Dat Midnight in Paris joint (Surell's Writing Postup)

[Surell]

I want to start with a short story i wrote for a scholarship, called "To Ashes." FEED ME BACK.

Lightning crashed, and the tree it struck exuded spark from its top; only the rain kept it from bursting into complete pyre. The wind pushed the trees of the park next door into an unbearable bend, just before the breaking point.

John Manson took only slight notice when the explosion slightly lit the wall opposite of him. His Cubistic portraits were illuminated momentarily, but faded back into the burgundy wall once the bolt’s damage was done; the paintings represented the Analytic movement mostly, and acted as his own mirrors, as he kept none around. He was longing to create a Synthetic piece, but could never execute the collage quite right.

John was reading pamphlets he’d received on his way back from his Psychiatrist, who claimed he was making remarkable strides. The medication for his Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was working ‘without a hitch’, and he may be on his way into ‘ordinary functioning.’ John complained of faint burning within his chest, which the doctor attributed to a side effect, one which would likely ‘smooth itself out in short time.’

The pamphlet spoke on behalf of a Candidate who was making a speech at the nearby Town Hall, of which John was not aware existed. The Pamphlet said he would bring this ‘mighty nation’ out of its ‘ash of bankruptcy’ and into a ‘renaissance of prosperity and justice.’ John felt the distant inferno in his breast enflame, yet he recognized it as a somewhat empty feeling. He went to turn on his radio and tuned it to the clearest station in the gale. It began with fuzz, but finally he could distinguish “Jugband Blues” from the feedback.

He began to wonder what exactly this Candidate had planned for this nation they shared. The statement included ‘ending the aimless war in which we’re entrapped’ and cutting from Social Security due to ‘priorities.’

Lightning struck another tree closer by, and the wind pressed with much tenacity. John did not look up this time, though; he was stunned.

The radio’s voice sang clearly:

“And the sea isn’t green.
And I love the queen.
And what exactly is a dream?
And what exactly is a joke?”

The song softly resonated and faded, with a moment of silence. He gripped the pamphlet tightly and fell back on his sofa. The DJ came on in importance and announced the Candidate’s ‘possible cancellation’ of his appointment if ‘the storm should resume until its starting time,’ around 6:30 PM. John looked to his nearest clock, which read 4:44 PM. The DJ stated he was ‘crossing his fingers,’ and put on “Fortunate Son.”

John couldn’t believe the audacity the Candidate was displaying. To make such grand decisions and declarations at the expense of the general public and then be thwarted by everyday occurrence; to belittle entire demographics, identifying their strife as the root of this ‘mighty nation’s’ problems; to take the name of war and its warriors, the name of the ‘mighty nation’s’ protectors, and cast it in the realm of “aimless.”

He looked to the pamphlet again, disbelieving himself. But the words were there, with the permanence of an engraving on stone. He looked to the cover of the slip, to find the Candidate’s bust in total focus, with the stars and stripes draped behind. The seemingly malicious grin on his visage seemed ages old to John, as if passed down for generations in politics; he faintly recognized it as a contented Nero.

John then looked to his table, a cluttered space where he gathered significant documents, and dug out his disability check stub. His medicine, the treatment which may end his need for the payments, took up much of the allowance, along with his rent and minor food costs—the medicine took away his appetite. He was still making payments, however, on his parents’ funeral costs and alimony.

He tossed both slips beside him and buried his face in his palms. His eyes were beginning to water, but tears seemed intangible; all the while, some hellfire seemed to rage in within his bosom, consuming his metaphysical being right down to its core. The wind outside grew furious as the song reminded John “it ain’t me!”

John sat in reflection, observing all the mirrors he’d made. An atypical piece caught his eye, as it included a friend in the portrayal. They were in the same platoon, and found that they were actually from neighboring neighborhoods. They regularly played chess, as the painting displayed in the piece, in mirror-like profile symmetry. The piece is solemn, as it is a memorial to his friendly opponent who overdosed on his prescribed medication, as well as to his wife, who had taken the photo of inspiration a few months before leaving.

Then John was snap backed to the moment, to the song’s military son verse and succeeding “it ain’t me!” refrain. On this cue, John rose and walked steadily to the radio. He stood above it as the wind picked up pace and a distant thunder roared. Then he raised his fist high above his head, shouting “Enough!” and brought his fist down on the machine.

Lightning crashed nearby, upon a tree immediately outside, splitting it; the wind then toppled a neighboring tree. The impact shook the earth beneath John.

The world was silent; even the wind eased up. After the pregnant pause, Corporal Mason went to his closet and retrieved his retired uniform, along with his military-issued Colt .45. He then went for partially-drunk bottle of whiskey he kept in his fridge for such an occasion. He threw all his paintings into a pile on the hardwood, along with all his documents from the table except the pamphlet and doused them in the elixir. He reached for his box of matches, the pamphlet, and his check stub from the table, igniting the sheets and tossing it on the pile. The Corporal turned to depart from the cave into the now sun-bathed streets.

