Blue

The Outside Time was close. Everybody knew. It was an almost tangible buzz around the colony that alerted everyone to the event that was soon at hand. No one explicitly talked about what was going to happen (for the Cicadas are a superstitious species), but by the time May 1st rolled around the Underground was bursting with anticipation. 

“WE ARE GOING TO THE ABOVEGROUND!” finally came the shout on Tuesday.

A mighty roar went up among the brood and it seemed as though they might break through the soil then and there but instinct would not allow it just yet. 

If it were measurable, the eagerness of one particular cicada would easily stick out among the rest. No one around him could really tell why Samuel was so excited for the Outside Time and neither did they care all that much (for the Cicadas are keenly aware of the value of personal space), but still it was impossible not to notice the increasing euphoria that he seemed to be filling with.

Samuel of course knew. He knew why he was almost bursting through his exoskeleton with anticipation and why he constantly caught himself lost in daydreams. 

It had been six years earlier while feeding on the root of a tree when he’d felt a presence next to him. At first he thought nothing of it because when you live among a brood of a million other insects your are liable to feel a presence quite often. But as he continued eating Samuel could tell something was different. He turned and looked and was met with a sight that would forever alter the very purpose of his existence. 

Blue. 

Brilliant, blazing, incomprehensibly magnificent blue. 

“I have died.” said Samuel out loud. 

Then he heard a laugh. 

He shook his head and looked again and realized that what he was looking at were eyes.

“Hi.” She said. 

At this point, Samuel had lost all sense of expected propriety (for the Cicadas are an incredibly polite species), and almost shouted,

“You have blue eyes!”

She laughed again. 

“Yes that’s what I’ve been told. How is this root?”

“The-this root? Oh it’s delicious! Here, here be my guest.”

He moved over to make room for her and couldn’t help but stare as she tasted the nectar. 

In the few moments that had passed Samuel felt himself change. His very being remade into something unrecognizable. Where before he had just been a cicada he now felt outside of himself. As if there was something that existed that was bigger and grander than anything he had previously comprehended. 

“I hope you don’t think the color of my eyes as too harsh.” he said, seemingly out of nowhere. 

She looked up at him for a moment as if to consider how she really felt.

“I think they are the absolute loveliest shade of scarlet.”

If Cicadas could blush, that is what Samuel would have done. 

“The Outside time is soon.” She continued. 

“Another six years.”

“You should come find me.”

Samuel’s heart stopped. 

“Y-you mean in the Outside Time?’

She laughed once again and with a nod turned and began to walk away.

“See you in six years.”

Samuel tried to call after her and ask for her name but too quickly she was lost in the throng of the rush hour feeding. It didn’t matter though, it seemed as though he already knew her name, but it was something so sacred it was unspeakable and barely even knowable. 

For six years Samuel saw nothing but those eyes. They constantly danced before him in an ethereal pattern, taunting and reminding him of the impossibility that what had happened was real.

But it was real, and he knew it, and when the Outside Time finally came he could barely contain himself.

One morning, almost as if a signal had been sent out, the entire brood instantaneously knew that it was time. They began their methodical burrowing, all the while cheering and shouting for their impending triumph. 

Samuel did not cheer. He was focused. He burrowed with the intensity of a bug who had found meaning in meaningless life for that is truly what he was. When he reached the Aboveground it took him a moment to get a bearing on his surroundings but instinct was already pushing him up the trunk of a tree. 

He knew he must be patient and for what seemed like an eternity he waited as nature performed its work. 

All the while, those eyes kept up their dance. “You should come find me! Come and find me!” they taunted over and over. 

Samuel emerged from his old skin and spreading his new wings, immediately took off in pursuit of those blue eyes. 

He darted in and out of tree branches keeping a sharp eye out for his love though he was sure it would be easy to spot that splendid blue from a mile away. He flew for hours, darting from tree to tree, landing and singing out, calling for her. By the end of that first day, he had not found her but his excitement and eagerness had not waned. He knew he would find her. 

The days turned into weeks and soon a paralyzing anxiety began to overcome Samuel. He spent hour after hour singing, desperately hopeful that she would recognize his call and arrive hailing his lovely scarlet eyes. Other Cicadas would turn up, attracted by his song, but none were her and all he ignored. 

