Jordan waited there every morning around the same time. It was about a quarter till seven am and the sun was rising. The sky was a beautiful mix of blood red and pink that captured the eerie beauty of that late summer morning. The bus stop was the third on the northbound side of Spring Street, right in front of the Subway restaurant chain.
There was roadwork being done across the street, in front of the Salvation Army, and the jackhammer going into the road sends vibrations all through his body as he stood and wait. The sound was like a thousand panes of glass shattering in a torrent of bullets. This sound was broken only by the few cars rolling down the street and the roar of the engines of bikers out for an early morning ride.
A street sweeper was coming down the street, tossing tiny rocks at the vacant people walking around or waiting for the bus, that is always five minutes late, like him. It also tossed up smells of old motor oil and gasoline when the stream of water hit the streets.
He noticed things he had never noticed before. The cement around the bus stop had little cracks from the years of wear. The cracks had little bursts of grass shooting out from them. The birds had a different sound. Their beautiful songs had an apathetic tinge to them.
As the bus finally rolled down the street, stopping at the other two stops before his, Jordan had a look of wonder and puzzlement on his face. What kind of reality was this?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Survivor
Reading for technique is hard, but I did it unknowingly last summer when I read Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk. The story is told in a series of "flashbacks" that are actually the narrator telling his story from the end to the beginning to the black box on a airplane. Because of this, the chapters are numbered starting with the highest and ending with one. I thought this was genius and I didn't even catch on to this until I was like 10 chapters in. He is just able to build upon what he writes in the style that he writes each story in.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Event-Edited from my story.
That night she dropped me off in front of the old building. The reddish brown bricks looked as if someone took a chisel and attempted to chip away the façade. There was graffiti proclaiming love for a girl named Tina and that drugs are awesome. Anything that wasn’t brick was covered in an array of stickers from bands like Blind Melon, Senses Fail and UnderØath that had played here before. It was like a crude history book for the venue. A wooden sign on the slate-like roof painted fluorescent orange said The Cellar. There was a line wrapped around the building of people who looked like my clones, other kids looking for an escape. They all wore girl jeans, even if they were boys, that had seen better days with the amount of holes they had, and band tee-shirt combo. Most of them wore Chucks and Maybelline should have sponsored the event with the amount of eyeliner these boys and girls used. It was like a pool of androgyny. They were all talking to one another as if they had known each other for years, like they were all best friends.
The line started to file in. As I walked in, there was so much that caught my attention. I had never seen anything like the strange junkyard that was inside. The walls were painted black and covered with old street signs telling the concert goers to yield or children are at play. The seats at the bar were crafted out of old car seats that rested on stacks of old rims for tires. The bar itself was placed upon, or around, metal rods that used to be poles for street signs, and some still had the signs at the top of them. To my left was Park Avenue and to my right was where Court Street and Ocean Avenue met. The house lights were old traffic lights and the floors were wood. It smelled of an old men’s locker room and rotten cabbage. Fog crept above the heads of the kids, like they all had these clouds following them around. The stage was right in front of me, perpendicular to the bar, as I walked into the place and I just stopped and stared.
"Wow, this place is amazing," I said aloud. "I wish I could have seen this sooner."
Just then I heard a response from one of the clones. She was a pretty young girl who had short black hair with green stripes in it, the back was spiked up and the bangs served as a shield for her eyes. I wanted to be her friend. There was something about the look in her eyes. It was the same longing I had for the longest time. I wanted to talk to her, to hear her story.
"You have never been to a show before?" she said.
"No," I said.
"Well, let’s make this one the best. I’m Sam," she said.
"Tyler," I said.
She handed me shiny, silver bottle and told me to drink. The liquid burned my throat as I swallowed, but for some reason I wanted more. The woody flavor kept me intrigued; why did people drink this? It tasted so bad, but so good at the same time. I didn’t know whether to love it or hate it.
