First meat (discounting seafood) in over a year.

So far, so good.

I am not like you.

(I am just like you.)

I am not of the living, today.

Fuck watching lovey movies.

I am too young.

I’m not unhappy, just horribly dissatisfied.

I am inquiring to determine the availability of a grant for research from your organization, the International Research on Writing Supply and Remnants Group. My team of shortly to be globally recognized laboratory and research assistants, and I, have uncovered remarkable evidence involving medieval period monks. Our recent examination of the chemicals in use at this time coincides with other findings of mysterious deaths in the clergy in one particular sector of the religious community. Research by others has revealed that one toxic colorant was in widespread use by monks in this time period for dying inks in particular. Until now, there had been no conclusive evidence bridging the divide between these two major studies. My team and I have found this evidence. I can truthfully say that red ink may have been the cause of mortality for these monks, and potentially some nuns, though the latter has not yet been verified. With a grant for further research into the toxicity of inks and the chemical makeup of their colorants, we will be able to, without a shadow of a doubt, prove that all inks with ever have been, or are currently in use, are not fit for human use.

I request the meager sum of $600,000 for continued research into this highly debated and emotionally charged subject.

LB was recently seen entering a motel on Aurora Avenue North, widely known for its prostitution and drug activity. A witness said she saw him “enter with a frown and leave with a smile.”

Workers at a nearby Jack-in-the-Box reported that a man entered their restaurant around the stated time, wearing unbuttoned pinstriped “shants” and ordered 35 tacos and a “plate of flapjacks.”

SB was later seen leaving the same hotel.

He set the gun down in the middle of the room, on the odd wooden circular table his feet had been resting on just moments before. Hes chain bracelet, presumably from a bike, scraped the metal of the gun and the soft wooden table as he stood back up. His bandana had shifted slightly, and was now resting crooked under his chin like a child’s bib after eating.

Everyone’s first thought seemed to be “leave.” One jumped up, however, screaming at this boy. His short, dark hair prickled above his childlike face, his nostrils flaring. His eyes opened wide and his teeth were showing from his curled, fuzz-covered lip. He had conceived of grabbing hold of the gun, emptying it of its ammunition and leaving— after giving everyone else a thorough screaming at. But another had acted faster. A glint on his ever-so-slightly reflective head was all anyone had seen. His glasses had fallen in this motion, stepped on by others all rushing toward this table in the center of the room. He had control now. His soft voice took the edge off for most, and his gentle goatee did for the others. He grabbed the gun, fumbled with disassembling it for a moment, then simply asked this dark-haired boy for help.

Hair was flying as everyone moved in generally this same direction. Some pushed others, some simply wanted to view from the back, so as to have a chance to escape. As the gun was disassembled, a jet of clear liquid escaped from its barrel. “There are no bullets in here,” a few people explained to one another. Those hit could only agree. “It’s just water!” exclaimed a boy with sharp red hair, in as dramatic and ridiculous a tone as was needed to genuinely lighten the mood. In the back of the room, sitting uncomfortably on an old folding chair was a nervous looking boy, who seemed to have recently been in a shower. He was chewing on the body of a purple-tipped pen still, but his eyes had settled themselves. One arm of his sweatshirt was off, he was sweating profusely, but now just smiled. Frog shoes shuffled quickly over to him and her fiery head turned up to his face. She brushed his hair back into his face where it belonged, her rings catching slightly, and hugged his head hard.

