Tag: Cooper D Barham

The Appeal of Dark Media

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Hello strange and wonderful people,

I recently wrote an article over in my millings with Geeks Under Grace which has received above-par attention.  It’s an exposition on how I define “dark” in terms of media, with examples for different brands of this word spanning several mediums, as well as which facets of those series I find appealing.  I cannot copy and paste it here, so I ask that, should some pocket of your curiosity long to see why I think dark media is more appealing than its lighter-hearted brethren, you follow this little link down below and take a gander.

God bless, love your heart, and always remember to smile.

http://www.geeksundergrace.com/christian-living/appeal-dark-media/

“Hymni’s Broken Gift” – An Exercise in Myth-Crafting

Not in the beginning, but very soon after, when the gods set to discover their place in our scheme of lights, one was burdened with shouldering the color black.  Hymni would have settled for nearly any color.  He would not have complained about blue, which Usiris had requested in a hurry.  Green was not his favorite, but he would have taken it if Qitom had not already.  Perhaps red was a little rough, but it was passionate.  He would have liked red.

But more than any of these, Hymni had hoped to be the god of white.  Instead, that privilege went to the gentle-hearted Ririka.  Hymni did not hate Ririka, but he hated that she was gifted white, and he was not.

Yet, the Greatest of Them saw fit for Hymni to be the herald of black.  What might he do with such a bitter color, he thought?  In time, he figured he could find his way around the dilemma.

Because of Hymni, we now have a color for infection.  We have something strong and evident for scripting.  We have any of several hard minerals, stones, and metals with which to build our societies.  Desperately, Hymni found more ways to use his color for beauty.  The core of our eyes, the endless adventures of the wandering night sky.  He tried, but did not meet satisfaction.

White shine filled the eyes of men, glowing with love and admiration. White stars burned through his blanket of night.  Ririka meant nothing cruel of it, she just knew the best ways to find beauty in her color.  Hymni’s black helped accentuate her wonders.

That was all well and good, but Hymni wanted more.

So for decades, we had the weeping ash fall of Hymni’s tears.  The whole world gone black in the depths of Hymni’s jealousy and sorrow.  Of course, we know that black can be just as beautiful as any other color, but Hymni did not think as such.  To him, it was a color for evil, a color meant to be overcome by its vibrant kindred of red, gold, blue, silver, white.  But if mankind had not detested the color before, it had begun to now.  Black killed our plants, coated the land in waves and mounts so thick we could hardly travel from one place to another.  It blotted out the sun, it drove away the light.  It made us hate Hymni, and so reflected the way he’d come to see himself.

Hymni had never felt a craving for violence before, but there it was, piece by piece, swelling inside of his heart.  A strange tumbling captured his gut, curled his fingers, clenched his chest.  He did not long to live the rest of his immortality as the dreadful spring from which all blackness sprang.  He did not wish to live in sorrow, a subject to the hatred of others.

Gods, it seemed, were not immune to the treacherous whims of anger.  In his hour of wrath, Hymni sought out Ririka and struck her down, thinking somehow he might be able steal her white.  Perhaps then he would be loved like Ririka was loved.  She was fragile and broke easily.  He learned there was red inside of her, which he found odd.  Was there red inside of him, too?

But Ririka, she died slowly.  What’s more, and Hymni found this hauntingly curious, she wore the greatest of tender smiles on her lips, even as red pooled at her side where he rent her open.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped.  “I am sorry, Hymni.”

Words scattered from Hymni’s tongue, leaving him dry and abandoned.  He watched the girl, observed her slipping away.

“I’m sorry you have not felt loved for so long.”  She coughed, and the red came out from there, too.

“I,” Hymni said, “I only wanted your color.  It’s beautiful.  It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Her nod was a whisper of the body, hardly existing, hardly perceived.  “You may have my color, Hymni.  I hope you find happiness with it.”

At this, the darling goddess passed into a realm unknown and uncertain even to their kind.  Only now, with the trace remaining light banished from her body, did Hymni realize what he had done, and with the understanding came a new sort of sorrow.

As he’d wished, the color we call white fell into his hands.  But somehow, it did not make him feel any more loved.  The joy he’d anticipated, the sense of peace, they did not come.  No, in their stead, he was met only with grief.  He had brought about the end of one of his own, and she had gone so far as to apologize for his actions?

Hymni could not hold himself upright.  He came crashing to his knees before Ririka’s soul-empty shape, smile still against her cheeks.  Taking her body into his arms, Hymni wailed every misery old and young.  He did not care for the red stains against his body.  He did not care for black, nor white, both now under his dominion.  He cared only for the girl, taken unjustly.  Taken by his selfishness.

Angry in a new way, Hymni expelled the undying ash-storms from the sky.  He pushed the ash into corners and pockets of the world where it belonged, places where fire churned in the air.  Then, the world began to fill with tears of white.  Hymni’s despair took on such great lengths that it superseded his world and made its way into our own.  First it started slowly, then it began to build.  One flake became two, which with time became thousands, and then millions and billions.

Infinite white came down all across the world, some sort of request of forgiveness or atonement to a girl who was no longer there.  Where black ash had brought difficulty and strife to men, this new ash, something we’d later come to understand was not ash at all, had brought comfort and beauty.  In time, we’d call it snow, and it would identify entire seasons of our world.

Now, it stands as the penance of a lonely god who continues to grieve for the foolishness of one mistake.  It is a promise, I think, that Hymni would try his best to care for us in Ririka’s place.  It is a statement of hope, that we all have an opportunity to forgive ourselves.

