ma_chienne

PART 2 of I'm Determined to Finish This.

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 03:46:19 GMT

This is very long. Also, please note that "I'm Determined to Finish This" is not the title of the story.

It was a week or so before Aaron saw Derek again. Whenever he thought of this time, Aaron always recalled the smell of battered fish. Indeed, that was where he worked, what he did five or six days of the week. The place was called Shannon’s, a nice little fish joint that stood in all its blue-painted glory alongside the pier that provided it with so much business. The place irrevocably reeked of batter and fried potatoes, the scents carrying long and far across the docks and ships and bringing to that small place a host of sailors and marina employees. It was famous for the fish-and-chips meal cooked by Shannon herself, an homage to her home. And so, Aaron spent most of his time there shuttling trays of the stuff from counter to table, smiling, and joking, and flirting when necessary to receive that much-desired tip. The standard outfit was a red shirt, any type really, and black pants. The waiters wore aprons with pouches in them, all sorts of various nifty things tucked away within, straws, pens, pads, crayons, a small calculator, and a generous helping of lint.

“Aaron!”

Aaron looked up from his pad, stopping in the middle of writing the word “medium” and looking about for the source of the call. His customer, a large woman who could perhaps do without fish, looked upset. No matter, a bit of charm and the cow would be all smiles again. Behind the open window into the kitchen and the grille, he spies Shannon motioning for him to come near her. He nodded, leaning down towards the disgruntled woman and flashing her a smile. “Won’t be a moment.” She glared at her, her gaze like knives. Then she sighed, grinned, and nodded, waving her hand dismissively. Aaron took the chance to get away, half-jogging to Shannon’s call. He leaned against the counter, resting his chin atop it.

“What?”

Shannon had an irritating tendency to never look at the person to whom she was speaking. This time, as words flowed out of her mouth, her eyes flitted to each face in the crowd, making her and her thin self looking even more twitchy than usual. She was a middle-aged woman, no older than forty-seven. Her husband had gone off a few years back with someone not-quite-forty-seven, and if anything, Shannon had been glad to see him gone. She had red hair, cut short and perhaps a bit frayed at the ends. It framed her face nicely, an upturned nose and wide mouth giving her the look of someone almost surely up to some mischief in her mind. Her hands held spatulas and flipped burgers as she looked about, small hissing noises coming from the grill as raw meat was pressed against its heat.

“Listen, we got a big group comin’ in.”

“Bunch of rich people trying to get a taste of local culture?”

She scoffed at this, shaking her head. “I wish. Nah, the Maureen called. They asked fo-“

“The big ship that docked last week or so?”

Shannon’s hand smacked against the side of Aaron’s face faster than he could blink. It was a light thwack, but enough to make him rub the spot where she’d hit him.

“Yeah, that one. And don’t interrupt me. They asked for a table for twelve. I want you to set together six, seven, and eight. That should be enough to seat ‘em all.”

“Alright, when are they getting here.”

Shannon glanced to the clock she’d hung above the kitchen doors. She grimaced, and when she turned her face back towards Aaron, she looked him right in the eye.

“About ten minutes.”

Aaron groaned, resting his head against the countertop, feeling the residual warmth of the last meal that had been there. He cast a pleading look to Shannon, who merely smiled sheepishly and went back to flipping her burgers. Another groan was issued forth, and Aaron rose, trudging to table six and removing its chairs, pressing it rather loudly against seven, doing the same to eight just moments later. He was rearranging the modest cutlery on the tables when an irritated and painfully deliberate “ahem” reached him.

It was his other customer, the large one. She looked more cross than she had minutes earlier and Aaron was quickly at her side, apologizing with as much rapidity as he could and preparing his pen and pad. She rattled off an order, each word punctuated with dislike. When she had finished, she turned a cold gaze upon him and informed Aaron that it would be prudent of him to hurry. He smiled, forcing one out for the sake of pleasing her before returning to the counter and ramming the paper with her order on it down with force. He looked to Shannon, muttering.

“And she’d like it if you hurried.”

Shannon sent a fierce scowl at the rotund creature before returning unphased to her burgers. She uttered something beneath her breath that Aaron realized probably contained enough profanities to scare the most rugged of sailors. She continued muttering and flipping burgers, each with more force than the last. As a bit of hot grease shot up towards his nose, Aaron wisely backed away, laughing to himself. He was free, for the moment. The large woman had been sated, if only temporarily, and the crew from the Maureen hadn’t arrived yet. And so, Aaron took this time to breathe. The sky outside the place was blue, for once. The perpetual storms had given way to a wide and empty sky, vacant aside from the glaring sun and the occasional wispy cloud that was so bold to cross the sun’s path. It was windy, like usual, the air pulling itself across the surface of the water, breaking waves in their travel to the shore. The doors to Shannon’s were open wide, and every now and then a breath of fresh, salty air would interrupt the aroma of battered fish. Once you lived in the area long enough, you became accustomed to the sea air, but at times like this, familiarity was a welcome reprieve. It was warm, the last week’s rain long since dried away, and each breeze made one just cold enough to allow one to enjoy it when the warmth returned.

He heard them coming before he saw them. Sailors, shipmen, loud folk whose voices carried far. They were all men, he could hear that, and their voices carried beneath the words the sea from which they’d come. He heard laughter, deep and booming, and he sighed. Sailors were almost always messy people, and if they were to come here and leave behind wreckage, he wasn’t going to stand for it. Shannon had already prepared the mop, stashing it beside the door to the kitchen in preparation. The crew of The Maureen had never come to Shannon’s before, but if they were anything like their predecessors, the mop might not be enough.

Ah, there they were. A healthy sized crowd, Aaron could count their numbers before he could see their faces. Twelve or so, each laughing, some of them jostling each other around. Noisy, loud, boisterous, the kind of men you’d enjoy watching from a distance, but not likely bring back home to Mom. Aaron turned and went back into Shannon’s, waiting for the men to arrive. The bulbous woman shot him a scornful glance. She waved and snapped her fingers to catch his attention. It worked. Aaron strode with false cheer to her side, waiting and doting upon her to get her out of Shannon’s as soon as possible. The woman had a few choice words to share and as her dissatisfaction became manifest, Aaron could hear the sailors arrive. Emily, a friend of his and a waitress, greeted them. His ears caught their voices as they quieted down so Emily could speak, though admittedly a few of them were still audibly joking with one another. A rustling of feet and the movement of chairs alerted Aaron that the men had been brought to their tables and as the large woman placed a miniscule tip on the table as she left, Aaron heard them ordering drinks. Beer. Lots of it.

Aaron places the woman’s small tip in his apron pocket, picking up her plates and silverware and turning around to head towards the kitchen, his eyes on the ground to avoiding tripping. The last time he’d tripped, he’d sent rum and ice cream soaring through the air. Granted, the food found its table, but it arrived in perhaps the less-desirable manner. The door to the kitchen swung shut behind him and as he places the dirty dishes next to one of the sinks, Shannon called to him from the grill.

“Go out and bring ‘em the beer with Emily, yeah? She can’t carry all of it herself.”
He nodded, and from behind a tray of glasses full of amber liquid, Emily cast him an appreciative glance. He took off five glasses from the tray, putting them on another and lifting it up. Emily smiled, her blown hair pulled back in a pony tail, brown eyes warm and friendly.

“Much obliged.”

“It’s no bother. I’ll help you take some orders, too.”

She held the kitchen door open with her foot so Aaron could follow, walking to the tables with a grin on his face. Aaron circled to the other side of the group, his eyes still on the floor. He rested the tray against himself, gripping the first glass and looking to the first hand that reached for it.

Derek’s.

Aaron’s eyes traced the rough hand, moving to the arm, to the shoulder clad in a dirty gray shirt, to his face which bore a smile. Derek’s eyes flashed with recognition, and his smile widened. He took the beer and plopped it down on the table, alcohol sloshing over the edges and drawing comic cries of distress at how big a waste of good beer it was. Derek grabbed Aaron’s arm, his grip strong, thrusting a finger at the waiter and turning to look at his friends.

“This is the guy who got me in my place the other day!” He snapped his fingers up by his head for a moment, thinking. “Uh, Aaron! Aaron Fletcher! That’s your name, yeah?”