After that bottle was gone we didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t expecting to share and I didn’t want to anymore. I wanted, no I needed more. So Sam started to use her charm. She talked to a few guys at the bar, using her witty comments and crooked smile, to get more whisky. And I began to make friends, but these friends were a little different. Actually they just had something different. I could feel the sounds of people talking, I could hear whispers from feet away, my senses were overcome. People’s faces looked disfigured. The lights and signs were staring at me; judging me. I had to just sit down, so I sat on the floor.
Bass notes pumped from my toes to my ears, pulsing through my body, the flashing lights all around and the feeling that, for once, I belonged somewhere. The more I had this feeling the more I drank and the more I felt great. It was a never ending cycle that night. But it was a cycle I didn’t want to end. Nothing could stop us in those few hours that we spent together.
A lot of the rest of the night was in an alcohol induced blur of music and colors swirling around in my head. Sam kept trying to get me to stand up and enjoy the show, but that was physically impossible. I felt like I was stuck to the ground. My body was so heavy. The music was great though, even if I can’t remember the bands that played without looking at the ticket stub.
Then it happened. I tried something even newer to my senses. The night took a turn for the worse when that little pill hit my tongue. The room changed, walls seemed like they were going to crush me, the music was making me want to rip out my ear drums and my new friends were my worst enemies. The rest of the night has been erased from my memory, or maybe it was never even there. The next thing I remember was being half awake in the doorway.
The line started to file in. As I walked in, there was so much that caught my attention. I had never seen anything like the strange junkyard that was inside. The walls were painted black and covered with old street signs telling the concert goers to yield or children are at play. The seats at the bar were crafted out of old car seats that rested on stacks of old rims for tires. The bar itself was placed upon, or around, metal rods that used to be poles for street signs, and some still had the signs at the top of them. To my left was Park Avenue and to my right was where Court Street and Ocean Avenue met. The house lights were old traffic lights and the floors were wood. It smelled of an old men’s locker room and rotten cabbage. Fog crept above the heads of the kids, like they all had these clouds following them around. The stage was right in front of me, perpendicular to the bar, as I walked into the place and I just stopped and stared.
"Wow, this place is amazing," I said aloud. "I wish I could have seen this sooner."
Just then I heard a response from one of the clones. She was a pretty young girl who had short black hair with green stripes in it, the back was spiked up and the bangs served as a shield for her eyes. I wanted to be her friend. There was something about the look in her eyes. It was the same longing I had for the longest time. I wanted to talk to her, to hear her story.
"You have never been to a show before?" she said.
"No," I said.
"Well, let’s make this one the best. I’m Sam," she said.
"Tyler," I said.
She handed me shiny, silver bottle and told me to drink. The liquid burned my throat as I swallowed, but for some reason I wanted more. The woody flavor kept me intrigued; why did people drink this? It tasted so bad, but so good at the same time. I didn’t know whether to love it or hate it.
After that bottle was gone we didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t expecting to share and I didn’t want to anymore. I wanted, no I needed more. So Sam started to use her charm. She talked to a few guys at the bar, using her witty comments and crooked smile, to get more whisky. And I began to make friends, but these friends were a little different. Actually they just had something different. I could feel the sounds of people talking, I could hear whispers from feet away, my senses were overcome. People’s faces looked disfigured. The lights and signs were staring at me; judging me. I had to just sit down, so I sat on the floor.
Bass notes pumped from my toes to my ears, pulsing through my body, the flashing lights all around and the feeling that, for once, I belonged somewhere. The more I had this feeling the more I drank and the more I felt great. It was a never ending cycle that night. But it was a cycle I didn’t want to end. Nothing could stop us in those few hours that we spent together.
A lot of the rest of the night was in an alcohol induced blur of music and colors swirling around in my head. Sam kept trying to get me to stand up and enjoy the show, but that was physically impossible. I felt like I was stuck to the ground. My body was so heavy. The music was great though, even if I can’t remember the bands that played without looking at the ticket stub.
Then it happened. I tried something even newer to my senses. The night took a turn for the worse when that little pill hit my tongue. The room changed, walls seemed like they were going to crush me, the music was making me want to rip out my ear drums and my new friends were my worst enemies. The rest of the night has been erased from my memory, or maybe it was never even there. The next thing I remember was being half awake in the doorway.
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