The Future

So, I'm not ditching the blog again, I'm actually storyboarding my next story. Its another horror/kidnapping story thats a little more realistic than Crocotta was; The name is either going to be Little Sister or Distant Relatives.

The other reason that I call this 'the future' is because I'm weighing the option of not going to college, and for many good reasons. First of all, all I want to do for the future is write, make art, make music, make films, and take photographs. These are things that I don't feel I can learn from another person, but things I must discover for myself. I understand that getting a stable job normally requires getting a college education, but for two years now I've had stable part time work with Parks and Recreation of Manchester. If I'm wise about my money and live within my means with a couple roommates I can make a decent living. If I keep working in Parks and Rec I can move up within a few years.

I'm scared of telling my parents this because I don't want them to feel ashamed of me, and I don't want to let them down. I really want them to be proud of me, and I feel like going to college and passing is whats going to do that, not pursuing a humble mediocrity that I can be content with. I know and understand they only want the best for me, but I want what is best for me, and I really don't think thats college.

And another thing, I'm really interested in a school called Chaotic Training Center, a Professional Wrestling school that is related to The Kowalski School of Wrestling. Doing this would definitely put me in a good position to make money as an actual professional wrestler, which is a profession that genuinely appeals to me. The most fun I ever had in recent years was the two months I spent in WAW Wrestling ( http://www.wawwrestling.com .) I made some good connections, met some great people, got some real exercise and really enjoyed myself. I proposed this idea to my parents and they were... less than supportive. I guess they're worried about me getting hurt, but... I really think pro-wrestling is for me.

The Crocotta, part five

Getting lost in thought is a bad habit, but I never thought that it'd get me lost in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. I don't even know where I am, much less remember how I got here. The clouds have broken and I can finally see by that dim starlight, and all I can see is hundreds of thousands of trees, thick like a brick wall surrounding me. I listen closely, listen for that poor little girl, that girl who's been shouting Help me, Help me, for what feels like hours now. I stand there for a good five minutes in complete silence; nothing. I'm rushing through the woods now, stumbling over my busted knee and all sorts of roots, leaving that horrible piece of human anatomy behind. What a horrible way to go, that poor kid. It had to be her, that Ashland kid who went missing. She must have been kidnapped by those damn drugged up bastards, killed and god knows what else, then left for wild dogs to find and... God, I have to stop again, just to throw up one more time, but I can't. I'm staring straight down to throw up and I can't, because i'm staring straight down at a human skull, weathered and old, small like the head of a nine year old child. I stare at it and I see it completely in the faded starlight. The toothmarks are much more visible, more area to leave a bite, I suppose. I swallow whats left of my dinner in my throat and stand up, staring straight ahead. It looks like there could be a clearing ahead, its a little brighter beyond those trees. I've got to save this girl, I've just got to find her, I've got to do something with my life worth doing. I hear it from the clearing, the wicked laughter of those horrible fucking teenagers. They're high now and they're out there, shooting up the same things I did at their age, heroin and crystal meth, god damned bastards. I should avoid that clearing, avoid it altogether, but then I hear something else, clear as crystal as the laughter dies down.
"Help Me"
I act without thought, without needing to think, I know that that little girl is in there and she is in danger, extreme danger, and I can save her. I grab the nearest tree branch and snap it off, pure adrenaline pumping through my veins as I crash through the trees into the empty space. The thin moonlight casts its glow over the clearing, and on the other side is a dog. No little girl who's hurt and alone, no kids shooting up heroin and god knows what else, just some god damned dog and it doesn't make a lick of sense. I stare at the dog for a good minute before I burst out laughing, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all; the woods, the time, the girl, everything. The branch falls out of my hand as I stare at that damn dog and watch as it turns its head to look at me. My eyes adjust a little better and I see it a little clearer, and it looks like no damn dog I've ever seen in my life, more like a damn lion. I watch it turn to me and hear the clopping of hooves, the stamping a horse makes when it walks. I stop laughing. I watch it pad into better lighting, look at its long lion tail, its hoofed feet, its striped markings, its mouth burst open in what I swear is a grin that pulls back into the mane, a mouth too big for its face. I watch it stop dead center of the clearing and open its jaw, move its lips, like a person. I wait for its roar, or bark, or whinny, anticipating anything, anything but what comes next. The sound out of its mouth is words, words in the voice of a scared, sad little girl.
"Help me..."
It tilts its head back and cackles, like a crowd of human voices cackling and laughing like teenagers on drugs, a cackle that carries all around the clearing and fills my ears with such a horrible ring. I step backwards, still staring at it, back up against a tree, watch it encroach... closer, closer...
"Help me... Help me... Don't let it eat me..."
Another cackle, and I think to myself that I was wrong about those teenagers, those kids are alright.

