Monarchs in Pella

 [Note]: This is a very long post (approx. 13 pages). If you want to read it, I recommend copying and pasting it, then posting in word. That way the formatting will be correct between each paragraph.


AN APATHETIC EXPRESSION marred Henry’s thin lips. They were pursed as if he was restraining himself from speech while sipping a drink from an invisible straw. His instructor, Ms. Plummet, eyed him warily. Although he stared ahead at the whiteboard, his eyes never wavered from the middle of the square room. Henry’s dark green pupils didn’t follow Ms. Plummet’s fine, legible cursive, nor did they wallow in her mathematical formulas, her quotes from a previous time. Not to mention the activities listed under the header that read, “Daily Warm-Ups.”

Instead, Henry seemed more interested in the perfect circling motion of his thumbs as they spiraled round and round his hands. Ms. Plummet didn’t mind. She was happy to be there- even if her words were just waves drifting past Henry’s ears, disrupting the calm, cool air.

Ms. Plummet stilled her left hand, which held her black EXPO marker, and watched Henry’s eyelids gently fall. She was a patient woman and it wasn’t the first time the boy had fallen asleep during one of her lessons.

*

Henry stood on a prairie of differently shaded red bricks. He filled his lungs to their maximum capacity and released the air back into the eerie, violet sky. For a moment he was stationary, paused long enough to examine his reflection in one of the floating glass orbs that inhabited the atmosphere. His shadow stared back, unmoving, without any emotion.

As he walked the brick lane, the glossy spheres changed size and shape. Enormous to miniscule. Flawless loop to elongated oval. Unperturbed by the lilac emptiness of his netherworld, Henry paced onward. He brushed hair from his face and shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn, favorite pair of jeans. In the end, he grew tired of walking. He sat down. He stared blankly into the nothingness of the purple sky and the surrounding shadows.

Henry crossed his legs. A monarch butterfly fluttered in the air and landed on Henry’s rigid shoulder. His eyes, timid, showed initial confusion at the insect’s presence- but quickly were entranced in the beauty of its orange and yellow wings.

Slowly, Henry moved his right index finger, wading through the memories that thickened the air. The butterfly flapped its wings once and a gust of wind carried it easily from his body. His gaze followed it, until one of the floating orbs blocked his path. Henry frowned. The sphere doesn’t reflect an image of his shadow; instead it showed a picture of the past. It appeared vivid, real, and truthful. Henry reached out at the orb. Upon contact with the glass, Henry felt his arm shudder and his torso, legs, and feet being vacuumed upward. He tried to pull back but he the orb pulled harder.

Henry gave in and let his body go limp. The orb swallowed him.

A short distance away, the monarch danced and spun through the violet sky in a trance, an obtuse beauty in an estranged world.

*

The game faded to commercial. In the momentary darkness of the television screen, a reflection of Henry’s younger self sat hunched over a bowl of popcorn on a beaten up fabric couch. The room around him wasn’t in much better shape. Chips of drywall clung to messy, coffee colored carpet. Picture frames of happier times gathered dust. The kitchen, a short distance away, smelled of oil and cockroaches. The cracking speakers built into the TV mumbled, “Buy now! This is your one and only chance- if you order now; we’ll throw in another blender for free! That’s right, pick up the…”

In the corner of the room, surrounded by ash trays and empty beer cans, Mr. Emerson sat with a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand. He’d long since cared about smoking indoors and his grimy, unwashed skin attempted to mesh with the smoke in the living room. He inhaled the fumes, tapped his cigarette near the ash tray- missing it just slightly- and tipped a beer can back so the rest of it funneled down his throat. “Only thirty seconds left! Be quick to order! Remember, this offer includes…”

Mr. Emerson dropped the empty Bud Light on the floor next to piles of Coors, Milwaukee’s Best, and a pair of PBRs. “Henry, Henry.” Henry looked over at Mr. Emerson, his step-dad. The man was motioning him with his hand. “That’s right. Fetch me two more beers.”

His voice was beginning to slur. Henry shivered as he stood up from the couch. “Quit slouching, lazy-ass. Get up already.”

Henry shuffled off into the kitchen, stomach growling. He plugged his nose as he opened up the fridge, avoiding the moldy discoloration on its sides. Two cold beers filled his open hands. He looked around the kitchen for something besides the stale popcorn near the TV. Nothing but bread crumbs and dead bugs. Henry flicked one of the keeled over beetles away from the counter. “BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.” Henry heard the volume going down on the TV. Mr. Emerson muttered in the living room, annoyed. “This is an AMBER Alert for six-year-old Ryan Williams. Last seen in a park outside the intersection of Third and Elm…”

Putting the two beers on the table next to Mr. Emerson’s decomposing La-Z-Boy chair, Henry fell back into the couch. Dust erupted from his imprint, and he coughed slightly. The game was coming back on. Mr. Emerson popped open the next beer after taking a final draw on his cigarette. “And we’re back. This is Bruce Henderson of ESPN, and I’m feeling the excitement in the audience today. We’ve got a close one here, could be a very rare upset if the Hawkeyes can pull off this win against Sparty. Right now the score is tied at 53 apiece; six minutes left in the second half…”

Henry shuffled three pieces of popcorn in the palm of his hand, and began to ask Mr. Emerson if they could get any food. Mr. Emerson responded with a blunt, “Quiet kid, the game is on.” Henry looked around the room. Mr. Emerson was wearing one of his old Iowa sweaters to support his team. He counted the beers at his feet- most of them fresh from tonight. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. Mr. Emerson would be done soon. Last time Henry counted, Mr. Emerson made it to eighteen before passing out in a drunken slump. It was a new record, by Henry’s count at least. “It’s 60 to 58 now, as McGillian sinks another three for Iowa, putting them in the lead. Armstrong brings it up for the Spartans. What a move! He cross-dribbles past Bernheart, spins between Hernandez’s arms, and puts it in the hoop. And a late whistle! The head referee is calling a foul on Hernandez!”

“Fuck you Armstrong, fuck you Hernandez.” Mr. Emerson slammed his beer against the table. It’s good it’s almost empty. “And fuck you Ref. Come on!” He drained the beer. It joined the rest on the floor. Henry counted twelve.

Outside a car door is slammed shut. Henry sat up straight, excited for his brother, Joel, to get home. Joel usually brought him leftovers or a snack, and he was starving. Mr. Emerson glared angrily at the newest commercial, then at the door.

Joel walked inside, and threw the door shut, hard, behind him. Mr. Emerson stumbled up from his chair like an angry watch dog. “Don’t you slam that door boy. Where the hell have you been?”

“Out.”

“You going to apologize?” Mr. Emerson gritted his teeth and put his beer down. He clenched his fists. Henry grabbed the bowl of popcorn and shielded himself clumsily behind it.

“Sorry, Rodger.” Joel said Mr. Emerson’s first name with a hint of sarcasm. He put his hands in the air and walked toward the kitchen, letting out a heavy sigh. His blue and black plaid long sleeve was wet from the rain. Henry hoped over and over in his head that Mr. Emerson would let it go.

He didn’t.

Mr. Emerson grabbed Joel’s flannel and pulled him backward. “You treating me with disrespect, Joel? I’ll show you disrespect.” His voice was loud. His words slurred together. Henry couldn’t hear the TV and couldn’t see anything besides the mixed expression of anger and fear on Joel’s face. Mr. Emerson pushed Joel against the wall, and staggered toward him, his right fist quivering.

