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odb13
15 December 2010 @ 05:27 pm
,,,,did I just see jun w/a punch perm?! O.o

PS...who else can't wait for the No-laughing spy special???!!!!
 
 
odb13
28 November 2010 @ 11:42 pm
Why do people hate vocaloids so much?
 
 
odb13
07 September 2010 @ 06:52 pm
Please give me a job....thank you
 
 
odb13
30 August 2009 @ 05:12 pm
Okay...I just realized that MatsuJun's bday is right after MJ's....

Honestly....this is sorta creepy....

Maybe his parents did it on purpose???

...but how??


ふしぎだな。。。
 
 
odb13
20 July 2009 @ 07:53 pm
At my friend´s house doing nothing....

Thinking about my future!

Yay...
 
 
 
odb13
30 June 2009 @ 10:30 pm
I guess everything CAN'T stay the same....
Tags:
 
 
odb13
16 June 2009 @ 02:53 am

First final paper...the teacher didn't like it...darkish/gray humor...

The Dangers of Graduate Studies

Enter Mark Phillips, a graduate student, a self-proclaimed genius, a man on a mission and a misguided fool. The place he entered was the office of Agueda Matthews, his advisor, where he found her slumped over her work. Matthews worked hard, she enjoyed it; she honestly lived for it. She was a simple woman, with simple needs: peace, quiet and a competent assistant.

“Mrs. Matthews!” interrupted Phillips.

The older woman sighed, abandoning her work station or the moment. She knew that if she didn’t give him her complete attention, the man would never leave. “How may I help you Mark?”

“I need a more challenging thesis subject, ”he started “the subject that was suggested to me has been researched and written about before, five years ago at this very university as a matter of fact! ”

Matthews slid down onto a chair, knowing a long and tedious discussion was about to take place. Phillips was well known among the faculty members, with his perfect grades and numerous studies. He assisted many of the college’s professors with their lectures and research and of course, he was involved in at least five different community service organizations. These qualities made the professors constantly vie for use of his abilities sometimes using methods that would not be fair in a bar fight. Phillips knew it; it was this knowledge that made him so incredibly unbearable to Matthews, who had to deal with him constantly.

“I believe that as an essential member of this college, I deserve a ground breaking paper. We both know that I am the only graduate student talented enough to bring this college into the spotlight.” ended Phillips.

It was most likely this sentence that broke Matthews; in her mind she stabbed him repeatedly with a ruler. In reality, she opened her mouth and destroyed the rest of his life: “Here’s a topic that might interest you…”

~~

Phillips ran to his shared—not for long if he had a say in it—office. There he found the most undeserving of his so-called rivals, John Peters, who was sleeping in that annoyingly unambitious way that only he could manage. Phillips took great pleasure in slamming the door and startling the other man out of his sleep. Peters looked around and blinked stupidly before realizing that Phillips was there. He picked up his glasses and placed them on his nose, but then took them back off when he realized that he had slept on them and they were now quite crooked.

“Hey dude, how’s it going?” he mumbled while taking on the daunting task of straightening his glasses.

“I’m going to change our world and shake its foundations,” Phillips explained, “My thesis is going to be so ground breaking that they won’t be able to find the fragments. This thesis-”

“Is kick ass then?” interrupted Peters absentmindedly, completely engrossed with his glasses, “Congrats.”

Phillips stopped talking, and glared at Peters who remained oblivious to the atmosphere in the room. Phillips had this recurring nightmare in which he and Peters ended up with their names linked to each other for all times like so much Marsh and Cope. He shuddered and muttered a under his breath as he picked up his belongings. The last thing he heard as he left the room was a soft gasp and the sharp crack of glasses breaking in half.

~~

A month later Phillips was on a plane heading towards Spain, to “Find the origins of the Vascos of Spain”. His thesis was not going the way he had planned. The university library had literally nothing on the Vascos . There was a book listed on the library catalogue about them, but it had been checked out.

“Fifteen-frickin’-years-ago!” he had exclaimed upon finding out, much to the librarian’s displeasure.

He asked around but there was no record of who took the book or why. That’s when he decided to go straight to the source.

