I am not sure if I actually really like my writing style, or if I can just relive the stories I tell so much easier because I know what I mean. Either way, sometimes I can't stop thinking about things or I can't sleep and so I go through my stuff and reread some of it. A lot of it is total crap but then there is so much sentimental value stored away in my writings. They can bring me back, so easily, to a feeling or a whole sea of feelings and I just sit here and enjoy it. Does anyone else get this? You love your own creations, not for their actual quality but for their personal function to you?
I guess this is why I like to reread my emotional writing the most, I honestly like it. I feel like it's well written, but so much more than that it pulls me into this world. I'll be half a sentence in and just be sucked into my office at the hospital, or my dorm room sophomore year, or my apartment with Jeff over the summer of 2010. Sure I really miss those days, the memories make me miss them.
I know I'm going to move on soon, and i'll rarely see my college friends, and probably never see my college acquaintances ever again, and it used to scare me. I don't know what to think now. I had the same feelings about college when I was in high school, so it must move on to something, not worse, and not better, but different. College is the first place that I feel I truly regret things that I have done, but I guess that's the same for most people.
To be honest, more and more, since i started junior year I have just been accumulating an anxious personality. I need to do everything all at once and I have a constant feeling that I need to experience everything before I'm done with college. I guess I just want to leave campus, get a job, and move on. I don't know what all this is about other than me getting my thoughts onto here, after reading through everything I wanted to make some sort of post so that I can bring myself back to this night when I read this some time in the future.
Tonight I read stories, and I watched friends experience fun. I had a few drinks, laughed, smiled, thought, and smoked a cigar. Usually I am unchanged and unmoved by events that happen to me and my friends, but tonight for some reason I stopped and instead of thinking about some significant thing that happened to me, I thought about some significant thing that could happen to me and what someone else did in that situation. I thought, what would I ever do if I had a kid. I would need to look out for him, teach him, and shape him. I would feel the need to force my morals into him and expose him to sports, arts, social life... and then I realized... My father. Everything he has done, he lifted weights when i was younger and put me into every sport he could, he even became the coach for some sports I was in, and he pushed...but only to a point, and the most important thing is that when he saw that I didn't want to play any sports or do any tough guy things, he never pushed me past the point he thought was reasonable, he let me be my own person. I have never even thought about it. What does it take to do that? To push forward your ideals to someone who is your responsibility, and then back off when they want to choose a different path? All I know is that at the moment I thought about it, I knew that i would not be able to do it, not until I atleast find my own place in the world. It made me realize how my father might feel, and how hard it might be for him to let me go off drinking in college, the smartass i am, being an engineer instead of some pro hockey player or video editing prodigy. I am not my father, and If I could, I guess I would owe it to him to be far more than I am. I try constantly to move forward because of my parents hopes that I will accomplish greatness. Maybe one day I will and you will read my name in some pointless science journal. I know that every day that I become more mature (which has happened much more this year than others), I move closer to some purpose or righteous reasons to earn good grades and move forward in life.
Forgive me if the characters aren't pronounced enough and if the story is too concise. I am sick, flu, cold, something, and just had a dream that I sort of used as a seed for this short story. Enjoy it or not, I probably won't ever do anything with this. It might make you laugh.
Peter heard the claws digging into the earth for their momentary propulsion forward, and he knew that if he stopped running for even one second, the beast's claws would be doing the same to him...again. He bolted past tall, solid, thick pines and hurdled over knee-high roots all standing in his way to the cabin. Peter had no idea whether the cabin would be safe or if it would collapse at the beast's first charge. He had no choice. He was stranded after he had been lured out into the middle of nowhere. Each of the beast's toes pattered on the ground as it sped up, and he could almost feel the warmth of its breath on his neck.
He could see it, the wide-open double-door to his warm, safe cabin.As he dove in his feet dangled outside for the shortest instant and then he slammed both doors shut, he set chunks of wood against the door for extra support and then as he went to lock the door his heart stopped. It began to spastically vibrate in a horribly inconsistent rhythm and as he reached for a phone it dropped to the floor beside him. He sprawled out on the floor all night, barely alive, listening to the creature trying it's hardest to pound it's way in, but he was lucky to have made his cabin out of the most durable pine trees he could manage to find. He even thought he heard the creature spew fire across the non-combustible seal he had spread onto the roof and walls.
In the morning the beast left, without any trace of what it was, or why it spent such a long time luring him and attacking him. Peter called a doctor as soon as he was able to prop himself up and scheduled a house call.
"Well, yes, there was a beast, and... well, no. I had no idea she was going to attempt to murder me. It was completely spontaneous!"
"I see...eh...Peter?" The doctor paused and sounded unsure of what the next move should be. "You say that the beast is gone then? For good?"
"I have no idea, but honestly doc, i need someone to tell me if I'm gonna be okay. Can't you risk a quick trip in daylight to at least assess my health?"
The doctor came quickly, wanting to get in and out as soon as possible. He did not come into the cabin though, he entered a humble little side house with a tiny head sized open window that Peter had engineered just for dangerous situations like this. He first took out his stethoscope and then laid various needles and knives out across his makeshift table, and patted it lightly against different sections of Peter's chest.
"Ah yes, I absolutely, definitely do not need to go any further than this. How far did you say you ran just last night? Did the beast manage to do any harm?" The doctor seemed very confident on his current hypothesis.