Joel lost his smooth attitude and put his hands out. “Cool down Mr. Emerson, cool it.” Mr. Emerson batted Joel’s defense away with his left hand and swung a wide right hook aimed at his face. Joel ducked it and spun back toward the front door. He threw it open and pulled his keys from his pocket. “Henry, we’re getting out of here. Let’s go.”

Henry tossed the popcorn to the side without a second thought and followed Joel to the door. Mr. Emerson yelled after them as they ran toward the sidewalk. “Get out of here, I don’t want you kids. Worthless, you all don’t respect anyone.” He grabbed his thirteenth beer, still half full, and pitched it at Joel. It hit him in the side of his leg and the alcohol spilled down his jeans. “Don’t come crawling back here either.”

*

Joel stared ahead; white-knuckles grabbed the original steering-wheel of his ’66 Mustang. Henry remembered when Joel bought the car; beat up, broken and rusted, for a flat $250. Joel would work every day after school on the vehicle, salvaging spare parts and toying with the engine. It was a couple months ago he that he finally got it to run. Its tires screamed down the asphalt of the 163. Henry turned the knob on the radio. The Iowa game was still on. “I’m Brady Gibson on 1815 the ZONE and we have ourselves a game. Don’t change the channel now because we’re going to triple overtime! McGillian, Iowa’s hot hand, took a long three-pointer that was well-guarded by Michigan State’s defense right at the buzzer of the second overtime, and it went in! Just hang in there, we’re heading to commercial but we’ll be right back with the rest of the game. Iowa isn’t falling easy tonight. They’re fighting hard, that’s for sure.”

They’d been driving for the past half hour. Joel had his foot heavy on the gas and Henry had fallen asleep in the passenger seat. He was awake now, quiet and somber, his usual self. Joel rustled the hair on Henry’s head. “We’re going to be fine. I got this friend in Pella, Henry- he’s got a big apartment near Central College. I talked to him while you were out and he says we can stay with him for a while. We just left Des Moines a little bit ago. You missed the city man. Although, I don’t think you missed much.” Henry smiled as Joel winked at him.

Hanging on Joel’s rearview mirror was ceramic butterfly. Henry pointed at its carefully painted wings and antennae. Joel nodded. “Anna made it for me. You like it?” He carefully loosened the string that allowed it to hang and handed the butterfly to Henry. “Check it out- no, keep it. My present to you. Anna’s a good painter, too. Look at all the detail.”

Henry’s eyes lit up as he took the winged sculpture. He was fascinated by the multitudes of oranges and the patterns on the butterfly’s back. He looked at his brother. “What about Anna?”

“She knows what’s going on, Henry. She doesn’t have room in her dorm at the University- but she’s glad we’re moving to Pella. It’s a much closer drive, you know.”

Joel seemed happy, and Henry was glad. He held the monarch against his waist and leaned his head against the cool window, staring out at the backdrop of Iowa under the clear night sky. “Looks like Bernhert fouled out for Iowa with that clumsy move there. Each team is still even and lost one player to fouls. Michigan State on offense now, man that Sparty can play ball. Armstrong passes to Weaton, Weaton fakes, dribbles to his left, bounce pass inside to Clifton, Clifton pivots, tries to go up- but is smashed down! What an effort by Hernandez! Udall with the rebound passes out to McGillian, who is 8/11 from three-point range…”

Henry pictured Mr. Emerson on his La-Z-Boy, either passed out or yelling, drunk, at the TV by now.

“Shit.” Joel tapped the gages on the dashboard. “Haven’t been paying attention to gas. We’re almost empty- help me lookout for the next station.”

Joel pulled into an old 7-Eleven gas station on the side of the 163. It was empty. The fluorescent lights flickered in the darkness. Henry watched him turn off the ignition in front of pump #7- and stared at an ad- Buy One get One Free hotdogs. Joel caught his look and grinned. “Here’s thirty dollars. Put twenty on pump #7, alright? You know how to do that?” Henry nodded. “Good. That remaining ten dollars? That’s all you. Stock up on some snacks, some drinks. Oh, and surprise me with something too.”

Henry’s stomach snarled as he climbed over the driver’s seat to get out of the car. The passenger door didn’t open- Joel hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. Joel gave him a quick hug and went to unscrew the gas cap as Henry ran toward the glass doors of the convenience store.

The clerk grunted as Henry reached up and placed the twenty on the counter. “Put it on pump #7, please.”

“Got it.”

He mulled around the aisles, eyes filled with images of candy, chips, soda, and sandwiches. He grabbed a Coke and a Sprite, two hot-dogs, a Starburst- and Joel’s favorite- Shockers. As he walked back to the cashier he looked out the glass doors at Joel, filling up the Mustang. Two cars had pulled up at the pumps next to him.

At the counter, the man was listening to the radio. Iowa and Michigan State were in triple overtime, and McGillian just stole the ball and made a quick layup to put the Hawkeyes up by five. Annoyance filled the man’s face. A green lanyard repeated Michigan State Spartans all down its side. No wonder he was annoyed.

The clerk rang up his items and itched the stubble of his growing beard. He squinted at the LED numbers of the register. “That’s eight dollars and eleven cents.” Henry handed him the ten. There was noise from outside, like someone yelling. The cashier held up a bag with a faded 7-Eleven logo on it. “Bag?” Henry nodded.

With the bag in his hand Henry walked to the glass door to head outside. He stopped, the bag wavering from its remaining momentum, a pendulum in his clenched hand. Four men had stepped out of the cars and surrounded Joel. Henry watched as one of them motioned at Joel’s pockets. Joel reached in, pulled out his wallet, and handed it over. The men were laughing. One of them pulled out a gun. He pushed Joel against his ’66 Mustang. There was a loud bang.

Henry stumbled backward in pain, as if he was the one to take the bullet. The clerk rushed out from behind the counter muttering, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He looked out the door and saw Joel slumped against his car and the men driving away, headlights off, speeding down the 163. “Fuckers.”

The clerk pulled out his cell phone and threw the glass door open, running toward Joel. Henry let the plastic bag fall to the floor of the convenience store and fell back against the old, red brick wall of the 7-Eleven. His eyes focused on nothing in particular. His mouth tried to move, but then faltered into pursed lips. He clenched and unclenched his hands rapidly, then pushed them together. He twirled his thumbs.

*

The butterfly finished its loop around the glass orb through the purple sky and landed on Henry’s stomach. Henry sat up and the insect fluttered to his fingertip. He looked at it in amazement, dumbstruck by the color and spectacular appearance of the monarch’s wings. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and the lilac sky drifted away. The spheres too, then the red brick beneath him. The monarch was the last to go as it gracefully beat its wings and drifted into oblivion.

*

“Henry, Henry- can you wake up for me?”

Ms. Plummet withdrew her hand from Henry’s shoulder, and glanced at the whiteboard from her student’s point of view. She admired her handwriting, the detail she went into on the subjects of algebra and history. Henry was back at it- twiddling his thumbs on the wooden desk, eyes marked straight ahead. She wondered if he even noticed the white-washed walls and lack of decoration in the room. She certainly did.

Henry had only been asleep for at most ten minutes and she had let him rest. She had pulled up the room’s only spare chair- a lop-sided old thing- and took the time to relax and read a book. She enjoyed romance novels and rarely had time to sit down and read.

The book was in her bag now and she lifted it over her shoulder and gave Henry a big smile. He looked so peaceful sitting there. She wished that for once in her life she could be at peace like him, too. No worries in the world. Ms. Plummet let out a sigh and jumped slightly as a knock on the door raised her heartbeat. She walked to the door and leaned into the hallway- admiring the sky-blue paint that decorated the walls. It was refreshing. A nurse stood outside in white scrubs her arms at her sides.