**

The college had held a little bash commemorating the foundation of the university. At the event, faculty had asked him to go up to the podium and say a few words. At the announcement of his thesis subject and upcoming trip there was silence. As one, the professors in attendance turned accusing eyes towards Matthews, who shrugged and downed the contents of her wine glass. The rest of the night was a blur of handshakes and good luck wishes for Phillips. As they said their goodbyes, the professors gave him a look of pity, which he mistook for respect. That was when he decided he had made the right choice.

**

He felt travelling to Spain wasn’t a bad idea; it gave his paper a romantic background, going into a foreign country fraught with danger. Well, not exactly fraught per se, but Phillips was sure that it was at least more dangerous than where he was from.

~~

Some hours later, too many, if you asked Phillips, he arrived at one of the international airports in Madrid. After spending a ridiculous amount of hours in customs—really, how was he a threat?— he began his search for the man who the university had recommended. When he finally found the sign with his name written on it, spelled wrong, he realized that someone had lied to him.

“Welcome to Spain? I am Luke Henries?” This wasn’t a Luke Henries at all; this was a small nervous-looking Spanish middle-aged man. “It is a pleasure meeting you? If you come I will take you to the place that was arranged for you?” A Lucas maybe, but no Luke. Phillips plastered his work smile and shook the man’s hand. But, as they left the airport, he couldn’t help but wonder why the man spoke in questions.

~~

For the next few days Phillips decided to do the tourist thing and file it under ‘local background’ for his research. Before he knew it, three weeks of utter madness had passed and he hadn’t touched a paper that wasn’t a phone number or a bar receipt. One day he woke up with the worst hangover yet and decided that enough was enough. That night he gathered his materials and decided to start with the most obvious choice for his research.

“Henries?! Henries! I’m in the living room! I need to speak to you,” he shouted as he took a seat by the window. He peeked through the curtains and saw nothing but fog. He imagined that there were people out there lost and confused, and the little light that streamed from the crack he made in the curtain was their only hope of finding their way. To him, it represented the power that his knowledge and education he allowed him to wield over the simple masses that milled around outside; they see only what he allowed them to see and be thankful for it.

“Yes Mr Phillips? There was something you needed?”

Phillips jumped as Henries, once more, ninja-ed himself to appear beside him. He’d swear the man did it on purpose. He also had a way of saying “mister” that made it obvious that he was using the conjunction. Without a period.

“Sit. First, I want you to arrange transport to Pais Vasco for week after next. Also I need you to answer some que- Where are you going?”

“To arrange transport? Sir said that?”

“No, I mean yes, but not now.”

“Not first then?”

“No, not first. First—Sit Down!—First, answer some questions, then arrange transport.”

Honestly, to Henries, this man made no sense. Why would he say first when he did not mean first but second? Is this that slang thing that those young people use?

“Henries! Are you listening?”

“Yes?”

“Talk clearly so that you can be recorded, understood?”

“Understood?”

Phillips clicked on his recorder and sat back. “State your name and where you are from.”

“My name is Luke Henries? I am from Zaragoza? We are called maños?”

“That’s nice. I heard you had some descendant that was from Pais Vasco?”

“She was my great-great-great-great grandmother? She disappeared after having my great-great-great grandfather?”

“So then you should have some knowledge of the place, tell me everything you know.”

“The people there? They are aliens?”

“Haha, funny.” said Phillips rolling his eyes.

“Why?”

Silence fell between the two men and neither made a move to help it up. Phillips couldn’t help but wonder why the man before him wasn’t laughing; the statement he had made was so ridiculous it should be laughed at. Henries looked at the man before him and wondered exactly what he had agreed to in the first place, what exactly was this Phillips man planning.

“Why would you say that?” they both knew what he was asking about.

“Because it is the truth.”

~~

Phillips thinks he’s doing something wrong. Part of how he had envisioned his thesis being created was by collecting oral histories. He thought that by showing how little the people that lived beside the Vascos knew, it would make his findings all the more remarkable. The problem was that no one took him seriously. They obviously didn’t know who he was; otherwise, they would most definitely be more cooperative. So far, all he had gotten was the most ridiculous, far-fetched stories of who the Vascos were and where they came from. He was in the room formerly known as the living room, now known as the office, with a glass of brandy dangling from his hand. He was the very portrait of a wretched man cursed by the stupidity and jealousy of those around him. At least that was how he saw himself; to Henries, who poked his head into the room every so often, Phillips looked like a picture he had seen somewhere—probably online— of a primadonna. The way he was splayed across the sofa with his head thrown back over the armrest and an arm over his eyes, Henries could have sworn he had seen it somewhere. This was probably going to bother him all day.

