The Box (#2)

Read #1 First!

The walls surround me. Here, I am by myself, I am alone in my own head. I am in the world, but not of it. I’m not aware of my surroundings, but can never escape from them. Here, nothing touches me. Here, everything touches me.

I run across the room in a frantic rush. I hit one of the walls, rebound and sprint toward another wall with no thought but speed. Nothing can stop me and nothing tries. My heart pumps and my pulse races to match my legs. My frenzied running leads across the entire room as I throw myself around this box. I catch a glimpse of green and my back aches from the tree its up against. I adjust, and move a little to ease the little pain. My thoughts slip through my fingers as if they had been oiled and greased. I run.

I stop. I breathe. My heart tries to slow down. My breathing is still coming in short bursts and I am having trouble focusing. Again, I adjust so my back will stop hurting. I slowly stumble to the center on my box, not really noticing the walls but always knowing they are there. I stop and look towards the middle. Fear slowly fills me, infiltrates my lungs, speeds up my heart. Why have I stopped!? I can’t ever stop!

I’m off again! I sprint 5 steps to the left, 5 back to the right. I pause for a split second, then dash forwards and to the right. Wait, sprint, wait, sprint. I pray that nothing can stop me, but my fear promises me that it will, that I can never escape. I run faster, even more frantically. I can’t think from the fear. I can’t stop from the fear.

But I stop again. My eyes dart from trees to grass to flowers, unseeing. I try to think, try to clear my mind. My hands rest against one of the walls as I shake my head. I try not to think, knowing it will only bring the fear back in strength. I feebly try to force my way out my box, but know that it is useless. I stand there as if in shock, leaning against the wall. Sweat drips down my face, off the tip of my nose and the edges of my glasses.

A splash of color slowly floats past my vision and I slowly bring my blurred eyes towards the center again. I sprint at one of the walls and fling myself against it, pounding against it. I realize it isn’t sweat dripping from my glasses, but my own tears. They fill my eyes, clouding my vision as I look at the park through my sunglasses. It’s so bright out today, even in the shade. The butterfly that just floated by my face lands on my knee as I continue to punch the wall, desperate for release. But there is no weakness here, only the impossibly strong walls of my own desperation and fear.

The butterfly still rests on my knee, slowly raising and lowering its wings. I adjust my glasses, hoping no one nearby can see my tears. My mind is aware of my true surroundings, telling me there is no box, no cursed walls, but I feel the walls close in, ever tighter. I absent-mindedly brush away the magnificent colors on my knee and try to think of a way to get out of the room. My body sits in the park, only plants and grass and small animals surround me. My mind rushes from corner to corner, unable to break free of its own confines. I struggle to escape from the walls of my own brain, even as I sit in peaceful solitude.

But I can’t. The beauty and calm of the park around me have no effect. The peace of the world around me can never change the fear and anger that war within me. I just can’t escape, no matter how fast I go, no matter how hard I hit. I hate this. I hate this room, I hate these walls more than anything.

The Box (#1)

The walls surround me. Here, I am by myself, I am alone in my own head. I am in the world, but not of it. I’m not aware of my surroundings, but can never escape from them. Here, nothing touches me. Here, everything touches me.

I run to the across the room in a frantic rush. I hit one of the walls, rebound and sprint toward another wall with no thought but speed. Nothing can stop me and nothing tries. My heart pumps and my pulse races to match my legs. My frenzied running leads across the entire room as I throw myself around this box. My arm tingles, and my back hurts where I hit it against one of the white walls.

I stop. I breathe. My heart slows down. My arm stops tingling and hangs loosely from the slight weight in it. I slowly walk to the center on my box, not really noticing the walls but always knowing they are there. I stop and look towards the middle.

I’m off again! I sprint 5 steps to the left, 5 back to the right. I pause for a split second, then dash forwards and to the right. Wait, sprint, wait, sprint. Again, nothing can stop me.

But I stop anyway. I shake my head in disappointment and walk towards one of the narrower walls. I stand close to the back wall, about in the middle of it, waiting patiently for it to begin again. Sweat drips down my face, off the tip of my nose and off the edges of my glasses.

