Week Fifty Three: February 28th - March 6th

No show. I am just completely drained on ideas. Perhaps when I have more time next week.

Week Fifty Two: February 21st - February 27th (EXTENDED)

I decided that I should at least put something up for my proposed "final day", but don't have anything written up, so I decided to put down some of my personal quotes. I'm a little nervous about it, because I worry they will be taken as cheesy, or just tossed aside. A personal quote from a person who has accomplished nothing in their lives doesn't have much meaning to it, but I've always been one for the aesthetics, so I've always tried to keep a list of my own quotes with me. I guess reading this, you can understand the kind of person I am. Pathetic, narcissistic, weak. All these traits and more follow me wherever I go, and perhaps the biggest reason on why I am so hard on myself day after day, setting impossibly high standards, knowing that it is only a matter of time before I disappoint myself.

As it is, they are still a coveted treasure of mine, and have found their way, or at least paraphrased cousins of theirs, into many of my stories.

I have resolved myself to hold onto them until the time comes I write a full-length novel, and use them to add depth to certain chapters I find too shallow as is.

1. People are shit, happiness is transient, and accomplishments are meaningless. I was a cynic, and I was right, and if any those of lower intelligence thought otherwise, I'd bury them.

2. Blood, and sweat, and tears may wash down the streets to try and drown you, but understand that as long as you keep kicking, every moment is precious. Live your life, and let everything else pass right on through.

3. Every bad thing in this world is contributed by people who don’t think of their actions during, before, and after doing them.
4. I’d be willing to do the most horrific thing imaginable as long as it brought people together. I’d let the entire world despise me, if only they’d love themselves in the process.
5. The seasons constantly change, but a year is still a year. You can change yourself, and be the same person.
6. Everything was fine in the world when the average man was nothing more than an animal with more defined use of communication and opposable thumbs.
7. The most disgusting thing a man can do is come to terms with his stupidity.
8. Love is emotional, but marriage has always been financial.
9. Love is a mixture of luck and compromise.
10. The easiest way to be the center of attention is to limit your conversation to that of a single person.
11. Recurring bad luck is a trend, not coincidence.
12. The problem with history, is that a mouth could lie and a hand can forge. Ink fades and memories dull.
13. I quietly laugh to myself whenever a man of the cloth claims to detest lying.
14. Comedy is something that must be constantly evolving. A true laugh only happens once, and any following can be seen covered in a  thin film of effort.
15. If you find yourself lost in a fit of rage more then twice a week, you need to find a new job, or put yourself in time out.
16. It takes a small man to want to rule the world, when there’s such a big universe out there.
17. The thing I miss most about my youth is the ability to be inspired. The ability to enjoy moments for themselves, without hanging my head at the inevitable end is a close second.
18. I think funerals should be held inside a building at night, and lasting 24 hours, so that for just a little while, people could forget about mourning.
19. There have ever been four stipulates to rule an empire. Self interest, Insatiable lust for power, obesity, and male pattern baldness.
20. I find it strange that no one questions that our greatest inspirations to live are read from the writings of men who have died.
21. I am currently 21 years old. I have just entered the age where it is socially acceptable to die. I can no longer hope to be a newspaper worthy death.
22. I hate using the word “common sense”, because of just how uncommon it really is. The only places I actually hear it are at Thomas Payne lectures, and foaming from the mouths of imbeciles.

23. I am much more terrified of obscurity than I ever could be of curiosity.
24. Story lines should mimic life. An abrupt introduction, a fumble for answers, and a bittersweet ending with several questions still suspended in air.

Week Fifty Two: February 21st - February 27th

Wow.

Already been a year on this guy. I can't believe it.

Unfortunately, since I was so lazy, and wasted so much time, I have to go back and put up stories for the weeks that I didn't. I'd like to think given the circumstances, I did pretty well for a story a week. I have written quite a few stories I am legitimately proud of, and except for two in the beginning (The Devil and Tommy Waldon, and The World's Last Smile), really enjoy all of them. I hope you did as well, and will continue following while I try and recover from the weeks I missed.