The Crocotta, part four

Jesus Christ, what a day this has been. Fired, thats an ugly word that they try to cover up with 'laid off,' I guess they think any term with laid in it is going to sound better. Ten years working for a man I shared a room with in the clinic getting clean, ten years of blood and sweat and tears in the local city parks and recreation departments. I shoveled snow in the winters, planted flowers in the spring,  mowed lawns in the summer, raked leaves in the fall and picked up trash year round. Even now I'm looking around as the clouds break, a pale starlight cast on the ground so I can spot the trash in the woods, broken bottles and scraps of cloth; but its not my problem anymore, I've just gotta remember that.

"Help me..."

Good 'ol Chuck, he always looked out for me, always paying me back for that help in the clinic. Never saw it coming when he kicked the bucket last Tuesday, poor 'ol Chuck. Heart attacks are pretty cut and dry, no mystery there about what did him. Everything would have been fine if that prick hadn't taken over Chuck's job, fucking Tommy. Thats twice he screwed me over in a lifetime, twice too many. Fresh out of the job corps and with a clean slate, Tommy swings in and takes Chuck's job from me, the job I was right in line for, the only thing Chuck left me to remember him by and its in the hands of some drug dealing, pill popping sadist. Two times too many he screwed me, but the third times the charm; that third time that comes in the form of a medium sized pink piece of paper. I'm so mad about it that I don't pay attention to whats in front of me, I didn't even know that I was still walking until I tripped over my own two feet, face first into the mud. Jesus Christ, what I day this has been. I look down and see my foot tangled up in some roots in the ground, some white roots that I pull at with my foot. The root is pulled out and kicked right up beside me, and I see that its not a root; Jesus Christ.

"Help me..."

I can't believe what I'm looking at and now I start praying that is isn't what it is. I try looking at it a different way; try to think its a weird rock, try to think its some kind of bark stripped branch. But theres no way its anything but what it is, no way its not something straight out of my old x-rays, a smaller version of my own human femur. I turn around, pick it up, and turn it over, feeling every indent and imperfection; has to be deterioration, couldn't possibly be teeth marks, thats just too disgusting to think of. I almost throw up while looking at it, and then actually throw up when I realize that at this size, it has to be from a child, maybe eight or nine years old.

"Help me..."

I wipe the excess drool and bile from my mouth and look up into the distance, where I know the sounds are coming from now; never thought about how each call for help has been exactly the same. Are those really calls for help, or are they just echoes... Its too late to not find out.

The Crocotta, part three (revised)

The gravel and dirt are colder and rougher than the kitchen floor, but I'll be on the grass soon enough. Its kinda funny, now that I think about it, about that grass. I don't think I've set foot on any kind of field in near sixteen years, not since I lost the rights to this jersey keeping me warm. 1994 was my sophomore year in high school, and I was already varsity football. Classmates, teammates, coaches, they all knew me by the same name, Thunderlegs, I barely had a real name in high school sophomore year. They called me Thunderlegs after my first practice freshman year, when I broke the town athletic record for the 40 yard dash by nearly two whole seconds, and then asked the coach for a re-do because I stumbled a little as I took that first step onto the 10 yard starting line; I stumble a little over a stump as I take that first step into the woods. First string running back in sophomore year, can you imagine how proud my dad was? They said I'd be in the NFL by the end of eleventh grade, set for life. I was unstoppable on the field, like rolling thunder, a real force of nature in my feet. Even now its all coming back to me as I roll out of the way of branches like the arms of linebackers, then I try to hop over a log and it all comes back to me.

"Help me..." 

I can't believe I still hear that girl over the shooting pain in my knee, that old battle wound from sophomore year. The first thing I remember are those horrible sounds, the last sounds I heard in the first quarter of the Turkey Bowl against our rival school. The crack of a kneecap busting in half, the pop of tendons as they rip out of place, the dull thud of my own foot slamming against my stomach, and then blinding pain and pitch black. I sit down for a moment to nurse the old battle scar and shout out for the kid.

