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"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

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(no subject) [Aug. 1st, 2008|05:33 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

lol I was pulling out old backup CDs looking for something and found this. It's the beginning of a story that I wrote in 2002 when I was 15.


PROLOGUE: to slit wrists with stars

A relatively quiet city has its ups and downs, mostly in a balance of public outcry and submissiveness, and sometimes in the blurring line between feeling and thinking. Granted, there was little to worry about in terms of, say, crime and chaos and riots, but everyone always has something to complain about. It was average, very average, and people liked it, or rather they didn’t mind it. Cars drove by, people paid little attention to what was inside. They were, to us, yet another passenger in the ride of society, and another to stand in line to be something greater. And that was fine.

In any case, too much or too little suspicion was what killed things nowadays. It didn’t matter if you were wrong as long as you didn’t sound ridiculous, if you for some reason and somehow were forced to explain it to someone (or, in the minds of those who are self-conscious, themselves alone).

That’s not to say any of us had that problem. We all but ignored it, really, and if we couldn’t, we found excuses to tide us over. If one of us managed to hurt someone we cared about by accident, it would be like slitting our wrists with stars. No one minded, but in the end, we were all stuck and struck down in our own little worlds anyway, no one else’s. Everything we did was our own undoing, and no one else’s. For all we know, at the end of our lives, we’ll ask, “Is it okay?” Who are we to ask?

We can’t help it, having individual judgments and ideas and morals and the like. Most of us base it off of others’, just to sound sane and reasonable, to be able to portray pure emotion without getting ridiculed. God forbid those terms and standards never existed. The barriers of the ego are shattered without them, but again, what’s to worry about? It all works out in the end. That’s the way it goes. Even if it doesn’t, well… that’s our choice, to decide what works out and what doesn’t work out. Life is just a mixture of scrambled information, nothing being absolute truth or absolute lie, all up for judgment of one’s self and others around to hear it. One man’s heaven is another’s hell, so the old proverb goes.

It’s worth saying that not a lot truly happens, but the papers and televisions and radios don’t talk about those kinds of things often.

CHAPTER ONE – the altogether


The gentle, soothing sound of cars on the highway at 6 in the morning broke his fall back into dreamland. A cop car passed by, further aiding. After a minute he rose to meet the light, cool morning air. Blinking sleepily and turning to watch the window of raindrops dropping out of sight, he waited for the snooze alarm to go off before he hit the button and straightened himself up. Tilting his head to relieve the stiffness in his neck, he quietly walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

The walk to the warehouse was peaceful enough. Rain persisted in putting weight on his raincoat, and the occasional car driving by, lights beaming, was enough to keep him standing. Still there was an aura of infallibility about the whole world he was in at the moment. Catching himself and trying to do something about his fixed expression, he yawned up at the sky occasionally, and another car always blew its horn after he was done. Everything fit together this morning, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Two sliding doors and a security guard with a newspaper covering his face, the first piece of life he had seen in hours, seeped into him. “Yo, Edward,” he put his card in his hand and returned it to his pocket just as quickly. Edward gestured, and he spoke, “Chris Redfield.” With the go-ahead sign, Chris stepped through another pair of sliding doors as the sound of rain and his own footsteps subsided under the sound of heavy machinery. Peering around for a moment, he took out a slip of a card, finely tuned with neat writing and a cardboard lining, and read it, “Block 2.”
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(no subject) [Feb. 22nd, 2008|05:22 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure DON'T YOU? i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure DON'T YOU? i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure DON'T YOU? i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure i live for pleasure i love for pleasure DON'T YOU? i live for pleasure i love for pleasure
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(no subject) [Feb. 16th, 2008|06:26 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

i’m capable of taking advantage of and fucking girls i don’t know because i can
it makes me want to find something to blow my head off with
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(no subject) [Feb. 9th, 2008|09:10 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

I was walking from my car across the parking lot. the colors sometimes shifted, making some things more noticeable than others.

My heart, please, steady for me.

so I loaded and cocked it back. I pressed it against my temple and pulled the trigger again like i had done four times before. I was dizzy for a moment... curled on the ground and coughing. my heart did not stop for long. I pushed myself up, put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm, and kept walking.

I was thinking clearer all of a sudden.

there was something written on the back of my hand. it must have been there earlier, but I didn't notice it.

please stop what you're doing.
give me a call.
I'll give you directions home.

happiness, stop me before I hurt myself.

^OH MY GOD I'M CONTRIBUTING TO A DEAD COMMUNITY because I fucking hate the ultra-active ones where you don't know anyone. everyone get the fuck back here now.
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sergei's ammunition [Dec. 31st, 2005|06:55 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever


Walking steadily down West street, Sergei fastened his sunglasses, covering his face from the bright light of the morning.

