When I was in kindergarten, we had nap time every day. We would come back inside after recess each day, and without fail there would be mats laid out all over the classroom floor. We would each have to pick a mat, and once we laid down, that was where we had to stay for an hour without getting up.
I hated nap time. All the kids did. But now, I would give anything for it.
During that hour, we had to lay on our mats quietly – we could read if we didn’t want to sleep, but we couldn’t visit with friends. We were always so restless, watching the clock and counting down the minutes until the hour was over.
Now in high school, having an hour of nap time during the school day would be luxurious. I am constantly sleep deprived after staying up into the small hours of the morning working on homework, and I can say definitively that I would take FULL advantage of an allotted nap time.
All I can say is that as high schoolers, I think we deserve nap time.
In fact I was miserable. I had mud streaking down the plains of my neck down the curve of my back.
I had been punched down and didn’t know how to get back up.I felt a little like Matt Murdock, Daredevil knocked out of me trying to pull myself up again.
But I wasn’t Daredevil. I wasn’t even Matt Murdock.
I wasn’t looking killer, I wasn’t spitting blood like a hardcore vigilante, I couldn’t pull my self up.
In all frankness, I wasn’t even bleeding, I wasn’t facing the evils of the world.
I was laying in the mud where they left me.
Cold, alone, and wallowing in self pity.
What was I supposed to do, some how dig myself out? Yes that was exactly what I was supposed to do, and yet here I lay.
Knocked down by my demons laying under a sky that had cracked open and dropped its gross slimy egg on me. The jagged fissures of the shell reflected in the lightning forking its way toward me.
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I knew I should get up. I knew I would eventually.
Darkness descends early here. Barely a blink between light and dark. One moment sweating the next the sweat is becoming chill beads against your rapidly cooling skin.
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I didn’t really know what to think when my ride left stranded, minutes away from dark, alone, in the rain. Mostly I was just tired. Tired from a hard day of work, tired from patching other people up, tired of being happy.
I had created a mold for myself. An unbreakable mold. I was happy, perfect, and unfailingly nice. What could I do if I wanted to bite someones head off, just smile and nod at them as if I really wanted to listen?
I guess so.
The rain was like pikes driving into my back in waves. I could see the puffs of my breathe in the air, my stuff had been in the car. What I wouldn’t give to trade places with it. I can hear something in the trees and howls on the hills.
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My legs shake uncontrollably from the eight mile walk and the cold to find the house locked. The lights are on smokes wafting from the chimney and I’m stuck on the outside.
It is that time of the year again: Less than 50 days until Season 6 of Game of Thrones. It is time to start from the beginning of the show, watching one episode every night till the new season is released. I don’t binge watch alone; I get together with friends at least once a week and we watch the episodes together. With so many episodes it is hard to remember what happened in an episode 3 years ago, so I came up with a solution to eliminate gaps between the old and new episodes. A part of this tradition is to make predictions of what will happen and whoever is closest wins and gets the prize of hearing the others say “good job”.
Season Six is looking like it will be the best season yet; after the death of Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow, it’s hard to tell what path the show will take. The entire series I have been a big believer in the Melisandre, Stannis’ advisor. For those who aren’t familiar with the show, she is a priestess who serves R’hllor, the Lord of Light. Westeros is full of many religions, but only the prayers to R’hllor are answered. Although the religion is borderline satanic and possibly witchcraft, it is extremely powerful. A fire priestess like Melisandre can see the future which is really important when commanding armies. She has never been wrong with the exception of Stannis dying in battle. But I believe she knew that he would die. Melisandre has been trying to get Jon Snow to join them, but Jon refused because he has sworn an oath forcing him to serve the night’s watch.