Week Fifty One: February 14th - February 20th

Working Title: Comedy

To Miss Marie,

     I have received the letter regarding your uncle, and I would be more than happy to respond. However, unless you personally feel similarities to the man, it would be impossible for me to tell you what Edgar Valentine was going through when he killed himself. People find both humble, and interesting ways to end their lives all the time, but at the time of his death, no one had ever climbed to the top of the world, only to jump. Since I cannot possibly tell you how he felt, let me tell you more about the man himself; perhaps knowing these things will help you feel for him as he deserved.

     Edgar Valentine was the child of a minister in a small Indiana town that you couldn't even hide a cough in. He had seven brothers and sisters, and an overprotective mother. Like the countless numbers of fictional characters Edgar read about, he set off for Hollywood at a young age to make his way in the world. They say that things don't always turn out like they do in the stories, but the truth of the matter is that even those few lives that do manage to mimic stories aren't all full of good luck and smiles. Those kind of stories are still read from oily pages covered in grime and sweat.

     He would one day come to be recognized as the single greatest comedic actor the world had ever seen, but it wasn't always that way. No, at first he was like the rest of those heavyhearted, but high-hoped youth that crawled the town. He drank heavily, he fought often, and he auditioned constantly, but he did very little acting. In fact, it wouldn't be until a casting director heard a quirk of his that he got any real work at all. When Edgar would sneeze, it would come out as a shrill “achoo”, followed by the throwing of his body in motion to the sneeze. If you have seen any of his movies – as I hope you have - you'll know it as his signature joke.

     For all of his success later in life, he was always known as a recluse, and a shy man off of the set. He would spend hours in his room drinking after the day was done, but everyone thought that the “world’s funniest man” just enjoyed a drink or ten to relieve stress. I suppose we can't really blame them without blaming ourselves as well though, now can we? Some say that if Edgar were alive in the present day acting scene, things would have gone differently, but that is neither here nor there. The point of this letter to you is so that you may understand that Edgar tried his hardest to fix what was broken inside of him, and if he were alive today, he would still be trying his best to make people laugh as hard as he himself could not.

     The last conversation recorded with Edgar was with a reporter that is notorious for this interview. After what happened, he was promptly fired, and hated by one and all for the rest of his life. I do hope you won't hold what happened against this young reporter though. To be fair, this man was just the last jet of oxygen inside a balloon before it popped. It wasn't his fault, but I will still tell you what happened.

     After his third installment of “The Kensington Thief” series, your uncle truly was king of the world in the media. Besides himself, there wasn't a person alive who didn't love your uncle; but looking back, we all should have seen how he was behaving that day. He was so very nervous, and he appeared to be on the verge of tears all day. He was required by contract to perform an interview with Douglas Black of the “Hollywood Delve” magazine in regard to his career so far. The lights were dim, and none of us could see the tears that dampened his face until it was too late. Looking back though, never having dealt with this kind of thing before, perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I lost so much sleep over it - nights of tossing and turning and crying and wishing - but I finally learned to live with the fact that none of us had any idea such a thing was possible, and perhaps somehow your Uncle helped out Hollywood more than he thought by presenting the possibility to us.

     “Mr. Valentine, thank you- may I call you Edgar?” Douglas asked sitting across from the man. Responding to the nod from Edgar, Douglas continued. “Thank you for showing up here today. This is a very important article for us, and we hope for you as well,” he said while scribbling notes onto a pad of paper. “My first question is what do you think of your own movies? Do you ever watch them and laugh yourself?”. Edgar shifted his weight on the chair, and exhaled slowly before answering. Carefully stepping around the second question, Edgar responded with a simple “I think people enjoy them”. The reporter didn't even give the situation a second thought as he laughed to himself, and replied with a “I'd say so, what with your Thief series being the all time biggest movie success yet!”. Edgar only shrugged his shoulders, and spoke a quick agreement. The reporter still went on though with these useless questions that Edgar had already answers in countless other newspapers and magazines.

