Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts

Friday, January 2, 2015

Just Do It (good job nike)


I think the turn of a new year is the right time to bring up something I feel strongly about.

That thing you like to think and talk about doing someday: that screenplay, that competition, that career -  as your friend, I hope you take the first step toward doing it.

You look up at the clouds and think, "They look soft, like I can squeeze them, cool and crisp," then realize you've been concentrating too hard and your feet have lifted off the ground and you're rising, and it's sort of terrifying, so you look back down at your boyfriend/girlfriend, parents, bed, favorite TV show and restaurant, all on the ground, and sink back to where gravity feels safe and comfortable.

One day these things you talk about might ring their last echo, and you turn out okay not trying any of them, thank god. 

I hope you try this though: Get spooky. Be a big dumb fucking idiot and take the first step, and suck at it, and keep sucking at it. It's great, I've been doing it my whole life. But I have an immortal belief that one day my idiocy will adapt and evolve into something new that doesn't suck, and I'll make cool shit, so I can sit in a dark room, drunk, alone, cold, and still feel proud of something. If not, well, I think trying alone is something to be proud of. 

Or you can let your ego fizzle out. Be one of those people whose uncracked "Chinese For Beginners" book props a window open, and you won't care about taking steps anymore because inertia feels like velvet against your cheek. I can only speak for myself, but that makes me sad, dude. 

I have too many smart and talented friends who are only getting better at thinking and talking. If they tried being bigger dumber terrified idiots who walk head first into stuff they're excited about but don't understand, that would make me quite happy, and them too. 








Sunday, December 21, 2014

Twin

     "Tanya thinks she had a twin who didn't quite make it in utero. She thinks of things that make her laugh and always turns to someone who isn't there. She says things out loud to herself on the street. She has dreams where she speaks to herself face to face. There are two voices in her head and they're both her voice. She needs a second body." 

Time

     "Time is change and motion. If there's no motion or change, there is no time." 

Not anything

"I thought you were nothing. I still say that - you aren't anything."

"What do you mean?" 

"In magazines they have these archetypes of people, like, the weekend warrior bro, the yuppie, the sensitive artist. You like Wes Anderson and Dane Cook equally. What kind of twisted upbringing does someone have to have to like Wes Anderson and Dane Cook equally? That's not a person."

Bed

"What happens at night?"

"I go to bed."

"What happens when you go to bed?"

"My mind turns into a machine gun of thoughts, and I want to eat something with melted cheese that will turn me into a liquid that has no thoughts and soaks into my bed sheets and pillow for three days." 

Friday, December 19, 2014

Thanks

"We did it. It hurt and it took a while, but oh man, this money feels good against my eyelids. Thanks, Ryan, for slapping me across the face with a big metaphorical twobyfour when I said I wanted to go into psychology. We're going to make more money, BIG money, and I've never been more excited about anything. Time to let go of Uncle Sam's lapels, straighten his bow tie, and shake his hand. Come to Gerald's, we're all here. First drink's on me."

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Story Blurbs




MVP




“YES. YES. OH MY GOSH.”

The father leaps three inches into the air. His eyes well and he hugs his wife.

“Oh he’s so amazing,” he says.

The kids line up to shake hands and say “good game.”

Jeremy walks toward the father. He weeble-wobbles because the helmet he carries weighs down one side.

“Get the heck over here,” the father says to Jeremy.

He grabs him by the arm.

“What the heck were you doin’ all second half, making me look like a jerk? Go get in the car. And slap your cleats together so there’s no dirt.”

As the wife, the sister, and Jeremy walk to the car, the father lingers.

There’s a mob of smiling men and boys.  The father stares, squinting and smiling, until the mob breaks and he sees Todd. Number nine.

“My gosh.”

The father heads to the car.



“Is there ice cream?” asks Jeremy.

The father gets up from the dinner table, goes to the kitchen, scoops a bowl of ice cream, returns to the table and eats it.

