SHORT STORY: community

We all go in the same direction. I watch through the smudged window at the world around me. At 70 miles an hour we would be a blur if we weren’t traveling together. We are not individuals, we are part of the same transit system. A group of people all trying to get to a different end. I love driving, it makes me feel like I’m part of something amazing, something bigger then I could ever be alone. Like a line of ants we move one behind the other. We are all part of each other. The word traffic couldn’t exist if one car was traveling alone. I’m alone inside my car, but I know that I am not by myself. I wave to a group of guys in some sports team jerseys. They yell something out and chant victory songs. I now want their team to win, what an encouraging group of fans.

I keep driving, I slow and speed up to various rates. I want to see all the people that people to this group with me. I sped up and get too close behind someone. He puts his brakes on and I slow down too. I put my blinker on and enter the lane next to him. He looks at me as I pass him and raises his middle finger in the air. A curious look stares back at this finger. He doesn’t even look at me. I am nothing to him but a frustration. This is weird. If I was walking too close behind him, he’d have to talk to me. But because we are in different cars, even though we’re part of a group, he feels he doesn’t have to address me. He’s confident in his metal shield, safe from confrontation. In person he’d either have to ignore me or ask me why I was so close to him. I don’t get that respect here. I pity this man, his blood rises for something I wont even remember doing five minutes from now. I have to bring us together. We cant all be like this. We must know that we are part of the group. A community of drivers all wanting the same thing.

I get off at the next exit. I park in a super mart center. I go in buy a few things and quickly leave the building. I get back into my car and enter my spot inside the group that I love so much. I drive past a guy picking his nose. I look at the passenger seat next to me at the things I bought. I laugh and write some stuff on a piece of cardboard. I hold up the words that I have written, hoping this man will know he’s not alone. He looks over at me. I don’t know what he said but it either was “Fuck you,” or “Vacuum.” I hope it was vacuum even though the former would make more sense. I look down at my sign and read, “I can see that!” We are not alone, we are all together, even if they don’t want to admit that. I drive by a red corvette with two blonde girls wearing oversized sunglasses. I write something on the cardboard and hold it up to the window. The one in the passenger seat looks over at me, laughs, and pokes her friend. She looks over at me, taking her eyes off the road, and also laughs. The one in the passenger seat laughs and shakes her head back and forth. They speed up and soon have weaved their way seven cars ahead of me. I take my sign off the window and read, “youre very pretty, I would like to get to know you.”

I keep writing my signs, and I keep getting ignored. No one wants to realize we are part of a traveling group. This journey could be much more enjoyable and engaging if we interacted with one another. The ride is going to be long, if we keep ignoring each other. I hold up a sign to the window. A blue jeep is in the lane next to me. The guy in the jeep looks at me and throws something out of his window at me. A large blue drink hits my windshield. I cant see out my front. I am unable to see the road ahead of me. I try to wipe off the drink but am unable to. My tires hit the vibrating lines on the edge of the road. The vibrating stops, then starts again as the other side of my car travels off the road. I try to correct my car but I only make things worse. My car starts to roll at 50 or more miles an hour. The world around me spins. Cardboard and markers are thrown all over the place. I hit something hard and the car stops rolling. I can feel blood pouring down my upside down face. My arm feels broke. I can barely breathe due to the seatbelt. I blink red out of my eyes. The world goes black. Nothingness, emptiness, I am alone inside the darkness.

I wake up to hear people yelling. Something is pulling me. I have been released from my seatbelt and am now being dragged out my shattered window. My hand clutches at a white piece of cardboard and I pull it out with me. Cars are parked all around mine. People are rushing all around, finally engaging in the world around them. I look down at the cardboard I pulled from my car. It reads, “when will you stop hiding and be apart of the world around you.” I look at all the people, they have gotten out of their cars. They are knowing a part of the world they are in. They have been forced to interact with each other. I cough some red liquid onto the white board. I finally got what I wanted. It might be too late for me, but maybe it isn’t too late for them.