“Mr. Flint has a visitor. May I send him in?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright then, Ms. Plummet. Hold on just a moment as I get him from the lobby.”

Ms. Plummet closed the door and walked back to Henry’s desk. She smiled again, and said, “Henry, you have a visitor. I wonder who it could be?”

She thought she saw Henry’s eyes light up.

The truth was she knew the visitor. He always came- once every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes on weekends, if he had the time off. But he never missed a Tuesday or Thursday.

There was a knock on the door again, and the dark-skinned face of the nurse peeked in. “A Mr. Joel Flint, here to visit Mr. Henry Flint.”

Ms. Plummet stood up from her chair and shook Mr. Flint’s hand. “Ms. Plummet, you really can call me Joel. I don’t mind.”

She nodded, and replied that she was just too used to formal affairs these days. Joel smiled politely and Ms. Plummet let him take her seat next to Henry.

Joel had told her all about what happened at the gas station. The mugging. How the bullet passed right above his heart. How he was so lucky the paramedics arrived quickly, how the cashier had stopped the bleeding and kept Joel talking- not letting Joel close his eyes.

To Ms. Plummet, it was a miracle. But it was a tragedy that Henry couldn’t remember it. The doctors said that Henry went into shock. Too much trauma in one day screwed up the brain. They’re hoping that it’ll rewire itself and escape the shock but the odds of that happening weren’t likely. Therapy helps, slowly. They said he’s like a war veteran that was in horrific combat for three days straight. Worst of all, they said, he still thinks his brother died by that gunshot.

Ms. Plummet sat in the corner of the room, out of sight from Henry and Joel, and pulled out her book. She tried her best not to listen to Joel as he told Henry about his life. She couldn’t help but hear that Joel just got engaged, though. To a nice woman named Anna. Joel handed Henry a present- it was wrapped in brown paper. Looked like it was fixed or something. It was a monarch butterfly, with its abdomen seamlessly glued back together. She admired the artwork and talent and returned to her reading.

END

Fade Out, Fade In

This is my first appearance since September, for the most part. I placed a tentative post up on the blog near the middle of this month, but I didn't feel it was right- so I deleted it. This post contains the beginning chapter of an idea I am going to try and progress through NaNoWriMo. For those that don't know, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. It's a pretty sweet event. In order to "win," one has to write 50,000 words in a single month. Thirty days. It's a grand feat, but I'm sure that one feels amazing after its completion.

Anyways, here's a bit of what I'm going to try and write about. It's a total of around 2,300 words. Enjoy it!

CHAPTER 1 (Official Draft 2)

*    *    *

In the barracks, Gavin straps armor around his chest. He grabs a spear from the wall and throws it into a dummy. It feels shaky, stiff. He pulls the string of a nearby bow but the stretch is forced, not fluid. A man next to him looks surprised, says, No shooting today boss?

No. Doesn't feel right.

Gavin is walking now; his armor on and slightly loose against his chest. He is skinny, very skinny. He's looking into reflective glass- his pale face, his hair covered in grease. A row of swords and knives on a table catch his attention. He picks up a knife with a sharp edge, spins it in his hand, and squeezes the handle. The swords get a closer examination. He grabs a straight blade with a durable blue grip. The metal looks soft in the candlelight. Gavin shoves the knife in his belt and carefully attaches the sword around his waist. The man is talking to him. Gavin doesn’t listen. Something about food.

No thanks.

Back by the mirror he glances at his eyes. They’re frigid, empty. He blinks. Still cold. Emotionless. Gavin takes another knife from the table and throws it into the forehead of a dummy. Everyone thinks he has eagle eyes. But they’re just blue to him. The man mutters under his breath, Nice toss kid.

At the mirror he tugs on the straps of his armor. They feel alright. Loose but not too loose, like they look. He notices the stains on the armor. The dried blood. The salty crust of sweat. Rust. Mud. More mud. He wears pants that are shredded at the ends. Leather guards protect his shins. His bare feet feel every step on the uneven floor.

He’s cold and retreats from the mirror. His nerves are on fire- they always are before a fight. When he steps into the arena, though, his nerves disappear. He doesn’t feel human then.

Gavin needs to calm down. He grabs the bow again, unstrings then restrings it. He licks the feathers on the ends of three arrows and marks their metal points with soot from his thumb. He fits one against the wood and pulls back the string. Tight. Stretching further, his muscles bend with the bow, and he points one finger at the target. Release. The tip of the arrow jams into the pommel of the knife, pushing the blade further inside the dummy's skull. Too easy.

It’s all just too easy.

The noise is unbearable now. Gavin grabs his head in pain. He doesn’t want to hear their cheers, their cries of excitement. The man in the background is sitting down. They want more, he says. They never get sick of it.

More. Gavin frowns.

It’s time to put on the helmet, to place his skull in a prison. The helmet forces him to look mean. Cruel. Maybe this time he wouldn't wear it- he’d walk out without anything to protect his head. No one would hit him anyways. They’d miss. He’d dodge.

No. The audience wants the helmet.

He puts it on, sighs; the metal kisses his cheeks to spite him. Maybe he is mean. Cruel.

From this point Gavin doesn’t look into the mirror. He stares down the end of the tunnel and sees light coming in. It’s not bright, but it’s enough to tell that the sun is going down. The man leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He says, It's almost time.

I know old man. I know.

Gavin moves to a bucket filled with water and picks it up. He pours the water down his throat, letting it spill and rinse the stains off his armor. Images of past fights poison his thoughts.

The kid that controlled electricity. Fifteen-years-old. Face down in a pool of water, burn marks covering his body, a knife in his back.

The kid with iron skin. Older, low twenties maybe. Thought he was invincible- but there he was with open eyes, an arrow between his teeth.

The kid that ran faster than man or animal. He had a mask on, was tall, muscular. A sword stuck out from the center of his chest.

Their faces were hard to make out, the memories blurred into one picture. One ugly picture. Gavin shakes his head and sees his reflection in the water. He yells and slams the bucket against the wall.

The door opens and orange light fills the room. Good luck kid, the man says.

Luck. Gavin laughs to himself.

He walks past the man and straps the shield around his right forearm. It feels heavier than usual but the weight doesn’t matter. Everything is always heavy before stepping past the door. But in battle everything is weightless.

The audience shouts his name but Gavin’s blocked them out. He can’t tell if he’s the favorite or if the crowd is against him. He’s not worried. His shield arm hangs at his side, his chin is down, and his blue eyes are fascinated with the dirt floor. The blood stains. The sweat.

Gavin shivers in the doorway. His body tells him to run, hide, escape. He never had that chance and he doesn’t have it now.

They always bring the opponent out first. This time it’s a boy, maybe twelve-years-old, and he’s standing in the center of the arena. His armor is falling off his shoulders and his helmet can’t fit his head. He keeps pushing it above his eyes. The boy is holding a spear in one hand and a sword is strapped to his back. Two knives are in his belt. His legs are shaking.

Gavin still can’t hear anything. He looks around the packed audience, at the people that came to see the fight. They are the ones that are mean. Cruel. He sets his feet shoulder-width apart and shifts his head toward the boy, waiting for the flag in the middle to fall. When it does, he’ll pull the knife from his belt and throw it into the kid’s forehead. Just like the dummy. Just like before.

The banner is trembling in the wind. The crowd is mute.

It’s all too easy.

