Saturday, December 25, 2010

'Twas the Night Before Christmas (in Chicago)

This was recorded! yay!

'Twas the Night Before Christmas (in Chicago) by Wyl

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the town
All the drunkards were singing, there was nary a frown.
And the bottles were flung into the street without care,
With knowledge that street-sweepers soon would be there.
And the trixies were letting the drinks get to their heads,
Without thought to how they were going to get back to their beds.
And the noise was fading, so I pushed the cat out of my lap
And tried to settle in for a nice Chicago nap.
When out from the street there arose so much laughter,
So I leapt from my futon to see what they were after.
Away to the window, but I fell like the snow
And sprained my ankle, and stubbed my big toe.
The streetlights reflection off of the grey colored snow,
Shined like diamond on the scene below.
Why, what to my tired and bagged eyes should appear,
But a homeless man stumbling and drinking a beer.
With a long white beard, and red coat so thick,
I thought, with a laugh, that he looked like St. Nick.
The yuppies still cat called and made many jokes,
And in their cruelty I pitied the bloke.
“It’s Christmas” I though, and contemplated my choices
And made one with resolve as I heard their shrill voices.
I ran to the fridge, and found the leftovers,
Chinese food and a fork, and some chocolate from Stover’s.
So out from my 2 bedroom apartment I flew,
But I had to turn back to put on my shoes.
The bros had scattered, but their words hung in the air,
But when I caught up to the man, he seemed not to care.
I presented him my food, and the chocolate too,
And his red face got more rosy as he said “thank you.”
He was dressed in rags, from his head to his foot,
And they were all dirty and tarnished with soot.
His worldly possessions were hung on his back,
And in his left hand, he held a glass flask.
His eyes were a bit glazed, and he spoke with a stutter,
And you could tell by his posture that he slept in a gutter.
His droll little mouth was missing some teeth,
And the few that he had were sharp like a beast.
The butt of a cigarette he held with his gums,
And the smell of it all made my nostrils go numb.
He looked malnourished, but still had a belly,
That shook when he laughed like a big bowl of jelly.
And for a man so downtrodden and poor,
He was jolly and happy, and something still more.
A wink of his eye, and a tug on his ear,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to fear.
He reached into his pocket, and pulled out something round,
And into my hand, a gold watch I had found.
He then lay a finger on the side of his nose,
And giving a nod, up from the ground he rose,
I stood in still silence, amazed at the guy,
And watched as he disappeared into the sky.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

Tuesday, December 14, 2010


This is 15 pages long, a full movement, and my final for fic1. Enjoy, if you choose to read all of it.

The putrid smell of burning hair just barely overpowered the metallic stink of the blood that covered me from head to toe. I sat, face blank, contemplating the course not only the evening, but my entire life had ran. As the shrill, muffled sounds of sirens pierced through the ringing in my ears, I finally started making sense of the night. The problem was me. My ex was right; I force people to lash out at me. There are sometimes that others can’t be held responsible for their actions, this time included. Three bodies rolled past me on stretchers as I pulled up the rough overly sterilized blanket around my shoulders and thought to myself “This is the most fucked up blind date I’ve ever had.”

April and I had been daring for three magical months. Every minute I spent with her made me feel like I was twelve years old again, and not just because I had to hide my erections in public. The smell of her hair would linger in my nostrils for hours after I would leave her on her doorstep. We would go on dates that history has proven to be the most romantic possible: long walks on the beach at sunset, picnics in the park, and (my favorite) going to the zoo. Looking at the animals in their cages always made me feel better about myself, and even though I tried explaining that to April, she never really understood what I was talking about. Have you ever seen a tiger look like he was crying?