Aaron nodded, smiling in an attempt to hide the massive blush that had overcome his face. One of the sailors, a short man who looked much akin to a weasel, yet with a beaming grin that cast away any distrust, laughed loudly. Emily placed a beer down in front of him and before he picked up the glass, he pointed a thin finger at Aaron.

“Come on, Derek, you’ve gone and embarrassed him. Look at him! Red as Satan’s ass.”

Another roar of laughter erupted from the table, and Derek let go of Aaron’s arm, casting the waiter another smile. One more of the men at the table spoke up, still chuckling.

“You know what Satan’s ass looks like, Mike?

“Of course I do, Jody, I see your mother every night!”

A loud “oooh!” resounded throughout the restaurant, bringing light laughter from the few other patrons still within. Aaron and Emily finished distributing the drinks and though they tried their hardest to get some food orders out of the men, they were too engrossed in their own conversations to be bothered. The two retired to the kitchen, looking out at the table of sailors. Emily apparently found the entire group nothing short of hilarious, her cheeks red with laughter. She nodded towards Derek from the safety of Shannon’s kitchen.

“You know him?”

Aaron attempted to busy himself, rearranging the dirty dishes he’d placed by the sink moments ago. “Yeah, I helped him get into his apartment a few days ago. Didn’t know he was a sailor or something.”

“Seem like nice enough guys. He’s a local, then? Where’s he live?”

“Over on Milvey, you know the street where, uh, Christ what’s its name, Frankie’s Pub’s on?”

“Oh, good place. I like the stout they’ve got.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

“What’s his name?”

“Who’s?”

“The friend of yours.”

“Derek. And he’s not a friend, I just helped him get in his house once.”

“Seemed he was glad to see you. Kind of cute, too.”

Aaron sighed, forsaking his attempt to organize soiled silverware. He turned to face Emily, leaning against the sink, and as she saw his face, Emily erupted in a giddy fit of laughter. He caught wind of Shannon, herself chuckling as she stood with folded arms beside her grill. Aaron looked to the both of them, both confused and annoyed. The sailors’ voices carried strong through the window, Derek’s words lost among those of his friends. He thrust his hands out expectantly, his eyebrow cocked at the women’s laughter. “What?”

Emily brought her hand up to her mouth for a moment, suppressing the giggles bubbling in her throat. Her ponytail bobbed as her head and neck shook from the retrained laughter. When she did speak, she used a sing-song voice Aaron hadn’t heard since grade school.

“You like him.”

“So?”

“So wait until they’re done and talk to him or something.”

“Right.”

Emily leaned towards the window, casting her glance to Derek and the rest of the sailors. She stood on her toes for the moment, short enough to require it. Aaron joined her, although he was decidedly less obvious. He pretended to busy himself with the dishes, glancing up every now and again to the man. Their voices could be heard loud and clear, the subject of their humor revolving almost entirely around sex, alcohol, women, and times of their lives that held any combination of the three. Aaron shook his head, a matter-of-fact tone to his voice. “Doesn’t seem like he’s much interested in my type, Em.”

“You haven’t even been listening.”

“Of course I have.”

“What was he like the other day?”

“What?”

Emily gave him a light thwack on the shoulder, a playful seriousness to her words. One hand rested on her hip. “I said ‘what was he like the other day?’”

Aaron rested his hands on the edge of the sink, looking out to Derek and the restaurant as a whole as he remembered the event. Truth be told, he remembered it quite clearly, right down to the scent of the wind. However, he twisted his face into a look of concentration, a bit of show.

“I dunno. Nice, friendly. We didn’t really talk much.”

Emily nodded, thinking. She too glanced out towards the men before turning her gaze back to her coworker. “Well, what’d he do after?”

“After I let him in?”

“Yeah.”

“Went to his apartment.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, he invited me up for a bit of food or something.”

His response was an exasperated sigh. “Well why the hell didn’t you go!”

“I… well, I don’t know. I said I was busy.”

“Were you?”

Aaron became defensive here, leaning away from the sink and folding his arms. He stared down at Emily, who remained chipper and determined in spite of him. “I had some things to do, yeah.”

“Like?”

“Remy was getting lonely.”

“Remy?”

“Yeah.”

“Aaron, Remy is a cat.”

A loud snort of laughter erupted from behind Aaron, and he already knew it came from Shannon. Her poorly-stifled enjoyment of the situation was evident, and Aaron rolled his eyes. “Cats get lonely.”

“Yeah, you will too if you don’t at least try.”

“What do you want me to do? Go up to him? Say ‘Hey, I figured you were gay, turns out I’m gay
too, let’s go somewhere?’”

Emily considered this for a brief moment, bringing her hand up to her chin in thought. “In
maybe a few more words than that, yeah.”

“How do you even know he might be like me?”

“I don’t. But it’s worth a shot.”

Shannon called out to Emily, and the waitress gave Aaron a stern smile before hurrying off to her boss. Aaron looked out to the men at their table. He could hear their jokes, watching Derek out of curiosity and perhaps a bit of fascination. Words, colorful and otherwise, carried strong through the air.

“You remember that time with that girl from Galw-“

“Oh, the one with the blond hair and the spider tattoo on h-“

“She was all over me, mate.”

A peal of laughter erupted once more. One of the sailors, Aaron couldn’t see the face, shook with a deep chuckle. “Rob, she thought you were foul, man.”

“Please, Chris, you-“

“She stomped on your foot!”

Derek began to laugh, leaning back in his chair. Aaron couldn’t help but watch him move, the sailor’s hand rising to stroke his chin, his eyes glittering at the memory. “She had some heels on, too. Big ones.”

“She was just playing hard-to-get.”

Derek spoke again. “I’m damn sure she was playing get-the-fuck-away.”

Rob leaned forward on the table, smiling, but aggressive. He pointed his finger at Derek, wagging it for emphasis. His tongue ran over his teeth as he recalled a memory, one he was apparently certain would grant him victory over something. “What about when we got you that girl for your birthday out in Plymouth?”

Derek’s smile faded slightly, his eyes widening as he remembered that series of events. Chris’s face bore an expression of surprised excitement. “I forgot about that one.” He looked to Rob, who was himself fighting to restrain his own laughter long enough to tell the tale.

“Yeah, she was a nice one. Red-haired, tall, you remember. What is it you did?” He snapped his fingers, sifting through his memories. “Ah! You talked to her ab-“

Derek finished his sentence. “About her dog and her last boyfriend, yeah I remember Rob, I was there.” An embarrassed smile played across his face as he brought a glass of beer to his lips. “Wasn’t my type.”

“She was a gorgeous one!”

Derek put the glass down, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. For a brief, fleeting moment, Aaron thought he saw the wheels turning in the man’s head. What was he thinking about? Was he making up a reason?

“She was a street walker, Rob, I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Aaron’s shoulders dropped, an exasperated breath pushing itself out of his mouth. Damn. He turned his head down, his eyes falling to the counter. Before they left Derek, however, Aaron caught something else, or perhaps he just believed he did. A quick glance from Derek, something momentary. Maybe the recognition of some shared secret, an unspoken understanding. Maybe.
Aaron didn’t look back up, in fear the glance he thought he received had never happened. But if
it had, if it did occur…

He was reminded of that period in his adolescence, when secrecy was a way of life, and he’d switch through so many masks a day he’d sometimes forget who it was that wore them. He thought of the years of silence, the uncertainty, the after-school “club meetings” with Patrick. Patrick, the first, the one who held Aaron’s hand as Aaron’s biggest secret crept in slow and steady words past his lips into the ears of his mother. He recalled his mother’s surprise, then her acceptance, over both of which he remembered feeling his own incredible shock that she hadn’t expelled him from the family. Aaron thought of his father, also surprised, also accepting. There were Patrick’s parents, who were less kind. Patrick himself had lived with Aaron for a few weeks after that, and Aaron wasn’t truly sure where he’d gone off to by now. Last he knew, Patrick had gone across the pond, looking for a fresh start.

Some part of Aaron, clearly not his rational side, pulled his head back up, directed his eyes to Derek. There it was again, the glance, the recognition. He saw a bit of searching, as well. What was he looking for?

Maybe a fresh start.