Before the flag hit’s the ground, a knife is in Gavin’s hand. He cocks his arm and launches the blade between the boy’s eyes. As it approaches, the kid blinks. The knife dissolves, particles fall like raindrops into the arid soil.

The youth smirks. He’s a nurtured killer. Just like the rest of them. Gavin shuts out his memories and concentrates on what’s ahead.

He draws his sword and levels his shield, relaxing his shoulders as he slides a foot back in the dirt. His armor clicks against his chest as he exhales.

With his spear forward the boy charges. Gavin meets the strike with his shield, but there isn’t the usual metal-on-metal clash. The point disappears, then reappears on the opposite side of the shield, cutting his shoulder. Gavin ignores the pain, twisting his back foot and stabbing at the boy’s chest. The blade turns to dust and the boy laughs. He is enjoying this.

Blood begins to flow. Gavin unstraps his shield, letting it fall to the sand with the spear inside it. His right arm is bleeding but not too badly. There are still two knives in the boy’s belt, and he’s tossing his sword from hand to hand. Gavin watches the kid’s eyes, scans for hints of the next attack.

As he sprints toward Gavin’s wounded side, the boy fires a knife toward his chest. Gavin focuses on the blade and reaches out a hand- gripping the handle. His muscles twitch to parry the incoming sword, then he throws himself backward in the sand. Dodge. Counter. He can’t risk another block- not with this kid’s ability.

He allows the boy to charge again, keeping the knife in front of him. At the last moment, Gavin turns and jabs his opponent’s sword-arm. His fingers curl around the weapon, then with an uppercut, he shatters the boy’s jaw. The boy stumbles. Gavin takes three long strides, ducking as the kid blindly swings his sword, and then kicks the youth’s legs from underneath. Using two hands, Gavin thrusts the knife into his chest. It doesn’t disappear. He takes the sword from the boy’s hand and drives it through his neck.

The sun is dropping, coloring the sky. Gavin watches the light fade from the boy’s eyes. He doesn’t bow to the audience, this fight isn’t a show. Its survival. He tosses his helmet into the sand and glares at the crowd. Blood covers his hands, his face, and drips from his arm. The audience is livid- cheering, roaring. They stare back at Gavin like he’s a god. There’s an announcer, and he’s saying something, probably about his win streak- maybe mentioning the final blow.

These people. Gavin grinds his teeth. They’re the ones that are mean. Cruel.

The door won’t open yet. He waits for the crowd to quiet down, for the announcer to laugh and smile. They comment on how great he is. But he’s no idol. No deity. No.

The door opens and the man is still reclined in his chair. You’re alive, he says.

Got cut.

That’s unusual. Want it cleaned?

No. I just want to sit down for a bit.

Gavin carefully avoids the mirror. He unfastens his armor and puts it on the bench where his shield used to be. He tears off the leather guards on his legs and retrieves the bucket from the corner, turning the handle of the faucet. The bucket fills and he drinks. After two sips, he pours the cold water over his head and shivers. More blood and sweat soak into the floor of the barracks. He lets the pail fall to the ground and sits on the bench.

He closes his eyes.

Gavin wakes up in a different room. The walls are whitewashed and there’s a clean floor. He isn’t in the grimy clothing he’s used to. Instead, he wears white pants and a white shirt. They are soft on his skin but don’t feel right. He thinks about taking them off but the people wouldn't like that. Straps cover his arms and legs. He hears a click from the wall and it slides apart. A man enters holding a metal box. He opens it to reveal a small chip. Gavin doesn’t know what it is.

The man puts a dark towel over Gavin’s eyes and he falls back asleep.

Again, he is in a new room. It has a long glass wall and dark gray tiles. Outside the glass he sees an endless series of uneven wooden pillars. He doesn’t know what the pillars are for. He feels sick, turns over on his side and throws up on the floor. He isn’t strapped in. He watches a different man walk over and guide him to the glass wall. You're leaving, he says. You’re going to forget everything you know. You will no longer be yourself.

The man sounds cold. Like he’s done this before. Gavin nods. He doesn’t know what else to do. The man takes a needle from a plastic case and taps the bubbles out. He presses the needle into Gavin’s bicep.

The glass opens and the man pushes Gavin outside. He stumbles and falls face-first into the grass. It stains his white shirt. It smells strange. Real. The man lifts Gavin to his feet and carries him to the edge of the forest. Go, he says. Start walking.

The serum starts to kick in and Gavin’s memories begin to fade. He walks in a straight line through the trees. He feels the bark and realizes he can’t remember his past fights, or his last fight. He picks a leaf off a branch. He can’t remember the man anymore. He smells a yellow flower. He can’t remember his own name. He can’t remember his skin color. He can’t remember what he looks like. He stops walking.

In the middle of the forest he sits down. He doesn’t know where, what, or who he is. He sees a bird in the sky. It has a sharp beak and long talons, and even though it is high in the air, he knows it is staring at him.

That's a hawk. It kills by diving from the sky, then digging it's talons inside the flesh of its prey. From miles away, it can see a small mouse in a field.

The voice comes from the shadows behind him.

Do you like hawks?

He nods.

From here on your name is Hawk.

The voice pauses.

Follow me. We have work to do.

Hawk enters the darkness of the forest.

Zeptember

What I'm Doing: Finishing Season ONE of the TWO-12 Blog

212:

It takes me an average of thirteen bites (with twenty-six chews per bite) to finish the last quarter of my whole wheat bagel as I stare in a stoic trance, waiting for the shuttle in the morning. It takes me approximately seven steps to walk from the front of the shuttle to the back, where I take a seat in the usually packed form of public transportation. It takes me, on average, the entire allotted time for me to complete an exam and to double check all of my responses. It takes me about seven (same number of steps to the back of the shuttle) months to write twenty-six blog posts (same number of chews in one bite), 37,256 words, and 72 pages of material. This post, Zeptember, is therefore the Season ONE finally.

Of sorts.

I've joined the Creative Writing club called ECWC here at UA. It's pretty sweet, and is a great and relaxed environment to think with the imagination and let the non-mathematical brain juices flow. Here are two pieces I wrote last Tuesday. The first is a stream-of-consciousness, the second is written completely with my right hand (a very hard task for a non-ambidextrous lefty).

Light my Cabeza
In a powdery cadence repeat aloud the timelessness, the timelessness of a music note not in memory, but sound- sound like rain drops trickling in a cruel rhythm, a beat determined by some to pierce ear drums and break sonic barriers. The timelessness of memory as music, the drifting words of that song that rings in your head like clockwork. Tick. Tick. Tick.

As people we create the clouds of imagination which spur forth consciousness and destroy the vague reality that reality is the tick tick tick of a clock, and you are the minuteman of a country, your country's hour. Faded are the memories that were thought to be the absolute shred of timelessness and suddenly, so suddenly you're lost in the tick tick tick that was the repeating cadence of your existence. Tick. Tick.

The moon shines daylight on the invisible city as waterfalls crash in the distance. The memories they, tick, are blending now like the colors blue and yellow when they form that other color, the color you called white. Opaque powdery white. The soft flakes of snow as they fall on green buildings making the sound which is only a memory of the timelessness pronounced through speakers as tick. tick. tick.

Lick your lips as your spit falls on clouds and turns to liquid on your tongue. Is this taste real or imaginative? Questionable or questioned? It surely isn't real- if it were real your mind wouldn't be crumpled with excess sardine cans and excuses for excuses. Words that are words that are pictures with vocal chords, vocal chords that mumble under the constraint of gravity and the atmosphere- tick. tick. TICK.

In a powdery cadence repeat aloud the timelessness. The words. The memories.