A blur of blue streaks past my face and I head after it. I must catch it, I must! I do but crash into the corner of two walls. No time to hesitate, run, run! My goggles slip a little as I race back to the middle of the room, blocking my vision for a second. A few short steps and then a stretch with my right hand. The single glove I wear on my hand holds tight as I swing my arm. Hop back up into position again. There’s an opening, there, there! A mistake! I see the momentary weakness and exploit it.

A rest again. I adjust the racquet in my hand, and check my goggles. I take the blue ball, bounce it a few times on the ground. I tap up a beautiful serve into the corner and ready myself for the running.

But it was an ace. So I prepare myself again. Check the racquet, my glove, the goggles, bounce the ball a few times again. I drop the ball and smash it this time. This time it’s a good thing I was ready, a good return and I have to hurry. Speed is once again my only thought, my eyes never leaving that lovely little blue ball that, for the moment, is my entire life. I love this. I love this room, I love these walls more than anything.

Hey Mike

The fact that you are deathly ill doesn't excuse you from posting. If your keyboard sticks because you barfed on it, cowboy up and post anyway! Just kidding. Get well soon.

Karla's Crazy Idea

The bear had backed her into a corner formed by enormous boulders, there were no cracks or holes in which to scurry. Confident in securing its quarry, the bear advanced slowly sniffing at the fear which hung in the air.

"This is a crazy idea," thought Karla, "but what else am I going to do?"

She extended her arm towards the bear, her quivering thumb and index finger curled and tense.

Bink. She had done the improbable. She had flicked the bear right in the tender flesh of its black wet nose.

The bear paused, blinking in surprise and then reared back as if it were going to let out a mighty roar. Instead it released a powerful sneeze, covering Karla with thick mucus. Immediately, it reared back again and paused, its eyes closed, its nose towards heaven. The sneeze was clearly stalling.

Karla took her chance, slipping past the distracted bear and running into the forest.

Dr McNinja is Sweet

Just go to here. There's like, 10 different stories. And they're hilarious and awesome.
http://www.drmcninja.com/archive.html

Super Secret HLS 2/5

Major Danny Boom still didn’t know what to make of his new transfer. Two day’s before, he still hadn’t heard of the Hot Librarians Squad or anything about their mission. He truly expected something else when his former commanding officer notified him of “an important transfer straight from the desk of the Secretary of the Joint Chiefs.”

Now, Major Boom found himself standing in the middle of a large situation room, complete all manner of computerized information and communications devises. Gazing at one of the large computer screens, he recognized his own military record detailing his skills as a crack cargo-helicopter pilot.

As he reviewed his record, he heard a whirring behind him and turned to see a stocky man with a grey crew cut whirring towards him in some kind of motorized captain’s chair. Major Boom snapped to attention, saluted smartly and barked “Major Daniel Boom reporting for duty, sir.” “There’s no need for that Mr. Boom, we find little use for such formalities here.” Major Boom relaxed slightly, waiting for the man in the chair to make the next move. “I see that you found your way down here all right” said the man in the chair. “My instructions were very specific, sir” replied Major Boom. “Very well,” said the man, “follow me.”

With that, the man in the chair whipped it around and started whirring off to a large door and the far end of the room. “My name is Commander Pace Harrington, and I’m responsible for the Squad and its operations.” Though he was likely in his sixty’s, Major Boom noticed that the man was in excellent physical condition. His sinewy build denoted a lifetime of physical training. Major Boom concluded that the man did not need to be riding in the chair. Major Boom also noticed the man’s glasses.

“Right now,” said the commander “the Squad is in a training session: close proximity combat and defense, you’ll get to meet them shortly.” Major Boom followed Pace into a wide metal walled corridor. “You’ll find that they are different than most of the people with which you have worked in the past. Our operatives, though highly trained in special operations, are primarily librarians. Their commitment is to the mission of the HLS: to preserve America’s knowledge base through the protection of its libraries. You will be one of the few non-librarians on our team, you were chosen because we needed your skills as a pilot. Our last pilot was killed in action.” Though Major Boom was no stranger to risk, the thought of filling a dead man’s shoes discomforted him. “Oh,” said the commander, “I see the training session is over.