     After about fifteen minutes into the conversation, we began to worry over Edgar. He was shaking in his chair, and only answering questions with single word answers.We finally decided that enough was enough, and prompted Douglas to wrap things up. To this day, I wish we didn’t allow him to ask “just one more question”. That “just one more” damn question was the killing blow to your uncle, and later, the final straw on a long list of grievances against his own life. The reporter placed his notepad on his lap, and leaned down over it, peering towards Edgar in the dim light, and tightened his eyes for what he knew to be a serious question. “Why don't you try serious acting,” he asked, “why do you only make comedy movies?”. Unknown to us, this question finally pushed poor, sweet Ed over the edge. Jumping out of his seat, and throwing his chair across the room, Edgar grabbed the reporter by the shirt, and pulled him in close. Screaming, Edgar said “Because I don't want to be serious!”. Letting the reporter, now wide-eyed, fall back into his chair, Edgar stared off at nothing particular, and whispered “Because I need comedy like a drowning man needs oxygen,” and with that, he slowly walked out of the room, and went home. To this day, it still gives me chills seeing how ominous his analogy of a dying man would be.

     Only a few of us heard what he said, and because of this, the newspapers fought over what had really happened at that interview, and how it connected to his death later that night. Being your uncle’s best friend, I regret to inform you that the newspapers all had it wrong. It wasn't some mistake made by a brain heavily drowned in alcohol. It wasn't an accident by not paying attention to what he was doing. Your uncle sat down in his bed, swallowed half a bottle of Seconal, and passed away in his sleep; the poor bastard wasn't even smiling! My biggest regret is that even in giving up the weight that for so long pushed down his shoulders, he still couldn't find joy.

     For the longest time, I thought he left very little of himself in this world. A hastily scrawled will, dispersing his assets to friends and family, media war that would rage for years, and a body were all that I thought he left behind. It wasn’t until very recently that I realized he left behind something infinitely more important than anything you and I will ever hope to contribute. He left behind him a legacy of movies that gave people what he so desperately needed in life. A sincere smile, lacking conditioning, that appeared on a face wholeheartedly, and without regret. A red face, and a hand raised to a mouth. A nod in agreement, a slap on a knee, a pat on a young child's head, and most importantly a laugh. Throughout his entire life, all he ever wanted to do was to make sure no one had to feel as he did, and that by watching his movies, they could remember to laugh.

     I guess what I'm trying to say it that whatever the reason you sent me this letter, I hope upon reading this, it won't be one of some sort of depressed obsession with finding out who your uncle was. Even if you never met him in person, the only thing you ever needed to do to know who he was is watch his movies. Everything he would have wanted you to see rests in them, and that delving into the hows and whys of his life would only cause him to be upset. Just laugh, that is all you need to do to show your uncle how much you loved him. All you need to do is laugh.
                                                                    - Richmond Alexander

Week Fifty: February 7th - February 13th

*sigh*

- 2 Year Anniversary
- Weekend Bar Crawl in Bloomington
- Apathy

Maybe next week.

Week Forty Nine: January 31st - February 6th

*sigh*

Week Forty Eight: January 24th - January 30th

Fortune Favors Those Who Die Young

     “It feels just like yesterday,” an old man says to himself while staring at his gnarled old hands. “ I can sometimes still feel the grain of bark against my young hands, or the smooth touch of my first love. Those are long gone now though.” he says, sinking back into the warm water of his bathtub. He pulls his head under as he once did when he was a child, and exhaled into the water, sending a shower of bubbles to the surface. His smile is quickly replaced by a frown when the joints in his hips ache from the position he's laying in. Emerging, he whispers “Fortune favors those who die young”, and slips into his robe and walks to his bedroom; trumpets sound a song of defeat.

     Sitting in a tall-backed chair in front of the fireplace, he stares at the smoldering embers, and says “That's right. Today is my birthday isn't it? I suppose I'm too old to break tradition now”. He pulls out his leather-bound book, and picks up his pen to start writing under a large header of “Year 72”. After only three lines, he places the pen back inside the spine of the book, and sets it down next to his chair. The motion of setting the book down brushes the pages from beginning to end showing a flip-book of gradual apathy. The first few pages are written in full, but page after page – year after year- they grow smaller in substance and meaning. He doesn't even bother to try at this point. Closing his eyes, he falls asleep, his head full of the same thoughts that have haunted him since he could remember: inevitability.