--------

Dear Right Hand #1
Synthetic is the unreal facility
where machines eat and drink they are robots
with human arms and their favorite
food is ice cream-
Specifically vanilla bean
mixed with happiness.

--------

Recently, I’ve started running with a good friend of mine. I learned my lesson in Philly that while it is fantastic to be busy, exercise still shouldn’t be ignored. I’ve never been a runner- I’m more of a sea creature, if anything- but it is nice to get out and explore the roads of Tucson with feet instead of wheels.

At first appearance, Tucson can seem worn down, beaten, ugly. But if that’s all you see, then you don’t know Tucson. I’m still getting to know the place, and every day I see more and more beauty, more and more qualities of nature of character that shine. I find myself standing outside at nighttime, taking a fresh breathe of air. The air is so sweet out here- so tasteful, fluid, and gentle on the lungs.

Sometimes, it’s relaxing just to take in what surrounds you.

Over the past few months, I've really struggled to meet my self-designed four-post-a-month quota. If you are a consistent reader, you've probably noticed this… and laughed at how I post two or even three posts on the last day of the month. So, finally after several periods of thirty-day difficulties, I've decided to cut back on quantity and propose a new era, a new season if you will, of quality. From hence forth, there will only be one major post per month. If I am feeling extra ambitious or full of creativity though, don't be surprised if there's more.

I really, really, really want to write a novel.

I was talking with my roommate, Michael, yesterday about why we take such hard classes, such hard majors, and such hard schedules at the University. Why can’t I just take fifteen credits of a non-science major per semester, breeze through those classes with B’s and C’s, and smell the roses? I could write a book in my spare time, snag a part-time job, beef-up my resume for the corporate ladder. We talked, and eventually we came to a conclusion that involved a video-game metaphor.

We can’t go through life on EASY mode. It just wouldn’t be fun. It wouldn’t be interesting. There would be no challenge. Instead, we have to play INSANE mode, LEGENDARY mode, MENTAL mode (to name a few). We have to struggle through the most impossible challenges, and then beat them. Conquer them. Crush them.

Where’s the rush in beating a game on EASY? I’d rather play LEGENDARY and fight with all my strength to win in the end.

INSANE > CASUAL

Like I said, I want to write a novel. I don’t need to take fifteen credits per year with a simple major to do it. I added a Creative Writing Minor to my Biochemistry and Molecular and Cellular Biology Majors just to have more time to write.

The brain is about to storm, baby, and the world better watch out for my lightning bolts.

-TWO-12

Yo. Yak.

It's August 31st and this should be August 11th. But that's OK. The past while has been a busy while and the future holds a busy and grim expression. This is a little piece I wrote up called "Those Molecule People" and is the first of three posts for today. It's the first of three because, like July, I am behind my 4 posts a month deadline and I need to PRODUCE. So, I am producing with vivid imagination and wonderful courage.

As usual.

Those Molecule People

It's small down there, but big. Hundreds of hundreds of men of women running walking turning thinking. I can see them, and they do almost appear as ants. Ants in a colony going in and out of their anthills. But they're not ants. Not wasps nor butterflies. They're small, but big. They're not molecules hitting each other but they are molecules hitting each other by walking running thinking turning.

The roads and grass and fields look like square boxes painted in a grid. Some green, brown, yellow. Then there are the buildings, the anthills, the mega-masses of molecules, grey-blue structures jumping out from the crust. The mountains are there too- but further off. Bent and crooked like a scar beveled up on skin.

Is the dirt skin? Can we just see it up really close like we're the molecules on our skin bumping into each other walking running turning thinking? Maybe the grass on the fields is hair on the arms, and it gets shaved by lawn mowers and big tractors. And outer space is really space and air the air big people breathe and us small people just breathe in the air closest to the skin because it doesn't hurt our tiny people lungs. Did the first man to land on the moon reach a giant molecule of oxygen? The moon must be one of those, one of those oxygens.

There are many of them. Running walking thinking turning. Going in and out of their metal anthills and bouncing like molecules. One of them may have a special appointment and is running through a line of stopped traffic on a freeway. He can't miss that appointment, and would rather run than sit in a taxi. But maybe he stayed in the taxi, because after all the nitrogen molecule of sun may be burning the skin right now and making the asphalt hot. But I'm not so sure, it's hard to tell from up here.

They say the next step is to go and live in the clouds. To build floating cities and dance on the formation of rain drops and lightning bolts. I think they want to be godlike, like those guys on Mt. Olympus who never see their shadows and if they do it's because they're not on Mt. Olympus but rather visiting the land below. They say they want to be formidable and build these sky-forts that can intercept their enemies attacks. And I asked them why they had enemies, because surely if one tried they wouldn't have an enemy unless their enemy was someone who hated really nice people. Maybe that someone who hates really nice people is running walking thinking turning down below, he could be interviewing the man that is probably running from his taxi to get to a special appointment because traffic is all locked up.

I'm glad I'm not all locked up in a queue that wouldn't be productive and instead they sent me up in this high place to see if it is a good place to build a structure like the structures underneath it. Except this new structure would be in the air and it would stay in the air, hopefully, otherwise it would fall down to the molecule ant people that are running thinking turning walking.

I was told by them to try and understand the basics of the dimensions. What goes up and down and around in circles, I think. But is six times six really thirty-six, or is it thirty-six people, iron bars, or air planes. I would like to think it is thirty-six airplanes with strings attached below holding up a man's brand new modern sky house. But I think thirty-six airplanes could hold more than one house. Maybe it is a small cul-de-sac that they are holding. But I bet they wouldn't do it that way, they would be much smarter. The molecules down there have good processors, they are programmed well. They may sleep by nitrogen sun and breath in mini moons, but that's ok. I wonder what the name of the human they live on is, maybe it is Moe. Moe seems like a good human name it is short and three letters and starts with an M. Good words start with M, like magic or multiply. Moe the man with the molecules. That's pretty fitting.

I wonder if worlds like Moe ever find other human-people like Sallys or Georges. They must be nice humans, and what if the humans touched would that mean that the molecule citizens of Moe would meet the new peoples of George or Sally? That could be neat it would be like two worlds coming together. I wonder what the people of George look like or maybe I will never know. What if it's like the molecule people believe that they just keep rotating around oxygen moon and nitrogen sun and they never ever touch them but keep spinning around very fast. I bet George and Moe and Sally never meet because they have to spin so fast like the molecule people say and everyone knows that if you spin really fast you get dizzy, and if you were always dizzy you would never meet new people. Poor Moe, he must be lonely. I wonder if the molecules could send Moe a message, like if they figured out where his nose-piece would be they could make him sneeze-action. Or a better action probably, those molecule peoples could think of one.

But they have enemies and I wonder why they have enemies on such a small human. Are molecule-people just bound to dislike each other? I don't dislike anyone and I don't have enemies. I think. Maybe the molecule people aren't going to build a sky-fort and they sent me hear to tease me. No, they were pretty excited about their sky-city. But they have enemies, so it may have been a tactic of theirs to get me away because I could be special. I wonder.

Bad people. I bet they're not really bad but they just have different views than normal people. I also bet that they think normal people are bad people and they think they are normal people, or even good people. Molecule peoples should all be proud to be peoples though, and live like happy things. They are always happy peoples when they a birthed. I saw one once, from far away and it had the biggest smile-cry ever seen on Moe. It was so excited to live on Moe that it just screamed and yelled and if anybody knows baby-molecule language that means it was excited. Were all the peoples as excited as this baby? It has been a long time I think since I was birthed, but I bet I was that excited. I still am that excited and I am happy to be on Moe-world. It is a comfy place and I don't have any enemies. But I could have enemies on Alice-world or George-world or Sally-world.