“Are you gonna take an epsom salt bath tonight for your ankle?” The wife asks Jeremy.

“Yeah, I think it’s—“

“—I’ve never seen Todd make a run like that before. Gosh. He’s really somethin’ huh?” says the father. “Did you see what he did?”

He pulls Jeremy’s plate toward the middle of the table. He uses his ice cream spoon to move Jeremy’s peas and carrots around to recreate the play.

“Right? That was really somethin’, wasn’t it?” he asks the wife.

“Yes it was. He’s so talented, although, I don’t like that girl he’s hanging around with.”

The father waves his hand.

“Oh, Todd doesn’t care about her; it’s football season! And he’s got only one thing on his mind.”

The father slaps the table. It makes everyone’s plates and silverware jump.

 “It’s football season. There’s no time for girls.”

“May I be excused?” asks the sister.

“Huh?” says the father.

“May I be excused?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Jeremy brings a bowl of ice cream into the living room and the father brings a beer. The father clicks on the TV and sets down the remote. It’s ESPN.



The father wakes in the middle of the night in his briefs and Dallas Cowboys socks and heads into his home gym/office/guest room.

He sits on the bench press bench in front of his desk.

He types “facebook” into Google on his laptop. He clicks the first link.

He types “Todd Durnham” into the “Find Friends” box.

Four photos pop up. The father puts on his reading glasses and hovers his curser over the photos. None of the photos look familiar.

“Gosh darn it,” he says out loud, and shuts his laptop. The Apple light on top of his laptop illuminates the center of the Dallas Cowboys sticker on top of it.



“Pop fly!”

The father shoots the ball into the air. Jeremy catches it but almost falls over in the process.

“Is it all right if I have Kyle and Andrew over to spend the night tonight?”

He tosses the ball back to the father.

“Run for a hook.”

Jeremy runs for a hook. The father throws and he catches.

“Kyle and Andrew? You spend a lot of time with those boys, huh?”

“Yeah, they’re my best friends.”

“You want to bring another friend over? Someone new? How about someone from the team?”

“Okay, yeah, like Anthony?”

“Anthony? Oh, I don’t know. What about Todd?”

“I never really hang out with him.”

“So, invite him to sleep over then you can hang out all night.”

“That would be kinda random and weird.”

“No it wouldn’t. That’s how you make friends.”

“I don’t even have his number.”

“Ask your mother. She probably has his landline in a directory or something.”

The father pegs a straight shot right at Jeremy’s gut. He catches it and says, “Agh.”

The father walks toward Jeremy.

“Speaking of your mother. She says you’re thinking of playing lacrosse in the spring?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“You don’t think that will interfere with spring training?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“So, you tell me, how is this gonna work?”

“I don’t do spring training. Not everyone does.”

“Who, like Anthony? And what is lacrosse anyway, you don’t wanna do that, that’s what those Highland Hills kids do, you don’t wanna be like those f—fancy pants kids, come on, Jeremy.”

The father takes the football and looks over his shoulders.

“You know why Todd is as good as he is? He does spring training. He’s got football on the mind 24/7. Okay Jeremy? 24/7. That’s what it takes.”

The father drops the football, turns around, tucks his shirt in, and heads to the garage where he grabs a beer from the fridge and pulls out the lawnmower.



The father stops at the John John’s Pizza table where the coaches and their sons sit, his hands full of pizza and soda.

“Congrats on the W boys. Played real good.”

The sons, mouth full of pizza, nod.

“Well, they wanted a pizza party and they earned it,” says one of the coaches. One of the other coaches laughs.

The father smiles, a little confused. He eyes an empty seat at their table.

One of the coaches points across the venue toward the table where Jeremy, the wife, and the sister sit.

“Jeremy played good today. Made some nice hits. Right?” the other sons nod.

The father shrugs. “Yeah, well… let’s keep it up!” He ruffles one of the son’s hair.

He sits down at the table with Jeremy, the wife, and the sister.

The father talks about new plays the coaches should try.

