Flash Fiction: The Final

A thickness clung to the air; dampening the windows and making the couples steady breaths visible.  The room had a chill to it, forcing the two into a tight embrace.  They lay on a simple twin bed, crammed against the unadorned white walls, in their pathetically small apartment. A single overstuffed gray suitcase was pushed up against the wall next to the door.

Izi awoke first, blinking away her drowsiness, and shivering as she took in the cold air. An urge to unplug the clock on the opposite side of the bed was overwhelming; She just wanted to go back to bed. But as soon as her bare feet hit the floor Whit’s eyes fluttered open. Still only semi-conscious, he rolled to his other side, coming face to face with that unflippable hourglass.  Sadness overcame the joy he had felt at falling asleep in Izi’s arms the previous night. Maintaining composure, Whit twisted his body once more; yet found himself greeted by the stare of those pitiful white walls.

Hiding her head between her arms, Izi found herself weeping upon bitter linoleum floor of the bathroom. How selfish of me, she thought over and over, praying her sobs wouldn’t escape the thin walls. There it was though, another timepiece on the counter, ticking away her happiness.

Then she had a strange epiphany on that bathroom floor. She pulled herself up by the towel rack and hurried back to the bedroom. The bed was empty, sheets scattered about the room, and Whit was nowhere in sight. She searched frantically about the modest apartment, wishing to share her new resolution, the cure to their coming pain. Then it dawned on her, it was March 9, and she had lost an hour.

You are Here

Here we go again, it’s mass delusion. I find myself running in incessant circles. The sole of my shoes slip on this featureless surface.  A clear, sweet liquid floods the bottle, the grating horrors of truth tormenting my ignorance. The glass shatters, falling from its pedestal. Forward, anywhere but this place, away from this queer twilight zone. Footfalls are treacherous; I don’t belong here. Yet eventually I find purchase. Forward movement and gathering speed. The future is my savior; consciousness is my companion.  Somewhere along the way I falter, and find myself falling to the ground, cradled in earths embrace. Resting my head on a clump of moss, I attempt to quell my rapid breaths. A hand extends towards me from the canopy above. My feet are beneath me, though I can’t see them.  Numbness begins to overcome them, a thick creeping weight, heavier than anything that’s burdened them before. A midnight sky enveloped me, a black sheet devoid of any worldly comfort. My right hand began to burn” You are here”.  A hinge squeaked shut, or open, I couldn’t tell, they both sound so alike.  The smell of stagnant water stung my nose. The darkness began to choke me. It’s long fingers curled around my ankles, locking me into place, preventing any forward motion. My hand burned for a second time “You are here”.  I gazed at the fiery characters burnt a crossed my palm. The script was plain yet powerful. The deep recesses of the water began churning. While the darkness hid the water’s actions from me I could still hear its sinister plotting.  Refusing to be extinguished, I kicked off the now twig like claws, rushed towards the sound and dove through. Voices buzzed in my ears; yet I marched on. I kept my head down, and forged my way, keeping my eyes locked on that hopeful message, “You are Here.”

Break Through

Here we go again, it’s mass delusion. Running in incessant circles. The sole of my shoes slip on the featureless surface.  Truth floods the bottle, replacing ignorance with terror. The glass shatters, falling from its pedestal. Forward, anywhere but this place, away from this twilight zone. Footfalls are treacherous; I don’t belong here. Yet there’s grip, traction, I can move forward. Movement is my savior; consciousness is my companion. I falter and fall to the ground, cradled in earths embrace. Resting my head on a clump of moss, I attempt to catch my breath. A hand extends towards me from the canopy above. My feet are beneath me though I can’t see them.  Numbness begins to overcome them, weightlessness. A midnight sky enveloped me; a black sheet devoid of any comfort. My right hand began to burn” You are here”.  A hinge squeaked shut, or open, I couldn’t tell.  The smell of stagnant water came to my noise. The darkness was choking me. Long fingers curled around my ankles, locking me into place. My hand burned for a second time “You are here”.  I gazed at the fiery characters a crossed my palm. The script was plain and beautiful. The water began churning. While the darkness hid the water’s actions from me I could still hear its movement. I refused to be extinguished. Kicking off the now twig like claws, I rushed towards the sound and dove through. Voices buzzed in my ears; I marched on. I keep my head down and pushed on. Limitations were behind me, in the darkness, and everyone knows there’s a light at the end of each tunnel.

Rhetoric Essay for 111

Spring has always been a hectic season for me. It held the feeling of a brooding battle, pain and suffering to come, yet with it, glory! Track began for me as a junior high student. It was the reputation, the rush, racing in what appeared to be endless circles, and the finale on the last hundred meters. Junior High track ended quickly though and before we knew it we were rookies again.

