First sentence

It’s hard to write a first sentence to a story. It must compel the reader. It must lance a history as epic as the Greece myths. It must be creative. It must not be cliché. The first sentence of a story determines its outcome. Someway or another. Our first sentence, our first sentence does not say much. Yet here we are, in the middle of some big new adventure with an openings line about writing. You might no longer be interested, that’s fine be me. Although I do prefer that we travel among the path this story has install for us together, instead of just me, or just you. The world of writing, how thrilling the end product might be, is usually just a hard and sweaty job on the part of the writer. He or she, since she’s are allow to write now, and she’s can even publish under their own names now, he or she thus, has to come up with words which then need to be carefully fitted together to form sentences. These sentences will form the foundations of stories. These stories, are like puzzles. A range of different characters are introduced. And these characters have histories. Not always those histories are narrated, yet they are there and they do weigh on the story that is being told. We together develop these background histories, how invisible they might be. Some prefer to portray their own emotions and life’s experiences onto the characters, others might see in details an autobiography of me, or other writers, since I have not written everything. No, I haven’t managed to write one percent of all words out there. Anyways, let’s get back to the business of writing, and our story, which although does not really have any characteristics of a story, is one, although I am not sure in which little box I, or let’s say we, since I did promise a mutual journey just a few lines ago, we can put it in. It is not yet drama, nor is it comedy, although I do hope you’re not sad right at this point in time. We have no idea what will be next. I might have brilliant ideas about cowboys suddenly intruding in our gentle story, but then you might not like that very much. All the things I come up with, sometimes do not form part of our walk in imagination, since it’s our walk, not mine. I, of course, do not write everything that pops into my mind, although this story, kind of does that, as you might already kind of have guessed. Oh look, Indians. Are you confused no? Well, I was pulling your leg, now pull my finger.

Okay, serious here, he first sentence of this story, do you still remember, what it was? No peaking! As you have seen, the first sentence of a story is crucial. It determines everything. The mood, the tone, the story. It is such a powerful instrument, that first sentence, that it can be used to determine whether or not you should buy a book. Although, sometimes, great stories don’t have great first sentences. I do not offer specifics, you can, down below, in the comment section, or down the road, in the bar, or wherever you chose to mull over the things in this story. Anyhow, this hasn’t been much of a ride, has it? I am sad though, that I now must depart for our walk in the park together. I do hope you enjoyed yourself, and I cannot wait to join you in another piece of the woods (which now has been used to form books). Our roads separate, but I chose not to do it brutally and not to abandon you in the middle of an open ending. I shall let you go now. But I need to hang up, and no, don’t say, no you hang up first, we are not in a cheesy romance story together. Besides, I said I need to hang up, and well, I am, right now!

In the club

She was standing in the corner of the club. Nobody had noticed her. She let her head bounce to the beat, but other than this she did not gave another sign of life. Her eyes were fixed in searching the forest through the trees of people. She wore a short red top that revealed her belly button. Her jeans was low cut revealing her flat tummy. Her boots spelled one thing: F U C K M E! But nobody had noticed her standing there in that corner, veiled from the public’s attention.

On the other side of the club, a young man stood waiting for his drinks at the bar. His shirt was unbuttoned and his abs and pecks were moist from dancing. His body got quite some attention from those interested in such sweaty affairs. The female bartender winked at him while giving him his drinks. She added a napkin. On it, her number. He just had scored his twelfth number that evening, although three were from guys. Flattered tough he was, it still freaked him out when guys flirted with him. But he was into girls, and girls were most definitely into him. He winked back at the bartender and brought his drinks to his buddies.

Carrying them, he tried to avoid the dance floor. He got a few bumps and a few apologies. He passed the corner where she was standing. His eyes just caught a glimpse of her red dress, but he did not pay further attention. He wanted to get these drinks out of his hands. Nonetheless, his sweaty, divine upper body had caught her eye. Her eyes went from infinite to focused. She zoomed in and followed him. Her emotionless smile received a spark of humanity. Her silenced body broke into the beats and she loudly stormed the dance floor.

