Pen to the Paper 8
“How’s your nose?” Maya asked, tying my bowtie.
“It’s fine. I think it’s fully healed from the fight last month,” I replied.
“Ha! Fight? You got beat up, dude. There was no fighting whatsoever.”
“Pffft, I totally punched the lead in the chin, kicked the guitarist in the knee, and threw… something at the drummer.”
“Maybe in your dreams! He punched you in the nose, and you were out cold,” Maya said, giggling.
“My story is better, mi amor,” I said with a wink.
“Esta lejos de la verdad,” she replied.
“True, but it is más interesante.”
Finished with my bowtie, she stood on her toes, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Break a leg.”
“I’d rather not. Broke my nose last month,” I said, walking away.
“Love you.”
“Love ya too.”
I exited my dressing room and walked down the hall to the curtains. Taking a deep breath, I walked on stage.
“WHAT UP, WHAT UP, WHAT UP!? IT’S YA BOY CJ BACK UP IN THE HEEZY FOR REALZY!” I hollered.
It was so quiet after I said that you could have heard a pin drop.
“Well, that joke didn’t work. Duly noted. It’s Pen to the Paper 8, yo,” I said. Then, deepening my voice, "Drop the mic.”
SCREEEEEEEECH!!!
″That was a mistake!” I said, covering my ears and walking off stage awkwardly.
The Other Side
No one really knows what happens behind closed doors. You can listen. You can walk up softly, bare feet, breath held, and put your ear close. But you can’t see.
No one really knows.
Alice paused in the hallway. The early morning sun shone warmly through the shutters over the solitary window, highlighting the flecks of dust that floated aimlessly through the air like little pilgrims with no planned destination and softening the severe expressions on the portraits hung along the wall. From where the girl stood, looking all the way down that long passage, she could see the end door. It was a humble kind of door, still and mysterious, its dark green paint peeling off and its brass knob dulled after years. Last night as she had passed it on her way to the bedroom it had been frighteningly dark; but this morning, although it had an air of mystery around it, it was almost inviting. She thought perhaps the owner of the house, old Madame Denholm, used it as a storage room - Alice herself was only the housekeeper’s niece come to stay the week, and the many passages and doors of the mansion both frightened and intrigued her. Walking slowly down the hallway, hearing her feet pad softly on the floor, she stretched out her fingers and let them rest on the smooth doorknob. It was cold to the touch.
“Alice. Alice. Open the door. Please, Alice.”
There it was; the gentle, whispering voice of a child. There was someone on the other side. She had thought she heard it call pleadingly to her when she hurried past the night before, and again in her dreams, but when she woke she had dismissed it as mere imagination. Now she stepped back, hesitating. How did it know her name?
“Alice, open the door. I want to come out. Please,” it sobbed.
Alice tried to ask why it was behind the door in the first place, but the words became stuck in her throat. She could run down and find someone to help - her aunt, or another of the servants, or even Madame Denholm herself - but somehow she remained where she was, feet frozen to the floor. No, Alice, no, she told herself weakly as she twisted the knob and unconsciously prepared to step back. Oh, she didn’t want to do it, but still, she had to, she couldn’t leave the child there alone, it would be frightened ... she pushed against the door, heart thumping as it reluctantly gave way.
She was first aware of a single candle standing amidst the darkness; secondly, of the mustiness that made her think of old, hidden secrets covered by dust or concealed within the pages of forgotten books. She shuffled forward slightly. How quiet it was! Her hand was slipping from the doorknob as she stepped farther inside, her entire body was stiff with fear, she was choking on a scream that began in her chest and slowly worked its way to her throat, refusing to come out; but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Why was it so horribly dark?
“Oh, Alice - you’ve come at last,” she heard it whisper.
The door clicked shut and the flame went out.
No one really knows what happens behind closed doors. You can listen. You can walk up softly, bare feet, breath held, and put your ear close. But you can’t see.
No one really knows.