His joy turned to despair as he began to give up hope of ever finding what he had so blindly anticipated for six years. He flew listlessly, calling out sporadically, worn out from weeks of searching.

He was ready to call it a life, when suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw something gleam in the sunlight. 

Blue!

There, 500 yards away, perched on the bark of a birch tree was a Cicada who eyes were the color that had so long haunted Samuel’s dreams. 

“I found you!” He shouted, “I found you I’ve finally found you! I Love you!” 

He headed straight for her, the level of euphoria he was experiencing unrivaled by any other in the entire history of insects. 

The same can be said of the pain he was soon plunged in to. 

“You idiot!” he screamed at himself. His sobs taking over anything else he wanted to yell. 

He sat there on the tree next to the empty molten exoskeleton of the Blue Eyed Cicada and cried through the night. 

In the morning he felt something around his shoulder. It was the arm of another Cicada, quietly offering comfort. (for Cicadas, even though intensely aware of personal space, are remarkably compassionate when it’s all said and done.) 

“You wailed all night.” he said. “It’s a shame what happened. As soon as she came out of her skin a great big flying beast swooped in and carried her away. I suppose it was the color of those eyes that made her stand out. Awful shame.”

Samuel said nothing. He felt numb and tired. He was weak, too weak to carry on and he felt himself slipping away. 

As he fell back towards the earth and unconsciousness began to envelop him, Samuel looked up at the immense sky and with the tiniest sliver of happiness noticed that it was the absolute loveliest, shade of blue.

Hello

To anyone who happens across this blog, hello.
 I wrote most of this stuff in High School and some my Freshman year of College.
I don't post here regularly anymore. I use Tumblr now lol and I rarely ever post on there anyway.

I like some of the stuff I've written here and hate a lot of it.
I could delete it, but that would be lame. I should be willing to look back on what I've written and see how I have improved, no matter how embarrassed it makes me feel.

You only get better by practice.

At least that's what they tell me.

<3 nbsp="" p="">

The Interview

I passed a pair of ducks on the way to my interview.

They were lounging on the grass and when I paused to observe them, they looked at me lazily. Ducks cannot speak but if they could I imagine they would say something like this: 

"Oh, look Thomas, another human gawking at us. Why do they always stare? It's as if they've never seen a duck before." 

"It's jealousy Lillian, really, who wouldn't want to be us? We can fly for heavens sake. Humans love us for that, they give us free bread all the time."

I held my hands up like I would to a beggar in order to show my lack of spare change, or in this case, bread. The ducks waddled off and left me standing there pondering what sort of omen this was and what it meant for my interview.

I had responded to an ad posted in the classified section of the newspaper some three weeks before:

WANTED ASAP

Part-time worker; 20 hrs wk 

Must be able to lift 40 lbs

Good Work ethic, must be willing to work morning shift (5-10am)

Bring Resume and Cover Letter to The Market on 9th
Pls include references!

I printed out my resume and lamented the fact that it contained the history of my three previous jobs, all of which began and ended within a six month period. I knew it didn't look good, but I get extremely paranoid when it comes to lying on forms and resumes and such, and anyway, I could just explain that I wasn't fired or anything, but that I just didn't like those other job and kept finding a new one. That doesn't sound much better but at least it was honest. 

The bag girl I handed my resume to looked it over with an indifferent glare as she loudly smacked her bubble gum. She she put it aside on the counter and didn't bother to look at me. 

"I'll give it to Weston." she said as she went back to lazily stuffing bags into an old woman's cart. 

At that point I didn't feel much hope for getting the job. I doubted whether the bored bag-girl would actually get my resume to Weston, whoever that was, and even if she did she would probably say something like,

"You know boss, he wasn't very impressive this one, just sort of moped in here and threw it at me. And three jobs in six months boss? Yikes, I wouldn't call this kid..."

After two weeks of not hearing anything I determined that this is precisely what happened. My resume had either been accidentally bagged alongside a box of macaroni and cheese or otherwise discarded into a heap of dead end applications that shared in my lack of enthusiasm and job retention. These thoughts are why I was surprised to get a call on the Monday of the third week. 