I do hope Hymni begins to love himself the way we love him for giving us this snow, this most perfect of gifts.  For it is the opinion of no man, that one who can create something so beautiful, could possess a heart worth hating.

I do hope Hymni finds the peace he so longed to find, as all of us do.

“The Spirit of Color” – An Exercise in Surreal Prose

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I recently found a post that asked somebody to describe the color Red without ever saying the word. Somebody responded to the challenge with a beautiful and engaging series of descriptors. Having been inspired by this I emulated the same challenge using the colors Red, Blue, Green, Black, and White.  I refrained from using any examples for Red from the original post, so it was easily the most difficult.  Nonetheless, I had a lot of fun and hope you enjoy.
…

Red

It’s the heat in your face when preparing to confess love for the first time, and it’s the buzzing pressure within your chest when you’re angry, because you held in the words.  It’s the marks left on your back when protecting someone from danger.  It’s the throttle in your skull after a night of screaming, and the pressure of another hand in yours, holding tightly, either for safety or desire.  It’s the mark her lips left on your cheek.  When you finally fight back, it’s on your knuckles.  It’s the blood of all men.  It hurts, it heals, it lusts, it loves, it gives you power when you knew you didn’t have any more.

Perhaps it’s the warmth of a hug that means something.

Blue

It’s emerging for air after too long beneath the water.  It’s a piano in minor key.  It’s the equality found in gentle rainfall.  It’s the openness of a traveling wind.  It’s sitting down, crossing your legs, and simply being there to listen.  It’s a reaffirming hand on your shoulder.  It’s somebody’s voice when they talk about the stars.  It’s remembering days gone by.  It’s calm in chaos.  It’s a push of the sea against your body.

When you receive insult, it’s the wisdom that tenderly guides away from retaliation.

Green

It’s an excited puppy’s kisses.  When you walk through nature, it’s the brush of leaves against your shoulders.  It’s being too young to know and everything healthy your tongue deplores.  It’s laughter on a playground, while also the adventure found in wild violins.  It’s the slick moss pointing north.  It’s the voice of a friend you’ve sorely missed.  It’s finding a place where nobody has been, or getting lost without being afraid.  It’s working together with people you do not know.  It’s the smell of loam, of lake.  It’s the last day of school.

More than anything, it’s doing something just because.  

Black

It’s waking up alone after the best of dreams.  It’s being unable to live with yourself and wishing more than anything, that you could be someone else.  But it’s also your heart when you believe yourself better than the person across from you.  When you find a mysterious hole in the tide of night, it’s your confidence of its depth or contents.  It’s the addiction that refuses to die. It’s finding a wall when you were supposed to be on an open road. It’s hearing you won’t be keeping your kids.  It’s waiting for something that will not come.  Where things have burned, it’s the smell that scars the air.  It’s a quiet of the most absolute sort and the state of things not working.  It’s your stomach when one minute somebody is breathing and the next minute they are not.  It’s last words, regardless of their peace or horror.

In the end, it’s mortal conclusion.

White

It’s your bed after a trying day.  It’s being at peace knowing the person you love, loves somebody else.  At last, it’s a promise fulfilled.  It’s the fire found in ice.  It’s a baby’s first cry.  It’s being smitten, without being lonely.  When hailed by transgressions, it’s forgiveness.  It’s the dress of the bride and the teeth in her smile.  It’s believing somebody will come home.  It’s a choir in worship and a new idea.  It’s listening in isolation.  Before you paint, it’s a canvas.  It’s the virgin snowfall, crumbling between your fingers.  It’s the crown of the aged, the wise, and those fortunate enough to reach either.  It’s a victorious fanfare.  It is the searing vulnerability of having your innermost exposed.  It’s the feather of a dove.

But most of all, it’s wondering for the sake of it.

Update: 01/14/16

Greetings all of you strange and beautiful creatures.

Despite having already published some material for this week (backlog through the widgets to find my exercise in alliteration), I figure I ought to do a quick update anyways.

In addition to my long-form project “The Wisdom of Demons,” I have now also begun crafting a short, horror tale for HorrorTree’s upcoming anthology “Let Us In.”  I haven’t done horror in a while, but it’s one of my favorites, so I’m really looking forward to seeing what develops.

I’m nearing the 1/3 mark on my read through Brandon Sanderson’s “Alloy of Law.”  As per usual, it is off to a solid start, with the promise of growing into something much more as the narrative builds.  At this point I’m pretty much sold on anything this man creates.

Not currently in the middle of any anime or manga besides the standard milling, but I am loosely watching a police drama called Flashpoint at my brother’s suggestion.  It is excellent learning material for The Wisdom of Demons.

Struggling not to get distracted with practicing my illustration skills.  They’ve grown rusty as of late, but it’s not something I have any intentions of dropping.  I’ve recently begun watching how-to videos on the craft again, as well as following an illustrator on Youtube named ‘itsbirdy’ who creates some rather marvelous work with his limited resources.

I’ve been heavy into developing my taste for EDM lately.  It’s good music for simply engaging oneself in whatever you happen to be doing.  Tremendously looking forward to Christina Grimmie’s new EP due out some time this month.

Anyways, that’s all.  Thanks for listening.

God bless, make a friend, always remember to smile.

(If you have any suggestions on EDM music, hit me up.)