"Well I didn't say how long I ran, probably one hundred miles, give or take a couple, and the beast did certainly take a large chunk from me, look at this, my ears are both missing, it's terribly hard to hear you without cupping both of my hands next to my head."
"Ah yes, I did notice that you were doing that, HA! I thought you were just a screwball!" The doctor seemed even more pleased that he was not dealing with a screwball than his diagnosis. "Well all I have to say is...well... your heart, it's dead, you can't ever run. Not ever again. You should probably just stay in this house, it's the best option by far."
Peter just stared at the doctor with a horrific vacuum where his mouth used to be. The thought that he would be trapped in his cabin was terrifying, and not only because it would be lonely, but the beast may one day find a way to break in and steal everything he has left. He decided to get used to the new way things were going to be and spent three months not speaking to a single person.
At the exact day that he wanted to give up and leave the cabin and shout for the beast to come tear him apart, a girl came by his cabin. She knocked on the door, asking why I had two large doors but neither of them was open.
"I used to love guests, but...now I just can't afford to have them. See, if I somehow end up in a situation where I have to run to or from them, well, my heart just doesn't work anymore."
The girl sighed and kicked at the dirt near his door, but Peter could not hear it, "I just wanted to stop in and have a quick drink. It's a very long walk up here from any other houses."
"I can hardly hear you, please come around the other side." Peter sat and waited while the girl made her way around the cabin, and when she finally made it around he could not look away from her perfect smile reflecting some of the first sunlight he had seen in months. He gasped. What he wanted to admire of her was her beauty.
She stayed late, and even talked with Peter until the next day. Her freckles danced across her face as different emotions came and went from conversation to conversation. After a month of talking Peter decided to ask her name, and at first she was hesitant to tell him, not because she didn't trust him, but she had told him so many secrets that she did not want anyone to know and she knew that if he had her name, he could bleed them all out to the world. She decided to tell him and the moment that he knew her name felt like the first moment of his life, like his own birth, like his own resurrection. He quickly went to the front door and tried to open it, but there was a problem; the chunks of wood that he had shoved against the door had been expanding and he had no idea how to get rid of them.
"It's fine, it's perfectly fine, I can stay out here until you can get it open. Don't worry the least bit about me, I am perfectly content where I am, as long as I can still see you." The girl was enamored in only a month's time, and honestly, so was peter.Peter stayed by the window as much as he could but as time went on the girl complained more and more about how she wanted to come in, and Peter began to feel worse and worse that he was keeping her there. He told her to leave.
"You need to find someone else, I can't even house you! What kind of person am I if I continue to leave you out there? " Peter said this with his cupped hands pressed, still, against his head, " I don't have the ability to open my doors, so I am stuck with the decision of either leaving you out in the cold, or pushing you away to someone with a working home."
The girl kept talking for what felt like a year, but Peter had no choice but to let his hands down. He could not hear her, and just stared a very melancholy stare until she finally walked away.Peter noticed she dropped something and as he peered out he noticed that it was a heart. she had brought him a heart and was only waiting until she could get in to give it to him. Peter was so enraged at him self that he flew into a mad rage, grabbing vinyls and his small collection of boot-shaped mugs and lobbed them at the wall just to watch them shatter. He destroyed nearly every valuable thing that he owned and then realized that, since he had been holding his arms up for such a long time, they had become much stronger, and so he attempted to wrench the doors open.
At first he spent a month prying and pushing just trying his hardest to budge it open, and then he saw the beast. He asked the beast to help him open the door and take him away for dinner or to be a chew toy.
"I do not need to destroy you any longer, I have changed Peter." peter did not entirely believe the beast, but the fact that it would say something like that without being provoked was definitely different. He pushed and the beast pulled one last glorious tug as the doors snapped wide open. The heart that the girl had left outside was dry and wilted, and he realized that she had been pumping it for the long year that she had been waiting. She tried so hard and he let her down. There was nothing that made him feel that he had any right to talk to her again. The beast had him anyway.
Peter did not want to die if he had any chance to live, and so he made one last horrible strike on the beast with his newly found strong hands, and reached deep into it's belly to pull out his ears. The beast ran away, sad, and helpless. He wondered if maybe the beast was not as vicious as he last remembered.
When peter had the doctor sew the ears back on the doctor refused to come all the way into the cabin and wanted to sit in the outer room. Peter attempted to talk to the doctor, as friends, but the doctor left as quickly as he came. Peter had a few friends and occasionally they helped him fend off trolls from getting into the cabin. The end.
Didn't feel like writing a short story, I am always listening to alkaline trio when I write any poetry, so if it seems dark at any parts, that's probably Matt Skiba sneaking in. Also, you could probably find an Alk3 song who's melody fits this.
I don't remember how the hell I got here. I walked in, blacked out, full of beer. I pushed myself away, as I tried to pick me up, thought I could survive solely on luck, thought I didn't give a fuck.
I'm in bed watching last night's events, sad to see how much time I spent trying to make my life mean something, ended up with my head in the plumbing. What a dumb night of nothing.
I don't remember how the hell I got here. I woke up, layed down, full of fear. I pushed you away as you tried to help me up. Thought all I wanted was a fuck, give me water, fill the cup.
I'm at breakfast listening to stories, exaggerated, embarrassing, boring. I was much better at playing it safe, without drinking or staying up late. I told myself, and I can relate.
How I got to this place, is still not clear. All I know is that I am done here. Being alone was fun in its own way, Cheers Mcgeers, here's to the next day; More work and less play.
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