Prompt

I started taking a Fiction Writing course today, so I'm going to try to post more! Hooray! We had an exercise in class. My instructor wanted us to write a short piece (about 100 words) about something we're working on or something we read. I decided to write about something I attempted to read, but couldn't:

Vampires do not sparkle. They charm you while sucking the blood from your veins, and ripping the heart from your chest. Women are not subservient. They do not anticipate your presence with every last pathetic breath they take. Staring them down, obsessively protecting them, and not accompanying a personality with that corpse of a face won't make a woman swoon. I like a beating heart and a set of balls with my men, and an independent spirit and a self sufficient mind for my women. Stephanie Meyer will not mold me into her definition of obsession...oh wait, sorry... "love".

Stream of Concious April 11, 2010

The adorable kid in the pigtails with the ridiculous face? Yep, that’s me. That picture was printed in the Philadelphia Inquirer big enough so my grandmother could show her Bingo buddies from 5 feet away. My parents scrambled to buy copy after copy of that issue of the Inquirer. I think everyone in my family has at least two copies. I was the talk of the town, and I was so proud of it.

I remember the reporter being in my gymnastics class, and the photographer taking pictures of each kid jumping off of the balance beam. When it was my turn to jump I knew exactly what face to make. I knew how I could make that photographer think that he had captured the perfect picture. It was all me. His talent had nothing to do with it.

I hated gymnastics. I hated the way it made me feel, and I hated the way it made me look. You could never tell by that picture. I always knew what it took to get in the paper, get on television, get the lead, or get noticed. I could make them laugh with me, cry with me, hate me, and love me all in one night.

Getting a large group of people to love you is easy, too easy. It’s getting those one on one relationships. Getting one person to love you at a time.... that's the hard part.

So what face do I need to make? Tell me, and I'll do it.

Tweet me a Story Contest #2!

I entered NYC Midnight's Tweet me a Story contest again. I had to submit 3 stories with 140 characters using the word running.

1) It didn't matter how far I was running, or how much the pain consumed me. All that mattered was she was waiting for me.

2) She sat there reciting her chit chat while my bowls were running to my ass. I had to find a bathroom before this date got too memorable.

3) You look like a mermaid threw up inside an Andy Warhol exhibit. My brothers laughed, and I was sick and tired of being the running joke.

The Lesson

So I made it to the second round of the Creative Writing Championships! Whoo hoo! I wrote this story in like an hour. Ugh, and I went through a half a bottle of wine...so I really don't know how it is. We'll see when I'm sober! But for right now you can read it! Hooray exclamation points!

The Lesson

Jeanette and Kevin DeLaney seemed like the perfect couple. Kevin’s incredible golfing career provided his family with a million dollar home, a pair of Mercedes Benz, and a comfortable cottage conveniently located far from any prying eyes of the media. The pair spent their summers comfortably in the Hamptons with their son Nicholas.

Nicholas was nearly two years old, with every syllable he attempted to speak, and every step he attempted to walk; Jeanette was mesmerized with love and encouragement. Kevin had always wanted a little boy, but he wasn’t willing to trade his lineage for his wife’s affection.

On this particular afternoon Kevin and Jeanette were sitting on their private pier overlooking the bay. The breeze off of the quiet horizon swept past Jeanette’s cheeks and tossed her hair about. Nicolas sat quietly between Kevin’s legs as he stood prominently trying to catch the night’s dinner.

“Did you polish Roger this morning?” Kevin didn’t even turn to look at his wife while asking what he thought was a perfectly normal question. Roger, was the first golf club Kevin ever owned. He kept it in a glass case and traveled with it wherever he went. It was Jeanette’s daily chore to polish the old rusty 9 iron.

“I’m on vacation, Kevin.” Jeanette pressed a slim cigarette between her lips and slowly inhaled. Here eyes, likewise, did not meet Kevin’s. She stretched back and let the sun soak over her body.

“Foot! Foot!” Nicolas taped on Kevin’s big toe, and laughed at the sound of his own voice. Kevin looked down at the creature that was invading his toenail.

“Why are you being a bitch?” Kevin shooed Nicolas away from his foot, but Nicolas proceeded to use his appendage as a toy.

“I don’t have time for this shit, Kevin.” Jeanette turned her face away from him. “I’m here to forget about my problems, not be reminded of them.”

Nicolas continued to tap on Kevin’s big toe. His laughing echoed through Kevin’s ears, which made his stomach turn. Kevin moved his foot again, but Nicolas wouldn’t stop laughing and playing. “Jeanette, why does he keep playing with my foot?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to play with his father? You know, learn a thing or two?” Jeanette turned back to face Kevin. “Isn’t that what a father does? Plays with his children?”

Nicolas laughed and looked over to his mother. Jeanette smiled and waved to her son, and began to laugh as well. The sight of Jeanette’s laughter sent Nicolas into a hysterical fit of laughter. He slammed his fists down onto Kevin’s feet, and with every laugh his fists slammed down harder and harder onto his toes.

“Learn something?” Kevin looked down, and rolled his foot around Nicolas’ head. Nicolas giggled and stretched his hands forward, trying to catch Kevin’s big toe. Kevin smiled, then placed the flat of his foot directly onto Nicolas’ face. Nicolas’ muffled laughter could be heard from beneath Kevin’s foot. Before committing the most heinous act, Kevin glanced over at Jeanette. Here eyes were planted on Nicolas, and she didn’t even notice that Kevin was trying to get her attention.