• My basement door is always locked. I don’t like people sneaking in at night any more. If I can even call them people. I used to enjoy it every once in a while, they might tell me stories from their life, or just sit and tell me how every little thing in my house is amazing, beautiful, and tastes like flowers. They’ve been getting into harder stuff since then. No more happy-funtime acid trips or shroom highs. The last time, one came banging on my door shouting something about the moon chasing her all over the city until she finally ended up at my door. She couldn’t speak very well, all I made out of a name was “Labunna”, but she was clearly genuinely afraid. I let her in, out of pity or genuine concern. I gave her tea, let her sleep on my couch, watched her as she feigned sleep, shouting unintelligible “Its vedernins” over and over again.
• I like spiders. I like the way their legs move one by one, their little beady eyes, the way they struggle so much when you pour a little water on them. Only there is no spider. Brains are liars on drugs. I used to be involved in them, but I quickly gave it up when I noticed an impairment, mentally, even when sober. I got out, they all weren’t so lucky. I live in a house off Cherry Street, by this old abandoned school building where all my friends hang out. They used to know who I was, now they just know my name and where my door is. They don’t even register the idea that I have a house, just that I might, at some point, answer my door. I’ve tried burning things at night to keep them away, but they somehow always manage to turn it green, the fumes become terrible, where I can feel the familiar effects on my body up in my room— with the window closed. I’ve come up with a better solution now. Much more obvious.
• I dreamt of dinosaurs that night. They invaded my sleep like they used to. There was something strange about that girl. She kept appearing in those dreams— vividly. She seemed obsessed with getting me to realize something. She made perfect sense, but she still wasn’t saying anything. I woke up and realized she had gone, early in the morning. My front door was wide open. I went to work late that day. As I was leaving, I overheard somebody saying “Today’s been a really crazy day.”
• They had no idea.

Everyone was allowed one dying wish. It had been mandated by law since the Citizens Pollution Reform passed. Due to factory emissions and climate change, life expectancy decreased 8-12 years with each new generation. Chuck’s had been quoted by the state as “53.2 years” give or take one month. He was always amazed at how accurate these predictions were. His friend David, down the call in condo 76N had expired not more than a week after his quoted date. He always wondered how it could be so coldly calculated, like all these people were cartons of synthetic milk, just waiting to be thrown out to the recycler.

Chuck’s small, two-room living space was bare. It consisted of a bathroom, in the corner of which the remaining spiders in the building made their home. There was no bathtub, but he was used to this. He seldom used even the corner shower there was, he could barely afford the place without water bills adding more. The other room consisted of a cot, a miniature refrigerator, and an old cathode ray television that no longer put out anything but driveling government advertisements. He had picked this up from the side of the road, and simply left this off most of the time anyway.

Charles Holt was lying in his cot, engrossed in thoughts of sugarplums and fig Newtons, debating which was more masculine of the two, when the door-buzzer sharply entered his brain. He figured they must have had the wrong door, but remembered as it rang once again that he had a mem-recall scheduled that day. He didn’t really know what to expect, so he stood slowly and opened the door with caution.

What he saw before him was a woman in her late 30’s with golden brown hair, green eyes, and a very genuine half-smile. 

“Hi,” she said as she had so many times before, “my name is Gabriela, I am here on behalf of the social affairs department to lead you through your past memories and dreams one final and thorough time while you remain with us is life.” He hesitated for a moment. “Thanks… is the explanation really necessary?” “I’m required by law to greet you with a pre-approved-well-greeting. Shall we get started? After all, you can’t have much time left, can you?” He found this last remark in terrible taste, but left it at the though. “Sure. What do I— you do?”

She led him to the middle of his own room and instructed him to sit comfortably and “take this.” He took the round blue pills, engraved M22. He once knew what this meant, but it had long since gone from his conscious memory. He soon found himself in a daze, walking the line between reality and dream, and could not decide if the helmet being fitted to him and the monitor to his right were truly there. The next thing he knew everywhere was black. He was standing alone in a dark, wallless room. Gabriela appeared next to him.

“Are you feeling okay?” Her voice soothed the anxiety welling up in his chest. Or maybe the pills had taken full effect. He was not thinking logically. “Yes” he saw himself say. He was not within his body— or— there was himself standing in the room. He was aware of his body, but of this other version of him as well. Gabriela was still next to him, but next to what he felt was the “real” chuck, the one he could see out of, could hear out of, he knew his brain was contained within.

—-

A moment later, he saw himself as a young man, 16 or so and already visibly affected by the rising pollution levels, sitting in a corporate boardroom with other people about his age. Many of them had their hands in their pockets, or were nervously fidgeting in seats. Charles was confident, relaxing comfortably in one of the many armed desk-chairs scattered around the room.

What is fiction?

Fiction is unreal. Is stories, plays, not narrative essays. Fiction is not Non and its teachers within. Do I really understand fiction? I am real, but am I just fiction in somebody’s story? Does every ‘fictional’ character truly have a soul, have thought. That’s just silly. Fictional characters are creations.

What is a lie?