*Articuno & Elsa picture compliments of itsbirdy. Check him out on Youtube and Instagram.

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An Exercise In Alliteration (Ben Vs. The Asteroid)

Hello all of you strange creatures,

If you are not familiar with alliteration, it’s the literary technique in which multiple successive words in a line begin with the same consonant sound.  A common example is the tongue-twister “She sells seashells by the seashore,” which utilizes alliteration on both the hard ‘S’ sound as found in ‘sells’ and the dragging ‘sh’ sound in ‘she.’

I am going to attempt to recreate this technique in a series of lines, each modeled after a letter of the alphabet.  What’s more, I’m going to try and make it at least sort of resemble a story (we’ll see how that goes).

Remember, the words don’t necessarily have to begin with that particular letter, just have a sound in common with it. Don’t be surprised if I skip Q or X, because I’m fond of my sanity.

Let’s begin.

All at once, an angry asteroid attacked
Before Ben could bounce back from his bereavement
Could a crisis more criminal have possibly come?
Doubting his usually deliberate disposition, Ben dared not die
Even eagles evacuated enormously evil events
Fly as Ben might, fleeing was fickle and for the faint-hearted
Good god the asteroid was great and gruesome, though
How could this humble human hope to do anything but hesitate?
If an incident of such insane implications were to initiate
Just what kind of jostling juxtaposition would we find ourselves?
Kings would cower before this catastrophe
Lest all lowborn men lose hope of life
Might Ben muster the mettle to master his misgivings?
Never give in and knock away his nightmares?
Only our own hearts offer opposition
Pounding, pumping pain through every pore
Quit calculating the complications, Ben. Get crackin’
Run red with haste, retreat with raw reliance
So you may see a sweeter sunset someday
Tomorrow won’t turn you tipsy, try to be tougher
Unless you understand your place in the universe
Victory will fill your veins like a voice of valor
Won’t it be wonderful to wish upon the stars without worry?
eXcept that won’t happen, for your exit has been extinguished
You are young and you are yelling because you have
Zero seconds to hope you become a zombie.

So I may have cheated a few times, but I did technically get every letter in there.  The coherency of that story leaves something to be desired, but I’m contented with what I’ve got.  Perhaps next month I shall try again and see if there’s any improvement.

God bless, make a friend, always remember to smile.

Here’s a picture of Sheldon the Turtle for your entertainment.  Compliments of DeviantArt

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Update: 01/06/15

Working on the third chapter of my most recent project: “The Wisdom of Demons.”

It’s tricky not falling into the idea that I have a deadline.  I want to nourish and cherish this story, so it may grow into its skin, but I also want it to be presentable by WorldCon later this year.  That means completing the full first draft, with preferably three or four upgrades to it thereafter.  It did not seem so intimidating at first, when I’d only planned on creating a novella, but since the story has graduated a few times and character arcs have been fleshed out, I have no idea what the endgame is going to look like in terms of length.  I just have to keep on plugging.

Still waiting to hear back on my submission for “Maori.”  The anthology made no promises on any response up through February, but the angst in my chest is bouncing around so much that I’d be relieved simply to have an answer.  Alas, another test of patience unfolds.

In terms of recent media, I’m about to finish up my first playthrough of the Tomb Raider reboot, in light of its sequel’s recent release.  The narrative lore in that game is splendid, congealing elements of ancient Japanese mythology and culture with the glorified ‘Indiana Jones’ idyllicism one should expect from a Tomb Raider game.

I’ve also been plugging through the first two seasons of Tokyo Ghoul.  Its been on my list of to-do’s for some time, and after a recent stunt pulled by Grimmie, its priority shot up to the top of the list.  My favorite character is Juuzou, because I love psychotic characters, especially light-hearted psychotic characters.

Thanks for reading.  See you later, Space Cowboy.

(Here’s a picture of Pikachu and Stitch dressed in reversed onesies, for your entertainment.  Compliments of @itsbirdy)

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“Anarchy” Chapter 14 – The Vanishing Law

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Jade Tourney fourth round
It wasn’t until after the battle that I finally got some sort of notification from Perry as to his condition. A concise: “Fine. Just blowing off some steam. Sorry about the temperamental half-time show.”

I didn’t bother to respond. It was enough for him to simply answer my question. If Jordan was being salty about his loss, then Perry had been the salt mine. A salt mine laced with low-yield explosives.

Though, I’m not sure if you could really call Jordan ‘salty’ or not. ‘Depressed’ was a surprisingly accurate term, I found. Why? Not sure. All I know is I need to have a serious conversation with somebody about who this ‘Micah’ person was. The theatrical parts of me were already combing up every type of unrealistic circumstance to answer my anticipation. Maybe it was an exiled twin brother who’d made beef with the wrong sorts of people and was excommunicated from their household…who also happened to be running undercover as one of the Anarchy Sovereign.

Man, that would be freaking sick.

“Joel, want some pizza?” Comet broke my reverie. I spun to face her. The girl’s shirt was intentionally half-tucked, and embellished with assorted black and grey webbing over white. Not a Spider-Man shirt like usual, but not too far off. It’s a wonder how she doesn’t main Arakid considering, you know, he’s a spider.

GG had cleared space on an old fold-up table in the back room and christened it with the duty of bearing the weight of our pizza. Two boxes were drawn open, insides of the lids stained with grease, fumes of cheese and calories exuding in glory.

While I’m not proud to say it, I found myself longing for them so badly it made the root of my tongue hurt.

