Obsessive Compulsive

This is more of a characterization piece than a story, but it's all I can think of right now. Also, I'm a bit OCD, but this character is not supposed to be like me.


Today I learned in Chemistry that the universe tends to increase in entropy. Eventually, all of existence will fall into total chaos, just gases expanded as much as they possibly can, lingering slightly above absolute zero. This makes my skin crawl.

People say that I'm strange, that I only care about how perfectly placed or tidy something is. Well I say that they can have their hobbies and I can have mine. Of course, the more I think about it, the more I realize that it's less of a hobby and more of an obsession. If there's a loose crumb that falls onto the table, I can't just leave it or wipe it with a napkin. It most go into my mouth or the trash can. Why is this so important to me? Because everything has its place.

The other day, I had to complete a Chemistry project with my school friend. He insisted that we go to his house, even though I warned him against it. He didn't seem to care at all. I knew that I was in for a rough day.

When we arrived at his room, I was in utter shock. It was a wreck. You couldn't even see the floor. There were bread crumbs all over the bed. He said something about getting us some snacks, but as soon as he left I bolted for the front door. I felt I might die if I stayed too long.

Pony Ride

I recently went on a really boring and tedious trail ride, so I tried thinking from a horse's point of view.

Round and round, round and round, every day from dawn till dusk. Same speed, same clippity-clop of the hooves. Why do I do it? So that asshole can make an extra buck off of torturing me.

Why do the kids like it? They sit on my back as they're taken around the pen counter-clockwise again and again. It's like NASCAR, but somehow even duller.

I could've been something or at least DONE something with my life. Race horse, jumping horse, cattle horse, ANY horse. But I'm not even a horse here. Just a slave.

Why am I here? Have I ever done anything wrong? In a past life did I commit some heinous crime and not get punished enough? Did I not do my time? Cause I'm sure doing time here.

Video Games Haven't Failed Me Yet

Me: See? If I drift around the turns, I don't need to slow down.

Instructor: Why do you need to go so fast!?!

Me: So I can finish the test within the time limi...

Instructor: AAAAAA!

Me: Crap. I fell off the bridge. I'll never finish in time now. Where's the retry button?

Instructor: THERE IS NO RETRY BUTTON!!!

Me: Oh. I guess we'll have to wait, then. Where the hell is Lakitu?

And that's how I failed my driver's test.

Memories

I’m in a dinghy with an oar. I need to find land. I’m sure it’s close. I see something in the distance! It’s an island! I paddle as fast as I can, but the oar starts to dissolve. My whole boat is dissolving! I fall into the water. I must get to the island! I try to swim, but my arms are too tired. I’m going under!

I wake up. What a dream! I need to write this down!
“I needed to get to land and there was land and my boat melted…”
Where’s my dream notebook? It’s not next to my bed. I get up and search my drawers.
“I need to write about the boat and land and water…”
It’s not here. I run downstairs and see my mom eating breakfast.

“Mom, have you seen my dream notebook?”
“I think it’s under the magazines in the living room.”

I rush into the living room and search under the magazines. “There was water and a boat…” Here it is! I flip it open to a fresh page and put my pen to the paper. I write down, ‘Water’. “Wait…wasn’t there more?”

A Moment in Edinburgh

This tidbit is based on what I saw on an Edinburgh bus.


The old man takes a swig of the 2-liter bottle of Fanta and passes it to his friend.

"I can't believe it's come to drinking our troubles away..."

Death

I haven't posted a real story up for a while, so I decided I would. I wrote this whilst waiting for a plane.

Death is almost always moments away. If I go into a car, I know that I can end it all if I just open the door and jump out. When I walk along a cliff, it is ridiculously easy to fall off. It would be even simpler to injure myself by catching my arm in a door or falling on a cactus. Life is a danger to me, or rather, I'm a danger to myself. That's why I'm different. That's why I checked into the asylum.

The staff here is nowhere near competent. They don't realize that a stray rope can be used to hang yourself. What if I were to lose control? I'm a creative guy. Give me a glass of water and I'll drown in it. Just keeping me unrestrained around here is a huge mistake. I'm not so concerned about my killing others, though. If they die, that's their problem. If I die, then what can I do? Nothing, and that's what I'm scared of. Death is so easy. Why can't it be harder? Shouldn't there be a stack of paperwork for something like this? No. It's just a one-sided fight of the world against me.

The Idea of a Girlfriend

This story is technically fiction, but the character is me.

