gradster1's blog

• Waterskiing (the next day, of course).

• Things ending.

• Zombies.

• Thinking about zombies.

• Thinking about any inevitable "bio-disaster" that I am not prepared for (such as zombies).

• Having to dream about all the wats I will be eaten by zombies if one gets into the house because I watched about a minutes of [the non-gory parts of] "Dawn of the Dead".

• Only being comforted about the obviously imminent threat by the fact that as the zombies come up the stairs my brother's door is in front of mine.

• Zombies. Wait, did I already..?

• Wondering Being forced to think of how I would escape in many of these situations:

• School • Home • My old school • A friend's house • Downtown • The mall thing from "DotD" • My room

• Not finding any solutions ("Mr. Pogact/Mom/Mr. Lasher/Ken/Dumpling Lady/Alex/Shit, where do we/you/I keep the shotguns/crowbars/courage?").

After discovering this new stalking tool, I've already gone through several pages of comments before I realize that I don't deserve to be here.

Fiber optics/shiny objects/whirring sounds and bright LEDs/... make me giddy with anticipation.

How can it be that I could be alive because of this on simple cable?

I'm waiting for it you me.

I had imagined that I would look dead or at worst tired, but all I could manage was a grimace suggesting the face of a criminal when he knows he's been caught.

I don't write stories, they are written or they write me.

113 new messages - fucking freecycle.

Whispering it doesn't make it real, and does make me feel stupid - I look around to make sure nobody heard.

• My sister, her friend, and the friend's little sister, playing "hide and seek" in a HALLWAY (involving lots of screaming, despite the ACTUAL NATURE OF THE GAME) right outside my door at 10 AM.

• My sister cheating and bullying the little one (with halfhearted help from her friend).

• My mom approving of the whole thing because it will "get me back on schedule" even though what it's most likely to do is get one of them thrown down the stairs (they have blankets over their heads and there's a lot of pushing involved, too).

• Used tissues

• Cuts in unhelpful, annoying places.

• My deodorant and nail clippers - when they're missing, that is.

• Stubbing my toe. Or any of them really.

That's all for today. There'll be more.

Author's Note: Crap, this is exactly the kind of music I hate. The kind with acoustic guitar and vocals only, and lots of feeling in the singing. Maybe you have to write it to truly appreciate it, because it only means what it means for you. In any case...

Unopened envelopes and candy wrappers lay
On my desk as I sit and I think that I pray
And I pray and I play with the words that I say
On the edge of this small scribbled paper

You give me the smiles and then I get the looks
And I am deep inside just as we all are a crook
Crooking and looking and changing the books
To reflect on my senseless identity

Author's Note: See if you can guess them all! I know many of you will get the second one.

Part I:

She nodded. "Well, there's some sort of camp at the university there this summer, and they actually let girls play. One of ours is going to be there in July.
Zachary stopped. "One of yours? Who?"
"Samantha Golton. The forward. Know her? She's almost as fast as you."
Zee's eyes popped open. "Samantha?"
"I see you do know her," Nicki grinned. "Shall I put in a good word for you?"
"Yes. No... I don't know!" Zee grabbed her shoulder. "What should I do?"
"Sam's cool. Why don't I, you know, lay the groundwork?"
"No! No! don't!"
"Okay, okay. Why not?"

all i wanted was you to understand not to tell your friends and bitch about me and i'm not angry at you and i hope you understand that, but it really pisses me off when you don't tell me these things that girls usually blame guys for not talking about and did you ever think to notice that maybe the reason guys don't comment on your new haircut is maybe because we're not shallow but we're not PETTY and don't care about how many friends you have or your bra size or how you look so beautiful tonight because you're there at least and we're so grateful for that and yes we are, because you're you and that's all that matters to us but let's return to reality you say and i suppose we should because if you can't accept that i don't know what'll get through and maybe i shouldn't care anymore about you because i'm not getting anything in return and something's certainly due me considering i work my butt off each day just like you and i can tell you that i probably have just as many problems if no

The first steps forward. He speaks. Or rather, I do. "I am One. Choose."

I'm not at all surprised to find that my mouth is moving, speaking the words, because he is me, suddenly. Number two steps forward to One's place, and I wait for him to speak. He doesn't. Should I keep waiting, or ask him?

I wait - but I need not have, because he speaks before the echoes of "wait" leave my head. "I am One. Choose." I notice the shell that was the former number One's physical form lumber off towards a waiting tunnel. It doesn't bother me, because I know he's dead, or gone now.

Wait, what? He's Two. Oh, maybe he's now One - the second One. I get it. His shell lumbers off towards his tunnel. What the hell? Maybe they aren't people so much as ideas... (the third One begins to move out, then steps back and snaps to attention) "Choose." Alright, not ideas... Choices. He walks away, satisfied.

