Crimewrite.

Gregricksburgh

2009-04-22T17:31:00.000-07:00

It had been a few weeks since the city had been plagued by any of those individuals. You know, unhip people. Folks who wouldn’t learn what was in and what was out. The last time anybody like that had lived here they had been scared out by the extreme ostracism the townies had shown. If you didn’t get with the times, no one would speak a word to you.
At least the social climate was better than it was in the 60s. Back then in Gregricksburgh, the Un-Participants (as they had come to be called) were forced into tiny ghettos where they couldn’t get any work. They couldn’t even work as house help for the wealthy and popular elite because they didn’t have the correct French Maid costumes; they couldn’t get into the clothing stores because they weren’t dressed appropriately. An Un-Participant would have been most lucky to scrounge up money for a bus ticket out back then.
Now things were better. The Un-Participants trying to come into Gregricksburgh were merely chased out. Mostly they didn’t want to come anyway; why would anyone like them want to? Besides that, there were screenings at the age of sixteen for all children of residents, if they wanted to stay. If you decided not to take the test, or failed, you could be sent out. Sixteen seemed to be a good age—kids were just starting to catch on. The quick-witted ones, anyway. The rest wouldn’t be happy in Gregricksburgh, at any rate.
The streets were currently painted pink and orange, as of five years ago. The constant changes created many local jobs and kept the city fresh and clean. Residents were supposed to wear colors contrasting either pink or orange (or both, optimally) and so downtown and surrounding areas were alive with vibrant colors. All restaurants were required certain menu items and disallowed others. And clothing stores were heavily scrutinized by the Listmakers, of course. Currently, coffeeshops were run by the local government and were on every other street corner, so citizens could enjoy the best drinks at the right times. Before bands could begin having shows or even practicing audibly they had to have an audition in front of the Listmakers.
The last Un-Participants to show up, as has already had been stated, were chased out. Before they were, however, they made quite a mess. They had been disturbing the peace by playing their strange music (loudly) wearing ugly clothing and having unauthorized kinds of pets. Gregricksburgh wouldn’t stand for such ridiculous displays of individualism, especially when it was done in the most incorrect way. Gregricksburgh was too fine of a town for that. Too polished, too perfect. Nothing would tarnish its glamorous reputation as the Most Tight-Knit, Most Perfect City.

Arg.

2009-04-21T12:46:00.001-07:00

I was trying to do a post of a drawing I did yesterday, but I couldn't figure out how to scan it with Alexander's scanner and I couldn't borrow a camera.

This space reserved for when I can post the drawing.

I'll do a story post later on tonight, after work.

Rip Current

2009-04-20T01:37:00.000-07:00

A couple things:
1. I didn't write yesterday because I was really sick (aka hung over).
2. You should vote on the poll. I'm going to be writing about it at the end of every week. I'll explain this blog's setup later at the end of this week. "Ego" week, that is.