A lie is untruth. A lie is considered evil, though is not by definition. A lie is simple, unlike fiction. A like is something its own. I don’t know what a lie is— yes I do! It’s… a lie, is a lie. A lie is mean, often cruel, fake, bad for somebody. About reality, but not truth.

What is the difference?

Fiction is fake, is entirely created, even if it is based on reality, it cannot be based in reality. A lie is false, a misrepresentation of the truth, but based in reality, on something that exists. A lie must have something to be its truth.

What is nonfiction?

Nonfiction is real, is true, but is not real in itself. It is truths about reality, but not part of it. Nonfiction is uninteresting. Not really though. It often is. It sometimes is not. There is “good” nonfiction. It’s difficult to find. Reality in this sense is often uninteresting.

What is truth?

Truth is reality. Truth is what actually is. But then what is reality truly? What makes reality so real? Maybe there is higher truth unrelated to this reality. Maybe this reality is simply a construct of our collective imaginations. Not just humans. But truth is real, whatever reality is. Hmmm, truth is not lies.

What is the difference?

Truth is real. Nonfiction is about truth. Nonfiction could not exist without truth. Though, nonfiction is very similar, actually. But because it is not fiction, does not make it true. They are not the same……

What if I had a hammer? I can’t imagine I’d find much use for it. I mean, a hammer comes in handy once in a while, but how often would I really need one of my own? Wouldn’t I be fine just knocking on my neighbor’s door? “Hey, can I borrow a hammer for a little while? I’m sure you have one in there somewhere.” But then, I get a response “Don’t have one, I figured I could just get one of yours if ever the need arose.”

What if nobody ever had that hammer I so desperately craved? I guess the answer is just to buy my own hammer. This whole situation could be avoided. But that means I need money. I need a job. What could I do for a job? I could go work some fast food joint for a couple of days. I don’t know that I’d be able to do that so quickly. I’d have to interview… or fill out an application. Probably both.

Maybe my parents have a hammer I could use. All I wanted to do is tack this poster into my wall— maybe tacks are the way to go! Yes, thumbtacks, I’ve been so dumb. I never needed a hammer. Unless— unless the tack doesn’t go in far enough. Oh shit, what if I can’t do it and my room is forever left in a state of disrepair— a poster off the wall!— because of one stupid hammer! I have to find it.

I want I want.

It’s never too late to be stupid.

You can always be dumb, or ruin something, but it takes effort to be smart about it, and you have to do it in time allotted. Also, time is an illusion, very subjective, so maybe you can always be stupid and it doesn’t matter. Originally a mis-speaking about Fleck going to too much effort to swat a fly. “It’s never too late to not be stupid,” was intended.

Flies aren’t worth the effort.

This is the first in a series of writings I intend to post, that I have found hidden in a full-up high school notebook. These will be wholly unedited, and do not necessarily reflect my views, opinions, or writing skills either now or at the time of writing.

The two senators walk into a bar. In a stunning upset, by matter of entirely write-in votes, Ron Paul would be the next president of the United States of America. 

Barack pats John on the back, as John pulls a stool out from the bar for him.

“Maybe next time, John, if we even still have government offices to run for.”

John laughs, disheartened at the idea, knowing that this was a distinct possibility with Ron’s views on federal government.

“I’m sorry neither of us got to see the other elected. If not myself, I had always been hoping for you as second. Even when there were other republicans running, my friend, I was hoping for you.”

They overhear the bartender arguing with a drunken patron over the leadership qualities Ron Paul most lacks. Barack calls him over, the small, white-haired man to his left both looking and sounding like a joke.

“Rum and Coke, on the rocks. For you, senator?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Coming right up, sirs.”

From a distant corner of the room came a low, muffled cry. A figure emerged, stepped away from a worn pool table. He strode over to where these senators, soon former senators, sat comfortably— the shorter one not so comfortably.

“Barack, John, so nice to see you in an honest setting for once. I’d like to take this moment to remind you both that if you had focused on the issues rather than attack ads and corporate interests, you would have gotten truly in touch with the voters, like I did. I understand that I began my campaign late, I never expected to win, but those who voted for me truly understand the need for change. Not “change,” such as…”

“Does he ever stop?” wonders John out loud.

“What? Oh, I didn’t even notice, I just tune him out these days. That’s what my aides told me to do.”