Ball Point Pen

I am not used to taking risks. Many barriers tend to block my train of thought and my decision-making. Now that I was lying at the bottom of the trash, I could talk; I could think straight. I had no distractions or punishments, even though there was no need for deciding anything. I felt free because I knew he had given up on me. I felt like a meaningless particle of the planet when I was under Master’s control. At least plastic was used to create something else. But not me! No! I could not be used for anything else; I just got thrown away. I couldn’t say I was completely oblivious towards my lifespan. I had an idea of what was going to happen. There I was at the bottom of the trash; knowing that my master’s next victim had already been chosen to take my former position in his soaking, swampy hand. Master acted like he worked so hard; he should have been ashamed of himself. Because lying crippled within those dark suffocating walls of that garbage basket was HIS doing. I do not take risks. Those crumpled up papers began to fall upon me like rain and it felt like I was being buried alive.
I don’t remember my birth or the first few years of my life. My psychology teacher told me about how you cannot remember the first 2-3 years because of the brain’s progression in growth. The first thing I remembered was waking up in a box, locked in place by my neck and feet. My family was nowhere to be found. I did not even remember being apart of one. There were four others enslaved with me at the time. They were not my family, but they dressed like me, which scared me a little. The loud noise of slicing scissors pierced my ears and a small stream of light entered the cardboard box when the top was cracked open. The first sight of the Master’s obese fleshy hand brought motion to my bowels as a feeling of failed screams collapsed around my throat. I had no voice, I had no mouth. Was it welded shut or was I created incorrectly? Watching the way Master’s large hand devoured the poor bastard next to me and yanked him out of the box brought an immediate knowledge of trouble upon me. I was frightened because my opinions were insignificant and I didn’t know what to do to gain control.
We were transferred from our holding shackles to a less-captivated holding system. I don’t know what it was, but we were with many others; lost and stupid. The light blinded me at first, it was more open and I could see clearer. I would have gotten myself into trouble… or maybe not. The sight was horrifying because it enabled me to witness it all. Master was unfair and he had no patience, like me. When a victim needed a break or was tired, he banged its head on the desk (or the paper) or threw it across the room. When the victim was not meeting the Master’s needs, he squeezed it harder and harder while banging its tip more. If a victim was useless to Master, he threw it away without a care. That same poor bastard that was next to me ended up in the trash after a day and a half because it couldn’t finish transcribing Master’s C’s or A’s. I would’ve transcribed his C’s and A’s; and his M, O, T, R, F, K, R’S too! I hope master sweats himself to death. I knew my time would come. I knew I would end up just like the rest of the poor and helpless. When my juice ran out, the five of us from the box would be back together- empty and cold.
I sometimes wished I was not smarter than Master. I didn’t have a mouth, but my narrow cap surely consisted of a larger brain, I’ll tell you that. I sure wished I could have taught him; him and those sweaty palms, a thing or two about our existence! He should have been grateful I was there and he should have given the respect he did not deserve to get. He probably didn’t know that he would’ve been using a chisel and a rock if it wasn’t for me! I sure as hell was saving Master a lot of time. If my uniqueness was not available, Master would have been wasting hours of his time to create one word. I wonder if the chisel used to say the same things I said during those horrible events of slavery and cruelty. Chisel probably never received punishment. It was probably buffed and puffed and sharpened and cared for. So why couldn’t I just get a re-fill?! But still, Master didn’t care. He wouldn’t have sharpened my tip if I were a chisel. He’d let me rot and throw me away because it was all in the same to him. Master wouldn’t have cared if I informed him about the chisel. I probably would’ve received more of a punishment if I was able to speak.
After my ink ran out, there I was within the bottom of the garbage basket. This was exactly what I expected. I couldn’t lie, I was kind of glad it was all over. I was so sick of Master’s crap by then. Those sweaty palms got the best of me and that impatient anger caused my juices to run fast. I was developing a realization about Master’s endeavor. He threw me away too early. Usually, our species would be thrown away when death occurred. I was lying in that trash very much alive when I began to glance at my previous struggle. Those papers devoured my appearance while they exposed every waking memory that my hard work had created. When the papers stopped falling, there was nothing else to think about. The memories began to fade away after every word I read. I couldn’t help but recognize the mistakes that Master forced me to make. At that instant, I only wanted to go back and edit the foolishness that was transcribed onto those papers. I wanted an opinion. I simply desired to have my voice heard; I wish I had one. As free as I was, I still couldn’t make that happen; even after I was hurled into the trash- as if I was some useless implement. This was like being under some Calvinistic rule. My fate had been an adversarial predetermination, no matter how much I followed the rules.
It was a sensible act to throw me out. Master appropriately responded when I was of no use for him. He should have thrown me out when he snatched me out of the box like a piece of paper towel entangled within the roll. I was useless from the beginning. I couldn’t stand up to myself and I couldn’t make a difference whatsoever. I collapsed within myself when the words on the paper began to fade as I scanned each line. The scriptures came to a halt; I realized I was as dead as any other useless implement that previously suffered within these very same haunting walls. There was nothing else I could do. I was banished to freedom. I achieved the freedom to originate nothing. So that’s what I did… nothing. I wished I could speak; at least I would’ve gotten something in before I became the excrement that master walked upon. I closed my eyes and patiently waited for death to overwhelm me as I listened to Master’s distant grunting in silence.

