, without ever knowing what they are truly doing. Perhaps they are married now, and he contemplates their families that he has established in his mind. One of them works as a printer down the road, this much he knows, and the other is a tavern brat who associates with the basest of men. He is embarrassed by this, and he clearly sees in his mind his son—no, himself—coming home at late hours of the night, having successfully wasted away what little money he had made that day, his bristling mustache dripping with stale drink and fury. He remembers dropping into his rocking chair, the same one, and putting his feet rudely and defiantly up onto the table, waiting and shouting for his wife to put something in his belly to nullify the sour pitcher of drink resting there.

She was a wonderful woman, his poor late Ellen. She hadn’t a lovely face, for otherwise she shouldn’t have married a man like himself, but she was sweet, with her blue eyes and wispy hair, and a slightly upturned nose. She had raised his two sons with a firm hand, and he used to quite enjoy watching her shout at them when she was in a most foul temper. They would cower in fear and he would feel such pride at having found himself a woman who could instill such cowardice in two young boys.

End of part 1. Comments and criticism welcome and begged for, hopefully before I post part 2, which will be in a few days or so.

Chirality

I curse these possibilities
Of wandering from this side of the line
To the other
And all to find an answer
Within myself

Blessed is the man who may
Be a fool for all his life
Never questioned
Never burned
Never believed
Never spurned

The catastrophes have befallen us today
In that chemical reaction
That added acid to acid
That turned water to wine

Your falsities have changed me
Your chirality belying only the slightest possibility
Of a truth
I envy you, your ability to so quickly spin these tales
I envy you, your ability to release them into the air
Not holding, not grasping, not reaching for redemption
Just smiling and waving, smiling and braving

A/N: So, I think this one's meaning is a bit more obvious than some of my other recent works...and it was inspired by chemistry, of all things. And my love for the word "chirality", for no apparent reason. Unsure about the quality...there are parts I like, and parts I want to remove, but I never change my poetry, which is a really bad habit.

Tin Soldiers

There is a time when the others come out to play
Silvery eyeshadow over long lashes, sprinkling into
Rouge-red cheeks, and lips in various shades of orange.

They dance under nights of no moons, new moons, their moons. They dance as they own the world for that brief period of time, in which they can pop blackberries into their mouths and wonder.

There is a night when the others come out to dance
They never cease their imitations of the greats,
Moonwalking their way all the way up to the orb itself,
in a beam of light that comes to receive them.
That is all they could want in that moment, all they could need,
In a descending staircase of spiraling shadowlight.

Some legends suggest that the others are those of blue blood, who never minded a few stares, a few glances, a few gaping mouths in their direction, because they were only maniacs that didn’t belong in this world, and they never needed to.

There are other legends,
With the excessive explanations that most lies have,
When colors of stories aren’t enough to tell them,
When rusty red romances cannot satisfy anymore,
When beauty is seen only in the embracing of brazen cowards
Who can twirl the night away, only to realize that
They never observed the sun.

---

A/N: This was inspired by the story "Blackberry Nights", which is actually on Fictionpress, if you would like to look it up. I'm not sure what I think of it yet, I can't decide if it's edging towards a topic that is too cliche, or if it is incoherent enough to be different. Anyways, a (slightly belated) birthday present from me to you...