The way they pace in those tiny pens, the food that they have thrown to them instead of having to hunt it themselves, the utter lack of any sort of running room? These are things that I don’t have to deal with. I am a free man, and sure, I might not be the best looking, or best dressed, or smoothest talker, or… well, let’s just say at least I can roam around more than an eight by eight cell. Even though she didn’t get the same ego boost that I did while looking at the animals, April did love the photo booth in the gift shop. I kept one of the frames, me kissing her on the cheek, my disheveled black hair tickling the side of her face, and April looking playfully annoyed, in my wallet covering the obligatory bad photo on my driver’s license. After I would get home, I would call her on the phone, and we would talk for what seemed like seconds, but my cell phone service charged as days. I would call her “Schnookie poo” and “Gumdrop” and while she didn’t have any pet names for me, you could hear the love in the way she pronounced “Julius.” She must have had a speech impediment she didn’t like to talk about, because I’ve never heard anyone else pronounce “Julian” that way. I loved her little imperfections. They reminded me of my own. Much like the pen ink tattoo I stabbed into the side of my ankle the night before my heart was torn in two.
We were at our favorite hotdog place, the 7/11 on the corner. April always went through great care to perfectly top her hotdog, and while I was sloshing ketchup from one of the many square containers, she turned to me and said “There’s someone else.”
“What?” I asked, the ketchup spoon falling back into its home with a splat.
“He goes to my gym.” April sprinkled onions on the left half of her hotdog. “He’s
a lawyer with a 401k, dreams of a house and kids, and pecs that shine like Adonis in a light sun shower.” Next she reached for the celery salt as I stood reeling from what was possibly the worst news I had ever heard. “He’s going somewhere with his life doesn’t complain about his job every chance he gets, and doesn’t need constant attention.” She punctuated attention by slamming the salt shaker down, hard.
“But what about me? What about us?” I asked after trying to think about how often I complain about my job. I would probably have been able to think of it quicker, but they have me working such awful hours that I never get any sleep. That place is a nightmare anyway.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about.” She picked up a massive scoop of jalapeños and dumped them all over her hotdog. I hate jalapeños, they are horribly spicy and awful. Plus, when I kiss April after she eats them, I have to taste them anyway. They aren’t quite as bad as the relish. The weird radioactive green freaks me out. But I’m distracting myself, trying not to get to the worst part. “You, you, you. It’s always about you. Sometimes I just need some me, me, me.”
“But I give you my everything. Everything I do is for you” I didn’t notice that my hotdog had fallen into the mustard.
“There you go again.” April had finished her ritual, and had already started eating her hotdog. I would have laughed when she had pieces of onion fall from her cheek, but I couldn’t see it if it did happen, because by this point my tears had started to make it hard to get a sight of her. “And the tears. You cry all the time. You aren’t even close to being a real man. I’m glad I found someone who knows how to act like a grown up instead of a pissy cry-baby. This is really your fault. You make people lash out at you.” April started to put her food away and leave, but before I could let her walk out of my life forever, I pleaded one last time.
“I know you want to leave, but know that everything I do is for you.”
“You said that already.”
“I know! But please, just keep me in mind. I will be here. I will be here forever.”
“Whatever you want. I’m leaving now.”
“Well, have a good life, until you call me.”
“You too, I guess… Oh, and Julius?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
With that, April walked out.