He passed around the drinks and he and his buddies cheered before rapidly emptying their shots. Spiked by alcohol they braved the dance floor to bust moves so spectacular any women seeing them would immediately fall over laughing. They were a bunch of goofballs, but he was clearly the one who brought in the girls. All of female attendants were staring at his body. He grinded his buddy for laughs. Most girls bit their lips, others had a shrivel down their spine when his gaze briefly laid bare their souls. His lips were perfectly shaped. That smile, to drool for… And the lady in red was taken it all in. She would end up with him, in the corner of the club… She just needed him to look her way…

The night creeped onwards to the day and she was still out for a kill. His eyes were becoming sleepy and he clearly had a drink or two too much. Most of his friends had settled for the girls that showed minor interest, but he was still waiting, waiting for that one that would blow him of his socks. The beats suddenly started raging. The club went mental. Everybody was jumping. Arms held high. The lights were flashing. She crawled through the bouncing beats closer to him. Her red top flashed divinely in the dark-white ray of the stroboscope lightning. His eyes finally noticed her. They suddenly adored her. And his lower regions steered him. She could read that expression in his eyes in no time and she averted her approach. She had him hooked. Preparing for play, she guided him in hot pursuit to that corner. She took her original position. He approached her. He put on his dazzling smile. Her eyes have a small hint of fire. “Can I offer you a drink?” peevishly he asked. “Gin-tonic, and help yourself to something to” she added to break the ice.

After some small talk, and a few drinks, she forced him to kiss her. He disquietly agreed. She was a good kisser. She knew perfectly well how to arouse a guy. His discomfort quickly evaporated into a steamy kiss session. He had no control anymore. His tongue was reaching out to every corner. His hands did not know what the grab on to. He pushed her against the wall. Her smile turned evil. She had him were he wanted. She gathered her strength to push him off. “Could I…could I get like… another drink…” He confusedly looked at her, and then went straight to the bar. She knew what would happen next…

He gave her the drink. She guzzled it down and took his hand. “Come, my place, less crowded.” she winked while pulling his hand. They hopped into a cab. Kissing they sped through the city until they reached apartment. She went first on the stairs. He was constantly grabbing her ass. He liked the firmness of it. She opened the door. Pushed him onto the bed. Ripped his shirt off. Tore his pants off. She started pleasing him intensely. He thoroughly enjoyed her indulgence, but after a while he wanted more. They shifted to him on top. Carefully he undressed her. Her frail shoulders revealed a muscled physique. Her breasts were nice and round. Much firmer than those most women have. They could have walked right out of Baywatch. Her belly was nice and flat. He licked her belly button before unbuttoning her pants…

Theory of Hope

There’s something about hope, isn’t there? We always cherish it. We never dispute it. And we always, always follow this twinkling star in the sky. What is it about hope that makes us lies to the ones we hold dear? Why is it such a powerful potion that we cannot seem to live without it? Somehow hope never seemed to exist when we were little? We wished for gifts, we begged for attention, but we never hoped for something. Children don’t know the meaning of hope, yet for adults, the message of hope is enough to gather crowds, to gather millions, to gather votes… how did hope become so preeminent for adults? What happened in between our childish, hopeless selves and adulthood? Is the string of disappointment during our teenage and college years enough to have made us give up on ourselves and start believing in this irrational thing? Do we need to believe, need we to hope for a better future? Did our heart and optimism shatter when we first lost our love of our live? Is the disappointment that you no longer are the brightest or the fastest or the most charming or any other superlative you beckoned upon yourself too much to bear for us? Did we seek irrationality because we couldn’t face rationality? Do we overindulge on hope to escape from the bitterness of reality? Or do we hope because without it, without it we’d be “natural”, bound by the rules of our earthly existence that we must grow old and we will lose the ones that are dear to us and that each day you survive something else perishes. Maybe hope is our ultimate survival mechanism, maybe it is the only way to keep rational thinking people from being rational? And if we establish this principle, well then why not hope, or why not even use the word believe, that we, the human race, has been perfectly designed to live as humans in an inhumane world?

Disillusioned

Disillusioned. Disillusioned is a good way of describing it. You know, at the beginning, gosh, it sounds so silly, but at the beginning I really believed…I really believed that it actually might have worked, yea, it MIGHT have worked, since well at first, he was this awesome person. Thrilling, exuberating, he made me feel special, as if he was genuinely interested in me, and he actually put some effort, well, I think I must say, I thought he was putting in some effort for me, but yea, we talked hours and hours on the phone, and I had this sense that I was getting to know him, and he was getting to know me, and he always said the things I needed to hear…he even travelled huge distances just to see me for a couple of hours. Gosh, it was one of the happiest times of my life. Even the sun was blessing us with pleasant temperatures, something which is rare in these parts, you know, yea, everything seemed as if in the movies, and I guess, I guess that’s why I didn’t see it coming, I think, I don’t know…it’s…I’m…I’m just confused I think, I don’t know, why it suddenly all changed, but for some reason, suddenly the frequency of calls lessened, and I didn’t mind at first, I just figured it was a bit busy and he’d come around once it lessened, but yea, he suddenly cancelled dates with silly excuses, and I knew they were excuses since I could see he had been online at the hours of our dates, and gosh, suddenly I started doubting, and I…yea, I waited, and waited until he reached out to me, since well, it’s not always me who has to make the first contact, is it, doctor?