[Surell]

Untitled

I went on a journey

I put on my war paint
And I packed my life
And I followed a path.

I met with the Black Bird
His eyes so void
And earthen

So big and consuming
I was sure they saw the whole world
And were darkened
With its sin.

He looked at me
Or through me
Or maybe not at all
But I made it mine
And I humbly inquired:

“Black Bird, why are you so very Black?”

He seemed not to hear me, but I dare not ask again.

Then he began to hum a tune which I knew immediately.
It was so cracked
So broken
That my throat began to close
My eyes winced and tears broke.
I began to scrape my fingernail
As if to get to the bottom of it.

Then he flew
And turned to see if I would follow
And I would.

He led me to a cavern
With a cross atop it

But he commanded me to paint my skin yellow before continuing.
I felt jaundiced, but I obeyed
And we pressed on.


But I felt “them” around me
What they were, I cannot say;

They were faces in trees
Beetles in the earth
Bats in the roof of the mouth
Clouds which strolled by;

They were near
And they were surrounding.

So we entered
And I felt comfort
In the dark.

It embraced me
In its cool arms
And brought down my feverish thoughts.

So I followed the blind trails
And never felt slightly circular,
Only enjoying the progress.

In my rejoice
I stumbled across two diamonds
Who, despite the dark, shined
Brighter than the sun I loved
And I thought to snatch them
As souvenirs.

But they moved,
And my feet hiccupped,
And those diamonds seem to reach for me
With ancient arms abstract
Moving toward me
Or through me
Or perhaps not at all
But I felt them
And they were cold as the moon
Tugging the tides within.

Were they what watched?
What surrounded?

Before I could answer
I turned for the entrance to exit
But found nothing.

I retraced my footwork
Seeing all those hidden landmarks
Found with new eyes
But found only darkness.

But I did find one unfamiliar sight:

There was a pile of rubble
Where I was sure the mouth opened.

Beyond the rubble
I heard mumbles and rumbles
And I knew my fate sealed.

But I heard a songbird behind me
Its song so pristine
And hopeful
And strong.

When I turned to see it
My eyes immediately ached
Its coat so yellow
As if with the brilliance of our harvest moon.
Its eyes were closed, so I dare not speak and shock this divine creature.

And then, looking upon myself,
I saw my own coat of paint
Shine with that same brilliance

And I felt his song resonate within me
And I thought I could fly away with him.

But his song stopped,
And my ears rang with the emptiness.
I was so entranced in his melody
That I didn’t even notice
He was near gone
To my sight.

All I could make of him now
Were two crystalline eyes finally open
Like diamonds
Which shine like the sun.

I ran to see if I could save my last friend when I was met by something I’d forgotten:

The Black Bird

He had become so blackened,
He seemed only to marginally exist.
Then again, when I looked upon myself,
My own skin had turned from its sun gold to coal of the deepest earth.

His eyes were now gleaming
But what shined seemed not optimistic;
Rather, and instinct of survival:
To fight back the darkness
With whatever light you have left
And pray someone realizes you
Before your illumination dims.

Near weeping,
I decided to find a crack of hope
A shimmer of tomorrow;
So I scooped the Black Bird into my arms
And turned from my former entrance
To a path less travelled.

The Black Bird’s eyes were fast fading,
And I was quickly getting nowhere,
When he began some rhythmic squawk
Which froze me at once,
Being so shrill and urgent—
But then I was freed,
The song guiding me and finding my way
Like a torch.

It finally brought me to a stream, far beneath:
My shimmer.

I took the bird to my bosom
And plunged without hesitation.

In that stream I saw all that there is to behold,
But none of which I may recall with certainty.

There may have been faces which strolled by,
Beetles of the roof of the mouth,
Clouds in the earth
Or bats in trees;

It may have been nothing
But a trick of the eye—
But even then, I saw.


The shimmer
Became a ray
Became the sun
Which crashed into us
And engulfed

Yet the bird squawked
And squawked
And—

I dare not open my eyes—

Then it ceased.

My eyes opened,
And there was the Black Bird
His song coming to its close.

I looked upon my undisturbed skin,
Neither jaundiced nor damp,
Save for sweat.

I looked to the Black Bird’s eyes as he ended his lament
And I caught the slightest glimpse of brilliance escaping them,
Becoming coal again on his final note.

I wished to see him smile,
But I knew it impossible.

Instead, I found two cracked coals at my feet,
Staring up at me.

I humbled myself with a deep bow
And left without a word.

And now upon my return
I have painted my skin with the darkest earth
And carried on as quiet as a cat
In stalk of his mouse.

Words will not escape me
Except through pen
To paper
And possibly to eyes.

I mean to crack this coal completely
And release any diamonds,
No matter how rough,
From their prison.

After all, the repressed are meant to be seen, not heard.