The next few weeks were hard. I tried not thinking about her, but everything that I saw was a bitter reminder of better times. I was walking home one day and saw a daisy in a flowerbox; daisies are April’s favorites. I passed a Pepsi ad and remembered her preference for Coke. Because of all of the images of her manifesting themselves in front of me, I walked with my eyes closed. That’s when I stepped in a huge pile of dog shit. April hated stepping in dog shit. As I scraped my shoe on the sidewalk, brown streaks being drawn on the grey concrete, I took a deep breath; April had to breathe to live. I sat down, right back into the foul smelling poop calligraphy I made that read “Apr”, trying to not to cry too hard. I knew it was my fault for being clingy, but she could have asked for some space without breaking up with me. No, I must be wrong. I’m always wrong. It’s all my fault.
I went to work, with April’s accusation of complaining still ringing in my ears. As much as I tried to just stay focused while fact checking for the Herald, the words would all swirl around, making pictures of April. I couldn’t shake them, and after three hours of not working, I gave up and asked my boss if I could take a sick day. He’s an angry, bald, red faced, and stout man, as most news paper editors are, or at least I assume, since I only know one. The thing with Jim Ryan (he demands we call him by his full name. I don’t get it either) is that he makes you feel wrong no matter what. So asking him for anything is always a hairy ordeal. I tried telling him that I was love sick, a real disorder that had affected my ability to work, and he simply said “Shut the FUCK up and get to work you goddamn peon! If I EVER see you in my office again I will chew off yer head and spit it up yer godforsaken ass! ‘Love sick?’ BULLSHIT!” Did I mention he’s not a nice man? I went back to my desk, trying to figure out if there really were 11,000 puppy mills in the Los Angeles area, and if that was indeed more than in Chicago, when I felt the tears coming. Jim Ryan said there was no such thing as being love sick, but this was more than I could take. April thought puppies were cute! I went back to Jim Ryan’s office, handed him my letter of resignation, and ran out as fast as I could before he read it and started having a coronary. I went out, bought a black turtle neck, new black pants, and some really heavy curtains. After stopping to pick up “Wish” by The Cure, I went home, changed, put the album on, and locked my door.
After a week I had a solid depression beard grown. While “beard” might be too strong of a term, it certainly did the trick of showing how haggard I felt inside. My world had crashed into the sun, then the sun imploded, and all that was left was a poison vacuum of death, swallowing universe after universe, leaving nothing but pain and misery. Whys flew around my darkened apartment, and as the piles of take out containers grew and the moldy homeless person scent permeated, I found myself curled up in a ball like a child, screaming broken “Friday I’m in love” lyrics through my sobs. As Robert Smith and I wailed about Sunday always coming too late, there was a knock on the door, then another, then the door just opened.
“Julian, you gave me a key and I’m coming in. Stop masturbating…or whatever you’re doing in here. God I hope he’s jerking off, because if he’s dead I will vomit.” Wade’s voice made me straighten up off the floor. “Holy shit, it smells like a hobo died in a puddle of his own vomit in here.”
“JULIAN! ARE YOU DEAD? CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Logan started screaming before I could have answered Wade. The light from the hallway was blinding, and I must have looked like an Iraqi prisoner coming out of solitary confinement, because Logan yelled “DAMN! You look like an Iraqi prisoner coming out of solitary confinement!” My friends are assholes.
“I’m fine, just… close the fucking door.” I said, trying to hide the tear streaks on my face.
“What the fuck have you been doing the last week? You know what? I don’t really want to know. I do want to know WHY you haven’t left your apartment, or why I keep getting voice mails from you that just keep saying ‘she’s gone, she’s gone.’” Wade always had a way with making me feel better…
“Or why you smell like the inside of a fat man’s gym bag. If a fat man ever went to a gym…”
“Is this about your girlfriend leaving you? ALL OF THIS?”
“Because that would be pretty fucked up. It’s just a girl.”
“Seriously. And don’t feed us any of that ‘I loved her’ shit. We don’t want to hear it, because you only knew her for three months. And in that time a man doesn’t learn to love his own mother…”
“Never the less some bitch girl. Where’d you even find her? Bitches r’ Us? Because she literally leaked evil.”
“Right. Now get the fuck up, and start… showering. But THEN start dating again! We’ll help you out! And if Logan or Rob or I have to set you up with some of our hot lady friends, we will.”
“Wade’s right. Grow a pair and stop crying in the dark to The Cure. It isn’t the eighties anymore anyway!” I was trying to understand where they were coming from. I knew I should man up, but April was so beautiful and wonderful and magical, that I couldn’t stop thinking of her. I was about to tell them to fuck off and get out of my house, when Rob chimed in for the first time. Rob was normally very mild mannered, and gave great thought to everything he said. Which is why I was so surprised to hear him say:
“Come the fuck on! If I have to rip those fucking black clothes off of you, dress you, force drinks down your throat, and then get you into bed with blonde twins from Sweden on spring break who desperately want to lash out at their parents by having some loser American’s illegitimate child, only to move back home and raise it on their own, I FUCKING WILL!”
After that I really didn’t have a choice but to open the curtains and buy a new razor.