SHORT STORY: a little piece of white fuzz

My friend shares his thoughts on some girl he’s trying to get to know. I listen as he tells me why he believes she’s amazing even though he just met her. I sit there quietly, mentally aware of his words. He describes the color of her hair. The curve of her lips when she smiles. I know her laugh as the conversation goes on. I feel like I’ve stared into her green eyes. He tells me why she smells better then any girl he’s ever met before. I just sit there and hear his opinion. I can hear the excitement in his own voice as he describes her. I look down and see a round piece of white fuzz cling to my shirt. I grab it and flick it into the air. I laugh as my friend tells me how perfect her ass is. Of course he’d have to describe that. Her favorite color is blue. Her favorite type of food is Chinese. Her favorite animal is a hamster. I know all this, even though I’ve never met this girl. He tells me her hair would make goddess cry.
He can no longer sit down so he gets up and paces the room while he talks. He hopes that he can see her tomorrow. He tells me her favorite drink is cream soda. She loves listening to Jack Johnson, second would be John Mayer. I laugh, because this is a typical girl band line up. I look back down on my shirt. “what the hell?” I whisper to myself. The white fuzz is back on my shirt. I thought I got rid of it. I grab it again and throw it off me. he looks at me funny but continues with his new found love. She prefers skirts to pants. Tank tops to shirts. Her favorite season is spring. Valentines day is her favorite holiday.
Once again I take a look at my shirt. “shit!” I yell out. My friend stops talking. I don’t have just one piece of fuzz on my shirt, but several white pieces of fuzz are nesting around my chest. I try to pinch them off but every time I do more see to grow from the ones I remove. I claw at my shirt desperately trying to remove the supernatural fuzz. “whats your problem?” my friend asks me not knowing why I’m frantically scratching at my shirt. “I cant get this damn fuzz off my shirt! It keeps coming back!” I yell back at him. He walks over to me and looks at my shirt. “what the hell are you talking about I don’t see any fuzz!” he yells back at me, “quit being such a fag!” I ignore him and keep ripping at my shirt. Soon holes begin to appear where I keep stretching the fabric trying to remove the ever growing number of white fuzz.
My shirt tears down the middle showing my bear chest. “what the hell?! Theres nothing there!” my friend yells at me. I tear off my shirt and throw it across the room. My breath is quick. Finally no more fuzz. I sit back down on the couch and try to slow down my heart rate. “you have problems,” my friend tells me. I ignore him and just sit there. I look down to see my chest rise and fall. Something catches my eye. Laying on the side of my stomach is a small round piece of fuzz. I grab it and throw it to the side. I stare at my chest as more fuzz appears. I rip at it. More appear. Soon I am cutting into my own chest. “stop!” my friend yells at me running over to me. He tries to hold me down as I tear at my own skin. More fuzz appear with each tear of skin. “dude! Theres nothing there!” he keeps yelling trying to grab my arms. I don’t listen to him, my hands are now covered in my own blood. Still I dig deeper into my own chest. Blood now flows onto my stomach and stains the floor around me. My friend has given up and collapsed on the other side of the room, also covered in my blood. I see a white fuzz ball resting between two bloody rips. I grab my rips and rip them open, revealing my beating heart. I stop tearing as I look into my chest. Where my red heart should be is nothing but white. Covering my heart is billions of small pieces of white fuzz. I laugh, covered in my own blood I only find humor. I dive one hand into my open beating cavity.

I hate you all!

i saw this on my other unused blog and i thought it was funny so i wanted to post it on here... hope you enjoy

when did we lose what made life great? the things that used to scare the shit out of us as a kids have been ruined, maybe forever. bat turning, blood sucking, kings of the night have been romanticized to the point of mockery. vampires are supposed to be badass, not some love lost high schooler. dont we have enough shitty romantic literature out there? The Notebook, which has ruined girls idea of what a man is supposed to be like is one example. i dont care what any girl says no body wants a pathetic guy like noah. one that has only one robotic function in life, to have a girl who really doesnt want him anymore. sounds great a guy making a a girl his world, but shouldnt there be more to his world then just the girl, shouldnt he take the girl along for the adventure instead of making her the adventure. thats obsessively creepy if you ask me. i walked down the romantic section of Books-a-Million today, every cover of these small yet thick "novels" had shirtless guys holding a woman up so she doesnt stumble backwards. this shit is just mental masturbation material for the single mother, living vicariously through a book so she wont take a chance on getting hurt again. fuck edward cullen! fuck that foreign looking warewolf! next, when did the walking undead become such a fucking fetish? every other month i see new and maybe even worse zombie media. it was cool when dawn of the dead came out and youd see maybe some crappy zombie movies just because they were fun. and of course youd play resident evil and shoot the hell out of some dead walkers. but now what do we really have to look forward to?