Writer's Block: I'm sorry

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 17:39:01 GMT

If you only had one day left to live, and you had the chance to tell one person from your past "I love you," who would it be? How about "I'm sorry"?

Submitted By crazy_lil_loud1

View 1402 Answers

Answer to both questions:

My late Uncle Mark Domurad. He had a tumor in his brain for years and this was during my angry phase in which I wasn't close to anyone in my family. I had begun to emerge from it, slightly, when he went into remission and we began to talk more. He was an engineer, and quite simply an absolutely brilliant man. He could build anything you wanted, rarely rose his voice, and loved his family.

Then he fell off a building. He died on the first day of Christmas vacation in my 8th grade year. It was at his funeral that I cried for the first time at a funeral in my life. My Aunt Sharon, his wife, was always the one telling jokes at family gatherings and laughing and smiling. Her sobs shook the walls of the church and as she leaned on his casket, tears streaming from her eyes down the side of the wooden box which contained what was once her husband and she asked God what right he had, I regretted everything I'd done up until that point in my life.

There was a gathering at her house later, for I hesitate to call it a party, and it was at the end of this gathering that I hugged Aunt Sharon from 7:48 to 7:53 and repeated "I love you" over, and over, and over. She is now one of five family members to whom I say "I love you" at greeting and departure.

So, if I were to say "I love you" to anyone, it would be Uncle Mark, because I never said it in the years preceding his death. If i were to apologize to anyone, it would be Uncle Mark, because I never said "I love you."

I am determined to finish this.

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 21:15:21 GMT

This WILL be the first story I finish, someday.

It was a bit of a cold day, not yet rainy but the clouds above were a warning gray that sent most people indoors. Distant peals of thunder, heralded by far and sudden flashes, rolled across the sky as frothy waves crashed against the dock. A flag flopped and fluttered in the wind, the sharp snaps of favric an odd beat to which Aaron set his pace. His boots, thick and warm, thudded against the paved street. Jeans covered all below his waist but his feet, held fast to his body by a black belt of faded leather. The rest of him was bundled up in a coat, black and warm against the air. Green eyes peered out from beneath a nest of short-cropped brown hair. He was huddled against the coming chill, hearing the voices around him through the muffling cloud of a reverie. He’d taken this walk often, past the boathouse, along the pier, always after work, and always with a faint and growling hunger in his stomach.

A loud bang and a half-stifled swear shook him from his routine stupor. The source was unseen, and Aaron continued on his trek towards his house. Another bang, another swear. He looked around again, and down the road on the left was the form of a very irritated man ramming his open palm against an equally resistant door. He was a tall man, though as Aaron grew closer, he saw the man was a few centimeters shorter than himself. The man was dressed in a leather jacket, open despite the wind, and dark blue jeans below a torso covered in a faded green shirt. As he struck the door in frustration once more, a necklace on a short silver chain thumped against his chest. Another swear emanated from the man and curiosity got the best of Aaron.

“Hey!”

The man jumped a bit and looked around, hazel eyes beneath a furrowed brow. Those eyes scanned the area, landing on Aaron, the annoyance in them replaced by curiosity. The two men stood on opposite sides of the road, and so their conversation began in shouts.

“What?”

“Why are you banging and swearing and all that?”

“What?”

“What are you trying to do?”

The man huffed, gesturing with a passionate jab of the finger at the door.

“I’m trying to get home!”

Aaron stared for a moment, then nodded congenially. The man returned to his door and Aaron stared at his back. He remained there for a minute or so, listening to the bangs and swears. There was another noise, quieter, the jingling of keys. Aaron sighed and having nothing better to do, strode across the street. He tried to peer over the man’s shoulder to the problematic door, looking past the man’s tawny hair to see what sort of fight the portal was putting up. The man stuck his key in, turned it, and tried to open the door. Again, he was met with failure.

“Damn door doesn’t work. Hinges’ve been rusted for months and the damned landlord won’t do a thing about it!”

The man shouted the last part towards some high window, glaring at empty glass before returning his attention to the issue at hand. Aaron watched for a moment, thinking.

“Well… here, try the handle again. I’ll push against the door.”

He sidled up against the man, resting his shoulder against the wood and planting his feet firmly into the ground. The man looked to him, surprise mixing with relief in his eyes, and nodded. “On three.” He said “one,” preparing with all the readiness in the world to twist that doorknob and have a stranger tackle the door itself. The number “two” passed his lips and Aaron braced himself further.

“Three.” He turned the knob and Aaron pressed hard against the door. As if mocking them, it opened with ease, and Aaron fell rather unceremoniously onto the threshold, letting loose some strange cross between a swear and a grunt. The stranger snorted with laughter at the sight, his mouth turning up in a smile quickly covered by his hand to avoid embarrassing Aaron further. Aaron himself remained on the ground for a moment, contemplating his luck before getting up and attempting to make light of his own misfortune.

“Well, got you in alright.”

The man nodded, still smiling as he put his keys in his pocket. He bent down, lifting a duffel bag from the sidewalk and slinging it over his shoulder. Aaron dusted himself off and looked about the foyer for a moment. It was an apartment building, obviously. The narrow entrance led to a set of stairs, flanked by thin banisters that crept up the wall alongside it. The walls, a pale yellow striped vertically with white, went out of sight along with the stairs, leading to the rest of the building and whichever residence this stranger called home. His mental exploration was cut short by the man’s voice, and the presence of a fairly rough hand extended in greeting.

“That you did, much obliged. Name’s Derek Brodie.”

Aaron shook the man’s hand, introducing himself as Aaron Fletcher. He withdrew his hand after the shake, placing it in his pocket and standing there rather awkwardly for a brief moment. Derek stared at him quizzically for a moment before grinning and pointing up the stairs.

“You’re welcome to come in, you know. Smell takes a bit getting used to, but you deserve
something for that tackle of yours.”

Aaron broke out a smile, shaking his head and waving the hand not in his pocket dismissively.

“Nah, got a busy day ahead of me. Just got out of work, but that doesn’t mean I’m done working.”
Derek nodded, offering a handshake once more. “Alright then, have yourself a good day. See you around.”

The men shook hands once more and Derek ascended the stairs, still enjoying the memory of Aaron’s fall. Aaron himself watched the man vanish past the corner of the stairs and stepped out into the street once more, leaving the door behind him open. A loud crack of thunder tore across the sky, and the rain began to fall in light and pleasant drops.

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 18:44:09 GMT

Today's Prompt: We were joined, like form and shadow.

The fabric of her dress rustled as she spun, a slow spiral of satin and scarlet. Soft hands in crimson gloves reached for mine, and together the two of us floated across the marble floor, the clinking of glasses and the murmur of idle chatter an eternity away. Her steps were flawless, the perfection of mine awoken in response. A waltz had caught us, whisked us away to a place where we were lost and all was well. She looked to my eyes, and saw more than flesh and blood. I looked to hers, and I observed things in those deep and open wells I can't bear to repeat, lest the memory travel past my lips and be lost forever to the world. To have her look at me, to see the recognition in her eyes, that was what gave me substance, gave me breath. The waltz came to an end, the final note of the cello fading as the flutes died and the piano uttered its last chord. She breathed a word into my neck, the warmth speaking not to my ears but to something far deeper. It latched itself there, beneath the world and all its scars, and there it remained. We were joined, like form and shadow.

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 03:06:12 GMT

Today's Prompt: The apartment was empty.

The apartment was empty. We hadn't lived there in years, and I guess the tenants after us didn't last long. The walls, once this nice and vibrant blue, were tinted, gray with dust. There used to be furniture there, by the window, a nice chair. Red, comfy, maybe a bit broken-in, but we'd spent many a night in it, or the one ust like it in the corner. This one winter, the heat had gone out, so we dragged those two chairs into the kitchen and burnt some newspapers for a few nights until the problem was solved.

Our shoes left prints in the carpet as our steps carried dust from place to place. I don't know why he brought me here. This is where we started to live together, right here, eight years ago. There's the dent in the wall from when we were moving in the couch. Whatever the reason, he was excited. He stood in the center of the room all smiles and anticipation. I was in the doorway, checking my watch and huddling against the winter cold.

"Babe, we need to get to my parents' in twenty minutes. Let's go."

He held up a hand, his other fishing through his pocket. I swear, if all he wanted to do was take a picture of the place for the memories...

