First Post and Other Sundries

Hey, everybody! Many of you know me. I'm Ned, obviously. I was pointed this direction by Edwardo. Well, here's a bit of my work so you can all try to get a feeling for how I write. It's part of a chain project that I do with a group of friends every once in a while, just for fun. It's called The Hurtling Through Time and Space Story that Has No Point or Purpose Except to be Random. Yup. I apologize in advance for several inside jokes, and for an uncharacteristically large amount of pop culture references... yeah. Anyways, here we go!

The Hurtling Through Time and Space Story that Has No Point or Purpose Except to be Random

Cricket v Royal Rainbow

Ned

"You're in the army now, squishy one!"

Cricket felt himself shoved forcefully in the small of the back into the steadily marching line of soldiers. He obviously had some questions... But it seemed weird talking to these people. They were short, they were round, they were shiny, and they had fuses on their heads and keys sticking out of their backs. He turned to the one who had shoved him. 

"Er- excuse me? Mr. Officer Bob-omb guy?"

The bob-omb turned to him irritably. "What do you want?!"

Cricket faltered. Sure, he'd seen his fair share of bob-ombs in his day, but never one with a green army helmet, a bushy mustache, and a Cuban cigar in its... Mouth? That got Cricket wondering. Did bob-ombs even have mouths? If not, how was he holding the cigar? And wouldn't the cigar cause the bob-omb to blow up?...

"What?!" screamed the officer. "What is it?! What do you want?! SPEAK, FREAK!!"

"Er..." Cricket pointed to the cigar. "Smoking is a bad habit..."

"What?" Asked the officer. He glanced down at his face and scowled. "@&$! those privates! Think it's sooo funny to stick tootsie rolls to my face!" He squinted his eyes together, and grunted deeply. Smoke started rising from his fuse, and the tootsie roll popped off his face at the speed of a bullet.

Private Costis had been off getting his wick trimmed. Feeling like a brand-new bomb, he strolled out of the barber shop, singing a happy tune. "Au Contraire, Mahatma..." Then, he got hit by something flying at the speed of a bullet and blew up.

KA-FRICKIN-BOOM!

Cricket stared at the smoldering crater. "Whatcha lookin' at, squishy?" The officer glanced at where he felt he could safely assume Cricket's line of sight was focused. "Oh, that. That's your standard peacetime casualty. Happens more often than you'd think. One of our brainiacs told me that the casualty rate is directly proportional with our tootsie roll consumption rate. I don't personally believe him." he glanced at Cricket's blank expression. "You were going to ask me something?"

"What?" said Cricket, still staring at the crater. "Oh, yes!" he regained his composure and turned to the officer. "Um... What exactly is going on here?"

"Well, ain't it obvious?" huffed the officer "This is war, Squishy! War! We gotta whip those stygimoloch scum before they whip us! Only I'm allowed to whip my bombs! Whip 'em into shape! Ha!" with that, the officer turned on his heels and stormed off, screaming mild profanities at his soldiers.

Confused, Cricket could do little else but just march along with the rest of the line. He glanced down at the bob-omb marching directly in front of him and plucked up the courage to tap him on the... Lack of shoulder. "Excuse me? Excuse me, sir?"

The soldier turned around to see who desired his attention. "Yes?"

"GAH!" Cricket's sense of reality leaped about two feet out of his skull until it was stopped forcefully by the ceiling of skewed recognition. It then fluttered brokenly back into his brain, moaning for ibuprofen and aspirin.

"Hey, Cricket! Good to see ya! Want a jawexploder?"

Cricket glanced from the proffered confection to the being by whom it was being proffered. This is wrong! Muttered his sense of reality between weak requests to forget the ibuprofen and just get some hydrocodone. He's gotta be photoshopped.

Sense of reality, explained Cricket, This is the real world. He can't be photoshopped, he's a tangible, three-dimensional object. Er- person. Whatever!

Hey, I'm your sense of reality! Came the disgruntled reply. I'll tell you what's real and what isn't, and I'm telling you that this is not right! Now, make it stop before I start begging for morphine!

Shut up! Cricket slapped his sense of reality across the face and shoved him into a corner. This is the Hurtling Through Time and Space Story, got that? It's happening, so just accept it!