I made my way to the table. “I’d love some. Who got it?”

“It’s on the house,” GG said, “From me to all of our Riotwing buddies.”

Pursing my lips, I leaned in closer, “Are things always this, um, emotionally-charged? I really wasn’t expecting this.”

GG shook his head and I felt relief flood through me.

“We see our share of saltiness. That’s a given. But there aren’t usually bouts of anger and sadness like what you’re seeing now.”

Perry and Jordan, respectively. I sighed.

“That being said,” Perry slipped his hand beneath a slice of pepperoni pizza, “This is not the first time and I doubt it’ll be the last.”

“Noted,” I retrieved my own pizza slice and pulled up a chair. It would be a few minutes before the next matches were underway. Only four combatants remained, and two of them were from the same crew. Jordan had been cut, so our only representing member was Merc, who would be tossing up with iso in the upcoming round. He was going to get slaughtered and he knew it.

Because he still had a showdown ahead of him, Davis had keenly decided not to indulge himself just yet, and asked us to save him a couple slices for after he got his butt handed to him. Didn’t want to make his fingers slick with grease and such. Napkins can only save you from so much trouble, so it was best to abstain altogether for the time.

While we were chowing down, Perry surprised me by returning to the tournament. It didn’t take being finely attuned to small things to notice his blatant avoidance of R3M1X, but that was probably wise. All things considered, he seemed better than when he left, his anger having given way to a general sense of disappointment. I suspected it was disappointment in himself, for having let things get so out of hand.

Growing pains.

“Would you mind if,” Perry gestured helplessly at the pizza, “If I had some?”

GG pushed one of the boxes in Perry’s direction, “Never give up, never surrender.”

Perry snorted. “Galaxy Quest, hm? Nice.”

“Really,” GG said. “Don’t let it get to you. R3M1X situation aside, this has been a successful day of Anarchy for all of us.”

Comet promptly raised her hand and smiled ruefully. “Not all, thank you.”

Davis whacked Comet on the back, aghast. “What do you mean? You faced MiiKii with valor and vim. He’s not an easy foe. The only reason he didn’t make it farther is because he was fated to go through the iso grinder after your match.”

“Davis, you know I’m not actually upset, right?”

“Still.”

I chewed on my pizza, absently processing the conversation around me. It was delicious. “So,” I started, “iso is pretty much slated to win this no matter what, right?”

GG nodded with most of his body, since using just his head would have ruined the perfect bite of food he was taking.

“And there’s no hope for a freak victory from anybody else? M-80? R3M1X? Our man Merc, here? None of them?”

Davis crossed his arms on the table and rest his chin atop them. “Well, of course there’s a chance. It’s just slim. Have you ever heard of the Vanishing Law?”

“The Vanishing Law?” I said, cutting through my memories for anything related to that term. I came up short.

“The idea of being the best is an arbitrary one. It’s difficult, once you get on top, to stay there. All champions must lose eventually.”

I shrugged. “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘there will always be somebody better than you.’ I don’t think that’s called the Vanishing Law…or anything so cool as that.”

This time it was Davis who shrugged. “That’s just what I’ve heard it called in Anarchy circles. The point is, everybody must lose eventually.”

“Sure,” I said, “But I doubt it’ll be today.”

Davis laughed. “I doubt so, too.”

Phone in hand, Jahn, this tournament’s T.O., approached to let us know that Davis would be at station 1 to duke it out with notorious local champ, iso. Around this same time, Jordan finally decided to join us and partake in GG’s generous offering. Thankfully, whatever had been bothering him before seemed to fade into the background. He was laughing and smiling with his regular enthusiasm.

Davis and company migrated over to his station. I took the opportunity to become a conscious presence in iso’s world.

I reached out my hand to him, cutting him off in the process of unwinding his controller. “Sorry, I saw you earlier, but never really introduced myself. I’m Joel. My tag is Myth and I’m kind of new here.”

Iso looked me in the eye and smiled. He took my hand. The shake was firm. “Hello, Myth. Name’s Andrew. I watched some of your match with M-80. Not bad.”

I cringed, but didn’t make a fuss about it. “Not my best performance, but thank you, anyways.”

“We all have our days.”

Iso –Andrew– was some part Native American, but mostly your staple white male. Probably Irish. He was short and meager, but kept his back straight and held a composure that was two parts confidence, one part lazy. I studied intelligence behind his eyes and was instantly able to tell what type of player iso was in Anarchy. He did not play with his gut, but his mind. He’d spend hours breaking down the fine points of the game: how far did each attack reach, which directions would those attacks send you if they connected, how soon can I fast fall after short-hopping, after long-jumping? Every technical mechanic was his playground. He played Anarchy like most people would read a textbook.

I let iso finish his preparations alongside Merc. In the next station over, R3M1X and M-80 were preparing for what was probably a very common event between them. I mean, as I understand it, they likely played Anarchy together at least a few times a week. Both of them belong to local crew ‘Hour of Helix’, which I suspected was about to become a sort of rival team, at least for me and Perry.

Iso and Merc, selected their characters and settled on a stage. In his usual bro-ness, Merc offered a fist bump before the game. Iso took it casually and sincerely.

“Hit me with your best shot, Merc,” iso settled into the game.

“Somebody’s going to beat you someday,” Merc grinned. “I’ll try to make it sooner rather than later.”

Iso nodded with a playful smugness. “Do try.”