Henries had already left by the time Phillips gathered the strength to sit up. He sighed as he pulled the recorder out of his bag and placed it on the table. After staring it down, willing it to play something different that what he knew to be there, he pressed play.

“My name is Monica de Cabeza.” A with murmuring in the back ground. “The Vascos? Well, my great-great grandmother heard this from a person who lived in Cantabria, that person’s ancestor was there when they appeared.” Murmuring. ”I don’t know when! They just appeared. Like I was saying, the ancestor saw them come and they were huge bats that were carrying wolves meanwhile they flew in the sky- What? ” Murmur. “Everyone knows that the Vascos are werewolves and vampires. Like I was going, when they woke the next morning the town of the Vascos were already there and….”

Phillips growled and pressed fast forward.

“-Juan de las Casas.” Murmur. “The Vascos are descendants of the lost city of Atlantis. They swam to the Peninsula and then flew up the Cantrabric Mountain Range. ” Murmur. “No, no they just say that they can’t fly but they are liars.”

Fast forward

“-Matadero.”Murmur. “Vascos eh? Well when I was in school we all learned that they were the descendants of the Aztecs or Incans…or was it the Mayans. Juana! What was it again?!”

Another voice came out. “What?”

 “The Vascos?!”

“What?”

“You know that thing! The thing with-”

Fast forward.

“Like the corn women of North American Native American People, you know the ones from there? Or maybe like the Greek or Roman Titans that are from there you know? They totally sprung out of the ground. Like the-”

Fast forward.

“-Vesuvius exploded-

Fast forward

“-Egyptian priests with the power to see the future, ran away during the whole Anthony Cleopatra thing…” Murmurr. “Well…they traveled back in time also-”

“The sons and daughters of Hercules, they were born from his testicles that were cut off by Icarus; but it was okay because they grew back larger, more powerful and in greater quantities-!”

Fast forward

“Dinosaur eggs…-” Sobs.

He reached over and stopped the tape. Placing his now empty glass on the floor, he picked up the sheaf of papers that Henries had gotten from the National library. This was all the information that they had on the Vascos. Would someone please explain to him why he only had five sheets of paper in his hands? And why were they all one sided? He skimmed through the paper and found out that a brief summary would consist of how San Juan de Compostela did his utmost to go around Pais Vasco without touching it during his evangelization of Spain, that they have been trying to become their own country as soon as they had been informed they were now part of Spain (thus the formation of ETA), and that they have their own mysterious made up language, Erudski (which explains why ETA is called ETA and not Euskadi Ta Askatasuna). It turned out their language is not genealogically linked to any other language on the planet (the alien theory made its way into his head at this point), and they are thought to have some sort of connection to some Europeans from the Mesolithic period. Phillips sat back and thought about maybe getting drunk; for some reason he couldn’t get the thought of Hercules’ privates being so hydra-like.

~~

The following weekend, Phillips and Henries were on a bus heading towards the border of Pais Vasco. It had been 8AM when they had left yesterday, it was 8AM once more. Phillips wanted off. Henries had insisted that a bus was the best and safest way to get there; Phillips found that to be true when he was unceremoniously ordered out of the bus by some large men with equally large guns. After they were back in the safety of the bus and moving at a acceptable speed, Phillips complained loudly to Henries about how in this country they allowed such treatment to the respectable people who visited; he was still in Spain, why should he have to be manhandled (searched) or have his privacy invaded (his passport was checked). Henries gave him a look that said “Really? Really?!” and softly remarked about how Phillips was right, that they had no reason to check the people who were going into a terrorist location of their free will. The rest of the ride was enjoyably silent.

~~

They stopped in Bilbao for a few days and went to the Gugenheim. Phillips couldn’t help but wonder, if they’re only three in the world then why one in Pais Vasco? When he asked, Henries he gave him a look and after a minute just shrugged.

~~

Phillips found that the Vascos talk even less about themselves than the rest of the Spain did. Than the rest of the world did, even. Phillips was in trouble. Where did Henries wander off to anyways?

~~

What the hell is wrong with these people?! Where the hell is Henries?!