Wake Up Call

The neighborhood was silent. There wasn’t a soul around this eerie town and the sun hadn’t peaked out of the clouds for days. The darkness of the land had swallowed the smiles of the population and nature had ceased to show its existence. The birds must have migrated early. The wind disrupted the branches of every tree that was in front of the houses; it left only the whisper of its presence behind.
Shadow’s alarm clock blared at the appropriate time of eight in the morning and he grunted at its ignorance. His girlfriend, Jessie, didn’t seem to care too much about his morning laziness. He didn’t even bother turning off the alarm. He simply rolled on his opposing side to ignore it. That seemed to require a larger effort than if he’d just gotten out of bed. Jessie remained motionless and wasn’t snoring like she usually did. She wore a long sky blue nightgown to bed and it brought out the true color of her blondish hair. She was lying on her stomach and her hands were tucked underneath the fluffy pillow. Shadow just peered at her through the crack of his eye as the sound of the alarm clock withered away his patience. Shadow heard his three-legged basset hound, Tripod, hobble to the nightstand and he began to lick Shadow’s left foot that was hanging out of the white silky bed sheets. The saliva dripped towards the floor and the grossness of the dog’s actions still wasn’t enough to get Shadow’s dead ass out of bed. The dog realized it had no affect on him and left the room.
Shadow had just gotten fired from his job as a technical engineer at a no-name computer store. He put computers together with both new and used parts and resold them to the customers. When he told Jessie, she was not supportive at all. They didn’t speak all last night and Shadow couldn’t imagine how this morning was going to go- another “Yes, MOTHER” conversation. He always had a problem with his temper. All hell broke loose when shadow didn’t get his way, but you’d think he had been taught not to swear at his boss when he got angry. Well, on the contrary his mind and anger had gotten the best of him. Guess Shadow saw that there was no reason for him to get out of bed. But his three-legged dog seemed to think so. He kept ignoring Tripod for some time and he shit all over the rug as a result of it.
Shadow felt a discomfort among his genitals as he stumbled to his feet to go to the bathroom. He concocted his usual bowl of cereal once he reached the kitchen across the hall and slurped up every last drop of milk. He thought distressingly about what Jessie was going to bring on him this morning. The sounds of static and distorted voices echoed through the room from the television- he walked back into his bedroom to get dressed. Shadow called out for his dog.
The job wasn’t so good anyway. Shadow was displeased with his boss from the beginning but he knew he needed to receive the checks- the pay was so good. He always had a passion for building computers and when he first explored this field, Spot would sit and watch Shadow build. Spot was his first dog, around the time when he was a teenager. He would sit there until Shadow was done and that might’ve been what caused him to like building them so much- it was the memory.
Shadow continued to call for Tripod but there was no response. The aroma of the dog shit grew more and more noticeable. The doors were closed so there was no doubt he didn’t escape again. He ran all around the house, opening doors and calling outside for him; peaking behind the furniture and the clothes within his closets for him. He spotted the pile of dog shit on the living room floor.
“What are you doing, Shadow?” Jessie asked.
“I am looking for the damn dog. He shit on the rug again.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jessie.
“OUR dog!??” said Shadow.
The air began to blow through the rooms of the house and the papers that were neatly stacked on Shadow’s desk began to fall to the floor. Jessie sat up in bed and the wind carried her hair across her scull and it made her look even more beautiful than ever. Her hazel-green eyes remained staring a Shadow with the same goofy look of concern but she still looked beautiful.
“I don’t know if I’m alright. My face hurts…” said Shadow.
“Shadow, I DID hit you pretty hard last night. Remember?” asked Jessie. “I threw that little book-end at you and it hit you in the cheek bone. I didn’t mean it, I AM sorry.”
“It’s fine, Jess. I was being a jerk. But really, where’s the dog?”
“I don’t know, he’s you’re dog. Let me get dressed and I’ll help you look for him,” said Jessie.
The window shades were pulled up so the light could shine throughout the house but there wasn’t much light to affect anything. It was still dark and moody in the sky and the storm was still passing though the area. Shadow had to turn every light on in the house to see, even though it was ten in the morning. He knew he needed to find a job, but he wanted to find this dog. He ran around the house looking for every trace of dog fur. The sounds of Jessie getting dressed were coming from the closet.
“Could you hurry up and help me, honey? I need to find this mutt,” said Shadow.
Shadow had given Jessie a special license plate for her birthday last year. It said “Jessie” on it and it was very hard to get. He had to call months in advance to purchase that plate. It was now implanted on his silver Jetta. Shadow’s job was right down the street, so he just rode a bike to work every day and let Jessie use the Jetta.
The job Shadow had used to drive him crazy. He’d work for hours on fixing or building motherboards and if it didn’t work, he’d have to start over. He’d come home in the worst moods after a hard day’s work. He didn’t want dinner; he didn’t want to hear from anybody, though Jessie liked to talk. And that’s where Shadow got very aggravated. He began to yell at her because she asked him questions and he would kick over Tripod’s food and water and storm out of the house in a rage; leaving the front door open behind him. But Shadow didn’t leave last night. He wasn’t the one who stormed out in a rage because he was too tired for that. Jessie left with the dog and claimed she was going to stay at her mother’s for the evening. They must have come back in the house late last night. The dog must be here. Shadow and Jessie kept looking for Tripod while calling out his name to come in sight. Tripod finally walked through the door form the back yard and barked a weak screeching bark.
“It’s about time, Podders! It’s about time we accomplished that dilemma” said Shadow as he looked up at Jessie and back at Tripod.
“What the fuck?!” he said. The dog had blood all around his gumball nose and his droopy lips and walked away from them into the bedroom.
“I give up,” said Jessie. “You gotta clean that dog up because I am not going to go near that Blood; I already cleaned up the dog shit. What has he been through?”
“I don’t know…” answered Shadow.

