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clueless film movie alicia silverstone

It's One of Those Romantic Things I Can't Decide On (Part 1)

Posted on 2009.05.06 at 12:09
Ze Locale: College commons
My Tune of the Sec: Painted By Numbers by: The Sounds

{1} -- The Central Lover -- "Painted By Numbers" by: The Sounds

I don’t know how many times I’ve thought of just giving up. Giving him up. Giving us up. It’s something I probably ponder over each and every day. Yet when it comes to the part where I’m supposed to decide what to act on, to stay or to leave, I never seem to make the jump and break away from him. It’s not that he’s a cheater, or mean, or abusive, or anything horrible like that, it’s just that our relationship has become something I think deep down neither of us is comfortable with. Our problem is that we just can’t give it up.

He tries to be the bigger person, the glue that will keep us together, and his motions, his words to me are crafted specifically to that purpose. He might say that he loves me---in fact he says that all the time, and I say it back. Being as undecided as I am, these words are what I need to get by on, even though I may wonder if I shouldn’t just go.

We act the same every day, and we’ll probably be the same years from now if nothing happens. If neither one of us comes to a definite decision one way or the other. But it is apparent to me that something needs to happen.

It started freshman year. High school offers up a load of challenges for everyone, but mine just happened to include dating. I met him at the front gate of the school; he was walking up the sidewalk one way, I was coming from the opposite direction. We were going to go inside at the same time, and I found it so... sychronized that I commented on it. I suppose he found it amusing, as he gave a polite chuckle. I smiled nervously at the unexpected response. I was certain like any other stranger, he would brush me off wordlessly. But he laughed. And not in a mean or skeptical way. It made me feel good, I'll admit. And with our introductions, then came the beginning of the end.

We had class together. Not a class. Classes. All but one, actually. My one lover-free class was French, because he took Spanish instead. Later we would tease each other, trying to get a rise out of them by speaking to each other in our respective secondary tongue. Past that, we weren't much for the playful banter. We were both what you'd call intellectuals, so we might talk about things like that, books we'd read, opinions we had on various things ranging from the environment to sex on television.

And sex. Well. That was something that took us a good time to get around to, something like two years of knowing each other, most of that going-out. It may have been our young age that deterred us in the beginning, but as the numbers stretched towards seventeen, we lost that argument with ourselves. Then there was our distaste for losing our virginity on one of the following cliched occasions or in a certain place: after some dance or event, in a car, in our parents' bedrooms, in our bedrooms, on the floor, etcetera.

We were very particular about this. It would be a big deal to both of us whenever we did do the deed. In the end, we stuck to the aforementioned condition, but really we had sex just because we ran out of reasons not to. Lame, I know, but as much as we liked to think so, we were not superior, all-knowing beings. We were human just like everyone else, and people have needs. We wanted to touch each other. It was completely valid in our minds.

We gave it up to each other junior year, on a Wednesday, on the sofa built into the window seat in his living room. He lived out in the middle of the woods, or "boonies" as he referred to them, and so we even left the curtains open. His parents were working, I was over "studying", and he was an only child. We weren't interrupted, and we kept at it for a few more times, until I was comfortable with it and pleased to boot, and until he was exhausted. It was a good day, and even if I do end up leaving this lover, I will always remember our first times fondly.

We continued on with our relationship through the rest of the perils of high school, only arguing now and then, but ultimately staying together. The next course of action was college, and being the people we were, we applied and got into the same one. Four years passed by, and then after college we decided that to take a break would be a good thing. I don't think either of us initially thought we'd really want to stay away from each other after the six-month hiatus, but now that I look back on it, those months would have reprecussions that even now are confusing, however much they needed to happen.

We broke away for those six months, dating other people to test our own relationship, getting ahead in our careers, and being on our own, like we should have been after high school graduation, but never were because we had each other. I think it was healthy time for both of us in retrospect. Being on your own teaches you a lot of important life skills, and the brief freedom was also needed. At least for me, anyway. He I think had more of the problem with it.

After we got back together at the end of six, almost seven months, we talked about our time on our own, and what had gone on. He, from what he said--granted he might just be toning down his actual experience and I'd never know--dated one girl for three months, and that was it. The relationship with her ended rather badly and it was that time when he decided he missed me too much to be away. I welcomed him back warmly--I'd missed him as well.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, surely, but as I said, it was a good time for me. I dated a few guys, and had a few stellar nights somewhere in there. I got promoted twice at work, and my boss adored me. I was sure to go even higher in time, and I got a dog, which was great. It's a big, shaggy Newfoundland that I named Teddy. My lover likes Teddy a lot, and the two of them get along famously. Often it's him that walks Teddy everyday, and he doesn't even mind when our big old dog comes and sleeps at the end of our bed at night. We are a three-person family, if you will.

We've been back together for nearly a year, and it's been okay. Recently though, I keep feeling... boxed-in. It's as if my life has gone too smoothly, or maybe I'm getting that vibe from him. It unnerves me, and I'm afraid that if I stay with him, I may come to regret it. The problem?

He asked me to marry him yesterday.

I couldn't answer.


This is Part One of what'll be four. The narrator goes through three men she's been with that have made a significant impression on her, and in part four, it'll come to who she decides is best for her.

clueless film movie alicia silverstone

Listen Next Time (One Chapter)

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:34
My Tune of the Sec: Hollaback Boy by: Cobra Starship

“I told you not to touch him when he sleepwalks.”