Logan had a cousin come up from Alabama, and he wanted to set us up. We all met at some terrible dive bar, the kind with their specials printed on banners from a Super Bowl from which both starting quarterbacks were now long retired. I said I would give her a shot, but as soon as I saw her, I made up an excuse to leave, saying I felt sick. She looked just like April. I mean, sure, her hair was darker, and longer, and styled in a way that would make most women vomit. And yeah, she was only about 5’ 1” compared to April’s 5’ 7”. She also had two less front teeth and cauliflower ear. Her smile made her moustache dance, and as she batted her clumped eyelashes at me, I had to look away. I could see April right under that sloping brow and through her hunched shoulders. Even the way she said “Howdy” (more accurately, “Haughdeeeee!”) reminded me of April; how she had such perfect diction. I hopped on a bus and headed home, passing homeless person after homeless person, wishing I could be left alone just like they were. Lonely, and free. What a great life!
Wade gave it a try next with the worst possible situation to throw me into; karaoke. The thing about karaoke is that you attempt to sing some really awful song in front of a bunch of people. For those of us who are the worst singers, this means that a bar full of people will be watching us awkwardly flounder for a few minutes, before finally running away to vomit in the bathroom. I can never do ANYTHING right, nevertheless pull off a tune in front of people judging me. So it stands to reason that there is nothing I want to do less. But still, I had to try to push April’s ghost from my mind, so there I was, standing in a karaoke bar, pencil and sign up sheet in hand because apparently it would make me seem “cooler” to the amateur boxer Wade had brought along. She was decent looking, save for the healing black eye, way too much make up, and distinct height advantage over me. I was pretty sure she had an Adam’s apple, but Wade assured me that she was “all woman.” There was a lot of that that I didn’t care to know about. I got called way sooner than I was ready for, having only drank about six shots of whiskey, and made my way to the stage to sing “Angel” by Sarah MacLachlan. I didn’t know the lyrics, and as I was singing and reading them for the first real time, I kept thinking of April. I wished I was in the arms of that angel. I started to tear up again, and screamed into the microphone “I LOVE YOU APRIL! I MISS YOU SO MUCH!” The song eventually ended, and as the overwhelming silence finally broke to jeers and laughs, I made my way back to my table. Wade’s boxer lady friend asked who April was, and I told her, at length, about how gorgeous April was. How much I loved April. How no woman, or freakishly tall, man-handed, lady-monster could ever take her place. In retrospect, that might have been a bit mean, but I was just so crushed by all of the memories of April that I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions. I guess I deserved the slap to the face I received that moment. Unfortunately, her being a gigantic monster woman meant that I couldn’t chew solid food for almost a week after that. I headed home defeated, once again, to find an icepack and drank until I passed out.
I was half way back into my black turtleneck when Rob called. He had made me reservations at Le Branlette, the French restaurant that makes my wallet cry every time I walk past. There is a live string quartet, several crystal chandeliers, and the waiters wear full on tuxedos. The place has a dress code. All of this while trying to live off of savings before going on unemployment. I would have told him to cancel, that there was no way that I could afford it, but I figured I would treat myself to a nice dinner. And even if the girl turned out to be an awful, bitter reminder that I would be alone forever without my dear April, I would at least get to eat expensive food. So I found the only tie I owned and went.
The inside of the place was even more intimidating than I thought it would be. Not only did I feel incredibly underdressed in my near skin tight black khakis and worn out dress shirt that wouldn’t stay tucked in, but I also had to wear a big, red carnation. To “let her know it’s you” as Rob put it. Sticking out like a sore thumb is my forte, so there I sat, between paintings from French artists I couldn’t tell you the name of, French wines I couldn’t pronounce, and a waiter with a French accent, even though I swear that I took an English class with him once, and was pretty sure he said he was from Minnesota. I sat staring at happy couples, each of them looking deeply into the other’s eyes, wearing formal wear I had up to this point only see on TV during the Oscars. My phony French waiter came and asked if I would like a drink, to which it seemed the only logical answer was yes. I was sitting alone at a very expensive restaurant, a giant goofy red flower half stapled to my chest, and my boxers hanging out of the back of my pants. Yes, I needed a drink. I ordered a whiskey and water, and it came, but it must have been a very small one, seeing as within a minute I was asking for another, but a tall one this time. I sucked down the pale brown courage juice, and time stood still. Or at very least crawled by at the pace of an elderly woman coming home from a lunch buffet. This must have accounted for my having finished the second drink before I felt the effects of the first. As the waiter came around and asked if I would like another drink, he eyed me up and down, presumably trying to calculate my net worth. His guess was probably high, even if he had nothing but the worst expectations. Although, we also probably had similar unpaid student loans, so there was always that. I did want another drink, but worried that it would make the difference between dinner and no dinner, I went with just a water. I was then asked if I would like him to remove the other place setting. It was at this moment that she walked through the door. The entire restaurant seemed to quite, as a magical spotlight shined on her from both the front and the back, casting a heavenly glow wherever she went. She was gorgeous with brilliant perfect teeth, flawless porcelain skin, and hair so shiny that it could blind you even in the daylight. But not in a bad way, mind you, but in a “I feed my dog Alpo so that he has a shiny coat!” kind of way. As she walked towards me I prayed that she would take off her sweater revealing a matching red flower, knowing full well that she would wear it with grace and beauty and far better than I did. I knew that I didn’t have a chance of ending up with a woman so good looking, so you can imagine my surprise when she stopped at my table and asked “Are you Julian?”
I have never been good with words, but if I was asked to describe this girls beauty I would say:
“There stands a Goddess. Mortals of Earth, bow your heads and shield your eyes, less you become blinded by the flawless glow that surrounds this pale creature. Ten thousand poets could write for ten thousand years and never come close to crafting a verse that would read half as beautifully as the freckles on her perfect nose. Were her eyes to carry the powers of Medusa, I would happily gaze into them just for the brief moment of bliss that would accompany that gaze, and I could stay forever caught in that moment of knowing true, perfect love.”