He normally didn't walk to school, but today was a bit different. Today he was going to make a difference. Today was his limelight. He wasn't going to be kept undercover anymore. Normally, he would ride on the bus to school, isolated like the few other kids on the bus, and listen to Mum (his favorite musical artist, from Iceland) before the bus stopped roughly six miles from his home. He had his music this time. He found it cool to be able to listen to one of his favorite songs, "Green Grass of Tunnel," almost on cue as he arrived.

The music stopped and he was standing at the front doors. Quietly and deliberately, his silenced submachine gun was unholstered from his back and the door was opened.


Pretty girls and boys chatted amongst each other in the white, brightly lit hallway outside their homeroom. They joked about the tacky GSA morning announcements and the ambiguous sexuality of their peers.


The attendants stationed at the front office desk were dead, with less than smooth facial wounds on each side of their faces. Empty bullet casings were scattered haphazardly on the floor, and some were caught in the fabric of the chairs strewn around the room.
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creative writing at midnight [Apr. 3rd, 2005|12:14 am]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever
this is something im writing at midnight, with absolutely no preplanning, but hey, its creative writing so here goes.

For those of you who aren't aware, last Sunday was Easter. It's the coming of the lord, all hail, Jesus is back. Back in Black, not quite, but he's back. In any case, a few days later, Terry Schiavo dies. Who gives a shit, honestly in my opinion I believe it was a disservice to publicize her situation and her family should be shot. Then Mitch Hedberg passes on, my favorite comic ever, at the tender age of 37. To top it all off, ye old pappy, the one and only (for now) pope croaks, he kicks the bucket, he checks his last ticket. There's some irony in that the week after Jesus comes back, everybody dies. That's what it seems like. however, when you really think about it, the real irony lies in the fact that people are always dying, and we only notice when it's people of public importance, and it's those times that we label them tragedies. Why aren't average joes dying everywhere called tragedies? They die after Easter too, ya know. I have a theory.

Suppose it's a message being sent to us? I mean, 3 completely unrelated folks passing on in the same week, on THREE different days(the 30th, 31st, and 2nd) at the ages of 37, 42 and 84. april 27th was easter. here's the incredibly creepy part.

30-31-2 was the winning lottery ticket number in louisiana, 4 years ago for the evening pick.
37-42-84 was 3 years ago in illinois, on the midday pick.
4-24-05-06-27-8 was last years winning super com lotto in california. that number might seem insignificant, but look. 4(number month of april, its the 4th in order) 24(holy thursday) 5(subsequent day's digit in hte one's place) 6(again) 27(easter) and 8(the 8ball in pool means game over).

if the numbers dont mean something, i dont know what. cause think about it, 3 years ago, then 2, then it skips a year to last year, well so did the deaths skip in such a pattern. mitch, terry, skip a day, pope!

someones telling us something. i dont know what. i dont care. this is a retarded story. im tired and bored. forgive me.
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Yeah, so I figured I should post something in seriouscw. Here it is. [Mar. 29th, 2005|03:36 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

The run-up is done. Both the airframe and the engine are in fine working order. You roll up to the end of the taxiway. All your checklists are complete, so you contact the tower and request a right turnout, northbound departure. Receiving clearance, you take to the field. Aim for the end of the strip. Full throttle. 55 knots, rotate.

You’re airborne.

Flying is so different to me than anything else I do. Most of us have spent at least some time with a simulator: the obligatory joystick, PC, and keyboard setup. I myself started out that way, after toys of course. Flight sims aren’t bad---they’re a whole lot better than a piece of folded paper---but they’re no substitute for the real thing.

First of all, I was dissatisfied with the total lack of g-forces in simulators. No sim can replicate the two-gee force of a hard, steep, 60 degree turn, or the light, giddy half-gee of an abrupt dive. But secondly, and most irritating, was the complete lack of penalty for crashing. Drat, did you fly into the ground because you overstressed the wings and they fell off? No problem, just start a new game. Not exciting at all. Eventually, I got tired of the threatless virtual world of flying and decided to venture into the real world of flying, where the threats of crashing are very real.

At first, it was daunting. There’s so much to think about when you’re in the air. Watch your altitude. Keep the speed below 150. Stay on course. Don’t violate any other airports’ airspace. Be wary for other aircraft out there. Stick to the route you plotted. Then of course there are the million-and-one restrictions and regulations for every flight to remember. Did I pick up the ATIS (automatic terminal information service) and get current weather info? Am I keeping 500 feet below, 2,000 to the side, and 1,000 feet above that cloud? Have I established two-way radio communication with my destination?