Since I'm here I might as well look for the Olympus peoples. They should be up in the clouds here like Zeus-man and Hera-woman. I bet they know lots about Moe. I would ask them if I met them and ask them many more questions. But I hear they are of the sneaky sort, and by that I mean that they are hard to find. They could be invisible. Or they could only appear to some.

The big ball of nitrogen sun is falling now. I see it like a big ball of yellow. It's there. And then there. And then a little bit lower and I see it there big and yellow and round. The outer space is getting dark again and I think Moe is finally grabbing the light switch with his man-fingers and pulling down so that it turns off. Or maybe Moe has a better light switch and is pressing a remote control button that gradually dims the artificial light in the room he sits in. That would probably work better anyways because Moe is spinning and spinning very fast and it would be a very difficult task to press a tiny switch in the downward direction while spinning fast. It makes much more sense for Moe to continue spinning and press a button on the remote control in his hand. But what if Moe runs out of batteries? Will George bring him more? No, George would probably completely miss the battery-assist to Moe if he attempted to throw them, and I bet George doesn't even know where Moe is because they are both spinning so fast. I'm not sure. This is a difficult question to think about. I just hope that Moe doesn't run out of batteries because I like the artificial nitrogen yellow ball sun and I like watching it slowly dim as Moe presses on his remote control.

Living in darkness might just make me sad. And I bet the world of Moe would have much more enemies if it was dark. They do say that light is a good thing. That's why they want buildings in the clouds. Much more light there, they say. Maybe that's why... because if they build a new city in the clouds, they won't have any enemies there. Or they could just be wanting the sky-fort. I think it's probably the sky-fort. It's like when I was a kid I just played with blocks and I would build forts and defend them from attackers. I think the molecule-people are like that on Moe's skin. They just want to build forts and defend them from their enemies. Yeah. That's probably it.

I don't like when the nitrogen yellow ball sun goes away. The oxygen moon just isn't the same because our lungs like that stuff. We don't run off nitrogen but we run off oxygen so it makes the oxygen moon less exciting. And it's dull. It just sits there and doesn't do much and shows only a tiny bit of silver light. I should leave this place now. The sky here is cold and I don't like to be cold.

I think I'll dance on the raindrops before I depart back to the lower level and give them the news.

Questions with No Answers

What I'm Doing: Looking forward to the final Mad Skillz Update. Can’t wait Law.

212:

You may have yet to notice, but none of my posts repeat the initial letter in their titles. This is the fifth full month, and if you add my blog-birthing post from February, that puts me at 21 posts. By the end of August I will hit 25 posts- which will leave me with one final letter for the 26^th blog title. In these last two posts, I’ve barely managed “X”, struggled just slightly with “Q”- both infamous for their conniving trickery. However, I am still left with “Z”, “Y”, “U”, “T”, and “S”. Which one will claim the 26^th title slot, I am not so sure yet.

For some reason, I thought it would take forever to reach 26 posts. I’ll have to start coming up with new ideas and schemes for my blog titles. Maybe the 26^th post (as I’m sure my good friend Law will surely say) will be the end, and finally of 212’s Season 1. We’ll see Law, we’ll see.

Matter over Mind

The oven is on. It’s been on and still is on and has been on since yesterday morning when you made your eggs over easy because you like them better that way. The oven is on and it is making your gas bill higher and your expenses rise and it is taking money from your bank. Gradually. Every second you spend sitting in your car letting the air conditioning fume out of the vents and hit the cool beads of sweat gathering right above your upper lip causes the gasoline in your tank to decrease just slightly enough that you ponder if it is better to put the windows down even though it is summertime. But you don’t dwell on it. There is a truck next to your car and it is towering above your car. It has giant tires and wheels that sparkle in the sunshine and you get a good hard look at them because it is rush hour traffic and you might as well open your car door and get out and lick them. You question why they shine so much because it just rained yesterday and in order for them to shine the man next to you must have cleaned his car during the workday. A car honks its horn behind you and you realize the car in front of you moved approximately thirteen feet and seven inches while you were thinking about the truck’s wheels. You tap the gas slightly and roll forward the exact thirteen feet and seven inches to appease the God’s of the compact and packed freeway that isn’t exactly free. It’s free to ride on but yet you still have to pay gas to ride in your car and those gas prices have been rising lately. But it isn’t free because you are prisoned in your Ford and all you have for comfort is the air conditioning that is tickling the prickles of hair on your cheeks. By the time you sweat through your white button up and undo your tie you realize that the oven is still on. And you’re still not home. And it’s been on since yesterday morning when you made your eggs over easy because you like them better that way. And that the gas that is keeping your oven warm and toasty in the summertime is still taking money out of your bank. Gradually. The workday has made you tired and slightly depressed and you don’t want to think about work so you grapple with the knob on the car stereo and twist it with a slight and imaginary flick of the wrist. Bon Jovi yells through your speakers and you really don’t like Bon Jovi. You scream in the glass case of your car to whatever plush arm chair that Bon Jovi is currently sitting on in front of a fire that you are currently not “halfway there” and that you are still quite a long, long ways from home. And that in the past hour you have moved approximately thirteen feet and seven inches and that the temperature outside has moved further than that because it is much hotter than earlier and you know this because you have already rolled down your windows twice to properly examine the wheel’s on the truck that is stationed in limbo next to you. You press the knob in on your radio and decide that is better to sit in silence in your Ford than to listen to Bon Jovi telling you to take his hand. You saw an infomercial on meditation the other day and you remember it through the stench of exhaust as the semi-truck that is three cars ahead of you accelerates slightly to move another twenty-two feet and six inches forward. But then you think of what you just remembered and are slightly upset by the absurdity of the infomercial. Isn’t meditation supposed to be something that is free and for everyone to enjoy and that is supposed to relax you- at least that is what you thought. But some company somewhere is probably making lots of money somewhere for using it is their great new weight-loss campaign. Maybe the executive of that company is sipping on a margarita with Bon Jovi somewhere in the Caribbean right now. For a second you wish you were there too- but then you remember you don’t really like Bon Jovi and that your oven is still on and if you were in the Caribbean it would take you a long time to get home and that may cause problems at the house. You’re not positive the oven is on, but you think it is- you think you’re sure of it because you just have that feeling that you left it on like the ghost hand that turns the radio. Not exactly the same as when a commercial on the radio comes on and the volume is suddenly higher than when a song was on, because that’s just the sound on the commercial. But as if you actually turned the knob when the commercial came on and then suddenly remembered you turned the knob. That kind of feeling. So you are pretty sure the oven is on and you want to be able to get home fast not only to turn it off but more importantly to make sure if you are right and that the oven is actually on. You debate picking up your iPhone and calling your home phone and begging for your cat to pick up as the phone rings and rings and rings. The cat could possibly become so annoyed that it picks up the phone and will understand your command to turn off the oven. But even if that happens, you still wouldn’t know if the cat actually turned off the oven. It could become lazy and decide to take a nap before turning off the oven and when you get home the oven could still be on. Or the oven could be off and the cat may have turned it off and then your cat could be incredibly smart and you would think so at first too but then you would realize there was the option that maybe the oven was never on in the first place and money was not being taken out in incredibly small increments from your bank account in the form of gas.

-----

It’s August now, even though this post says July 31^st. Time for things to get moving. Time to get out of that chained-freeway state of mind and progress into purposeful thought.