The psychologist nodded silently and didn’t say a word.

It’s not supposed to be me all the time. It’s not. Isn’t love supposed to be bidirectional? Isn’t it? I can’t imagine it being one way? What’s the value of saying I love you as it never gets positively reconfirmed? Isn’t it that a bit empty? Well, that’s what, I think. But still, I miss him, for some reason. Or is it just the feeling I miss, doc? Doc, are you listening?

Again no word from the psychologist who just sat there and listened like walls always eavesdropping on our words.

You remind me of him, you know, you’re not asking questions, your eternal silence until it’s time to call it quits. It’s as if all is just about the money, about what you need, and not about the patient. It wouldn’t hurt to respond sometimes, you don’t always need to nod as well, I’m not expecting to be right all the time, you know…I can be wrong at times, maybe I’m wrong with him and maybe he still does love me, but how…how do I know if I don’t hear from him? If he’s not contacting me? Should I ask again and again and again? Am I the one who needs to bear the brunt of the relationship so he can…I don’t even know anymore. I’m…I’m feeling depressed I think. I like talking, and arguing, but what is there to argue with someone who doesn’t reply? See, I told you that you remind me of him…he too made me do most of the talking, he too limited his questions and he always…

The psychologist the patient by handing over a prescription and said: “Take one a day and call my secretary for your next appointment.”

Sorry for the long wait on new material. I've experienced what people call a writer's block. Hopefully it stays away for a while now!

Sans toi

Sans toi
Je ne sais que faire
Sans toi,
Je suis perdu dans l’air

Dans les nuages
Je vois ton sourire, ton visage
Je regrette ton partir,
C’est déjà un âge

Sans toi,
Tout est difficile
Sans toi,
Tout semble inutile

Comme un bateau qui naviguer
Une courante de crème fouettée
Qui glisse de un gâteau
A un homme gros qui seulement sait
Le mot manger

Ouais,
Sans toi,
Je ne sais que faire,
Je me lève tôt,
Et je me couche tard,
Je mange immédiatement après
Que je m’ai lave les dents.

Sans toi,
Je suis perdu dans l’air
Le bleu du ciel c’est rien
En comparaison avec tes yeux

Tu es mon tout
Et sans toi
Je suis à la fin de mon poème

English translation

Without you,
I don’t know what to do
Without you,
I’m lost in the air

In the clouds,
I see your smile, your face,
I regret your leaving,
It’s been ages already

Without you,
Everything is hard
Without you,
Everything seems useless

Like a boat floating
On a current of whipped cream
Which flows from a cake
To a big guy who only knows
The word ‘eat’

Yea,
Without you,
I don’t know what to do,
I wake up too early,
I go to bed too late,
I eat immediately after
I have brushed my teeth.

Without you,
I’m list in the air
The blue of the sky is nothing
Compared with your eyes

You are my everything
And without you
I’m at the end of my poem

Pity Paterson and Mary

Mary was a sweet girl, according to Pity Paterson. She wasn’t one of the beautiful girls everybody at school liked, nor was she one of those ugly ducklings that would one day grow into beautiful, or at least powerful, swans. No, she was in between these two groups. She was Mary and Mary she was. Pity Paterson couldn’t help but compare himself with Mary, he wasn’t quite a jock, nor was he really of the nerd persuasion/ He was Pity Paterson and Pity Paterson he was.

Both these characters were children of busy parents and both were more than often the sole persons in their respective houses. They never mind much, they were happy when to be single when they heard the awful stories from their fellow students. No, they did not have to deal with sisters borrowing outfits or brothers punching you hard on the arm. No, they were single and they enjoyed it since they had all that room for themselves. They could watch television and they could dance around without being laughed at. They created their own world in their own house and nobody heard any crazy stories about it. Their world was secretive and they never told anybody anything they did. They never explained anything. They were single and single they were.

Once Mary and Pity became a couple, things changed. They suddenly had to start sharing personal information, but none of them was used to this strange concept. Their conversations were marked by long silences and neither one of them felt at ease when both were together. We’re supposed to be intimate and act like normal people, but what did that mean. Could this mean Pity could scratch his balls while Mary was dancing on a tune of MTV. Both never quite grasped how to interact and their relationship soon strained. Both separated without many words and thus it resembled their first date in which not many words were interchanged as well.