As his sense of reality curled into the fetal position, Cricket returned his attention to the candy being waved in front of his face. "A jawexploder, you say?"

"Yup!" elated the photoshopped being. "It's a lot like a jawbreaker, except more... Explosive."

"I see..." said Cricket, cautiously taking the jawexploder between two fingers. It hovered in front of his open mouth for a few moments before he gave in to common sense and threw it over his shoulder.

"Okay, I'll bite." he sighed, ignoring the explosions and screams of annoyance from behind him. "What are you doing here, and why are you a bob-omb?"

"I don't know." said Erik, perusing his new body. "One moment you're destroying a giant evil computer, and the next second, somebody touches the sun-ball and POOF! I'm a face on a minor video game minion. But, that's life for ya, am I right?"

"Right." said Cricket uncertainly. He turned to the bob-omb behind him. "Are you seeing this?"

"Of course I am, Cricket. And I must admit, I'm finding it all rather amusing."

Cricket gave his sense of reality the evil eye before it could say another word, and returned his attention to Erik. "Erik, why is Ned a bob-omb too?"

"I'm right here, you know." said Ned.

"Be quiet, I'm talking to Erik."

"Yeah, come on, Ned!" chuckled Erik. "He obviously values my opinions more than he values yours." he stuck his tongue out at Ned.

"Now, boys, play nice." Chided Cricket. " Now then, Erik, why is Ned a bob-omb?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

"I believe," snickered Ned, enjoying Cricket's frustrated expression, "that the better question would be thus. Why aren't you a bob-omb, Cricket?"

Cricket clutched his head and moaned. "Please. Please, be quiet. My sense of reality just asked me for a gun. Well, if neither of you can explain why you're bob-ombs, do you at least know what we're supposed to be doing here?

And at once, as though compelled by some outer psychological force, Erik and Ned both recited, "To protect the motherland and the dignity of all things small, round, shiny, explosive, sentient, and run by clockwork!" After having said this, they both clicked their heels and each shot a single red spark out of their fuses into the air, which sparks exploded in a minuscule fashion, forming the tiny visage of a winking bob-omb in an army hat before slowly drifting to the ground and flickering into nothing.

"705-3177..." Muttered Cricket.

"What was that?" asked Ned.

"What? Oh, that was nothing." said Cricket. "However, I might ask you the same thing. What was with the whole robotic 'I must serve' schtick?"

Once again, Erik and Ned recited simultaneously, "Our leaders are fine, upstanding bombs of character, who are not brainwashing us in any way! Tovarisch! Heil Bill Nye!"

"Wait!" interjected Cricket. "Did you just say that all of you guys are being brainwashed by Bill Nye?"

"Our leaders are fine, upstanding bombs of character, who are not brainwashing us in any way! Tovarisch! Heil Bill Nye!"

"Uh-Huh..." muttered Cricket, and resumed his stoic marching. Bill Nye? He thought. That guy who used to have his own science show in the '90s? And now he's brainwashing bob-ombs to do his dirty work? What a fascist!

"Alright, men! Attack formation!" bellowed the officer. "And you, squishy! You ever seen a stygimoloch before?"

"No," muttered Cricket, snapped out of his musings.

"Well, take a good look." the officer somehow gestured toward the horizon, and Cricket followed his gaze.

"El gaspo!" el gaspoed Cricket. "That's a stygimoloch? It looks like a horned devil from the River Styx!"

"Considering that's what stygimoloch means, I'm gonna have to agree with you." The officer then addressed the whole assembly. "All right, men! Go get those scumbags, and remember, explode on sight!"

"Explode on sight!" roared the crowd. "Yay!!!"

"Wait just a moment." Cricket turned to Erik and Ned. "Isn't exploding generally classified as a negative experience? Exploding equals death, am I right?"

Once again, Erikbot and Nedroid recited, "It will be an honor to scatter pieces of our bodies far and wide in order to serve our glorious, non-fascist leader! Tovarisch!"

This doesn't bode well. Thought Cricket. I gotta get these guys out of here! When the command was issued to charge, Cricket scooped up Erik and Ned and began running away with them.

"Hey, what's the deal, K-ricket?" asked Ned. "Why are you taking us away from our battle?"

