dear gays and lesbians,

we're sorry for everything. we're sorry for labeling you, for insulting you, for killing you, for denying you marriage, and for making your lives a living hell.

we're sorry, but we know that we can't take back all the horrible things we've done to you, so we've come to a compromise. a truce, a deal.

we will leave you alone and let you marry and treat you like normal folks as long as you stop having sex with one another.

gays can have sex with lesbians and vice versa, but not gays with gays and lesbians with lesbians.

we're all for love and peace and sex, but not man on man or woman on woman. well, the woman on woman thing can work if there's another man involved, but that's complicated and we can figure that out later when we hit that road.

but man on man is just... you know gross. woman on woman just seems awkward if it isn't between two really beautiful blondes, or brunettes of course. we don't discriminate.

we'll even allow you to marry, but of course gays can only marry lesbians and vice versa. we have to be consistent.

we really believe that this will work because you can still be as gay or lesbionic as much you want, minus the whole sex thing, and you'll get your rights as real people. we want you to be as comfortable with us and we are with us. and we want you to be like us as long as you stay true to yourself because we're all for that.

we really hope that this will work out. look forward to your response.

- The Law Abiding Law Abiders (LALA)

the end

the world is funny.

i can't remember a time when people didn't fight over what they believed in. Allah, Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha, satan, Edward Cullen. leftists, rightists, extremists, nudists. everyone had a team to fight for. bombs here, a protest there, threats of nuclear attack every other full moon, hair pulling, screaming, and crying. everyone had a reason to be angry at everybody else. we were like this from the beginning of time.

but then something happened.

one day, everyone just stopped believing.

and i mean everybody.

republicans, democrats, liberals, conservatives, terrorists, hell even athiests, and as far as i know, they didn't believe in anything to begin with. but that's the effect it had on everybody because deep down in your core, you believe in something. it could be God, demons, the american dream, gravity, or yourself, but people believed in something. and that day, something was taken from us.

i don't know the exact date, no one knows for sure, and i don't think anyone really cares anymore. it was a long time ago when governments were still intact and when people actually cared about their "fellow man."

i heard about groups of people that used to help people "in need." people that were hit by a tsunami or earthquake, people that went hungry every night, people that were dying. pretty pointless. they should've just been looking out for themselves. dying people are best left alone in this world.

we're all heading towards death and now there are only two types of people left. those that want to prolong the inevitable and steal as much time as they can on this earth and those that see no point in delaying. this earth used to crowded as hell, i heard. over 6 billion people. i can't even imagine. last i checked, we were teetering around a cool million or so. and even that was declining.

old people were a big chunk of the declining rate and kids either found a way to survive or died trying. i was one of the lucky ones.

i was abandoned by my parents as soon as i was born. some woman found me and saw a use for me. she raised me to sell me as soon as i was good for something. turns out i'm not too bad looking and she sold me to a rich couple as a sex slave.

sex was the natural way to get high when things were dry around here. of course, people didn't see the point of it anymore because making kids was a waste of time. it was mostly for pleasure, if you can call it that. it was more of an escape.

a way to forget the world we lived in. sex was a dream inducing state that left people bittersweet because they knew the feeling wouldn't last. it would make them feel good and even hopeful, but hope was a dangerous emotion and it was best if you killed it as soon as it emerged from your naive mind.

i've been a slave for quite a few years now and it's safe to say that i don't feel a thing. that as far as i know, this reality around me could be a dream. i pinch myself, hit myself, and inject myself whenever i can hoping to wake up from this. the thing is, is that the hope is shattered as soon it starts because hope lies in waking up to something else. i imagine myself waking up to a bright light, but it stops there. the light fades and blackness swallows up the light. there's nothing to wake up to.

i don't know how this world began, but i know that i'm living in the end of it.

but sometimes, i do get this weird sense of maybe this isn't it. that if one day i close my eyes for good, then i'll truly awaken to something. i've been having these dreams lately of waking up. i always wake up before i can see what woke me up and i'm always in tears. but i feel like that there's something there, like this isn't the way things are supposed to be. of course, that's where my dangerous sense of hope lies in now. in sleep. maybe when i die, i can dream forever. maybe i can even see what wakes me up in those dreams. and that's what gets me. what makes me think that i'll even be conscious when i die. after that, i'll be nothing just like i was when i was alive. i'll be gone, just like that. i'll cease to exist, is what a lot of people say around here when they get to that age.

and they say it with absolute certainty because it's the only thing they're certain of.

Why the World Needs an Apocalypse

This is the prompt for the winter break. Write a story about your own vision of an apocalypse. It can be pre, post, or during the apocalypse and it doesn't have to be in 1st person. And to make it more interesting...the second person that posts will have to take something from the previous person's post and incorporate it into their own story, and so on. It can be the vision itself, an object, person, place, etc. Be creative guys and happy writing!

Laying Down the Groundwork

The most daunting task is always coming back. Any sense of familiarity is gone, and I find myself at a loss for words. Why? Words used to flow from my fingers with a melodic ease... I could spend entire nights to the rhythm of my fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

It used to be the easiest thing, to let go of everything that I keep balled up inside, but the more I've kept inside, the harder it is to let go. Let's lay down some groundwork and see if we can't make this into something, yeah?

The way I see it, I'm always just barely chugging along -- I'm not that old, but I've exerted my body far further than it should go. I'm not that young, but I find myself holding on to reckless ambition and too many dreams. Recently I've made this decision to hold nothing back. Maybe it's an overdue ambition from my youth, to be able to put everything out there that I've needed to, to live life in both earnest and honest; or maybe it's something that I should've done a long time ago that I've never learned to do.

There's a part of me that's scared -- scared of what's going to happen when I reveal who I am to myself; am I going to be more of a softy than I realize I am? Am I going to realize that I really am as much of an asshole and hard-headed as I'm afraid of? Or am I going to be the kind of person that I hate?

It's never going to feel like there's enough time in the world to do everything. But you're never going to really know the world unless you look at it through honest eyes.