-TWO-12

Onward to August

What I'm Doing: Sitting on the couch with swimmer’s ear, legs sore from a triathlon.

212:

Somehow, I have to chunk out three more posts in the next three or so days. July has sped by faster than Pre-June. I can’t seem to figure out where July has disappeared to. Some obscure crevice in the middle of the Atlantic, perhaps- hiding with forty-foot eels and cowering from the monstrosities of the great oceanic darkness? Or maybe July decided to take a short vacation halfway through its scheduled work week, and took the nearest rocket ship to Jupiter? Or maybe, a mad scientist somewhere on this planet (or relatively close to this planet) created a time warping device. It may have malfunctioned, causing minutes to turn into hours and hours into days.

Whatever happened to the normal mass of July will most-likely remain a mystery. It will go down in the books as an event such as Atlantis or the Bermuda Triangle.

Or maybe, I’m just having a fun time in the summer of 2010.

Clouds and Drywall

Outside.

People relax. They lie down on their plump grassy lawns and let their shoulders decompose into the earth. Sniffing the rich soil, they exhale- then direct their vision receptors toward the expanse of blue atmosphere. One by one, the people point at the large masses of whiteness. They claim them as theirs, and then define them to be prehistoric beasts, bipedal creatures, and exothermic monstrosities. Once a mass of whiteness is dictated to be a specific device by one of the population, all other members of the population would chime in. The people glorify over the ideal wonders and detail of the obtuse whiteness.

Inside.

People stress. They lie down at their beds at night or on the toilet in the afternoon. The population’s mental capacity is peaked and is strumming and humming and struggling to keep up with the pace of the required thought process to decode the average crossword puzzle. Images and words blur into foreign artifacts and symbols turn into everyday language. No shoulders slump into the gentle embrace of the brittle ground. Instead, the artificial gathers its claws and tendrils and marinates the bodies in gruesome poison. Vision receptor shields twitch and shiver- as does the skin. Sight wavers, and concentration is a struggle. The walls. The white walls are the only escape. The drywall. Its uneven curves and non-uniformity are turn-ons to the creative enclave within the cranium. People devise nostalgic shapes and genius out of it. An ex-wife, a WWII bomber, a toy… lost long ago.

Outside.

In sheltered harmony, a boy and a girl gaze at the wonders of space. The clouds fascinate them with their opportunity and brevity of solid shape. Their imagination whirs like a stirring rod in a beaker, spinning around the brain mass into a mixture of beautiful insight and intellectual fact. The mind is at ease.

Inside.

In solitary confinement, the wild man of the population wonders about the details of the walls. Usually, his mind is framed and slaughtered by the details of his past and the confusion of his present. The nurses and doctors tell him he is sick, very sick. But the walls tell him otherwise. The walls tell him stories and cure his curiosity of the world. If it wasn’t for the walls, he would be long lost. They would’ve sent him far away by now, if it wasn’t for the walls.

The Adventures of Captain Ralf (Part Two)

Age of Sam McGuffin: 9-10

All writing copied, including spelling/grammatical errors

(Part One of Captain Ralf is on the previous blog post.)

The officer opened the drawbridge. “Here you are,” he told him, “the King’s castle!”

In the throne room Ralf looked at his surrondings. There was stone walls with the same brown tint as the outside wall was. There were stone pillers and a stain glass window that look as if a rainbow won the lottery. But the center of attraction was the red carpet in the center of the room, and at the end of the carpet, were two people were sitting.

One was the king the other was the boy that saved Ralf from the monstor. “Hello, I’m the King and this is Felix.” The King was an old wize man with a white beard. Felix was a young boy with a blue tunic. Ralf said to the King, “There is something very important that I must tell you, don’t tell anyone cept your mum. Now this is what I want you to do, I need you to stop a person, his name, Dr. Reeeally Evil, and his lab assistant, Dr. Steeeal. They have just left from our town. They made 15 guards fly in the air. If they could do that they can reach their goal, which I believe is to set the Eternal Dragon free. It is up to you to save the world from the dragon. Felix will be joining you on your quest.”

**

Ralf’s house was a small two story with a hay room.

“Ralf, you’re back!” His mom shouted excitedly. “Hello Felix.”

After all the good nights, Ralf and Felix went to bed. Ralf had a very bad dream that night it was about those two people he knew and two others and they were freeing the dragon.

In the morning, Ralf had gone up to the kithcne. The kitchen was farly small, there where cupbords and conters and a stove. “It breakfast ready yet?” Ralf asked. “Yes.” His mom said. After breakfast where the goodbyes.

“Bye, see ya! Have a nice trip!” After everyone had said their goodbyes, a familiar voice shouted very loudly- “I thought I told you to leave!!!”

**

Later in the early spring morning, where the sun shined in colorful rays upon Ralf and Felix. Ralf scaned the hazy mountains that wer in a bluish gray like the ocean tide in a warm morning at a early time. Felix was gazing in the other direction where a wagon was going around a bend that was a dirt pass of which Felix never knew, threw his many experienced years, eight to be exact. Felix started to walk toward the pass. “Hey wait for me!” Ralf said, just getting up from looking at the mountins. “O.K,” said Felix.

Once Ralf caught up they dashed around the bend at the monstrous wagon. All of a sudden an evil looking thing popped from nowhere. “What on earth is that!” Ralf yelped in dismay. “We should be able to take that piece of junk!” Felix shouted. The piece of junk was a trashcan with one eyeball, and had two robotic arms. One had a rounded thing, gold was the color. “I shall dominate!”

At that, the thing flew into the area with a bluish red flash that was like a rocket lifting up. ZZAAAP! A lightning bolt struck the scene in a gold flash!

In the wagon, a boy that had a green tunic and had gold hair was observing. “Over here sir. Argh! What is this!” Above the hubbub the lightning flash was heard, a man dressed in a formal coat who was obviously the driver, had something to say. “All in favor of going back to check that strike, say aye!” Everyone  in the wagon said “I.” The sound of it was a great noise as if Thor himself came down to earth.

**

Seven people plus a streacher went to look at the blown away scene. “Wait, wait up!

It was the boy from the wagon. “You’re just a kid, Dr. Reeeally Evil might be out! He’s been roaming around this area.” Said one of the men. “I don’t care if a metior hits, I’m still comin’!” The boy shouted back.

Pages 7-14/18 of Captain Ralf

-----

The final portion of Captain Ralf will be posted tomorrow.

-TWO-12

Large Day

Midnight Walk:

I tip toe on shards of glass,
Letting the world absorb
me in its grasp.
Where is fate?
Can it say what's next?
No.
Only I can make a choice.
Only I can speak my future.
Fate is just a dagger
beneath the soles of my feet.

What I'm Doing:Watching Philadelphia play Chicago in Game 6 of the Stanley Cup

Music Suggestion: Conductor by We Were Promised Jetpacks (Lyrics)

*Thanks to my man Joey Bellus, greatest fitness trainer in the universe*

212:

Countdown: 8 days. 192 hours. 11,520 minutes. 691,200 seconds.

It's down to the last eight days of City Year Greater Philadelphia. I had the urge to make up a remodeled version of 12 Days of Christmas for this post, but I held back. It isn’t right. This is going to be a sentimental week of goodbyes, congratulations, and celebrations

In City Year we consistently end our meetings on a break, kind of like a sports team. The last person to put their hand on top of the center has to pick an inspirational word and everyone else says it on “P.”