"To go visit Bill Nye." said Cricket, determination oozing out of his every word like pus from a dead, infected mouse.

"The leader!?" gasped Erik and Ned. "We are not worthy of seeing the leader!"

"Don't question it, just do it!" snapped Cricket.

"Ok..." muttered Erik and Ned.

Wow. Thought Cricket. That was surprisingly easy... "Do the chicken dance." he said.

They did so.

"Sing Old McDonald while you're doing it."

It happened.

"Sing Old McDonald and Old McTavish at the same time."

Somehow, they made it work.

"Ok, you can stop now." they walked onward for quite some time before Cricket finally asked, "Um... Where do we find the leader?"

"In that armored tank that's been following us in a very non-stalker like (and might I add very non-fascist) manner ever since we left the ranks."

Cricket turned to look at it. It was about one foot away from his nose. "Well, I feel like and idiot."

"You should."

"Shut up."

"Ok."

With that, Cricket reared back his fist, screamed "NATAS!" and punched a large hole in the side of the tank. He crawled through it and accidentally dropped his jaw. As it clattered to the floor, he surveyed the scene before him. He saw Bill Nye, perched atop a pedestal whilst astride a majestic cthunicorn. Royal rainbows and miniature sprites in the incarnation of Rick Astley and Admiral Ackbar fluttered around his head.

"Welcome to my lab, Mr. K-ricket!" A sadistic (and might i add very fascist) smile crossed Bill Nye's face. "And now, as is proper, I will make an attempt on your life. CARE BEAR STARE!"

All of the royal rainbows circling his head converged into one point on his manly chest before firing off a deadly beam of spectral energy directly in Cricket's direction. As Cricket dodged the blast, he heard a small, insecure voice from a dark corner of His brain. Um, excuse me? If I may-

Shut up, my sense of reality! Snapped Cricket. I've had it with you! Get out of my house!

Ok... Cricket heard a suitcase click shut deep within the recesses of his mind, and he felt something invisible wriggle out of his ear and plunge to the ground below. He instantly felt all of his cares evaporate away into nothingness.

"Like, oh my OMG!" LOLed Cricket. "U guyz r like, totally bob-omz!" he soon began ROFLing like a spastic.

"Um-" Bill Nye faltered as Cricket rolled past him. "Well, Uh... This is the part where I explain my evil scheme to you guys. So, without further ado, here we go! See, I've been studying the properties of 10th-dimensional objects." He pushed a button on the cthunicorn's saddle, and a claw descended from the ceiling. It held-

"ZOMG sun-ball!" LMAOed Cricket. He leaped at it.

"Hey, wait!" shouted Bill Nye. "I still need to explain my evil plan, you little maggot! Hey, stop!-"

Cricket grabbed the sun-ball.

Well, there you have it. I invite you now to constructively criticize the heck out of it.

Sincerely,

-Ned.

A Fantastic Story of Romance

The glass shattered and root beer splashed all over the aisle. A few people glanced over and smirked. Calvin swore, and instantly realizing his company, muttered something about French. Cynthia smirked and took of a sip of her own soda as Calvin snatched the napkin dispenser and started casting them sporadically over the mess.
"I didn't, eh, get you did I?" Cynthia shook her head. A waiter had grabbed a mmop and began his own battle with the soda. Calvin climbed back in seat, blushing and staring at his coaster. They both took rather large bites and did their best to ignore the waiter. When he left, Cynthia took a swing at the silence.
"So. You used to work here, right?" she said, twirling her straw through the ice.
"Um. Ya. I did. About, eh, a year ago." He hesitantly lifted the replacement soda he'd been given and and put it back slowly. "You know I should, er, tip that waiter." Cynthia bit her lip and nodded. Calvinwipedthe corner of his mouth. "After we finish, though."
"How's the pay?"
"It's, well, it's not good enough for the hours, I don't think. It's not really, um, well the place was built to run on tips. And the people here, uh, don't. Much." He took another large bite and the cheese strung and dangled from his mouth. He blushed again and he did his best to chew them off. Cynthia started admiring the decor.
"So... how long have you lived here?" she said, taking another stab. Calvin raised a finger to excuse the pause. He swallowed quickly.
"All my life." Cynthia nodded.
"I've only been here a couple years," she offered.
"I know. I mean, I remember when you, mm, came."
Calvin tapped his feet against the table.