enough is enough! you are ruining our horror fun, let us want it dont force feed us it. if we dont stop this what the hell are goth kids going to dress up like to protest society? theyll have to look like normal kids and who the hell wants that?

we are slaves to a box!

why as people are we so quick to put each other and ourselves in a box? is it our need to belong? is it our desire to figure someone else out? do we really need these boxes?

i have always wanted to belong, im sure we all do. no one wants to be unrelatable (not a real word, but screw it im using it) to the the sociological world. our biggest fears are to be alone. even those of us that put of hard exteriors to keep our delicate parts "safe" want to be truly understood by at least one other person. so we put ourselves in boxes that we feel we should belong to. we dress and accessorize not how we want to but how the character we play should look like. we are no longer individuals, because hell we dont want to be, something inside of us tries to be one of many. we dont want to stand out in fear of the world turning their backs on us. do we even know who we really are?

this whole thought came up a few weeks ago. for those of you who do not know me that well i guess ill give you some back ground information on myself. im kinda a dork, its fine by me because i know this. i love reading books, i make corny jokes, and half the time i like to keep to myself. and as of the last year i have enjoyed writing stories. mostly short stories and even a few other things. this is what i want to do with my life, i want to be a writer. i was hanging out with a really good friend a few weeks ago who ive known for years and knows me pretty well. we went to lunch one afternoon and i was wearing a pink long sleeve button down polo, blue shorts, and a golf hat. (this isnt the first time ive worn this). the first thing he says to me when i get out of my car is, "youre such a poser." i ask him why and he replies, "because youre not dressing like who you are, youre being fake." was i being fake? because i decided to dress "preppy" one afternoon made me fake? this guy who i have known for many years has now put me into a box. he believes i should be dressing more artistically. i do enjoy dressing like that, but do i always have to be that guy. inside i am always who i am, but cant i look different and still be the same guy? i hate this! i dont want to be put in a box. just because over the last year or so ive become more in touch with the artistic side of myself doesnt mean i have to change who i am. every day i change the way i dress depending on how i feel. i can go from super preppy one day to wearing a tie dye shirt and pajama pants the next. im still the same old dork in both these wrappings.

we dont have to be slaves to a box. we can be ourselves. we dont have to be who we think we should be but rather be who we really are. why are we so afraid to be real? why does being fake feel so much better to us? i try to always be real, im sure for those of you who know me wish i wouldnt always be real. to not always say whats on my mind, use some sort of tact. but i cant be fake, its not who i am. ive never wanted to be put in a box. in fact i like knowing the box is there so i can step outside of it. maybe that makes me a slave to something different. i want people to be real, i challenge more people to lose the fake.search your hearts, find what makes you you, be that. love yourself for who you are not who you think you need to be. let the world know who you really are, because i sure as hell want to know who you really are.

im in the top 3%

i may never reach perfection, or know what its like to bounce around on the moon, or have a heart that isnt constantly divided, but i am now part of a small group. i have read over and over that only 3% of people who start on the tedious task that is writing a novel. today i am in that 3%. im not saying its the greatest novel ever, or even will ever get published. but im heads above the rest of those slackers that cant make it over the rough patches. i started the first sentence on december 6th 2009, only 5 months ago. i was even sick that first day i wrote and i knocked out 8 pages in one day, still my personally best. originally it was supposed to be a short story but i kept extending the inciting incident. so here we are now, a completed first draft of a novel. over the summer ill be editing my work, tearing it apart, and beefing up the parts that need to be fixed. so hope all goes well...

my life: the introduction

ok so i figured i would start this off by talking a little bit about myself. ive been told i am very good at self proclamations so why not start there. im betting no ones even going to read this shit any time soon, but i have to begin at some point. i have to start with an introduction because i havent lived my whole life yet. ok so here it goes:

my name is marshall walker and im 24 years old. i live on a small island off the coast of georgia. its a great place to live, but it can become jaded at times. i enjoy going to the beach, and riding my bikes around on the very scenic sidewalks. but im not here to talk about the island, they can advertise on their own blogs this is my damn time.

what i love to do most is write. i am an aspiring writer and hope to one day achieve this goal. ive written over 15 short stories, a screenplay, a almost completed novel (should be done at the latest next week), and a third of another novel that i hope to complete next.

ok i think im done for now, basically what i want people to get out of this is that i am a real person, a person with hair, and eyes and sometimes i even shit.

ok bye