She had just wanted to wake him up so they could laugh up his antics. Joey had been sputtering nonsense as he sleepwalked through the hallway of the house she and he shared with a roommate, Andrew. Emilie had thought it funny how he rambled on about falling in love with SpongeBob or how he was berating the spiders about how he didn’t want to have tea with them, “Especially when they didn’t have proper biscuits to go with it.”

It had been the first night she had ever seen Joey sleepwalk, so she was acting like a child that’s just unwrapped a new toy at Christmas. Emilie had been very amused. Joey had walked up and down the hall, stopping at one end just before the potted ficus, and then turning to go around again. Several times he had made the loop before he had started sleeptalking too.

"Spongebob...love you," had been the first words out of his mouth. Emilie, who had been standing in the doorway to her bedroom, had chuckled softly behind her hand. Originally she had gone to the door to see what all the commotion was. The three shared a fairly old house, the kinds that creaks with any small movement, so Joey's heavy steps had been quite loud indeed.

Andrew too had come to the door, but it seemed this wasn't the first time he'd seen the nocturnal activities of their roomie. He'd surveyed Joey with a look of frustration, moaned and whined about trying to read Voltaire...would Joey keep it down for once?

"He can't help it," Emilie had said in responce. Andrew was such a complainer, and she was sick of it. He seemed to be one of those people that wasn't happy unless they had something to whine about. She wasn't going to take that sort of crap from him, not in the slightest.

"Whatever," Andrew replied. "It's just he's so loud. It's annoying. And he always seems to do it on the nights where I actually need the peace and quiet. I really don't know how you find this amusing, Emilie."

"Not the sleepwalking per se. It's what comes out of the boy's mouth that's humourous," she explained.

"You find his infatuation with a cartoon sponge entertaining? And to think I thought you were..."

"You thought I was what?" Emilie had snapped, on her guard. She could hardly believe anything relatively close to a complement could come out of Andrew's mouth after all.

"Smarter than that. More sensible."

"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you and your high standards. For your information though, I get along quite fine with my studies, thanks."

"Nah Patrick, you're swell too..." Joey had interrupted on his way towards the ficus, brows furrowed as if he was concentrating very hard on something. The two roommates watched him for a silent minute before they resumed their conversation.

"Anyhow, hopefully he finishes soon. I've got Advanced French Lit first thing in the morning, and the prof's a total hard-arse. So I need to finish the reading and then maybe cadge a snooze. Word of advice though, don't touch him when he sleepwalks."

"Whatever," she had muttered, not really paying attention, glad Andrew wasn't going to 'grace' her with his presence any longer. Emilie's eyes flickered back to watch Joey, who had moved onto a new topic: spiders.

"Do ya 'ave scones, like raspberry ones? Those are my favourite..." he muttered. "Bleedin spiders never have the good shite, I dunno why I bother..." he added quietly to himself, turning about to begin the loop once more.

"No, I... Damn it's cold here. I don't like the cold...."

"I don't either, Joey," Emilie had said, playing along for amusement.

"Who's that?" he remarked suspiciously, turning in the direction that the words had come from. She giggled softly again, trying to muffle it with her palm. If only she had a video camera, then this would be really, really good. But alas, she did not, pity that....

Well, might as well wake him up, right? she added in her mind. He'd probably laugh at himself too. Joey was a good sport after all. So Emilie moved to where Joey seemed frozen to the spot, a look of confusion on his face. She reached her hand out lightly to tap him on the shoulder, resolving to give him a good shake if that didn't have any effect. He stood stock still even with the tap, and so she placed a hand on each shoulder, and gently shook him, murmuring "Joey....Joooooey, wake up lovey. Before you put Andrew off his rocker anyway."

Then strangely, his hands had risen up and clenched on either side of her waist mechanically, and his grip was tight, like he was latching onto her for dear life. She stood perfectly still, terrified now. After a tense second his right hand came up even further and traced along the side of her face, like a blind man might do to get the gist of what someone's face looks like. Emilie shivered mildly, hoping he'd let go soon. This really wasn't funny any more....

Then something seemed to startle Joey. He roughly pushed her away, shoving with such force that she flew backwards against the other wall of the hallway, knocking a painting off its hook as she slammed into the wall just below it. A sharp pain in her head began to form, and she raised her hands in front of her face in a defensive position. Joey started forward, that look of concentration back on his face, but only now it seemed to have some twisted, menacing quality to it. Peeking out from between her middle and index fingers, Emilie shivered.

He took slow, almost deliberate steps, and it became increasingly harder for her mind to comprehend that he was asleep. He doesn't know what he's doing, part of her mind reminded her, but it was no comfort at all. Joey was going to hurt her, and Emilie knew this. She didn't know how, and she was scared to fight back, afraid that it might provoke a more tempestuous reaction from him. So she just kept her hands up, bracing for the blow she was anticipating. She didn't know where, just that it would come. Soon.

It came in the form of a punch aimed at her stomach, which she had not thought to cover. The blow bent her nearly double as she reached for it, as if her her hands could magically still the pain. The next pressed her up against the wall again, and she moaned in discomfort.