Many have been stumped by the “final hand” in the pile. Once someone places their hand down and notices they're the last one, their mouth hangs open. It’s funny to watch, rough to experience. Eventually a word comes to mind and the meeting comes to a close. This post has the title, “Large Day” because that was one of the stranger breaks I’ve had. Props to Andy B. for that.

Ex: “The word is… Large Day. C, Y, G, P, Large Day!”

Observational Note: Salad drenched in dressing is the healthy man’s cereal.

This picture is from the interior of the Harrisburg capital building. Yesterday I was able to travel and experience politics in true form by talking with senators and house representatives. I was lucky enough to go- recommended by my program manager; Jess (thanks again Jess!) at the last second.

Harrisburg was awesome. It was nice seeing a location in Pennsylvania besides Philadelphia and it was wonderful to observe the state government. About 50 people from City Year made the journey. A comedic bus driver named Alex drove us up bright and early in the morning, and took us back home after our concluding meetings. In order to be effective and efficient, the 50 of us split up into teams.

Besides me, my team consisted of Ijeoma, Joe, and Ian. We were scheduled for four 30-minute meetings with Representative Ronald Waters, Senator Vincent Hughes, Representative John Perzel, and Representative Gregory Vitali.

Rep. Waters:

My first meeting was with Representative Waters. After passing security clearance and wandering around the halls of the capital, we arrived at the doorstep of his office. Nervous and jittery with anticipation, we waited to speak to representative of the 191st district. But when we stepped inside, we quickly learned that Rep. Waters was absent (he was currently attending a meeting). 

Everybody was in session, after all. 

Being the tenacious people that we were, though, we didn’t retreat and relax until our next meeting. Instead we talked with the secretary, which felt like a warm-up game. She was a bouncing board for our stories of our accomplishments in City Year. It also felt like an initial success, and after talking with the secretary we felt warmed up. We were ready for the big shots.

Senator Hughes:

Hughes was next. When his secretary said he was in a meeting it felt like a repeat of round one. This time we waited it out in a series of plush chairs in the corner of the room.

Surely he wouldn’t be too long.

And he wasn’t. Hughes opened the door to his office with a flurry and a booming voice, shouting, “City Year is in the building!” He motioned us to follow, and with fat grins on our faces, we knew this was going to be a fun meeting.

Slightly out of breath, Hughes reclined in his leather chair- gulping down a bottle of water as he listened to our stories. When I mentioned my school (which happened to be in his district) he sat upright and excitedly said, “My man!”

Overall, Hughes left a great impression in my mind. He was ecstatic about City Year and didn’t seem to know how to stop asking how he could help. As we were about to leave his office, another group was going in. Hughes couldn’t hold himself back from saying, “You see them? They’re City Year and they do amazing things. Be proud for those people!” 

Intermission:

The end of our meeting with Senator Hughes signified lunch time. But we had almost two hours of freedom, and since the capital was in session we decided to stop and see the state representatives in action. We passed a metal detector and onto a balcony with steep, carpeted bleachers. From the front row, we could see the men and women underneath. They were currently arguing over a bill and its purpose with illegal immigrants. One man was standing at a podium in the center, shutting down another who was questioning him. It was heated and exciting.

It was like watching C-Span in person. For the half-hour we watched I couldn’t have been more entertained. 

Rep. Perzel:

Representative Perzel had soft caring eyes and a gentle handshake. His face was worn by years of experience and his lips quivered with a sense of honesty. With lunch in the past, my group was sitting in the lime green expanse of Rep. Perzel’s office. He was an adept listener and worried about the learning crisis in Philadelphia. We had a brief conversation with him about the merits of the education system, and shared stories about troubled students. 

Rep. Vitali:

Alas, the circle needed to complete itself. Vitali was a mirror situation to Waters- he was absent. We attempted to talk to his secretary, but she wasn’t too keen to listen. She made for awkward conversation, but before she could push us away, Joe rolled into his testimonial. As soon as it was done, however, she had decided it was all she wanted to hear. Without listening to Ijeoma or I, the secretary brushed us aside and closed the door on our little talk. Maybe she just wanted some peace a quiet for once.

AP Government Note: It took all that I had in me not to scream the word “caucus” every one of the thirteen times I heard it.

Before heading back to Philly I made a pit stop at a souvenir shop in Harrisburg. I scanned everything looking for an odd gem or unique artifact. What I came across stunned me- outrageously priced poor quality pens, valued at a hefty $2.12 each. I couldn't pass up the photo opportunity.
 

But why were these pens awkwardly priced at $2.12? Why not $1.99? I was as confused by their cost as the cashier was by my pen-jar photography. The significance of this number was pretty neat in relation to my blog. I've never seen something priced so specifically, and I doubt I will again.

On the bus ride to and from Harrisburg I was supplied with ample nap and reading time. During the combined three hours I was able to complete the last pages of Ender’s Game. The book was given to me by the University of Arizona Honor’s College and although I knew it was regarded as a great book, I had never read it. Let me just say that it is fantastic. I didn’t expect dark and deep themes, beautiful character development, or a page-hurricane of a plot. It was easily a five-star read. High-fives to Orson Scott Card.

What if public transport was a waterway? Instead of dirty tracks we would have clean cut, clear tubes with water rushing through at high speeds. Infinite amounts of chlorine/cleaner would solidify sanitation expectations. People would ride in inner-tubes, swim in a speedo, or other improvised vehicles. There would be a normal consistent route, and an express route (rapids). In the rapids, people could carpool at excessive speeds like white-water rafters (watch out speedo swimmers..).

I also propose National Kart Day. On NKD, everyone in the city that owns a Go-Kart competes in a circuit of races. This will promote culture, diversity, and unity- not to mention a massive augmentation in the spending of beverages and lawn chairs. *Brainstorming with Tyler B.*

Countdown: 1 day. 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds.

Tomorrow is my final day working inside of a high school and today marked the end of our after-school program. It was outstanding- 65, maybe more students packed the library the second the last bell rang. They were excited, rambunctious, and full of energy. We used funds from earlier school projects to buy pizza, chips, soda, water, and fruit- which made the gathering into a full on celebration. It was a celebration of our service and our work with the students.

Throughout today I created 25 appreciation cards for my kids. I drew crazy, wild pictures on the covers, and long, loving paragraphs on the inside. I poured my heart into them and then gave them out. It felt amazing to give these letters to my kids- to let them know, as the fireworks begin to light the sky, that they meant the world to me, that they could achieve whatever they set their minds to. Why? Because I had their backs, I would support them. I could tell that these notes meant a good deal to kids like Devon, Jonoy, and Wayne. I don’t know any way to measure their value besides smiles and nice words, but I could feel it. My kids needed a solid friend and they knew I would be there- even if I was in Arizona.

What will my students become in the future? I’m not sure. But I do know that they will be great people. They all have that ability in their hearts, and even though they may be mental at times- they are always brilliant and always present with a warm heart.

“Ender Wiggin must believe that no matter what happens, no adult will ever, ever step in to help him in any way. He must believe, to the core of his soul, that he can only do what he and the other children work out for themselves.” ~ Colonel Graff, Ender’s Game

In Ender’s Game, the militaristic society that Ender was raised in forced him into isolation. The society pushed him into a stage of self-reliance that was past the point of insanity, causing him to become sick and struggle with his grip on reality. Yes, it is good to be isolated at times, good to learn from within and from one’s self. But no man can stand alone forever. We exist through each other in an “I am because you are” kind of philosophy. Today I recognize the value of support and its true power.

Next week is City Year's graduation. It's almost time to move to another chapter in my life.

Look out for SCA comic #8 (Devon) in the tab above!

-TWO-12