"Help me..."

Christ, she sounds even farther now, I've gotta get up and keep going, forget the damn pain. No matter how deep I go, I guess this kid is deeper in the forest, deeper and deeper, around where those teenagers must shoot up. Before junior year, before three years in crutches and a wheel chair, I didn't even know that you could get drugs in my quiet little town. I was hurting, bad. The doctors said it was all in my head, how could it be if I could feel it like this? Limp forward, towards the girls voice; its times like this when the old wounds act up that I remember why I made friends with Tommy in the first place. Tommy was a college dropout who learned just enough chemistry to mix up something illegal, some white powders and yellow crystals that looked like rock candy, I'd never even seen drugs like that before. Tommy told me they were expensive, but they were the only drugs in town, the only drugs anyone could ever get in this town, that fucking liar. Thorny branches stick through the sleeve into my arm, I'm surprised I can even feel them stab me after all those pricks I had to deal with. What do you know, even after two years of detox and rehab, I ended up dealing with even more pricks every day.

"Help me..."

She's gotta be closer, she's gotta be. I have to save this girl, I just have to, its all I have left.

The Theory Toolbox working question

Ok, so regarding The Crocotta, I'm not abandoning it, I've just let the well run dry by updating twice yesterday. So, when I went to update it today, I found myself grasping at badly written straws rather than coming up with anything good enough to submit to you. Instead, I decided to answer the following question from my college textbook not only for homework, but as a blog post.

In the 1950's "queer" was a particularly derogatory and hateful word to use when referring to homosexuals (and the word "dyke" a specifically pernicious subset of invective referring to lesbians.) Half a century later, however, these words seem to have been reappropriated by the homosexual community itself; one often hears of "queer theory" or "queer politics," and many lesbians like to refer to themselves as "dykes." (A popular lesbian comic strip is named "Dykes to Watch Out For.")
how does this happen? Are "queer" and "dyke" hateful words to be avoided or affirmations to be celebrated? Or both? Does the answer somehow depend on a reading of the situation to figure out which is the case in a particular context? And do you have to "watch out" when using a word like "queer," if you don't identify yourself as such?

There are few socially accepted terms of endearment used by ethnic groups that originated from offensive or derogatory terms, and it seems that words like ‘queer’ and ‘dyke’ fall into this category of new ‘friendly insults,’ as I like to call them.  These words, like with any word, are all about context and how you intend to use the word. For example, when I was young and out riding my bike one day, I took my eyes off the road for less than a second and ran into a telephone pole. For a long time afterwards my friends would call me a dumbass in a semi insulting way, and I’d just retort it back to them. Nowadays, whenever me and my circle of friends greet each other, we just say ‘what’s up, dumbass?’ We don’t mean any offense by it, even though it’s a generally offensive term, but it’s come to really be a part of us. If I were to greet someone who wasn’t in on our meaning by saying ‘hey dumbass,’ I guarantee you I would not make a new friend out of them that day, or any other day for that matter. Long story short, sometimes with an offensive word, I suppose the best thing to do is take it and make it your own rather than let it get to you.