The Rock Climber

The sun had yet to show itself. The rock climber gauged his next feat by surveying the unique structures visible from the baseline. Of course he knew that on his way up there were going to be moments where he would have to quickly change plans and reroute his ascending path. The surface of the rock was clever that way. The vastness of its façade, the texture that withstood time, and the sheer boldness of its presence gave the rock climber a deep feeling of reverence. Reverence was the ritualistic element that the rock climber had to submit before attempting his journey upward. No previous rock had allowed the rock climber to set foot on its summit if he was not humbled. The rock was a proud deity. The rock climber continued to engage in his cognitive surveillance. The climb would be easy at first. There were many small jagged edges that would allow him to reach about 20 km with grace. However, from previous experiences, he knew they could not be trusted. Every single grab and step must be premeditated. At first he would feel with his hands, the sturdiness of the edges, and then calculate the ability of the edge to support his weight. Superficiality had no place in climbing. In fact, all true rock climbers knew that eye sight had nothing to do with the success of a single step upward. Above the 20 km, the climber saw that the face of his adversary would change and become smooth. This is where the real work would begin. Using his tools, the climber would puncture the surface with harness bolts that would then be used to attach the screwgate carabiners. Most of the time would be spent manipulating the equipment. At a certain point, the rock climber saw that there would be a wide ledge where he could rest and gather his remaining strength for the finish. However, this ledge also prevented the rock climber from seeing the rest of the way like the rock was intentionally hiding its most dangerous secrets. The rock climber smiled to himself. The top was never the intention of the rock climber. And contrary to what most believed, it wasn’t about the journey either. In the deepest recesses of the climber’s soul he felt that he was communicating with the rock, a conversation that could not be replicated by modern trickery. To achieve this, the rock climber had to throw way his falsities and stand bare before the grand judge. He knew that a mere human like him had absolutely nothing the rock desired, except for the abandonment of self. The sun was no longer immature, announced the commencement. The rock climber was ready and with the smile on his face that could be interpreted as arrogance or excitement, and with the eyes of absolute determination, he began his ascension.

John (Part 1)

John found himself lying awake at what he thought was morning. His eyes weren’t open yet but he could feel the warmth of daylight coming through the window hitting his face. He decided it was best to try and ignore the calling of the morning sun and return to the dream he had emerged from.

“What was I just dreaming about” he thought to himself.

John let out a long irritated sigh, rolled over to his side and buried his face in his pillow. He had forgotten what he had dreamt about but he knew somehow that it was something good. The resonance of feeling that lingers after a good dream toyed with John but made the process of waking up all the more frustrating. He hugged his pillow tightly and continued to bury his face further into his pillow to help him forget that it was morning. Something, however, wasn’t right. The alarm clock that went off every morning at the same time wasn’t buzzing. No, it wasn’t that. Was it the absence of the smell of coffee? Had he forgotten to set his coffee maker the night before? No, it wasn’t that either. Consciousness suddenly flooded his mind and thoughts were rushing in and out of his mind. John felt something deeply wrong in his gut. It became a knotted feeling. And then, it hit him. John had absolutely no idea what day of the week it was.
John was a farmer. He lived alone on a small piece of land that had an incredible view of a mountain range. His farm consisted of nine pigs, one horse, two cows, and a dozen of chickens. There was a narrow gravel road that extended from his house for about 10 miles before it hit a local road. Every single day since John purchased the farm and his livestock, woke up at 5:00 a.m. not a minute too late, put some clothes on, went downstairs to his kitchen and poured himself some coffee that he had set to automatically start brewing at 4:50 a.m. the night before. He wasn’t much of a breakfast eater because it upset his stomach and he didn’t like the feeling of an upset gut in the morning. John would sit out on his porch on a bench he had built himself and took deep breathes while sipping his steaming coffee. John would return to his kitchen and wash out his cup and hang it on a bent nail above his sink. One nail, one coffee mug. He then put on his thick leather work boots and set out to tend to different chores around the farm depending on the day of the week. Every day of the week was different. Monday, John would go to the cows and check their health followed by gathering one pail of milk. Tuesday, John would clean out the pig pens. Wednesday, he would count the chickens. On Thursday, John would lay down fresh hay in the stable. On Friday, John would ride his horse to the river and fish for salmon. Saturday, John went into town to buy his bottle of whiskey. And on Sunday, John would sit in his house and stare at small picture frame sitting on the mantle of his fireplace and empty his bottle of whiskey. This was John’s pattern of living every single week. The moment John opened his eyes in the morning he knew what day of the week it was without having to look at a calendar or even think about it.
However, today John simply could not figure out which day of the week it was.

John frantically got out of bed and rushed down the stairs.

“Damn, I need a shirt” he thought to himself.

John rushed back upstairs to his room and grabbed a button up shirt that was hanging off a nail on the wall. He quickly put it on and rushed back down the stairs. He looked at the coffee maker; there was no coffee in it. John tore the lid of the coffee maker open and there were no coffee grounds or a filter. Anxiety overtook John. He then sat down at his small wooden dining table and began to think.

“What did I do yesterday” he thought as if it would clue him in on what day it was.

“Did I go into town? Did I have my whiskey? Did I clean out the…” he couldn’t remember.

The more John tried to remember, the more confused he became. John got up and started looking through his cabinets and drawers. Most of them were empty save some canned foods and mismatched utensils. He was looking for a calendar. In the cabinet right above his refrigerator John found a small black book that read “Planner” on the front of it. John opened it and flipped through the pages in search of the date. However, soon after John began his search he realized that he never kept track of the date, just the day of the week.

Feeling defeated, John slid to the ground with his back to the refrigerator and hugged his knees. He didn’t know what to do next. He felt anxious and afraid. After staring blankly into space for some time he thought of something.