Luckily, no one asked me, otherwise they would have been completely ignored as I continued to stare dumbly.
Her name was Samantha. She sat across from me, ordered a matching glass of water, and then started talking immediately about how fake our waiters accent was. She laughed and smiled as I told her about my possible English class with him, and it was the first time I felt any sense of self confidence in a long time. She went on to tell me about her job as a zoologist, and how it was her dream to go to Africa and study gazelles. This is my favorite animal, and the fact that we shared this obscure love made me fall for her. The gazelle is a perfect animal for her to love. Just like her, the gazelle is an animal of grace and beauty. It is a natural survivor and a very communal animal. Like me, gazelles have a urine fetish, but that didn’t come up during our conversation. The topics changed and changed, seamless transitions from animals, to heavy machinery, to the absurdity of British royalty, but everything that Samantha said was in a perfect soprano, each note hit with flawless execution, leaving me breathless at the end of each symphonic sentence. At some point the faux French waiter came back, asking for our orders, and standing rigidly with a look that read both “You are a lucky man” and “Please, you poor bastard, hurry up and order your credit card maxing meal before I die of old age.” I deferred to Samantha, who’s order made me fall in love with her:
“The house sirloin, medium rare. And can I get a whiskey and water with my meal, please?”
It was meant to be. When he turned to me, all I had to say was “Ditto.”
When the waiter left, we just looked at each other for a minute. Normally, this would be a very awkward minute, trying to find something to say, trying to break eye contact. That is what I would have expected going into this date. Instead, she broke the silence by leaning in close, her strawberry blonde curls framing her face better than any painting in the Louvre. “I know it’s only been a little bit, but I could see us together already. I think…I think I might fall for you. Please don’t think I’m weird and run away.” I sat breathless as flashes of hopefully-her-side-of-the-gene-pool-is-more-prevalent babies, giant houses in the suburbs with white picket fences and golden retrievers, and matching cemetery plots passed before my eyes. Fantasies of the night we were sure to have after dinner started playing, and I was thankful for the tablecloth covering my lap. I knew there was a reason I didn’t like the spring time, particularly late March, but I couldn’t explain why. Nor could I understand why I hated jalapeños so much. My heart had swollen to the point that it was pushing the air out of my lungs and I thought it would burst out of my chest, when I was brought back to reality by the smell of meat and the sound of the pretentious fake accent of our waiter. He served Samantha first, and she immediately cut into her steak. As he placed my plate in front of me, along with our drinks, he asked how everything looked. I will never forgive him for this. Samantha put a fork in half of her steak and held it up to the waiter.
“This is medium. What did I ask for?” said a rather red-faced Samantha. The fire in her voice could have cooked the steak to a char, and I felt strangely warm as she spoke.
“Medium rare. I am terribly sorry madam; I can have the chef remake it more to your liking.”
“Why on earth should I have to wait another half an hour to eat just because you can’t do your fucking job?” Samantha was getting redder, and must have made the waiter feel tiny, because she seemed to grow larger and angrier with each word. “What kind of shit-hole establishment is this that I can’t even make a simple order? How much extra do you get paid to make a mockery of the service industry?” Samantha seemed to shine with an unnatural, yet strangely beautiful glow. I admired her passion, but was beginning to wonder if I should step in and save my former classmate from her wrath. I decided that I would probably make the situation worse, so I just sat there, loosening my tie and wondering why I was sweating. “IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK THAT I GET A MEDIUM RARE FUCKING STEAK?! IS THAT SO HARD? WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET-”
It would be at this point that most people would realize they have made far too big of a scene. Most people would apologize, ask for a doggie bag, tip thirty or so percent, and run far away from the restaurant. Or at least that’s what I would do. I would also have suggested this to Samantha, had she not exploded. Quite literally exploded. In a burning hot flash of fire and smoke, Samantha burst, pieces of her rocketing away from her chair. The waiter was too close to survive, but luckily blocked most of the blast from reaching me. Some of the other patrons weren’t quite as lucky as forks, plates, and slightly overcooked red meat went flying indiscriminately across the room. A small child sat helplessly on the floor under half of our table. An elderly woman about twenty feet away sat sprawled in her chair, one of Samantha’s perfect fingers half exposed in her forehead. The overhead lighting, once brilliant, were now a red and pink mess of crystal and Samantha. Strands of her curls and one of her gorgeous green eyes had coated one of the paintings, adding a human touch to the stark French landscape, and if you ask me, improved upon it greatly. At some point the paramedics came, asking if I was alright, and if I could stand up. I was one of the few people left sitting upright in a chair, and certainly the only one who was sitting alive. I would say it was a miracle, but with my sad state of affairs it felt like just the opposite. Somehow I ended up on the back of an ambulance. It may have been the explosion causing me to hallucinate, or it may have been real, but I watched as my once rabidly erect penis slithered down my pants and onto the street below. As it slinked off slowly, presumably to find a new home, it turned back to me and said “Please don’t come looking for me. Everything you touch turns to shit, and if that’s any indicator, I don’t stand a snowballs chance in hell.”
“But penis,” I said, “What about me? What about us?”
“That line has never EVER worked! I was there, dip shit! I know! And besides, one of us has to get some. And frankly, it’s not gonna be you. So do me a favor, and fuck off.” I don’t really blame it, I hated me too.
The coming weeks and months held investigations, hearings, and looking for a job. But still I had a lot of down time. I tried not thinking about Samantha, but figured I would need a hobby if I really didn’t want to see her perfect face every where I went. So I learned to knit, further removing any chance I had at getting a girlfriend. But you know what? I think I’m finally starting to be good at something.