Jeremy gets up to go sit with Kyle and Andrew.

The wife and the sister talk about a book about elves who go to high school.

The father watches the other fathers and sons at the other tables.

Through the clutter of a crowded booth, the father sees Todd scooch out, grab his athletic bag, and exit. The father chases after him.


“Todd. You were amazing today.”

“Oh. Thanks. You’re Jeremy’s dad, right?”

“Uh… yeah, well, yeah, but, where are you going?”

It’s darker and crisper outside than earlier.

“My mom is picking me up.”

“She didn’t go to the game?”

“No. She had to work.”

“And your dad?”

“He couldn’t visit this weekend.”

“Oh. Do you want me to give you a ride?”

“No, thanks, my mom is on her way to pick me up.”

“I can give you a ride. Has she already left?”

“It’s fine. Thanks, though.”

A pause hangs in the air.

“Please?”

“Um, she should be here any second.”

The father watches Todd walk further into the parking lot.

“It’s gettin’ kinda cold out,” he says to himself.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

A day in ten years


Someone once asked in a job interview where I see myself in ten years. It got me thinking. This is how I imagine a typical day of my life in ten years:




The smell of coffee wakes me up. The view of the mountains and the ocean out my bedroom window still captures me.

I enter the kitchen. My wife, Xernabelle, is making future-juice, two glasses. She turns around and her nipples instantly go hard, nearly piercing through my T-shirt she’s wearing.

“Is it cold in here?” I say, as she hands me my future-juice.

“Oh, Evan, you know that happens every time I see you.”

“Coffee is ready, Mr. Elberson”

“Thank you, Mr. Coffee machine,” I say, as the coffee machine extends its mechanical arm to hand me a steamy mug of Joe.

My wife wipes a future-juice moustache off her face and says, “I’m going fit in a yoga class before heading to the music studio. They’re going to teach us how open jars with our thighs.”

“Do you need some money?” I ask.

“No, but I always love when you hand me a big wad of cash anyway.”

I hand Xernabelle a wad of cash and kiss her on the head, then slide into my form fitting jumpsuit and head to the office.


People understand it’s okay for me to be a few minutes late because they know I was probably doing something very important.

“I love that jumpsuit,” says Christopher, my handsome secretary.

“Oh Christopher, it’s the same uniform we all wear here,” I say.

“I know, I was making a joke.”

“That’s very funny Christopher. Maybe one day you will be as funny as me…”

I point toward my office.

            “…and that will be yours.”

            “I could never be as funny as you, Mr. Elberson. You’re the funniest person who has ever lived.”

            “I’m only a man.”

I run through my schedule with Christopher. I have a pitch at two with a potential client that could elevate this agency to the top of the big leagues.

In my office, I check my emails, sifting through all the fan mail from past work I’ve done.

            I have to think of a really good idea for this pitch today, I say to myself.

I shut the door.

            “Computer, let’s make some magic. You know what to do.”

            “Yes. Initiating brainstorm mode.”

The lights dim, classical music clicks on, and a 10x10 foot polycrobanon whiteboard lowers from ceiling.

I furiously scribble – webs, graphs, charts, sketches, webs of webs, graphs of graphs, charts of charts, sketches of sketches. I am a bolt of lightning.

Half an hour goes by. I collapse on the floor, sweating and heaving. The whiteboard is so packed with ideas you can’t even see the white. I regroup, take a shot of whiskey, and return to the board. One of the ideas (which I don’t even remember writing) stands out among the rest. It’s almost glowing. I place my finger on the idea, smudging it a little.

            That’s the one… I whisper.


Time for a workout and lunch.

I meet Juan, my handsome trainer, at Ripples, the best gym in the city. While pumping we talk about cars and motorcycles. And women (Juan always gives the best advice when it comes to women). Half way through the workout I begin to train Juan instead of the other way around. I know I’m paying for it but I don’t care, I like to help.