Now, onto today's story.

~~~

Janice hasn’t been there in so long that she had forgotten how it made her feel. Sometimes she would wonder if she would ever go back. This place inspired in her a deep melancholy and pure happiness, all at once.
The tide was slowly drifting out. It made her want to get in and be absorbed into the giant mass of water, never to be seen again. No one would ever be able to hate her anymore. Her life could end, and with it all the sadness she carried, like so much dirty laundry. A waste of a person. She shouldn’t waste the precious resources that more beautiful human beings need. She could just go.
Janice knew that she was almost a miscarriage. Placed in intensive care from the moment she was shoved out of the womb. She had always suspected that her parents blamed her for their extreme poverty. Hospital bills still came in; the interest built faster than they could pay. When Janice had tried to move out of her parents’ house at the age of 18, they had made her get a job and stay to help them pay. Her mother had threatened to transfer the debt onto her if she attempted to leave.
The last time she had been to the beach was with her old friends Sara and Margot. The three of them used to hang out all the time. Well, until Sara had started dating Fred, and Margot got with Jolene. Fred and Jolene were best friends, of course, and so the four of them began hanging out all the time. Janice started feeling like an unimportant tagalong and stopped spending her days with them. Janice didn’t have anyone to turn to, so she then just filled her time elsewhere. She accumulated online friends that lived hundreds or more miles away.
The lack of face to face human interaction might have driven her to severe depravity and self-degradation. She had decided to come to the ocean today because none of it was really worth all this pain. The water was a bit chilly—it made her hair stand on end. Maybe, hopefully, the last time it would ever do that. The sun was on its way down. Maybe she would wait for it to set, and then start swimming towards it.
A sandpiper was flitting nervously across the sandy terrain. Janice noticed that it had four children excitedly following behind. She smiled. If only life was that simple. If only she could experience such a simple joy. If only, if only.

Sallow Susan

2009-04-17T12:09:00.003-07:00

She had only last planned driving down the highway. She didn’t know where she was headed, but it didn’t really matter. Things just needed to be made right, and if anyone was going to do it, why not herself? She needed to escape. All that mattered was that she put as many miles between her and Chicago as possible.
A familiar sound buzzed through the car. Text message. Good thing the traffic was slow at three in the morning.
suz u r in NO condi. to drive…that shits gonna get fucked thats MY car tu no
“Bullshit!” Susan screamed, all of a sudden. Her voice was a little scratchy due to not being used for nearly an hour. “Bullshit bullshit bullshit!”
Susan felt as if she had helped make at least half the payments on the Plymouth she was sliding down the highway in. But José didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t give a god-damned shit. She would just hand him the money. He probably didn’t even spend it on the damn car; he probably got laid every fucking night by a different girl, leaving her at home by herself. The creditors were always calling. He didn’t answer the phone because he was always gone, doing something mysterious. If she even asked where he had been he would just tell her to shut up, goddamn it. Sometimes he wouldn’t even speak English for her.
She had always wanted to want to escape. She just didn’t think it mattered all that much, for a long time, whether she stayed or left. Susan had a very high boiling point. Like copper, or something, right? That stuff takes forever to boil.
“Who gives a fuck!” Susan’s frantic voice again. “It doesn’t even matter what I do now. I’m stuck here on the highway. I have nowhere to go! No one to see! Fucking, goddamn son-of-a-bitch no one!”
Susan usually made it a point never to curse, but these sure were extenuating circumstances. She had nothing but the car, her CD case (“Ironic” by Alanis Morissette was playing medium-softly), her cell phone, a duffel bag of clothes and a toothbrush, and the vodka she had under the passenger side. She didn’t even have her wits any more, it seemed.
“Shut the hell up!”
The road was empty on I 80-W out of Chicago. Cars weren’t out at 3 AM, they all respected themselves well enough to be asleep at this time of night. They had jobs, friends—pasts, futures. You know, everything that everyone wants. Like a sitcom, like a Hallmark card.
She figured she could make all the way to Iowa City. Start fucking fresh. Maybe she could make things right this time. No more stupid relationships. No more stay at home and live off the trust fund. No more no life. She would change her name. Blanca. She had always liked that name, for some reason. She wanted it for her and José’s child, but it had turned out that she was infertile. So if she couldn’t give the name away, she would keep it. Hold on to it tight.
All of a sudden she remembered what he had said, two nights ago. “I don' t da una mierda maldecida dios qué usted hace con su vida! Aren' ¿t nosotros en esto junto? Pozo no más. I' m en esto para mi uno mismo de mierda ahora,” from which she could only figure out tht he was switching between Spanish and English, his alcohol intake sure was showing, and that he didn’t care about what she did anymore.