But flying isn’t always such a hectic crossfire of self-doubt and worries. When I’m flying, I’m truly in control. Not just in control: I’m free. Free to go where I want, do what I choose, and see what I want to see. Maybe I don’t feel like flying so high? Reduce power, pitch down, and suddenly I’m cruising just 500 feet above the surface at a blistering 130 mph. Too low? Full power, pitch up, and now I’m soaring with the hawks (quite literally), gazing down at the North Shore, and realizing suddenly just how damn flat everything is here. You’d never guess, but Massachusetts is unbelievably level when seen from any altitude above 3000 feet.

Flying really changes people, I used to hear. Now I hear myself reciting that same rhetoric. But it’s not rhetoric to me anymore. It’s a mantra. I now see things in a totally different way. Mastering the air in my free time has taught me that I am a capable person, that I can achieve any goal I might set. Becoming a flyboy has added a whole new dimension to my life.

And I don’t just mean vertically.
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(no subject) [Feb. 19th, 2005|08:44 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever
ohhhh sick now i get it
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Updating [Feb. 19th, 2005|06:07 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever
Guys, you gotta start posting in here.
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Hindenburg Down [Feb. 5th, 2005|05:33 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

Note: This is the second chapter of a novel I'm working on. I'll keep posting these as long as you all promise to buy the finished copy.

Three of a Kind

John looked both ways before he crossed the street.

The buildings behind him were crumbling, abandoned. The darkness cloaked the path John made. The lights of the inner-city drowned out the night sky.

John looked up and down the street as he limped his way across. He couldn’t bend his right knee, so he pulled it along, hopping as the leg came forward. The ankle throbbed with pain, and John grimaced while clutching his thigh. Almost there.

John lugged the locked leg over the edge of the sidewalk with a mighty heave. He tried to bend to catch his breath, but could only do so on his left side. Sweating profusely, John licked his lips and wiped his brow. Dimmed streetlights lined the sidewalk like a row of dead trees. John needed as much dark as he could get.

Three tanks, his goal, loomed above him like a trio of giants. White and massive, the squat containers held millions of gallons of natural gas. Floodlights (those that still worked that is, the whole facility was in disrepair) bathed the cylinders in an orange glow, revealing the building-sized letters adorning the tanks. A barbed wire fence made a tight perimeter around the gas.

John followed the fence to a gray pillbox: the security station. He avoided a speed-bump while crossing the vehicle entrance. The station’s door was closed, but a dim light came from the window. John struggled to the door, having more trouble keeping his leg locked. He knocked.

He heard shuffling inside. Maybe he caught the guy napping. The handle jiggled, and the door opened. A thin man with dark hair stood in a green-gray uniform.

“Hey,” John said, panting. “Can you help me out?”

The guard looked confused. “Whatsa matter?”

John pointed back the way he’d come. He grabbed his leg (the motion had tugged at it) and winced. “I crashed by car back there aways. No one’s around. So I headed here.”

The guard gave John the once-over. “Got a phone?”

A beat.


“Yer shit outta luck, then, kid.” The guard thumbed over his shoulder. “Phone’s dead.” He squinted, thinking. “But let’s see what I can do for ya. Lemme grab my stuff.”

“Thanks.” John’s breath quickened.

The guard nodded and turned. He grabbed his coat and flashlight.

John reached into his pants and slowly removed the machete. Careful not to make a sound. He brought the blade forward as the guard turned back to the door.

John sprang into action. Grabbing the guard’s shoulder, he plunged the machete through the man’s gut. Dark blood poured out onto John’s hand. He pushed the blade deeper, through the man’s back. The guard grabbed John’s shoulder, but all his energy had been sapped. His incredulous eyes bulged as he stared at John. The color from his face drained away while his mouth opened and closed. Like a dying fish.

John tightened his own grip on the guard’s shoulder and pulled the machete up. The guard’s body jerked with the blade. John looked into the dying man’s eyes. “Sorry.” And the guard could see the remorse in his killer’s eyes.

One more jerk and the guard’s innards seeped onto the floor, landing with a sickening smack. With strained effort, John extricated his weapon from the guard. The suction made a sloppy sound, like stepping through mud.

The guard collapsed to the floor, clutching his side and convulsing. Blood pooled at the corners of his mouth, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. John couldn’t stand the sight of the twitching, dying man. He took the machete and shoved it through the guard’s throat, pinning him to the floor. One last violent spasm coursed through the guard, blood spewing out his throat.

John vomited.

He walked into the station and reached for the guard’s coat. He wiped his gore-stained hands, and tried to dab the blood from his shirt. It was to no avail, the shirt was drenched in most of the guard’s blood.

John kneeled beside the body and relieved it of its pistol. He wiped the gun with the coat and tucked it in the back of his pants. John searched the body for a key ring, but found none. He needed those keys.