Strike Two
His eyes
Fell onto
The floor
Dropping lightly
As if or like
Some light pebbles
Full of various colours~
The Shadow Man chuckled
Bending to the ground
To grab the pair of eyes
Then juggling them
Before tossing them back
To him as if they were
Playing some odd form
Of a baseball game
‘‘Strike Two!’’
#StrikeTwo
22.04.2021 (c)
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=UzZj2ide0x8
from fingers to keys to pixels on a screen
bold of you to assume i plan before i write
bold of you to assume a single thought
graces the forefront of my mind
no, everything is a blurry design
the words only come to focus
as i type them out
sometimes blankness overcomes me
sometimes, even the blurriness fades
we call that the block
it's this sinking feeling
when the words refuse to come to you
and the weight of the world is suddenly on your chest
how can i call myself a writer if i do not plan
how can i call myself a writer if i do not think
how can i call myself a writer if i do not write
Fantasise
I want a picture of you: your face, your smile, everything. I wanna know how you taste, I wanna commit it to memory, thoes 4 seconds last night were enough to keep me intrigued. I wish I had you, wish you cared enough to stop walking. I wanna know your scent, I wanna hold you, be near you, why am I so desperate for you? Snap out of it! It’s not like she really exists is it?
dkjghghsf
I hope I think of something interesting to write.
This perfectionism I always bring up in my personal pieces, but never do anything about is killing me.
But what do I write? Do I try to be a "real writer" and write some dramatic relatable pieces? Go with my gut instinct and do a stylistic comedy-drama? Otherwise I could always write some sci-fi. That did better than my other works on here the one time I did it. Hmm, oh my laundry is done.
I'll think of something worthwhile, maybe.
Tomorro-
Eventually.
On Learning
When I look back on all that I’ve done for the last four years in college, I feel like I’ve learned so much and nothing at all. I’ve learned ecosystems, biomes, coding, genetics, and...nothing. To be more specific, most of my class material has gone in one ear and out the other by the end of the year, while I spend most of my time reminiscing the days I could go to concerts and farmers markers at the town plaza near my college. Whenever I think about my college days, the thing my mind conjures first is that one night I sat next to a stoned punk telling cheesy knock knock jokes and showing a picture of his cat that he named after GG Allin. The conversation came up when he saw my shirt and started spouting nonsense to the misfortune of confused bystanders.
College was and still is a strange time for me. While I’ve had a few friends, I tended to hop from group to group until I got bored and retired to a hermit lifestyle in my dorm. Friends have always been a doozy for me. I have a solid group of friends back from high school in the midwest. I tend to have trouble bonding, and possibly even trusting anyone else. I tried to befriend an interesting fellow that belonged to a Christian camp in my freshman year. He was a charismatic and outgoing guy: perfect cult leader material. The kind of guy who floats down a river on his back while making deep metaphors about the impermanent flow of life. Believe it or not he actually did this. He’d also engage in long conversations about slut shaming while walking to the local noodle house. All in all, an interesting guy.
Going downtown takes over most of the memories of my college experience. I’d always try to take my roommates down the main square often to no avail. There were two record shops around, a nice venue, and a large public park with a pond overrun with cormorants choking on old socks. Whenever I’d go down the old sidewalks I’d pass by an old etching on the pavement that said “be real”. The words always brought me a pang of happiness when I walked over them. It was a line into another world. A world without three page essays on deer population demographics and a space full of music and good smelling food to replace it. My college town always had great food. I went to a tamale place every other week. The owner always wore a red bandana and would apologize when he’d admit there were no vegan options on the menu. Not that I cared.
When I think of specific things I’ve learned in college, all I can think of is that new Aphex twin record and those delicious cornbread pancakes that an old grandpa would serve on the plaza. Nothing much else seems of much use to me when getting asked this question in the moment. Sure, I’ve learned many things, but learning cormorants can choke on dirty socks is strangely more fulfilling.