             The tar looked different our freshman year, somehow more menacing.  The veteran runners looked down on us no matter what our times were. We had expected our times to show off our prowess as runners but our status as freshman overshadowed our speed. During practice we took our place at the back of the pack during runs and kept our opinions for the up coming race to ourselves. We recognized this routine kept us from reaching our true potential and we began to push ourselves. Our behavior earned us angry glares from the upper classman as we forged to the front.

This still did not earn the respect of our senior teammates, quite the contrary, their disregard for our abilities only grew. During meets we showed talent but always took second to our elders. Our times didn’t matter as much as we had hoped, it was performance and consistency we lacked by our inexperience. By the time finals arrived we were competent enough to compete but not favored to win.

            Walking up to that striped line at our first conference meet I had only one goal, and I knew my classmate and friend shared this same desire. The nervousness I now know so well welled up inside me, the fear of failing a goal. Then the gun sounded, converting that fear into pure adrenaline. I remember the shock on my teammates face as I flew past him, knowing now that he must have been laughing knowing I couldn’t maintain that speed. He was right. I quickly dropped behind his heels but refused to let him escape me. For fifteen hundred meters I stuck to his side, matching his pace. When the final stretch was in sight, I knew if I didn’t go now I would be forced to endure anther year as his understudy. So I threw my head back, and employed my mom’s advice from the stands to “Use my arms!” It wasn’t a graceful finish but I had finally earned my place on the team.

            Instead of nervousness the following year, I recall an intense excitement to help carry our team. Coming from a small catholic school the freshman track team achievements traveled fast. Now our times did speak for themselves, earning us our place at the front of the pack. We were vital to the team make up but still followed our seniors out of respect. As equals we worked towards a mutual goal, breaking the school’s relay record. And break it we did! The plaque is a testament to the team we had created from weekly rivalry’s, refusing to let the other take our spot.

By our junior year we were no longer just a part of this family, we were its parents. With our regular appearances in the newspaper and fame in the surrounding schools, we attracted a following to our once humble distance team.

Having learned from our predecessors, we saw potential in the freshman runners. Our notable relay team was now composed of two juniors accompanied by a sophomore and freshman. Due to the loss of our upperclassmen, we decided to set a rather unrealistic goal, re-breaking our previous record. Our faith in the under-classmen wasn’t solid yet but they soon proved us wrong, helping to shatter the record multiple times throughout the season. My friend was harsher on their consistency, he being the fastest of us all, while I told them how they couldn’t measure themselves by our previous team. This created an inner competiveness, no one wanting to be the weakest link. We reached a whole new level by not only winning our finals but also advancing past the regional final. Before we knew it our young team had reached the state meet. It no longer mattered where we placed though, we had made it. Through all of our trials we had truly become a team. From running together outside of practice, to just gathering at a teammates house after a meet, we had become a family.

           

            

The Great Gatsby Review: Mainstream Gatsby

My pulse quickened as the projector flashed that alluring green light a crossed the screen, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I, of course, had to ignore the overused opening in which the protagonist looks back on the source of their troubles then tries to rationalize it under the watchful eye of a psychiatrist. A small complaint, one I could ignore especially when story unfolded as beautifully as it did. 

It was a slow rise to disappointment, with scenery as fanciful as anything Fitzgerald’s mind could possibly imagine, and a cast that could carry any half-baked movie to a summer blockbuster, this movie was destined for success. Until the bass dropped, literally.  Tom and Myrtles party was no black and white affair but the sheer insanity that the movie portrayed it to be reminded me of a Van Wilder frat party, not an event hosted by one of society’s upper crust. Pillows burst, filling the room with feather confetti as Dub step blared in the background. 

          My patience was waning but I was no fan of Tom and Myrtles cheap attempts at a “party” anyway. Now Gatsby’s parties would certainly be filled with magic, with Concert Jazz bands filling the queue while the guests gossiped about their generous patron! But Modernization must steal this realization too, what fun is a party flowing to the music of our grandparents when Gatsby would be so much more suave listening to Jay-Z’s twisted idea of the classics, being his music at a slower pace. Then to add to the murder of mystery, have Gatsby announce his name as fireworks erupt all around him.
            Aside from all these atrocities Baz Luhrman spoon feed the audience each bite of symbolism. Instead of interpreting the omnipotent eyes of T.J Eckleburg as a forgotten God, Myrtles face is literally shoved into the window as Wilson proclaims “God sees all” after Nick narrates a similar idea in his account of the events. While it is understandable that it is harder for certain themes to come across in a two hour movie, it is enjoyable to have something for discussion afterwards instead of being told exactly what each minor occurrence means.