Men who swear the oath serve in defending the border wall till death. They are responsible for defending against Wildlings which resemble barbarians, and White Walkers, which are undead creatures that can only be killed with dragon glass, an extremely rare material. Because the white walkers are a new threat and no one believes the night’s watch reports of them, they are forced to ally the Wildlings under Jon’s orders. His men were so mad that Jon was killed in a mutiny in a dramatic Julius Caesar killing. His death is the best thing to happen to Melisandre. A fire priests in one episode showed that he could bring back the dead, but only those who R’hllor thinks is worthy. Melisandre knows that Jon is worthy and may bring him back to life. This is huge because Jon will no longer be sworn to the night’s watch; he is the rightful King of the north and the entire north will have his back in a war. On top of that he would have control of the remains of the Baratheon army, and because of his sister Sansa he will most likely get support in secret from Little Finger who basically controls everyone through blackmail. If that isn’t enough, he could probably get support from Dorne, a nation that isn’t a part of Westeros and Dorne really hates the current leaders of Westeros the Lannisters. If Jon Snow comes back to life, it would be game over for the Lannisters, and as much as I love to hate them, I can’t wait till they are gone.
I can pin point the exact moment my life fell apart.
10:27 AM. October 13. I was sketching on a large canvas laid out on the floor.
He was yelling about something she was standing there taking it. I could hear the rise and fall of his voice through my headphones. I looked down at my phone, 10:00 AM. I turned the volume up the last few notches.
I could still hear him. Getting angrier and angrier. I didn’t even know what it was about this time. The kids, the bills, pet peeves, anything seemed to set him at her throat these days.
I’d taken to calling it the Jack Torrance Effect. The only difference was there was no supernatural Overlook to blame, no alcohol withdrawal.
I was still waiting for the booming sound of a Roque mallet hitting the thin plaster walls.
I look down at the canvas. I’ve snapped my pencil against it. There’s no way to work with those two screaming next door. I pull my headphones out, the time is 10:15 AM. I grit my teeth and bang on the wall.
“STOP BEING IRRATIONAL AND JUST SHUT IT!”
“MIND YOUR OWN BUISNESS!!”
“I WOULD IF I COULD HEAR MYSELF THINK!”
“SCREW OFF!”
“GLADLY IF YOU’D SHUT YOUR BIG FRICKEN MOUTH!”
I put my headphones back in. 10:20 AM. It was five minutes before something else set my symbolic Mr. Torrance off.
I could feel the blood boiling in my veins. I threw a shirt on attempted to rub some of the graphite off my finger tips and unfolded my numb legs.
I popped my jaw as I reached my door. The time, 10:26 AM.
“Honey I’ve been making dinner this whole time how would I have gotten to your phone?” A small voice stammers out.
“I DON’T KNOW WHY DON’T YOU EXPLAIN THAT TO ME?”
Ah so it was a phone this time. There’s a crash then a scraping noise. A drawer being violently pulled from its casing.
I pound on the door.
“OI YOU TWO TOSSERS IT’S A BLOODY SUNDAY COULD YOU PLEASE HOLD OFF FOR ONE DAY?”
The door is yanked open the hinges groaning. Door knob jumping.
See here’s the thing, there are people everywhere in the world fighting for a change, for a difference, fighting to save humanity. And that’s all well and good, but then there are writers.
A specialized breed of ruin, a deadly addictive drug.
Sure one could ask what the cuss they do for the world. I can tell you this, they kill trees. They bury students in dry immobile states of constant stress and depression.
But know what else they can do? They can keep me up all night. Make it so my mind never stops whispering to me. Make it so it feels like I’m drowning in ink and can never shut out that click click clicking of the keyboard.
Writers. Arguably the most talented, frustrating, simultaneously strangle-worthy yet kiss-worthy people on the planet.
Every time I finish a book good or bad I wonder how?
How on earth does anyone figure this out? How does anyone think of this? How does this happen? How are they real? How do they do this? How? How? How?
Then I think why.
Why can’t I do this? Why am I not doing this? Why am I not good enough? Why isn’t this happening? Why? Why? Why?
It’s a constant cycle: how, why, how, why, how, why? Like a broken record playing over and over and over.
I’ve read most of my life away and yet I still can’t see those plot holes coming, I can’t predict it, yes that’s a good thing. But then I can’t even seem to think of ones coming at me on my own how am I supposed to write anything that even measures up in the slightest.