Later on in life, when both Mary and Pity met new people, they were forced to talk, to talk about normal daily things, but both suffered tremendously. They had no idea what to say and kept silent. They noticed how the old nerds became popular for their brains and how the beautiful girls had become fat and had married the jocks and were all happy talking about their little new-borns. Mary and Pity felt they did not quite fit into this happy world of talking and retreated more and more into their dorm rooms and stayed away from social events. Mary got a cat and Pity a dog and both were happy with these animals. They were loyal and affectionate, but most of all, they didn’t require you to talk and explain yourself.

Mary and Pity suddenly bumped into each other in the grocery story and unlike most people they didn’t start a conversation. They just looked at each other and laughed and soon afterwards both returned to their little house with their little pet waiting for their return. But secretly both wanted to see each other once more and both decided to show up at the same time the following week at the supermarket and surprisingly they happened to bump into each other once again. This was the beginning of their relationship. They never said anything, they just smiled and waived.

Soon afterwards, Mary suggested to go drink a cup and supposedly talk. Pity nodded yes. They walked side by side to the cashier and loaded their bags into their cars. They drove to the local coffee shop and chose a little table in a dark corner. They smiled at each other. From time to time they said something, mostly about others. They liked how things were going. They had matured and finally understood that they were made for each other. Not needed to say a lot to each other. Just smile and do what you do. Their relationship rushed along and they got married, nodding yes, I do. They moved into each other. The cat lived in the kitchen, the dog in the living room. Just as the cat and the dog, Mary and Pity each chose a room and left each other space, not questioning each other. Talking was limited.

Their relationship wasn’t like those couples who shared everything, nor were they like those broken relationships. It was a Mary and Pity styled relationship and Mary and Pity liked it just for that. They never had to explain it to anyone, it was their secretive life in their little house and nobody needed to know how it worked, it just worked.

Their community

When the temps are so high, a person just has to get nekkid and sit outside in the sun swinging his stuff from left to right. That was the philosophy of Bob Gerlichson. And thus, once it turned summer, the neighbours of Bob would frown on the sight of the naked Bob, but after a day or two this would stop. They would have grown accustomed to the bloated, sweaty mass of the body named Bob Gerlichson. Nobody really cared that much since Bob was Bob, and this small community liked its particularities since it made their community, their community.

But, as always happens in a story since otherwise there would be nothing to narratize, everything changed when the old minister of the church died and a new minister was brought in from a far-off town which had absolutely nothing to do with this small community. He wanted to impose his big city views of family values. And in those family values the naked Bob Gerlichson did not have a place. The first time the minister and his family wandered through their new home town, they yelled and screamed and ran away when they spotted the sweaty mass of Bob. The people on the street started laughing when they saw the event. They had flashbacks to the time they first saw Bob Gerlichson’s summer outfit. One reminisced of the dropped ice cream and he started crying, not because Bob was naked, but because he dropped his ice cream. Another one remembered that he too would run around naked for a couple of summers because he thought Bob was cool. This was, of course, in the time that Bob was less the man he now had turned into.

But, the new minister could not laugh at the event and preached in his open sermon the value of clothing. Bob, who was a little late for church, obviously not due to clothing issues, walked in half way through the sermon and the minister said: “Speaking of the devil, the naked man has just walked in, but he has no place in this house of worship, this house of god, clothe thee or get out!” Bob was startled and the mouths of many fell open. Bob started crying and fell onto his knees. He brought his hands together and turned his eyes op to the sky. “Holy Father, have you not given me this body. Have you not giving me this body to show it off to the people of this town. I know the shape of your giving has been neglected for the last couple of years, but still, I persevere. I am still grateful for this body…” But the minister had had it and came up to Bob, together with his two strong sons and he dragged Bob out of the church. “And stay out!” The three yelled and slammed the church doors shut. The people of the town had not said a thing. They were in shock.

Next Sunday, the minister was glad. He had not seen Bob for the entire week out in the streets. Mission accomplished, the minister thought. He and his family did a quick prayer before they would open the church doors and welcome the people into their house of worship. The minister with a big smile opens the church doors, but that smile did not stay on long. Once he opened the doors, he saw. Bob kneeled before the priest, brought his hands together and gazed at the sky. He was naked. Behind Bob, all the other people of this small time community started kneeling, bringing their hands together and gazed upon the sky. They were all naked. The minister started yelling: “Sinners be they all! Sinners be they all!” His family ran towards his side to see the eighty year-old Getty Getterson naked, to see the eighteen year-old Jordan Patterson naked, to see the twenty-seven year-old pregnant Linda Jefferson. They all rose up and walked into the church. They pushed the minister and his family out of the church. “Get nekkid or get out of our community!”