digibutter.nerr

[Fancy Wario]

>_> Yeeeaaaah...

This topic is pretty much just for the stuff that I write, whether it's on my own time or in my Creative Writing class (all the stuff from that will be poetry for the first few months, though...which I'm absolutely terrible at).

So...first thing here will be the rough draft of first chapter of the original novel I'm writing: Death After Death. Rereading it, though, I suppose this chapter could also function as a short story (although it'd need a different title...)

--

Death After Death (Tentative Title)

CHAPTER 1

I will always remember the day I died with perfect clarity. I think it was a Monday, the ninth of April. The skies were a bit cloudy, but I didn’t worry about it; the weather report had said that there was only going to be a light drizzle at most. It wouldn’t impact my flight. I woke up to the sound of the dog barking – probably at the cat that lives in the neighborhood. I think it belongs to somebody, but I’m not sure. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I needed to get everything ready if I was to reach the airport in time.

I packed all my bags, loaded them into the trunk of my car, and waited. I’m actually not sure what I was waiting for; I like to say that it was for my wife and kids to wake up so that I could say good-bye to them, but that’s not entirely true. Either way, I left after doing so.

“Bye, Allan,” my wife said, embracing me. “Have a safe trip.” I smiled and hugged her back. “I’ve been to London plenty of times, Barbara,” I assured her. “I’ll be fine.” I glanced down at my kids, the eldest looking pointedly in the opposite direction.

“See you kids on Thursday,” I said to them. “We can go celebrate Linda’s birthday Friday.” The eight-year-old (soon to be nine) grinned broadly, exposing her missing tooth. I think that’s what stands out the most to me, for some reason. She had just lost her tooth the day before, and I, under the guise of the tooth fairy, had left two dollars under her pillow in exchange for it. I’d left the tooth in my pocket and forgotten about it.

First I hugged Linda, then Philip, then Mark (who returned the embrace only half-heartedly). Then I got in the car, and, waving good-bye from the window, drove off to the airport.

Sometimes, I like to think that, as I was driving, I had some sort of feeling of dread or nervousness – like they always do in the books when something bad is about to happen. But then, when I look back on the memory, I realize that I couldn’t be further from the truth. I was instead thinking about how much money I would need in London. I wasn’t sure what the exchange rates were, so I just decided to withdraw $300 from the bank. That would suffice for a few days.

When at last I reached the airport, I showed them my ticket, went through all the security precautions, and waited for my flight. I think this was when I first discovered that something was wrong. My shoe was untied. My shoes are never untied. I bent down to fix it.

That was when the bomb detonated.

It wasn’t a terrorist; it was just some man who was fed up with life. He somehow managed to get through security, just walked out into the center of the area, then bam! Blew up himself and thirty other people. One of those people was, of course, me.

The next morning, I was proclaimed dead. My family was sobbing hysterically; that image I will never forget. Even Mark was more sullen than usual.

The next morning, I got up and went to work like nothing was wrong.

I think one of the worst things about dying is that you can’t see or feel or hear or smell or taste anything. You can’t really think anything, either. It’s pretty boring, if you ask me. Which is why I’m glad I came back to life.

Or did I? I’m not really sure anymore. Maybe that whole day was nothing more than just a bad dream. Probably not. Maybe that whole life was just a bad dream. Probably.

Or probably not. When I went to work, somebody gave me the newspaper. There it was, on the front page: “Madman kills thirty in airport.” When I scanned the lists of those who died in the event, I didn’t see my name there.

The funny thing was that this wasn’t where I worked. I was a writer, not an advertiser. But for some reason, instead of calling the bookstore in London to tell them why I wouldn’t be able to make it to the book-signing, I went here, instead. The people didn’t seem surprised to see me; I just went over to a desk and began working on things I had never seen before.

When I got back home, my wife and kids weren’t there. There wasn’t any sign that they’d ever lived there, either. I think it was because they never had lived there. I’d been alone all forty-three years of my life. I found it sort of depressing, but then again, it certainly was quieter. That cat which was always lurking around our neighborhood came to greet me from upstairs. I scratched it behind its ears, and it purred appreciatively. Philip was always allergic to cats.

I decided that, when I was asleep, I had dreamt of a different life, in different circumstances. The dream had been so detailed that I had forgotten about my real life here in the real world. That could explain it.
Then I felt something in my pocket. It was hard and slightly sharp, which irritated my leg, so I took it out. It was a small tooth, probably a child’s baby tooth.

Since then, I just don’t know what to believe anymore.

[Fancy Wario]

oh look it's some poems for creative writing.

Prompt: Go outside your house at night, both front and back. Look at nature. Write about it. (Mildly paraphrased).

Backyard
At night
Everything changes
What was once familiar
Is now alien.
All the life in the world is gone
Except for that irritating chirping.
That and a few scattered stars
Are my only companions
In this barren nighttime world.
Also my dad really needs to turn off the damn TV
So that I can concentrate.

Frontyard
An open garden mocks me
A pretentious display of cleanliness
In a place full of filth.
Flowers and ferns and trees; all fake, no reality
Planted for aesthetic purposes, no doubt.
The ornaments are the worst part
Trying desperately to enhance the surroundings
While they are only adding to the falsehood
A sea of concrete surrounds me

[Popple]

[Fancy Wario]

I suck at satire though. >_>

Even more than I suck at writing everything else, I mean.