I was woken up by the ringing and when I answered I made no attempt to hide that fact. 

"Hello?" I said groggily, the word being formed in the phlegmy chambers of my tense throat.

"Have I reached Jacob?" The other voice asked. It was the voice of a young man, one that could not pronounce his R's.

"Yes you have, how may I help you?" I should work at a call center, I have an unusual knack for sounding pleasant on the phone when in reality I want to send a bullet through the receiver.

"Hi, Jacob, this is Weston, I'm the manager of the Market on 9th and I was just wondering if you were still interested in the job you applied for?"

It took me moment to register what he was saying, I was slightly distracted by all the R's he was unintentionally replacing with W's.

"What? Oh! Yeah, yeah of course!" I said, trying to sound less tired.

"Great, can you come in for an interview Thursday morning at 9:30?"

I don't keep a schedule but I pretended to look at one when he asked. I just sat there and made noises with my tongue as if I were looking to find a way to clear all my appointments around 9:30 on Thursday morning.

"Uhh Yeah, Yeah I should be able to make it." I said. Unfortunately I think the enthusiasm in my voice matched the enthusiasm I felt.

I actually was able to feel more optimistic throughout the week. I figured that a job would be good for me and I looked forward to having more than a dollar and thirteen cents in my checking account. Anyway the pressure was on from my Father and the clock was ticking on how much longer I could continue living on his dime.

That optimistic feeling evaporated when I saw those ducks.

"Come, Lillian, we have a pond to swim in. Care to join us human?"

"I have a job interview!" I called out after them.

A woman across the walkway heard me and thought I was talking to her.

"Congratulations!" She called back sarcastically.

"I wasn't...oh whatever." I cursed the ducks and continued on my way to the interview.

I got to the store ten minutes early. I feel awkward when I'm just waiting around so I walked the perimeter of the parking lot in order to kill some time. That only took two minutes though so I just went into the store and sat at an empty table near the deli. I picked up a newspaper that someone had left behind and amused myself by considering the plight of those whose lives were deemed interesting enough to be featured in the Thursday morning edition of "The Daily Informer".

I was in the middle of a story about an innovative new irrigation system when I was approached by a man wearing an apron and carrying a clipboard. His name tag said "Weston Smith, Clearburn, Idaho". I knew more about him than I needed to before he even opened his mouth.

"Are you Jacob?" He asked consulting his clipboard.

"Yes I am. " I replied.

I stood up and shook his hand. I had watched some videos on the internet on how to make a good impression at a job interview and they all said that when I shook the interviewers hand I should make direct eye contact. It was harder than I thought it would be and even though I made eye contact I exuded anything but confidence. I was off to a great start.

"Great, I'm Weston, I'm in charge of the stockroom and its' staff. Just follow me, we're doing the interviews upstairs."

He led me to the back of the market and through a set of double doors. We climbed a narrow staircase into what was more of a glorified crawl space than a second floor. We had to bend over to avoid hitting our heads on the wooden beams that held up the roof. There was a pair of old beat up office chairs crammed between a stack of boxes and a conveyer belt that he had us sit down in.

"Ok Jacob, so why don't we jump right into it, what do you think might set you apart from the other applicants?"

I immediately began to have doubts about how much I wanted this job. It was something about that question that made me feel sick. I tried to imagine who the other applicants were and how they could have possibly answered this same question. In reality there is nothing that sets me apart from anyone, let alone the types who would apply for this job, which would be relevant to the skills required to lift boxes and stock shelves.

I just looked at him for a moment, trying to grasp an answer.

"I guess I would have to say that I think my work ethic would set me apart from others because I have a good work ethic."

It is a horrible answer as evidenced by my own sickened feeling with myself and the marks that Weston makes on his paper. He is holding the clipboard in such a way that I can see everything. There is a list of questions and next to each question are the numbers one through five. He circled the two next to the first question.

The interview continues and as time goes on I grow increasingly frustrated. They are leading questions, designed to provoke a formulated response. I try to paint myself positively but as a result, I am forced to abandoned any sense of individuality. My answers reflect what any person trying to get a job would say. I am a dedicated worker who would pay great attention to detail. Of course I would never be late or not show up for work!

Near the end of the interview I no longer have a desire to get the job.