The Crocotta, part three

The gravel and dirt are colder and rougher than the kitchen floor, but I'll be on the grass soon enough. Its kinda funny, now that I think about it, about that grass. I don't think I've set foot on any kind of field in near sixteen years, not since I lost the rights to this jersey keeping me warm. 1994 was my sophomore year in high school, and I was already varsity football. Classmates, teammates, coaches, they all knew me by the same name, Thunderlegs, I barely had a real name in high school sophomore year. They called me Thunderlegs after my first practice freshman year, when I broke the town athletic record for the 40 yard dash by nearly two whole seconds, and then asked the coach for a re-do because I stumbled a little and slowed down. Can you imagine how proud my dad was? First string running back in sophomore year, they said I'd be in the NFL by the end of eleventh grade, set for life. I was unstoppable on the field, like rolling thunder, a real force of nature in my feet. Even now its all coming back to me as I roll out of the way of branches like the arms of linebackers, then I try to hop over a log and it all comes back to me. The first thing I remember are those horrible sounds, the last sounds I heard in the first quarter of the Turkey Bowl against our rival school. The crack of a kneecap busting in half, the pop of tendons as they rip out of place, the dull thud of my own foot slamming against my stomach, and then blinding pain and pitch black. I sit down for a moment to nurse the old battle scar and shout out for the kid.
"Help me..."
No matter how deep I go, I guess this kid is deeper in the forest, deeper and deeper, around where those teenagers must shoot up. Before junior year, before three years in crutches and a wheel chair, I didn't even know that you could get drugs in my quiet little town. I was hurting, bad. The doctors said it was all in my head, how could it be if I could feel it like this? Limp forward, towards the girls voice; its times like this when the old wounds act up that I remember why I made friends with Tommy in the first place. Tommy was a college dropout who learned just enough chemistry to mix up something illegal, some white powders and yellow crystals that looked like rock candy, I'd never even seen drugs like that before. Tommy told me they were expensive, but they were the only drugs in town, the only drugs anyone could ever get in this town, that fucking liar. Thorny branches stick through the sleeve into my arm, I'm surprised I can even feel them stab me after all those pricks I had to deal with. What do you know, even after two years of detox and rehab, I ended up dealing with even more pricks every day.
"Help me..."
She's gotta be closer, she's gotta be. I have to save this girl, I just have to, its all I have left.

The Crocotta, part two

It was almost a year ago, eight months to be exact, when Maria Ashland went missing sometime between the hours of eight and midnight on February nineteenth. Her and her family were camping in the woods behind their house as a celebration for their little girls 7th birthday, her parents said she loved the outdoors. Her parents told her she could spend the night in the tent alone if she really wanted, what harm could it do to spend one night alone. They when they went to check on their daughter at midnight, they found her tent empty, absolutely empty. None of her food, her clothes, not even her sleeping bag was there. Days later, the police found the contents of the tent shredded and scattered three miles into the forest, no trace of little Maria was found. It was all over the news and after three months the family moved away. The story had only recently fizzled out of local media, the authorities just said that there was no use searching for what wasn't there. I don't know how I could have forgotten about that, it wasn't that long ago, so theres no way it could be that little girl down the street. Yet, sure as I'm standing there, I hear the voice one more time.
"Help me..."
I know thats a childs voice, out there somewhere in the forest. There aren't too many children in this area, just those stupid god damned teens and their drugs, shooting up at all hours of the night, screaming and laughing deep in the forest. When you see them on the streets they look just like anyone else, just like any normal teenager who goes to a normal high school. They're such nice kids during the day, they mow their parents lawns, do their homework, shoot hoops or play street hockey in the cul-de-sac. But late at night, when everyone is trying to sleep, they sneak out of bed and into the woods, deep in the woods where they do their drugs and crack dirty jokes, they spend the night laughing away and screaming in tongues, probably hallucinating. That must be whats going on, why else is there so much screaming, so much laughing so late at night. Thats gotta be the explanation, thats what I tell myself.
"Help me..."
I should stop wasting time, stop reminiscing about whatever, I've got a little girl to find, she's probably cold and scared out there.

To Be Continued

The Crocotta, part one

I could have been dreaming, I could have been crazy, hell I could have even still been drunk from the night before, but whatever I was, it doesn't change the fact that I heard it. I heard it clear as day, clear enough to have been right in front of me when it woke me up that chilly September night. Those two words still ring in my ear, those two words from the voice of a child.
"Help me..."
I awoke with a start from no dream in particular, whatever it was it ended with that voice. At first, I couldn't tell if I had even really heard it at all, let alone where it came from. For a moment that felt like hours I stared up at the white ceiling of my bedroom, you never notice what color your ceiling is until you wake up in the middle of the night and don't want to know what time it is. I wondered for a moment if that cry for help was the end of my dream, the only part of my dreams I can ever really remember, but that theory was shattered quickly when the sound came again, clearer than before, but not nearly as close.
"Help me..."
I sat up with a start, looking at the clock right across on my bureau; 12:23, I hadn't even gotten half a nights sleep yet, hadn't even been home for two hours, but I knew automatically what 12:23 meant. 12:23 meant I had been jobless for the last five hours and twenty three minutes. 12:23 meant I had been single for the last four hours and sixteen minutes. 12:23 meant I wasn't going to be getting any more sleep tonight, on top of a really shitty day yesterday I was going to be a zombie all day today. I guess when it rains it pours. The sound brought me sharply back into focus, why I was awake in the first place.
"Help me..."
Thats three times now, and I really hear it this time. Its a little girls voice, couldn't be more than five or six, probably that kid from down the street. The carpet is soft under my feet. She probably snuck out of bed to chase fireflies and got lost in that woods that surrounds the neighborhood, I always thought that place was dangerous, with those damn teenagers sneaking into there every night to shoot up drugs. The kitchen floor is cold and hard, a stark contrast. That sweet little girl probably got her foot stuck on a root, the poor kid. I ought to get out there and-
"Help me..."
I fumble around a drawer for a flashlight while pulling on that old football jersey, too cold to go outside without one. Found it, damn thing always rolls to the back when i'm not using it. I walk to the door and all I can think of is that poor little girl, cold and alone, stuck in the woods. Then I think, didn't that family move away? They couldn't have, I'm hearing their kid right now, I can hear her voice as clear as day.
"Help me..."
Then I remember; didn't they move away after their poor, sweet little girl went missing?

