New Idea

I realize that I've had trouble writing extended stories simply because I don't plan that well. After writing maybe a few pages, most of my stories (including the "chapter one" I had to write for my English class) just sort of phase out.

Well I thought of a good idea in a dream of mine.

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for my own reference

BASIC PLOT

Some guy is playing a sim game, what happens in the sim game actually happens in a parallel plane somewhere else in the world. The story develops because in this sim game the player opens up new area as the game progresses; the same happens in the parallel world.

The story itself opens in a plague, which would explain the sequestering of the people in the parallel world into a tiny section of what is probably a city. The people have little basic resources, including money.

The guy who's playing the sim game isn't that good. Either it is part of his own sadistic nature or inexperience, but things don't turn out very well.

1. a major character of the parallel world, his mother, decides to go back into prostituion to earn enough money to buy whatever's left. Very early on, with her son still in view, she meets one of her old clients, gets into this huge arguement, fails to shoot him a couple of times (why does she have a gun... idk) then the client contemplates his own suicide as the mother gives a psychological tirade, which includes rather unsavory parts of the past, before the client gets fed up and just knocks the mother down a set of stairs into a parking garage, where (you know what happens next)

2. new area opens up! a basketball court is created, simply for the leisure of the trapped citizens. By random generation, a list of teams and tournament brackets is created. Of course, the random generation is not really random, but perhaps a cruel figment of fate for all the characters. "stacking" of teams is prevalent; in the finals, the whole game breaks into an argument, then a brawl, then another argument, with no clear winner decided.

I had one more scene in mind but I forgot; will update later.

Blast from the past: unfinished story about a Greek military hero.

Back when in the autumn, where I was actually not depressed every other day, I would think of stories during my marching band rehearsals to alleviate my boredom.

I got this idea to actually connect these unrelated musings into an actual story. Of course, this was before I had read Crime and Punishment and also before I started becoming depressed, so the writing style may not exactly be like my current writing style. Still, I someday hope to complete an extended narrative like this one (was intended to be)

This was written around the time we were studying Sophocles, so there is some Sophoclean influence in the Greek culture I tried to describe and the names.

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CHAPTER ONE.

Achilles looked at the ocean. It appeared as if he were in a dream – the ocean had almost a magical view to it. The water seemed to rise out from below the horizon, a majestic mist that would soon blot out the setting sun. But it seemed too perfect, the setting sun turning the whole sky a ruby red, all the while some kind of steam rose from the ocean to give the whole sky a dreamlike feeling. It was all too much. He almost expected an apparition of peace, prosperity, and pleasure to emerge from the haze, to tell him that they had conceded, that all would be peaceful from now on, and that no more innocent lives would have to be sacrificed to the Gods of War.

Of course, all good dreams have to end. Nothing in this world can ever be perfect. If we reach the ideal of perfection, what use is there to living? Everything would have no goal, no purpose. It would all be in vain. We would just live our lives feeding off of our good fortune. So in a way, perfection in a way is like a mirage. We try to move towards it. We try to grasp it in our hands, to feel it. Yet when we move closer to it, it always seems to disappear. Maybe that is a good thing. It gives us a sense of mystery to the ideal. With the mystery comes open interpretation. We are free to play and shape the mould that is our image of perfection. If we were ever to reach perfection, that mould would change from soft clay into metal. Something that is rigid, unshapeable, something that can only decay from its zenith state. Maybe it is the fear that once we find that perfection, it would disappoint us that keeps us from more aggressively pushing for it. So, Achilles woke up from his trancelike state to a full color view of the Centron triremes. There were two – no three hundreds of them. Just then a disturbing thought entered his mind. How did the Centrons even know how to build triremes again? It was the State policy to burn captured ships.

Achilles turned back and began to run down the road. Of course he was facing away from the sun, and running into the twilight. Darkness made him sleepy. It was a strange feeling, being overwhelmed with the nervousness of facing the invasion. It was his first and possibly only chance to show himself. Despite all this, he began to feel drowsy and pensive. It must have been the spectral scene he had just been witnessed a few minutes ago. Though the rise of the Centron triremes through the mist was almost like a hammer smashing a window, the shattered fragments of that dreamscape had magnetic properties. They began to recollect, the whole-again image wrapping itself around Achilles’ body.

Of course, it was when he was a child. He was still under the instruction of Heraclytus. He was a well-traveled man. He had avoided the collapsing pillars of the First Greek Republic, lived under Roman hegemony, and now returned to tell his tale. It was on that day – the day Achilles received a letter of admission to the military Academy. For some reason, this day struck out more than any other in his mind.

“Heraclytus?”

“Have you a question, my student?”

“Why are the Greeks stuck on Crete? I’ve heard so many tales of the old Republic, the one that was on the mainland. What happened?”

“Normally I would never tell anyone. Everyone has some kind of treasure, whether it be concrete or abstract. I guess you could say this is my treasure. The Gods have blessed me, Achilles. I profess; I must be the last man alive that still remembers the old days. All the others are dead or have been traumatized by the experience.”

“Just over seventy years ago, I was working as an apprentice in Delphi to an ironworker when it came. Nobody had expected the rains to come so soon, or so suddenly. They say that while the Oracle was praying to Zeus, a bit of mucus fell on the sacred circle. Poor man – he had a cold, and his nose was running like the Styx. It was bound to happen anyways.

In his rage, Zeus gave the man what he wanted – rain, he made sure that he would give us so much rain that we would never need to ask again for a thousand years. It rained for two weeks straight, torrential rain that pelted the walls, rain that drenched a man who stood outside for one second, rain that bit by bit ate away at our great Parthenon. We were blessed that he only flooded us for two weeks. Although our crops for this year were ruined, it was still possible to rebuild. That was when the second flood came.

The Greeks were once aggressively at war with the Centrons. Achilles, my student, what have you learned about the Centrons?”

“I learned that they were a barbaric tribe of men who wore pelts for clothes, and sacrificed their prisoners of war to their war god. My parents told me that the Centrons had once invaded the First Republic, and after a long struggle they were forced to give up. The Greeks could not bear to witness the savageness of the Centrons, and in the end they voted to surrender to them. Most of the Greeks went in exile to the east, while some of them sailed to the Aegean Islands, where we live now.”