~~

 

Cell phone:

First new message BEEP “-Yo dude it’s Peters, how’s your kick ass thesisis going?—coming? whatever along? I was calling because I wasss…no I am drunk cuzremember that proprosal-pro-po-sal? The one I ‘skedd you to join three no wait….yeah three or was it five yeah…five years ago. Hum? What was I sayin’? Hello? Oh yeah it’s the machine well- ” End of first new message.

Second new message BEEP “Yeah so I submitted it and I got a six-digit grant! Man, dude isn’t that fucking awesome?! Woah I need to throw up… ” End of new messages BEEP

~~

Phillips was being very quiet.

~~

First new message BEEP Hello, this is Henries?” Crashing in the background. “Luke Henries, Mr Mark Phillips’ assistant in Spain?” A roar.”Mrs Matthews, I believe he has gone- as the young people would say- batshit. Please conn-beepbeepbeep.End of new messages BEEP

“Oh Crap.”

~~

Exit Mark Phillips, a broken man, a quiet man, a wiser man, from a gate at the International Airport. He had no mission, he was lost; it felt like it had been years when it had actually only been eight months.

“Dude over here!” It was Peters. He seemed so much bigger than Mark remembered. Yes, he was just Mark now. “Hah, you look like crap,” he said in his usual absentminded manner. They got into Peters’ car and it was a quiet ride; awkward for Mark and just quiet for Peters. When they finally got to Mark’s apartment, Peters drove off, without a backward glance at the man who stood on the side of the road looking at him, and regretting it all.

~~

Henries scanned the international newspaper article that he had found online. 

Graduate Student Found Missing

Mark Phillips has been missing for the past week and a half.

He was last seen by a peer of his same college, Mr. John Peters

Who picked him up from the airport. If anyone has any

Information about Phillips please….

 

Henries sat back with a sigh. He wasn’t surprised; eventually, they’ll find the body or what remained of it, call it a suicide and then move on. It was ridiculous how easily deceived people were . He looked back at the article.

“How can one be missing if they are found? Honestly, the English language makes no sense.”

 
 
odb13
16 June 2009 @ 02:50 am

Second final paper for my class...

The boy

The boy had fallen asleep with the sound of the applause still echoing in his ears. It had been a stressful night thus far and the set up of the stage had been tedious and repetitive. But right now he was free to do as he pleased, as long as he didn’t move. So the boy dreamed. He dreamed he was on stage, conducting the best Puppet-show in the history of Puppet-showing. The Puppets moved on his command, at the slightest twitch of his fingers. He was the best and he was in control. He woke when he felt a sharp pain in his side.

“Up boy, make yourself useful.”

It was the Puppeteer. The boy was back in that dark slightly damp back room where he had fallen asleep. Gone were the lights and the applause. Gone was the control. He stood and nodded, moving over to pick up the heavy box from where the older man had left it. The Puppeteer grunted and walked off knowing that the boy would follow. What else would he do? He had no where else to go. And who would want to take him anyways. The ride in the car was quiet as always, there was no conversation to be had in any case, neither cared for the thoughts of the other. The boy looked out the window, it was dark out and there really wasn’t anything to look at, but it was better than looking at the Puppeteer .

***

When they arrived to the place that the boy was forced to call home, he slid out of the car reluctantly, head slightly bowed; he really hated that place. It was an old southern style two story mansion. The stairs to the front door came up on either side and the front of the house had 6 pillars. They annoyed the boy, those pillars; they were of no use. They held nothing up nor kept anything down, they didn’t keep anyone out or hold anything in; it frustrated him that nothing could be used to define their existence. He thought that maybe he hated them so much because they reminded him of himself. But what he absolutely disliked beyond all reasoning were the colors, those phony happy colors that the Puppeteer had chosen for the house that they called home.  The house was a very light pink fringed with white, the pillars, the shutters, the front door and even the stairs were white. The boy was sure that the stairs were only white so that the he would have to scrub them back to their original color every other day. The worse part was the green; the door and window frames and for some strange reason the bolted attic window were all this grayish green.

The boy was startled out of his reverie when the Puppeteer said: “Take care of these, and this time make sure you don’t make a mess out of it.”, while nodding at the box.

The box was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he was more tired than he thought he was, either way he dropped it down the stairs when he was carrying it down into what he thought as:  the Puppet room. The boy froze and slowly turned towards the Puppeteer who was now staring at him. Face blank, he walked over to the boy and without malice or any such thought pushed him down the stairs. When the boy finally stopped, the Puppeteer asked him if he was alive. He grunted as an answer.