I stood back and watched in silence as their match unfolded. Vanishing Law or not, iso showed no signs of giving up his reign at the top of our local scene any time soon.
Still, Merc was right. Eventually, every Goliath must fall.

“Anarchy” Chapter 7 – I Want to Be the Very Best

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As reward to myself for dutifully slaughtering all of my weekend homework in a single, three-hour sitting, I called over Perry, and instead of playing Anarchy, we decided to spend our Friday catching up on the newest episode of BBC’s Sherlock, which had been long in the rafters, awaiting completion. We started it twice, but had to stop for reasons unrelated to the show. Once it was because Serah had pulled away Perry, the other was thanks to my internet gloriously turning into a potato and deciding to crap out for the rest of the evening. Hopefully, neither of those were destined to be problems this time around.

As is most appropriate for such occasions, we made up some pizzas, because the best compliment to extended television-viewing is clogged arteries. About half-way through the episode, there was a knock at my bedroom door. I paused the show and beckoned entrance.

My dad opened the door, “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nope. What’s up?”

“Oh, hello Perry. So you are here. I thought that was your car across the street.”

“Good evening, Joe.”

“Do either of you guys know a couple of girls named Serah and Jasmine?”

We collectively sighed, “Yes,” I dragged the word across nails and tacks, “What does she want?”

“I don’t know,” dad shrugged, “They’re at the front door asking for you.”

Perry took to full stature, some of his pudginess bouncing, “Hold on. I’ll be back in a second.” Perry shimmied past my dad and started down the stairs to our front door.

“They’re cute,” dad said.

Predictable father thing to say. “I know. One of them is Perry’s girlfriend. The Vietnamese one.”

“Are you kidding?” He reeled, and I wondered what exactly was crossing his mind to make him jerk back with such fervor.

“Seriously.”

“Huh. How about that.”

Perry returned with Serah and Jasmine at his back. Jasmine was one of our schoolmates. Perry and I had little actual interaction with her, but she spent a decent amount of time with Serah, so some encounters were unavoidable. She wasn’t particularly pleasant to be around. Not as accepting of nerd culture as Serah had been.

“I thought you said you were going to take care of it?” I said, annoyed that we might not finish this episode yet again.

Perry’s brow tented, “I never once spoke anything like that. I said ‘Hold on. I’ll be back in a second.’ No allusion to me kicking them off the premises or exiling them to another kingdom.”

“Dang.”

My dad took the liberty of removing himself from a situation he knew he didn’t belong in, which I appreciated. Not that I wanted to exclude him, but what could he contribute at this moment other than an awkward presence?

“So what do you want?” I snapped, slightly peeved.

“Okay, firstly,” Perry cut in, “I know you guys roast each other all the time. That’s fine. In fact, I encourage that, as it’s great entertainment. But Joel, please watch the tone. She’s just stopping by for a bit.”

A sweep of indignation lit up my chest like a Christmas tree, but turned to ash in the next breath, “Sorry.” I said, tingling at the wash of sudden humility. “How can we help you?”

“Oh my goodness, it can learn!” Serah said.

I thrust out my hands like a bridge to guide the bullet train of See-She’s-Mean-Too-Look-Look! right at Serah’s face. Perry turned and gave her an expression, “Really? I was trying to make this a good moment. You couldn’t have saved the comeback for at least thirty seconds?”

This time it was Serah’s turn to look humbled, and I’ll admit, a human part of my heart enjoyed it.

She sighed. “Okay. Sorry, Joel. We have thirty seconds and then everything is fair game.”

“Deal.”

“You’re not playing Anarchy?” Serah asked, “Even with the tournament tomorrow morning?”

Perry sat down on the futon (yes, I had one in my room) and started tugging free another slice of his hamburger pizza, “Nah. We’ve been playing all week. Rest is important, too.”

“What are you ladies up to this evening?” I asked again, the still bitter part of me noting it to be the third time I’d asked a question of this nature.

Serah bounced to a rhythm alive only inside her head, “Karaoke at Carmen’s.”

I did not know this Carmen person, but was willing to bet she wasn’t very good at singing. At least, not as good as Serah. “Nice.” I was acutely aware that Jasmine was estranged in my room, trapped in a conversation with people she didn’t like or even know. Sudden curiosity as to the natural odor of my room also began to plague me. Not often did girls breach the doorway to my living quarters. I showered daily and kept things tidy, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Right?

“Your place was along the way, so I decided we’d stop by for a minute to see how practice was going, but instead you’re doing what? Watchin– Oh my god, Benedict Cumberbatch!” Serah disregarded all social protocols and thrust her entirety towards my television, stuck on a still of Sherlock himself, played by the talented mister Cumberbatch. She was practically, no wait, literally hugging my screen.

“Marry me, Benedict,” she said, purring, “You suave, gorgeous hunk of man.”

I was waiting for her to actually kiss my television screen. Thankfully, she never did.

“I love you too, hon,” Perry said, taking a bite of pizza.

“You’re allowed to be jealous.”

Perry smiled, “That’s alright, as long as you understand you have no chance against Demi Lovato.”

“Really?” I pursed my lips and sat back in my chair, “Demi Lovato?”

Sacrificing the hand which was supporting the tip of his pizza, Perry thrust an indignant finger in my direction, “You have no room to talk, sir. Need I bring up your closet crush on Paramore’s Hayley Williams? Or T-Swift before that? Or, oh, who was the one before Taylor – OH YEAH, Misty from Pokemon.”