“I see. Very typical response, very toned down, very euphemized. Like eating a cake without any garnishing – pretty much the cake base only. You obviously know the basic story, and the basic facts about the Centrons, but the details… they are rather sparse and inaccurate.

We Greeks suffer from a horrendous arrogance. Ever since the creation of the Republic, when the ideals of democracy were firmly instilled in us, we have thought we were the blessed people, the ones the Gods have set apart to guide and lead a planet of savages towards the truth. When we lose, we try to avoid saying that we lose. What kind of political leader would like to outright admit a loss? We tend to bend the truth, as if we were trying to sugar-coat a terrible bitter medicine. When that fails, we blame others!”

Heraclytus broke out into a cheerful laughter. Something inside him sparked nostalgia; a small part of that conversation reminded him the prosperous days of the First Republic. For a second, he seemed as if he was standing on the steps of the Parthenon, orating to an audience, as he had in his prime years. Then, as suddenly as this overwhelming surge of warmth overcame him, it left him. He was again an aged, exiled criminal of the truth. He started coughing and had to reach for a jug of water.

“Where was I again? … Right, I was at the part where the Centrons invaded. Like I was saying, the second flood was not natural. It was not of pure and pristine water, but was of the crimson banners of the Centrons… Oh, I forgot to tell you who the Centrons really are.

The Centrons, the mortal enemies of the Greeks, are fair-haired peoples that live to the North. <unfinished>

CHAPTER TWO - MILITARY ACADEMY.

And so, with the consuls of Heraclytus, Achilles enrolled in the military academy. He had no trouble fitting in with the environment – “It was like I was born to do war” – he would later remark. Within a few weeks, while the other new students were still trying to learn the ropes, Achilles already was trying to sneak into the more advanced classes, hoping to grab some knowledge.

It comes naturally that with great talent comes great envy, and many enemies. Achilles was in no way immune to this. Creon and his cronies caught particular notice of Achilles pretentiousness. Inside, Creon did admire Achilles’ natural military planning ability, but to keep his image – to remain the tough enforcer of his peers, he had to put on a mask of loathe. One of his cronies suggested to “shut down” Achilles once and for all – and almost like a chain of dominoes, all plans feel naturally in place. It was almost as if an ethereal force had compelled Creon to go forth with this plan, as if a greater part of his mind than his conscious, the part of the mind that represents innate animal simply directed him to act. He had no memories of agreeing to the plan, yet he knew the basic details. They would corner Achilles, and disable his legs.

The plan was to take effect on a cloudy day, one where the clouds were so black to show the certainty of the forthcoming storm. The waves crashed against the precarious cliffs near the Barracks; the wind screamed through the long grass. If one listened carefully enough, one could hear thunder in the far off distance.  The first-years had just finished basic swordplay training, and Achilles was one of the last ones to be heading back to the Barracks. Creon noticed this; he motioned to his cronies to enact the plan.

Achilles was caught unawares. His wooden sword had broken during training, so he had to find the other piece, which he eventually found among a patch of unusually tall grass. By the time he picked up the fragments of his sword, all the others had headed back, that is, all the others except Creon and his cronies.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Showoff?” taunted Creon. The rest of his gang snickered, as if on cue. “No teachers to protect you now… it’s just you… let’s see how well your brain handles the blade of my sword!”

Just then, the wind picked up. Creon rushed at Achilles with his sword. Instead of aiming at the neck, or at the heart, more logical places to aim a killing blow, Creon aimed at Achilles’ right calf. This put his height advantage at a disadvantage, and Achilles was easily able to deflect the blow with the longer fragment of his broken sword. Creon’s gang soon followed suit. Even if Achilles could deflect every single block, the force of eight other boys would be enough to knock over and restrain him, and his arms and legs. Then they could begin hacking away at… but at that moment, as if some part of his real character enveloped his mind and his body, Creon halted.

“Stop! My men... this is not a fair fight, nine men against a cripple. I don’t care if we all loathe him. A fight is not a fight unless it’s fair. That is why I will fight Achilles alone. Don’t worry… the plan will still be carried out.”

“Pah! Wooden swords can’t do any damage to his…” began one Creon’s gang.

He stopped mid-sentence because of Creon. He took off his leather helmet, and was in the process of removing his leather tunic, and his undershirt.

“My parents were the greatest warriors in Sparta. That is, before the tragedy. In Sparta, real fights, duels, were fought bareback, with no armor. Protection is for the weak, the timid. If you hide behind a wall while catapults are hurling rocks at it, it doesn’t matter if the rocks only make a dent in the wall. If you stay passive, and hide behind that wall, it will eventually break.

 Spartan fighting relies on killing the other enemy before he can get a chance to strike. We are trained tough, so that we can handle harder blows to our body. It’s not that we are a stronger people – we just have the right mindset. We train ourselves not to worry about petty details. When in battle, we tone down our thoughts. Only the most important thoughts are allowed to exist. That is how a true warrior focuses on the battle. It doesn’t matter if you have a mortal wound. All that matters is how many heads you take. People won’t remember you for your stupidity in getting killed by the enemy. They only remember your achievements. That is why, in Sparta, we fight till the end. Surrendering is worse than dying. We train men, not cowards.

Achilles, I ask you, as your equal and enemy in combat, to follow the Spartan rules. As your equal, you have the right to a fair match. But if you don’t obey – then you’re not my equal. Then you are an inferior. At that point, I’ll call my men to pounce on you. So either way, your fate is set. Either face it like a man, or die like a coward. What do you choose?”

Without saying a word, Achilles copied Creon; he removed his helmet, his leather tunic and his undershirt. The only thing worse than being humiliated in battle was to be called a coward. Soon, the two combatants stood a mere three meters apart, on a patch of grass that was shorter than the rest. Creon’s gang stood by on his side, utterly silent. This was a match of honor, and his gang knew better to interfere. A rumble of thunder signaled the start of the duel.