With that, Kevin took a deep breath, braced his foot…and pushed Nicolas off of the pier and into the water. Fragments of the splash dripped onto Kevin’s face, and he gently wiped them way. Thinking nothing of the act that he just committed.

Nicolas went under, his arms occasionally flailing to the surface trying to grab onto something that would bring him out of the water. Jeanette jumped up from he seat, but her legs were caught in her lounge chair. She nearly fell into the wooden pier. Her arms reaching for her son who was struggling in the water. She took off her shoes, sunglasses, and hat and prepared to dive into the water. Kevin’s hand reached for her elbow, and his form grip stopped her from diving off the edge.

“Don’t.” Kevin’s stern eyes met Jeanette’s this time. Her mouth hung upon in disbelief. She was frozen and unable to move. The single word that came from Kevin’s lips seemed to have shot right through her heart, and took away her mobile ability. “He needs to learn.”

“What are you talking about?” All of the senses seemed to jump into Jeanette’s body at the same time, and she began to struggle from Kevin’s grip. “Let me go!” With every movement, Kevin’s grasp got stronger. He wasn’t going to let her go. “Help! Someone help my baby!”

“What good is that going to do?” Kevin looked down at Nicolas’ struggling body bobbing up and down from the water. “We bought this place so we could have complete solitude from the outside world. Remember?”

“He can’t swim!”

“He’ll learn!” Kevin’s scream shocked Jeanette. “Think about it, Jeanette. We were so happy at one point.”

Jeanette froze once again. “What?”

“Before Nicolas was born. You and I would make love every night. I loved being with you. I loved you so much. But…. When he came here… you loved him.”

“Kevin, that isn’t true.”

“You loved him more than me!” Kevin pulled her towards him. “If he’s gone we can be the way we were.” Kevin’s arms wrapped around Jeanette’s small body. Nicolas continued to struggle, and Jeanette struggled to be set free.

“Please, let me go!” The terror in Jeanette’s voice convinced Kevin’s arms to let go. She jumped into the water and pulled Nicolas from under. Nicolas’ body flung onto the pier. Kevin stepped back and let Jeanette tend to her little bundle of joy. “Nicolas! Nicolas talk to mommy!” Nicolas’s head turned on the pier and he began to cry. Jeanette’s face quickly jolted to stare at Kevin. “I want a divorce.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted.” Kevin laughed and turned to walk back to the cottage.

An Affair

So, in the first assignment in Round 1 of the Creative Writing Championships I placed 4th in my group! Hooray. Cheer. Jeer. Whatever. There was still one more assignment for Round 1, and here is my story.

My genre was Drama, the place was an ad agency, and my object was a satellite dish. I'm really happy with this one. Here it is:

An Affair

“Johnny is at soccer, and Jessica has ballet ‘til 9.” I tried to avoid the passing strangers as I walked down 5th Avenue. “The satellite dish is still out, but they said it should be fixed by tonight.” My heels clacked against the pavement, and my abnormally heavy handbag dug into my ribs.

“Good.” John’s voice was cold and unfeeling, just like our marriage. “I have a meeting.” He hung up.

“I love you…” Even if he wasn’t on the other end of the phone, and I knew he wouldn’t have said it back… I still felt the need to say it. A big shot like John Sparse never told his homely wife anything resembling adoration.

No, John Sparse played golf and socialized with his high clientele at Macron and Sparse, the most successful ad agency in New York. Ever since John’s name was plastered next to Max Macron’s he became a different person.

I remembered when John and I were so happy renting a one-room apartment in the Bronx. We shared a single mattress, and held each other to keep warm. We were so in love. He would kiss me and whisper; “One day you’ll be wearing so much fur you’ll be sweating like its the 4th of July in January.”

He was right. I owned the fur, the jewels, the cars, and the cloths. In return, I gave him two beautiful children. Sure, my thighs were like tree trunks, my stomach wasn’t as tight as it used to be, and the wrinkles on my face were there, but I was losing my John.

When the late night meetings started that’s when I suspected everything. He came home at three in the morning. I asked him where he was, and he would tell me it was none of my business. He would coo me with a tennis bracelet or a trip to my favorite spa.

I turned the corner of the New York street, and approached the entrance to his building. The words Macron and Sparce gleamed in the sun; laughing at me. Mocking me for all the money I had, and all the love I had lost. I was going to find out who was ripping my family apart. I was going to choke the life out of the little slut that kept my husband away from his children.

I called Alice, my long time friend and John’s long time secretary. I had paid her $500 to help me, and to keep her mouth shut. I heard her voice on the end of the line, “Hello dear.”

“Alice, I’m here.” I looked around to see if anyone would recognize me. I tried to look poor. People only knew me as the rich wife of John Sparse.

“Linda, are you sure you want to go through with…”

“Yes. Now let me in Alice.” I looked at my watch. It was 7:15, and most of the people that would recognize me were probably gone for the day. I stuck my hand into my purse. My hand gently rested on my .22 magnum. No one would ruin my perfect life. No one.

Alice let me in, and escorted past security to the elevators that lead to the top floor. As I walked through the agency I glanced at the empty desks throughout the building. I wondered which one held the little minx that was fucking my husband into overtime.

I could see her long blonde hair, her skirt reasonably lengthened to show enough leg, and the blouse that barely fit over her perfect breasts. Yes, I’m sure that how she was.

Alice unlocked John’s office, and I walked inside. His new office smelled of oak. Ergonomic chairs surrounded his mahogany desk. In place of a wall was one giant window, showing the beautiful New York skyline. I slowly walked cross the wooden floor. I walked past his cozy couch, his portable golf set, and his personal bathroom.