The Rock and My Brother

Maybe a bit of background... Tonight I was at Teague's soccer game. (For those of you who don't know Teague, he's my six-year-old brother who has quite the personality.) He had a hard time focusing on the game today. When he was going on for the last few minutes of the game, our neighbors said, "Come on Teague, show us your super powers!" Meaning, of course, "soccer" powers, but Teague took it otherwise. He ran around the field moving his arms trying to do something super while half-heartedly trying to kick the ball. I was in pain watching, worried someone would think he was slow because they don't know his imagination like I do. (He inherited it from me, poor kid.) The same "super power" neighbors watched him for a moment, listened to me calling, "Run Teague! Kick the ball!", and said, "He's funny." I wanted to cry, but instead wrote this:

The six-year-old boy reaches down and picks up a small, black rock off the asphalt. “I want to take this rock home,” he says. I can’t help but ask why. “It’s different,” he explains, “I’m going to take it home, and it will be beautiful.” Little does he know that he is explaining himself more than the rock. The boy is my brother, the most amazing child in the whole world, in my opinion. He knew how to work a DVD player at age three, and now can manage to not scratch the discs. He loves to play with his friends, and worries that they don’t want to play with him if he finds they can’t play time after time after time. He is diabetic, and knows what he can and can’t have without a shot. He can his body’s blood sugar level almost as well as I can read mine, and he’s eleven years my junior. And he has a strong love for his family, to the point that he gets distracted when we’re away too long, and tries to make my day better when he knows I’ve had a hard one.

And yet, most people don’t see that. They see the boy who gets shy and silly when company comes, the boy who is obsessed with video games, the boy who plays soccer yet doesn’t care about getting the ball. And they always say, “He is so funny.” I know they’re trying to be nice, but it offends me. He is much, much more than “funny,” and in a few years they will see that. In a few years he will be better at speaking. In a few years he will be better able to control himself in a crowd. In a few years, he will be able to tell people he’s special instead of me thinking it so violently that someone must be able to hear my thoughts.

Yes, he doesn’t speak as well as most six-year-olds. Yes, he is sillier than most people are used to. But he is a child of God, and he is my brother. I see in him what others can’t, and so I DECLARE TO THE WORLD THIS DAY THAT MY BROTHER IS MORE THAN JUST FUNNY. HE IS MORE THAN JUST CUTE. HE IS A BRIGHT, SENSITIVE, PLAYFUL, LOVING SIX-YEAR-OLD BOY. And I love him more than I love anyone else’s child who can speak with a larger vocabulary, who doesn’t act like a dog around my friends, who can make a goal in a soccer game. I love my brother, not despite who he is, but because of who he is.

Watermelon Seeds

It's supposed to be sarcastic, so don't mind me if any of the terms I use are technically right. That's kinda the point. :)

I’ve decided seedless watermelon is irrefutable proof of the laziness of human beings as a whole. One small team of researchers work hard for weeks, months, maybe years, to change the DNA in watermelon just enough to make it grow without seeds. Once they succeed, millions of people around the world reap the benefits of not having to work so hard at spitting out or manually removing their seeds. No matter that usually the taste is flatter and the color duller than normal watermelon, as long as I don’t have to work my tongue and spit those black little pests into the grass. Or worse yet, take them over to the trashcan. Gasp! Oh no, let me sit here and eat my watermelon with out moving my tongue, much less my feet. And yet, as I stand here with a slice of watermelon, a knife, and a growing pile of black seeds, I can’t help but wish for a slice of flavorless, drab, trouble-free seedless watermelon.

Why not?

I've been in an extremely philosophical mood lately (which may or may not have been spurred by reading a dozen or so Diana Wynne Jones quotes on Brainyquotes.com) and I've stumbled upon this funny idea: writing style.
This is a little different from Voice. Voice is word choice and sentence structure and unique preferences to certain literary tricks, but the sort of style I'm thinking of is less of HOW you write and more of WHY.