Sure good artists steal but that only gets you so far. So what if some people tell you you’re good, their obligated to tell you that, cause the worlds about making people feel good about themselves, especially when you’re a young volatile developing teen yeah?
But then I see other people’s writing, it doesn’t even need to be published or personal-universe shattering. And it starts it all over again.
How? Why? How? Why? How? Why? Until it feels like I’m going to go mad.
I’m thinking yeah I’m good enough but then I read a bone shaking book. And the little disembodied voice whispers, are you good enough? Am I good enough? It echoes, like a museum display no one came to see.
Then I’ll read something written by someone like me unofficial, young, and just writing for the sake of writing. And that disembodied voice gets louder, No you’re not good enough are you? Just one lousy kid playing pretend.
I recently finished a book that for some reason shook me to my foundation. I hate analyzing literature but this one hit points that are incredible and leave me knee deep in cement thinking, this proves it, it officially proves it, writers are amazing and will probably be the fryers of my emotions. Yes the book had some stand out flaws but still. How?
I’m one sad little mind grasping at something I’m not even sure is mine to grab. One out of hundreds thousands millions. Every time I’m done with a book or story I’m left raw and wrathful and insecure yet I continue to do it to myself because I don’t think I could bare to be without it.
The world could feel it, Act III of Humanity coming to a close. A fresh piece of paper poised and ready to go into the typewriter if Act IV of Humanity were to commence. In that moment all of the surviving humans all around the world, somehow all of them were listening waiting; their path had led them here. Their future rested in the sounds of a few keyboard clicks.
The boy closed his eyes, blocking out the swirling depths of the girl’s eyes, the inevitability of time. The boy was struck by how satirical it was that after the humans had put the world through the wringer, dragged it to hell and back, God or something else, had left the earth in the hands of one innocent and naïve human.
He opened his eyes at long last and looked into the warm and luminescent gold eyes of the girl; perhaps I am the messiah, the boy thought, but if I am the messiah then she, she is my prophet. His fingers hovered above the keyboard and he finally began to type,
<command> terminate existence </command>
His fingers where shaking uncontrollably as he typed the last symbol, he could smell the salty air drift into the cave on a slow and melodious evening breeze. Once he pressed enter the world would be just this simple breeze.
But all of a sudden his heart clenched, he curled his hand into a tight fist: but don’t all the people still alive deserve to live? Don’t they deserve to feel this sea breeze as well, he thought. A selfish need to live had reared its ugly head in him. The girl just looked at him, the fire in her eyes just warm coals, the ice in her eyes just a cool pond, the cosmos and history had swirled to a stop, waiting at this moment: you know I cannot make this decision for you. I have done for you what I can.
The world held its breath as the boy’s hand slid to the enter button and when the world could hold its breath no longer he whispered: God you are one cruel creature.
After:
Night fell on what was left of humanity for the last time that night; the next morning not one human soul stirred. The tawny eyed prophet sat at the front of the cave leaning against the entrance her feet sitting in the water, next to her the young and unlikely messiah; both sat there, life snuffed out of them the two most important people in the human chapter of history. Side by side casually leaning against rock staring into the wide and endless ocean, as if only resting in the middle of a teenage-angst-filled-adventure.
Lack of control, lack of consciousness. From a passing feeling of anxiety grows a larger, stronger sensation.
A pit embedded so deep in my stomach, sprouting vines that spread to the very tips of my fingers. The pit grows larger and larger, heavy as rock, hard as steel.
I pass it off as nothing. All in my head, nothing of significance. But this rock, this sensation, leaves me hyper aware.
Each movement shoots throughout my body, ricocheting off of every surface. Any tingle, shiver or prickle is felt in every nerve, magnified by my growing alertness.
And this greater attention leads to a realization, an understanding of this feeling. My depths are screaming to be let out, stopping at nothing to be heard.
I fall, deeper and deeper into my head; I am below the surface, unaware of the world around me. This pit, this feeling, is overtaking me.
The vines wrap around my brain, my eyes, anything they can grasp, bringing darkness to my world and shutting out any understanding.