Pull

I bought a gun today. No bullets. Just the gun, a revolver. I got it at a pawn shop down the street from the church. The guy at the pawn shop didn’t have any problems with me buying it even though I didn’t have a license or anything. I made a mental note to tell the congregation not to go there. The owner probably thought it was for self-defense; it wasn’t uncommon for drunks around the neighborhoods to come and harass you. The revolver’s not shiny or clean like the guns you see in the movies. There’s a bit of rust on the handle and inside the barrel, maybe some water got into it somehow. I imagine the previous owner standing on the ledge of a bridge near a calm river with the gun to his temple, standing there because of his indecisiveness on how to end his life. Maybe he jumped and then pulled the trigger, an impressive feat, or perhaps he pulled the trigger and fell into the water. In my fantasy, the gun is still in his hand as he sinks to the bottom and is washed away in the current.
The gun now looks aged and worn down from being pawned numerous times. With its solid black handle, short barrel, and empty cylinder it looked like one of those guns that cops keep taped to their ankles. Maybe it was used by a cop once when he was undercover on a drug deal, they made the mistake of not searching his ankles and he was ready to go all Ronin on their asses when they found the wire on him. Maybe the gun saved his life. Different characters come into my fantasies every time I look at the gun; the previous owner on the bridge was a student whose parents always made his decisions. His parents decided what college he would go to, what he would study, who he would marry, and he had enough. The gun still makes me nervous; I hold it in both of my hands as if I were examining it for prints. Big guns just freak me out. Thank God it’s not a Dirty Harry gun, I’d never touch it.
The only real memory I have of my father was the time I went hunting, we didn’t even use rifles. I was twelve years old and he didn’t like using guns; he preferred the bow and arrow. He had made it himself, carving the bow out of a part of an old tree he chopped down behind our house. He sharpened the branches of that same tree into arrows. “No fruit on that tree, but at least it had a use,” he said. I remember the wood peels that fell onto our grass and the smell of dead wood as he sculpted the weapon sitting on a rocking chair he also had made. We drove out early in the morning into a hunting area of a forest nearby. I was naturally a shy and quiet boy, so my father didn’t have trouble with me being silent. We tiptoed around until we found a good spot to wait at. I had hoped that I would see my father climb up a tree with a wooden spear and jump down to impale a wild boar like Rambo in “First Blood.” That didn’t happen. Instead, we waited. We waited for what seemed like hours. This only made me wonder how long Rambo was up in that tree holding that spear. There was so much blood. Thinking of the blood makes my skin crawl. My mind quickly comes back to my office, my desk, and the ritual before me.
I open the cylinder to make sure that it’s empty, as if by some miracle bullets would appear out of thin air. I roll the cylinder listening to the rapid clicks and snap the cylinder back into the chamber. I hold the gun and look around at my office to take in the scenery. My desk takes up half of the room and on it sit books that I’ve allowed to pile up over the few years I’ve been a pastor. There are three stacks of books, categorized into different genres: classic Christian literature such as Pilgrim’s Progress and Confession; fiction by Dostoevsky and O’Connor; and corny, modern Christian books that come off more as self-help books. The latter category piled up as members of my congregation thought I could use inspiring words by famous pastors to “encourage” my walk with the Lord. I’m pretty sure that they wanted me to take a hint, “This is the way you should preach. Short, concise phrases that everyone will get. Believe it and you can do it. Imagine it and it will happen.” I mentioned at one time that those pastors had nothing to do with the Bible and were more concerned with money than God. The next thing I know is the senior pastor coming to my closet sized office telling me to apologize to the entire congregation. I did, and lied saying that I would read the books. I went to confess to my priest after that, but some of the guilt remains. No pictures hang on my walls or sit on my desk because I don’t like thinking of my past mistakes. I found pictures to be reminders of the little imperfections that lay heavy on my shoulders; pictures were fake smiles trying to compensate for lack of joy.
I keep my diplomas in a box at home. All that hangs on my wall is a calendar that was given me this past New Year. A member of the congregation gave it as a present to wish me a year of happiness and joy. I use it to make sure of when Ash Wednesday is, to remind myself to tell everyone to give up something for Lent. As I lay back in my computer chair, I remind myself its Good Friday, and I put the gun to my temple.
The coolness of the barrel on my skin is always refreshing, but the grit of the rust quickly takes away that pleasure. The thought that I should be preparing for tonight’s sermon passes through my mind and then I breathe in deeply as the rush goes through me. I forget about the sermon, about the fact that the gun isn’t loaded; all of my focus is at the gun at my head and my finger on the trigger. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes, but all of my memories seem more significant. The excitement starts when I realize that I have control over whether I live or die, and having the gun in my hand does that to me. Regardless of it being loaded or unloaded, the adrenaline starts pumping as I cock back the hammer. I heard from somewhere that you’re supposed to squeeze the trigger as opposed to pulling it, but no one’s ever said that in the movies. “Squeeze the trigger.” That thought distracts me from the high, but it comes back as I close my eyes, pull the trigger, and hear the hammer hit the empty chamber. I breathe out slowly as I close my eyes to savor the moment. It’s a moment when I go absolutely blank. My mind goes white and I don’t feel the weight on my shoulders. The burden that lies so heavily on me goes away in that moment and I feel alright. It never lasts; it’s just a temporary fix to my guilty condition.
I open my eyes and put the gun in my lap; my hand moves away a stack of books to reveal my desk clock. It’s dead. I thought that the batteries were dead, but the clock remained still even when I switched them out. The short hand is right on six and the long hand on twelve. The same member who gave me the calendar offered me a new clock, but I refused. I didn’t want the clock to change. The dead clock was a gift from Mortimer or Morty, a friend I had grown up with in the church. We even went to Catholic school together and Morty was always the one rebelling. One time we were skipping class to go eat off campus; I justified it to my mother saying that we had finished all of our work for the school year and were only watching movies in class. In actuality, I was the only one out of my group of friends to have finished the work, Morty was nearly held back, not only because of the missing assignments, but because he had so many unexcused absences.
This was one of the rare times that I had chosen to skip with Morty and I had just turned 18. Morty decided to celebrate my coming of age and slight rebellion by taking me to an adult video store.
“It’s a rite of passage, man. Don’t worry about it; it’s just a venial sin,” Morty said.
He was wrong, it was a cardinal sin, one of the seven deadly sins; he never paid attention during Sunday school. I didn’t want to disappoint Morty and it was near the end of the school year before we went off to college. I humored him and we went. The guilt and burden that I feel now started there or at least that’s where I felt its presence clearly. The store was off a main road near our neighborhood and many complained of it being an eyesore to a generally clean and moral town. The store had a drive thru because it used to be a bank; the same suction tube used to deposit your paycheck was now used to rent dirty movies. We drove in Morty’s car, a 1990 Honda Civic with paint so faded that you can’t tell what color it was before. It looked slightly like charcoal when he had it, but Morty loved it because it was his. We drove down the street to the store and as we pulled in, I asked him if we could go through the drive thru.
“What? Why?” exclaimed Morty.
“I don’t want to go inside,” I said.
“But, that’s the whole point of a porn shop. It’s like a bookstore. You don’t have to buy anything; you can just read in the store. Well I mean you can’t do what you would do watching porn in the shop, but going in there is like getting a peep for free. It’s like a strip club… dude, we should just go to a strip club.” Morty started to turn the car around.
“What? No! Park the car, I’ll go in.”
“You’re so gullible, man. You know I don’t have money for a strip club. Alright, out the car,” Morty commanded.
I sighed and stepped out of the car. My heart pounded as I realized that I was still in my school uniform and took off my tie and jacket. Morty was already at the door, holding it for me. He smiled when he saw how nervous I was. My heart pounded as I approached the door to the store and I took a deep breath as I went in. The cool air hit me as Morty followed in behind me and a clerk welcomed us to the store. Morty was still in his school uniform, but the clerk didn’t care.
“You guys from St. Paul up the road?” asked the clerk.
“Yeah, do a lot of guys from there come here?” asked Morty.
“Yeah, you kids keep me in business. Let me know if you need any help.”
Morty smiled and continued on looking through the aisles to see if anything caught his eye. Everything caught my eye at this point, but I felt conflicted. We had just gone over the cardinal sins in Sunday school this past week. My teacher had gone into great detail over each of the seven deadly sins, but when it came to lust he simply said, “Get through it.” Those words echoed in my mind as naked bodies surrounded me and closed in. I quickly looked for Morty and kept close to him, afraid that God would smite me. I tried not to look at the bodies; I tried looking at the faces, the eyes of the actors and actresses on the boxes, but my eyes went to their bodies. “Just get through it, just get through it,” I told myself. We looked around for an hour until the clerk realized that we weren’t going to buy anything. He told us to get out or he’d call up the school. Morty couldn’t afford to get into any more trouble and I had enough, so we left.