John loved his new office.

Then, I found my hiding place. A closet across from his desk was the perfect concealment. I opened the sliding doors. “John is in a meeting.” I turned to Alice. The bastard was telling the truth. “I have to go Mrs. Sparse. He’ll wonder why I’m here so late.” She pulled the door towards her, “Good luck…” and closed the door.

I waited forever. I was beginning to lose hope…until he walked through the door. “Sam, you really know how to make me feel young again.” Sam, the whore’s name was Sam. His smile reminded me of the happiness we once had. I hadn’t seen him smile like that in years. John extended his hand into the doorway, “Come here you.” A hand emerged from the doorway, and John pulled it closer.

My heart dropped. All of the air in my lungs evaporated. John embraced his lover, and gave a kiss unlike any I had ever experienced from him. The kiss was filled with love and life. The two enwrapped into each other. I pictured this in my mind, but one important factor occurring in front of me never entered my mind. The kiss was long, soft, and masculine. Sam was not a woman. Sam…was a man.

On his new desk, in his new office, he made love to his new lover. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move, only watch. Then I realized…my whole life was a lie. My children, my marriage, my love…was a lie. I was a cover, a camouflage for John’s insecurities. Rage boiled up from my stomach. I reached for the gun in my purse, and slid open the closet doors.

“Linda!” John’s face was as much in shock as I was. I held the gun straight towards him. My arm shaking with anger, and tears streaming down my face. This was it. I was here to kill the woman that ruined my life. So, I turned the gun, placed the barrel in my mouth…

And sprayed my brains all over his brand new office.

They Don't Know Any Better

I placed top 25 in the Tweet me a Story contest. (yay) Unfortunately, I didn't win. Lucky for me, I entered the Creative Writing Championships! I had to write a 1,000 word story within the SciFi genre, with a petting zoo, and a fork as an object. Here is my story:

They Don't Know Any Better

I bit into my right index finger. It stung a little, but I was getting used to it. A small trickle of blood began to seep from my hand; I added another line to the wall. “One….two….wow.” I stepped back, and sucked on my finger. Three months. I had been in this place for three months.

Cindy wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Her firm breasts pressed up against my back. She giggled, “Today is going to be so much fun.” She kissed me on the cheek and scampered off. Cindy was old enough to be my daughter, and I don’t know why they would put a 55-year-old overweight ogre with a young 21-year-old sex Goddess. Maybe to show some sort of comparison.

Some days were better than others. Once in awhile I would be in a living room setting watching old reruns of Scrubs. Other days I would be in the shower repeatedly washing myself. A fat ass like me would enjoy the dining exhibit. Force-feeding myself fork after fork of meatloaf until I nearly vomited.

The most annoying part of the entire place was the sound system. Doug Masters of Channel 6 volunteered his broadcasting talents. I’m guessing it was in exchange for his life. The irritating part was their native language dubbed over it. It sounded like a cat being skinned alive while trying to speak Japanese.

“Come see humans in their natural habitat! Watch them eat! Watch them clean!”
“Kazyts ut vonsth! Xszath dur xaar! Xszath dur foazch!”

If you were lucky, you’d be in the fornication exhibit. Unfortunately, today wasn’t my lucky day. Today was probably the most degrading activity. Today…

“Now, look in amazement at the humans without their outer clothing! See them in their true form! Touch them! Feel them!”
“Xuthfg drtznmk qyes xthdf cuf th sf sxqit zassls! Zxay zu nmaz znvipl! Daxmn zu! Vazqt zu!”

The petting zoo.

Cindy was bouncing around. I didn’t know where she got her energy. Part of me wondered if they slipped her something. “I’ve never been in the petting zoo before. Is it fun? Do they touch you? Can you touch back?” She bombarded me with airhead questions. I replied with a “yes” or “no”. I didn’t elaborate. God forbid I had more than a 5-minute conversation with this Pomeranian of a human being.

The alarm sounded. “Shit… Here they come.” A wave of small furry critters hobbled into the exhibit, followed by larger and slower moving masses of ugly flesh. Their cone shaped heads swayed from right to left. Spewing clear fluid from the two holes protruding the top of their skulls. Their eight eyes never blinked in unison. Never. They were covered in hair except for their perfectly coned shaped heads.

They piled up around Cindy. She opened her arms and giggled. “They’re so fuzzy!” She smiled as they fondled her breasts and ass. She just shook her head, “They don’t know any better.”
They started to come to me. I just stood there…naked and fat. I didn’t put my arms out like Cindy. I was miserable. They poked and patted me. A small one crept up right underneath me. His small furry hand reached forward to grab my calf. A series of high-pitched gibberish began to fill my ears, and the little vermin began to foam from the head. Buckets and buckets of foam began to fall from his cone as he bounced around. Cindy laughed, “I think he’s laughing! He thinks you’re funny!”

I think she meant ugly. The little fucker was laughing at me. I gritted my teeth and spread my hands out wide reaching for his cone dome. He let out one final squeak before running off to what I think was his mother; some giant furry excuse of an organism. Reminded me of my ex wife.

Cindy threw me an infuriated look. “Why did you do that? He was cute!” She placed her arms on her hips and wiggled her ass. I shrugged. I was about to tell her to go fuck herself, when a small sensation came from my ass. I looked down to Cindy’s hands, but they were still firmly planted onto her hips.

I spun around, “What the fuck?” and saw one of those things groping my ass. I didn’t push him away. If I pushed him away I didn’t know what they would do. Another little creature reached around and grabbed my balls. “Jesus Christ!” I froze. I was being fondled by fucking E.T., and I couldn’t do a thing about it.