Dimak, the head teacher of the Academy and mentor of the first-years, spied through a hidden slit in the walls of the Barracks. He saw two children locked in what appeared to be an important duel, for the combatants and audience were silent. Of course, it was too noisy anyways, with the chatter of all the other students changing and preparing for the day’s lectures. But he guessed that anyways. At that moment, he noticed that Achilles, and Creon and his friends were not among the students changing. And instead of feeling a compelling need to break up the conflict before anyone was seriously injured, he felt that he should let the duel run its course. He was very interested in the outcome… the battle of logic versus brute force. But in his mind, he already knew that Achilles would receive a serious beating. He was more interested in the aftermath than the actual battle.

“Students, I need to check the tides,” he lied, as he went outside to get a better view.

On one side, Achilles stood, slightly hunched over and slightly limping on his left leg. On the other side, Creon stood, his near-perfect muscular form, standing erect. Despite all of Creon’s insisting on a fair fight, to any bystander, the fight was anything but that. Achilles held the longer fragment of his sword in his main hand, the shorter fragment, which was actually the hilt, in his offhand. Creon stood gripping his sword with both hands.

And like a thunderclap, Creon struck Achilles point-blank across the face. Creon used the wooden blade to its full advantage. Instead of trying to slash, which would have been ineffective due to the bluntness of the blade, Creon slapped, or to more accurately describe it, attempted to crush Achilles’ face. The results of that one hit were devastating. Creon’s gang was even shocked, but they were more in awe at the strength of their leader. Achilles started bleeding from the eye, in the form of bloody tears, his nose started to spurt blood, and his lip was completely deformed, as if it had exploded. Yet he still stood in the almost same position.

Achilles’ counterattack was of a different style. His blade was shorter, in that he then gained the advantage of a faster attack, and he slashed. Creon had trouble blocking his attacks, which came with increasing speed and intensity. Yet instead of slashing Creon, Achilles decided to use his offhand weapon to stab Creon, straight in the middle of his chest. Creon doubled back slightly, but less than Achilles thought he would. He caught him completely unaware and raised his sword above his head, intending to crush Achilles’ skull…

But Achilles hid under a taller patch of grass, which helped to slightly slow down Creon’s attack, and obstruct his view. And when Creon finally saw the result of his swing, he was taken aback. Achilles had used both hands, and both of his weapons to block his attack. Of course, if Achilles had attempted to block his swing with one hand, he would have been easily overpowered. But with two hands, it was if his will to resist, and his strength, not only doubled, but quadrupled. Creon had never seen anyone block with both his hands before. In the stories that his mother used to tell him, he never once heard of a person that did what Achilles had just done. He basically knew two types of defenders from her stories – one type, which he was, that would block with only the sword. He also heard of another type of fighter, who would carry around pieces of square, or circular metal and use that to block swings, fighting with the other hand. But that concept of using a “shield” (which is what his mother told him what those men called those pieces of metal) was foreign to the Spartans. It went against the theory of maximum power. From what he had heard from his mother, shields were only used by cowards, men who would hide behind a barrier and wait to get slowly struck down. But the actions of Achilles were completely novel, in many cases. It was as if Achilles had the ability to create brilliant strategy on the spot.

But Achilles was still a child, and capable of making foolish errors simply because of his naivety. After that block, Achilles began to slash at Creon with both weapons. Creon suffered some light scratches each rotation of his blades, since his one sword was not enough to block against two perfectly timed slashes at once. But had Achilles really forgotten? Creon was a Spartan, a people who were renowned for their ability to survive pain. Achilles was trying to scratch a boulder with a wooden stick. Creon played the waiting game. He wanted to wait for Achilles to either get tired, or trip. And within a few more seconds of Achilles’ assault, he got wish. Achilles nearly tripped on a rock; it was not enough for him to fall over, but it was enough to make him lose his rhythm. Creon took his blade in both hands, and gave Achilles a rib-shattering hit to the chest, which caused him to double back and fall over in pain.

And now Creon strode over to the fallen hero, intending to end this duel, and Achilles’ military career. His sword was raised; he intended to shatter the bones of Achilles’ lower right leg.

“Well Achilles, though I do commend you commend you for not being a coward, I win. And now I’ll reveal my plan…”

Captain Dimak, who was hiding in the shrubs, walked out. He looked slightly disturbed, but had a twisted smile on his face as if Creon was a mouse who had just become caught in his trap.

“Well Creon, don’t you think you’ve punished poor Achilles enough?”

“Dimak… sir…”

“Don’t worry! I saw it all. Very nice job parrying his slashes, then taking advantage his mishap to strike. You could use some work controlling your strength, however. Like a cheetah, one must wait for the opportunity to pounce. Be like a cheetah. The masters of patience. Perfect accuracy. Perfect agility. Perfect strength. The magus opus of all beasts.”

“Thank you sir…”

“As for what you’ve done in the last ten minutes. It’s perfectly illegal and I should punish you all severely. How does thirty hours of slave work over the next week sound? But I came here for another purpose. I hope that you, Creon, have learned a lesson. True, you are a great warrior, you come from a lineage of Sparta’s most decorated and honorable soldiers. True, you’ve inherited the strength, agility, and cunning that your parents possessed. You’re probably one of the best students in the academy at duels. But, you’re forgetting the point of war. No one man can single-handedly withstand the assault of an organized army. If your belief that higher power always wins is true, then we should have lost every single battle of the First Centron-Greek War. Each battle, the Centrons outnumbered us by at least two to one. And add the fact that the Centrons, due to their harsher living conditions and difference in diet, are stronger and more agile than the average Greek is. We should have been extinct a while ago.

But what sets us apart is strategy. Not strength, strategy. Oh, I was a commander before in the Greek legions, many years ago. Sure, my men resented me for being able to stand on the sidelines and yell commands, instead of risking my life in the heat of battle. But a commander is much more important than ten, if not a hundred of my men. That’s right; I’d trade one hundred warriors of your caliber, Creon, for one brilliant commander.

That poor kid you beat up, Achilles, has the potential to be that commander. He has more potential than any of you. He may be the most brilliant first-year strategist I have ever seen. So you better treat him with more respect. He might just be commanding you in the near future. Look at the seas, Creon. They bubble with the currents of unease. The second Centron-Greek war is imminent. Last I’ve heard, the Centrons have already taken over Sparta. That’s right, your precious little home run over by those brutes. Isn’t that a righteous enough reason to fight?