“Not bad, right?” asked Morty. “Next time we’re going to a strip club,” he joked as we got in his car and I remained silent because all I could think about was how I felt in that store. My heart beat out of my chest and I couldn’t turn away from the naked bodies that were contained on the video boxes. The one image that caught my eye was one of a girl that was fully clothed, a rare sight, with her back turned dressed in a plaid shirt and short shorts. She had brunette hair, dark eyes, and legs that didn’t seem to end. At that moment I didn’t care if it was a cardinal sin or not, I burned that image into my mind for later comfort and it is still clear as day. Every time I brought up the image in my mind it seemed to add more weight on my shoulders. The accumulation of images didn’t stop there. Morty had kept his father’s collection of Playboy magazines and with the internet, things were only a click away.
I was at Morty’s house one day in the summer and we were in his room looking at the old Playboys. Morty got up to go out and have a smoke while his parents were still at work, they owned a flower shop close to the school. They were kind people. Once we graduated, I came home to a giant wreath of roses standing in front of our door. It had a card on it saying, “Congratulations, son.” I kept that wreath as long as I could and dried out the roses, so it would last longer. I stayed in his room looking at the magazines while Morty went out to his backyard. I turned the pages gazing at magnificent figures and I got to a page of an interview with one of the models. I hadn’t read anything since school ended and this was the most words on a page that I had seen since then; I figured it would be academic. The model was 19, she was in college and had dreams of becoming a full time model or actress. Her biggest inspiration was her mother because her father wasn’t around. She wanted to make a lot of money to take care of her mother. Her mother had worked three jobs to support her son and two daughters. She liked dark chocolates and hated sour cream.
I stopped reading. All these models, these girls, were somebody’s daughters. They lay on the page so bare and vulnerable, inviting eyes to feast on their flesh, their most intimate state. How many of their fathers had abandoned them? What would their mothers think of their daughters selling their innocence? And what would they think of me, one who had gazed with unclean eyes and a perverse desire for their touch. A debt came upon me, it was something that I had long carried around before, but had been blind to until that time. The debt lay heavy on my soul, a small crack that shattered any hope of perfection.
This burden and guilt remained on my shoulders still even though I did everything I could to alleviate it. I went to seminary hoping that working for God would repay back this debt, but the weight got heavier and heavier. I felt like an ignored child, unforgiven by his parents and looked up on with disappointing eyes. I had become my own reminder of my imperfection and my inability to be anything more. “Killing myself” with an empty gun was a new ritual for me, like the Eucharist, it nourished me, reminded me of my failures, and erased them, even if it was just for a moment.
Morty had gone on to graduate from high school and go on to college. He worked for a company crunching numbers day in and out, but lived for the weekend where his paychecks fueled his lusts for drink and women. Morty hadn’t been to church in a long time nor did he practice any part of the faith except one. Confession. He came every week to “confess” his sins to me and relived the events of the previous weekend before heading out to enjoy the next one. Every Friday he would come tell me of his exploits. It’s Good Friday today. I look over at my dead clock out of habit and then I hear a knock at my door. It’s Morty. The gun is still in my lap, so I grab it and before I can open my desk drawer he comes in. I have the gun in my right hand, hiding it behind my desk out of his line of sight and greet him as I stick out my left hand to shake his.
“Hey, Father, how’s it going?” he asks as he shakes my hand. He always called me Father even though I was a pastor of a Lutheran church.
“Not too bad,” I answer as I close my open drawer. Morty takes a seat in front of me and begins to tell his tale of the previous weekend.
“Hey, when was the last time you heard from Helen?” Morty asks.
Helen was my ex-girlfriend, who, last I heard, was currently a missionary in China. I remember when I met Helen for the first time three years ago when I had just graduated from seminary. She represented the reason why I had chosen to be a Protestant minister rather than a Catholic priest was because I hoped to marry. I didn’t have the gift of celibacy nor did I have the desire for it. I met her at a retreat that the recent graduates had to attend and after the initial welcome and congratulations we transitioned into worship. The lights dimmed and the slow, calm piano music began to play to get us into the right mindset. I looked up and as the light shone on the praise band and saw a medium sized girl with brunette hair that she wore up, dark eyes closed in prayer, dressed moderately in a plaid shirt and jeans. My heart raced out of my chest and I prayed fervently for an opportunity to meet her.
After worship we had a chance to settle into our cabins, but I spent my time looking for an opportunity to meet Helen. I hoped that she would start conversing with a person I knew and when she did I joined them as naturally as I could.
“Hey, Joe, great worship, right? Sorry to interrupt you guys. Hey, I’m Joe, I mean he’s Joe, but I’m Joe’s friend.” I nervously interjected. She smiled and I’m not quite sure what she saw in me then.
“Hi, I’m Helen. That was a crazy message wasn’t it?”
“Um, yes, yes it was.” I had no idea what the message was about. There were some bits of the message I had caught, something about apples, but I was too busy thinking of how to approach Helen.
“I’ve never heard the Gospel preached like that before. Like, how bearing fruit in our lives is so important in our walk with the Lord? It was really challenging.”
“Indeed, it was,” I wish I knew what she was talking about, but this was going better than anticipated.
“But, his analogy of how apples only grow during a certain time of the season encouraged me because I know I don’t bear the fruit of love as much as I would like to. What about you?”
“Uh, yeah. I know what you mean, but I feel like Jesus died and in that there’s fruit to be beared, like in John 12:24?” I was using the “Jesus is the answer to every question” method and that happened to be the only verse I knew with the word fruit in it, but it was effective because no one could refute it.
“Hmm. That’s really interesting.”
My hands were moist with sweat, I thought I had blown it, but then she said, “What’s your name? And could we talk more about this, later?” I cracked a smile and assured her that I was glad to do so. We never really talked about bearing fruit after; she just asked me to pray for her and we were inseparable for the next year.
She wanted me to be a “good tree that bore good fruit,” so I did everything she wanted me to, including coming to her church, which I pastor in now. I tried my best to bear good fruit, doing what I thought would make her happy and make her feel loved. But, to her it felt more like we had something in common that we loved, like estranged parents who stayed together for their children. She gave me a pained look of momentary contentment whenever she looked into my eyes. Her eyes softened, her mouth was slightly open, and she held my hand. Things went well when she gave me that look. At other times, especially near the end of the relationship, she looked at me with blank eyes, a firm mouth, and told me it looked like I just wanted to get through our relationship instead of maintaining it. It was as if the same quality that attracted me to Helen was holding her back from what she really wanted.
“I feel empty inside,” she once told me.
“You’re bearing fruit,” I told her.
“No,” she replied. “I’m not, I need to be better. I’m not doing enough good. How can I expect to get into Heaven when I don’t feel good enough? ” I tried to tell her that she was far superior to me, but it had no affect.
One day she told me that it was over. I wasn’t the one she wanted in her life for the long run and that was the last I saw her. I went into a deep depression, evident by the congregation, who kept asking me to preach on good stories of the Bible like David and Goliath, not Judas hanging himself. Later, I heard that she went and got married to a missionary and went off to China to “earn her keep.” That was about the time I had the idea of buying a gun. All those memories flooded back to me as Morty stood in front of me.
“Last I heard she was in China. Happily married.” I tighten my grip around the gun.
“Helen died,” Morty said. The burden bears its full weight on me. All the air in me goes out and I cannot utter a response.
“She killed herself.” My mind goes blank. Everything turns white and I drop the gun. I realize what she saw in me that day. Morty hears the gun drop and asks me, “Hey, what was that? Are you ok?” I pay no attention. Instead I go back to the day when I met Helen, her eyes looking into mine, the day she left me. Her dissatisfaction and discontent met with my own. She saw the same eyes in me and it comforted her knowing that she wasn’t alone, but it tore her apart because it was a constant reminder of her own imperfection.
My mind goes blank and I go back to the only memory I have of my father. We’re in the woods and as I zone out staring at mushy leaves at my feet, my father, without making a sound, pulls up his bow. He takes out an arrow and lines up the groove of the arrow along the string. Gripped tight with his dry fingers, he pulls back the arrow and closes his left eye. He lets go and then I hear a cry. My father and I walk up to where the deer lies, about 10 yards out. The arrow had hit the deer in his side. It’s still alive. I stare as it bleeds out the remnants of its life. My father goes up to the deer and grabs his arrow and plunges it deeper into the deer as it gives out its final cries. All I can remember is the blood. Like that of a sacrificial lamb pouring onto the altar of the forest floor.