Cindy giggled, “They don’t know any better.”

“The fuck they don’t!” I tried to move away, but their little hands wouldn’t let go.

“Just don’t get a….” Cindy paused and looked at my cock. I liked that reaction from women, but I felt like it wasn’t supposed to happen at that moment.

“A what?” I asked. Then I looked down. All of this sensation must have caused a, well, natural reaction. There it was about to poke the small alien in its 4th eye… my dick.

“That!” Cindy pointed to my junk. She looked around frantically, trying to push away the creatures around her. “Hide it! Think of something else! Barbra Walters! Amy Winehouse! Tori Spelling!”

Then, pain I couldn’t stop streaming through my body. My muscles convulsed and I fell to the floor.

“Rosie O’Donnel! Rachael Dratch!” Cindy’s screamed.

My skin burned, but refused to char off of my body. I lost all bodily functions. My mouth filled with vomit. I pissed myself, and screamed like the animal that I was to these creatures. Blue liquid started to pour form the holes in their heads, and low moaning sounds echoed through the exhibit.

The pain stopped, and I laid there like a fish. My erection was gone, and so was my pride. Cindy ran over to me. She looked over at the creatures and their blue vomit. “I think that means they’re crying.”

Crying….right.

Tweet me a Story Contest: The Finals

So, as you all know...I entered NYC midnight's Tweet me a story contest. They gave me a word, and I had to come up with three short stories. I could not exceed 140 characters. My word was sharp, and I passed the first round. The tweet that they selected was:

"A sharp pain pulsated through my veins. The pain so real. I didn't know what to think...until the worms crawled out of my skin."

After the general public voted on the top 15, my tweet was selected for the finals. (hooray!) Today, I received my final word, tear, and wrote these three tweets:

1) A small, saline fluid began to secret from my lachrymal gland. "A tear." I looked at her. "It's called a tear. You heartless bastard."

2) I began to tear into the fresh corpse's ribcage. Her organs were slipping and popping through my fingers. "I will find my ring, you whore."

3) "Don't tear down my dreams mom!" Billy started up the stairs. "I may not be smart, but I sure ass hell can make a cardigan better than you!"

*Fingers crossed* let's hope one of these is good enough to win me something! Thank you to everyone who voted in the first round. I really needed this to get myself motivated in my writing. This is the start of many awesome things, and I'm really happy that I just made it this far. I don't need to win (but it would be nice) making it to the finals is enough to make me smile.

Tweet me a Story contest

I entered NYC midnight's Tweet me a story contest. They gave me a word, and I had to come up with three short stories. I could not exceed 140 characters. My word was sharp. Here are the three stories I came up with.

1) A sharp pain pulsated through my veins. The pain so real. I didn't know what to think...until the worms crawled out of my skin.

2) Your sharp metallic blade doesn't scare me. Once it's inside my chest, I feel an eerie sense of peace. I was meant to die like this.

3) Slick my hair back, whiten my teeth. I'll look so sharp. You won't know what hit you when I drop the powder in your drink. Just smile bitch

I like them! Man, I'm messed up.

Love.

Disclaimer: Yes, this is about the tattoo that I recently got. I do anticipate criticism for what it is and where it is, but it does not bother me. The fact that I am comfortable with myself enough to publicly show my self growth and awareness fills me with pride. It's more than I can say for the people that I have encountered in my life. To those that feel the same way that I do; this poem is a way of showing that you're not alone, and you can get through anything. This is for all of you.

Love.
That which makes life worth living.
For which you are eternally grateful.
Consumes and encourages those to suspend-
Time. When experiencing this simple emotion.
Love.
When you believe that it is over,
And your breath strains your old soul.
This will suck you back in, and now you gently-
Awaken. A sense of purpose and self worth.
Love.
You know you have so much to give,
And yet so much more to receive.
Do not close the door on sweet dreams that might have-
Been. Halt transgressions; anticipate future.
Love.
That which is here all around you
That which comforts you in solitude.
It is cheering you on, and reminding you-
That. It is waiting to be discovered again.
Love.

Pictures

What am I to do
With all of these pictures of you?
Your smile echoing my memories
Reminding me of the end; this tragedy
The lens capturing your smile
Forgetting my pain for a while
Reminiscing of where and when
You laughed and said, “take it again.”
Arm’s length, through the mirror, staged
I never wanted to disengage.
I just wanted to snap the moment, keep it forever
No regrets, always clever; never to sever.
So tell me what am I to do
With all of these happy pictures of you?

Prostitution of Dignity

It's hard to post scripts on here..... This is the opening to a script that I REALLY need to finish. It's called "Prostitution of Dignity"

INT. – HENRY’S BEDROOM- EARLY MORNING

An alarm clock is heard, and HENRY slowly wakes up. He mumbles under his breath, and has a disgruntled look on his face. He slowly climbs out of bed, and crosses his small and dirty apartment, to the small bathroom. On his way to the bathroom, he turns off the alarm clock. Henry is at the sink, he washes under his arms, and brushes his teeth. He puts on his uniform, and crosses back to his bed.

VERONICA- his girlfriend, is still sleeping. Henry leans in and gives her a kiss.

HENRY
I love you.

Henry leaves the apartment.

EXT. – STREET – MORNING

Henry is riding his bike to work. He is wearing an extremely loud, multi-colored bike helmet. His uniform makes him look equally pathetic. His eyes are half closed, and he is not paying attention to where he is going. He smacks into a fire hydrant, and falls off his bike. Due to the accident, the bike is no longer rideable.