He knelt, and for a minute i thought he was tying his shoe. Never in a hurry. "We'll get there eventually" was his favorite phrase, regardless of what "there" actually was. My eyes went back to my watch and I waited for him to finish. Something glinted amid the dirty room and I looked to his hands.

He held a ring, and my watch arm fell to my side.
He bore a smile. The winter went away.
He said those four words, and I knew he was right. We were there.

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 17:05:58 GMT

Today's Prompt: "The stream was black with drifting dead logs."

The sky fell the other day. Saw it with my own eyes. It wasn't as bad as Uncle Tommy said it'd be, not at all. The clouds didn't all just fall from way up there. They came down in little white balls. Cold, tiny things. I tried to catch one, felt it plop right into my hand, but it went away pretty quick. I figure I scared it and it ran off or something. I thought maybe the cloudy bits were afraid of me, so I went back inside and watched the sky fall through the glass. The ground seemed to be taking the little white things and making some clouds of its own. One slowly popped up right on Dad's car, and after a few hours, there was a whole string of clouds along the river The stream was black with drifting dead logs, and even though the logs were gray, they looked nice. Looked comfy, too, under that puffy white cloud. I watched the wood float on down the stream, and I thought to myself: this isn't too bad. This is kinda nice. Mom says it's not the sky that's fallin'. Just some snow. Whatever it is, I like it.

=\

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 20:05:55 GMT

I found a website that has a shitload of sentences, few of which are related, with the intent that one would take a sentence and use it to write a short story per day. I get bored and I have office hours, so I'll use it to become a better writer.

Today's prompt: "The conviction in her voice unsettled him."

So it goes:

Twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven long years in this business and sweet Jesus, was he done with it all. It was now a cold and draining occupation, the sort which contained such fleeting, intense pleasures that they may well have not existed at all outside the realm of dreams. He remembered the first few years, of course. He remembered the fire, the sheer passion with which he and his compatriots went about their task. Change, they wanted. Revolution. Their time had come, some fifteen years ago, that point at which all of their work had reached culmination and they had fought the good fight, clamored tooth and nail to bring about what they saw as the dawn of a new era. They yearned the sun to rise, the stars to move, and the pallid, stagnant moon to become obliterated, its chunks the symbol of a time since past.

And yet they had failed. The small victories they had claimed on their road to renaissance left no mark upon their foe. The brackish intellect of the enemy was unscathed, and our soldier fell, despondent, into the listless current of failure. It was that day, that final day of his twenty-seventh year, when she entered. He had resigned himself to stagnation, the delusion of old age plaguing his mind, and the conviction in her voice unsettled him.

Failure was progress, she said, a chance to learn. The problem was there. It could be solved. Why wouldn't they be the ones to do it? To ignore it, injustice. To pawn it off, cowardly. There was a fire in the cadence of her words, a flame that seared away the cobwebs in his mind, the dust along his bones. He was old, yes. His body was weaker than he remembered, perhaps a bit rounder. But his reason was as sharp as it had ever been, his knowledge a useful tool with which maybe, just maybe, his goal could be more than a far horizon. And so he stood. He looked at her, through the flesh and bone to the soul that lay beneath, and saw within her a road, a long and twisting path covered in shadow and soot, but beyond that clouding grime, he saw the sun. That bright and rising orb called to him, and he knew that his twenty-seven years had not been long enough.

Lament

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 19:45:19 GMT

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Some more sociological ideas.

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 15:52:53 GMT

Hi there, I'm going to write about sociology some more, this time dealing with what I learned in class just about an hour ago at the time I started.

Action and Order. Every sociological theory deals with Action and Order. They are dealt with in sociology in the following manner:

Why do we see order in the world, as opposed to chaos? This pertains to Order.
What motivates humans to act? This, obviously, pertains to Action.

There are two ends of the spectrum relating to Action. They are the Y axis, and are defined as Rational and Non-Rational. Every sociological theory presupposes that humans are either Rational or Non-Rational creatures at their core.

Rational is best defined as essentially Logic and/or Utilitarianism. The maximum reward for minimum risk. A good example of a Rational moment would be as follows: You see a stop sign. You could run the stop sign, or stop as the law demands. If you were to run the stop sign, you could get to your destination faster, but you may well pay a $200 dollar, be delayed further, and have your insurance premium go up. You decide to stop, because to do otherwise may cause more trouble than it's worth. Or, you choose to blow through the stop sign because you decide the benefit of getting there faster is worth the risk.

Non-Rational is best defined as desires, emotions, and ostensibly free will. You see a stop sign. You go through the stop sign because you feel like it. Ignoring the stop sign makes you feel good or gives you a rush, so you do it. You can, so you do. Alternatively, you see some guy go through the stop sign. You think he's an asshole. In fact, you're going to prove that you're a better citizen than him by not going through the stop sign. This makes you feel good, so you do it. Benefits and risks aren't considered heavily, and instead the action is driven by desires and emotions.

Personally, I believe that humans lie on the more non-rational side of the continuum. Although I understand that humans can shift towards rationality, at their core, I see people as drive primarily by emotion and desire. What is my reasoning for this? Among other things, one bit of supporting information is a story my professor told me this morning, regarding Rationality and Non-Rationality.

He has a friend, who remains unnamed due to legal reasons, that was once put on trial for murder. The victim had his face smashed in with a stone. He was found not guilty, and got off. My professor, being his friend and being a curious guy, goes up to him and says: “I have to know. Did you really kill that guy?”

“You’re damn right I did.”

“Wh-..wh-..why?”

“He insulted my wife.”

I believe the term is “Crime of Passion.” It is my understanding that most crime is not premeditated. Murder, by the legal definition, is. But most crime: theft, battery, rape, assault, etc. is done not because someone took the time to judge the rationality of the action, but because it feels good. You steal a candy bar, or a car, because it provides a rush. You kill somebody because you are angry. These are not rational actions, they are examples of irrational thought.

A classmate also shared a story. While drunk, he got into a fight with a person. Though the other person was beaten into submission, my classmate stopped short of killing the man? Why? His reasoning he gave during class was that he did not want to go to jail, that the benefit of killing the man was not outweighed by the punishment of going to jail. In class, this was used as an argument against mine, in favor of rationalist behavior. However, I have trouble believing his reasoning for not killing the man. From our very childhood, we are bred to follow certain rules, so much so that the very thought of going against these rules can make us feel sick. Among these rules is the general tenet of “Do not kill another person.” To most people in America, the thought of simply killing another person terrifies us. We consider it wrong, bad, and evil. Why did my classmate stop short of killing him? I do not believe it was because he didn’t want to go to jail. I believe it was truly because the thought of killing a person struck him as “wrong.” I believe that, later, sober, he had trouble understanding why he didn’t kill the guy, and reached the conclusion that he did so to avoid going to jail. He constructed the rational reason to give him some way of understanding why he didn’t kill the man.

But let’s not use solely crime. Why do you love? Do you love somebody because you have decided that the act of loving them is worth the time? Or do you love them just because you like to, and loving them makes you feel good? Why do you decide to eat Cheetos instead of an apple? You like the taste better. It makes you feel good. A good majority of human action is dictated by how we feel, how we want to feel, or what we want at the time.

I have not yet learned enough about Order to write about it here. I will update this when I do.

Some random sociological ideas

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 04:05:14 GMT

Please understand that some the ideas in this post may clash. This is because they are most likely either understood incorrectly by me, or they are parts of opposing theories. I felt like posting something, and so I put this stuff up. Enjoy :D

A general concept in sociology is that it is not the place of the sociologist to question whether or not a God exists. This is not to say all sociologists are agnostic. It simply means that, in the field of sociology, whether a God(s) exist is not what is under scrutiny. Sociology tends to be more interested in the worship of God(s), because independent of whether God(s) exist, it is the worship thereof that is manufactured by humans, and acted upon by them. So, it is the act of worship that matters. Emile Durkheim, a French sociologist, came across the following theory of religion during his studies:

"Religion is a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden." He goes on to explain that religion is the act of worshipping the sacred, as opposed to the profane. Not profane meaning "insulting." Profane meaning "mundane." Symbols, for example, such as the cross, a totem, a flag.