Friday, December 10, 2010


The cupboards had all been flung open, and dishes lay helplessly on the cold tile floor of the kitchen. The porcelain disks, still intact, were deafening in their silent stillness; a physical representation of childhood abandon, naïveté, and search in a mysterious world. Past the kitchen, where the split level house in rural Connecticut earned its name, a trail of knick knacks from a riffled chest led towards the miniature detectives. A young boy, no more than eight years old (the elder of the two) barked orders to his sister, their matching brown hair as frayed and frantic as their hunt. It was hot in the house, a typical July day with the picture widows letting the oppressive sun’s rays float languidly throughout the house. A housecat’s dream, being able to stretch its fur out in those rays, it’s lethargic lifestyle being displayed prominently and without remorse. But these children were on a mission. Neither man nor God could dissuade them from the absolute human necessity of finding what they were after, namely their Christmas gifts. While their knowledge of seasons and holiday schedules were telling them that there was an eternity before St. Nicholas would be visiting them in the middle of the night, his sled pulled with the mighty force of eight reindeer, they still searched for the gifts from their parents. Even be it a new pair of woolen socks, the thrill of the hunt, and the delicious, sweet taste of success forced their little minds to search. Soon, the inevitable decision was reached, and the young girl, two years her brothers younger, said it best:

“We should look in mom and dad’s closet. I bet they’re in there.”

At some point in time, all children must break that barrier of privacy, and delve into their parents closets. The range of what one will find varies immensely. The most vanilla of households will have clothes, shoes, and other wardrobe accoutrement. Then, there are the houses where the skeletons are only hung in order to prevent the real monsters from being see by any outsider. For our two, the former was the life that their parents led. The father, archetype for the patriarch, with his nine to five at a respected law firm, and their mother, housekeeper, child raiser, and school teacher. Both respected throughout the community, and rightfully so. The lawn was trimmed, their private lives kept private, and their good nature only outshined by their good humor. Their story book marriage, high school sweethearts, soul recipients of each others undivided love, had been rock solid their entire adult lives. Their planners, tacked on the wall with as much care as they give their fine works of art, held more importance and beauty. Their house was pristine, and the children soon found themselves in the entry way of the even better kept boudoir.
Their height would be the factor that worked against them. Prior to the grow spurts that would warn of puberty, they stood tall enough to neither reach nor see the top shelf where the young ones were sure the goodies of a Christmas future sat, waiting anxiously to be found. A plan was soon formulated to use their collective lengths to see higher than once believed they could. The taller of the two would stand on top of the smaller, his longer frame able to get a better vantage point, or so he argued. And being the older and wiser, she soon gave way to his logic. And into her hands he placed his foot. All of his boyhood strength was transferred into that one limb, as he used his boyish hands to balance himself on her mess of hair. The spider web feeling under his palms tickled immensely, and soon he found himself fighting to stay upright. The swaying of her brother caused her to sway herself, and their collective swaying made the spider web feeling intensify, and that started the falling cycle all over again. Soon the swaying was too much, and with a great crash, both of the siblings came crashing down to the earth, with the intensity of a falling star, and the danger associated with a grandmother knitting. Could one of them been hurt? Surely. But in a time of great effort one is able to exert great strength and quickness, and with their adrenaline surging, they had managed to avoid each other and all other obstacles. They brushed themselves off, silently acknowledging something they didn’t quite understand. In hindsight, a concept they were far from understanding, they would see the universal justice in their near miss. The violation of the privacy of their parents, the fall. All things are connected. And while this is meaningless to the average child, to an adult the messages ring forever. Want not, be free. Want it all, deal with the consequences, great or minuscule. But for now, they would simply go about hiding their evidence until their mother came home and cooked them lunch.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


I have been put on this Earth for a purpose. I am justice. I am vengeance. I am the lone sword of lawfulness that shines in a black cloud of despair. I am the protector of the weak. I am the shepherd of the lost. I am the last bastion of truth! I am-

“Honey! Do you want me to do a load of undies, or are you all set for next week?”


Dang! She always manages to chime in when I’m rehearsing. I almost had my speech down too, but no. She just has to interrupt me asking about my underwear. I never ask her about her underpants! Not that I ever would, because, like, she’s my mom. Besides, who can really call those underwear? There’s not enough fabric to cover one of my hands…not that I would know. Because that’s gross. But, I mean, seriously, those have to be uncomfortable, with that string riding up your butt all day. I don’t understand. Whatever.