EXT. – TOLLBOOTH – MORNING

Henry pulls up the broken bike up to the tollbooth. As he reaches the tollbooth, he tries to chain the bike in front of it. He fumbles with the chains, and fights to chain his broken bike. He gets frustrated and throws the bike on the floor. He aggressively throws the chain into the street. He realizes the chain shouldn’t be there, and goes out and gets it.

INT.- TOLLBOOTH – AFTERNOON

Henry is sits in the tollbooth looking extremely bored. He is holding a sharpie, and writing a haiku into a small spiral notebook. Henry begins to read his haiku out loud.

HENRY
Somewhere there is life.
It’s constantly pulled from me.
Somewhere there is hope.

A car filled with teenagers pulls into the tollbooth. Henry puts away his spiral notebook, and goes to attend to the car. The TEENAGE GIRL driving the car hands him the toll money. Henry turns to his register, and counts out her change.

TEENAGE GIRL
Now, that has to be the worst fucking job on the planet.

Henry hears what she says, but doesn’t react. He goes about his business. He hands her the change, and the teenagers laugh at him. They speed away, and Henry pulls out his little spiral notebook, and continues to write.

EXT. – STREET – NIGHT

Henry walks home alone. It is dark, and it begins to rain. He is holding his obnoxious bike helmet in his hand and walking, slowly down the street. Henry’s eyes keep opening and closing. Suddenly, the rain becomes a downpour. While Henry is walking, a car speeds by him, rolling over a giant puddle, and splashes water all over him. Henry sighs, and continues walking soaked and miserable.

INT. – HENRY’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

Veronica is sitting on the couch, eating a TV dinner. The television can be heard. Henry opens the door, and, slowly, makes his way to the kitchen. He drops his helmet on the floor, and kicks it out of the way. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out another TV dinner, and places it into the microwave. Henry slowly makes his way to the couch, and sits next to Veronica.

TELEVISION (OFF-SCREEN)
So, why didn’t you just sell the damn thing?
(canned laughter)

VERONICA
You’re wet.

HENRY
Yeah, it happens.

They hold hands, and closely watch the television. They laugh, as the television shines off of their faces.


INT. – HENRY’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

Veronica and Henry are making love. It is aggressive, yet loving. Once they are done, Henry rolls over and tries to catch his breath. Veronica and Henry lie there looking at the ceiling, and breathing heavily.

HENRY
What time is it?

VERONICA
Almost one-thirty.

HENRY
I should go to bed. I have to get up in four hours.

VERONICA
Yeah. I have things to do tomorrow, too.

HENRY
I love you.

They kiss, roll over, and go to sleep.

INT. – HENRY’S BEDROOM - EARLY MORNING

The sound of the alarm clock is heard, and Henry slowly wakes up. He mumbles under his breath, and has a disgruntled look on his face. He slowly climbs out of bed, and makes his way to the small bathroom in his apartment. On his way to the bathroom he turns off the alarm. He washes under his arms, and begins to brush his teeth. He puts on his uniform, and crosses back to his bed.

Veronica is still sleeping. Henry gives her a kiss.

HENRY
I love you.

Henry leaves the apartment.

EXT. – STREET – MORNING

Henry is walking to work, but he is carrying a closed umbrella.

HENRY (V.O.)
And so, this is how my life goes. Every day, it’s the same stupid thing. Same stupid walk.

INT. – TOLLBOOTH - DAY

Henry is sitting in his tollbooth and writing in his spiral notebook.

HENRY (V.O.) (CONT.)
Same stupid job. Same stupid life.

A car pulls up to Henry’s window. The car has a mother, with a three-year-old in the back seat. The three-year-old laughs at Henry.

HENRY (V.O.) (CONT.)
Sometimes, I just want to jump in front of one of those cars that drive by my window. Or tell the little kid in the back seat, laughing at me, to shut the fuck up. But I won’t. I just go about my life, being as pathetic as anyone could be.

Henry takes the money from the mother, and puts it in his register. The car drives away.

EXT. – STREET – NIGHT

Henry is walking with his umbrella. It begins to rain. Henry goes to open his umbrella, but it opens inside out. He is, again, left standing in the rain.

HENRY (V.O.)
See, I told you my life is pathetic.

October Memories

Monsterfest is playing on AMC, there are jack-o-lanterns on every doorstep, and girls are walking around dressed as schoolgirls, Playboy bunnies, and prostitutes. Yes, it’s my favorite time of the year: Halloween. Every Halloween I bask in the glory of gore, death and anything that goes bump in the night. Who knew?

So, I will admit that my infatuation with Halloween has gotten me in trouble many times. My neighbors don’t always approve of my decoration choices for my front lawn, for instance. Whether it is bloody tombstones, hands crawling out of the ground, or a life-sized Michael Jackson holding a baby.... people just can’t seem to grasp the spirit of my Halloween decor. Once, I hung (fake) severed limbs from the tree in my front yard. Now, personally, I thought they looked beautiful. My neighbors, on the other hand, didn’t think it was very pretty. Apparently, hanging arms and legs from a tree could be “traumatizing” or “make children cry,” so I had to take them down. Fucking kids....

Some of my favorite Halloween costumes that I’ve used over the years include the classic Goth Girl, Britney Spears (a la schoolgirl uniform) with a slashed throat, and the crowd pleaser: a zombie. Sometimes, I’d answer my door to trick-or-treaters and they’d be the ripe age of three or four. It was always very entertaining to watch the kids scream and run away, or turn to their parents and ask what I was. The parents then tried to explain my costumes in the most child friendly/awkward way. In other words, Britney Spears cut herself shaving.... and I would chime in with "cause she's really a man." Oh, how I loved it.