I’ve already discussed with the top commanders; war at first sight. It won’t be many years – ten, maybe twelve, before the Centrons amass a large enough fleet to invade Crete. This sanctuary won’t be around much longer. So think, in twelve years, when you’re twice as old as you are now, you might just come face to face with the scum that your parents disemboweled daily. And Achilles might just be your commander.

If I were you, I wouldn’t expect any leniency from that man. If he holds back your rations, if he makes you sleep outside of a tent, if he makes you part of a suicide mission, don’t come crying back to me, or your parents. I probably will be dead by that time, and your parents…”

Creon’s face flushed a little and a twisted frown found its way onto his face. He might have also shed a tear…

“Martial law supports the commander, Creon. You’re just the worker ant. No matter how you try to skew things, if you disobey your commander, you can be executed, and at the very least sentenced to hard labor. So I’d think twice about making enemies with that man.”

Captain Dimak stood with the exact same stance and expression he had at the start of his speech. Only his face was slightly flushed and his breathing was a little tenser.

“Come on boys. Got a class to catch, right?”

Creon and his gang <obviously unfinished>

Existentialism on "Pram" Night

I know that it's spelled wrong. Get over it.

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EXISTENTIALISM ON “PRAM” NIGHT; a semiautobiographical short story in one chapter, titled this way to avoid copyright issues and to express my own sentiments on that very lovely end of the year dance which people decry as the best thing ever.

            Sometime after the fall you realize that the most interesting emotions of the human mind shall never be quantified, nor described in a coherent manner. As I sit here I gaze at the back of this girl, who is wearing a tye-dyed shirt over a striped long sleeve shirt with her light brown hair tied up in a ponytail. It is obvious that she is a middle schooler; high school has this magical effect on tween girls – backpacks become giant handbags, GAP Kids becomes Abercrombie & Fitch.  Naturally, I tried to envision what the girl, who most likely is entering, or already in, the most awkward transition phase of her life, would look like had she been at pram (as I had just finished all of my classwork, and the ice coffee I bought to make sure I didn’t look like a person who was leeching off of the coffee shop’s facilities, and now was bored out of the my mind, trying not to fall asleep, an act which would be very inappropriate in a public establishment).

            Her curly hair would probably be permed straight, simply to follow the golden rule that one is not allowed to look the same at pram as in day-to-day life. She would also be wearing heels that would probably elevate her to my height. Finally my mother arrives and I can leave.

            I’m lucky enough to catch to catch a glimpse of a pram “couple” while walking back to the car. The boy is wearing a completely black suit, or probably a rented tuxedo (“Look mom, I’ll probably want to dress like that”). His date is an awkward complement; she is taller than he is, and is wearing pink heels with a black dress (I bet middle schoolers would look this awkward… why would a middle schooler be going to pram in the first place?)

            “Is Kenneth driving you home tonight?”

            “Yeah, I think so,” I reply to my mother.

            “Remember to thank him.”

            “He’s my good friend though.”

            “It doesn’t matter; thank him anyways for these gestures of kindness will always be remembered.”

            Reducto absurdism. The concept keeps popping into my mind despite having only a vague idea of what it actually means. It’s probably one of those concepts which people label to everything. The whole concept of pram and formal high school dances in general might as well be a form of reducto absurdism.

-

            Ten minutes before I leave to meet up with Kenneth now. That song is playing in the background, and instead of actually finishing changing, I’m looking up a Wikipedia article on the 2001 Nisqually Earthquake, a magnitude 6.8 quake that struck ten years, and three months ago; its epicenter in Washington (state). I was in grade two back then; I remember that day, about half my class was absent. There were only twelve of us. We were sitting in a circle or something when the quake struck. Since we were so far away from the epicenter, all that happened was that some books fell off the shelves. Beyond that, I don’t really remember that much.

            As I sit here, partially dressed in my suit, I realize how all the events of the past and present are connected (“Time present and time past are perhaps time future”). I want to relieve my childhood days, those carefree days where I was actually happy most of the time. The sense of nostalgia I get from reminiscing on past days is not enough; the nostalgia always comes with a cold depression, which like the winters of the West Coast, is relentless and uninviting.

-

            I’m actually surprisingly pleased with how my suit choice turned out. I look decently formal, except that my hair could be neater (I disdain using any sort of hair gel). I’m wearing my new tie for the first time; I bought it in Japan over the summer. Though I’m not wearing the new suit I also bought over the summer, but just one of my father’s old suits, there is this air of professionality around me as I wait for my friend, myself looking grossly out of place, wearing a suit in the middle of a local park.

            Perhaps everything will end like a magnificent symphony, with a succession of twenty or more loud chords followed by a damped ring that seems to reverberate for years. I wonder what the end will be like – will the sky split apart? Would the world implode only to once again find itself reformed, with everything back in its ordered place. If that were to happen, everything would change. I thought everything would change three years ago, when my world was turned around as I opened the current chapter of my life. No, that was a false hope; all the romanticism quickly drained following the start of the new chapter: I was still the same person, a person with a passiveness and shyness that, if were afflicted upon the majority the population, would halt all activity. Some days I wish I could triumphantly declare that I am finally not who I have been for most of my life; that day would be my rebirth…

-

            The idea of being a third wheel sounded ludicrous, when one of my friends used it to describe me upon telling him that my pram group consisted only of three people: Kenneth, his date, and me. I’ve never heard of anything having three steering wheels anyways. I guess he probably referred to three tires. All that reminds me of is that Mr. Bean episode where he knocks over a three wheeled minivan while driving. Anyways, when we arrived at the house of Kenneth’s date, the concept of my being a third wheel seemed reasonable.

            “Do you want me to come out too?”

            “No thanks,” he replied, as he walked out of the car, trying to put his suit jacket as he walked towards the door.

            After picking up his date, we drive back to the school to take pre-dance photos.

            “Hey, should I come out this time?”

            “Sure, I guess you can come watch.”

            Perhaps I will always be alone, I think, as I sit on this bench at school writing while waiting for him to finish. Perhaps I am born to solo my way through life. Suddenly an image comes up; I’m walking along the coast. I’m not exactly sure where this place is; but it is somewhere on the south-central coast of California. The time is somewhere in late August, a few days before I leave for Evanston. The sunset paints a gradient of red-orange across the horizon and cloudless sky. A cliff, followed by a sharp drop of about fifty meters and one meter of rocky beach is directly in front of me; I am alone, there is nobody on the beach or around me. When I gaze into the endless expanse of ocean laid out before me, I feel at peace. I will always be alone.