Three men and two women emerged from a door on Major Boom’s left. They were all dressed in black combat gear complete with body armor. Two of the men bore large black backpacks that seemed to be filled with books. They all appeared to be in their late twenties and most were wearing glasses.

“You must be the new pilot,” said the woman closest to Major Boom, “Welcome to the team.” “Shooter isn’t going to be very pleased with this development,” said one of the men eliciting a chuckle from one of the other men. “Shooter is just going to have to cowboy up,” said the commander, “Sara, will you show Mr. Boom to his habitation.” “Sure,” said one of the two women, “right this way Mr. Boom.” Major Boom followed Sara further down the corridor.

“You sure are talkative,” said Sara, “Cat got your tongue?” “I’m sorry” said Major Boom, “I am just a little confused. I mean, I am in a secret base located beneath a university with the mission of flying helicopters for commando librarians . . . ?” “I see,” said Sara understandingly, “you’ll catch on soon enough.”

As they walked further down the corridor, Major Boom noticed more about Sara. She was tall and athletic with a blond bun of hair that poked out under the black hockey helmet that all of the squad apparently wore to training. Major Boom had never seen body armor look so good on anyone before.

As they rounded a corner, Major Boom came face to face with a muscular man with sharp features. Before Major Boom could say “excuse me,” the man growled, “you must be Boom. I just want to get one thing straight, you’re not a librarian, and I don’t like you.” “Grow up Shooter,” scolded Sara. “He’s the best of the best and you know it.” “Okay,” said Shooter, “but I’ll be watching you and if you screw things up even one little bit, I’ll kick you to pieces.” With that, shooter turned and walked swiftly down the corridor.

“Is everybody so intense around here?” asked Major Boom. “No,” said Sara “We’ve all been a little on edge since the crash.” “What crash,” asked Major Boom “I don’t really want to talk about right now,” said Sara. Major Boom thought it best not to press the issue.

“If you want to see your ride, they main hangar is in here,” said Sara, opening pushing open a door. To Major Boom, it was a grand site. He didn’t recognize the make of the immense helicopter but its aerodynamic body seemed to fill the hangar. His heart pounded. Leaving Sara standing at the door, he walked to the vehicle’s side, climbed the moveable tarmac stairs and slid into the chopper’s pilot seat. Surveying its modern flight controls Major Boom surmised that the vehicle was one of a kind, designed and made for one application: to schlep around commando librarians and their books. Caught up in the glory of the moment Major Boom’s thought to himself, “And, who . . . who is the only pilot good enough to handle this magnificent beast? Danny frickin’ Boom, that’s who.” At that moment he knew that this was going to be a good transfer.

A Fairy Is Born

By Michael Hopkins

One clear evening over the enchanted forest, all was calm and quite. There was no wind and unlike usual there was no stirring of magical creatures in the darkness. The moon was full and its light glimmered through the trees into a round clearing.

To an untrained eye this clearing, in the middle of a very dense magical forest, seemed somewhat normal. One might wonder how this spot was so void of tree or maybe you would wonder who had cleared this spot and why, but the secret of the clearing would go on hidden away. The clearing in fact had great significance in the battle that raged on in the quite and darkness of the nights in the forest. The biggest players in the war were fairies. Yep, Fairies, are the most powerful in terms of doing good or evil. They are the leaders of all good and bad around the world.

Some may say that this is not true that it is the devil. The devil does play his part but it is the fairies the really entice things to do good or bad. For centuries artists have portrays little winged red devils attemting to tempt some poor soul into doing something evil. Well those are actually evil fairies. Evil fairies are red and good fairies or white. It makes sense when you think about it.