Thanks to my travels,
I have sworn silence
In respect of those whose voices are dead
And buried,
Whose stories must be spoken for—
Or, rather, accounted for.

Despite my voice not being heard,
I am the poet laureate
Of those condemned,
To live a death in their entrapped states.

Actions speak louder than words,
And written word creates the most elusive life forms.

Actions will speak louder than words,
And death will live through me.

[Surell]

Tell me if you find a major plothole because i think i did.

Trinity

The tone was somber in the final song the band played for their reputable audience. The drummer skittishly changed time signatures in a loop of three separate beats, each mesmerizing in their own way. The saxophone acted as a wailing Siren upon the audience, luring them with its cries for help or attention, sending those who answer to the pit of the drummer’s hypnotic rhythm set.

Bird Ornette was first drawn to this call when he heard the Ornette Coleman composition “Lonely Woman.” The pitiful calls immediately gripped him by his naïve ten year old heart, and he took up the saxophone immediately afterward – his mother presented him one the Christmas after they moved from the Bronx in New York to Watts in sunny Los Angeles. He practiced diligently, his friends even taking a backseat to his training.

Now he and his saxophone wept openly on the stage, the banner above him and his band reading “Congrats on Gold Status Birdman!” The bass player ended on an arpeggio; the backup saxophonist’s instrument wobbled into silence; and the drummer’s pattern proceeded to slow for the first two rhythms, and then ended halfway through the last. All that was left was Ornette’s solo moaning, which sunk slowly into a wallowing bass, then exploded hysterically into an ear blistering pitch.

The audience immediately applauded them with a standing ovation and the cliché pelting of roses.

++++++++++++++++++++

After shaking the last hand of the night, sealing the last deal, Bird told the boys he was going to have a smoke. They said they were heading home, so he bid them a quick goodnight and congrat-ulations, and they responded likewise. His room was empty now, and he figured it took long enough.

Reaching in his coat pocket for his cigarillo, he found a sheet of paper he’d forgotten about for the moment; but when it met his eyes, it rushed pain back to him. To determine whether or not it was real, he opened it up and proceeded to read:

“To my caged bird- I guess you finally caught flight. Just don’t burn yourself headin for the sun. Goodbye- Billie.” There were feint lips by her signature, and tear stains which he couldn’t distinguish as his, hers, or both.

He sat and read it repeatedly for a few minutes, and finally decided he was done with it. What’s done is done, he thought. We’re grown people and we’ve chosen our way. He put the paper on the table beside him, and found the cigarillo. Just as he was fixing to light it, his hands and jaw trembled, his eyes flooded, and he dropped the lighter and cigar on the floor, collapsing into his palms. He sobbed for a good few seconds, then attempted to correct himself; but the more he tried to fix his demeanor, the colder his heart felt, and the stronger his regret grew.

He tried to take his mind away from it, but kept coming back to their disagreement from three months prior.

He’d been engulfed in the studio for weeks, composing songs and recording them. Most nights he fell asleep on the couch in the musical workshop. Practically all the songs came out to his dissatisfaction, and Barry, his manager, was insisting it was far too complex to get any form of commercial recognition.

The night he finally came home, he reeked of liquor, and the dinner Billie cooked him, being informed he would be finally be home, was frigid. He stumbled in, his shoes booming through the house like he was wearing concrete boots. Billie sat quietly at the kitchen table, near the entry way, smoking a cigarette in her nightgown. Ornette would not make eye contact with her, keeping his eyes to the ground. He approached the sink and began to wash his face.

“Glad to see you too, honey,” Billie chimed, staring at the wall ahead of her. He said nothing. Turning to him, she added, “You wore my favorite perfume, too. It really covers up the stench of neglected hygiene.” Ornette finished washing his face, and paused. Then he let out a slight chuckle, turning towards and sitting at the table across from her. He wanted to reach for her hands, but one held the cigarette and the other was in her lap. He kept he eyes to the table.

“What’s wrong with the recording now?” she inquired bluntly. He remained still momentarily, then shrugged nonchalantly. Her fingers began to click on the table, and he met her eyes. They were kind yet stern.

“Well… I can’t find the right bass player for that suite track, and the piano player I have right now can’t keep the time quite right…”

“Honey,” she began affectionately, “I think you’re over thinking it. I’ve seen what you put down on those music sheets, and it looked about as hard as Chopin Impromptus.” Ornette was stroking her hand, but he seemed distant, within himself. “I’m not trying to tell you to dumb it down, sweetie; your ideas are great. But some things may not mesh well together. Take a step away from it for awhile, let your mind clear up. It’ll all become clear, I promise.” Ornette brought his eyes up to hers, and they spoke volumes of benevolence.

He dropped his eyes again, and nodded in slight consideration. “Hmm,” he mumbled, and detachedly continued to stroke her hand. The smile Billie radiated dropped, and she pulled her hand away.

“You think I’m full of it.”

