Story

I think lots of people would like to be able to write.  Personally, I’d just like to be able to read.  I do read a few books a year but I’ve never studied writing.  I can see certain patterns in most stories, but I surely miss more elements of a good story than I catch.  Most of what I write is a half-hearted joking attempt to frame whatever story I’m telling into a cliché story framework.  I think it’s funny that way. 

Thinking about what to write for this evening’s deadline, I began to consider the possibility that since the year is over, the pact to blog once a week must also be over.  At last, the end of a glorious year of putting garbage to ink and setting it out there for all who care (about 2 people) to see.

I’ve been hearing over the last year or so that blogging is dead.  It has fallen to the likes of Facebook and Twitter.  That’s fine, I guess.  Usually, I would like a few more characters to express myself than a tweet allows.  Facebook is laden with lurkers much stupider than I am, so I feel less free to express myself there than here on blogger.  I just don’t want to be drawn into arguments about whatever drivel I happen to spew.  Sometimes, I’m sort of clever but not extraordinarily so.  I dislike saying to people – “Yes I know.  You are arguing against the literal meaning of what I said, not understanding that you and I agree.”

Yesterday, a friend of mine posted some thoughts on the government’s handling of the current tax/spend/deficit/fiscal cliff thing.  Not surprisingly, there was a lot of commentary response.  Surprisingly, most of it was not completely idiotic.  One person however, threw a herring so red in there, I believed she must be a troll.  I do not know the girl, but the conversation was going something like this:

person:  Until the government takes responsibility blah blah blah ...

another person: It’s the people who voted in these polititions blah blah blah ...

Girl I don’t know:  Being gay is a sin.  America is morally bankrupt.  God hates the sin, but loves the sinner.

Huh?  What?

People continue:  Here’s an interesting article from the senate blah blah blah ...

And so on:  Interesting points everyone.  I think blah blah blah ...

Girl I don’t know:  Biden is a imoral (sic) pedophile.  Muslims are stupid.  Obama is not fit to lead.  Fox news laid out all the facts.  People are still to (sic) stupid and voted for a moron anyway.

So yeah – I don’t want to blog on Facebook.  Incidentally, I am pretty excited to have real honest-to-goodness reasons to use “(sic)”.

When I was in college, taking the requisite English classes for my degree (Bachelor of Science, Computer Science with all the honors and privileges, etc.), I considered switching majors.  I loved college English.  The class was composition and I excelled.  I enjoyed studying and writing.  It was difficult, but rewarding to get the words tightened down just right. 

Don’t get me wrong - I understand this was a freshman level course and there’s a lot more to English and writing than talking about your summer vacation.  But I did give serious thought to pursuing that course.

A simple glance at the potential earnings of computer guy v. English teacher and the fact that I already had 2 children at that point helped me choose the computer route.

So while I was considering what to write today, I decided maybe I should start with a framework for my story.  I just jotted down the first dozen or so things that came to my mind that it seems like I see in a lot of stories.  Here’s a transcription of the handwritten list.

A boy with dreams

friends

a girl

non-friends, tormentors

a conflict of some insurmountable problem

an examination of the possible solutions

none of them work

a lesson learned.  a solution found – it was there all the time.

girl understands she has loved the boy all along

bullies change heart.

world peace.

Vampire invasion.

And here's a crappy photo of that list from my crappy phone's crappy camera:

As you may be able to tell, the vampire invasion part of the story happened in some rewrites.

Oh is that time correct?  I guess I’d better get started on this.  So without increased delay, I present – Story.

The light rapping on the boy’s bedroom door was his mother’s loving reminder that it was time to get ready for school.  The boy was in his junior year.  For the most part, he was a decent student but he could not help but think his life was shaping up to be like everyone else’s in town.  He felt trapped.  He would graduate next year and then attend the nearest university.  He would never get a chance to fulfill his real dream.  He knew he was meant for something greater.  For you see – He wanted to be a …

Tap, tap, tap, “Better hurry sweety, you don’t want to miss your bus,”

The three musketeers, as they called themselves, trudged along on their way to the bus stop.  Hauling their burdens of books and supplies, they began to talk about the future.

“Red”, or “4 eyes” said he was enlisting after school.  His 2 nicknames were so obvious, I won’t bother to describe him.  His parents had absolutely forbidden him to join the military.  He was a top student with acceptance letters from colleges around the country.  His father, a third generation coal miner, saw a chance for his boy to escape the soul crushing fate that awaited 99.999 percent of the people in town.

The story's protagonist just listened as Red went on about how the Marines would make him a man and that his dad didn’t know anything.  Red did not respect his father.   He was just a dumb coal miner in Red’s eyes.  That would all change by the end of the story (if not for the impending vampire invasion).

The third man of the trio, D’Artagnan, was the ladies man of the group.  Once in the fourth period study hall, he had loaned a pencil to Janet Johnson (no relation), the most popular girl in the school.  According to D’Artagnan, Janet had then taken the pencil and written her phone number on a piece of paper and given it back to him.  He would not show the number to anyone, saying he feared that the others would steal it and try to steal his “woman”.

D’Artagnan’s real name was Stuart, but he had been given that nickname after suggesting the boys call themselves “The Three Musketeers” and then suggesting that he be called “D’Artagnan”

When the boy had first heard D’Artagnan’s tale of conquest concerning Janet Johnson, he was crushed.  He had long believed Janet to be his soul mate.  He often fantasized about some sort of global apocalypse scenario where he must save Janet from some unimaginable horror.  He admitted to himself that it seemed a bit extreme to wish for the end of the world for a peck on the cheek, but he was smitten.  Also, he didn’t see any less dramatic way to get her to notice him.  Often the boy contemplated the nightmare scenario of also having to rescue Janet’s boyfriend, Aryan.  I won’t even say what sport Aryan played or what his position on the team was because I like to keep a little mystery in my stories.  Hmm, mystery writer …

The daydream often went like this:

After hacking through the last door that stood between the boy and the outside of the burning building, the boy dropped the axe.  No strength remained in his arms to hold it.  He started the painfully slow jog toward the exit.  Smoke drenched lungs burned and longed for clean air.  Carefully, he made his way around the lifeless bodies that lay strewn about the long dark hallway.  His eyes stung and watered, blurring his vision.  Approaching the exit at last, The boy heard a faint cry for help.  A voice he could never mistake.  But where was it coming from?  The boy stopped to listen through the roar and heat from the flames that threatened to engulf the building.  There.  Behind the door to his right.  The sound was definitely coming from behind there.  “Janet,” he yelled, as what felt like crushed glass lining his throat tore away at his ravaged vocal cords, “Hang on Janet, I’m coming!” The boy grabbed the handle to open the door and was shocked to learn that it had heated up to about 800 degrees, instantly scalding his palm.  Using his other hand and a corner of his sweatshirt, he tried the doorknob only to learn the door was locked.

“Janet,” he called in a raspy voice, “The door is locked!”

“It’s the kid from study hall,” He heard her say to someone.  Then she yelled back, 

“Please help, kid.  We’re trapped in here.  I can’t reach the door.  Aryan is hurt real bad.  There’s a game tonight!”

He didn’t know what to do until he remembered the discarded axe.  “Hang tight, I’ll be right back!”

This is usually where the daydream ends.  There no way to really save Janet while also letting Aryan burn up in a fire and then still convince Janet that he’s a real stand-up guy.

Boy realizes he can’t even daydream right as the Three Musketeers board the school bus.

Ah what the hell, to be continued …