My dad’s laugh could be heard from downstairs. A flash of red went through my cheeks as both of the girls and Perry turned to look out the hallway of my door, following the noise.

With the scraps of my dignity, I tried to compose myself, “Hey now, that was a long time ago. And you liked Misty too, don’t give me that crap.”

If Jasmine had felt out-of-place before, now she’d become lost in enemy territory, which also happened to be as disquieting and bizarre as Alice’s Wonderland. Discomfort crept through her face and I couldn’t help but notice the nervousness in how she kept crossing and uncrossing her arms. Poor girl. She’d underestimated us.

“Awww,” Serah pulled herself away from Sherlock and bit her tongue lightly through a smile, much like a child with a joyful secret, “You liked Misty, Pear? That’s adorable.”

Perry stopped chewing mid-bite, “Um, okay.”

Serah walked by and rustled Perry’s tangled mop of hair, “So you wanna be the very best, too? Just like all of the Pokemon trainers?”

Oh, great. I knew where this was going.

“Wait,” Perry’s eyes widened, “Don’t-”

Serah bolted down into a flaring stance, craning her voice into the sky, “I WANNA BE THE VERY BEST, LIKE NO ONE EVER WAS!”

She was getting louder and though I’m relatively immune to embarrassment, the horror in Jasmine’s eyes told me we’d breached some sort of social wall. I started to cringe.

“TO CATCH THEM IS MY REAL TEST! TO TRAIN THEM IS MY CAUU-AH!” I launched from my chair and throttled Serah in the back, ushering her towards the door and cutting off the song.

“What?” Serah grinned over her shoulder, “Am I embarrassing you guys?”

“No,” I pushed harder and she leaned against my force, “You’re embarrassing yourself,” I looked at Jasmine, “I’m sorry she’s your friend.”

Jasmine was still in shock when Serah freed herself from my expulsion and playfully glared at me, “Uh, rude.”

“At least you aren’t stuck with her,” Perry said as though the floor was his only audience. It was meant to be heard, though, and I grinned at the indignation of Serah’s curling lip.
“Hon, I hope you die tomorrow,” Serah said as she stepped out of the door, Jasmine skirting around us slowly.

“You’re the best. Love you,” Perry lifted a soda can to her in respect and took a swig.

“I can’t believe we’re somehow all friends,” I said, “Thanks for coming over guys, have fun at karaoke.” I smiled a true smile and closed the door on them.

“Papa’s Little Girl” – Short Story

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It just doesn’t seem fair, you know?

I mean, I don’t hold anything against you.  How could I?  You are guilty only of good things, papa.  The warm night snuggling beside you or at the foot of your bed, I loved those.  They were some of my favorite things.  Not to mention the treat you’d grant me from your very own hand, and that smile when you’d drop, look me in the eye and say “That’s my girl,” with a comb of your fingers through my hair.  That was my favorite, too.

It’s hard not to love you, papa.  I know when I was young I had brothers and sisters.  I remember them vaguely, but I remember.  You took me home with you, so I haven’t seen them in a while, but that’s okay.  Maybe I was scared at first, being removed from my family. Scared of you. I can only hope my siblings were also blessed with such wonderful papa’s.  Thank you for making me safe and not scared anymore.  Thank you for sharing your home with a clumsy little girl like me.  Thank you so much, papa.

Papa, I’m still not sure why I’m not allowed to be a mama someday. I went to sleep around some strange people and when I woke up, well, it just hurt.  Something was wrong inside of me too, I just hadn’t figured out what at the time.  I’m not questioning you, papa.  I know you only want what’s best for me, but I still get sad sometimes.  Is that okay?  Am I allowed to be sad when I have such a great papa?  I just…I don’t know.  I wish I could be a great mama, too.  I wish I could show little puppies all of the love that you showed me.  I wish so bad to be as great as my papa.

It just didn’t seem fair back then.  Papa, you’re a good guy.  I’m sorry you get hurt sometimes.  Sorry the job people didn’t want you anymore.  Sorry that woman didn’t love you.  The tears you cried into my head were warm.  They made me want to cry, too.  When you kept saying “Why am I not good enough?”, I knew you weren’t talking to me, but papa, I wanted to answer so bad.  I wanted to tell you exactly how good you were.   That you were friendly, and funny, and made the sun sparkle, and worth the trust of all things in all the whole wide world.  You deserved the best friends, the best family.  I wanted my papa to be happy so bad it hurt.  I’m sorry I couldn’t help, papa.  You were the best papa a little girl could ask for, and it made me sad that I didn’t know how to tell you.  I’m not very good with words, papa.

But even though you got hurt sometimes, you never gave up.  Papa, that’s what’s great about you.  That’s why I’m proud to call you my papa.  You got a new job, a better job, and you stopped asking if you were good enough anymore.  It helped you be happy again.  Then you bought me my stuffed bunny toy, Squeakman.  I love Squeakman.  Even now, he’s still my best friend, even if he doesn’t squeak much anymore.

But even better than Squeakman was your face when you met mama.  I remember when you came back from your first date.  Oh papa, how you smiled!  You picked me up and spun me around and laughed with a full heart.  The spinning made me dizzy, but I’d be dizzy for a million years if it meant my papa could be happy.  Mama was a good lady, I knew.  We shared that same feminine instinct and class, so there was no doubt in my mind.