     His dreams are the same as every night since he could remember. He was a young man again, flying a P-51 Mustang over the coast of Western France during the second World War. A browned picture of a beautiful woman with loose rings of black hair sat in his steering wheel, so that if he went down, she would be the last thing he saw. With every metal tooth he sunk into the hide of opposing German planes, he would tuck away the thought of running his strong hands up her smooth thigh, as he kissed her passionately on the neck. Beside returning to a woman, what other reason would a man have to stain the sky with blood and metal day in and day out?

     The war was long and bloody, and the boys who walked into it with youthful courage, left sullenly as men, carrying in the bags on their backs a lifetimes worth of demons. Jumping in a cab near the dock, Will gave his address to the driver, and sat back to stare out of the window at a city that had changed entirely in his short while away. The ride took a good twenty minutes, but he was used to long distances of traveling while being left to his own thoughts. If his tone didn't block any advances of conversation from the driver, his sullen face did. It wouldn't be until they pulled up outside the third story apartment he shared with Alice that the reflection on the window would show a smile. “I'm home Alice” he muttered to himself, giving the driver too much money, and nodding his head in confusion when offered change.

     Walking to the front door, Will patted his coat pocket to make sure the ring was still safely tucked away inside. He smiled to himself, and laughed when he realized it was the first time being nervous wouldn't lead to fearing he would never see his Alice again. He almost reached the door, and frowned when he saw a Chysler Saratoga parked on the side of the road. “Whose car could that be?” he thought to himself as he pushed open the door. Doubt had finally found a way to plant itself in Will Pascal. His pace quickened as he walked the stairs to his old room, and his heart was pounding louder than anything except for his own fist on the door. The sound of romance filled the outside hallway.

     Opening the door, Will found a man with a greasy smile, and oil-slicked hair buttoning up his pants, while Alice sat with the bed sheet pulled up to cover her breasts. “What's the big idea? Bargin' in here like tha-” and is cut off when the light of a passing car shows his face to her. “Will” she whispers, “I figured you would have been long dead by now”. The man, looking between the two of them did not understand the situation, and puffed up his chest as he walked over to Will. “Listen here army boy, Alice is with me now, so scram.” Alice's scream muffles the sound of Will's .45 caliber that illuminated the room for a split second. Clutching his chest, the man sinks to his knees, and is casually pushed out of the way.

     Turning to Alice, Will's face contorted between the horror of what he had just done, and anger at why it had happened in the first place. “Will.. do- don't kill me, please. I'm sorry” she murmurs through a wall of tears. “Sorry!” Will demands. “Every day out there, every day butchering men, and hoping I could make it home to see you. Every day, staring at your picture, the thought of coming home to marry you being the only thing keeping me together! And I come home to this? The ghosts of my past are going to haunt me for the rest of my life, just so I could see you!”. Turning to the door, Will looks over his shoulder at her and says “how could I have misjudged a whore like you.” and strolls from the room laughing as if finally understanding some great cynical joke. She sees him put the silhouette of a ring back into his pocket as he strolls from the room. Two different Alices began to weep in that room, dimly lit by moonlight.

     Waking up, Will sees a flash of faceless men, bloodied by his own actions, and vomits into a small pot near his chair. Wiping off his mouth, he picks up his book, and tosses it into the fire. Ominous, in that he wouldn't live to write another chapter anyway. The last two months of Will's life were bitter, and full of wishing to try his youth all over again. To stop being haunted by the ghosts of all those he killed, and so that he could finally wash the memory of Alice's naked body off of his hands. In those last days of his, the thought of that woman would lead him to scrubbing his hands together until the skin cracked and bled.

     Will died alone, not because life was harsh to him, because it is harsh to everyone. Will died alone because he lost most of himself in the skies above Europe, and the rest of him was left in the stained sheets of that third story apartment bed. Had he only been an adult when he started to kill for his nation instead of a boy. Oh god, one can only weep for the dead bodies of children like Will that would walk around not knowing it for the rest of their lives.