 I meet an old friend for lunch. I know he only wants to meet to convince me to write some stuff for a big thing he’s producing, but I don’t mind, it’s nice to catch up. We talk about cars and motorcycles, where is the best spot to vacation in Monaco, and the business. He timidly drops the request that I write some stuff for the big thing he’s producing, and I accept, for a fraction of the price, because I treasure our friendship.


The big pitch.

After an hour of barking orders at the interns and juniors, the presentation is ready. I tell Christopher to remind the other executives they’re not allowed to talk about my ideas during the pitch.

The potential clients arrive. They wear different colored jumpsuits from us – that’s how we tell them apart. They’re more handsome than I expected.

            “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Elberson, we’ve heard a lot about you,” says the president as we shake hands.

            “Good things, I hope,” I say.

The clients laugh.

            “Let’s go to the pitch room, shall we?” I say. 

I see a woman walk by wearing our agency's uniform. I don't know her name so I make one up.

            "Gretchen, get these clients some future-juice," I shout. 

            “Right away, Mr. Elberson,” she responds.


A standing ovation. Even some whistling. The pitch goes perfectly, as usual. One of the client executives laughs and cries at the same time. Another client looks at him,

            “Bill, are you laughing or crying?”

            “I don’t know. The pitch was so funny and beautiful, I don’t know.”

I place a hand on Bill’s shoulder.

            “That’s a perfectly normal response,” I say. “You’ve been so emotionally overwhelmed your body doesn’t know how to react.” I look up at the client president. “It will be a pleasure working with you.”

I leave the room and let the account people handle the financial details of the contract.


In my office I pour myself a glass of whiskey, alone, gazing out my window.

            “Computer, what’s life really all about?”

            “I do not know, Mr. Elberson.”

            “Of course you don’t, no one does…”

There’s a quiet knock on my door.

            “Come in.”

It’s Stacey, one of the new interns.

            “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

            “No, of course not. What is it?”

            “I… I don’t want you to be mad, but…”

            “It’s okay, what’s going on?”

            “I sort of, listened in on your pitch through the door. I know, that was wrong because I’m only an intern, but, I had to know how you did it. I always hear about your pitches, and… how do you do it? It was like… listening to a bird create a planet or something.”

I pour Stacey a drink.

            “Is it okay?”

I nod, handing it to her.

            “I’ve lived, Stacey, I’ve lived fast and hard. That, what you heard over there? Is the product of a lifetime of masochism.”

She brings her face toward mine. I turn away.

            “I’m married.”

            “I don’t care, I need you.”

            “You have a whole life outside of this place. Don’t let me stop you from becoming who you are.”

            “But, I think I love you, Mr. Elberson.”

            “You’re a smart young woman, but you don’t love me, you love the concept of me. Sometimes I don’t even feel human. I can’t be loved by someone like you.”

She wipes a tear from her eye and smiles a fake smile.

            “Thanks for the drink.”

Just as she reaches for the doorknob she stops to turn around.

            “I’m sorry…” she says.

            “Don’t be. I understand.”

She leaves and I stare at the two unfinished drinks on my table.


I come home to find Xernabelle sitting on the kitchen floor, crying.

"Xernabelle, what's wrong?" I ask.

"This," she says.

She opens her shirt to reveal a new orifice between her breasts, gaping and glistening.

"My god," I say, as I feel something on my chest swell.

I pop open my shirt, a phallical appendage bursts through the buttons, springing to life.

"What's happening to us?" she asks.

"We're evolving," I realize.

I fuck her between her breasts with my new appendage.

We climax.

I roll off her and say, "Welcome to the future of humanity." 

Monday, November 4, 2013

It's really loud and they're shouting:


“I thought I should probably say goodbye.”

“Okay.”

“We kind of had a thing, or something, or I don’t know what to call it, but, uh, I’m moving. I’m going to Seattle.”

“Okay.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. The same thing I guess.”

“Are you gonna do that thing you talked about doing?”

“Yeah, at some point, I don't know.”

“Well, I think you should do it.”