Thoughts on The Gagman

I've been thinking about the story and its meaning. Going through it in my head, I decided listing the events in order to organize my thoughts. Maybe it's just a reminder to me that this character needs to feel real for me to keep writing about him. Or just something to keep me busy while I'm at this sort of roadblock. Either way, my thoughts.


 The Waiter isn't the confrontational type. He'll look at the girl of his dreams from a distance, but he'll never approach her. He looks through life from a glass window, that his true dreams aren't reachable.
 But where does this start? With himself and his insecurities. He's not handsome, nor strong. He's not smooth or charming. He works nights and watches the world enjoy themselves, all while serving them.
 He encounters a villain that scares him. That punishes him and makes him weak. That forces him to be bold out of survival and that's what he wants more than anything, to live.
 He fails, many times. He tries to do what the villain demands. He sets out to find girls for him. Timidness hurts his chances. He musters up the courage and with a little luck finds them. He finds his ticket home.
 That's not a success. Because even though he does his job and keeps his life, he doesn't get respect. That is when his love gets in danger.
 He finds the courage to protect her the best he can. At first he watches her, he buys time. He drinks and becomes reckless. His emotions flare. The villain tries to take advantage of her. He finds it in him to do something. He trips on a bottle and does something else. It works.
 He saves the girl, but at the cost of his own life. The villain wants to kill him. The girl that never noticed him, notices. He wins her respect, her love. That saves him.
 His fear awaits him outside. He's found a second wind. He's confident, he will win or lose with nobility. He leaves.
 The villain cheats, he brings an army. The Waiter panics. All the confidence disappears. He's back to surviving. He tries to run. It doesn't work. He's alone and desperate.
 Out of survival he uses the tools he's got. Fire. The army backs off. It's only a matter of time, but it sure is goddamn tough holding in this gasoline.
 He breaks. He ingests. He falls to his knees. He gets kicked, they laugh. He's defeated by his own clumsiness. He throws up on the villains' shoes, unintentional and insulting.
 The villain is angry, angrier than he was. He stands in place for a towel; the army breaks him harder. The Waiter is weak. He sees a fire, the one he started out with, the one filled with confidence. The vomit ignites.
 The stream leads to the villain. His feet catch fire and he begins to dance. He falls. The army retreats to help their general. They kick the fire. They kick the villain.
 Screeching tires make its way to the Waiter. A godsend. She opens the door; he gets in.
 The fire is seen from the rear view mirror. The commotion is out there but not in here. Here he is safe. He's found his confidence, in her.

The Gagman (Draft) Edit 1

Email me for the script: songsj@vcu.edu

k thx

Security Training: Morning

EXT. CITYSCAPE – DAWN

The city is revealed from the morning dawn.

INT. ROOM – DAWN

The morning sun creeps through the blinds. Clothes are scattered throughout the room. A pair of used underwear hangs on a lamp, the light still on. The body on the bed is out cold, the remnants of an eventful night.

The clock changes to 8:00 a.m. The alarm sounds. The body begins to shift slightly; a hand comes out and tries to swat the alarm clock, but misses continually.

INT. KITCHEN – DAWN

The beeping of the alarm clock echoes through the wall. BRIAN is sitting eating a full breakfast at the kitchen table. He is wearing a dress shirt and tie, ready for the day. The alarm finally shuts off. Brian puts down his breakfast and gets up.