"Stop..." she called quietly, her voice tinged with pain. "Joey stop it now. Wake up."

But he didn't stop, and he didn't wake up. His next punch was aimed at her nose, and she felt something crunch, and the warm sensation of blood flowing from her nostrils, like a common nosebleed, but much worse.

She shut her eyes, the salt of the newly-formed tears burning, irritating her eyes slightly. She couldn't bear to watch any more. Her memories of this night probably wouldn't go away ever, now that she thought about it. Why hadn't she just listened?

Then the sound of a smack came, next a thud like someone falling to the floor. "No," Emilie heard a cold voice say. "You will not hurt her. Snap out of it."


A warm hand closed around her wrist, pulling her along. Her foot connected with something on the floor, and instinctively she stepped over the object, following her guide. Seconds later a door shut behind her, and she heard the sound of a lock being turned.

"Open your eyes and tell me where it hurts," the same voice commanded, only now it sounded more authoratative instead of frightening. Emilie opened her eyes now that she was sure no more blows would come. Andrew looked very grave indeed, standing in front of her, looking her over like a doctor would, checking for any little injury.

"Where does it hurt?" he repeated.

"The pains going away in my stomach..." she began shakily, "but still a bit sore. Then I feel kind of like I have a headache, a bad one. And my nose hurts the most, and it's bleeding, obviously."

"Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

He let out a deep breath, and sighed. "I told you not to touch him when he sleep walks, didn't I?"

"Yes," she answered sheepishly, training her eyes downward, fixating on her slipper-clad feet.

"You should have listened."

"Yeah well I was kind of pissed-off at the moment," Emilie shot back. "You were whining again. I'm surprized you even deigned to come and save me. After all, Voltaire was calling..." she finished sarcastially, venting her rediscovered anger.

"I don't regret saving you, Emilie. It's what any decent person would have done," Andrew said matter-of-factly.

"I'm surprized because usually I wouldn't list you in the 'decent' category," she added.

"I saved you because I care. And yet here you are, pissed with me again! Can't you just say thank you, get something to staunch the bleeding and then leave? I promise you can go back to your bedroom and make voodoo dolls of me if you want, but can you at least pretend to be grateful when I'm standing right here?" he spoke furiously, only stopping to take in short breaths in between sentences.

"Thank you," she said icily.

"That's a bit better, though don't think I'm still not tiffed with you."

"Oh I wouldn't assume that, you can rest easy."

"Come on, I've got ice in the mini fridge," he muttered, not looking at her. She sighed angrily and went to sit on the edge of his bed, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. Andrew shook his head, pulling an icepack out of the mini fridge then disappearing off into the adjoining bathroom for something.

A minute later she saw it was a first-aid kit with some asprin, and she thought to herself that he was really going all out with this. But then again, he is pre-med, what did she really expect? He's probably glad for a chance to practice, schmuck....

He set the kit down on the bed beside her, opened it and pulled out an Ace bandage, the kind that athletes wrap around their limbs sometimes. Also liberated from the box was some gauze, some hydrogen peroxide, and a bandage.

Andrew took a small of the hydrogen peroxide and began to dab some on some minor cuts on Emilie's face. Predictably it stung, but she knew it was just to clean them. Letting them air-dry, he then moved on, grabbing the icepack.

"Lift up your shirt."

"What?!" she said incredulously.

"Lift up your shirt over your stomach so I can put the icepack in place."


She lifted her shirt just past her stomach; he wasn't getting anything more than that, she thought stubbornly. He moved around the icepack until Emilie indicated it was where it needed to be, then he wrapped the bandage around her stomach to hold the thing in place. His touch was slightly ticklish, and she bit down on her lip in an effort to stifle her amusement. He mustn't think she was enjoying this...

But Andrew was sensible, and Emilie was just a patient after all, just some minor practise. So she contented herself.

Yet when his hands reached up to tug her shirt back down, they lingered at her waist, making her shiver in a good sort of way. And the way he watched her sip water to take her asprin, that was unnerving too. His eyes were simply fixated on her lips, and she was frightened to think that she actually might be attracted to him. Andrew was attractive in his own way, she supposed, it's just that she'd never really thought about it before.

Then he went and ruined her moment of epiphany. He laughed.

"The look on your face, honestly..." he chuckled. "You were making cow's eyes at me."

"Was not."

"Yes you were. It's so easy to rile you up. Paybacks's sort of a bitch, isn't it?"

"What do you mean...payback?" she snapped.

"You called me a whiner. I can't have that. So I showed you I was decent, by treating you, and then I decided to screw the goody act and have some fun, namely riling you up, making you think I was coming onto you. I wanted to see how you'd take it. And boy were you sold on me."

"Bastard," Emilie shot back. "You're such a child sometimes."

"And you look at me like a man. A virile man you'd like to shag. Don't deny it, you thought about taking me to bed, at least for a second."

"I effing do not want to shag you!" she screamed.

"Well, when you've decided to stop denying the fact, there's always a warm spot in my bed for you...roomie," Andrew continued to ridicule, patting a space beside him. Emilie stood up, disgusted.

"I'll never understand you," she raged. "You're ridiculous. Good night!"