The thing that would always annoy me on Halloween was those jerks that would turn off all the lights in their house, as if to say, “We’re not home. Sorry, no candy here!” How smart are you? If I turn my lights off no one will come and get candy! Whoo hoo! I'm a trickster! Well, I was one of those kids that would get very angry if my candy demand was not met. Let’s just say that old lady McFinigan won’t be turning her lights off on me anymore.

Embrace the Halloween spirit. Watch a horror movie or two, put on a scary mask and play creepy music/Rob Zombie throughout your neighborhood, because we only get this experience once a year. Cherish it. Before you know it, B101 will be playing Christmas music, and you’ll want to drive your car off of a cliff.

Happy Halloween!

Don't take my Pluto away

Oh, dear, sweet Pluto. You are no longer just Pluto; now, you are 134340 Pluto, the largest dwarf planet in the Solar System. It pains my heart to hear this. I love you, Pluto, and if there was something I could do for you, believe me I would. You were my favorite planet. No one knew much about you, and that’s why I liked you. I will hunt down the man that did this to you, and carve the number 134340 into his forehead......if that's what you want me to do.....

I know all of you are laughing at me, thinking,“Why do you care so much about Pluto? He's small, insignificant, and hides away in the back of the solar system.” Well, I do! I do care about Pluto! Whenever there was a science project involving planets I would always chose Pluto. Yes, it was hard to find all the information on the planet. Yes, he wasn't as close as Mars, or as extravagantly blinged out as Saturn. And yes, my mother would yell at me asking why I chose such an arbitrary planet that no one cared about, and she wished I was never born (she actually did that a lot). I didn’t care though. I still did every project on dear, sweet Pluto. I didn’t care that it was smaller than several moons in our system, or that its moon – Charon – was as big as the planet itself. It didn’t bother me that Pluto didn’t completely follow a simple orbit. Pluto was different; Pluto was special! So are you scientists going to sit there and tell me that all of my projects went to waste, and that all of those hours of research have amounted to nothing? Huh? NOTHING! Is that what you’re saying to me?!!?

So now all these scientists are demoting you. Spitting on your name and calling you a “dwarf” planet: an ice dwarf. Now you’re listed with the likes of Ceres, Xena, Orcus, Sedna, Easterbunny and Santa (yes, there are dwarf planets named that.) It's like Pluto has been forced into the worst drag show in San Francisco. How dare the so-called “intelligent” people of the scientific community categorize my favorite planet with these freaks!

Pluto, they’re even saying that Charon isn’t your moon, but another dwarf planet! They want to take away your moon too? What did you do, Pluto? What did you do to deserve this horrible treatment? Was Hitler born there? Is that where Scientology came from? You can tell me!

So, what’s next? What else is science going to ruin for me? Are they going to categorize Johnny Depp as an android or David Hasselhoff as a gnome? I swear to God science, you’re being a total fucking asshole. Leave Pluto alone! Let him be a planet. You know, just because he’s different and mysterious doesn’t mean you have to shun him. I mean, if he’s walking around the solar system listening to his iPod, carrying his MacBook Pro, wearing aviators, and playing with his black fingernails it doesn’t give you the right to put a label on him. Douchebags.

Measure of a Man

I wrote a number of articles for The Collegian, and I found them whilst googling myself (don't judge me). I decided to try and spruce them up a bit, and post them on here. So enjoy.

What exactly is it that measures a man? Would he walk on water? Would he run through fire? Or would he have spikey hair, and little cute mouse ears? I think he would. It takes a lot to turn this pop culture-hating girl into a swooning sing-a-longer. What could possibly turn me into a quivering 13-year-old again? Nothing but the angelic voice of the American Idol runner-up, Clay Aiken.

When people go through my iPod, they often find great musical variety equal to that of a musical genius (or maybe even a god). One might come across a Pink Floyd album or two, all of Muse’s ultimate god-like-ness, Eliot Smith, Eminem, Ours, and Radiohead. People are often confused when they run across Clay Aiken’s Measure of a Man staring them straight in the face. “But, Jo Anna... Clay Aiken sucks. Why would you put him in here with all of this greatness?”

“Silence!” I tell them while shoving my hand straight into their face. Clay Aiken is an amazing talent with a magnificent voice that could make your own mother divorce your father and fall to his whim.

So what is it exactly that drew me to the dark side? Well, I guess you could first and foremost blame television, and FOX's wholesome programming. American Idol took the most talented (and untalented) youth of America, and plastered them onto my screen for me to cheer for (and laugh at). This was a reality television show that would kick off or ultimately kill their career. The second season of the show was when I fell in love with Clay and his homoness. The finale was a heated competition, and Clay Aiken was robbed of the American Idol title by Ruben "I'm a fat ass" Studdard.

I was furious, devastated even. How could Ruben be victorious over the amazing voice of Clay? He was to fat and to black for America to love. I think that the competition was rigged, and I'm still waiting in the wings for an Asian to win American Idol in order to support my race influenced theory. But the joke is on Ruben Studdard now! Clay Aiken has sold millions of records, and has every womanin their 40s grabbing at his sexy lanky body. When he sings “The Way” at his concerts granny panties form a pile at his feet. Hey Studdard, what have you done lately? Nothing! I hate you!