“Think about the Puppets’ feelings.” said the silhouette of the Puppeteer.

 The boy heard the door lock, he heard the footsteps recede, and then he heard nothing. He stayed where he had landed; there was no reason to rush anymore.

***

When he decided to move it was only because it would be worse in the morning if the room wasn’t in order. He opened the box and began to place the Puppets in their respective places. The older female handmade Sock-Puppets were placed in stands neatly arranged around several tables in a fake rose garden. The males went in a room that looked like what he imagined country clubs would look like, with deep couches and a painted fireplace. The Marionettes sat in little chairs placed around a dinner table all of them young, all of them beautiful. Some of the Marionettes had their strings on hooks and stood on the dance floor in front of each other caught in an eternal unmoving waltz. The boy stopped to place a kiss on the one named Farrah, she was easy that way. He shivered as he placed the Shadow-Puppets under their lamps; they always felt so slimy and cold to him.

He stepped back to check his work and nodded; he was most probably going to be in trouble tomorrow anyways. By morning, the Puppets would have moved, tired of the same dance partners, longing to see their wives, visit their lovers, be a different type of shadow. They always moved. They also talked, more than the boy ever did. Even more than the Puppeteer. To each other. To the audience. The boy understood the Puppets. He understood them too well. And they understood him also. In the way that beings without control of themselves or their own words understand each other.

Eventually, he curled up to sleep hoping that maybe he would wake up to find Farrah’s lipstick on his cheek.

***

He awoke the next morning to voices; the first thing that came to the boy’s mind was that the puppets were moving, but as the sleep fog cleared he realized that the voices were coming from upstairs. He stretched and cautiously made his way up the stairs; his curiosity was piqued, seeing as the Puppeteer had never had any visitors. The door was now open as it always was when he woke up in the Puppet room after one of his mistakes. He was about to go out when something made him to look back. As he did, he saw that once more the Puppets were in disarray but, what was really surprising to him, was that Farrah had moved from the dinner table all the way up the stairs and to the balcony. She was now by herself staring at her own invisible sky. Once more he was going to be in trouble, but he felt that he should grant the Puppets this one freedom.

***

The boy entered the dining room and found the source of the voices. It was the Puppeteer and the most beautiful Lady that he had ever seen. He would even go so far as to say that she was more beautiful than Farrah. The Lady looked at him softly and smiled, then slowly her face transformed into one of delicate confusion. She turned to the Puppeteer and softly said while picking up her tea cup.

“I believe that last time I came it was a young girl who was assisting you.”

The Puppeteer had shrugged and had sent the boy to clean himself up. There was Lady company present for goodness sakes, did he have no sense of shame? As the boy made his way up towards his room, he was deep in thought. Did he have no sense of shame? What was he to be ashamed of? And who was the girl that had come before him? And where had she gone? By the time he reached his room, his head was full of questions rolling about with no answers. As he cleaned himself he felt a bump of some sort on his neck; he assumed it most probably a bug bite or something of the sort. There was no way could confirm what it was— he was not allowed to have any mirrors, and there were none around the house. It was one of the Puppeteer’s many rules.

***

It had been six days and the Lady was still there, she came every morning and did not leave until late at night. She had come to every performance that the Puppeteer had in those days, and talked to him about how to make everything better. The boy thought that she was a nice Lady four days ago, when she had helped him clean the stairs by telling him where he missed a spot as she walked up them. He thought she was nice that morning when she only slapped him once when he had spilled some of her tea on the carpet. Right now as he looked out the window of his room and into the backyard, he didn’t think she was so nice. The Lady had the soft gentle smile that she usually had on her face but, she was not being gentle at all right now. The boy watched as she held the neighbors cat and ripped something from under it. The cat made the most horrible painful sound that the boy had ever heard. It filled him with anguish and he felt as if his heart was being squeezed by an invisible hand. When the cry was over and the boy opened his eyes once more, he saw the cat was hanging limply from the Lady’s hand. The next morning he found out that the neighbors had found the cat dead, with no idea of what had caused it.