"Hey, I've got a suggestion, listen to me next time! It would save you a lot of trouble!" he chuckled some more as he heard her make an angry noise as she traipsed off towards her own bedroom, stamping her feet.

Minutes past, and Andrew was pretty well pleased with himself. Finished the reading, got back at Emilie, and finally shut up that annoying sleepwalker Joey. All in a night's work. Joey would wake up in the morning with a sore head, but other than that, no harm done.

Now for some sleep of his own.

clueless film movie alicia silverstone

Coke In A Champagne Flute (One Chapter)

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:31
My Tune of the Sec: Rock You Like A Hurricane by: Scorpions

You’re sitting in your bed half dressed, drinking Coke out of a glass champagne flute. You hold the glass up closer to your eyes, and from the light of your laptop you can see tiny bubbles of carbonation rise to the surface, perfectly choreographed like a friggin ballet or something.

You examine the fingerprint smudges on the glass, your fingertip smudges. You think to yourself that if you were a freaking celebrity, you could get thousands, five or six K maybe for the glass with your fingerprints. You contemplate what the highest bidder would do with the glass. Some sort of sick act, maybe a tribute? Place it on altar? Mantelpiece? China cabinet? In a dark place where no one else can see it? Who really gives a fuck? They may shout out on the radio about the schmuck that bidded on it, and how much money they wasted.

But maybe that glass was special to the schmuck? Maybe it saved his life, because we’re talking about a schmuck here, and there really is no female equivalent for a schmuck, so it must be a man. Maybe he just needed something small, like a champagne flute with your fingerprints and a drop of Coca-Cola like tea dregs in the bottom of the crystal flute. Maybe that flute kept him sane because he could believe that he had a piece of you, maybe your confidence, maybe just the way you carried yourself. Maybe he had that piece of you just because he bought a stupid champagne glass on EBay. Maybe it made him not want to give up. Maybe you’re just crazy for thinking all this. It’s completely and probably possible, after all.

But back to the glass. You raise it up to your lips now, just letting the carbonated drink touch the soft flesh that is your rosy pink lips. It stings a little, but in a good way. You open your mouth a little wider, and slowly sip the Coke, pooling it in your mouth without swallowing it. From the moment the soda hits your tongue, it burns. Burns badly, but it feels really great in a perverse way. You sip a little more, still not swallowing, letting your tongue burn unmercifully. It brings to mind your high school biology class.

Coke as well as sunny-as-fuck orange juice are inherently acidic. Take a pH strip, do the little dip test, and it’d tell you the exact same. Your teacher says it anyway, drilling the useless piece of information into your head. The uselessness of the tidbit both amuses and annoys you. It’s amusing because you like useless information, you pride yourself on knowing it, and it’s also annoying because the teacher’s the one telling you about it. You prefer to seek the useless on your own, like some personal quest. What it really is is a waste of time, but after a while, finding out that pointless information becomes a really fun waste of time.

You swallow a little of the Coke, still letting some glide over your tongue, singeing your taste buds. You calmly wonder if liking the burn of the soda on your tongue makes you sadistic in some way. Yet as soon as the word “sadistic” enters your mind, you push the question away, preferring not to know the answer to that one. As the drops of brand-name-acid roll down your throat, they don’t burn at all, which only confuses you. Is the inside of your mouth, more specifically your tongue made of different stuff, more susceptible stuff than what your throat is made of?

High school biology offers some more answers, oddly enough. Mucus lines the walls of your esophagus to prevent your throat from getting torn up by acidic materials. Acid however is very prominent in your stomach, and the stomach acid is very dangerous indeed. But none of that matters any more. There is no burn.

A little while you find yourself sitting stock-still, depressed. No burn. Nothing to make you feel alive. It doesn’t matter that there’s still Coke in the champagne flute, it doesn’t matter that if you drink it before it goes flat, it will burn. The fact that you lost that first burn, that saddens you. Like a gardener misses his first batch of roses that were destroyed by an untimely frost, you miss the burn. Like him, it doesn’t matter that there will be other roses. The fact remains that you lost the first roses, the first burn. The initial thing or feeling that made you happy in the first place. The reason why you were content for that small moment.

You go to sleep because there’s really nothing else to do.

You wake up in the morning. A hand clasped around the stem of the glass, you raise the champagne flute filled with Coke up to your appraising eyes. There are no friendly bubbles, no little accelerants to create the burn on your tongue. It’s fucking flat and useless, like a cheap spare tire.

Now it’s just Coke in a champagne flute.

clueless film movie alicia silverstone

Seventy Times Seven (One-Chapter Fiction Piece)

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:26
My Tune of the Sec: 15 Step by: Radiohead

"Seventy Times Seven"

You’re my brother. Even better, you’re my twin, my other half. At least that’s what they say in the cheesy movies Mum used to make us watch. We were always a team, the dream team. No one could hope to best us, not when I knew what you were thinking and you knew what I schemed.

Inseparable and insuperable, you and I were. Yes, were.

Do I even have to name the offences you’ve slandered your name with, the flesh wounds that only split me deeper? God, I hope not. It’s bad enough when they invade your head.

I told myself I could take it; just give him some time, be the three-minute-older brother you know he needs to set him straight. So I did, grudgingly, but you can’t deny I played my part well. Mum never needed to know how far we drifted apart.

No one needed to know how far astray you’ve gone.