INT. OUTSIDE MARCUS’ DOOR – DAWN

Brian knocks on MARCUS’ door.

BRIAN

Hey Marcus, it’s time to wake up.

MARCUS

…
(Incoherent noises)

BRIAN

Marcus, I said it’s time to get up. You have class in an hour.
MARCUS

15 more minutes Mom… (Mumbles)

BRIAN

(Sigh)


Brian sits back down at the table and eats. There’s stumbling in Marcus’ room and a loud bang as he falls out of bed. He stumbles to open the door and walks into the bathroom to pee, leaving the door open. Brian looks over at the bathroom and takes a break from his meal. Marcus flushes than comes into the kitchen.


MARCUS

What a night!

BRIAN

Yeah, some Tuesday night it was.

MARCUS

I invited you to come out, but you were in your room all night!

BRIAN

I was sleeping…

MARCUS

That’s lame.

BRIAN

Yeah. I had work in the morning.

MARCUS

Oh that’s right, your new job. What are the hours?

BRIAN

I have to be there from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.

MARCUS

That sucks, your whole day is pretty much wasted. Are you busting tables or something?

BRIAN

No…I’m going to be training as a security guard in the freshman dorms.

MARCUS

You look like a waiter man.

BRIAN

Heh, well I just want to make a good first impression.

MARCUS

Dressed like that, you could cater the needs of anyone.

BRIAN

(Laughs) Very funny.

BRIAN

Alright, I have to get going. Aren’t you going to get dressed?


Marcus goes over to put on his shoes.


MARCUS

Done.

Brian chuckles and leaves the apartment.

The New World

The Final Frontier. It has always been Earth's mission, to discover what is beyond. With technology, that goal has become attainable, and brought with it Earth's greatest inventions. Transportation for people and the transportation of ideas. But soon discovered is a place no man has gone before. The human mind. Over the last decade, Vizion has developed a revolutionary online experience. The New World. Users enter an alternate reality for adventure or leisure; a community where society is equal in every way. Visceral, Virtual, Vitality, it is an out of body experience only imagined in dreams...

...and in The New World you can live in them.

Security Training: Opening Scene (Narrator)

Read, give feedback. Sorry Wes if I blew your entry away under this one, it was not my intention. More coming soon.

EXT. COLLEGE CAMPUS – DAY

College students are walking in every direction to class.

NARRATOR

In every college campus, there are those that stand out. At first glance they may appear normal, the average college student, but with a closer look they are different.

INT. CLASSROOM – MORNING

A professor is giving a lecture in front of the class. Across a row, students listen inattentively – a girl at the end of the row digs furiously into her textbook. The professor poses a question to the class. The class seems reluctant to participate; an eager hand is raised by the girl. The class turns to see who it is. She gives the correct answer with ease. The professor acknowledges her, and writes it on the dry erase board. The students turn back to the professor. (One of the students goes back to sleep)

NARRATOR

These individuals you may encounter either day or night, on the streets or in the classrooms, rain or shine. They are hard working, excelling in whatever they do.

INT. DINING HALL – DAY

A cashier takes the cash of a two guys buying food. The two guys go to a table to sit down and have lunch. One guy is playing with his food. He takes a pea off his plate and throws it in the air, then catches it with his mouth. His friend motions for him to throw him one, and he does; he catches it and stands up in celebration, then begins to choke. His friend panics and doesn’t know what to do. The cashier quickly grabs the guy choking and performs the Heimlich maneuver and he spits the pea out. In relief, his friend comes over and thanks the cashier; the guy saved thanks the cashier with an exhausted look.

NARRATOR

They are the first to act, when help is in need, they do not hesitate. They are the heroes that put other people above themselves. They are your campus Security Guards.

EXT. COLLEGE CAMPUS – DAY

College students stop to see a homeless man run with a purse. A student is on his pursuit and tackles him to the ground. The homeless man drops the purse and scatters to retreat. A fearful girl approaches the scene and stops. A purse is handed to her. The guy stands tall and applause is motioned from the students nearby.

INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

A cozy room is warmed by a fireplace. A man is sitting in a comfy seat.

NARRATOR

Hardworking, Responsible, Leadership. These are the characteristics that define a Security Guard. Welcome to Security Training. Those of you that are sitting here today have been chosen because you have stood out among the many.

As a Security Guard, these characteristics will help you along the way, but this is only the beginning. There are many different elements to the job, which you will learn today in this training video. Knowing procedures, conduct, and customer service will be necessary to do your job well.

Every security desk has a security manual, where you will find all there is to know about Dormitory Security. Now, I could sit here and read to you all the procedures and try to be as specific as possible, but that would only tell you what’s on paper, no other interpretation but literal facts. Though knowing is half the answer, only through experience will you get complete understanding. That is why I won’t read this to you, or show you a PowerPoint, even if I did spend all last night making it. Instead, I will tell you a story of a Guard named Brian. Brian was a new guard, much like most of you sitting here today, and through his time as a Security Guard, he had learned a great deal of the job. He was a boy with a heart of gold, eager to take on responsibilities, even when sometimes they were greater than he could handle. What do I mean by that? Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself.

It all started on his first day as a Dormitory Security Guard…

Allen's Story, pt 1.

Allen woke up with a lazy start -- he didn't have to be at work in the morning, so he let himself sleep in a bit. It helped assuage the hangover. Why am I hung over, anyways? He looked around his room to find clues as to how the night went -- button up on the floor by the door, still buttoned. Jeans at the foot of the bed. Wallet on the desk, keys in the chair, pack of cigarettes in the ash tray and cell phone... cell phone? Just then, a ringing came from under the pillow, which Allen approached to answer dutifully. The cell phone still new, so he didn't realize that the ringing was just an alarm. Nine? It's nine in the morning? He double checked with the clock just to make sure. Indeed, it was only nine. Suddenly the tale of the night had come full circle.

For most people, it only takes one alarm to wake up. For Allen, it takes three. For most people, after they've been up for 13-20 hours, sleep finds them. For Allen, wakefulness begins to show it's face. For most people, getting drunk and passing out goes hand-in-hand with waking up late. For Allen, it means waking up as soon as his body becomes sober.