Once Clay came out with the single “Invisible,” I didn’t care how creepy the words “...if I were invisible, I could just watch you in your room,” sounded on the radio. His hypnotic voice sent me right to the record store to pick up Measure of a Man, and I’ve been cooing to it ever since.

I will continue to be moved by such awesome songs like “No More Sad Songs,” “This is the Night” and “I Survived You.” No matter what you think, Clay will always have a place in my heart, regardless of how much of a guilty pleasure he is.

But yes, I think he's a fag.

Life

Life

“To the silence of forgotten years!”
The reaper did toast and chime;
“To friends and foes and dreams and tears!
Those years pass by; sneak with time,
Towards that long unknown rhyme!”
He sneered and mocked my frightened ghost.
My body still and lifeless, he cheered.
Towards my floating subconscious he'd toast,
And proclaim my afterlife’s journey an unknown coast.
“Formed through sacrifice and true love”
The reaper began to brag and boast,
“For your deeds you will be rewarded above,
So forget your life, and pain and agony
For now, my friend, your life will be in paradise.”

Whst the judges thought.

''Trigger Finger Itch'' by Jo Anna Van Thuyne - WHAT THE JUDGE(S) LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - ...The first scene at the locker is perfect. The author stretches the moment out just right, getting us in the killer's head..........The first-person narration of this story is consistently believable as that of a teenaged killer. The story is sparse and unnerving.....................

.....................Some really interesting perspectives, ie. the notion Charlie is sharing a very romantic and important moment with the woman he loves as he kills her boyfriend, as well as, Charlie finally finding happiness in school...................... WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - ...Reminds me of a movie I watched but I can't recall the name. Basically about the Columbine shootings. So it has been done. However, this guy does it well..........This story is a vignette, rather than a full narrative. It is a surface account of a brutal act, without exploring the deeper motivations of circumstances surrounding its climax. There is little suspense, as the story is so straightfoward and generic in its characterization. .................................…......Maybe a bit too predictable. Perhaps the reasoning behind Charlie’s actions could be flushed out a bit more – not much is known except he was teased about something or other. The descriptions are repetitive and not very creative......

Meh... I wasn't very happy with the final product, but I think the positive has outweighed the negative.

Trigger Finger Itch

It pays to have a large schoolbag. Walking to school with an AK47 digging into your back is so much easier when you’re schoolbag is three time larger than the average student’s. My high tops scuffed along the pavement, while my rifle nudged my spine, hitting my vertebra with every step I took.
It pays to have an alcoholic father whose idea of a hero is Charlton Hesston wielding his favorite firearm. When your father is more interested in protecting his massive gun collection, than taking his son out to play catch, you kind of realize where you stand in the world.
It pays to have a locker located in the far corner of the richest and most pretentious private school in Beaver Meadows, PA. That way you can carry a small piece of arsenal in your very large schoolbag every day for exactly 31 days. That way you can plan something that hasn’t been done in your own backyard. That way you can get back at every sorry sack of shit that ever made you cry.