-

            The dinner was uneventful. We were already running slightly late, so we didn’t have that much time to talk or to have dessert (I was pretty much full after my main course anyways). We entered an upscale hotel and ate in the semi-fancy restaurant located on the first floor. For most of the time, I watched those two talk about recent happenings and relate parts of their respective life stories. The highlight of the dinner was the water: it was the first time that I had ever tasted Fiji Artisan Water. Ever since coming to California, I had wondered if the taste of that water would justify the increased cost. It tasted no different from regular bottled water. Other than that disappointment, I started at the empty seat (we were a party of three, and were seated a table for four) and regretted not asking a girl to prom; but, I am meant to solo.

-

            The entrance to the dance floor is surrounded by plastic flowers and balloons. Loud music blares; most of the songs are popular hip-hop and dance songs. The floor shakes from the reverberation from the bass. A disco ball which spits out flashes of rainbow and a string of clear Christmas lights strung out along the wall are the only forms of light. As I near the dance floor, a twisted smile emerges on my face, along with the chills. The dance floor is almost exactly as I had envisioned it be in my previous piece (about Winter Formal): couples dancing awkwardly, a throng of probably drunk boys and their dates suggestively dancing, guys who went stag lined the areas around the edges of the dance floors.

            I climb to the stairs to the relatively uncrowded second floor. What a waste of money. The floor still shakes from the bass. It’s a good thing I brought a pen instead of a pencil, or I’d never be able to read what I’m writing. I pass a few drunken boys, who are violently hugging each other. I think I’ve heard this song. Screams emerge from the dance floor. Time to go.

-

            Some random techno songs plays; I think I’ve heard it before on a Youtube video. I still have a twisted smile on my face. A guy passes me, already dancing despite being about ten meters from the dance floor, follow by his date, who is nervously holding on with an awkward smile. Some antisocial guy I know tries to dance, resulting in nothing more than a facepalm by me. I find Kenneth again. I move my mouth to create this illusion that I’m actually trying to say something but the loud music completely drowns out my voice. “Like a G6” plays and I realize how empty the venue actually is, and how awkward everyone is and how small the “vortex” of freak dancing couples actually is. I walk through the vortex in order to get myself into the mood to dance, but to no avail.

            In this boisterous environment all the images I engrained in my head through the evening, of peaceful walks by the seaside, shatter. A new mood encompasses me. I’m still waiting for the Rebecca Black song to play. I’ve started to catch the fever now; I feel a slight urge to actually dance, though it will take a few more good techno songs before I actually will.

-

            I walk on over to the bar, where there are three different types of drink on the counter: Coke, Diet Coke, and Sprite (I think).

            “Hey, do you think anyone has spiked these drinks?” I ask the bartender.

            “Dude, are you kidding me?”

            “No, I don’t want something to… uh… happen to me; something bad, you know.”

            “Nah man, you’re fine. Nobody’s gonna do anything like that.” I notice that some of the drinks have an abnormally large number of bubbles in them. Either way, even if I were to be afflicted with anything it would only help me get into the mood to dance.

            I take some water, probably the most inconspicuous drink, and begin to drink it. I’m already nearly in the mood to go crazy, so why not expedite the process with whatever extra’s in my drink. The DJ just combined two songs, of course, two horrible hip-hop songs, but nonetheless, I think it’s a pretty interesting move.

            Soloing is awesome. I know many of the people at this dance. Like a spirit, I float freely from one group to another, not chained to another group or another person. I meet a few Asian girls I know who are trying to dance, either by themselves or with each other. Maybe I’ll dance with them later. The next minute, I’m sitting with some Korean guys I know as “Party in the U.S.A” plays. Then I travel into the middle of the vortex, where I see my friend, who is grinding with his date. “This is all so crazy,” sings Miley Cyrus.

            A friend of mine, who went with a group but didn’t have a date, pulls me into the center of the group. The music is still beating on, as my arms and legs start moving. I’ve caught the fever. Dancing into the night; the disco ball reflects flashes of light all around the room, I don’t understand the lyrics of this song, the temperature is too high, sweat and perfume mix to give this rancid smell, but I don’t care, as I dance into the night…

-

“When the sun came up,

We were sleeping in,

Sunk inside our blankets,

Sprawled across the bed…”

            No, but really. It’s about noon and I’m still tired, and I’m alone, on my bed, listening to the sound of nothing, wanting to go back to sleep. I think about the events that happened last night. Now that makes me sink back into my blanket, head covered in disgust. What did happen last night? I don’t really remember too much after I caught the paranoia…

            I started dancing and sweating like mad like everyone else. Following a deliberation of about ten minutes, a childish urge overcame me, as I proceeded to write words on tablecloths using Coca Cola stains. I sang a song on the Karaoke, and then proceeded to sing something completely inappropriate following that song. I saw a few people I knew; I wasn’t sure if I was friends with them or not nor if I wanted to get in the way of their very romantic conversation so I just walked by them, not noticing or caring if they also saw me or not, but I think they might have seen me.

            I had actually danced with someone, the first time in nearly four years. I saw people whom I never expected to do crazy, unexpected things, do unexpected things. For a while, I was simply near the middle of a throng of dancing people. But I didn’t enjoy pram, at least not to the degree some of my friends did.

            Sometime last time, after I couldn’t bear the heat of the dance floor anymore, I walked outside, to an area which was desolate except for one couple who was making out, and stared at the sky, a cloudless expanse of darkness. I saw what appeared to be glowing specks of light I thought were stars. However, I didn’t have my glasses, so those specks of light I saw may have just been figments of my imaginations, but I called them stars. Either way, you can’t see stars that well in Orange County anyways due to all the light and air pollution. You’d have to go out to the countryside.

-

            It’s the night, and while I should be studying for my Chemistry test, I take a walk outside and stare at the sky, again, another cloudless expanse of darkness. Same result; I forgot to bring my glasses and all I see are specks of light that I presume to be stars.