Trying to make the best of his time, Allen cleans his room... not in the tidiest sense, but enough that it doesn't look particularly messy or dirty. Having lived alone for so long, he'd collected a lot of things to occupy his time... Where did this come from? Allen moved his wallet to find a poker card hiding underneath. King of spades...

action

joe woke up the next day with an uncertainty in

his stomach. he wandered the school walking from

class to class with a nervousness about what would

happen after school. he played numerous fantasies

throughout his head. would she fall in love with

him? that was the one fantasy that kept reoccuring

in his mind. he didn't know why. not many boys of

joe's age were dreaming of marriage and love, but

joe was. anna woke up with dread fearing that if

the day didn't go as she expected she would be at

a crossroads in her life. she didn't know what she

would do if joe refused her or even worse, tell

everyone about her failed attempts of making an

interactive adult site. that was what she liked to

call it. it sounded professional.

the school day ended and joe went on his bus

without stopping by the front of the school where

his friends would usually share the day's gossip

and happenings with one another. anna walked by

the front of the school and saw joe's group of

friends stare at her as they talked about her and

who she would be with next. she found the 11 bus

and got on, looking for joe. joe saw her, but did

not give eye contact; he waited for her to find

him. anna saw joe looking through the window and

sat down in the empty seat next to him. "hey," she

said. "hey," joe answered back. they sat in

silence while the other kids looked at the odd

couple. joe, who never so much talked to another

girl, sitting next to the girl, anna, who had

talked amongst other things with many boys.

joe's parents weren't home that afternoon. every

friday was a date night; they would go out and

watch a movie, walk around, eat dinner, and go

home late at night. joe had the house to himself

until usually 10 or 11, which was convenient for

anna. joe invited anna up to his room and turned

on his computer. he had no idea what to say, but

remembered that anna said she would tell him what

kind of website she wanted. so as the computer

warmed up joe asked anna, "so, what kind of

website did you want?" anna held her breath and

she had practiced what she was going to say to joe

during the day. it went alright in her head, but

this was real now and the uncertainty rang in her

voice as she choked on her own breath and coughed

to clear her throat.
"um, well it would be a site about me."
"like a blog or something?" joe asked.
"well, i would be selling something."
"like clothes or jewelry?"
"no, like... i would be selling videos and

pictures of me."
"are you famous?"
"haha. no, like it would be like... have you ever

seen those websites that girls have that post

pictures of themselves and videos of themselves

doing stuff."
"like adult stuff?" joe knew exactly what anna was

talking about and tried to play it cool, but felt

his temperature rising.
"yeah."
it was all out in the open now. anna and joe were

at a point of no return. anna put all her hope in

joe at that moment. joe without much hesitation,

but only a pause of silence answered, "ok."
anna rejoiced at joe's answer, but also what that

answer implied. joe was willing to take a risk

with anna and that was enough for her to be happy.

joe built the website whenever anna came over on

fridays. joe did extra "research" for the site in

his spare time. the school was puzzled with this

odd couple wondering when joe would dump anna or

if this was going to last any more than a few

weeks, but this faded with time as they appeared

as any boring couple. joe paid attention to the

rumors because his friends would ask him and joe

would always deny it all with a head shake. anna

didn't care what the school thought, so she

continued on as normal. when girls asked her what

was going on with joe, anna would reply with a

sharp, "why do you care?" and that was that.

anna came over one friday and joe said that the

site was basically done. the only things missing

were the products. this was the tricky part. anna

didn't mention to joe that she wanted and needed

him to be the camera for her. she had no webcam at

home and the computer was a family one, which she

was only allowed to use for schoolwork. and she

gave schoolwork as the reason that she wouldn't be

home on friday until late. her parents thought it

odd, but were relieved that anna spent her fridays

doing schoolwork rather than going out and wasting

money. when joe said that the website was finished

anna gave him a look that said he wasn't finished.
"hey, joe. i'm really glad that you did this for

me. thank you so much."
"yeah, no problem. is there anything else that you

wanted me to do?"
"ha. well, actually there is. and it's kind of a

big thing, but i would pay you for it."
"i mean it's cool. you don't have to pay me. how

big a thing can it be? haha."
"haha. well see i don't have a webcam at home and

i'm only allowed to use the camera for schoolwork,

so..."
"oh, i see."
"yeah."
"you want me to buy you a webcam?"
"haha, no. i was wondering if i could do all that

stuff here and that if you would do that for me."
"oh. um. i..." joe stuttered and mumbled because

of the sudden realization that his fantasy may

soon becoming reality and he wasn't sure if he was

ready for that yet. yet, as he stumbled for words

he knew the answer that he was leaning towards, so

he stuttered back a,"uh, y-y-yeah, sure. i think i

can do that."
anna was happy, but nervous about revealing

herself physically and emotionally to joe. she had

done so before with many other boys, but she had

never met anyone like joe. someone so closed off.

she didn't know anything about joe except that he

seemed nice and wanted to help her for some

unknown reason.

joe was nervous. he had never been alone with a

girl in such an intimate setting. she would be

posing for pictures first to decorate the site.

and joe was pacing back and forth as anna was in

his bathroom changing. what if his parents decided

to come back home early or what if he panicked and

freaked out when anna started taking her clothes

off. what would he do then? he didn't want to be

dirty, he didn't want to feel unclean, like some

sleazy producer. but that's exactly how he felt

right now. he felt guilt pouring over him and as

he was about to tell anna that he couldn't do it,

she stepped out of the bathroom wearing shorts

that could pass as underwear and a white,

strapless, see-through tank top. joe's guilt was

devoured by his lustful desires and he stared at

her as she asked him, "are you ready?"
"yeah," joe managed. he started taking pictures

and made some suggestions for her poses like a

veteran playboy photographer. he caught his breath

as she started taking off her tank top and told

her, "no, wait. stop." anna stopped and looked

concerned as she saw joe look away from her. he

turned around and adjusted his pants to hide his

excitement. he took a deep breath and asked her if

she was sure if she wanted to do this. anna, in

her small voice, said, "yes." joe turned around

and anna began to take more off. joe's heartbeat

raised higher and higher as anna unfolded in front

of him. his lust burned brighter as more fuel was

added to the flame. anna saw that what she was

doing to joe and found comfort in that all boys,

including joe, were the same when it came to their

desires.

samson

His hair was long. Unbelievably long. It went down his chest almost to his belly button. Samson’s hair was never as long as it was since then. When was this? I think it was about three months ago give or take. It was around the end of summer, so maybe it was August or September if you define the end of summer by when you can’t wear shorts anymore. Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. That long. No, not the length of his hair, the length of his relationship. Yeah, what you don’t know? You can tell if Samson is in a relationship or not by the length of his hair. So if he has a shaved head with little to no hair then he’s a new man, single. If it’s been growing out a bit, maybe three or four weeks then he’s on the hunt, but if you see him with a full head of hair, like Fabio hair, then yeah, it’s on. Who was he with? Well that’s a long story. It goes back into his other relationships, actually it goes back into his name. How much time you got? Alright. Sit down, we’re going to be here for a while.