Religion, following this definition, is not constrained to its usual boundaries. Aside from Christianity, Judaism, Sikhism, and all other forms of classical religion, this new Religion can be applied to a great majority of other institutions, among the most notable of which is Patriotism.

Patriotism is, as far as I can understand, a religion. We will use America as our example. People in America today are not very religious. Many are members of organized religions, but we put more faith in science. We go to a scientific medical doctor when sick, not to a priest. Not usually, anyway. We have our sacred texts, our Constitution and Declaration of Independence. We have our holy symbols: the eagle, the Stars and Stripes. We have our creed, the Pledge of Allegiance. We have our Holy Virtues: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, and we have our mythical tales of those trailblazers who have come before us: George's Apple Tree, for example. Patriotism is very much a religion. American Patriotism is the worship of the sacred ideals of Liberty and Democracy. Patriotism is a religion, as defined by Durkheim.

But using sociology's definition, it can quite easily be said that science itself is a religion. We have our ancient "prophets" and our sacred texts: the scientists that have come before us and their works, respectively. We have our symbols: the atom, the light bulb. We have the creed of the Scientific Process. We hold up logic and reasoning to be sacred Virtues. We have our stories of old: Newtown and his Apple, Franklin and his kite. Science is the worship of the sacred Truth and Logic. Science is also a religion, as defined by Durkheim.

I will admit that I have not read all of Durkheim, so I may be wrong in this following conclusion. Of what I have read, however, I am certain of one thing:

Science, though fitting the description of religion, is ultimately a better sort of "religion" than any other.

How do I come to this conclusion? I have put up evidence of religion, and Science has had qualities that fit the categories. However, what sets science apart from the rest is what it means to be scientific. To follow science actively it to purposefully be trying to prove science wrong.

Self-defeating though it may seem, every attempt to disprove a scientific principle does nothing else but further the institution of Science itself. That is precisely what science does. Every scientific experiment done by us in school was not to directly prove a theory correct. They were attempts to prove those theories to be wrong. They failed, and the theories still hold.

Most religion, however, is not comprised of an active search for the ultimate Theory-Destroyer. Religion is sycophantic, and I apologize for any insulting connotations that may hold. It is not the goal of an adherent to a religion to disprove it. It is the goal of an adherent to follow that way of belief generally with little question and under the impression that the higher authority, whatever it may be, is simply correct. For example, although I hesitate to use Christianity due to the sheer amount of flak it recieves:

Prima: The Bible is the truth.

Secunda: How?

Prima: God says it is.

Secunda: How is he correct?

Prima: The Bible says he is.

Secunda: How is the Bible correct?

Prima: The Bible is the Truth.

To compare:

Prima: Our nation is the right kind of nation.

Secunda: How do you know?

Prima: The Constitution says it is.

Secunda: How is the Constitution correct?

Prima: Our nation says it is.

Secunda: How is the nation correct?

Prima: Our nation is the right kind of nation.

Repeat ad infinitum.

I've lost my train of thought regarding that. On to other things:

It has occurred to me as of late the sheer level of alienation that has plagued our culture over the last decade. An ever-increasing amount of it, actually. Why do i believe this to be occurring? To simply it into a word: The internet. The single most connecting institution in the history of mankind is the cause of the increasing loneliness we all feel. This may seem contradictory, and indeed I have been confused by it for quite some time. To be short, I believe that we are now sharing far too much about far too little with far too many people.

"I swear I saw a tiny spider run across my bed, but the pattern is so intricate that I can't find the little guy to take him outside... G ..."

"I am sitting at a bus stop on turner Rd near outside the cemetrey. alone. how fun."

"Its about 50 degrees outside. Holy shit"

"My mother just left me outside. But then she opened the door and let me in. This is incredible...the this that happens to me. LOL : )"

"Pool league at my mom and dads.. I get my table tonite Yee!"

I will summarize my thoughts about those following quotes, which by the way, are actual tweets from Twitter.com: "Nobody cares."

You know what the sad thing is?

People actually do. I feel that people in our society have become far too entrenched in the minutiae of their lives, too obsessed with things on a micro scale to turn their eyes skyward. We care not about how someone feels, what their dreams are, their fears, their goals. We care about whether they managed to get outside to the back porch and gulp down some beers. We care whether they wore the improper outfit to school and how embarassed they were. We are all shared out. We freely invite people into the literally minute-by-minute schedule of our day, yet when someone shows concern, or affection, we label them as "weird" or a "stalker." The time of an internet stalker has long since come to an end. The meaningless information is put out there as an open invitation to intrude into lives. And what happens when we run out of the trivial things?

Silence.

Nobody talks. Not anymore. Not about things that matter. There have been times where, only for a day (for I saddeningly lack the will go for much longer), I have become disconnected. I turned my phone off, clicked off my WiFi, ensured the TV and radio were off, and for a day, I lived. I read, I wrote, I thought, I played with my dog, I went outside, I talked to people. It's liberating, to be free. To, in the eyes of electricity and the modern world, not exist.

In sociology, there is something called dramaturgy. In short, dramaturgy proposes the idea, much like Shakespeare's, that "all the world's a stage, the men and women merely players." In Dramaturgy, there are two levels of action:

Front Stage: This is the behavior we exhibit when in the company of others, real or implied. This is who we are while in society, influenced by and influencing others.

Back stage: This is who we are when we believe ourselves to be alone. This represents our inner personality.

There is thought, among the Dramaturgists, that the level of Back Stage action taking place is shrinking dramatically. We are very rarely alone anymore. We share everything. With this loss of Back Stage action comes the loss of part of our inner personality, part of what makes a human a human.

Fuck, lost my train of thought. May well come back and edit this. Feel free to comment.

Writer's Block: What Makes You Feel Sexy?

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 21:49:42 GMT

What makes you feel sexy?

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Nothing makes me feel sexier than walking about in my hoopskirt, Mary Janes, pearl necklace, and white apron as I cook dinner from 8 am to 4:47 pm for my husband when he returns from work. Then, as he raises his hand to strike me across the face, I know that he loves me, and later that night, as I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else as he rams himself into me, I feel truly, truly sexy.

STEPH DID IT

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 02:33:05 GMT

So I will too. Schedule follows.

Monday: SO 201 A – Sociological Theory – CAS1 107 – 10:00 to 10:50
PS 101 HD – Intro to Psych. Honors – Tator 318 – 1:00 to 1:50

Tuesday: ARB 102 – Elementary Arabic II – CAS3 303 – 11:00 – 12:15
EN 275 B – Literature of the Modern South – Echlin 214 – 2:00 to 3:15
SO 230 A – Government and Business – CAS1 107 – 6:00 to 9:10

Wednesday: SO 201 A – Sociological Theory – CAS1 107 – 10:00 to 10:50
PS 101 HD – Intro to Psych. Honors – Tator 318 – 1:00 to 1:50

Thursday: ARB 102 – Elementary Arabic II – CAS3 303 – 11:00 – 12:15
EN 275 B – Literature of the Modern South – Echlin 214 – 2:00 to 3:15

Friday: SO 201 A – Sociological Theory – CAS1 107 – 10:00 to 10:50
PS 101 HD – Intro to Psych. Honors – Tator 318 – 1:00 to 1:50

Good movie

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 22:17:35 GMT

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AiCw8V_pF9o&feature=PlayList&p=EF33C9FD3FC2C105&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=18

My strong affection for Gerard Butler notwithstanding, I really, really liked this short film. It's only fifteen minutes long. See if you like it too.

P.S.: I advise you to refrain from reading the comments until you've watched the movie. Some of then ruin the ending.

My life is quite blessed in relation to many others

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 02:11:29 GMT

Regardless, I'm going to bitch.

I have just received word that my mother intends to restrict me to a limit of twenty-five dollars per 14 days while I'm at college, as a result of my extreme lack of money. I understand her reasoning for this that, since I am at a financial impasse, she wishes to help me better manage whatever money I have. However, I am still rather upset at this, because this is merely one of the many different forms of recompense I am being forced to make as a result of working for College Pro. So far, I've not received my last paycheck and I have approximately one hundred dollars in the bank. I cannot truly afford to do much of anything, and so I stay home. I cannot afford textbooks, and so my parents are paying for them, something I absolutely cannot stand because it completely tears away from my desire to separate myself from parental support as much as I reasonably can. In exchange for this purchase, I have become a house slave. This is to say, I have a large quantity of housework to do for the next four weeks that itself can quite easily fill up several hours of any given day. On top of that, I am obligated to fulfill my parents' wishes until school begins, all due to my inability to pay for my textbooks.