When you hardly say a word you might as well be invisible to the 300 students that populate these halls. You wish you were invisible, but you’re not as invisible as you feel. All the bruises on your arms and legs remind you of exactly how visible you are, and how invisible your feelings are. For two years, this school has replaced its daily schedule from learning and molding young minds, to torturing and emotionally scarring … me.
I decided to keep the AK47 tucked away in my sizeable bag. No use shoving it into a locker while being surrounded by the 300 strangers that judge you every second. I wondered what it would feel like to put a hole in someone’s head. After 31 days of hiding what I was going to do, I was ready to enter each classroom with all the rage that had bottled up over the years.
I stood by my locker as stranger upon stranger shoved pass me. I didn’t want anyone to notice the massive firearm I was carrying, so I pretended to fumble through textbooks and trapper keepers. My eyes scanned through the crowd. I saw the people laugh at me, point at me, snicker, and stare. Everyone in this school had a personal agenda to make my life a living hell. As I ran my finger across the cover of my Geometry textbook, I imagined what it would feel like to throw my home made pipe bomb into the gymnasium, or spray the hallway with hundreds of bullets.
Then I heard her. I could recognize her voice anywhere. I didn’t even have to turn around but I could still picture her long golden hair. I could smell her perfume. Her perfume was the only thing that keeps me semi-conscious in 4th period. I looked up from my locker to take a look at the goddess that I adored. She was talking to her usual circle. The perfect little prisses that didn’t give a shit about anyone but themselves, all laughing and acting as fake as they always do.
She was different. She always smiled, and I mean always. She would say hello to me, even if I hadn’t said a word. She was perfect. She was everything that I wanted and more. If someone pushed me, she would ask if I was alright. If someone made fun of me, she would tell them to stop. It was like she was using her powers of social status for good instead of evil. My hero. My savior. My Goddess.
I loved her so much it hurt. It didn’t matter how nice she was to me, or how much she meant to me. I wanted her. I wanted her to be mine, but the social circles just wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t even try. I didn’t stand a chance. It killed me, because she was so perfect for me, and I wasn’t allowed to have her.
I folded back into my locker. My safe haven where all my insecurities were going to be avenged. No one was watching, and I brought my bag closer to the fresh blue paint that was smeared across the locker. I ran my fingers across my History book and straight to the back of my haven. My fingers found the cold familiar steel that I used to craft my own homemade weapon. I held my hand there. Touching and loving the thing that was going to silence all of the bastards in this school. I started to feel this unbelievable power rush over me. My trigger finger began to itch. I wasn’t willing to wait much longer, but I wasn’t about to just start taking off heads just yet. I needed to bide my time. I had the entire day. What was another hour or so?
The bell began to ring, and one by one students made their way into a classroom. I stood at my locker. All I had to do was get through a few classes and I could finally start shooting. I opened my bag and began to place my weapons one by one inside. With every little thing I took out of my locker, my excitement and lust for blood began to rise. Then I heard her again. I heard her voice… and someone else’s.
They were standing by the Men’s room. She was smiling and tossing her hair back. She looked so beautiful, and I dreamed of her smiling and laughing with me every night. She was standing with the same polished boy that I’ve seen her with. He was a superficial piece of shit that made it his personal mission to rule this school. Then it happened. She leaned in, and I knew what was going to happen. I don’t know why I didn’t stop it before she did it, but she kissed him. Those lips that were supposed to be mine. That action that was only supposed to happen to me was happening to someone else.
My trigger finger began to itch again. All of the blood drained from my face, and was replaced with my lust for blood. It began pulsing through my veins. I wasn’t about to wait any longer. There they were, standing right in front of me. Mocking me. My legs began to quiver and I could hardly stand anymore. I ran my fingers to the back of my locker. I could hear all of them laughing. I could hear her laughing. I could see her hair. I could see him stealing her from me. I could feel the cold metal that was going to free me from all this pain.
My trigger finger took its righteous place gripped around my 9mm. I didn’t bother to place it in my bag. Why would I hide it now? Why would I wait any longer? I drifted towards the young couple. I couldn’t feel my feet hitting the floor. With every step that I took my trigger finger began to itch more and more. Her hands were around his waist. His fingers were running through her golden hair. I wanted her to be mine. I was tired of everything being taken from me.
Then I heard her voice.
“Charlie!”
She was smiling. She was looking right at me. I guess since Charlie is my name, she was talking to me. Her man just looked at me, and they both didn’t notice the gun that was in my hand. So I raised it to the level of his eyes. Her smile faded, and my trigger finger pulled back slightly to release a bullet directly into his brain.
I didn’t hear her voice anymore, but the shrieking of her vocal chords. The shattered fragment of brains and skull splattered across her face and mine. In some sick way it seemed very romantic. The two of us were sharing a very important moment in my life. This is how I wanted to remember her.
Tears were running down her beautiful face, and her hands were furiously tugging at her golden hair. She kept saying my name, like we were in the middle of some beautiful lovemaking. Saying my name over and over again. She dropped to her knees and was paralyzed from the fear she felt. I looked down on her lovingly and turned my firearm towards her. I placed the barrel gently on the side of her head. Her vocal chords began to screech again, but the speed of the bullet into her brain quickly put the sound on mute.
Her body dropped to the floor, and her blood covered the front of my uniform. Fragments of her skull and brain were smudged across my face; and I could taste her blood on my lips. This was the closest I would ever be to her. This was the only time I would be in contact with any of her body fluids, and I loved it.
Students began to flood from their prospective classrooms. Calling for my name, her name, and the boy’s name. I reached into my bag and pulled out the AK47. I just started shooting anything that moved. Once one body fell, the herd started to run the other way. Bang. Down went another, and another, and another. Some heroes tried to rise from the masses, but I quickly brought them down with a small piece of metal.
Eventually the police started to show up. The local news was broadcasting this disaster to every corner of the United States. But I was happy. I was smiling for the first time in that school. I was having fun. Then I realized… that it wasn’t going to get any better. I looked down the hallway, and didn’t find any more victims. There were a few bodies sprawled out on the floor, but nothing worth shooting again. This was the happiest moment of my life, and this is where my life needed to end.
So amongst the bodies, decay, screaming, and flashing red and blue lights I found happiness. My life was over and I was going to end it at the highest point possible. So I brought the barrel of a gun up to my crooked grin. Took one more look around at the disaster that I caused… and painted the lockers with fragments of my brain and skull.

Turning Skies

The turning sky, transforming with the seasons.
The shifting stars whisper tales of creation,
And paint the skies with reasons.
To guide the traveler to his weary destination.

As the sky turns, the degrees will rise and fall.
Flakes of snow twirl towards the cold ,
And snow covered hills, as time stalls
Letting children forget their schoolwork enrolled.

The snow melts, leaving green-headed meadows.
Yellow beaches filled with baking bodies and such
Summer rainfall will give way to rainbows,
Reminding us of the earth we love so much.

It’s dangerous, one learns in time, to love
The yearly somersault of changing seasons;
But I am old and getting weary of
The winter’s way of loving things for reasons.

Buds

The salivating tongue swarmed between lips
Feverishly anticipating
A sense of satisfaction to sweep over
It’s buds.

The trembling hands reached towards gratification
Anxiously anticipating
The touch of a cool fulfilling shape
To grasp.

The pulsating brain prepared the perpetual waves
Of pleasure
To blur its senses and cloud its judgment
For tonight.

The parting lips gave way to acknowledge
The flowing
Of amber fluid sweeping past the gums
And buds.

Tattoo

When one tattoos a name on their heart
They’re never warned of the consequences.
Never told the name would seep into the bloodstream
And cause irrational behavior linked to dementia.
The chemicals soon stain one’s soul
Resulting in constant torment and doubt.

Dark mixtures of red and black ink
Swirl and collide within the arteries.
The pupils swell, while the beating of the heart
Increases with every poisonous drip.

The body doubles-up in writing pain
While air refuses to fill the lungs.

One stumbles in the shadows calling
For the name that brings demise,
Longing for life, yet receiving none,
Clutching the infected cage. Unwilling
To remove the poisonous stain.

This name, this tattoo.