When Samson was born he was born with a full head of hair. Don’t believe me? I’m not sure if it’s true either, but that’s what he tells everyone. That might explain why his hair grows so fast. That might explain why his parents named him Samson. He grew up with long hair and he said he got his first haircut when he was 12, right around the time he went through puberty. Yeah, that’s what he said. I don’t know if it’s true, but it adds to his legend. Now he started getting trims for his hair, but it grew back within a week or two, so that’s when he started to just have it shaved off altogether. You can call it chance or fate or God, but when he first shaved his head, that’s when he met Joanna.

Joanna was a little older than Samson and she was in a league of her own. She had all the looks of a model, but she didn’t give anything up without a fight. If you asked out this girl you had to ask her out at least a dozen times before she would even think about saying yes. But that’s where it was different with Samson. She actually wanted to hang out with him. She asked him out, basically. And so begins the real story.

Joanna was around 14 while Samson was turning 13, but they were inseparable. She was headstrong and didn’t care what anyone else thought except for Samson. He would listen to her and he did what she told him to do, but not because he was scared. The only reason Samson listened to Joanna was because he wanted to. He wanted to be with her and whenever Joanna would get into one of her moods or rants about how much she hated being told what to do, Samson would stay cool, ask her if she needed anything. That would trip me out if I saw a screaming girl and a boy responding to her like that. But that’s Samson for you. Now his hair was growing out this whole time and he didn’t care much about it. But he figured that it was time for a cut, so he was with Joanna one day and told her that he was going to go get his hair cut. Joanna, unbeknownst that she was about to set off something in Samson that if she knew what were to happen she would’ve taken it back instantly, said, “Good.” Samson says that that was the first time in his life that he ever felt such an intense anger that he didn’t know what to do or how to react. He just stood there, little 12 year old Samson, shaking in fury. He wouldn’t say a word to Joanna after that. He just off and disappeared and refused to see her anymore. Now of course if anyone else did this to Joanna she would be just equally as furious, but because of the mystery and the fact that Samson was angry for the first time with the reason being her, she tried repeatedly to apologize. Samson would hear none of it. Joanna stopped reaching out and Samson moved that year to another state, so that was the end of that, but the beginning of what we now know as the “ritual.”

The “ritual” was begun by Samson after that time when he met another girl, but he didn’t really last long with her, so I can’t recall the name. But what he would do is whenever he started a new relationship he would grow his hair and when the relationship ended he would shave it off to begin again. Yeah that’s what I asked, what happened if he shaved his head and he didn’t get into a relationship for a while. But that’s never been the case with Samson. Sure enough a week or two after shaving his head he would be with another girl. Without fail, he would find a girl before his hair even knew what was going on. It’s been like that for about 10 years. Yeah I know where does he find this many girls to even go out with. I don’t know, but that’s the way it’s always been until about a year ago.

The Road Ahead

foreword: i've been remissed from writing lately so i apologize if things flow.. awkwardly.

I've been stuck in a rut lately; the logical side of me tells me to keep doing what i'm doing, that my paycheck is grand, regardless of the hours and the bull, because my upbringing keeps on telling me to be thankful and that the fact that anyone pays me any attention at all is a miracle in itself.

However, i keep finding myself unhappy where i'm at. at some point, i lost the will to pursue. i always wanted to strive to be better, to be successful, but the desire to actually go through with it, to leave my comfort zone -- to just dive into whatever may be -- was lost somewhere in just how comfortable i am. this is true in any industry; mine just happens to be culinary, where tv has taught us all to be cut throat and vulgar.

The last couple of weeks, i've been fortunate enough to reconnect with old friends and reminisce about the past. usually for me that's a bad thing, but lately, it's been turning into a good thing. i recapped the entirety of my restaurant career today in a remarkable five minutes (it was a timeline of something around three to four years) and was forced to face the reality of the position that i am currently in, based upon the the history i'd left behind. it showed me that there's a need for me to move on.

The wonderful thing about looking back on your youth is being able to look back at the dreams you once had, but the more rewarding thing is being able to see how innocently determined we were, at all the possibilies we saw before we had to shoulder the burden of the world of responsibiliy and practicality.. i realize now that practicality doesn't necessarily lead to success. for some i'm sure it does, but if i want to look back and see success, i have to be impractical. i have to be impractical, because i have goals set before me that i set because when i have children and i'm trying to tell them to achieve, i don't want to tell them to learn from the mistakes that i made in youth -- i want to be able to look back and tell them that their father achieved so much with so little, and became the person he is because of it.

looking back, i see how far i've perservered through animosity because of the desire to kick ass at what i do. sitting where i am now, i see relative success, but a general feeling of bending over and letting the world take over. i had to look back to see what i've overcome in order to see that there's still so much more to overcome in the future.

Strive to struggle a little, people, because when you're down and looking back, how much you've overcome shows you how much more there is to do.

I'm putting my two weeks in on wednesday.

again

it's night, 2 people are inside. the tv is off. the only light on is the living room light. a boy is sitting on the couch looking skeptical and a girl is sitting next to him looking a bit nervous.

boy: how was your day?
girl: it was fine. i didn't do anything. what about you?
boy: yeah, i woke up early, but i didn't get to do much of what i had hoped.
girl: what did you want to do?
boy: i don't know. you know, be productive?
girl: haha
boy: listen, you know why i called you?
girl: same reason why i picked up?
::pause::
boy: well, the last few weeks have been a little bit weird.
girl: what do you mean?
boy: like, it's not the same, you know what i mean?
girl: the same as what, before?
boy: yeah, it used to be better, you know?
girl: yeah.
boy: remember when we tried to watch spiderman 3, but it was sold out, so we bought tickets to another movie and just went into spiderman 3.
girl: haha, yeah. when people started sitting on the stairs i felt like some sort of imposter sitting in their seats.
boy: haha. that was a long time ago. and it hasn't been the same since.
girl: i know. i think we're headed in the same direction.
boy: i hope so.
girl: i missed you.
boy: i missed you, too.
girl: back together, but are we going to stay together?
boy: i hope so.