“No, no, sweetie, you’ve got a point; you do…”

“But?” Billie questioned. There was a pause. Ornette suddenly shot up and began pacing in front of her.

“It’s just like… I feel like if I drop this from my focus, just for a moment, the muse will leave; like if I divert any thought from this, I’ll end up losing this train of ideas, or forget my commitment. I dunno… maybe it’s… I feel like I’ll look like a fool if I lose what little foothold I have in this project. Barry doesn’t like a lick of it, and I’m sure it won’t sell.”

“Why does it need to sell? Why does it have to impress Barry? Hell, let’s get to the root of it, who exactly are you trying to impress?”

Ornette stared at her, confused. “What do you mean? This is for me.”

“You’re trying way too hard for this to be for you. If this were for you, it would come from the heart, and you’d keep all this virtuoso stuff out of mind; it only complicates things.”

“And you say you don’t want me dumbin it down,” Ornette sneered. Billie’s expression demanded explanation. So he added: “You sound just like Barry, man…”

“What?” Billie crossed her arms. Her deliberate arm gestures were beginning to work into the argument. “How do I sound anything like that wannabe ventriloquist when I just want to help you out of this creative ditch?”

“A creative ditch!” Ornette burst. “Who in the hell says I’m in a creative ditch?!”

“Bird, all your second guessing and intellectualizing has put your music in the realm of a machine. It’s like you’re trying to calculate your way into a great album, but that ain’t how it’s done, baby…” Ornette suddenly sent his long clenched fist toward the wall.

“Well who asked for your damn analysis anyway? Who the hell ask for your help? I don’t need anyone intruding on my business, my art, and trying to leave their greasy prints all over it!”

Billie had enough, and retreated to the bedroom; but not before chiming over her shoulder “Now I know why the caged bird beats its wings.”

It left Ornette confused and alone in the kitchen, all doors closed on him. The kitchen window was left open, letting in the cool winter breeze; they were both hot natured.

Ornette stared at the hole he dented in the wall. The barriers weren’t very thick in the house, but its darkness implied an endless void. It’s no one’s concern… it’s my saxophone… it’s my paintbrush… he thought to himself, knocking his head repeatedly into the wall. His inner monologue was getting louder and less coherent along with his head butts becoming more intense when

There was a knock at his door.

He came out of the daydream to the sight of the colorless wall opposite him, and the caress of fresh spring air through the window. He almost forgot his place until the voice on the other side of the locked door announced itself:

“Hey, Bird! It’s Barry. Could I speak to you for a second?”

Freakin Barry, Ornette thought to himself. “Yeah, one sec.” He picked his cigar and lighter up off of the ground, wiped his face on his handkerchief, and loosened his tie and shirt, surprised he hadn’t already.

++++++++++++++++++++

Ornette unlocked the door and allowed his manager in wordlessly, retreating back to his chair. Barry was beaming, with a framed object under his arm.

“What’s that?” Ornette inquired, slightly exhausted. Barry turned it toward him: the Gold Record, along with the plaque with his album and name on it. Ornette grinned faintly. Barry was a little disappointed at this.

“I thought you’d be a little more… exuberant,” he sighed, laying the award directly where Ornette stared just before his intrusion. The latter shrugged nonchalantly, readying to light his cigar. “This is non-smoking,” Barry cautioned. The musician paused, and reluctantly put his materials.

“So,” Barry began, “interesting show out there.”

“Gee, you think so?” Ornette inquired.

“I do,” Barry said considerately. “A little… edgy. Was it on the album?”

“No. It was a personal tune.” There was a silence. Then Ornette broke:

“You know, you don’t have to start acting coy about disliking my material now.”

“I’m sorry?” Barry retorted.

“You certainly didn’t before.”

Barry looked confused, and let out a nervous laugh. “Where is this coming from? I mean, if I didn’t like your material, I wouldn’t be managing you, would I?”

“I’m not saying you don’t like it now. Why wouldn’t you? You practically deserve a writing credit.”

“Hold on, now,” Barry quipped, offended. “I never told you what to do.”

“Come on, Barry; telling me what I should do is hardly any subtler.”

“Name me one time I took away your artistic control.”

Ornette thought for a couple moments, then returned: “When you said motifs don’t sell, nor do concept albums. Or when you said Theremins and Jazz don’t mix. Oh, and the time you told me genre crossovers will fly over people’s heads—“

“Look,” Barry quietly burst. He was, to Ornette, clearly pissed. “Take a look at the fate of anybody trying to reach popular attention with that kind of approach. Without popular attention, what the hell is the message for? Who’s gonna hear it? You might as well take all that blood, sweat, and tears you spilled in the process and poor it in the John. Hell, you’d be so deep in the underground only the fish would hear your music when it gets flushed by the mainstream.” Ornette was silent. “So tell me, what would be the point?”