To Be Continued

Ain't Got Much But Nothin; a song

Ain’t got me no viable skill
I got me a mouth and a brain fulla pills
Ain’t got work ethic no way
I only got ethic to get up and play, nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin, and that just suits me fine

Ain’t got me no fancy clothes
Least I ain’t shabby like the ol’ hobos
Ain’t got me no pocket fulla twenties
But what I got, I got it plenty, nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin, So ain’t got nothin on the line

Ain’t got rythym, ain’t got rhyme
But s’long as I’m up here and you got the time
Ain’t got work and ain’t got no play
And you say you ain’t got the time of day for me
Ain’t got nothin for me
Ain’t got much but nothin, and ya got no nothin for me

Ain’t got respect but I’m positive
That I can’t get what I don’t give
Ain’t born with no silver spoon
Ain’t even got me a word that rhymes, I got nothing
Ain’t got much but nothing
Ain’t got much but nothing,  and nothin don’t come free

The Whole Town is Made of Death; a poem

Its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Nobody rides the street in cars
Except for cops working the graveyard shift
Just looking out for that one dead ringer
I ride the street on my vehicle of choice
My shiny new Razor Scooter
Such a smooth ride, a smooth glide
Smoother than satin falling through the air
Both move too much like a ghost, gliding gently
Never really touching
More like existing
And I glide over the ground, the ghost in this town
Its four in the morning, and this whole town  is made of death
Shops and houses shut up and uninviting
Empty windows might aswell be black brick walls
The streetlights cast an inch of makeup on the houses, those corpses
Just like the corpses in pine boxes, no matter how well done up you are
You can see it in the eyes, you can see the lights ain’t on
Nobodys home and nobody’s coming out, not while you’re around
I’m here to pay my respects to this funeral home, I’m not here to shop
Not at four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.
These roads are rickety, bumpy as all hell
But that’s ok, according to my salesman
My salesman explained that my Razor Scooter is brand new
Wheels so big, they’ll have me saying ‘What Bumps?’
Big wheels like novicane, I’ll never feel a thing
Trouble with novicane, you still hear it all
Every bump takes on a place in some ungodly rythym
Badup. Badup. Badup. Badup.
Like a dentist with a sledgehammer, with all that novicane
I never feel a thing
Untill my pants get caught in the fancy new spring loaded breaks
The back wheel jams and I go flying, catapulted by the one moving wheel in front
The novicane wears off when I land palms first, knees next
Land right on those rickety bumps, how humiliating
Good thing its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Everyone is dead now, or might aswell be
Everybody has slipped into a coma
Some are haucinating pretty hard
Good thing the doctor says that an 8 hour coma is normal
I wish I could slip off like that, into my coma
I wish I wasn’t sprawled on the ground in the middle of a bridge
So close to the edge of town
To the last building alive and so close to feeding my insomnia
No coma for me please, I have my Red Bull fix
But without my coma, without my halucinations, what have I got?
I’ve got nothing, nothing but a fistfull of words and a head full of paper
Nothing but the cops who drew the short straw and wound up watching
Nothing but  untouchable smoothness, tantazlizing like a condom for a Ken Doll
Nothing but the comas patients in the corpse skulls
Nothing but four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.