I sit on my friend's bed, waiting for him to get back from the bathroom. I survey the room and find that he has four pictures of him hugging girls on his walls. His girlfriends... He's by no means a lady's man, but he's somehow gotten four girlfriends in the past few years. I lie back onto the bed. Why does he have a girlfriend? Why don't I? I'm much more likable than Greg. Girls love me. I... No. This is my fault. I've been avoiding relationships on purpose. I can't handle something like that. I can hardly take care of myself. Do I hate myself...? No. I hate society. For some reason I have to have a friend that's MORE than a friend. Somebody who is potentially a partner in marriage. But not really. I need practice first. It's a sadistic idea. I need to love someone for a period of time, then I'll eventually have to tell them that I don't love them anymore. Then I'll probably have to avoid that person for the rest of my life. Greg enters.

"Greg, why do you have girlfriends?"

"Umm... because I like them as more than friends?"

"No. You would just have them as friends if nobody told you that you needed a girlfriend."

"I guess..."

"So is it just peer pressure? Do you genuinely care about them?"

"I kind of do and kind of don't. I learn to care about them and we get close."

"But... nobody around here is like me at all."

"...... What am I supposed to say? Too bad? Am I supposed to find you a girlfriend? When you find someone that you like, ask them out."

"But... no. I'm... not like you, Greg. I can't just say, 'Do you wanna go see a movie'. I'd feel sleazy taking a girl out to a movie. I'd feel like I'm taking advantage of her. Actually, I feel like having a girlfriend is just two people taking advantage of each other. It's so horrible, and yet I want it so badly. I feel like a creep!"

"You both know what you're doing in a relationship..."

"No. That's not true. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what to say to my parents. I don't know what I should invite her to. I don't know how much I should like the girl. I don't know if I should say 'I love you'. I don't know how to kiss. God damn it, I'm the only guy I know who's never kissed a girl. How would I be able to cope with anything? I'd be a horrible boyfriend and I can't accept rejection. I might as well live life alone..."

"I'm sorry. I... I'm sorry."

Yeah... That was less a story and more a pouring of emotions. At least it's realistic.

Dungeons and Dragons Prologue

Me and my friends at camp are going to start playing Dungeons and Dragons, so I'm making a prologue.

A group of travelers from the village of Dowthorne have come to the religious city of Sethia for their yearly pilgrimage. After praying at the temple, they stay for a night at the local tavern. Before going to bed, an old male dwarf warns the group that their will be an earth-shattering quake on their path home tomorrow. The group of travelers laugh at the idea and tell him that one cannot predict such a thing. They go to sleep without a worry in their mind. They set off for Dowthorne at 9:00 AM. At 12:30 PM, they decide to stop and eat their lunches. As they pull out their sandwiches, they feel a small rumble in the ground. They joke to themselves about how this was the old man's great earth-shattering quake. They feel another, greater rumble, and drop their sandwiches, realizing the error in their ways. The ground shakes violently and breaks up to reveal a bottomless pit which swallows the travelers.

The group awakens at roughly the same time and they find themselves at the bottom of a pit, the little amount of sun shining down into the cave being the only light source. They, being a brave group, resolve to find a way out of this cave and to get back to civilization soon.

The Hunter and the Prey

This actually just happened.

I have watched a fly buzz incessantly around the room for far too long. I lunge at it, shoe in hand, time and time again. This is either a really smart bug or I have horrible hand-eye coordination. This isn't working. I've come close to breaking my picture of Tin Tin, but the fly remains intact and won't shut up. I need a better weapon. I look around the room and find the perfect weapon; the chemistry regents workbook. I take it in hand and I wait until the fly has landed on a window for one last time. I focus on my prey, bring the workbook slightly back...WHAM! It barely hits the fly, but it goes down. Oddly, the corpse is nowhere to be found, but I don't care. I need to go to bed and am filled with relief. The suburban hunter has succeeded again.

An Argument

Sorry for not posting for a while. I won't do it again. This is just a quick argument. I must admit that it was fun to write.

:sigh:

You're always sighing. Why? It's not like you're bored.

Life gets a bit monotonous after a while...

No it doesn't. Your life is perfectly fine and you're happy ninety percent of it!

That's not true! I suffer sometimes.

Like when? During the visit to the dentist? When you stubbed your toe? There are people starving in Africa!

That's your argument for everything. Can't I feel bad without worrying whether someone is feeling worse?

No.

Look, I'm sure that many people have worse lives than me. I'm just saying that sometimes you should focus on your own life rather than others.

You self-centered son of a bitch.

Now you're acting all high and mighty as if you're God! You constantly do attention grabbing things! Last week you lost the remote and got the whole damn house to search for it!

Screw you!

I'll make sure not to sigh near you again.

Land Ownership Essay

I actually didn't make this for a class or anything. I just thought it would be an interesting topic to write about.