Other parts seemed so close to being as wonderful as the novel portrayed but feel short, an example being Gatsby’s tragic end. Jay Gatsby is going for a swim on a crisp autumn morning to unwind after a stressful night induced by the previous incidents. The manically depressed Wilson is seen making his approach at the same time as Daisy reaches for her phone. The suspense builds. The phone rings, the butler turns away to answer and Gatsby rises from the water. The shot goes off and the phone drops revealing a shocked Nick on the other line instead of the expected Daisy. Then as Gatsby falls back towards death he looks forward and sees the green light floating just within reach. For this optimist it is the perfect end, but why not reinforce what is clearly going through his mind by uttering Daisy with his dying breath, making the scene an unbearably overdone way for a love interest to perish.

And yet through all of it I trudged on, feeding off the scenery and plotline in place of my missing popcorn. Once again though my hopes were raised! As Nick recounts his final memories of the tragic events the famous lines float across the screen with the green light as a back drop, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” Utter perfection, these lines refilled my cup and I toasted to the genius that was F. Scott Fitzgerald, but wait I almost forgot that this was all a strange monologue from inside a mental ward. So instead of ending on that solid note from Fitzgerald that even Hollywood couldn’t maim, it returned to Nick as he prints the final page of his novel “Gatsby”, at which point I leaned over to the person next to me and prophesized the clumsy ending. As I had foreshadowed Nick returns soon after to pencil in “The Great” over his title.

            All in all it is safe to say that I was not impressed, giving the work as a whole a 7.5 out of 10. From the misguided attempt to bring the story to a new generation, to the force feed spoonful of symbolism, it was completely hit or miss. The only redeeming factor for myself was the effort that was obviously put into the casting, and how perfectly Leonardo DiCaprio captured the role of The Great Gatsby. Unfortunately I foresee this movie breeding a new crowd of Gatsby enthusiasts who will never truly see the work as it should be, and will accept this mediocre work instead of the true masterpiece it is representing.   But perhaps it was all thanks to my expectations going in, maybe a movie can never truly live up to the true Great Gatsby.

John Keating- Dead Poets Society

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer: that you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

Book Review: The Alchemist

"The Alchemist's" scant 167 pages were filled with awe inspiring imagery, deep themes, and transcendent symbolism. Our young protagonist, Santiago, turns from chasing  possessions, hoping happiness will follow, to realizing that his treasure has been with him all along; figuratively and literally. I never came to know this simple shepherd as Santiago though, names seem to hold little relevance, he is just "the boy" or "the shepherd". His dreams grow along with him, from traversing the ambrosial fields of Andalusia, to the perpetual sands of Egypt.  

I'm not sure I agree that this book is as dramatic as "life changing", refreshing would be more appropriate. The carrying theme of "Personal Legends" isn't anything new, that true happiness cannot be achieved without realizing a personal "goal". "The Alchemist" stresses the journey, not the payoff. The boy attains his personal enlightenment before he even starts digging for treasure. After conversing with the Desert, the Wind, the Sun, and finally the Soul of the World, Santiago knows he can return to Fatima and her oasis, the crystal shop's riches, or the quiet fields of his homeland. But he cannot  leave his journey unfinished, it would leave his life incomplete, so he digs.

Curiously, the setting  means nothing and everything. I couldn't say what time period the Shepherd marches through but it was unimportant. References to rifles and other means of war made it clear that the setting wasn't as archaic as I thought. My western mindset tells me that mention of shepherds and hidden treasure resounds of a time far behind the modern world. Which couples the idea of the modern worlds dormant dreamers. " We, people's hearts, seldom say much about those treasures, because people no longer want to go in search of them. We speak of them only to children." (Paulo 131) Paulo constantly cautions stopping halfway, or denying our destiny. Our fear is our Achilles heel, settling for safety over true happiness. The boys dream beckons from the horizon, his heart drawing him forward, knowing that every step will fill him with self- satisfaction.

This is one of the first books I've read that's major goal is to change something in the life of the reader, not just give them a good story. It was a positive introduction to a more realistic view of adventure. On a 1-10 scale I'd give it a 8.5. I felt inspired by the end of the novel to live my own Personal Legend which indicates that Paulo achieved his goal. And that's what matters, that at the end of the novel something had stirred something inside of me, pushing me to become a better person. Paulo Coelho, you have more than earned yourself another dedicated reader.

Endlessly Black

Worn down claws

beating upon black tar

Muffled applause

just a little, to far

 

Marching through The Valley Of Death

their shadow's endless yards

Razors in my breath

Metal mere scattered shards

 

Yards, infinite yards to go

First...completion

Still...gratification

Always...circles

"I am Here"

I will inhabit a span of time that can never be altered.

In some form, I will live on...

I will be made prevalent.

Enter, Timless Ink

When my friend helped me create this blog today he pointed out that I am quite an oddity, an eighteen year old male in the 21st century who doesn't know the inner workings of social networking. My plan nonetheless, is to give you, the readers of my blog, my opinion on the literature I read. I might possibly go off on tangents from my philosophies to random bullshit in the media. Like I said, I'm learning so if you have any words of advice to get me started it would be much appreciated.