Also thanks to my job, I need new clothing, since a majority of my out articles of clothing have been ruined by the various paints with which they've been stained. I cannot afford this clothing. And so, I will most likely have to beg my parents for more money, or simply attend college this fall with precious little to wear. I highly doubt I will be receiving my paycheck anytime soon, since my boss is, and was, an unreliable waste of flesh and bone.

Now, all of this is rather reasonable, as I understand, and ultimately I imagine it is not as big an obstacle or irritation as I am making it out to be. However, what bugs me the most about it is my belief that my lack of money may not my fault. I applied to well over twenty places to work. I did that relatively early compared to my classmates and to a wide range of places. I went to interviews, all of which went well according to the people who interviewed me, but I got stuck with CollegePro. And CollegePro absolutely destroyed my financial health. 50 dollars to gas every week, 50 dollars to food and miscellanea, mainly cat paraphernalia. All of this, out of a paycheck that was generally around 50 to 70 dollars, put me in the red. I have less money than I started out with this summer, and I was employed. The unreliable hours, terrible and untrustworthy boss, and minimum wage pay worked together to ensure that my wallet received a most brutal assfucking. If it is not my fault that I wound up at CollegePro, I am paying for a crime I did not commit. This bothers me. If it is my fault, then I failed. I failed miserably.

As seems to be the case for quite some time now, my generally poor luck (though even now I hesitate to accept the possibility that all of this isn't somehow my fault) resulted in me getting shafted. I am very much looking forward to the day when I needn't tell myself all will get better and believe that it's most likely just a lie.

Final Thought: Now that I think about it, I'd very much love to blame God. But God has no part in this, for as far as I'm concerned, God's existence is irrelevant to my own. I'd like to blame it on probability, but probability is an impartial judge and I find it hard to believe that my employment was just a matter of luck. That, of course, leaves only myself to blame, since it can be no one else's fault that I worked for CollegePro. In this case, I failed.

P.S.: Upon reviewing this, I must apologize. I'm a damn whiny bitch.

Writer's Block: My Family's Future

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 01:23:11 GMT

What do you most want for your family’s future?

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I want them to know I love them, with all of my heart. There's nothing more I want for my family.

This summer just sucks

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 19:34:33 GMT

I've just gotten boned by everything this summer. It's terrible. I don't make enough money at my job to afford to drive to it. I won't have a car in two weeks, so I can't get another job because I won't be able to get to it and I don't know how I'm going to keep up my current shitty job. The most I've made at my job in a week this summer as been around 150 dollars. Forty of that goes to gas. Fifty of that goes to food, despite the fact I buy everything as a store brand. I have fifty dollars in my bank account. I need money to buy textbooks for the coming two semesters, and spending money for Ireland, and it's just not going to happen. All I've done this summer is get fucked. I've applied to literally well over twenty places, if not thirty, and not a single one of them aside from CollegePro has come through. I just applied to four more opportunities ten minutes ago on Craigslist. I fucking hate this, it's ridiculous. I hate my job. Anytime anyone asks me about CollegePro, I will tell them to never work for it nor employ them. It's absolute bullshit. Half of my damn paycheck goes to gas so I can drive to the job sites that are forty god damn minutes away. We get no managerial support, not enough supplies or even the right supplies for the job. I can't wait until I can quit and tell my manager all of this. I've been looking everywhere I can think of for more money or jobs, and there's just nothing.

If anything has made me lose faith in the past ten years of my life, it has been this summer. It's fucking terrible.

NOTE: I don't want to have anyone comment on this telling me how much their life sucks in comparison. At this point, I don't really care. I'm going to bitch and moan for a while, then get my balls back, and do something about this nonsense.

The Story of a Priest

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 02:40:52 GMT

I can't work on it presently, since my laptop is fucked up, but I found what I had so far. I shall put it here. It's not complete, but it's decently long for a journal entry.

“Almighty God, who by our baptism into the death and resurrection of thy Son Jesus Christ dost turn us from the old life of sin: Grant that we, being reborn to new life in him, may live in righteousness and holiness all our days; through the same thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.”

Water dripped slowly down the side of the metal cup in the hands of Father Michael Riordan. A baby, a young girl, squirmed in the arms of her parents, her head held gently over a basin. Her baptismal dress was a bright write and slightly wrinkled. She was a fidgety one. A small crowd gathered around the baby and holy man, full of close family and friends, godparents, and distant relatives. Father Riordan had always enjoyed how rituals brought people closer together. Despite their opinions, their humanity, they found peace in the Lord. He took a brief moment to cast his glance across the faces of the people. They didn’t notice. They were focused on the little girl, Rachel Weylan, only a few weeks old, and already showing signs of her father’s smile. All of their troubles, the tribulations of their daily lives, had gone away. And all it took was the sight of a baby girl held above a basin, and the belief that what was about to be done would be worth it in the end. Water poured forth from the cup onto Rachel’s head. The infant frowned in response.

“Rachel Elizabeth Weylan, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go forth, and bring with you the light of the Lord, our God.”

There was light applause, and as usual the edges of Father Riordan’s emerald eyes crinkled in a humble smile. His hands folded in front of him, resting against the white alb he had draped over his usual cassock. He was a young priest of 29 who, due to the persistent illness of his congregation’s true priest, often led services and ceremonies. Gray hadn’t yet begun to creep into his auburn hair. His hands were soft, his voice quiet enough to be drowned out from time to time by the loud, echoing flights of the birds that had taken up residence in the steeple. Matthewl Weylan, the baby’s father, had already gone back into the throngs of his family. His cousins patted his shoulder, his sister smiling. Rachel’s mother, Sharon, remained at the basin, holding the baby girl in her arms. Rachel had wrapped her fingers tightly around a button on her mother’s blouse, intrigued by the way the sunlight from the stained glass windows bounced off it. Sharon gazed down at her child, brimming with a mother’s love. She looked up and fixed her eyes on Father Riordan. There was, for a moment, a sadness, a guilt within them.

She came to confession a week before the birth of her child. She was crying then. Father Riordan had exited the bathroom to find her standing at the entrance. Tears lined her cheeks, her eyes were puffy, and the car keys she held in her slender hand were shaking, sending a jingle throughout the silent church. Sharon’s belly bulged beneath her shirt, little Rachel within. She leaned against a pillar for support, the waning rays of dusk falling just above her head. Father Riordan nearly tripped over his own cassock to get to her.

“Mrs. Weylan, wha-“

She began to sob, lightly, quietly. “Do you think God will forgive me?”

She slid gently to the ground and Father Riodan knelt beside her. Mrs. Weylan was a deeply religious woman. Whatever it was she had done, she must have felt it was grievous.

“Come with me, please.”

He extended his hand and helped her to her feet. Michael led her to the nearest seat and knelt in front of her. She wouldn’t release his hand, gripping it tightly and kneading it. Sarah tried to form words, but sobs would interrupt her speech. Father Riordan understood. He locked eyes with her, trying to make his appear as kind and soft as possible.

“Sarah, we’re alone here. By God’s will, I can’t speak a word of what goes on here to anyone else. It’s alright, Sarah, it’s alright. What is it?”

And so she told him. She told Michael everything. She talked to him about Matthew, Rachel, her business trip nine months earlier, and the man she had met there. His name was Nick and he was young, charming. He had a smile, so bright and so cheerful, and Matthew had been so withdrawn. He was like a younger version of her husband, full of life and hope and still bearing the dreams that youth allowed him to have. She told the priest about the candles and the flowers, the childish things she loved so much. Sarah talked about the bed and her age-tarnished wedding ring. She told Michael which she had chosen that night.

Father Riordan consoled her. He helped her to come to terms with what she had done and what she had failed to do. Yet he could do nothing further. He offered her prayers to recite, steps to take, yet that was where his influence ended. Sarah had hugged him that night, after her crying had ended. It was a strange embrace, considering Michael had understandable fallen out of the habit. She stayed in the church a while longer, staring into space as Father Riordan went about his usual chores. He had gone into a room behind the altar for a moment and when he emerged, she was gone, the one of the church doors ajar. That was where Father Riordan’s memory of her visit ended.