“Oh, you’re so great, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I’m so great. It was nice knowing you.”

“So funny. You’re so funny. See ya.”

“Okay, have a good one.”

A joke

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Friday, October 18, 2013

Middle School Story


            “I heard it hurts for guys to have sex the first time too.”

            “What? Why?” I asked.

            “Cause all the pussy juice gets into your dick-hole and it stings,” said some friend.

This is the first and last time I heard this. I am a child with the donkey of adulthood kicking at my walls.

It hurts? I figure pussy juice must be acidic, like orange juice, not as bad as lemon juice, but like orange juice.

         “But you probably get used to it,” I reply. 


There's dried Elmer's glue inside my locker from the last person who used it. I pick away at it but try to hide doing it cause I don't want to switch lockers.


In math class, the girl in front of me knows stuff about other people. Her acne and straight teeth make her look older.

            “Hey, do you know who Stacey Carson is? I heard she likes me,” I say.

            “I’m Stacey Carson.”

            “Oh.”

We look in opposite directions.



I get off the bus and walk home. The garage door is louder and scarier than a toilet flushing at night. I stop for a second to make sure I can hear my dad on the phone in his office. He is. I sprint upstairs.

There’s a little spot underneath my desk where the vent blows warm air. I like to sit under there with my toys. Today I had to free one of the plastic army guy’s heads from the ectoplasmic prison made from my mom’s glue gun glue. Blink-182’s Enema of the State hasn’t stopped playing on my stereo for two weeks. I don’t hear it anymore. The phone rings. It’s for me.

            “Hello?” I answer
           
            “Hey, Evan, it’s Sharon. I hate you.”

            “What? Why?”

            “Because you never say ‘hi’ when I see you in the halls.”

            “Well, what the fuck, why don’t you say ‘hi’ to me?”

            “Because you should think I’m cool enough that you should say ‘hi’ to me first.”

            “Okay, let’s just say hi at the same time then next time we see each other.”

            “Deal. I bet you’re still not going to.”

            “Did you talk to my mom?”

            “Yeah I just asked if you were there.”

            “What did she say?”
           
            “She just said ‘yeah, hold on.’ She seems nice.”

            “Oh. She’s not. What are you doing?”

            “I’m soaking my hands in wax.”

            “You’re soaking your hands in wax? What do you mean?”

            “Yeah. It makes them soft. It’s just one of those things girls do when we don’t have anything else to do.”

            “Right. Wax probably works like lotion.”

            “What do guys do when they don’t have anything to do?”

Under my desk, I strum the ribs of the heat vent, slid shut so glue-head’s head wouldn’t fall in incase I decided to lop it off that afternoon.

            “I don’t know. Download music and stuff or read a magazine.”

            “You read magazines?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Like what?”

            “Like Maxim, or The Robb Report.”

            “My brother reads Maxim.”

            “There's some good stuff in there. A lot of guys I know don’t read the articles and just look at the pictures but they just like don’t get it you know?”

            “Yeah, totally.”

We talk about nothing for a while. She asks if I would rather have a car all riced out or all muscled out. I don’t know what she means by either of those so I say all muscled out.

            “You should talk to Brianne.”

            “Brianne? Is she that girl who cuts up the bottom of her jeans?”

            “Wait, what do you mean?”

            “She has black hair and she cuts the sides of her jeans, like both sides?”

Sharon tells me some girls do that so their jeans fit over their shoes. I figure out Brianne is who I think she is, and Sharon and I talk about how we want to be rich when we grow up, and how black guys are always cool. She asks "how far I've gone." I tell her I've made out a couple times, but really it was once, on a dare, and it lasted five seconds. She doesn't answer for herself. 

We hang up and I find Brianne on AOL Instant Messenger. I don’t know what to say so I make fun of her for cutting up her jeans and riding horses. We talk about people and things we hate for about two hours and plan to hang out soon. I jerk off to a Photoshopped nude photo of Jennifer Aniston I think is real.