           If I’m to be alone forever, at least I’ll be able to wander alone, out into a place where nothing else human exists, and look up at the sky. Maybe then I’ll truly be able to see stars. They will shine down upon me, and tell me that everything in life will be okay, to just follow fate, to let fate guide me wherever it pleases, and to just accept it. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet.

“Sing me something soft,

Sad and delicate,

Or loud and out of key,

Sing me anything.”

Author’s Note.

When writing about events that actually happen to you, you have this dilemma over how much privacy to give to those involved. In this case, I’ve tried to be as general as possible to conceal individual names; I apologize if you blatantly recognize yourself in the story, but I’m not sure others would be able to anyways. I just tried to objectively write about the events which happened around me.

L'Abinsthe

Written on March 30th.

Rawr. Here I am again. Another depressing semiautobiographical tale; told through the eyes of a depressed wanderer.

I stood over the ridge; there was a fresh breeze and the yellow blades of grass that came up to my knees swayed as if they were trying to imitate waves. The sky was grey; pockets of pale blue were interspersed like islands amongst an otherwise dreary sky. The ridge itself was on top of an otherwise wild section of landscape that the suburban sprawl had not consumed, and overlooked the city, which in reality was no more than a named section of the county map, created by indifferent men, whose attitude was transplanted towards the residents, who cared little about their so-called city. The city looked even more dismal today than normal; the bland colors of which the offices and houses were forced to be painted with only were accentuated by the vivid grayscale that was the sky.

Depression was a part of my life now; it had become almost a part of me, skewing my personality, the secret voice inside my head to tell me to always expect the worst. If you expect the worst, every single outcome will be equal to or better than what you expected. Of course, the kind of expectations that come from constantly expecting the worst are not that fanciful either. Plus there seems to be some mystical force that pulls your luck towards the grave when you expect the worst, as if pure speculations are powerful enough to change the equilibrium of the events of our lives.

That day was particularly depressing. I was not sad; no, I had expected the worst and, well, the worst happened; what more could you expect? Luck was not on my side, but luck itself is no more than a fanciful concept created by humans in an attempt to qualify the positive side of fate, or luck could be an invisible spirit that goes around and blesses people at random; I’d rather believe in the former.

Anyhow, I was walking down the ridge on a faintly marked trail. I narrowly avoided stepping into a dog’s mess, which made me think about the immorality of the person who forgot to clean the mess up. But, I was just as immoral as the person in question, if not more. Who was I to judge a person simply because of one mistake? I was trying to compare the faults of a person who I had just known for seconds to my own faults. Of course I would have more; but then again, if you were to take the average of the faults committed by the person in question compared to the time I had known him, he would definitely be a worse person…

Where I was I supposed to go again?

I was probably lost by now. All credit to the developers of this terribly-planned planned neighborhood. The houses looked all the same, the streets all winded around, for all I knew, I could be going around in circles.

“Give me back the ball!”

“Catch me first!”

“I hate you I hate you I hate you, you do this every day to me!”

“Cause you can never catch me!”

“You’re in track and cross country and I’m just a ball of fat!”

“That’s what makes it so funny!”

The two kids ran past me, the fatter one obviously trying his hardest to keep up with the well-conditioned runner, who appeared to be running at a light jog. I remember the innocence of my childhood, where dreams of adulthood, a time so far away that to us children, it seemed infinite, could be molded into any shape, and were as fanciful and varied as the stars themselves. I had this illusion that I was something more than I was during this time, and it would contribute to my gradual decline someday. However, as with all carefree conditions of pure bliss, childhood ended, and my life gradually became shadowed by an everlasting specter which would poison me and distort my character to the point where if somehow, a child version of myself were to meet with the current, nearly adult version of myself, the child would look at me with a combination of incredulity and disgust, and dismiss the whole thing, singing to himself as he walked away about how he would never turn out like that.

I felt a drop of something hit my face. Must have been the rain coming on. I wanted it to rain. Looking at the sky’s crying would give me some fake and superficial sense that at least something greater than society sympathized with me. No matter how much I reasoned the rain to be a completely independent event from what I had just discovered mere hours ago, the rain gave me a subconscious calm that quelled my heart, which had long since fallen into my stomach, where it continued to beat.

As soon as the rain had started, it had ceased, or at least had taken a relapse, yet the mist from the vapor in the air hung around and gave my walk a kind of ethereal feel, as if the events that had just transpired were part of another level of reality that had no correlation with the reality I had lived and embraced for nearly eighteen years. The thought of having to face another reality, another world, in which the happy-go-lucky years of my childhood, which transpired an attitude of general calm and the motto: “If it doesn’t come now, it will come later,” would be replaced by the world of the true reality, where no man received more than his work merited was enough to plunge me back into a state of contemplative depression.

“So does this mean no dinner mom?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see why I’m so wrong. I let him copy my work. It’s not like I didn’t do my work. I was just trying to be a friend.”

“Well if your friend is like that then he doesn’t deserve to be friends with you.”

“I also got an A on my science test today.” (he actually received a 58, a nearly failing grade)

“That’s good.”

“Can I have dinner then?”

“Absolutely not. It serves you right to be caught cheating anyways, you always try to be lazy and take the easy route out…”

What was my life based upon? Lies upon lies upon lies, it seems. As I grew older my life became more divided, between the exterior and the interior self, of which nobody knew about except for me, and only at certain times. It was my fault for not preventing this division of self earlier on. Once it propagated and began to have a mind of its own, its poison contaminated me, and used me to grow itself. Dishonesty and shrouding seemed to be the best way to keep the best of both sides of the spectrum of my life, in order to accentuate my successes while slyly stowing my failures away like money under the mattress.

The mother and son went into their car, the son with a disgusted look on his face, which at once showed his anger at his mother for acting so cruelly, yet at the same time showed some kind of recognition of his mistake. I wondered what kind of Asian they were, but that fact mattered little. I realized the superficiality of the ‘cult of education’ that many of my friends and I were subjected to for the past ten or so years. Our culture seemed to be nothing more than the revering of numbers that meant nothing to the layman, numbers that were generated by computers, numbers that exemplified the superficiality of a society who based initial impressions of people solely on these numbers; the rest was simply a roll of a die.

“Do you drink coffee?”

“No.”