Ornette persisted. He was taken aback. Finally, he responded: “Well, we don’t have to worry about it now. Not even the little fishes will get the message now. You know what communication is without a message? Gibberish. We’re selling the equivalent of melodic whale noises to people now, because we assume they’re too dumb for anything with real humanistic substance. There isn’t even a message out there, now; we just contributed noise pollution to the world, and we got gold status for it!”

Ornette was on the edge of his seat by this point, slightly sweating. Barry was bewildered. He shook his head and turned to exit. Before he left, he turned and inquired: “Speaking of whale noises, what in the hell did you think that Theremin was?”

Ornette thought, and chuckled, finally answering: “I think it was the cry of a whale suffering a bludgeoning at the hand of some sailors. It seems like so long ago now though.”

Barry was still puzzled. “Be ready to leave within twenty minutes; they’re closing up around here.” Then he was gone.

“Thank God,” Ornette muttered, quickly reaching for his cigar and lighter. He was just ready to light it when the gaudy Gold Prize disturbed his view.

++++++++++++++++++++

He began to think about how this would hang along his stairwell or above his mantel (how cliché) when he moved out of his current abode in Brooklyn. Where would he stay now? He’d considered a loft in Manhattan, or maybe near his mother’s home.

But what’s wrong with Brooklyn? he thought. He’d established a home here years before he was even signed. He and Billie made it theirs about two years ago in the month he was living in, and shared their lives under its sometimes leaky roof, when he wasn’t in the studio or she wasn’t singing in the clubs.

Why did it feel so necessary to change now? It felt like a second nature that came with receiving the award. He wondered if there was some chemical in the gold that demanded this attitude of luxurious progression from him.

Then Ornette felt a sudden urge to compromise with the situation. He laid his smoking materials aside and snatched the heavy certificate off of the ground, staring at it. He wondered what it would sound like on his rustic phonograph back home, but decided against it; it’d probably ruin the needle.

So he went over to the mirror and looked at himself with the object, and decided it was an odd scene. He tried posing with his new partner, in gracious, poise poses as if for actual photographers, giving equal attention to the two of them, but it felt like he was modeling himself around his award.

He took another look at the award, and pondered what it may take to destroy the item. He considered it’d take a mighty journey, like one from Tolkien, and it would prove unbearably difficult as it began to consume whoever wished to do away with it.

The thought gave him the creeps, but was so outlandish he had to laugh at himself a little. But he was done with basking for the moment, so he placed the Gold Record on the wall, behind his chair. He sat down and retrieved the cigar and lighter when he noticed something extremely peculiar: Some-how, the overhead lighting struck the award in such a manner that it flooded the whitewashed wall before him with the golden tint, aside from the shadow he cast in front of the record.

He was stunned by the incident for a moment, but figured he was tired and being a little over analytic. He went to turn the record away from the light when he noticed another unusual picture: his green room, a few stories higher up in the building, faced a yellow bricked wall.

After careful, open mouthed consideration, he determined that was indeed a strange coincidence, but not one of marvelous nature. But he also determined that now he desperately needed a smoke, and wouldn’t be stopped by any sort of walls for it.

So he reached for his cigar and lighter, situating them per usual, and:

Spark

Spark

Spark.

No flame.

“Oh, what the hell!” he exclaimed, knowing his lighter had worked just before the show and couldn’t have run out of fluid in this short time. He thought he’d experiment with an idea. So he lifted himself up, approached the door and, poking his head out of the room to make sure no staff were nearby, he lit his cigar in the hall, without a hitch. When he stepped back in the room, his cherry dimmed and extinguished in the open air. When he attempted to ignite the flame of the lighter, it would merely spark; in the hall, it would light. It didn’t fail on any occasion he tried it.

That’s when Bird realized he had to fly, and didn’t hesitate in doing so.

++++++++++++++++++++

He locked his door and placed and extra chair beneath the doorknob. The glass was thick to the outside, and he’d have to take the fire escape down, so time was a crucial factor. He checked his watch, which read 11:57 PM – three minutes to escape.

First, he ripped a scrap of paper from the notepad on the desk and snatched a pen, and scrawled a quick message. It took him a moment to phrase it right, but he was finished by 11:58.

Then he looked for the weapon for breaking out of this cage he’d been contently sitting in. He figured his chair would work, but it was a little large and awkward, and needed to be situated again to complete his disappearing act. He decided in favor of it, though, and rolled up his sleeves to begin lifting it 11:59.

Meanwhile, Barry was meandering his way down the hall to Bird’s room. He was still a little steamed about Bird’s ingratitude, when he had only been trying to assist Bird in establishing the credibility to experiment and create without restraint on down his career’s road without compromising the privileges commercial status grants. But Barry knew the situation would diffuse itself after little period of tension.

He reached Bird’s door directly at midnight, while Bird operated on his watch’s slow 11:59 PM. He knocked gently and called “Bird, they need us outta here, let’s roll.”