I’m at the movies, watching Zoolander with a group of fifteen or so middle schoolers and about eighty other people who want their money back. Sharon and some other girl made sure Brianne and I sat next to each other. She looked like a 13 year old Shannyn Sossamon – black straight hair, too much lip gloss, and too much makeup overall. And big bulging eyes. She smelled like candy and makeup. She wore a yellow hooded sweatshirt and jeans, not cut up at the bottom. We had only spoken to each other that one time online and never hung out before.

Somewhere around the second act of Zoolander (which Brianne would refer to as “Zoolanders” in the following weeks) I put my arm around Brianne because Sharon told me to. She relaxed her shoulder into the crook of my arm.

Every time I rub her shoulder with my thumb she runs a finger down my arm. I lower my hand to around her waist. I wait for her to adjust somehow. I move my hand onto to her stomach and graze the peachy skin under her shirt. Nothing but her breathing changes. I slide my finger along the inside of her jean’s waistband, ready to pull my hand away before she does. She doesn’t. I make sure she’s not asleep or hypnotized by Zoolander. I pull my hand away.

A few minutes later I put it back. I figure this is how that story I heard about Kyle getting a high school freshman naked started. I hang out there for a while, getting more creative and adventurous with all one can do with one’s fingertips wedged in the waistband of another’s pants. I take a break. We adjust closer to each other. I go back and dig a little until my hand slides deep enough to pinch the elastic band of her thong. I am one hundred percent positive if not her, someone will approach me with a flashlight and politely ask I remove my hand from this girl’s pants. It does not happen and I the only reason I know she’s not dead is because her breathing is accelerating. I try to pay attention to Zoolander. My hand becomes prosthetic right on the flesh above her pubic bone. It might as well be a new kind of girdle to block blows to the pelvis. At this point, I am willing to admit I could be totally wrong about what I think is down there.

I plunge further. And just when I think the lights will come up, alarms will go off, and we must evacuate the theater – wetness. Gushing, waterfalling, Return to The Blue Lagoon, Six Flags Waterpark wetness. To this day it is the wettest orphus I have ever encountered. Every organ in my body looks at each other waiting for the other to know what to do. I have my hand on what I assume is a shaved pussy. A squishy little hedgehog drooling like a madman. I go deeper. I guess it becomes what I imagined it to feel like from the fake Jennifer Aniston pussy, but softer, warmer, and of course, wetter.

I cup my hand around it for the remainder of the movie. No diddling, no tapping, no thrusts or clenching or whimpering – just soaking my fingers in the crotch Jacuzzi. I imagine any cuts or abrasions I might have had on my fingers were healed by the time I pulled out. I wipe my fingers on her pants and wait a few seconds to bring them to my nose. They smell cleaner, which surprises and mildly disappoints me. The lights come up and I look at my fingers. They’re pruney.  


A few days later I sit under my desk. I pick up glue-head guy, ready to chip the glue off with my butterknife-dull pocket knife, and freeze - I wonder how the toy is made, and how those plastic flaps around the edges get there. I put the pocket knife to the glue head but something is different, and, well, I just feel silly. I look at the rest of my toys on the floor. They look like plastic but act like wood. I put them back in the box under my bed with a mechanicalness I am aware of. A few years later I will remember this exact moment – I’m waking up on Christmas morning with, for the first time, the urge to spring out of bed and wait by the tree, gone, and I can’t stop noticing how gone it is, and how I want it to bother me but it doesn’t, and I travel back to the time I put my toys back in the box under my bed.

Brianne is my girlfriend. She leaves notes in my locker. She will call soon, but I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to talk to Sharon who’s suddenly getting hotter every day, I don’t want to talk to my guy friends who think I’m David Blaine Mindfreak since Zoolander, I don’t want to talk to anyone downstairs, I don’t want to talk to anyone and I don’t want to go anywhere.

There’s a collection of CD’s in my brother’s room. I find a new one to replace Blink-182.