Mom and I don’t really talk all that much. I mean, yeah, we eat dinner together, and breakfast, and on the weekends lunch, unless I go over to a friends house. And sure, we watch TV together, because we both like that new super hero show. But I mean, outside of that, and the rides to and from school, we never talk. She’s been weird since my dad left. He went out for milk and never came home. I mean, this was after the divorce, and the packing, and the crying (mostly by mom, I’m a man and I don’t cry). But still, one second he’s here, then: poof. Gone. He was a cop. Prob’ly still is a cop. I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him in ages. Since, like, June. And now it‘s almost a month since Independence Day. Anywho, he’s the one who got me into the detective stuff. But I took it a step further and became The-

“Dinner is going to be done in ten, hun!”


Shoot! Always when I’m trying to explain myself. Oh well, it wouldn’t be much of a hidden identity if everyone knew who I was at night! Speaking of, I finally solved a crime! All that’s left is to finalize and get my man. It wont be easy, and it will be dangerous, and death defying, and totally scary, but it’s all in a days work for The… wait, I almost spilled the beans. Lemme explain:

I got the regal position of “Library Helper” at school. This noble title meant that while the rest of the losers were in line waiting to check out wavy copies of Harry Potter, the pages crumpled and stained with grease, I was behind the counter, doing all of the hard work. The librarian would have me slave over the demagnetizer and it was my sworn duty to ensure that the wicked alarm never went off. In my days of service, not once did the wailing cat of an alarm sound without warrant. Sure, sometimes the stupid demagnetizer didn’t work all that great, but that wasn’t my fault. There was one class where it went off at least five times due to technical difficulties. But whatever, if they wanted it to work they would buy a new one. That what mom does when her car stops working. We’re basically rich so she just buys the same car in the same color. She likes it a lot I guess, so we never get anything different. She said that I can have a Ferrari when I turn 16. Or maybe a Porsche. Or I could just get my own private jet, because I wont even want to drive, I can just fly to my friends houses. It’s going to be pretty awesome. But anyway…

The most important thing that I do at the library is make sure all the books come back. I could do it on the computer, because I’m a computer genius, but I do it by hand because I don’t want to make Mrs. Shu, the librarian, feel dumb. She’s old and she kind of looks like a new baby, all gross and veiny and wrinkly. But with more hair. My friend Kevin had a baby sister not too long ago and I told him it looked more like a naked mole rat than a baby. So I have a list of every book that everyone checks out and when they are due back. Usually it’s only a week, which is good for me because I read whole chapter books in an hour. But some of the other kids aren’t quite as fast as I am. Some even need longer and check out the same book twice in a row. But some kids forget their books and cant check them back out. These kids are the bane of society. There’s a girl Julie, who totally has cooties, that forgot her book this week. She said that she didn’t know where it was. Mrs. Shu said that she could have a couple days to try to find it, but if she didn’t she would have to pay at least a million dollars in late fees. I don’t think Julie lost the book at all. I think she’s hiding it. And I think this is a job for me, The… almost did it again! Maybe I will say it some day, but for now it’s still a secret. I went to Julie at recess, after getting a new cootie shot, and asked her about the book.

“So where is it, you thieving wench?” I demanded.

“Where is what, weirdo?” She snapped back. I could detect a slight quiver in her voice, so I knew she knew exactly what I was talking about. I learned that trick from the show I watch with my mom. The hero always can tell when someone is lying. It’s a power that he and I share.

“The book, you foul criminal! I know you know where it is, and if I have to find it there will be some serious consequences!”

“Knock it off Felix! I don’t know where I put that stupid book. It wasn’t even that good.”

“That’s just what you would say. I know you have it, and I don’t intend to rest until it is back in the safety of the library!”

“Whatever, freak. Why don’t you go away now?” She was terrified of me finding the book. She would probably end up in jail, probably serving life. Theft is a serious crime. But for now I knew it was better to back off and keep an eye out.

This is the crime I knew I could solve. I knew exactly where that book was. It was in her house. Most likely behind some painting in a secret safe. So I waited and waited, and when it was dark out I put on my costume, all black with a mask and my secret symbol in silver on the chest, and headed out to Julie’s house to return the stolen book!