So papa, I know you’re no dummy.  That’s why I knew you’d propose to mama.  I’m sure the wedding was beautiful too, but I couldn’t go.  Nah, papa’s little girl was starting to feel tired lately.  That’s okay.  Squeakman and I celebrated from afar and eagerly awaited your return.  I was only sad once, the whole time you were gone, when I thought about being a mama myself.  But it passed and I remembered how happy my papa was.

Our new home was bigger than the old one and full of new smells, so me and Squeakman made a day of exploring it when you both went to work.  We found a secret lair beneath the deck, I chased two squirrels out of the yard, and we introduced ourselves to our neighbor Sammi.  She’s a bit of an airhead, but I like her.

Papa, you have no idea how my heart fell through the floor when mama got that call you were in the hospital.  They said it was an accident and you’d need surgery.  Papa, it just wasn’t fair.  I wanted to go and be by your side so bad, I would have turned over the world to find a way, but mama said I couldn’t come.  I didn’t want to disobey mama, and knew she had her reasons, so I stayed, though my soul was in tatters.  I paced, and cried, and prayed to Big Papa that you’d be okay.

I’m really thankful to mama.  She was there when I couldn’t be.  I knew she was good, but to think she was also the best.  She was the best mama a little girl could ask for, because she knew how to take care of you, papa.  I know she was the best, because once you got better and she was out with her friends for the night, you cried with me.  You cried and thanked Big Papa for sending mama to help you through life when it got hard.  I didn’t know you could do that.  I didn’t know a person could cry and smile at the same time, but you did it papa.

I saw you do it again a while later, when Little One was born.  I saw you cry, but not because you were sad.  No, you might have been even happier than ever.  I was happy too, and not just because of how Little One made you smile.  Little One helped kindle an old fire in my heart.  If I couldn’t be a mama myself, then I would help my mama protect her Little One.  I would do it with all of my heart.

Watching Little One grow was one of the best things in my life.  You were a great papa to us both and I loved showing Little One that you didn’t need to be afraid of people like me and Sammi.  People with four legs.  Thank you for allowing me to be there when Little One began to walk.  Thank you for letting me be a protector when you were gone.  I promised that until the day I die, I would never let any harm come to Little One.  On my honor as a mama.

But as Little One got bigger, I started to feel something strange. Papa, it happened every time you came home from work or kissed mama.  It happened every time you woke up in the morning and began to move around.  There was something wrong with all of it.  But the problem wasn’t with you, papa, it was with me.  I was broken.  I was changing and you weren’t.  The stairs I climbed to reach your bedroom, they seemed further apart, but you didn’t think so.  My legs which helped me run to your side everyday were made of heaviness. Why didn’t your legs seem heavier, papa? Why could you still run when I could not?

Eventually it became too much for this little girl.  I tried so hard to keep up with you, papa, but you were moving too fast.  Everything hurt and I was always tired.  But why?  All I wanted was to stay by my papa’s side.  Why couldn’t I do that anymore?  What was wrong with me?  It just wasn’t fair.

One day I woke up when Little One accidentally fell on me.  My body hurt something incredible.  I knew it wasn’t Little One’s fault, because I’d felt the pain growing deep inside of me for a while, but suddenly I couldn’t move.  I could barely even breathe, papa.  Do you know how scary that is, not being able to breathe?  Thank you for taking care of me though, and please let Little One know it wasn’t their fault.  I was a broken little girl.  I take full responsibility.

Still, it just wasn’t fair.  You took me in to see that doctor person.  I didn’t like that doctor person because he smelled like the people who stopped me from being a mama, but I trusted you knew what was best.  He placed cold things all over my body and shined a bunch of painful lights into my eyes.  He asked you to sit down in the chair so you could talk, but I knew what he was going to say.  I was starting to get the feeling that I wouldn’t get to leave with my papa today.  The words he used were big and confusing, but I understood the fear in your face.  He said I was broken, didn’t he?  I was too “old.”

What is old, papa?  Are you old?  Please don’t become old, it’s really not very fun.  I hope Little One never becomes old.

You left me with the doctor person for the night.  Papa, that was the loneliest night of my life.  I was so scared and I only had Big Papa to comfort me.  I could do nothing but lay down and wait and hope you’d come back when the sun rose again.

Thank you for coming back.  Thank you for bringing mama and Little One to see me.  This is going to be the last time, isn’t it?  I can tell because nobody is smiling.  I mean, you’re trying to smile, but you can’t trick me, papa.  I could smell your sadness when you stepped through the door.  I can feel your heart breaking, just like mine.

Papa, did I ever tell you how much I love mama’s voice? It’s so tender, like she’s apologizing to Big Papa for every bad thing everyone has ever done.  It’s so sweet, like a magical rain made of candy.  You are so special to have her, papa.  She’s a better mama than I could ever be.  Please take care of her forever and always.  I know you will, because that’s the kind of papa you are.

Little One doesn’t know what’s happening, do they?  That’s okay.  I protected them, just like I promised I would.  Please keep Little One safe when I’m gone.  Please show them what love is.

And Papa, it really, really isn’t fair, you know?  Why do you not look any different?  I spent my whole life with you.  You were there from the beginning.  Had you had little girls like me before?  Will you find another once I’ve left?  If you do, please be the papa I know you are, and show them how to be happy like me.  Fill them with wonder and hope and joy.  Little girls need those things from their papas.