Nor am I trying to get super scholarly on the deep message behind writing and the effect it has on our souls. This is more in reference to why you REALLY write. I mean sure, the theme inside my current novel is to teach girls what a healthy romantic relationship should really be about (and why my book is so much better than Twilight) but that's not why I'm a writer.
Why do I write? This is question that we should all ask ourselves, and in my opinion the answer should a mere few words that are totally nonspecific and unshackled. For instance, maybe you're particular writing style is simply: "Why?" or the more daring "Why not?"
Perhaps you're the daydreaming "What if?" or the challenging "What if not?"
On the other hand--and there is no shame in this--you might be a constructive "Because..." or you might be the spontaneous "Just Because!"

Answering this question may very well unlock parts of your inner-self to your outer-self that will equally open up your writing. Understanding what kind of writer you are makes the writing process that much the simpler--and the more enjoyable!

My answer, I think, is "Ooh! Look!"
Ever surprised, ever fascinated, ever optimistic: I write to make people look at the world in a different way. The day I discovered this reopened my imagination and put my writing on a whole different level. It has become who I am and what I do, and not just as a writer.

So what's your answer?

Cursed

I am cursed. Some days I think it was sheer happenstance that the curse landed upon me. It is always on my mind; I cannot escape it. It is always there, lurking, waiting to tear me apart with its cruel, gaping jaws before going dormant again: but never gone, never gone.

At times when I feel at peace with the world, I think that the curse is no big deal, that I can live with it. Other days I want to curse it back, scream and black its eyes. Often I feel alone: just me and the curse.

I would never wish this curse on anyone else. But, of course, I am not its only victim. My own brother has recently been covered in the curse's shadow. And how did he react? He didn't. The curse is cunning: it creeps upon you slowly, not attacking you until it is too late. One day, though, my brother will know the true nature of the beast. When that time comes, he too will want to curse the curse, to scream and black its eyes. But, when he's done rebelling and is ready to cry, he won't be alone. He'll have me.

I am cursed. Now I think that it is not coincidence that I was cursed first. As my brother lives under the curse's shadow, I will be there to walk with him, give him a leg up, and carry him when he falls. When we are cursed together, it's not so much of a curse after all.

Plot: an Oratory

Hi. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a teenager. Ands I’m the kind of person that places a little too much on stereotypes and a little too much on what other people think and maybe not enough on my grades. But that’s not what this Oratory is about, that’s what everyone else’s about. Anyways, I, being an ignoramus teenager, got in a fight with my parents. Everyone else is doing it, you know. It’s such a reliable cliche’. I stormed into my room, I slammed the door, I dented my globe, and, in my rage, I broke my glasses. I went blind. After resolving with my parents, I had to get the spare pair, which I hated. I liked my old glasses, I liked how they were covered with stains, I liked how they fell off my face when I moved too fast or looked down. This spare pair over focused everything, it made things seem way too concave, and and it made me feel just uncomfortable.

The title of this speech is one word: Plot.

There are two ways we humans learn. The first is experience. Don’t touch the fire, it burns, don’t jump on unstable surfaces, and don’t be a jerk to your friends or you won’t have any. The major flaw with this line of reasoning is that if everybody learned by experience we’d all be dead. So the second way to learn is through other people’s experiences, or in other words, through storytelling. We one of the few races of animals that do this. Terry Pratchett puts it this way: “Humans need fantasy to be human, to be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape. You have to start learning to believe the little lies, so we can believe the big ones like Justice or Mercy, Duty, that sort of thing.” Through storytelling, we teach ourselves the code to life. We tell ourselves that there are heights to reach, there is a sky to look up to, and each of us has a potential. And in the end, if there’s one thing we can learn from ourselves, it’s Hope.

Act One:

“In the beginning, God made the heavens and the earth.”
Genesis 1:1

Every fictional universe has basic, axiomatic elements without which the story could not even begin to happen. For Harry Potter to defeat Voldemort, we have to assume Magic is possible. For Frodo to destroy the One Ring, we have to assume that the fire will destroy it. For Pokemon to work, we have to have faith that we really CAN catch them all. But we also have to give in to a semblance of destiny - whether we realize it or not. Harry Potter WILL defeat Voldemort, otherwise the universe just isn’t working right.