When I was a little kid, I lived near the border of two towns. Nearby, there was a fence that separated town A and town B. I thought it was a strange idea that your location could change so drastically in an instant. I would sometimes walk through the gate, back and forth, telling myself that I was in town A, then town B. It seems a bit silly now, but I was testing whether anything really changed across that border. Although the adults told me that town A and B were different places, I could find no difference.

People own land by claiming it is theirs, whether through discovery or attaining it from others. This is a strange idea to Native Americans, as they see the land as public, something that can't be owned, just borrowed for a while. When Europeans came, they asked to buy their land. The Native Americans didn't understand that they were giving away the right to use the land, so they happily sold it. Was this naive of the Native Americans or irrational for the Europeans? Who had given the Native Americans the land in the first place? They just happened upon it. That didn't make it theirs. Vast undiscovered lands are found and people instantly claim that it is theirs. There are other animals living there, but if there are no humans, then it is for the taking. Are humans the only ones capable of ownership? No, other animals have possessions. Even when there are no other forms of life, it is still a ridiculous concept. Governments claim airspace above their countries and even the United States put a flag on the moon, signifying that a whole planetoid is owned by a country a ridiculous distance away. How can people claim that these are attainable?

Lands are not things that can be owned. It's all just part of nature. When one claims property, does it include space above and below too? What limits can be made? Modern society is dependent on land ownership, yet it undoubtedly makes little sense. Is it too late to change? Yes. The world is built on flawed logic.

Bugs

I must admit that I feel very similar to this character...

I hate nature. I feel that it's out to get me. Whenever I'm outside, I find some mosquito or anthill at my feet. I HATE bugs. I have nightmares about them crawling up my legs and covering me. I shudder to think about it. This is why I'm in the fetal position on a park bench. If my feet don't touch the ground, then bugs are less likely to get to me. I really don't want to be here, but my friend is playing guitar here in Central Park for a little extra cash. I like to walk through the park, but when I have to sit down, then I am more accessible to those evil creatures. Oh God! There's one next to my neck!...Killed it. I feel sorry for it. It isn't its fault that it's disgusting. Oh no. What if they come looking for the bug that I squished and find its broken body? They'll know it was me! They'll band together and crawl over me and bite me! How much longer do I have until my doom?!? I have to get out of here! I get to my feet and start to run away. I yell to my friend that I have to go. I can't take any chances. I need to get to my apartment. My sweet bug-free apartment... Or is it?

George

This is a little characterization piece I made in creative writing club.


George is a kind fellow. Well, everybody assumes he's kind because he doesn't talk. Some say that he's mute. Others say that his parents never let him talk. He does help everyone around town that needs help, as long as they ask. Nobody knows what he's thinking, though. He never shows any expression. As far as we know, he's a robot, just doing what he's programmed to do. He only eats at home by himself. Sometimes I even question if he's alive.


Unfortunately, we were supposed to be the character in an interview afterwards, and my character wasn't quite the interview type.

Sarah Bellum

My little sister Anne likes to write. She likes to make up stories with no real point. I try to tell her that there needs to be some kind of moral or underlying message, but she doesn’t want to hear that. She just wants me to check it and say that I love it. So I do. Today I was called into her room and she asked me if she had a good plot.
“June, how’s this? There’s a girl genius named, ‘Sarah Bellum’, and she goes around solving mysteries with her friends. On her first mystery, she finds that one of her classmates is actually evil, but she has to find a way to prove it.” Oh how I’d love to tell her that nobody in their right mind would name a kid ‘Sarah Bellum’. But I couldn’t tell her that.
“That’s a great idea, Anne.”
“You think so? Cool! I’m going to try and write a series!” She’s always going to write a series, but the next day, she completely loses interest in the character. “Let’s see. How should I title this…? The Beginning of Sarah Bellum: Issue One; Volume One; Series One. How’s that?”
“Marvelous.”

Running After Midnight

I asked my friend to give me a topic to write a scene about. He said to write about running after midnight (apparently a song name). It's not really a great story, but I think it's pretty good for just getting the picture.

I woke up in a cold sweat. It was 1:30 AM, but I needed to get up. I rolled out of bed and got on my socks and running shoes. I crept out of the house, closing the doors as quietly as possible. I got on the street and broke into a sprint as if I wasn't half-asleep. I ran like I was chased by a boulder. I couldn't run during the day because of the heat, so I had to get my exercise at night. But I was so tired... I slowed down to a jog, then a complete stop. I needed to rest. "I'll just take a nap on the grass here..."

I wake up again, noticing the sun, and look at my watch. Oh crap! I'm already an hour late for school!

A Chat With an English Teacher After the Story is Written

No, this is not nonfiction. I just find it amusing to twist situations I'm sometimes in, hence the fishing story and this.

"I love the use of imagery."

"Oh yes. It makes everything in the story seem realer."

(What the hell is imagery?)