So she left. With nothing to her but some collected items and a beautiful, beautiful name that almost fit her, she left.

The Adventures of Horace Greeley

2009-04-16T20:08:00.003-07:00

Marcus Greeley. What a name. It really looked good in gold on his prurient desk. City commissioner. What a job! He was in charge of safety, mainly, but he liked to work around the title a little bit just to get the ball rolling on some important issues. Like last week when he cut the ribbon at the mall’s grand reopening. Really, it was Horace Sneedler’s job, but he couldn’t make it. Marcus wanted the Pineview Mall to be a safe place, and so he cut the ribbon. Newspaper pictures and everything! He loved his name, especially in print. Marcus Greeley. It just sounded right. Very upright.
He always thought of himself as a man of principle, and strived to make things right according to his own virtues. Like last month, at that used car lot. He didn’t let that waste of a man Vicks Misstoman sell junk cars to an unsuspecting woman. She was just looking for a car to take grocery shopping, but that garbage wouldn’t have made it halfway back to her house. He sold Janine Larson his own second car, even though he loved it, just to ensure her safety. Things like this always reminded him of what a good guy he was. Mrs. Larson sure was a great lady herself. He thought of her as a wonderful wife, and a respectable woman for that. She didn’t feel the need to stir up any controversies in town, and her house was always one where safety was valued.
Marcus Greeley knew this because he was around pretty often. He felt quite at home in her house. Gregory Larson and he were golfing pals. Marcus was sure that they were such good friends because even though he always outplayed Greg on the course, he never gave him any trouble for it. Only subtle encouragements. A little advice here and there, but never a quip or bite of sarcasm escaped his lips. Sometimes he would chuckle a little chuckle to himself, but never audibly. Even last Saturday, he remembered, he had outplayed Greg by 40 strokes, and not an ill word! Marcus did wish that Greg would take his counsel, if only to improve his game, but Greg was a prideful man. He would always push away at Marcus’s tips. Marcus really enjoyed Gregory’s self-assertiveness; it made him just the right kind of man for Marcus’s company.
Afterwards they would always hit the “19th hole” to get a couple of beers and relax. The unstated rule had always been that the player who played their personal best for the day bought drinks, because he would feel a bit happier about how the round had gone and the day been spent. Marcus could always spend a little more on drinks, so he always made a point to. Sometimes he would pitch in a bit more when it wasn’t his turn to buy, so the two of them could get something nicer. He just wanted his friends to have the best and the safest. He felt it important that they never drove after golf because it wouldn’t be very safe to drink and drive. Janine would always pick them up.
Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t have the best of everything. He aimed for it, but he felt that he would never have as good a family as the Larsons. He looked at them with such envy. They had a little boy on the way, the most adorable cat Whisper, and the most loyal dog, Yeller. Named after the classic, of course. The Greeleys might never reach such a harmonious balance. His son was always off to a bit of mischief, and his daughter was with a new boy every few weeks. He tried to raise them right but he was always so busy with his work as the city commissioner he never got to be home. Being a single father, parenting was quite the challenge for him.
His wife was dearly, dearly departed, leaving only a note behind. The note appeared long yet was made nearly illegible by dark crimson stains. Only one segment could even be called readable.

n won’t ever fucking know the pain I felt, not even now wh

Hey, can I talk to you for a second?

2009-04-15T17:29:00.003-07:00

Nel’s pregnant. You might think it’s funny now, and honestly, you wouldn’t be too far from correct. I mean, about a month ago, she thought all those pregnant teenagers were hilarious. She would take cheap shots at their once cute clothing becoming ill-fitting, along with their jumping hormones. Especially June, the girl that Nel hated ever since the second grade. Not to mention Stacy, Rachel, Catherine. But you’d think that Nel would try to distance herself as much as possible, to the point of wearing condoms at least.
Maybe Nel’s worries went further than you’re assuming—maybe she was just hating those girls because she was jealous. But that’s silly, I mean, really. Who wants to ruin the rest of their life just for some ridiculous babydoll fantasy? Nel didn’t wear dresses, or makeup, or talk about boys. She wasn’t any kind of typical girl. Though in her non-normality she was a regular type of girl too. You know what I mean: the “I’m-so-much-better-than-them-they’re-stereotypes” kind of gal. Nel really means well for herself, which is why she goes to parties and makes herself known. She was the girl that wasn’t the others. You wanted to get to know her and she’d push you into a muddy puddle. Basically the opposite of June, the pregnant prom queen. The inflated balloon of a popular girl, floating over the proverbial Macy*s Day Parade of Homecoming Week, or whatever special goes on at school. You know I don’t pay attention to that crap.