Was it rebelliousness that prompted your actions? Were you simply tired of the whole we-are-twins bit? Or was it simply that you are more of a git than anyone neglected to figure out? It’s hard for me to put this all down on paper when I’m not even sure you’re able to read.

A list of offences. Let them adorn my bill-of-attainder that I wrote myself.

Firstly, we swore we’d never let anyone come between us. Right? Do you remember that?!

I was proud when I told you I had my first girlfriend. I was damn proud, Alex. It was so hard to find one I wanted, one you’d approve of too, screw your high standards. She must be gorgeous, and nothing less. She must not be a snitch, must love football, and not mind our twin-talk. This among other things you required. So I was happy when I found one that fit the standard we’d so meticulously set. She was beautiful, she wasn’t a snitch, and she’d give the shirt off her back to go to a good game.

So I was sure nothing could go wrong with this one, you’d be happy for me.

Oh you were happy, but not for me. You were happy because here was a new competition, a new challenge. Emily would never have to know who-was-who, simply who she preferred. Of course it was you, you with your unctuous way, and to be honest, much more experience in such matters.

I was crushed when I saw you guys snogging after our team won regionals. I had been in such a state of euphoria, and then it was back to rock bottom with a single sight. First strike, for you and I.

In time I forgave you, and I found a less imitation, a second girlfriend. You continued to parade Emily around whenever I seemed not to care, just to get a rise out of me. I would simply ignore your childish tactics. I was being the responsible one.

Yet as we grew older and older, responsibility began to feel like a dead weight. I suppose we never learned to bear it like Tom or Will. It was what set us apart, we were the pranksters, but that was okay. We were harmless at best. Mum might yell at us occasionally, but we were always very dear to her.

One night we attempted to be real troublemakers. That was the night we both tried whisky for the first time. Harmless right? Fun even. No, if you are able to recall brother, we spent half the night on the floor, puking, only to pass out later.

I certainly didn’t call that fun. I stayed strictly to soda after that. You tried to, but your resistance, patience was never good. I wonder if that’s because you’re the younger one. Maybe.

You built up such a tolerance to the stuff; you could drink a case and not throw up. Often you did on the weekends after we left school.

That had been such a gloried day; it is one of the memories of you I shall continue to cherish. Graduation, throwing our hats into the air, finally escaping….

But the whisky was the second strike, and it greased the way for the third.

There was that horrible night, the night where you outdid your usual self. You drank two units of whiskey. Honestly, someone must commend you, git.

I sat and I laughed and watched just to make sure no harm came to you. If you hadn’t acted the way you did later… That evening I still might have been your brother.

“Ye know Sam, I always thought I waz ze moor handsome one, eh?” you said, slurring your words comically. I rolled my eyes and went along with it for another few heated breaths.

“I mean, uh, Emileee certainlee thought so, righ?” A knife went through my already skewered heart when you brought her up again. But did you know that? Of course not, I scoffed to myself.

“You, you aren’ so wonderrfull. Not all yous ben cracked up to bee.”

“Shut up Alex…” I growled, warning you not to go on.

You hiccupped in response. I felt my fists tighten, the tendons popping out on my knuckles, white as hell. Third strike, brother.

“Mum and Dad always liked me bettah, you knew that righ? Always were talking about their Alecky, weren’ they?

I couldn’t take it anymore. I clearly warned you. I grabbed you by your collar, smelling the drunken, stale breath you were heaving in my face, and pushed you down against the floor so I could punch every inch of you I could reach.

“My name is Sammy!” I screamed even though you didn’t care. I had to say it for myself. “Mum always called me Sammy! She never loved you better! She loved us both! We’re the fecking same Alex! Identical!” I screamed, kicking you as you listlessly tried to fight back.

“Fight me!” I stormed, angry tears flowing from my eyes, the ones you have a copy of.

“God damn it Alex, fight me…!” I said, my words warbled-sounding because they came in between sobs. I released your collar, and I went to go sit in the corner of our flat, arms wrapped around my knees, steadying myself.

Outside the night grew cold and harsh rain filtered down through the grayest clouds. Thunder boomed and people died outside, I just know somewhere, something died, something besides the heart inside this little flat in Connacht Square.

I hadn’t even noticed anything. You had draped a white sheet over my head, the sheet’s end resting on two of our kitchen chairs. You held your lighter loosely, its tip aflame. You remained silent, but you sat beside me, willing me to put my head up and speak to you. You wished for redeemer.


“Go away Alex,” I said firmly.

“Please, I need you. Brother, I need my big brother.”

“You have other big brothers, Alex, why don’t you go and cry to them?!” I said, my words muffled as I still had my head buried in my lap, my arms shielding me from your despicable sight.

“There’s only one I want to talk to,” you said.

“I don’t give a damn, you sorry bastard. Did you really think making a tent would help your cause, that I would suddenly be all sentimental just because this is how we got through storms as kids? Did you think nostalgia was the cure-all that’d be your friend?” I said, venom dripping from every syllable. I was so done with him.

“No…” you began, but I wasn’t about to listen to you.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and find something to hang yourself with? I don’t really feel like going to prison, seeing as I’m already in it every minute I spend with you. Or go to the apothecary down the street, a little drop of poison does it quicker, and you always had a hard time dealing with pain, precious brother. But I declare the most satisfying method would be to see your head go straight through a windshield. Let the breaking glass be your friend, velocity your solo comfort. Are you gone yet, brother?”