The other side of the door replied, grunting: “Yeah, uh… just a sec…”

Barry wondered what kind of activity would require grunting, but decided to ignore it; pressing Bird on it might create more tension. But Barry was tired and not in the mood to wait around for the artist, so he knocked a bit harder and said “Bird, it’s late, man, let’s get home and catch some Z’s already—“

Suddenly, he heard a burst of glass on the other side of the wall. In his shock, he banged on the partition and hollered “Bird, what’s the matter in there?” He tried the door, but found it inaccessible. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a maintenance man, whom he called over immediately. The man was elderly, and being so didn’t move with much urgency in the face of the situation. But he finally reached the door and fumbled through the keys fairly quickly, having it unlocked within a few moments.

But when Barry tried the door, he still found it barricaded. Barry used to be a cop, and in the heat of the moment his instincts rushed back to him. He told the elderly fellow to stand back, positioned himself a couple of feet from the door, and kicked just left of the handle. The door awkwardly flew open, possibly loosing itself from a hinge.

Pushing through the door and over the chair, Barry found the room shockingly empty, and mostly intact, aside from the door and window. But what really made it empty was the fact that Bird was nowhere to be found, in that little timeframe of the window breaking to now.

He ran to the window upon seeing this, and saw a familiar shadow sliding down into the alley way from the fire escape, sprinting down the alley between the yellow brick building and this one, down toward the street. The streetlight left him shadow, who charmingly whistled a cab over and, before climbing in, lit his cigar. The taxi and the shadow were gone in moments, but the instant seemed longer to Barry.

He lifted himself away from the shattered window, and couldn’t think of the proper response. He turned back to the room and noticed the Gold flooding tint on the wall opposite of the chair which Bird sat in before taking off. He approached the chair and found the record in place of Bird, as the chair was placed exactly where it was when Barry last saw it. There was a note folded over the record as well, which read:

“Take this record as my Obol- the man credited on this record is dead.”

[Surell]

Video I made, rap coming soon.

[Surell]

Here's the untitled rap, first in a while:

Triple X let's get nasty
321 let's have a blast
Android predators have a flash drive
Hesitate to meditate like Jack off
30 Rock - counter puncture a dirty bach
Got a sturdy cock like he's crowin with his head off
Fantastic - bought a new mattress
Ripped off the tags so now I'm layin in the Attic
Uh- straight dumbfounded
Like when I lost Tommy, couldn't hear me, by I found him
Blind deaf dumb but he still had the soundtrack
Proud dad? I made the basket ball...
Bobbin and weavin through Direland's grass walls
Went for the tall, dried it et al.
Went to dial M, but I answered death's call
Want a doormat? wash the floormat
Mary Magdalene at his feet like "where yo bros at?"
Close that case, close-shut lace
Check mate, stalemate? roll up, blazed
Sho ain't phazed, photon laze
Tractor beams, factor seems, crops been rzed
Bleed all the veins, step three vague
Step four! Step four! Allah be praised

[Surell]

Young basedgod and i'm posted up on tha cross
Young Sweet T stay fly like Albatross
Young Sweet T speak like dentists, maaaan watch me floss
Old Sweet T, twist the game, now impressions false

[Sparky]

Originally Posted by Surell

I want to start with a short story i wrote for a scholarship, called "To Ashes." FEED ME BACK.

Lightning crashed, and the tree it struck exuded spark from its top; only the rain kept it from bursting into complete pyre. The wind pushed the trees of the park next door into an unbearable bend, just before the breaking point.

John Manson took only slight notice when the explosion slightly lit the wall opposite of him. His Cubistic portraits were illuminated momentarily, but faded back into the burgundy wall once the bolt’s damage was done; the paintings represented the Analytic movement mostly, and acted as his own mirrors, as he kept none around. He was longing to create a Synthetic piece, but could never execute the collage quite right.

John was reading pamphlets he’d received on his way back from his Psychiatrist, who claimed he was making remarkable strides. The medication for his Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was working ‘without a hitch’, and he may be on his way into ‘ordinary functioning.’ John complained of faint burning within his chest, which the doctor attributed to a side effect, one which would likely ‘smooth itself out in short time.’

The pamphlet spoke on behalf of a Candidate who was making a speech at the nearby Town Hall, of which John was not aware existed. The Pamphlet said he would bring this ‘mighty nation’ out of its ‘ash of bankruptcy’ and into a ‘renaissance of prosperity and justice.’ John felt the distant inferno in his breast enflame, yet he recognized it as a somewhat empty feeling. He went to turn on his radio and tuned it to the clearest station in the gale. It began with fuzz, but finally he could distinguish “Jugband Blues” from the feedback.

He began to wonder what exactly this Candidate had planned for this nation they shared. The statement included ‘ending the aimless war in which we’re entrapped’ and cutting from Social Security due to ‘priorities.’

Lightning struck another tree closer by, and the wind pressed with much tenacity. John did not look up this time, though; he was stunned.

The radio’s voice sang clearly:

“And the sea isn’t green.
And I love the queen.
And what exactly is a dream?
And what exactly is a joke?”