***

For the last three days, the boy had not been allowed into the Puppet room and for some reason he found that in his heart of hearts he missed it. Because being busy in the Puppet room kept his mind off other things. Other times when he was more than just the boy. He couldn’t remember to whom he was more, but he was more to Someone before he came to the Puppeteer. Probably the girl that came before him was Someone to Somebody, maybe she had become Somebody when she had left. He wanted to know all of these things now. He wanted to Know.

***

Once more he was locked in the Puppet room again, he had made a mistake. He had brought the wrong set of Puppets to the show and the Puppeteer had been forced to rearrange his routine. The boy began arranging the Puppets, stopping at Farrah once more he decided to be a little bolder. He kissed her cheek once more and then hesitantly lifted her red dress half way. He let it fall back down before he saw anything though because he was a gentleman, and gentlemen don’t look up girls skirts. As he looked at her he felt he needed to apologize, not for only lifting her skirt like that but, for thinking that the Lady was prettier that her. When he reached the Shadow-Puppets, he froze. There were two new Puppets, small birds. It was then that he realized that the cold slimy feeling he got from the Shadow-Puppets was their pain, deep sorrow. The boy wondered how horrible it must feel, being made into something you are not.

As he fell asleep that night he hoped that the Shadow-Puppets could be happy and free.

***

They found the Lady a day later face down in a nearby river. The flesh had been ripped off her face by some blunt objects. The eyes had been gouged out of her head and stuffed down her throat. She had bones and muscles in clear view, and there was blood everywhere. A young girl had found the corpse early in the morning when she had gone to get things ready for her picnic. The Police weren’t sure what had been the manner of death and they didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. The newspaper called her a modern day Ophelia. He and the Puppeteer visited the site the night that she had been found. As the Puppeteer placed down some flowers, the boy couldn’t help but imagine the Lady lying there. Flowers in her hair, her long dress floating around her as the water rocked her like a mother must rock her baby to sleep. In the boy’s mind, she still had her face on.

When they came back to the house, the Puppeteer sent him down to clean the Puppets that hadn’t been used for a while. He was sponge bathing a Marionette when he caught sight of Farrah; she was at the balcony once more, but this time she was looking down at him. He stood when he was done and moved over to her— she wasn’t used that much because she was delicate. He took special care in cleaning her and stopped once he reached her hands. There, on the right pinky, he saw some red. He looked into her eyes and then slowly got rid of the spot.

***

Weeks passed, thoughts about the Lady were far off like if she had been a dream. The Puppeteer was the Puppeteer and the boy was still the boy. The only difference is that now the Puppeteer looked at him a lot more. The boy had no idea what was going on in the older man’s head and he was afraid to find out. What if the Puppeteer wanted to make a shadow puppet out of him? The mere thought of that happening filled the boy’s eyes with tears. As he packed for a performance his heart whispered his fears to the Puppets. The Puppets listened.

***

He was in his room when he heard the noises the next day. There was a large bang that came from downstairs. He ran out of the room hoping that whatever it was it wasn’t his fault. Both he and the Puppeteer were on the stairs when they saw Farrah; it was only when they saw her shadow that they screamed. The deep abysmal darkness that stretched out behind her, shifting all the time while keeping within the boundaries of her form held some deep fascination for the boy. He fell to his knees as the Puppeteer ran into his room. Farrah walked up the stairs and pass the boy’s prostrate figure towards the Puppeteer’s room. He heard crashing and much cursing as some sort of argument was taking place. He finally got a hold of himself and ran into the room in time to see the Puppeteer shrouded in deep darkness, flailing against the sorrow that he himself caused. Slowly the shadows consumed him, and slowly they brought him towards his balcony. All the boy could see of the Puppeteer was his face, veins popping from his forehead, eyes bulged in fear and mouth open teeth bared in a macabre grin. That face turned to him and said:

“You’ll be next…” Then it was gone.

Slowly the Puppeteer’s body tumbled head over heels, over the balcony and into the sunny daylight. Farrah turned towards him, and the boy ran. He did not stop until he was out of the house.

Then he just stood there, looking at it. He was free; he could be a Somebody for Someone. He didn’t have to be the boy anymore. He wasn’t the boy anymore. He was the Boy now. But who is the Boy anyways. The boy was an assistant, he cleaned, he was beaten. Who was this new Boy? He sat in front of the house for what seemed to be ages. As he looked at those horrid colors and those accursed pillars, he had a flash of insight. He didn’t hate those pillars because they were useless; he hated them because they were pillars. They didn’t have to explain their existence or define themselves; they were pillars in and of themselves. They existed for no other reason than to be pillars. 