Maybe it’s because you think you’re so suave, but I know what you’re wondering right now. Was it you? Well, what if it was, you bastard? Ron’s party was a ton of fun—a double-kegger. You got drunk, I got drunk, she got drunk, we were all way past driving condition. But we left and this is where things get even more hazy. Nel doesn’t remember where she went, and neither do you. I know what you did, and I’m going to tell the entire junior class right now, the entire lunchroom, if you don’t take responsibility for what you did.
Why do I think it was you? I could hear you, upstairs. My bedroom isn’t far from Nel’s, and being a typical little brother, I know exactly how to be on top of everything that’s going on. I know that you were “on top of” something else, and that something threatens to inflate just as much as the giant June. But I won’t let that happen. You’ll go to her during sixth period, and you’ll tell her to get an abortion. You’re not going to take care of the fucking kid, so don’t let me catch you not doing what I say.
What do you mean, you think you can handle it? You can’t take care of a kid. You’ve heard the phrase “a child having a child” before. I’m not going to be connected to that at all. I’m going to Harvard, god damn it, and no one is going to ruin my run for the Presidency with some stupid high-school-level scandal. One day, I’m going to be on the big stage, and I don’t want to answer any questions about what you did way back when. How you ruined your son, you didn’t take care of him, I had to pick up the pieces. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but I need to get everything in my life done before age 36. The youngest President ever…can you see it now? My name in lights. That is, if you don’t ruin my chances now. Get on with it, lunch is over now, sixth period is coming up.
I’m sick of you talking back to me. I’ve got some good dirt on you and I’m not afraid to spread it. Don’t think I couldn’t hear everything last night, especially the bit about you apologizing for the size of your dick. Don’t think that didn’t fuck with me too. Don’t think I don’t work hard for what I want to accomplish. Don’t think I really give a damn about your future, or Nel’s, for that matter. Get out of my sight. You disgust me.

A Small Discovery

2009-04-02T15:18:00.003-07:00

I've been on a huge craigslist binge lately, dreaming about a new (working) car. Also a job. Anyway, I've looked around an extensive amount and found something hilarious. In case you're reading this later and the listing is gone, it's some guy selling a Pokemon game called "Pokemon Chaos Black." I've seen stuff about this before when I've been on YouTube adventures; I think this was the first thing I saw. Obviously this is just some kid. Apparently the hack isn't even finished.

The hilarity you can add to this is that this guy lives in Eugene. Who would have guessed? I never expected to live in the same town as such a talented guy. I would say he doesn't live in Eugene and he's just trying to pawn some of these horrible things off on some unsuspecting buyer, but then why would he advertise the site?

A Little Note, Mostly to Myself.

2008-11-07T22:12:00.002-08:00

Being in Oregon is an exciting change for me. It's really enabled me to look into new dimensions of myself as far as how I interact with the world around me, regardless of my environment--but I haven't been doing much. I am very happy, but my writer's blog has been hitting me hard. If you ever look at my blog, you're able to tell that I just haven't been able to write. At first I was just busy with my new relationship (I am still very happy) and now I am just feeling plain uninspired. That uninspired-ness is making me feel uninspiring, which is much more of a problem to me. At least, it makes me feel a lot worse about myself. I like the image of myself I project out to be (like it is within) busy yet strong, dedicated yet casual. I want to be jovial, but I also want to be intelligent and serious.

Maybe I am being altogether too hard on myself, but honestly I feel as if it is the other way around. I told myself what I would do; you can read what I wrote a blog ago. I just haven't done it. This is my message to myself to fix that. To make myself work harder for the things I want to achieve, so I can live the life I've always wanted to live--now is the time for that. And only I can make that happen.

2008-08-03T16:33:00.002-07:00

So I made it to Eugene! I'm still in one piece and I've given myself some new guidelines on which to live.

I will update this regularly. Every Wednesday and Sunday sound good to me. It'll be like my own private church, in a manner of thinking.
There is no number two.
I'm writing three pages a day minimum for my book. This will give me a good rough draft three months from now, which is exactly where I need to be with that right now, before the ideas fall out of my head from disuse.
I won't drive my car unless absolutely necessary. This presents two positives: I'll get in shape AND I won't be contributing so much to pollution and the toxicification (did I just make that word up? cool) of the planet.
Who cares about quitting smoking.

There should be a real update on Wednesday, unless I die semi-tragically.

A Look Into Skye's Past.

2008-04-29T13:36:00.008-07:00

Skye Nonstein was a young guy who had never considered the idea of living out the path of his life alone. He felt very dependent upon the idea of the “perfect” mate, a family, a steady job—the great American dream, many people had told him. He imagined a house with two rows of plants, one vegetable, one floral, a white picket fence, blue painted siding, two cars, a van and a sleek show-offy car, a son, a daughter, a dog, a full kitchen, two bathrooms, three bedrooms, a den, a playroom, a dining room. Paradise.