This is the theory of narrative causality. If you didn’t catch the title of my essay, it’s one word - Plot. Causality is why the plot moves the way it does. It’s why the events of the story are shaped the way they are. And yet.. in the words of Tom King, novelist, “The truth about stories is that’s all we are.” So how does Narratology work in our lives? The beautiful thing about life is that we live from moment to moment. There is always a place to go, a job to fulfill. The lesson we should take from Narrative Causality is that good always wins in the end. Like, certain Christians know that God will triumph over Satan in the last days, that the faithful saints are always, always guaranteed a place in heaven. People need happy endings or there just isn’t a point. And if there is no point, there is no existence. If there’s one thing you learn from reading fiction, it’s that everything resolves and good always wins in the end.

Act Two:

“Speak not in the ears of a fool, for he will despise the wisdom in thy words”
Proverbs 23:9

Characters. Characters are the window into the story, the anchor to the plot. As defined as the plot is in a book, it still always begins with “Now what would THIS kind of person do in THIS situation?”. Now, why do our heroes always seem to be an “ordinary high school student” or “small town hero”? You’ve probably heard this line before, but we need something we can relate to. In fact, to a writer the best part about a person in a book is their flaws. If someone in a book is starts the story being absolutely perfect, they are not the main character. They have to begin where you and I begin, so that we can see how to grow. Without a flaw, or a way to improve, there is no story. The exception is the Bible, and well, that’s the point, isn’t it? The idea is, We need a real person in our stories, or it isn’t real. But if everybody is flawed, what is the difference between the “good guys” and the “bad guys”? I think the answer is that a good person is someone who wants to get better.

Case study: Aesop’s Fables. Every single one of them involves a character with a flaw, a flaw to challenge, a flaw to overcome. The animals in the story are personifications of how humans think - the clever fox, the proud lion, the gullible chickens. And the reason Aesop is one of my favorite storytellers is that he not only entertains, but effectively and shamelessly enlightens us. The fables have become solid proof of the value of virtues like patience, or honor. And so, the hero is someone who always strives for his redemption. A hero is someone who realizes the best end to the means is the honest way. Because characters in stories may be fictional, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. They are us. This is the key to having a good attitude. Think about it. In fiction when we paint our selves, we see them succeed. All throughout history, people have gone from the lowest of the low to the highest of glory by the principle of resolve. Do the heroes in a story back down? No! Do they go through trials? Yes. And if there’s one thing that we learn from reading fiction, it’s that every one of us can achieve something.

Act Three:

“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path”
Psalm 119:105

Throughout the speech, I’ve been giving biblical quotes. I don’t really care what religion you are. But the Bible is one of the most influential pieces of literature - arguably the most - in the history of mankind. The scriptures we treat as holy are in fact some of the most incredibly, undeniably human collection of stories I’ve ever seen. Beginning with the Old Testament, we have, much like Aesop, the stories of people who have very specific flaws to overcome.

So while the Old Testament is instructive in its morals, obedience can only get us so far. That’s why we have to New Testament, then - because it gives us the Perfect Example: and he is the Christ. If you find biblical things “just a fantasy”, then I hope you never forget just how powerful fantasy can be. Amazingly, the story of Christ isn’t about how he is so far beyond our reach but that he is within it, that there is bit of him inside everyone of us. In the pages of scripture we have the account of a man who stared down temptation, pain, and ultimately Death to come out victor. This is the story of a man who on the cross looked to the sky and said “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do”. Fictional or not, his perfect example inspired the the American Revolution, gave inspiration to men like Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., and continually gives light to those in darkness.

This is what saved my life. Because when I was angry, angry at my parents, angry at the world, and ultimately angry at myself, I wondered if life was worth it. I thought that if I died, maybe I’d be missed, but in the end I would just be another sad story, content to be an uncomfortable spot of gloom people remember but avoid thinking about. But...

“Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see!”

I found a Bible in my room. (checklist: angry at parents, angry at world, angry at me... oh, I DID forget to check off God.) I don’t care if it’s a fantasy. I don’t care if you think it’s a fantasy. I don’t care because this shows us just how powerful the stories in our lives can be. “Being Christlike”, as intangible as the subject may be, became a tangible goal. The point of this speech is not “read the bible” rather, take away from this “READ!”. Because ultimately, “Humans need fantasy to be human, to be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.” And if there’s one thing that reading fiction can teach us, it’s Hope.