When Father Riordan caught her gaze at the baptism, he understood. Without words, only a nod of the head, he assured her that the secret was still their own. What he couldn’t tell her, however, was just how many secrets he held. Michael’s gaze swept over the baptism crowd, recognizing faces and the stories that hid behind them. Adultery, gambling, drug use, assault, and all manner of sin. He held a great many more secrets locked away, confessions by other members of the congregation. Father Riordan was not a “fire and brimstone” type. He was a forgiving man with an open heart, but the care in his soul had become burdened by the trespasses of others. The people themselves had done nothing to him. In truth, his real problem stemmed from his inability to do anything about their troubles. Michael was bound by rules and laws by a power far greater than he, and it was due to these mandates that he could only console, advise, and hold secrets. Lately, he had begun to face doubts.

What good was it to just advise? His influence ended there, and so he was powerless to stop his confessors from committing those sins again. Had Sarah stayed truthful to her husband after her confession? Maybe, but the look in her eyes filled Michael with guilt. Had any of those who came to him held true to virtue? Something within Father Riordan kept him from believing it to be true. When he was young, he had admired priests for their faith, for their devotion to a cause they would never fully understand. That was why he became a priest, to gain that faith for himself, and to help others in their path towards God. This doubt, this pessimism, did it mean he had failed?

As the crowd made their way out of the church, back to their cars and to their lives, Father Riordan assured himself that this was merely a phase. Every man of the cloth must have felt this way once, had some tussle with faith. He closed the doors to his church, leaving them unlocked as usual. In the back rooms of the church, Michael took off his alb, placing it gently on a hanger. He wore his traditional black cassock. Clerical suits felt too casual for him. Cassocks had an air of history to them, and helped to remind him of his own status. The altar servers hadn’t come in today, and he had led the congregation without them. He remembered the line for the reception of the Eucharist being long for a Tuesday Mass. He recalled musing about it as he distributed the body of Christ. All of these people, lined up in a row, waiting and shuffling forward to him for their salvation. He held the key.

Mr. Diaz reached the front of the line, the quick glance he had shot the Father. Mr. Diaz’s son was gay. He had confessed to the Father a few days prior his confusion, his fear, his anger. He was afraid that his daughter might turn out the same, and that he had stopped speaking to his son, stopped loving him and feared that God had done the same. He needed to be reassured that God never stopped loving anyone, and nor should he. There was Ms. Dobson, still mourning her fiance’s death, and how she couldn’t understand why God would do that to her. She felt nothing in this place of God. Michael could see it in her eyes. She was going through the motions, hoping that a God she hardly believed in would save her. Mrs. Greene was been in the line, the stench of alcohol still on her breath. Hank Wheeler was there, with the 18-year old mother of his child. The congregation members believed her to be his niece, their child to be his grandson. Father Riordan expected to say Frank Gibson come before him. He then remembered why Frank wouldn’t show. Dead people don’t attend Mass. His platoon had gone into Iraq and in the course of duty, Frank had come upon a mother and her child. The mother jumped in fright. Frank reacted too quickly and with a pistol, claimed their lives. That same pistol would later take his. Michael had buried him three weeks earlier.

And yet, the living ones still showed up, still stood in the light that came through the saints in the windows, and received their blessings. They sang the hymns, recited the prayers, and ate of the body of Christ. Michael would have loved to believe that their piety extended beyond the church walls, but he couldn’t accept that. He wondered if they knew that faith took more than an hour a week and a hurried recitation of bad deeds through a mesh screen. He was curious if they knew that looking for forgiveness “just in case” wasn’t the way it should be done. But he would smile and nod and assure himself that these people were here for God, not for themselves. Yes, they were here for God. They would sit there, in their heartache and pain, misery and hate, look towards Him and ask for absolution. Hope. Michael hopes they were fortunate enough to find it.

‘Mass has ended. Go in peace.”

The final “Amen” was uttered in unison, and Father Riordan and his altar servers proceeded out of the church to the recessional hymn. Some of the parishioners joined in the hymn. Most stared forward or cast furtive glances at Michael as he passed. Amy Rhodes, internet prostitute. Richard Hughes, embezzler. What did it mean, that he saw sins instead of people? George White, adulterer. Cheryl Freeman, adulteress. Connection? Possibly. Most of them came to confession regularly, ready to purge themselves of sins they’d tried to exterminate many times before. They knelt before the image of Jesus and recited their prayers that hardly made it beyond their own lips. They would breathe, deeply and slowly, and stand up. Then, feeling refreshed, they would go towards the rest of their lives. He had seen in countless times, and all too frequently heard the same voices recite the same transgressions. They didn’t seem to try and truly better themselves? Why should he help them on their circular path of self-improvement?

Father Riordan waited outside for his congregation. He always bade them farewell at the end of Mass. It was a more personable thing to do. When the parishioners made it out of the church, there was conversation and chatter, from talk of the previous night’s meal to parties and get-togethers for the coming week. Father Riordan tried his best to remind himself that these people were here for absolution, but he remembered their sins with every step they took. These people weren’t here for salvation. They were here for a weekly dose of a holy anesthetic to numb their self-inflicted wounds.

“Father?”

A feminine voice brought Michael out of his thoughts. It belonged to Amelia Langston, a woman in her mid-thirties, single mother of one. She was dressed in her Sunday best, a blue blouse and black pants, a silver cross hung around her neck on a thin chain. She wore her brown hair short, just below her chin.

"Mrs. Langston, how are you? Where's Amy?"

"Oh, she's at home. Chicken pox."

"Oh."

"She's thirteen and she's just getting them. Can you believe it? Itchy all over."

"Give her my best?"

"I will. Father, there's something I wanted to ask you."

"What is it?"

Mrs. Langston looked around at the congregation. Most had gone home, but some of the older members remained, chatting idly with one another. She leaned in closer towards Michael, speaking in a lower voice.

"Can I talk to you inside?"

"Uh, sure, sure."

Michael led her into the church. He excused himself for a moment, to remove the liturgical vestments. When he rejoined Amelia, he was donned in his usual cassock, much more comfortable. The church was brightly light, the sun streaming down through Jesus' glass halo in a window far above the altar. A man was praying near a set of tithing candles, though he seemed to hardly be paying attention to the rest of the world. Mrs. Langston waited patiently near a statue of Joseph, slight slouch to her frame. She was toying with her necklace, absentmindedly running her fingers along it. At the sight of Michael she straightened her posture and brought her hands down in front of her.

"Welcome back."

Michael smiled, chuckling lightly.

"Good to be back. Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

The two of them began a slow walk around the rows of wooden benches. Every now and then, Michael would stop to straighten out a stack of Bibles, or pick up a stray missalette.

"Well, Father. I have a question."

"Alright."

"As you know, since the bast-...oh, sorry Father."

"It's okay."

"Since Peter and I split, it's just been Amy and I in the house."

"You're doing fine, financially?"

"Oh yeah, he still sends the checks." She laughed slightly.

"Good, good."

"But it's just been Amy and I in the house and, well..."

"Well?"

"I met someone. His name is Greg and he's such a nice person. He's sweet, and charming, and handsome and we've been seeing each other for a year and a half now-"

"Congratulations! I didn't know."

"We've been trying to keep it secret, for Amy's sake. We don't want her to be made fun of for having a dating mom."

"Understandable."

"Father, Greg and I have decided that it's time to move on."

Michael was confused. He stopped his walk for a moment, perplexed.

"I thought you said he was sweet and charming?"

Amelia smiled. "No, Father, what I mean is..."

She withdrew her left hand from her pocket, looked at it for a moment, then showed it to Father Riordan. On her ring finger was a golden band, a small yet bright diamon in its center.

"We're getting married."

Michael's face dropped. Mrs. Langston was a divorcee. He couldn't wed her.

"Amelia, I'm sorry, but I can't marry you and Greg in this church."

"I know, Father, I know. It's fine. We're having a civil ceremony. But I would like you to be there."

"Oh. Well, I'd be honored."

(All I have so far. THere's more to this scene.)