“No wonder you look so tired. You should drink some coffee. I personally don’t like coffee, however. I much prefer energy drinks.”

“I thought coffee stunted growth and energy drinks were just concoctions of sugar and chemicals.”

“But they work. Nothing is worse than a constantly tired person. Just by looking at him most people get the impression he is lazy.”

“I’m not that lazy though…”

The coffee tasted too strong. Perhaps I should have put more sugar in it, but that would almost defeat the purpose of drinking the coffee. If I had added more sugar, I rather would have had an energy drink. At least those things can take you on a wild taste journey. I remember my mother always put a lot of cream in her coffee. I never really liked coffee that much. Perhaps I should have had tea. Tea always made me feel better when I was nauseous, though it made my mouth feel drier afterwards.

“Repeating a teacher’s words right in front of her. Have you no shame? Are you trying to mock me? Your attitude is bad, really bad. You need to fix it right now, otherwise when you grow up nobody will want to be friends with you. You better take this and fill it out, and have your parents look at it and sign it.”

“Is this my punishment?”

“It’s not so much as a punishment as a lesson. Learn it well, because you will thank me later.”

For some reason, I can only learn something once I have done it wrong once, which is why nearly everything I did seemed like a crime to me. Then how come, when I have failed the most, I’m not punished?  Except for an eerie complacence, nothing else has happened beyond the unusual. Complacence usually hides the worst outcome of all. Usually a complacent individual is one who has fallen beyond the point of return; he is a broken man. I felt complacent.

“What period computer science are you taking next year? A or E?”

“Umm… A, I guess?”

“Cool, man!”

“I feel bad that I’m leaving… I really want to stay, but I guess it’s for my future…”

“We’ll miss you!”

“This is the last time I get to see your guys…”

“No! We really need to meet up again.”

“Hey! How’s your summer been?”

“Not bad. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Heh, mine too. Alright, see you next year!”

“Enjoying your summer so far?”

“Yeah, it hasn’t been bad.”

“See you next year!”

I guess it was my fault that I never had the courage to face my fears, or to face things outside my comfort zone. I was a passive receiver; those who were more aggressive were always ahead of me. It serves me right to be in this state. I was always afraid of the repercussions of what I said. I could never face what could be; I was always afraid of what would happen.

So I walk alone, through the light drizzle, passing streetlamps that hazily glow in the mist. I see nobody else; except for the occasional car that passes me. The sun sets and I wonder if it will ever rise the same way again.

-----

SOML. (the title of this story/narrative/rant/depressed expunging of my thoughts at this instant to which I will look at later in this year and painfully relieve the memories that I am currently having to face right now is L’absinthe… (?!?!))

Existentialism on Formal Night

So, this is the infamous story about Winter Formal that I actually wrote without having even went to the dance.

-

19:45

The air had a minty kind of crispness as I walked down a dimly-lit road through the business district. Nobody was to be seen around. The last car I saw passed me ten minutes ago. I had been dropped off about half a kilometer from where I needed to be, and all through this time one question pervaded my mind: “Why?”

I had exhausted all my options earlier, and willingly doomed myself to whatever was to come by stepping out of my mother’s car. My friends were unable to understand why. My parents were unable to understand why. I was barely able to understand why. But I had a better understanding than anyone else could, if that could amount of anything significant. A part of me kept telling me to turn back, to stop this outrageous charade. Yet, if compelled by some kind of cruel fate, I subconsciously treaded on.

19:53

The lights of venue were almost in vision now; the only lights in what otherwise was a dark row of concrete bastions. A limousine drove past me. Though I had no idea of the people inside, I presumed that they were all here for a very different purpose than I.

I was almost at the venue now; I could make out the figures of the silhouettes I saw from afar. Young men, who were crossing, though many would profess to have already crossed it, the line from childhood into adulthood, wearing mostly the same uniform – a cheap black dress shirt with a tie, were chatting. All the while their dates, who were also chatting, stood abreast from them. They had the all the awkwardness of girls who were physically mature, but not spiritually mature. Despite this awkwardness, they all took pride in embellishing themselves to almost unrecognizable lengths. Their hair was towered up in various curling masses. They had on dresses that almost seemed to shine in the dim light, and I could only guess that they were having some cruel contest to see who could have the shortest dress without passing the limits of morality.

The parking lot was full of cars that were all stuck circling around the lot in hopes of finding an empty parking space. Obviously the planners of the event had no idea that there would be such a strong turnout. The lot teemed of all the chaos of inexperienced and impulsive teenage drivers enclosed in a very limited space. A crash had already occurred; a boy and girl, who were probably a grade younger than me, were arguing, spewing curses at each other, while their passengers awkwardly stood beside them.

19:58

A few vacant eyes of people who were bored of waiting for the rest of their group happened to glance at me as I walked to the line to buy tickets at the door. I could tell that they were staring at me, not for my dress, for I was in a suit, and probably over-dressed, but for the fact that I was alone. I knew what they were wondering. Is he waiting for his friend? Are his friends inside? Have his friends already bought tickets? Are his friends still trying to find a parking space? Is he actually here alone?

I was aware of the risks, of the negative publicity, and of the possible embarrassment of my solo escapade. As I handed over the eighty dollars for the ticket, I was thinking of the purpose of my coming here, and the things that those eighty dollars could have accomplished otherwise. I was so deep in thought that I was caught unawares when the vendor asked me, “Are you here with any particular group?”

Subconsciously, I mechanically answered with all the naïve truthfulness of a criminal who just admitted his guilt. “No, I’m here alone,” I replied.

After a second I realized what I had said. A horrible mistake on my part, and I could already tell what the receptionist was thinking before she even replied. I knew she was going to ask about why I was wasting money, and about why I was alone. Nobody understands me.

The last time I had ever been to a social was three years ago, when I was still optimistic but naïve. I purposely contorted my personality and image to be able to dance with others. It took me the better part of an hour to gain that mindset, but I still enjoyed the night. I felt as if I would become socially normal within a year, but fate struck again, and we had to move.

The first year after my move I spent alienated from everyone around me. During that year, my former friends and classmates changed. While I rotted in a state of stagnancy, those friends matured. Their get-togethers started to become more about attracting the opposite sex. Some even started relationships. I was stuck trying to find new friends in a hostile environment. Now those very friends, whom were just as childish as me when I left them, live a life nearly akin to the people in the music video “Like a G6.”