His last boyfriend was a total disaster. He couldn’t get his life straight. Rob had a beautiful, almost stone-cut face, solid body, fresh humor, a messy apartment, and a failing GPA at XSU. Not to mention the cocaine addiction. It seemed that this was catching on. Uppers. You’d see at parties that kids were taking lines more and more often. At first it was regarded with fear, then tolerance, and now avid acceptance and mainstream recognition. Skye didn’t understand the appeal of the whole thing, honestly. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that everyone was doing it, but then who started doing it? Probably somebody who had long since either quit or been arrested. Anyway, Rob was a junkie.

Wasn’t as odd as the situation with Brian. He had been totally enthralled with this guy since day one. They worked together while he was still in high school. Brian was this boy who he went to school with and he knew of, but never really talked to him. He was a little taller than Skye and had a taste for mischief. They worked side-by-side in a photo development booth in a department store, so they had a lot of close contact. Every once in a while they would bump into each other, or they would lock eyes and it would be almost—almost something, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Actually, today it was obvious, that Brian was interested in him, albeit his…other interests. Brian would always point out things going on in the store to Skye: “Man, look at that girl’s ass!” “I really like dark-haired women, I’ve heard they kiss better.” Weird. Awkward too, if you thought about it. Everyone knew Skye was gay, he had been out for a year. Most people didn’t talk about it because of the bad situation surrounding it, but that’s a story for another time.

I can’t deal with that right now.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t that weird. In fact, Brian had been treating him as a legitimate peer instead of writing Skye off as “his gay friend,” like so many other people were quick to do. Seems like people do that entirely too often. He knew he was guilty of it—he had been friends with a girl named Rynada in the middle of high school, but as they got older, things had gotten weirder. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but Skye was treating her like “his black friend.” Whenever there was a rap artist he hadn’t heard of, he expected that she had. Whenever there was a discussion about racial issues, he would always ask her, “What do you think?” He thought he was doing so to give her equal say in what was going on, but he now realized he was asking her to speak on behalf of her race. It had gotten bad by the middle of eleventh grade without him noticing what had happened, until the day she confronted him on it. Looking down at the carpet of her bedroom one afternoon that they were hanging out, she asked him. Not able to look him in the face comfortably, she spoke.

Here it comes—I can’t bear to relive it again, but here it comes.

“Skye. I’m not your black friend; I’m just your friend. But I don’t even feel like that anymore. I feel like I’m being treated like an object that you picked up because it was interesting, or different, or intriguing, or made you feel better about yourself. Like a recycling bin makes you feel less guilty about throwing your trash away, even though it costs a lot of money to pay for it. It’s like I’m your pet, or something! It’s like you expect me to listen to your every beck and call while I just function as some sort of culture guidebook you can flip through, and get information on how to be a better White person! It’s not like that! The world is more complicated than that!” She started crying.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.

Skye knew that was what had made Brian a better person than he was. Skye wasn’t the same person he was in eleventh grade, but that didn’t dispel his guilt over the situation. It was something he would dwell on for the rest of his life regardless of whether it still affected him directly or not. What was weird about the situation with Brian was that it really hurt Skye to think of the idea that he would never be with this guy, and yet he was the first person he knew to respect him as an equal.

It hurt, Brian. It was selfish of me to be that way, but it hurt.

At one point, Brian started driving Skye to and from work because his car was getting fixed (his alignment was ruined from running into curbs in suburbia). They would meet in the parking lot after school, talk about whatever happened that day, and head to work. Finally, or so it had seemed to Skye, Brian asked him if he had any interests in anybody at school, if there was a date or anything going on. Skye flushed. He didn’t know what to say, though he had been imagining feeling very suave at this moment and telling Brian that he thought that he was a very attractive man. Then they would kiss, and run off into the sunset, et cetera et cetera.

Idealism is dead.

Red light. Brian looked over at him. They locked eyes in that same way. There was a long pause, where Skye had pursed his lips in frustration. He couldn’t speak his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Would this be another one of those things he brooded over for years to come? Brian asked the only question he could ask at that point. “No one?”

You, it was you, I wanted you, I wish I could go back then and tell you.