In the mean time, I’m going to go shopping for some new shoes,” Jessie. “I’ll be back later this afternoon, alright?”
Shadow sat on his favorite recliner chair in the living room. She kissed his forehead, grabbed her keys and walked out the front door.
There was silence. He was alone.
Shadow immediately got up and opened the front door to grab the daily town newspaper from the steps. He noticed that the Jetta had already left the driveway and wondered why Jessie must’ve been in such a hurry. He looked down the gloomy dark street and saw no sign of life. He closed the front door, locked it, and sat back down on his recliner. He unfolded the newspaper and wiggled his toes to the melody of his improvisational hum.
The Hum suddenly came to a halt. The toes stopped wiggling. Shadow didn’t seem to breathe. He read the front page of the news paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a Jetta- or maybe it wasn’t because it didn’t look like one. Maybe that was the point. There was no hood; there was no front seat. There were two photos: one of the car and one of the whole accident. A Tractor trailer was involved and no one in the Jetta made it. Shadow started to breathe slightly again and came to his senses; tried to collect himself. He saw the license plate and couldn’t believe his eyes.
There was silence. He was alone. He was alone the whole time.

That's A Wrap...

He was unable to feel the true temperature of his hands as he touched his rosy cheeks. The temperature of his hands and face cancelled each other out when he dug himself a grave within the bitter snow; he tripped off of the sidewalk. Maybe tripped isn’t the proper word… collapsed, sounds more appropriate. His jacket was obscenely depressing and his scarf of turmoil portrayed no such hope for the journey he was about to carry out. The alcohol on his breath could not fade away by the quantity of snow in his jaws. His groans of agitation could be heard from blocks away. This man was not well; he had to have arthritis- something that would cause him to be in so much pain. He knew he had to get back up and he was searching for the technique to do so. It was not the getting up that was wearing him down; not just yet. He might not be able to get up. He was persistently out of breath and every time he would scramble to his knees, they gave in as he plummeted into the snow once again. He had to overcome this obstacle; he must get up. Embarrassed, this meager old man peered in the region of the gawking audience who hesitated to help, and knew what had happened. He was disgusted by their reaction and expressed his sadistic emotion underneath his scarf, alone- as if he wasn’t there. No one knew who he was, not even me. He knew… he had to get up on his own.
The man looked out from his scarf a second time after what seemed like ten or so minutes. The wind set in motion; gave a good thrust across his face and lifted his thick beard upon his cheek. The sound was like sandpaper, but it was more pleasant than nails on a chalkboard, despite the bitter chill. He thought he was cold. The crowd knew he was cold. This man had enough of this shit. He needed to find his strength, and it could not be within the bottle of whiskey this time. He was excessively accustomed to that nature of help. His arthritis must really be kicking in because his screams wouldn’t be that loud if he was simply pleading for Jack Daniels; or would it?
This skimpy old fool conducted a little movement again, as the crowd still watched him, not knowing what to do.
“Help me, you idiot!” His pleads to the crowd, or Mr. Daniels, leaked from the layers of cloth around his neck.
There was no response. “Help me, damn it!”
No help. “I can’t yell anymore…”
No motivation. “Aghhh!”
As anger filled his heart and lungs, this man burned his throat with a voice so livid; he lifted his dead-weight body out of the mountain of snow and knelt down on his knees with such grave beauty. He was unable to feel the true temperature of his hands as he touched his rosy cheeks. The air was as bitter as the taste of aggravation in his mouth and the scarf of turmoil no longer kept him warm. His jacket was significantly wet and felt colder than the surrounding air. When he stood up with the assistance from a burst of wind, he stood with a fragile confidence that portrayed his old age. The frost that formed within the hairs of his beard slowly slid off the ends and the air blew his jacket open as the spectators began to saunter away. He knew he had to get up, with help or not. I seem to be the only one clapping because it was drop dead gorgeous. It was then that I called it a night.
“That’s a wrap, people,” I said, “Great job!” I proceeded with the applause as the lights came on and the crew collected the cords; it was drop dead gorgeous. The old man approached me and asked, “Was that good enough for the scene?”
I could still smell the whiskey on his breath; I don’t suppose I have ever smiled that hard prior to that moment. I could only walk away silently and as perfect as the scene was, I wanted that old man to act it out again just to experience it one more time… if that old man doesn’t drink too much.