"And the character is very much like Ali Baba. I like allusions."

"Yes. I intended that of course."

(Ali who? Allusions?)

"So, what made you write this story?"

"I was just reading Great Expectations and the idea came to me."

(Great Expectations... I'd never read that. I was watching Lost.)

"Great Expectations? I love that book! What's your favorite scene?"

"I'd say the one when they find the polar bear on the island....I mean the first one!"

(Damn it, Toby! Think before you speak!)

"I need to read that again... Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye..."

(I'm going to need to Wikipedia imagery later...)

Fishing

Here's a quick story about a father and son.

I sit there in the dinghy with nothing but a fishing rod in my hands.

"Dad? When is something going to happen?"

"Any minute now, Charlie."

That's the same thing he said an HOUR ago. I think I'm going insane. Dad is concentrating on the water, as if when he looks away it'll be gone. He said this would be relaxing. He said it would be a BONDING experience, yet the only words that have left his mouth are, "Any minute now, Charlie." Dad doesn't care about me. This is just some stupid obsession of his that he can't do alone for some reason. I look at the murky water and I weigh the chances of being able to swim back. Never mind. I can't abandon my dad. I don't like him, but I have to be nice to him. It's just the way it is. I try to start a conversation.

"So dad, why do you like fishing?"

"I dunno."

Yep. That's my dad. Ever so entertaining. Wait. I feel a pull. It's a fish! I wrestle with the rod, imagining a giant fish thrashing around in the water. I've caught dad's attention. His eyes fill with happiness, urging me to pull harder. I finally get it out. It's a boot. All enthusiasm drains from dad's eyes. Without a word, he goes back to watching the water. Why can't he at least applaud my effort?!? I sigh, put my rod down, and stand up, dad not noticing at all. I'm swimming back.

Prequel to the Elevator Story

I decided to add on to a story that I wrote (gasp!). This is what happens right before the elevator story.

I'm late. I need to get to work FAST. I run through the city streets, scalding coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other. Why must I run to this job? I'd rather literally put my nose to a grindstone than figuratively. Nothing but a dead end job with a stupid boss. I feel like I'm in a Dilbert cartoon, but this is cruel reality. There are no punch lines here. Everyone on the street has a place to be, probably a place that they hate. Why am I out here wasting my life away?!? I could be a sailor, or a race car driver... But no. I have neither the will nor the personality for those jobs. My job is perfect for the dull lowlife that I am. I can see the office building in the distance. Is it worth going to work today? Should I go back home even though I'm almost there? No. I'm going in today. I somehow feel that something good will happen...

Hot Water

This poem is an exaggerated telling of my thoughts when I use hot water. I realized that it was second-person halfway through, though. I don't know why that happened. Maybe to make the audience feel it more easily?

What is that feeling you get when you put your hand under a running tap?

You're not sure what the temperature is for a moment.

You're not sure you want to know.

In that split second, you will be scared you're getting scorched.

You want to pull away, but you can't.

You can't react quickly enough to avoid it.

You can feel the beads of water hitting your hand, but it means nothing until you can tell if it's soothing or destructive.

You relax into it and decide what's to be done is going to happen regardless.

The heat hits you and you snatch your hand back in surprise.

Why must every action you do be existential? 

Funeral

I wrote this piece right here. Hooray for fresh material!

"I really don't want to be here..."

"Quiet, Luke!"

I sigh and shut my mouth. This is Kerry's grandma's funeral and I want to be anywhere but here. It's just...I like Kerry and all, but I don't know any of her relatives yet. We've actually only been dating each other for a few months. I introduced myself to her at a rock concert when I noticed that we both had the same tattoo of a burning skull. Small world. Anyway, from there on, I expected all of the things we would do to be hardcore. Now I'm at a funeral. I am bored out of my MIND. I look around to see all of the people. I amuse myself by making up imaginary lives for all of them. That woman crying is a housewife with five kids and secretly hates ketchup. That somber man is an over-worker who hopes to get a dollar raise in the toothpaste company he works for. That woman crying is... wait. They all look the same. I realize how boring this funeral is going to be. I crack my knuckles and Kerry holds my hand so I stop. She's never been this forceful before. What's wrong? I pull my hand away and try to focus on the procession. It moves at an annoyingly sluggish pace. I start humming "Stairway to Heaven" and tap my fingers to the rhythm. Kerry looks at me with a concentrated and frustrated face and says in a whisper, "Stop it." I try to fall asleep, but she elbows me. This is stupid. Why should we care so much about the dead? They're gone, so why have this big anti-party? Just forget about them. That's what I want. When I'm gone I want people to just get back to their lives. I'm just a passing guy. Who needs to honor me? I check the clock. An hour left to go. This is going to be a long funeral...