The guard’s desk sat cluttered with loads of papers, and John found no keys there. He moved to the back of the room (where the guard retrieved his coat and flashlight shortly before his demise). Sure enough, on a hook near the locker, was the guard’s elusive key ring. John shoved it in his pocket.

With that taken care of, there was the matter of the body to attend to. John didn’t want a corpse lying on the floor for all the world to see if he could help it. He stood over the body, wrapped his fingers around the machete’s handle and tugged. The guard’s body flopped a little, but the blade stuck. John held back nausea as he pulled harder. The body flopped more, and the blade stayed put. I don’t want to do this. John planted a foot firmly on the guard’s chest and placed both hands on the machete. He yanked with all his might and the blade escaped with a shloop. The guard’s jaw involuntarily opened and closed as a new river of blood erupted from the throat wound. When the fingers began twitching, John lost his lunch in the corner.

John didn’t dare touch the guard till he stopped moving. He waited a good ten minutes.

John took the guard’s coat again and used it to soak up the blood at the body’s neck. He knew he couldn’t clean it all up, but he didn’t need to.

With enough of the blood gone, John hunkered down behind the guard’s head. He reached under each arm, clasping his hands together across the guard’s chest. His left arm missed touching the lethal wound by mere inches.

Crouching was all John could manage. The guard’s dead weight must have been at least two-fifty. Leaving a broad streak of blood along the floor, John dragged the body to the chair by the window. This’ll be the hard part. He got the body to sit up, leaning its back against the chair. John moved in front of the body. He cupped his hands under the guard’s armpits and lifted. The guard fell into the chair without all that much effort. Surprising. The body’s silhouette would be visible through the window, but that was all. A thick dust caked the glass, it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Thank God for that.

John turned away from the guard and spied a panel on the wall. It had two circular buttons, one green and one red. Green means go. John pushed the button.

There was a short buzz followed by a heavy clanking from outside. John went to the door and saw the large gate lumber across the vehicle entrance. He checked the body once more. Copeland, the nametag read. I wonder if he had a family. John didn’t like that train of thought, so he derailed it. He cast one last look over the room (the guard’s body had begun to stiffen) and closed the door.

John walked trough the open gate and towards the middle tank. The light here was better, but that necessarily wasn’t for the better. John could see the damage the dying guard had done to his clothes much clearer. He felt like vomiting again.

John arrived at the gargantuan drum. The door at the bottom of the stairwell was locked. He pulled out the key ring and started with a random key. Grabbing the padlock, John inserted the key, turned, and turned the knob. No effect. Next key. No effect. Next. No. Next. No. Around number thirty, John hit the jackpot. The padlock’s ding reverberated between the tanks.

Clang-clang-clang. John’s footfalls ringed out on the stairs. He raced up the stairwell, hoping the noise wasn’t loud enough to warrant unwanted attention. He stopped about halfway up.

This is the easy part. John reached into his pocket and pulled out the black box. It was magnetic, so he just stuck it to the side of the tank. He fiddled with the dials till the screen lit up. 15:00:00. Good. John rubbed his lips nervously. One more thing to do. He pressed the START button.

Like a bat out of Hell, he flew down the stairwell. Clang-clang-clang-clagclangclang. The door at the bottom swung back and forth lazily, John palmed it open as he ran through. John bolted, unthinking, until he reached the opposite side of the street.

He slowed down to a brisk walk.

The entire block was in disrepair. Streetlights, like broken toothpicks, littered the sidewalk, as did debris from the ancient buildings. John couldn’t catch a cab here.

On the next block, a car stopped and John froze. He ducked into an alley. The car moved on.

A pimp and three hookers kicked a young man lying on the ground. The hookers were screaming profanities at the top of their lungs. Probably a disrespectful john. John laughed uneasily.

John saw a cab and hailed it. The car turned around and pulled up to the sidewalk. John got in.

The cabbie had one of those names that had too many consonants and not enough vowels. “Where do you want to go?" Where came out as vhere and do you want to came out as one word.

“Home,” John said.

"Where might that be?” John told him.

The cab stunk of a hundred different funks, none of which John could separate. He wanted to be an asshole and ask the cabbie how often he cleaned, but he was detached at the moment. Plus he didn’t want to make an impression. He checked his watch absently (although absently wasn’t the smartest way to do it, considering the circumstances).

The cabbie pulled up to the apartment building and John paid the fare. He stepped out on to the sidewalk and the cab pulled away.

In the distance John heard a heavy thump followed almost immediately by a thump-thump. The ground shook, and windows rattled. He looked back the way he’d come. A brilliant fireball opened like a massive umbrella in the night sky. Thick clouds followed suit.

His job was done.
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