"One more question Jacob" Weston says, "this question actually tells me a lot about who you are as a person and what kind of worker you might be."

I try to keep from scowling when he asks:

"If you could be any superhero who would you be and why?"

What got to me is that he felt as though he had a solid enough grasp on basic psychology to decipher any applicable meaning behind the superhero I would most like to emulate.

I was ready with my answer.

"Darkwing Duck." I said.

I got up out of the chair and walked past Weston who had a quizzical look on his face. I was done with the interview and I didn't want to be there anymore. As I opened the door leading to the stairs Weston turned to me and asked,

"Why Darkwing Duck?"

I looked him in the eye and saw that he was genuinely confused. I hated him in that moment. I despised everything that he represented, that he propagated the illusion that any of this mattered, as if there were more riding on this interview than a part time, minimum wage, warehouse job.

"Because," I said as I shut the door behind me, "he's a duck."

As I passed by the lawn where I'd seen the ducks on my way home I noticed they were no longer there. They didn't have any reason to stay. There was something more out there for them, even if it was only a different patch of grass to hang out on. At least they did something, they went somewhere.

And I couldn't help feeling just a little jealous.

Short Stories

It is taking all of my energy to focus on writing a new blog post rather than heading down to the vending machines, buying another package of cookies, watching three hours of Netflix and going to bed.

In fact, in between writing this current sentence and that last one I actually did go buy a package of cookies but remembering that I already finished all four seasons of Mad Men earlier today, resigned myself to sit at my computer and write a new post. 

I've had trouble trying to figure out what I should write about next. I've never been one to run out of ideas really, but for some reason it's been sort of difficult this time around. 

My first I idea was to write about this bloke who uses the piano practice rooms in the basement of my building to work out. He sets his laptop on the piano and commences to do calisthenics or aerobics or whatever you call it for like three hours. It's pretty annoying because he always seems to be there whenever I want to have a go at the piano. There is a little window in the door to the room so I once stood there and just watched him for ten minutes hoping he would turn around, see me standing there looking pissed, feel self-conscious, and leave forever. Unfortunately he never turned around and I was forced to go used the untuned piano that I am pretty sure somebody has vomited on. Probably him. 

But no, I thought, I would rather write about the seventeen feral cats that live on campus. I can only assume that they are the progeny of some freshman's illegal pet that was mercilessly set free at the end of a semester some time ago. 

I saw one while walking back from one of my classes a few weeks ago and having made eye contact with the thing, determined that following and possibly capturing it was the proper course of action to take. The chase lasted for a solid twenty minutes. He thought he was crafty and tried making his escape through several planter boxes, but I kept my eyes on him the entire time and was able to force him out into the open. It was at that moment that a truck driving on campus nearly ran it over and not wanting to be implicated in the murder of a cat I started walking in the opposite direction rather quickly. 

I don't really know what I would do if I ever did manage to actually capture a feral cat. I imagine I would get scratched a lot and would have to get a tetanus shot but for some reason it still seems kind of worth it. 

That subject was no good either though so I started thinking about my time in elementary school. I remembered this one time in first grade I had bitten my own arm to leave teeth marks and then gone and told the teacher that the kid who sat next me, Andrew Park, had done it. He got into serious trouble, and I mean SERIOUS trouble and this was a kid who never said a word, I'm not even sure if he could speak english. The worst part though is that I don't even know why I did it. Honestly, I have no clue. I didn't have any beef with the kid, cause like I said, he never spoke and I didn't do it on a dare so I pretty  much ruined this kids year and possibly perception of Americans for no reason at all. AND I STILL FEEL HORRIBLE. So if the Andrew Park from Ms. Silvestro's first grade class is reading this I am terribly sorry. 

Eventually I just decided to share some short stories I've written, enjoy:

The Dog

I walked to the corner store in order to buy some milk. On the way there a dog started following me. He sniffed at my heels. He looked mangy, unkempt. He stood outside the store while I bought the milk. I also bought some dog treats. I gave him one when I came back outside. He followed me all the way home.

I had some dog food in the pantry that I gave to him. He was very grateful. All of a sudden there was a bright flash of light. The dog had turned into a princess.