“No one.” They rode in silence, as the clock neared four, the time they were to arrive to work. There was a spark between them, but they were afraid of it. Nothing had happened between them, and nothing ever would.

(credit for the drawing of Skye Nonstein goes to my good friend Kaitlyn Watson! Here's some more of her work)

Dismissing Complacency.

2008-04-04T13:48:00.005-07:00

From Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh:

"What are you reading?" Harriet asked.
"Dostoievsky."
"What's THAT?" asked Harriet in a thoroughly obnoxious way.
"Listen to this," Ole Golly said and got that quote look on her face: "'Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love.'"
"What does that mean?" Harriet asked after she had been quiet a minute. "What do you think it means?"
"Well, maybe if you love everything, then...then--I guess you'll know everything...then..seems like...you love everything more. I don't know. Well, that's about it...." Ole Golly looked at Harriet in as gentle a way as she could considering the fact that her face looked like it was cut out of oak.
"I want to know everything, everything," screeched Harriet suddenly, lying back and bouncing up and down on the bed. "Everything in the world, everything, everything. I will be a spy and know everything."
"It won't do you a bit of good to know everything if you don't do anything with it. Now get up, Miss Harriet the Spy, you're going to sleep now."

So I’ve been talking with a lot of people about my moving. Most people in Georgia ask me, “Why Oregon?” I think that’s the kind of question that facilitates the reasoning for the move. Some people even ask, “What’s there that you don’t have here?” People that I know and love (really, really love and care for) in Georgia don’t know anything about Oregon. I know many people that know very little apart from what is in our own little region. I don’t want to be like that. Much like Harriet I want to know everything. According to Ole Golly, this will make me love everything a little bit more—I’ve been trying to be more emphatic with the world ever since I started learning about Anthropology.

Something my anthropology professor Dr. Richard had always told us was to open yourself up. You have to un-learn things in order to gain knowledge of brand new ways of life. I think people are very afraid of un-learning things. To every day get up, go to school, sit in the same buildings, work in the same spot, see the same people, dress the same way is stagnant, and it’s not doing anyone any good to be stagnant. Things are changing so fast and there’s no reason to sit still and be complacent.

Then again, I’ve always been an avid fan of people who are complacent. They are peaceful, and as long as they do not disturb the world around them, are what you could call peacemakers. Being a real revolutionary, I’ve sometimes thought, it to figure out a way humans can exist without bothering each other to the point of negativity, and just keep doing that. It seems that complacent people have done that.

I guess I’m just not one of them. I want to shake this world up, rip it into pieces, throw it all over the floor, and form a committee to place it back together with me.

And for those of you who don’t know that much about Eugene, Oregon, let me show you around a little. I’ll be showing myself around a little bit too, because I haven’t looked all too much into it—I’ve always loved surprises.
Eugene is called the Emerald City, so I might be seeing the Wizard when I show up . . . hopefully, he won’t try to trick me using his green fire trick. It would save face if everyone was just honest about the whole thing. Eugene’s motto is "The World's Greatest City of the Arts and Outdoors.” Sounds right up my alley, if you know a thing about me! :D

There are about 138,000 people living in Eugene, way bigger than my town’s 45,500 approximate population. The largest employers in the area are the University of Iowa and the Sacred Heart Medical Center. The University of Oregon is the Alma Mater of Chuck Palahniuk (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chuck_Palahniuk). While Palahnuik is all well and good (I occasionally think he’s a little gimmicky), this Eugene is also the hometown of Ken Kesey. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ken_Kesey) I’m as surprised about this as you are! I had no idea until I just looked it up.

With every day I get more excited about this move.

2008-03-29T08:36:00.003-07:00

As Herman drove, he realized he couldn't see clearly at all. Why did I drink so much? he asked himself, thinking of the five tequila shots downed with several successive beers. He only had to drive home eight blocks, but it was beginning to feel like sixteen. As he continued to drive, he realized he had passed his house. Time to turn around, he thought. Hopefully I'll make it home. As he turned into someone's driveway, he noticed a blur of motion in front of his car.

When he got out, he realized he had run over a little girl. The smell of death was enough to make him retch, bend over, and begin to vomit.

(originally posted on tobias26.deviantart.com--I just wanted some content, so I threw it up over here [haha "threw it up"])

"So he's finally done it!"

2008-03-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

Yes, I started my blog today. Finally. Those of you who are reading this may be close to me, and you already know that I've been meaning to start a blog of short stories mixed with personal thoughts, journal entries, and visual art. Well here it is, and it's gonna begin soon.

Expect updates every Friday, if not more often.