“I SAID ARE YOU GONE YET?!” I screamed.

You got up slowly and walked away. I’m not sure where you went, I didn’t lift my head. Call me lazy if you want. You weren’t worth such an effort.

So when the bullet hit me in my final moments, it was like a reprieve. I’m sending you these words from heaven, and praying they’ll haunt you until you die, until you go straight to hell. I don’t think I could bear eternity with you here…

I put down my angelic pen; the prose is polished to a sheen. I’ve wasted enough time, so I’ll just say what I’ve wanted to say all along: I’m not even sorry.

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Insomniac (A Short Fiction Piece)

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:22
My Tune of the Sec: So Damn Beautiful by: Polaroid

12 am, the witching hour is upon you.

1 am, you’re just having a little fun.

2 am, you’re practically the lyrics in a song.

3 am, you’re debating whether it’s a late night or an exceptionally early morning.

4 am, you’re hardcore.

5 am, you really haven’t thought about this have you?

6 am, only the strong survive past this point.

7 am, you wonder if breakfast is really acceptable in your position.

8 am, you flip on some cartoons, muttering “What the hell? No one cares anyway.”

9 am, you debate taking a nap, but flick on a lame movie instead.

10 am, you hit up some fast food joint before they stop serving breakfast. You really did love those stupid little French toast dippers anyway.

11 am, you’re looking out the window, but not really seeing anything. Then you snap out of the trance and realize you weren’t looking at all. The phrase “lost in space” comes to mind.

12 pm, it’s a twelve hour stint, and you don’t really think much of it. Noon passes all too soon, it’s not really special but for that one period of sixty seconds.

1 pm, you go for a walk, maybe to the park, watching people who are awake, trying to mimic them. It doesn’t work out that well.

2 pm, nothing. Two’s a dead hour.

3 pm, you get some substandard lunch, eat it while you sit on the concrete precipice that overlooks some grisly view. You contemplate jumping, and think nothing of it.

4 pm, you call anyone you know and ask them how they slept.

5 pm, you contemplate the old working hours, nine to five, and you wonder if anyone actually has those hours any more. You ask a few people that walk by. Some say no, and others say nothing at all. You don’t really think much of it; you were just curious after all.

6 pm, it’s most likely getting dark, and you walk up a steep hill in an attempt to find yourself. All you get at the top is a stitch in your side.

7 pm, you go home, maybe watch Wheel of Fortune and wonder how Vanna White stays so robotically perfect and preserved. You wonder why Pat always makes a big deal about the show’s anniversaries, yet he never seems to notice that he too is fairly preserved age wise. You wonder what kind of ambrosia the caterers must serve at that show. Then Jeopardy comes on and you forget all about it.

8 pm, primetime television’s on. You now wonder what the airtime to commercial ratio is, and how that reflects on America. Are we more for entertainment or commercialization?

9 pm, you’re looking out the window into the dark abyss, and you realize how beautiful it is, and how you haven’t missed a single minute of today sleeping. You feel strangely proud of yourself.

10 pm, nothing really. It’s another dead hour.

11 pm, you’re not sure if you’re more awake or asleep. But does it matter?

12 am, blessed oblivion. The worst of it’s over, and now you feel as if you will never sleep again. The clock laughs at you, your bed looks cold and dank. Insomnia has truly taken root, even in the very depths of your soul. You know you will not sleep, and frankly, you don’t even think about it anymore. You don’t have to think to know, and you don’t have to know at all.

1 am, half-awake, half-something else. Never asleep.

Why We Love Vampires: A Psychological Matter.

Why do we love vampires if they are supposedly night-stalking demons who inevitably feed upon our blood? There are many types of creatures and beings that make up the supernatural sector, but I have noticed over the years that people have favorites, and that favorite is usually a vampire. We tend to gravitate towards vampires because they have two things we humans crave: immortality and in the case of most novels, flawless beauty. I was recently watching a game show known as Family Feud where the survey question was: What kind of profession would you not want to be the first customer of? While the contestants were able to come up with only one correct answer out of the five or so viable options, the answer that they provided (doctor/surgeon), got me thinking.

The rest of the answers could have easily fit into two distinct categories, and the nature of the question of itself asks basically which qualities we value most. For if we would not want to be the first “customer,” it means that we value that particular aspect of ourselves too much to risk sabotaging it with some inexperienced technician. The categories I came up with were those of lifespan and appearance. For the lifespan category you have professions such as doctor, nurse, and mortician, and correspondingly for the appearance sector, you have a hairdresser. So it seems that those two things are what we value most about ourselves. We want to live the longest life we can; beat death if we can figure out how. We also would like to stay young and beautiful forever. Chalk it up to vanity, but that is how most of humankind feels on the inside, however reluctant some are to admit to it.

Under normal circumstances, most of us would never even entertain the thought of drinking blood. Such things are attributed often to occult rituals or certain forms of cannibalism. Perhaps the only reason one would follow through with the act is to gain money as a result of a bet. We have all eaten dirt or dog food as children, right?