I was unsure about my purpose of even attending this social. Perhaps I felt that I needed the experience, yet I had already pledged myself not to contort myself into something that I was not. Plus, there was no way that I would be able to wedge myself into friendships that had lasted since elementary school, and couples hopelessly lost in love. I felt that I was on a quest to define myself, to find my identity. The cruel fate of a coin flip had led me here; it was now fate’s turn to offer a reward. To others, I was simply wasting money. However, paying eighty dollars to discover a piece of your identity is a cheap price to pay, for knowledge that will last a lifetime.

20:05

I was the in foyer. A sparkling chandelier overhead was starkly out of place with the rest of the furniture, which mostly consisted of wooden and plastic arrangements. A few sickly planted palm trees stood beside an open door through which a kind of smoke festered out of. The pounding sound of bass also came from the door. Through the darkness of a dimly flashing disco-ball, I saw the silhouettes of couples awkwardly waiting. That door led to the dance floor.

The other door, through which mostly larger groups walked through led to a larger room, a kind of conference hall, had banquet-style tables laid out. Sprawled on the tables were refreshments and beverages. Most of the groups congregated against the walls and began bickering as if it were just a normal lunchtime meeting at school.

The third door led to the arcade, a small conference room, which had all of the latest game consoles on huge projection flat screens. Mostly groups of three or four boys populated this room. Some had on a look of disgust, as if their turn to play had been skipped. Some openly talked about how they were “forced to go by their friends,” and how they were the odd ones out, since they did not have dates.

I saw a few people whom I knew, yet they were all too self-absorbed in their game to bother to greet me. I simply walked over to the edge of the room and sat down on a couch, and decided to watch them play.

20:4X

Had I dozed off? Those boys were still playing their game, evidently a new one, for they were playing on a different map. As I raised my sleeve to wipe off some drool that had accumulated on the left corner of my mouth, I noticed a wet spot on my sleeve. Guess so.

I had no intention of watching people play violent games all night, so I decided to once again return to the room with the refreshments. Having not eaten since midday, I decided to snatch some stale crackers and half-baked cookies. Someone offered me a drink, which I accepted without thinking too much of the matter. After one sip, I heard someone on the other side of the room greet me, and he beckoned me to join them for their photo, probably out of sympathy of my being alone.

20:5X

After the photo, a wonderful way to superficially capture and more superficial event, the group, which consisted of mostly my classmates, with a few people whom I had never seen before, dispersed. I heard someone mutter something about the dance floor. For no apparent reason, I decided to follow them.

The dance room was still a choking mess of smoke, rancid perfumes, and blasting music. The people in the dance room were mostly all dancing now, caught in some contagious fervor. They were all in grotesque positions. I spotted a few people whom I had I known to be against this kind of suggestive dancing, but they too had become engulfed by the maelstrom that was the dance floor. Without really knowing why, I tried to enter into the center of the dance floor, which was nearly impossible for it was guarded by a hundred swaying barriers. I felt slightly dizzy…

The song changed, from some slow, sleazy love song, to a drum-and-bass remix of some popular song. There was something absurdly enchanting about the rhythm, as the disease began to take root in myself. It started from the rhythm that I walked, which soon attached itself to the very rhythm of the song. Then my feet started tapping to the beat, and before I knew it, I was in a state of ecstasy, hopelessly lost in the swirling vortex of hundreds of bodies also dancing to the beat. Everything became more blurry and relative; the lights of the disco balls overhead blurred themselves into one continuous rainbow…

22:XX

I was rather rudely broken from my euphoria, as the vortex had dumped me off the dance floor. I tripped, and fell straight on a packaged condom, which was I was probably more sorry for than it was sorry for me. Looking, once again, at the panorama of hundreds of people engaged in pseudo-sexual acts, smelling, once again, the nauseating mix of body odor and fragrances, hearing music that seemed distorted and off-balance – it was all too much. I had ended up on the completely opposite side of the dance floor, the side near the emergency exit, and in a state of almost unnatural rage, I left through it.

Only when I completely left the venue, and entered the parking lot, which was deserted except for a few people who were smoking, did I bother to check the time. I had been dancing for over an hour. I expected to feel some kind of high, but it never came, and only left me more depressed than I had been entering the place. I felt that there had to be something more, something more rewarding. Is this all that life had to offer? Was this all that there was to be?

As I walked away from the event, my head was spinning, in some sort of conflict between the emotions of hate and depressing, my mind disoriented from whatever substance was in that drink I had. Yet, I came to the realization, as the music faded away, until only a faint pounding of the bass could be heard, that it was all not worth it. All the things that I had, in jealously and selfishness, revered of others, had come exposed in full view tonight. I had even had a chance to experience those things tonight, but like the anemic, was unable to swallow the harsh reality of how disappointingly mundane those things were in practice.

I had come with a purpose, a purpose to find out who I was. I felt like I had accomplished nothing, but in accomplishing nothing, had discovered something. Perhaps I could wait, perhaps I was not meant for it, and perhaps I was never meant to find out.

In some kind of depression, my mind in a haze, I walked on, through the silent streets of the business district, not having a purpose or direction. I felt like the spiritually dead, who are dead inside, but forced to rot and anguish inside their corpses until their physical life gives out…

00:22

I must have walked in almost a perfect circle, because the same classmates, whom I had posed for the picture with, were now driving home. They waved at me, and boisterously shouted my name. I had no choice but to step into their car.

They were incessantly talking about how awesome the night was, laughing about the stupid things they had done, everyone generally having this immense gratitude towards whomever it was who planned the whole event. I could care less about their conversations; the horrible smell of sweat pervaded the car, and even after asking the driver to lower the windows, still persisted. It was as if the air also had to have this same rancid smell.

Suddenly, someone, as if disturbed by the fact that I appeared to have been knocked out, my eyes completely red, asked me, “How was your night?”

“Horrible,” I replied.

“Sorry for handing you that drink dude… I didn’t know what was in it. Must have been some pretty bad stuff.” They once again resumed their conversation.

As the car drove down the half-deserted highway, I could not help wondering what my purpose of my life was, and by what means was I to discover it.