This Party

I actually have pins and needles within the bottoms of my feet. I can’t recall how long I have been kneeling here. The strings at the end of my blue jeans feel the need to irritate my feet; knowing it aggravates me and I do not have the strength to adjust my position. To tell you the truth, with my knees bruised from this hard tile floor and my red flannel shirt covered in vomit, I don’t think I could be more comfortable at this moment. I keep rocking back and forth over this ceramic bowl and its pure color is imbedded into my mind. I keep repeating out loud, “White, white, white.” I do this to remain calm, to focus; to stay in control of my upset stomach.
I can’t say that this party sucks. Despite the fact that I’m hanging my head over a toilet bowl, I am glad that I decide to linger on the wild side. What sucks is this toilet bowl, because who wants to spend any time over a shitty white toilet filled with streak marks and my reflection in the water.
The thunderous sounds of the party explode through the thin wooden door; the handle hanging on one screw and vibrating from the bass of the deafening music playing in the living room. I don’t understand why it must be played so loud and why everyone must be yelling at full volume… I am hearing twelve million different voices calling my name through the door- afraid to enter, just in case my pants are to my ankles and I’m taking a crap or masturbating. How do they know I’m feeling sick? They’re probably as drunk as I am. I hear “Marc, Marc; Marc!” oh, shut the fuck up! My head is spinning in six different directions and I cannot tell if I’m feeling any better with my irritated toes and my bruised knees hanging over this toilet! I have to admit, I am sick of hearing my name so many times. I don’t even understand why my parents named me Marc. What an annoying name, and it sounds even worse when I’m drunk.
I think my stomach is recovering from the alcohol because I am no longer experiencing some type of vice-gripping pain. I want to puke a little bit more, just in case I am wrong.
“Come On, Man. Are you gonna join the party, or be a loner all damn night, Marc?”
Who is that? I cannot even make out the voice. It sounds like I’m in a sewer pipe. I still need to keep my eyes closed because I am still spinning. I am definitely not well yet…
“Marc, I’m drinking your Jack and coke, you fucker!”
I can’t believe this; I am going to kick that kid’s ass… My stomach might feel like that handle on this bathroom door, but I will kill that kid! The music kept playing, my head kept spinning, and my name reserved its place in the door. I just might hurl again and I suppose I will feel better after that. But I cannot throw this feeling up… I mean I’m not going to stick my fingers to the back of my throat and pull my uvula in order to throw up! I am physically alone. The soul that’s trying to escape me leaves me grooving in sorrow and I cannot gather my thoughts to find strength.
I can decipher my pale face in the bottom of the bowl and every time I spit into the water, the picture of my face separates. I must be concentrating so hard on my face that I forgot that I was still rocking back and forth. I couldn’t even hear the voices calling my name anymore. I forgot that my stomach was upset. I am going to stand up. I am going join the party because I am sick of feeling beaten down to the ground. I wonder if I can think of a creative excuse for my friends, as to why I was in this fucking bathroom for so long. As I stand, I notice how much I have sobered up. But my unhealthy feeling hasn’t improved enough. The door to this puke-chamber flung open and a shrill of noise distracted my consciousness and the six people who came flooding past me to use the bathroom didn’t help my dizziness either. This all happened to fast. I can only remember puking on the floor before passing out. I don’t even know if someone took me home yet because I still have not woken up. I cannot even say that this party sucked… only the toilet did.