The streetlights are on. This makes my journey more difficult. There aren’t quite as many shadows that I can hide behind. But Julie only lives a couple of blocks away, so I dart between the well kept shrubs and the blue mail boxes, stopping between the cul-de-sacs and the main road to make sure there aren’t any other crimes that need stopping. After another couple minutes of sneaking and rolling, I find myself at Julie’s front door. But only fools go in the front door. If she knows that I’m coming, she will have laid a trap for sure. It’s safer to try to find an open window in the back. So I crawl around the side of the house, and make my way into the back yard. I was right! There is an open window that looks perfect for me. Working quickly I make my way through the window and into the kitchen. The house is dark, and still. I walk into the dining room, and the floor boards squeak under my footsteps. Not too big of a deal, I think, it was pretty quiet. As I scan the walls for paintings I see a picture of Julie and her Dad. Her dad is a cop, just like my dad. I hold the photo in my hands. The cold metal frame picks up a glint from the lights outside. I wonder why my dad had to leave us. Why couldn’t he have just worked things out with my mom? Why did they have to fight all the time? I bet they were happy before I came around. I bet I ruined everything. The whole time they were talking about moving and whatever, they kept telling me that it wasn’t my fault, but I didn’t believe them. Sometimes I think about where my dad is. He only lives a town over, and I talk to him on the phone all the time, but he was busy with police things, and cant ever come to see me. I wonder if Julie’s dad ever sees my dad. I bet, after I get this book back, that when I see her next she will understand why I had to steal the book back from her. Maybe I can then talk to her dad and ask him to talk to my dad and tell him to call me. Maybe Dad could take me to a baseball game like we used to.

I hear some steps behind me and my cover is blown! I turn around to see my would be captors, prepared to fight my way out. But all I can see in the light from the street is a very large shape, with a matching shine from something metal in it’s hand. Before I can make heads or tails of what’s going on, I hear a huge boom! My chest hurts. It’s on fire. Then another boom! I cant breathe all that well. I don’t feel good, and I keep coughing up something wet and warm. I feel dizzy; something’s wrong. The lights are on now. Someone keeps screaming “oh my God, oh my God!” over and over again. I cant see much more than blurs. I think they got me. I don’t think I can get that book back to Mrs. Shu. I don’t think I’m much of a superhero, or even a detective, or even just a police officer like my dad. I think I might fall asleep, even though someone keeps telling me to hold on. But I’m so tired. Evil might have… won this battle… but the war… will…
be won…



Friday, December 3, 2010

Dear Plagiarizer,

This is an actual email sent to an actual person who stole Boom. off of here and handed it in for an assignment. Someone read it, figured this girl wasn't the author, googled a section of it, and found this blog. They then posed as me, emailed said girl, then sent me the responce. I have since emailed the professor, and sent her this

(also, this girl is from a different state. not Columbia.):

Wyl Ryan, Wyl Villacres, all the same person really. But there is a point to why i am messaging you...again... or for the first time... like i said, it's been a weird day.

First off, how do you know Omitted? We were in Omitted together and i havent talked to her in ages. Also, no, it wasnt Omitted that sold you out, nor is it anyone that i'm related to. Just some concerned citizen who is amazing at hunting people down.

Anyway. I know that you were behind in a class, but why did you do it? Why my story? Why at the end of the semester? If it wasnt for credit, why would it matter what you turned in? That was a first draft of that story, and how did you even find my blog? Why did you copy it verbatim? Why didnt you paraphrase? It would be a lie for anyone to say they havent borrowed heavily from a source, but normally a quick edit will prevent anything from traced back.

Do you enjoy reading my blog? Did you actually enjoy the story? In what way is stealing it "giving it a bad name?" if anything, now i can tout how my work has been stolen, which makes it even better. So what are you really sorry for? Is it that you got caught?

I have had two reaction to this whole ordeal. The first is an undeniable happiness and appreciation for what i assume is someone thinking my story is good enough to steal. the other one i would like to take some more of your time with.

I feel used. I feel cheap. I feel like I personally mean nothing, and that my stories are just a cheap trick that can be used to substitute actual intellect. I dont know what you plan to do with your life, but this is my life. I write stories and i want that to be what i do for the rest of my life. I live and breathe short stories, i pour a part of myself into each and every one of them, and i try to live through them. Taking it, changing it's title to something awful (the blind date? really?) and putting your name on it is like cutting out a part of my soul. Not one part of that story wasn't pulled directly from my life, soul, and mind, and you cast that all to the side in order to turn in an assignment. Up to this point, after 3 revisions and a night of heavy drinking in order to finalize the story, i had called Boom. my favorite. I was writing the cover letter in order to get it published, and have five different publishers on my short list. This doesn't bode well for that. It hinders my progress with it, not only by being out there under a different title and name, but by me having to deal with this all. I hope you really do understand how inexcusable your actions have been. I hope you never steal anything ever again. No assignments, no make up, no kisses, nothing.

There is justice in the universe, there is no hiding from it. I hope that when it finds you, it pities you, and has mercy. And i hope you will figure out a penance for your audacity, and make things right for yourself.

-the real Wyl Villacres