“You’re a princess?” I asked

“Yes.” she replied.

“Do I get any wishes?” I asked

“No.” She said.

Then she peed on the carpet.

I don’t have a dog anymore. 

A Guy With No Opinions

I heard someone say that America is a great place. I can’t say I disagree. It’s been pretty cool so far. There are people who complain a lot, about America, and that’s fine too, everyone is entitled to their opinion. I’ve been here for nineteen years, my entire life and like I said, I don’t have too much to complain about.

Living is cool. Breathing, when you think about it, is super interesting. We take it for granted which is ok because if we didn’t take it for granted then we’d probably forget to do it. This story sucks. It’s not even a story.

I’m sorry. 

The Triangle

“Clarence! Clarence! The hot water isn’t working!”

“Jiggle the handle!” replied Clarence.

“Oh It’s working now!” said his wife.

Bless her heart, thought Clarence.

He loved her. That’s why he married her.

She loved him, that’s why she agreed to get married.

She died one day, and then he did two weeks later. They were old.

They were buried side by side. On the tombstone it read:

“Here Lies Clarence and Marie”

Harold knew Marie his whole life. He loved her.

He died alone. 

The Open House

A house was for sale on my street. The sign said that there would be an open house the following day. I wasn’t looking to buy a house, but as far as social events go, open houses were where I made my appearances. The cookies are usually good.

I showed up fashionably late, arrive too early and you’re bound to get stuck in a conversation with some weirdo. The Korean real estate agent greeted me and invited me to look around the house and if I had any questions to “feel free to ask”.  I asked if there were cookies and she said “yes, oatmeal raisin”. I stabbed her and left.

I hate Koreans.

______

I hope you enjoyed this post. The characters in all of these stories are fictional. Especially that last one. The only Korean I hate is Kim Jong Un, that guy sucks. 

Happy February. PSYCHE. 

And So the Sun Rose

I wish to share an experience I had about two years ago that has come to mean quite a bit to me. 

I was a junior in High School, which was a time in my life where I often felt dissatisfied. I am not really sure exactly what it was that frustrated me, but I think it was a mix of getting poor grades, being unsuccessful with women, and not really knowing what I had in store for my future. 

I took a lot of walks, and I still do. Walking helps me think clearly and calms me down to the point where I am no longer hysterical. 

I could walk for miles. I almost died one time because I got lost on the mountain I was hiking, but that's a different story. 

I also had several thinking spots that I could retreat to and contemplate whatever I had weighing on my mind. 

One morning I was feeling particularly disaffected. I was on my way to early morning seminary but I was once again running late. Rather than walk in half-way through the class I decided to go to one of my thinking spots where I could observe the sunrise, hoping that it would somehow lift my spirits. 

But as I sat there in the cold and waited for the sun to come up I could not shake my anxiety. I grew more upset if anything. 

Finally, sunlight began to illuminate the sky on the horizon. As it crested, the sun bathed all of Pasadena in golden light. 

I heard the patter of running feet come up and stop behind me. 

I turned around and saw a middle aged woman out for her morning run standing behind me, also watching the sunrise. She took off her hat to wipe the sweat from her brow and I noticed that she was completely bald. 

She smiled as she looked at me. 

"Beautiful isn't it?" She said. "This is my favorite view."

I didn't know what to say, so all I said was, "Yeah. Me too."

"Have a good day." She said as she smiled and continued on her run. 

I watched her run down the hill, around the corner, and out of sight. 

I looked back at the sunrise and it looked completely different. 

It seemed more significant somehow. Suddenly it was full of meaning, full of beauty. 

And for once I stopped thinking. I stopped worrying. 

Just as the sunlight exposed the valley before me in light, so were my anxieties and fears simultaneously revealed for what they really were. Nothing.

I don't know if that woman is still running, but if she isn't then she left something behind. 

Something good. 

And I'll never forget it. 

Happiness and beauty is always there if you choose to see it. 

Concerning Recorders

The instrument known as the recorder is legitimately impossible to play.

Sort of.

I say that because I once witnessed no less than 40 third-graders play "You're a Grand Old Flag" in perfect unison. It was breathtaking.