This brings me to a subcategory of our attraction to bloodsucking fiends, money. “Greed is the root of all evils,” as St. Augustine preached. I am rather inclined to agree with him. People will do some fairly horrendous things for money, for which there are plenty examples of in history, more recently politicians succumbing to bribes. So is it really a wonder that we associate wealth with something inherently evil, as a vampire is portrayed to be? Most vampires in literature live cultured lives in castles or secluded mansions. Even I associate the two with each other. One of the first images that comes to mind when I ponder vampires is a mahogany-wooded study, forest-green carpeting, and a marble fireplace with a fire burning in the brazier, all things acquired by wealth.

Perhaps the final aspect for which I think people are so enamored of vampires over is bravery. One might ask me why that is, but if you think it over, it fits in with the immortality aspect. “Some people are so afraid to die that they never begin to live,” a sentiment expressed by Henry Van Dyke, has a lot to do with it also. We are afraid to die, so in some way that fear holds us back from living life how we would want to live. We envy those vampires their alleged immortality because we know that since they do not have to fear death, they are brave enough to truly live and experience life. To me there is another part to this, a detriment to us. We adore vampires for this reason, but as we ponder death more and more, we come to envy these fictional beings beyond reason as our fear of death grows. Like Francis Bacon said in his Essays, “Men fear Death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other.”

We are so occupied with death and prolonging of it that we forget to live sometimes, as Susan Ertz put quite nicely in her piece, Anger in the Sky, “Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.” Ostensibly we see vampires as unafraid of death, and so our minds make them cultured and experienced in all things. Most writers or filmmakers give the excuse that the vampire’s experience comes not from their absence of fear, but simply the stretch of time for which they have lived.

Appearance, lifespan, a way to be brave, and wealth; all desirable qualities. This leaves me with only one conclusion to draw. We like vampires because they are an incarnation of our deepest, darkest wishes; the things we know we can never have but still yearn for anyway.

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Short piece on social anxiety (first-person POV)

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:18
My Tune of the Sec: Sex & Candy by: Marcy Playground

“Social Anxiety”

“You’ll have fun,” my mother assures me. My hand currently rests on the handle of the car door, slowly inching towards the latch that will allow me to open it. The car is parked right out front of the house where the party is. I can see people through the house’s windows, dancing, some are just talking. A few loners gather on the front porch, holding drinks and looking about furtively, somewhat like vultures searching for a fresh kill. I dismiss them immediately though.

“Maybe,” I say testily, not looking at her as I pull down the car’s latch and open the door, getting out as slowly as possible, and still not sold on the idea. I hear her sigh and I can guess what’s she’s thinking. I think to myself that she ought to just add the complaint to what must be a long list of reasons why I’m not her perfect daughter. The sarcasm admittedly doesn’t solve anything, but it acts like balm to my frazzled brain.

My feet hit the pavement and I revolve to tuck the seatbelt back inside the confines of the car, determinedly not raising my eyes to meet my mother’s. I’m very annoyed with her tonight, and it’s taking all my willpower not to lash out.

First off, she’s making me go to this party in the first place. Don’t ask me how my mother of all people knows where all the good keggers are; I have no clue as to why.

She thinks I don’t get out enough, being seventeen years old, a reasonably pretty girl according to most (whether true or not, after all flattery’s still alive and kicking as a social nicety) and a brand new high-school senior. So Mother’s grand solution to the problem is to drag me to a party. After all, it’s what she did when she was my age. Mum was popular, was educated in a small school where everyone knew everyone, and she never was anything but social. She partied, she was well-liked (not that I’m saying I’m not, it’s just not a widespread thing. You try finding a widespread niche in a school of two thousand), and consequentially she doesn’t understand why I’m not the same, seeing as how I have her genes and all that.

Then on the way here, I specifically asked her if she would drop me off a block away. I had my reasons, namely that I wished to take my sweet time arriving to the party, and that it wouldn't help my position to get dropped off by Mummy Dearest. Not in the slightest.

But of course, like infuriating mothers do, she had her reasons not to comply. Firstly that she knows I was planning on being laggard, and she thinks I should bite the bullet and just go have some fun at the party. And finally, she thought that I would be somewhat inspired by being dropped off out front of the house because everything would be instant. I wouldn't have the time it would take me to walk to talk myself out of the right mindset to enjoy the night. However, I thwarted that plan during the car ride. I was out of that mindset, in fact I am fairly sure that even if I hadn't talked myself out of it, any urge to have fun would have evaporated as soon as I saw the party itself.

So here we were.

"Honestly darling, try and have some fun. It won't kill you," she reminds me. I nod mutely and shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Okay, what's the game plan? I go inside, find an empty corner, sip on something non-alcoholic, and daydream to pass the time. That ought to do it, I congratulate myself. Now comes the hard part: making an entrance.

I cross the deserted residential street, ducking between two parked cars. Then I start up the pathway, keeping my mind like in a state similar to if if had just been rendered blank. I allow no thought, no persnickety little doubt to come between me and my goal. If I can just get past this, then I can revert to my game plan to survive the night. When Mum asks me how it went, I can lie, say I chatted superficially with a few people but we didn't exchange numbers, what a shame. She'll buy that, I know she will.