The song softly resonated and faded, with a moment of silence. He gripped the pamphlet tightly and fell back on his sofa. The DJ came on in importance and announced the Candidate’s ‘possible cancellation’ of his appointment if ‘the storm should resume until its starting time,’ around 6:30 PM. John looked to his nearest clock, which read 4:44 PM. The DJ stated he was ‘crossing his fingers,’ and put on “Fortunate Son.”

John couldn’t believe the audacity the Candidate was displaying. To make such grand decisions and declarations at the expense of the general public and then be thwarted by everyday occurrence; to belittle entire demographics, identifying their strife as the root of this ‘mighty nation’s’ problems; to take the name of war and its warriors, the name of the ‘mighty nation’s’ protectors, and cast it in the realm of “aimless.”

He looked to the pamphlet again, disbelieving himself. But the words were there, with the permanence of an engraving on stone. He looked to the cover of the slip, to find the Candidate’s bust in total focus, with the stars and stripes draped behind. The seemingly malicious grin on his visage seemed ages old to John, as if passed down for generations in politics; he faintly recognized it as a contented Nero.

John then looked to his table, a cluttered space where he gathered significant documents, and dug out his disability check stub. His medicine, the treatment which may end his need for the payments, took up much of the allowance, along with his rent and minor food costs—the medicine took away his appetite. He was still making payments, however, on his parents’ funeral costs and alimony.

He tossed both slips beside him and buried his face in his palms. His eyes were beginning to water, but tears seemed intangible; all the while, some hellfire seemed to rage in within his bosom, consuming his metaphysical being right down to its core. The wind outside grew furious as the song reminded John “it ain’t me!”

John sat in reflection, observing all the mirrors he’d made. An atypical piece caught his eye, as it included a friend in the portrayal. They were in the same platoon, and found that they were actually from neighboring neighborhoods. They regularly played chess, as the painting displayed in the piece, in mirror-like profile symmetry. The piece is solemn, as it is a memorial to his friendly opponent who overdosed on his prescribed medication, as well as to his wife, who had taken the photo of inspiration a few months before leaving.

Then John was snap backed to the moment, to the song’s military son verse and succeeding “it ain’t me!” refrain. On this cue, John rose and walked steadily to the radio. He stood above it as the wind picked up pace and a distant thunder roared. Then he raised his fist high above his head, shouting “Enough!” and brought his fist down on the machine.

Lightning crashed nearby, upon a tree immediately outside, splitting it; the wind then toppled a neighboring tree. The impact shook the earth beneath John.

The world was silent; even the wind eased up. After the pregnant pause, Corporal Mason went to his closet and retrieved his retired uniform, along with his military-issued Colt .45. He then went for partially-drunk bottle of whiskey he kept in his fridge for such an occasion. He threw all his paintings into a pile on the hardwood, along with all his documents from the table except the pamphlet and doused them in the elixir. He reached for his box of matches, the pamphlet, and his check stub from the table, igniting the sheets and tossing it on the pile. The Corporal turned to depart from the cave into the now sun-bathed streets.

Bold part was best imagery to me for some reason.

I like this story, its conclusive and still open ended and ****. Some phrasing here and there didn't read great, i think the story would benefit from being a paragraph longer, don't know what you would put in it lol (not more foreshadowing though, ending should stay surprise) it just feels slightly abrupt, albeit that was likely your intention.

It was fun to read though, got good writing style

[Surell]

I should lengthen it. When I originally wrote it I knew it would be better longer, but I was writing it for a scholarship competition that allowed 1000 words max, and I hit 998, give or take one or two.

Yeah, that's probably the moment I'm most proud of. I bet the phrasing's awkward, i wrote it abruptly and in a tight time space, as well as condensing some of the story and trying to plant all these hints and things. I'll keep it in mind for sure if I come back to it.

Thanks so much! It's great to get feedback besides from my girlfriend, mom, and teachers. :)

[Sparky]

Originally Posted by Surell

I should lengthen it. When I originally wrote it I knew it would be better longer, but I was writing it for a scholarship competition that allowed 1000 words max, and I hit 998, give or take one or two.

Yeah, that's probably the moment I'm most proud of. I bet the phrasing's awkward, i wrote it abruptly and in a tight time space, as well as condensing some of the story and trying to plant all these hints and things. I'll keep it in mind for sure if I come back to it.

Thanks so much! It's great to get feedback besides from my girlfriend, mom, and teachers. :)

Taking all that into consideration i'd say its pretty sweet, then. It's hard to have subtle nuance with a word limit, props for having some even in a condensed narrative.

I'll get around to reading some of yo other stuff when i have a chance in my super busy/demanding life

[Surell]

I tried to write this like I've theorized Neil Young songs are written.

On the Beach

The storm clouds were rolling in, just as the waves were only feet ahead of them. It was mesmerizing, how they roared in so relentlessly only to topple over themselves; it was nearly comedic, though, how they remained ever persistent in the act.