***

The boy stood up, turned his back to the house, and took three steps until he was out of the boundaries of the property and turned around. The Boy took a big breath and walked back towards the house. He was not forced to call this his home anymore, this was his home. He came here of his own free will and he’ll leave of his own free will. He now had control.

The first thing he was going to go was to free the puppets from their room and let them be free. Within the house, of course. And the shadow-puppets could be whatever they wanted to be, at least until he needed them. And Farrah, she could have a room all to herself but, a room that was close to his can’t have her all over the place can we…

 
 
odb13
16 June 2009 @ 02:46 am
A 2-page story i wrote for class....



The Boy

 

The boy had fallen asleep with echoes of the applause still echoing in his ears. He dreamed he was on stage, conducting the best Puppet-show in the history of Puppet-showing. The Puppets moved on his command, at the slightest twitch of his fingers. He was the best and he was in control. He woke when he felt a sharp pain in his side.

“Up boy, make yourself useful.”

It was the Puppeteer. He was back in that dark slightly damp back room where he had fallen asleep. Gone were the lights and the applause. Gone was the control. He stood and nodded, moving over to pick up the heavy box from where the older man had left it. The Puppeteer grunted and walked off knowing that the boy would follow. What else would he do? He had no where else to go. And who would want to take him anyways. The ride in the car was quiet as always, there was no conversation to be had in any case, neither cared for the thought of the other. The boy looked out the window, it was dark out and honestly there really wasn’t anything to look at, but it was better than looking at the Puppeteer .

“Take care of these, and this time make sure you don’t make a mess out of it.”

The boy walked into the house head slightly bowed, he hated that room. The box was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he was more tired than he thought he was, either way he dropped it down the stairs when he was carrying it down into the Puppet room. The boy froze and slowly turned towards the Puppeteer. Face blank, he walked over to the boy and without malice or any such thought pushed him down the stairs. When the boy finally stopped the Puppeteer asked him if he was alive. He grunted as an answer.

“Think about the Puppets’ feelings.”

The boy heard the door lock, he heard the footsteps recede, and then he heard nothing. He stayed where he had landed; there was no reason to rush anymore. When he decided to move it was only because it would be worse in the morning if the room wasn’t in order. He opened the box and began to place the Puppets in their respective places. The older female handmade Sock-Puppets were placed in stands neatly arranged around a table in a fake garden. The males went in a room that looked like what he imagined country clubs would look like. The Marionettes sat in little chairs placed around a dinner table all of them young, all of them beautiful. Some of the Marrionettes had their strings on hooks and stood on the dance floor in front of each other caught in an eternal unmoving waltz. The boy stopped to place a kiss on the one named Farrah, she was easy that way. He shivered as he placed the Shadow-Puppets under their lamps; they always felt so slimy and cold to him.

He stepped back to check his work and nodded, he was most probably going to be in trouble tomorrow anyways. The Puppets would have moved, tired of the same dance partners, longing to see their wives, visit their lovers, be a different type of shadow. They always moved. They also talked, more than the boy ever did. Even more than the Puppeteer. To each other. To the audience. The boy understood the Puppets. He understood them too well. And they understood him also. In the way that beings without control of themselves or their own words understand each other.

Eventually, he curled up to sleep hoping that maybe he would wake up to find Farrah’s lipstick on his cheek.

 
 
odb13
16 June 2009 @ 02:45 am
soooo there's been this HUGE clean up going on in the jpop communities i'm part of...and so far I haven't been accepted back in anyone of them... I don't know if it's cause I dont blog, or don't have any friends or (most likely) I don't comment enough...

I don't blog cause I usually just call all my friends to tell them what happened or is happening in my life and I don't need a place to vent my frustrations about life because once more I have friends and family to call for that...

I don't have any online friends cause honestly I forgot how to make them and most importantly keep in touch with them...and I don't want to add someone just because I like their story or anything like that because I feel like I really won't have anything else to talk to them about...

I don't comment because....I'm lazy, I'll be completely honest about that. But I'm working on it....but I have this feeling that now that I'm commenting on everything I still wont be accepted because I'm doing it alot now and not during a long space of time so they'll think that I'm jut doing it randomly. But I was in japan for 14 days...I came to a very insane friends page...