Sometimes it's both hard and extremely easy to be Mum's daughter. To be me, whoever I am anyway. My i.d. says I am Lily. But a lily is a pretty mourning flower, is it not? I am not a mourning flower. I am a girl who is quite afraid. Irrationally afraid of people, afraid of their rejection.

I have social anxiety.

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Rare Object

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:16
My Tune of the Sec: The Taste of Ink by: The Used
-Rare Object-

The stories of past days usually featured a lithe, helpless blonde as the heroine, calling upon her chivalrous lover to save her. Yet over time, such characters were seen too much in literature; romanticized too publicly. So to meet the growing boredom at such a trite plot, a subtle-at-first upheaval began.

The writers bent to their audiences. The heroine went out and got a dye job and contacts, not to mention a basic principle of feminism to add to her now fashionably-witty repertoire. In essence, the heroine never died. She just got a makeover, which is all. Times changed, and literature caught up as it inevitably does; all part of the business survival instinct.

Heroines were now decidedly brunette, and while the other colours were given their fair attention---for equality’s sake---brown was much too favourable to pass up. Red hair was even thrown in as a rare object, often a progenitor of warmth or lust depending on the tone of the story. Blonde was shuffled off into the background and labeled as “classic.” Raven-coloured tresses were generally prescribed to characters of darker skin-tones, and if said character was indeed pale, then you would often see it on a character of lesser morals.

For argument’s sake, let us discuss the trends in eye colour. For all intensive purposes, we can look at past trends and pick out the phrases “true blue,” or “a clear blue.” Admittedly those sound quite appealing, and not just to blue-eyed human beings. Blue is pleasing to the eye, and hard to come by in the way of genetics. Now though, examine if you will, today’s heroine du jour. Blue eyes she has not. They have been altered to hazel, our very popular, a rich chocolate brown of endless depth and warmth. Her lover is easily entranced by these eyes while she herself is mostly scornful of any perceived loveliness. For sarcasm is the new poetry….

So with these very specific idols, unmalleable to the single eye, where is a young girl to stand when she does not easily fit into any one mould? Does she conform or ignore? Does she really have a choice in today’s society? Oh, don’t fear. She does. Wallow or change. Sure wallowing is not the “choice” behavior, but it is still a valid option once you throw perceptions of self-esteem out the window. For wallow enough and you may come to the conclusion that you are in a class of your own making. You are a rare object.

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Recent Films: Portraying A False Hope

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 20:12
Happy or Snappy?: blahblah
My Tune of the Sec: Sleeping With Ghosts by: Placebo

-Recent Films: Portraying a False Hope?-

There have recently been an influx of films surrounding World War II. While they are often remarkable and entertaining --- such as Miracle at St. Anna --- I cannot help but wonder if the film industry is perhaps taking their purpose to distract the public through cinema a little too seriously.

Now anyone who has been required to take a high school class on U.S. History, or even with a casual study of it, has probably heard that it was the economic boom brought on by the second World War that led the States out of the Great Depression. There was more demand for weapons, vehicles, ammunition, and many other wartime necessities. That demand led to jobs, and pay for people who had previously been laid off or perhaps even evicted from their homes. Taking this historical turnabout into account, we have our current situation.

Let's face it. We are in a recession, and the effects of it span the globe. I cannot speak for other countries, but I know in the States' film industry, they've been turning out all these World War II movies. So on a whim, I wondered if it might have any connection to the aforementioned course of events in the 1930's-1945. On a subconscious level, there might be so many of these films because the industry wishes to give the public some hope that there will come some event --- whether it be a war or otherwise --- that will turn the economy around this time.

A little psychological reassurance is good, but are these films simply going above and beyond their duty?

I've mentioned one such film already, but let us have a look at another, Defiance. Even the title seems to have a little morale booster tucked away in it, does it not? This film shows a group of Jewish peoples in Russia who make a hard but successful attempt at survival even while being hunted by German forces. A wonderful movie, certainly, but it is just one of the many 'uplifters' film makers are putting out these days.

We as a culture are swayed by certain influences, whether consciously or not. Another simple fact.

Americans especially spend a good chunk of their time on having fun. This can be through books, movies, television, games... a variety of things. I think it safe to say that though we have different favourite pastimes, we all get around to watching movies at home or in the theatre. So if this be truth, our brains must sort through all the millions of images we are presented with, and somehow glean sense from them.

The real question is how the images and suggestions in these films affect us. Are we optimistic, perhaps deep down? For the hope may be buried deep; after all this Saviour event that will turn things around --- it's not visibly on the horizon, ready to charge in to save us from total economic collapse. I suppose all one can really conclude is this: as the days seem harder and harder, the films will be immortalized, and with it, a few frayed strands of hope.

Subtle comfort?

That we can never lose hope entirely. And really, did one ever think we could?

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Writer's Block: Meant to Be?

Posted on 2009.05.05 at 19:58
Ze Locale: My evil lair
Happy or Snappy?: amusedamused
My Tune of the Sec: "I Get Around" by: Dragonette
Tags: ,
Do you believe in fate? Why or why not?
Why yes, I do believe in fate. For what reason? I think that some things are just too "set" to have been random. I believe that if you are separated from someone and were fated to be together, you will find them again. Sure, there are certainly fluctuations in life that I believe are not a part of fate, but more a product of life, and us changing up the status quo. However to answer the question, yes, I am pro-fate.

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