There was a leftover taste of New Orleans cigar in his mouth. It was only a day old, but he wasn’t given a package and thusly had to keep it in a napkin from the café. He figured it would have been good with the world’s finest coffee, but the waitress insisted he not smoke it on the business’ grounds. So now he smothered its embers in the sand, and took a sip of the beer he snagged from the beach house.

She had seemed irritated all night, red in the face, he supposed – and not just from the sun. Her whole body was just about fire engine red by this end of their week in paradise. The peeling on her back had begun, and it was taking some familiar shape he couldn’t quite put his finger on – or on which he couldn’t quite put his finger. She was staring out at the waves, her eyes intent but still so resigned; distant. He often wondered what exactly lied behind those eyes; recently, he began to wonder who exactly my lie there.

He checked his phone, and found it was getting late.

Then he went to plant a kiss on her check. She faintly smiles, but returned no other affection.

“I’m getting a little peeved at this point,” he thought aloud. She sighed, and he kept his gaze down to the ground, between his legs.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” she inquired, still irritated.

“Nothing, you don’t have to do anything.” She shook her head, bewildered with him. After a few moments, he offered a proposal: “I just wish you’d return the affection every now and then.” At this point she pursed her lips, and seemed to begin to speak, when the first raindrop of the evening struck her nose. The next, a more forceful drop, shot to his head, and they understood that they should head back inside.

On the way back, he whistled “I Want You” by the Beatles; meanwhile, she had scattered segments of Panda Bear’s “Bros” on repeat in her head.


Upon entering the beach house, they found the boy of the cousins asleep on the couch, with his favorite show playing in front of him. They thought he’d want get his sleep for the trip back, and left him there with a worn smile on their faces. As they climbed the stairs, he muttered something in protest to something, and rolled over.

As well, the agonist informed his lady, “You’re starting to peel pretty bad, baby.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “I guess I’m starting to come out of my skin-“ then she quickly corrected “shell. Sorry, I’m exhausted.”

“Long week for sure,” he replied. “But it’s been really great, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded sincerely. They finally reached their newer room, the aunts’ former room, which reeked of cigarettes even though it was a non-smoking estate. He wondered, though, how many cigarettes could have culminated in this room, still lingering from guests long gone and forgotten by the house- all except for the stench.

He put their unfinished beers down on his acknowledged bedside table. He took a decent gulp of his, and mentally bid adieu to his now disposed-of cigar. He began to dress into his nightwear as he noticed her in the bathroom, already dressed down, but looking into herself at all different angles. When her back was to him, he guessed the shape to be a triangle; however, he found the corners weren’t quite sharp enough to be a true triangle.

As he began to get all underneath the blankets, she approached the bed, and started taking out her contacts. He watched her passively, and took another sip of beer. He went to kiss her on the neck, but she bent away from him. So he scooted over a little, pouting, and finally burst, “What the hell is so wrong with me?”

She kept on with her preparation, and replied, in a low voice, “Nothing.”

“Well, it’s sure hard to tell,” he retorted in a dry tone. She quietly put her solution into the case, sealed the lids, and went to lie away from her bedfellow. The rain was falling gently outside. After a short silence, he asked with insidious tone “Who the hell are you thinking about over there?”

She wearily replied, “Jesus, no one!”

“Then what is it?” he demanded. Here she turned around quickly, with mist in her eyes, and shot out:

“Look, it’s not a who, it’s not a what, it isn’t even something definite! It’s entirely abstract, and I wish you wouldn’t press me so hard on something I can’t understand.”

He was stunned with her retort. Nonetheless, he still mustered up: “Well, it’s torturing me as much as it is you, so I wish I could at least get a little insight into the whole thing…”

She sighed one final time, a deep breath for courage, and finally said in a low, shamed voice, something he could only associate with a blast of thunder that came a little after it. Immediately afterward, her eyes poured out all she felt, and her sobs spoke more than any of their communications.
Yet again, he was stunned, whilst edging near physically torn. An anger hissed inside that almost made him sick to share his bed with her- he muttered a few of his harsher feelings under his breath as she cried; but at the same time, he was overcome with pity for her helplessness to the situation; and at that same time, he was drowned in remorse, for all the pettiness he’d shown her over a little attention.

Unconsciously, he went to hold her, and stroke her back. She cried freely, comfortably, on his shoulder. All his frayed emotions seemed to hush.
Her crying finally let up, and the room was perfectly silent, save the sound of breathing and a few coughs and sniffles. He stroked her hair as her breathing became steadier.

Nervously, he asked if she was feeling better. She nodded, still on his shoulder. He gave her a small hug, and she leaned back to look him in the eye. His were worried; hers were clearer. She said she was going to clean up for bed, and he said he’d wait for her. She thanked him, and got up to go, but first gave him a kiss on his cheek.

As she walked toward the bathroom, he supposed he could tell the shape now.