My hands are immobile, unresponsive to my commands. These vines suffocate me, wrapping around my neck and my brain, squeezing tighter and tighter.
I have lost all ability to speak – to guide and to oversee. Dark clouds loom over my last drop of consciousness, obscuring my last speck of assurance.
Not for even one second did the boy break eye contact with the girl until he collapsed in front of the praying people. The girl carefully lowered her glare to the wound that was slowly growing on the boy’s front; without disturbing the rest of the group she carefully picked up the feather-light boy and brought him to an empty building.
She left shortly after, only to return with singed medical supplies. She quickly and deftly removed the tooth from the long gash, and then with a large amount of rubbing alcohol cleansed his grimy wound.
The boys eyes stayed closed the entire time; she spared a quick glance at his face before starting to stitch him closed, he was awake she knew but she also knew that he would not show any sign of it. Once the stitching was done she left the boy in the ruins of the building, to come out on his own terms, but she took the tooth with her.
She held the tooth in her left hand and strange weight settled in her stomach. For some reason she knew what this meant, but at the time she was unsure; eventually she would know what to do, more specifically in one days’ time. Minutes later the boy came out of the building and sat himself next to her. The last crowd on earth stared at the two of them from afar.
The girl started the conversation: I’m not sure who you are, where you came from, why you’re here; but I can tell you this you’re not on earth anymore, no, I’d like to personally welcome you to Tartarus. He looked down, at his hands: yes, I know. Her head whipped toward him her hair flying into her face: then why do I see hope in your eyes? He looks away from the searing stare of the girl: redemption?Redemption, is that a joke? He sighed through his nose: no.
Then what is it? She snaps. The world’s screwed up enough as it is without some cracked up looney with a superhero complex trying to tell anyone left that it gets better.Honestly I don’t know why I’m here, alright? It’s the only civilization for countries and I was about to die of blood loss. She stared at him for a long time, the weight in her stomach growing: rest for the night. She sighed: there’s – there’s something important that I would like to show you tomorrow.
When the boy found her in the morning she was turning the tooth around in her hand, as if comforting herself. What was it you wanted to show me?Follow me, she stood up quickly. Her short figure moving more gracefully and quickly than the boy’s ever would. They traveled in silence for the entire journey out of the city.
The tear and dust stained people disappearing into minuscule figures behind them; at the edge of the city the girl looked back to see the people who survived, only those too afraid to live left to live out the rest of earth’s days, she shook her head. She turned back toward the road: this is going to be a long walk, try not to tear your stitches. She turned off the road and began trudging into the woods that were at a steady decline toward the south bay.
Would you mind telling me what this is about? She stopped abruptly causing him to run into her back. The forest had been one of the few places not damaged in the waves of radiation; for some unexplained reason it had remained immutable, unchanging. The thick green was almost suffocating, the damp moss-y-ness in the air sickening.
Never has a new person ever wander into this city of dead; never have we seen anyone dragging hope like a heavy flag behind them. Is it coincidence that three days after the human race got down on its knees to pray for their savior, to pray for hope, a wayward traveler with hope alight in his eyes shows up on the door step of the one city that holds what’s left of God’s will? He stumbles back from her, lightning dancing through his brain: you don’t think I’m the messiah do you? She looks down and swallows: We still have four miles, let’s continue moving.
When they reached the south bay the girl smoothly dragged a decrepit kayak from under a dense covering of foliage. She calmly lowered herself into the back, ready to push off from shore but he, the unlikely savior, was cemented to the higher, dry sand. The girls tawny eyes were cast downward, unwilling to meet his pale green ones: messiah or not, the last of the humans the rest of the world needs a savior right now and I – it all comes down to you, are you getting in the kayak or not?
In that moment something unknown spurred the boy on, he unceremoniously dropped himself into the front of the kayak and took the paddle and handed it to the girl. As they pushed off the boy let a question tumble from his mouth: why aren’t you the savior? The girl continued to paddle, with all the force of two people: I have my reasons. There was a pause: It’s…a story for another time.
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