They stole my face. That's funny, I guess (one out). It's also scary (same one reignites, brighter than before, then fizzles out). And rather intimidating (it explodes, blowing a hole through the carrier's chest. He picks at it, expression not changing from a strangely decisive look, and walks on)

Another weird thing is that though they all have my face, not a single one is the same - several kinds are very similar, but not exact replicas - and every single one is locked in a single expression that doesn't even move when they take a step. Which they do often. I also notice that there are several small ones near the edges of the crowd that flicker from on to off several times a second - and that there are some that have candles with flame that does not even move. Still others remain in their tunnels with the steady kind of light that I see from the non-moving flames - like a lightbulb made of fire.

Where the hell am I? Okay, bearings: Large room. Red-tinged, high domed bone-white ceiling. Floor is soft and cushy, made of some kind of organic. Was that bone-white or just bone? Anyway, there's this giant machine in the middle of the room. Cave. Whatever. So many bells and whistles I can hardly tell what a single one does, except the conveyor belts in and out. I try to find the source of the noise and end of following miles of pipes, wires, canals... This thing is insane. Hmm.

The machine rumbles to a stop. Again, I can't even tell where it rumbled, but I'm sure it did.

Suddenly, I see this bright tunnel of light. I'm dead, and god was right! Oops, God. Oh, wait, nevermind, god - there are not only more than two tunnels, but they're all the same color and shape and size - completely identical. In fact, when I cross my eyes a bit they're all the same tunnel, represented infinitely. I come to a full stop. Definitely god.

Author's Note: This is something I had written about three days ago, and the tab just stayed open for that amount of time waiting for me to finish it. That's been happening a lot... But I figured I might as well just post it as is. I was also trying to write in a different style (beware profanity). Feedback?

I must be some kind of sick masochist. Pain makes me write, and I write for pleasure. Oh well.

So let me tell you a little story, okay? I play the trumpet. Yeah, loaded statement. First time I ever got it might have been one of the best moments in my life. I was a young immature brat of the kind that I now despise (possibly because they're what ruined my life) and I was eager for anything. I was smart, sure. I had the basics down pat - math, science, reading... I couldn't write for shit but that's another story. Anyway, so I get the trumpet.

I. I hold tight to the photos - they're all I have left [for now], but they obviously don't compare.

II. It isn't right. It just isn't right.

III. Something in the eyes... No, maybe the voice? The flavor, the texture, what's it in "it". It's that bolt of lightning [lightening?] that Ira told us all about. And he was right, I'm coming back. Or I wish I was.

IV. Did you mean for this? I'm not myself anymore - I don't know if I even qualify as one person anymore.

V. Unfinished thoughts beget unfinished people.

VI. "I'm like a dog chasing a car... I wouldn't know what do do with it if I caught one!"

VII. I hate animals because I'm jealous.

VIII. But.

Written several weeks ago, at the end of my suicidal existential depression-Gradster's life. I actually have a bunch of stuff backed up that I really should post, not to mention a song I wrote (all by myself and this time with [rough] music!)

As I step into the shower, I wonder.

The water, too cool, runs down my body.
I turn the heat up.
I duck my head into the center of the halo of droplets - it;s too hot.
I turn the heat down.

While I'm showering, I think.

The shampoo bottle is slick, and upside down. Again.
I squeeze some into my hand ("Only about the size of a dime," my mother has warned.) It's about the size of a [large] half dollar.
Free-me freesia. Smells nice, so I don't mind. I lather my hair.

In the shower, I contemplate.

At first, my hair is tangled and unwieldy.
The first washing only loosens the sweat, dust, and grime from the early hours of cardio I did this morning.
I get loose coils, loops, tight knots, and snarls. Not helpful.

For the sake of the gods, explain this mess!

Death hardly seemed to matter in comparison.

The surface was fuzzy and brightly colored.

Bananas. (pudding, potatoes, et cetera)

Loss of the element of surprise was all he got for winding up.

Her tossing and turning not only wakened her parents, but the neighbors'.

Aluminum simply would not do for this job. (substitute most random words for aluminum and the sentence is good - for example, bananas?)

As the group moved closer, the wails seemed to be getting further away.

A bright flash attracted the attention of the giant heterocerian.

Octogenarian shot-put is hardly recommended.

As hard as she tried, the memories shined, ever bright in her mind's eye.

Such an ailment required surgery, of the expensive type at that.

In the long run all his actions relatively negated each other - but people would still remember.

I don't know - was I supposed to say something?

I'd like to tell you a story that was written by Mr. Terry Bisson (though he claims not to have done so). Anything in quotes is not mine.

The set is a deep space galactic panorama projected on a screen - the Universe. Two lights, moving like fireflies among the stars on the screen, represent the the two beings who are having - as we'll see - a slight... 'altercation'.

"They're made out of meat."
"Meat?"
"Meat. They're made out of meat."
"Meat?"
"There's no doubt about it. We picked several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, probed them all the way through. They're completely meat."
"That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars."
"They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The signals come from machines."
"So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact."
"They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the machines."