So when I recently purchased a recorder I figured it would be no sweat. If a bunch of 8 year olds could master some simple patriotic tunes in a matter of a couple days it would take me no time to go from musical novice to woodwind prodigy.

I was wrong.

I brought the recorder home and was immediately met with the challenge of trying to produce a pleasant sounding note from what is probably the worst sounding instrument ever constructed. I failed to recall that even though those third-graders played in unison it sounded pretty horrible and the breathtaking part was because I was eating a fairly large sandwich and I used to get pretty winded while eating.

Anyway.

I spent twenty dollars on an instrument that I lost interest in fifteen minutes later. It's been sitting in my closet for the past four months, mocking me.

All I wanted was to be able to play Concerning Hobbits to impress a girl.

Side Note: Only now as I write out that sentence do I realize the contradictory nature of such a plan.

Regardless, it was a goal that I have only since been able to place in the failure column of my goals chart. It sits there forlornly along with "exercise once a week" and "stop saying mean things to girls, even if they are stuck up hags".

I retain possession of the devil flute merely as a reminder that some things in life cannot be accomplished and also as a means of interrupting my roommates sleep schedule.

I dare anyone else to eat the cookies I am saving for myself as a reward for doing all of my homework. I guarantee you will regret it when I play the one song I was able to compose, "The Call of the Dying Sparrow", right in your sleeping ear.

Another side note: It turns out that there is no place for Recorder players in BYU's school of music.

Third side note: High School was seriously nothing like the hit TV show "Saved by the Bell" made me think it was going to be.

FDR Was a Total Dweeb

The most effective way to win an argument is to go "LALALALALALALA" whenever the other person tries to speak.

I can boast that I have never lost an argument due to this simple tactic. If your opponent can't get a word in edge wise then they can't prove you wrong and if they can't prove you wrong then you can't lose the argument.

For example:

Friend: "I think stealing things is bad."
Me: "No it's not it's good."
Friend: "Are you serious? Stealing is morally..."
Me: "LALALALALALALALA"
Friend: "Quit it, Stealing is just downright..."
Me: "LAAAAAAALALALLALALALLALALA"
Friend: "Stop being a child, you're just...
Me: "LEEDLELEEDLELEEDLELEE"
Friend: "Really?"
Me: "I win. I'm right."
Friend: "No you..."
Me: "RAHRAHRAHRAHRAHRAHRAH"

It frustrates your opponent to the point where he or she will decline to continue the discussion out of some sort of prideful responsibility. Usually they will mutter something like "I'm not even going to waste my time." to which it is acceptable to reply with: "FDR was the worst President ever." And that will usually get them going again because for some reason the type of people who get into debates with their friends in the first place, have weirdly strong opinions about FDR's presidency.

I mostly just like getting a rise out of people when it comes to talking politics. I can tell who I don't want to be friends with by saying something absurd like "Poor people choose to be poor because they like the attention"and seeing how they react.

Here is a list of reactions I might get and their friendship status:

"Are you serious?" -Skeptical, knows I might be joking: Friend

"Right on."-either knows I'm joking or thinks I'm serious, either way doesn't make a big deal: Friend (for now)

"I don't care." -Friend

"Blah blah blah"- this is what I hear but what they are trying to do is have an actually serious discussion about why I think that and how destructive and anti-progressive I am by saying something like that even if I am kidding. : NOT FRIEND. and in some cases : SWORN ENEMY

"Who do you think you are?"-Gets actually offended and doesn't talk to you for two weeks cause she thinks you are racist and even though you tell her you are joking and that you really aren't that racist and that my statement didn't have to do with race in the first place she still doesn't forgive you until you send her a Facebook message saying "I am sorry for being racist" at which point she grudgingly forgives you by replying "you're not. but it's chill": Somehow Friends. (true story)

Basically the whole point of this is that I don't like getting into serious political debates with people. Especially my friends. It never ends on a happy note.

I just enjoy playing devil's advocate.

But in all seriousness, the New Deal was one of the worst sets of economic and social reforms that this country has seen and it ruined America. ALSO FDR MARRIED HIS COUSIN. How gross is that? Seriously though, how have we come to accept that as a society? I think we should take away his Memorial in DC just for that. and the fact that he was in a wheel chair.

KIDDING. GEEZE.