Because I’m old now, papa, and very tired.  Thank you for placing Squeakman beside me, so I don’t have to go alone to find Big Papa.  Thank you for being here, even though I know it hurts your heart.  You’ve always been here, haven’t you?  I’ve seen you every day since I could remember, and you still look exactly the same as when we first met. That’s not fair.  I want to spend more time with my papa, but I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.  Why are my eyes the only ones that have to close?  Why do I have to go into the dark without my papa?

It just doesn’t seem fair, you know?

“Anarchy” Chapter 6 – Remember, Remember

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In a gesture of almost divine coincidence, my Advanced European History class was just beginning our unit on the Gunpowder Plot in London. You know, V for Vendetta, Guy Fawkes blows up everything. “Remember, remember the fifth of November”? Yeah, that Gunpowder Plot. The one meant to assassinate King James I of England. There were far more people in on the ordeal than just Fawkes, but thanks to Hollywood and that infamous white mask, he’s the only man people ever associate with the fiasco.

Anyways, this is appropriate, as these people are some of the most quintessential, real-world anarchists in recent history. Or, relatively recent. While I abide by the identifier of ‘anarchist’, these guys were serious about the term.

Though, Batman’s ‘Clown Prince of Crime’ still has them beat. The Joker is straight up loco.

Since I’m already talking about history (sort of), now is probably the best opportunity to enlighten you as to some historic details that will help in the long run. Is that alright? I’m not going to get stoned or whipped am I? Nobody will threaten to blow up my house?

Okay, cool.

Let’s start with me. This shouldn’t take very long, as there’s not much to talk about. Perhaps the most worthwhile segment of my personal story revolves around the absence of my mother, so I’ll begin there. Her name was Karin, and she was a suicide hotline specialist through the first six years of my childhood. I remember her being gentle and loving, but always with reservation. My father said she had issues in connecting with others and forming relationships. I guess her own son was not exempt from that problem. But she tried, so I cannot fault her for the handicap.

Somewhere around the time I was entering the second grade, she bore witness to a violent crime coming home from work after the evening shift. As I understand it (meaning, from what the authorities hypothesize), she somehow alerted the criminals to her presence. Probably yelped or cried for help or something. The two perpetrators gave chase. She ran, as we didn’t own a car, and only made it a block and a half before they caught her. They bludgeoned her to death.

Both of the culprits were caught on the camera of a gas station across the street and eventually drawn into the iron law. Both men belonged to a local gang and were tying up a loose end in their family. A snitch. Karin was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She needed to be silenced for witnessing an event she never wanted to see. Each of the convicted criminals are now serving time. Life, I believe. For whatever that’s worth.
Worst part? They were no older than I was in the course of this story. A sixteen and seventeen-year-old. I hate that. I hate that for so many reasons.

So for the majority of my life, I didn’t have a mom. Didn’t have a mother-figure of any sort. It was just me and padre, double-teaming the world. Wasn’t so bad after the first couple of years. Financially, we’re actually better off, because he’s since completed the degree he was going back to school for and found work as an accountant. More than enough to support himself and a single child. I adopted his love for hiking and camping when I was young, but steadily grew out of the activity with age. Mostly because I was being indoctrinated by a culture that kept me indoors, but also because my father had a bad back from sitting all day and it started to wear on his health. Just couldn’t make the climb so much after he hit forty. Still, we got along well, and I’d considered him one of my best friends, even if he wasn’t a “friend”, if you hear me.

Next up to bat, RequiaTek. The notorious company which dressed the events of this tale. Originally, RequiaTek manufactured only televisions, radios and other simple electronic products, circa the 60’s. They were known by a different name back then, however I neither know, nor care what it was. Dawning upon the early 90’s, they armed themselves with a new name to address the changing of the times, but had been in the business of producing and developing video games for over a decade by that point. Their oldest intellectual property was a modest (read: awful) little title called Arakid, which followed the titular character, a cartoonish, spider-child, as he tried to find his parents. The gameplay was appalling at best, even for its age, and the graphics could only be cured with fire and holy water. But it was enough to spring-load a new team into better projects, which eventually generated the momentum RequiaTek sees on the gaming scene today.

As I’ve said before, the game of Anarchy is something of a nexus for all of RequiaTek’s established franchises to date. More than twenty IP’s are represented, and as far as marketing is concerned, this move was brilliant. In the first year of Anarchy’s commercial release, it received gratuitous amounts of critical and fan acclaim as a family video game. Not until the initial hype settled did this new franchise pick up steam as a tournament-capable arena fighter like Street Fighter II. This has led its many loyal fans to consider Anarchy a ‘beautiful accident’.

The first Western Grand Rally tournament, largest Anarchy tourney in America, was held in 2009, with Styx as the first reigning champion. Styx mained Brave, by the way. Just throwing that out there. Ever since, the tournament had become a mecca for anarchists and grows in participants with every succeeding year. Nowadays they have to rent out stadiums to fit the masses who come to watch, not even accounting for the live stream of the tournament which draws in countless others to view online. Only one other tournament can compete with the WGR, and that’s all the way over in Japan, from where RequiaTek heralds. Sticking to typical Japanese peculiarity, that tourney was coined ‘Four Corners: The Elite and Thunderous!’ Exclamation mark officially included, of course.

Ready for everything to come full-circle? The WGR is traditionally held on the same day every year. Any guesses as to which day that is? Okay, well technically it’s two days, but it starts on November 5. “Remember, remember the fifth of November. The Gunpowder Treason and Plot.” The largest Anarchy showdown in the country takes place the same day as one of the most prominent acts of literal anarchy in history.

Don’t you just love it when things come together?