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 13:10:36 GMT

I'm going to go cry now.

Yesterday

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 14:19:18 GMT

Yesterday I got a new haircut. It is very short and I shaved most of my beard. I look sexy.

Yesterday I interviewed a famous Slam Poet and began my first article for the campus newspaper.

Yesterday I grew balls and told the man on whom I've had a huge, passionate crush on that I was gay and that I liked him. He is straight. He said "Okay" and I now know he doesn't hate me.

Yesterday I told the guy I've been trying to date that we should meet for lunch on Monday. He said yes, and that he was excited to see me.

Yesterday I stood my ground.

How the hell is today going to compare?

My view on Gay God

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 01:13:01 GMT

Okay, if you don't know about Gay God, I'm not talking about a homosexual deity. I'm talking about a blubbering vagina on youtube. Please, go on youtube and watch ten seconds of this terrible creature on youtube. You will cry. I almost did.

I'll give you the links to some. You don't even have to know what they're about. Just listen to him.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEKCM3EgBAI&feature=channel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elS5jmMAnLE&feature=channel ( He deserves every death threat)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8COXpKCLfI8&feature=channel

Gay God is what gives gay people a bad name. It is because of people like him that the word "gay" has become synonymous with "stupid", "bad", "of poor quality", and "effeminate." I cannot begin to explain to you the extent of this kid's lack of depth. He's got to be shallower than a dried-up baby pool. I absolutely hate this kid, and I'm seriously desiring to call him up on his phone number he so wisely put up on youtube. He is an embarassment to me.

People like him should be forcibly reeducated.I don't care if it's mean or it contradicts values I spout otherwise, but self-important douchebags like Gay God deserve nothing more than to be violently ripped down from the pedestal of martyrdom upon which they place themselves. According to my research, he frequently labels anyone who insults or disagrees with him as homophobic. That's absolute bullshit. They're not disagreeing because he's gay. They're disagreeing because he's an unintelligent little shit. Good for him on hating Prop 8, but that's just about the only thing I approve of when it comes to Gay God. One one video, he actually boasts the fact that he essentially masturbates frequently. I'm no slut, any of my friends can attest to this, but goddamn kid, are you that forlorn?

I absolutely detest nearly everything about this kid. I hate his voice, I had the way he looks, I hate his ideals, I hate the way he presents himself, and I hate his unwarranted self-importance. His goddamn name is Gay God. And don't give me this "It's just a name" nonsense. Names and words are powerful tools used in expressing yourself. This kid is an arrogant piece of crap who is doing nothing more than furthering the gay stereotype and lessening the amount of masculine gay men in the world, a number that was severely diminished to begin with.

I want to know the worst thing this kid has dealt with in his life. He says in one of his videos that he has recieved at least 17 death threats via messaging systems (i.e. e-mail, myspace mail, youtube messages, etc). How terrifying can those be? People threaten each other with death and pulverizations frequently over the internet, and he's one of the few who cries out of his vagina because of it. Oh, I believe in his "Coming Out" video, he said that his mother took away his internet for a week when he came out. My boyfriend's mother destroyed our relationship by putting her son under house arrest and having him watched when he went to and from school. Cry me a river, Gay God.

I'm not a martyr. I've lived an easy life and my parents are fine with me being gay. This does not invalidate my opinions on Gay God. He's a presumptuous little shitbag.

I've got me some thoughts

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 06:02:17 GMT

And they're not negative. ^_^

I would very much like to be a dad. I would adopt, obviously, but I would greatly prefer a daughter. I guess that's sexist of me, but I really want a daughter. I think I would make a good dad. Not great, but good. I think about it a lot, what it would like to have a kid. It would be hard as hell, but really, i think it would be worth it. I would love her so much. What do you guys think? Do you think I'd make a good dad?

Disney songs are surprisingly catchy.

I need to find a skateboard for Halloween. I don't feel like explaining it, so I'll just say it's an integral part of my costume.

I am extremely tired right now. ^_^

I've decided that all of my faults and flaws I highlighted in every other journal might not be as major as I once thought. I have no intention of claiming perfection on my part, but I believe there I may have more good points than bad.

I'm so tired. lol

I love Andrea. I love Justin. I love John, Chris, Kyle, Jess, Sarah R., Suzan, Billy, Rob, Mike, Jenna, Jamie H, Jamie K., Erica, Kelly and Ben. I love everyone.

I'm a little lonely in the boyfriend department. QU seems to be lacking in my type of man.

OH MY GOD. I watch baseball now, but not for the sport itself. The Tampa Bay Rays have some DAMN fine men. Matt Garza and James Shields, my heart goes out to you.

----------------
Now playing: Cheryl Freeman, LaChanze, Lillias White, Susan Egan & Vaneese Thomas - I Won't Say (I'm In Love)
http://foxytunes.com/artist/cheryl+freeman%2c+lachanze%2c+lillias+white%2c+susan+egan+%26+vaneese+thomas/track/i+wont+say+(im+in+love)

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 15:41:33 GMT

Dude.

I just read over my past LJ entries.

Christ, I was a blubbering fucking vagina. I hate vaginas.

Screw that shit. I'm going to have me some fun. lol

More poetry which may be lacking in terms of quality.

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 16:31:52 GMT

I stood there, barefoot, on the sand
with an empty mouth and open hand
It was hot, it was lonesome, dry, and gray.
I waited there to be shown the way.

No one came. I never thought they would.
I closed my hand and set out on foot.
I would not wait, I would not be still.
The vulture's cries were sad, and shrill.

With every step, the desert faded.
Through sheer resolve, my end, abated.
Though I was alone, there was no pain.
I sweat, but the smile did not wane.

When I was done, I Eden.
For the first time, I had truly eaten.
I saw the Lord, and he said to me
That in my strength, i was greater than He.

I'd done what others hardly dared.
I led myself, a trait most rare.
I needed no leader, nor did I desire
to be led to rapture by a priest-for-hire.

------------
No particular feelings about this. just felt like writing.

Beauty

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 03:24:12 GMT

I'm leaving this open for all to see.

At age 18, I found out that beauty existed. I have often been told that beauty exists in everything, flowers, streams, even a dirty hobo. I found all of this to be completely ridiculous. Physical beauty is nothing more than a temporary state. I found that absolute beauty does not exist in some object that can simply be viewed whenever one chances upon the feeling. Beauty is the raw and passionate exhibition of emotion, the goosebumps, the breathlessness, the wonder. It cannot be placed into words, though that alone shall not be enough to stop me. I have seen beauty, I have seen the hearts and souls of men and women poured out for the world to see, and have marveled at both their elegance and courage. I have seen dancers bear their souls, become lost in the music, and become indistinguishable from it. I have seen them dance and float and witnessed all others turn to dirt, soil, and grime at their feet. I have heard violin scream and timpani rage with the souls infused in them by their players. I have heard the earth quake and tremble beneath the intensity of spirit that flows so gracefully along its jagged surface. My soul was struck, my very core was illuminated, and I was humbled. I was below emotion, a creature who by the very nature of its race can never rise above the elegance of jealousy, of lust, of love, of passion, of mercy, and of the demonstration of what can only be considered the purest thing to ever exist: absolute and unbridled emotion. There is an honor in being a dancer, in being a musician, that simply places the performance on a level unreachable by anything else. To hear the soul, to watch the ministrations and the expressions of desires, of wants, and of true beauty placed upon a stage and open for scrutiny, it is for lack of any better word, godlike. There are no people upon a stage; there is no individual. There is only the soul, and the conduit through which mere and filthy mortals could be so blessed by God to witness it. I cannot continue. Words are not enough.

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 04:10:02 GMT

I've not yet felt the light of day
I have not felt the night
I have not watched the dolphins swim
Or seen the birds take flight.

I was there when nothing was
I'll be there for the end
But I have not felt the joy of life
Or the sadness I cand mend

I was there when the candles were blown out
I was there when the babe was born
I was there when the clock struck twelve
and when all seemed forlorn

The mountains were carved under my care
I can end life at a whim
I've healed wounds, and cured the sick
But I cannot sing, nor dance, nor swim.

It is indeed a lonely thing
to be the father, the mother
But I've seen them cry, and laugh, and grin
And I do not long for any other