The sky grows brighter and brighter and for a while it is like all of the ground and trees and bushes around the perfect circle where lit up like a clear night after a long day of snow. This circle is the birthplace of fairies. All fairies were born here, all fairies were born in the same season on the same full moon of each tenure. Tonight there will be another, new fairy will be sent, or become into existence to never die lest it be killed by another fairy in one of the seven ways.

The bright night then diminishes and everything becomes dark as the darkest night. It is as if the moon decided to take a break from shining and just stopped shining for a while. But the stars, the stars glistened and became brighter and brighter. They burned the sky with their brilliance.

Two stars, shooting stars, one traveling directly south and the other directly west, came closer and closer to one another as if they would hit. They do hit and the stars keep moving in their respective paths. Another line starts on impact and travels directly toward the circle, to the exact center.

On impact, the light grows into a ball and brightens everything until the whole circle is burned with the light from the star. This phenomenon would explain why no trees grow in the circle and why the it is an exact circle where nothing but a little grass grows. Now there is no grass. The light recedes except for a little white spec of light where now lies the youngest fairy that now exists.

To Be Continued.

The Birth of a Suburban Revolutionary

"40,000 people . . . 40,000 people!" The concept twisted and turned in Nate's head like a fitful sleeper. He was still tense and emotional though it had been a day since his Geography 1010 teacher shared the grim statistic. "40,000 people!"

The professor had been addressing 3rd world development before a sea of lethargic college freshman when he casually dropped the statistic: "40,000 people die every day from starvation and preventable water-born diseases."

"40,000 people . . . starve . . . every day!" The concepts slashed into Nate's conscience and lit a fire under his chest.

Having grown up in American suburbia, Nate had been insulated from the monumental inequities that face the majority of the world population. In Nate's childhood there had been neither hunger nor death. Indeed, Nate had lived a sheltered life, and like the life lived by Guatama, it all came crashing down in a moment.


"85% of these deaths are children under 18" Remarked the professor.

"Children!" thought Nate as the burning in his chest cooled to a hollow astonishment. He glanced around. To his right was a young woman who stared blankly towards the professor. Her chin rhythmically popped up and down as she chewed gum. Nate could smell the mint. To his left, a young man punched buttons on a cell phone with his thumb, peering at its blue luminescence from beneath a new-looking white baseball cap.

"40,000 people!" The thought filled Nate with a sense of urgency. His mind questioned, "If so many are dying, why aren't we doing anything about it?" Feverishly, his mind further queried, "why does high school close so students can comb the mountainsides for a single lost child and yet it is business as usual every other day though 40,000 humans starve . . . every . . . day?"

Nate's thought of his church and its touted welfare and humanitarian system. Images of gleaming white grain silos and pallets of canned peaches filled his mind. These gleaming images faded next to the grim reality of the 40,000 people a day that the system was failing. The image of the towering white silos naturally led Nate's mind the towering white spires of the temple that his church had just finished building in his town. The bright marble spires crowned with a triumphant golden statute of an angel . Nate imagined how the temple would look if it had been built out of sacks of flour.

Walking home from the university the next day, Nate's mind still seethed. It was as if the souls of that day's 40,000 followed him through the streets. He looked down at his clean white healthy hands. "ten fingers" he thought, "it would take 8,000 hands to count up all of the dead." Nate imagined a pile of 8,000 severed hands.

In the future years, the fire under Nate's chest continued to burn. Though it sometimes flickered and smoldered under the burden of pop-culture, pop-consumerism, and pop-religion, the fire never went out.

Choice>Chance>Choice

This was a writing exercise I did for class.
by steven hopkins

Billy and Teddy decided that the house was too quiet. Their mother was asleep upstairs and they wanted to scare her.
They remembered that they had seen a rat in the backyard, and they figured they could catch it and put it down her shirt. They went out to the garden and poked around under the shed. Billy laid down on the ground and the heat of the grass instantly warmed his shirt. Teddy laid next to him.
“Do you see’im?” Teddy asked, squinting one eye.
“I think so, but I think he’s cooked.”
Sure enough, a long stick extracted the rat, hard and matted like a barbie doll.
“Well, so much for that idea.” Billy kicked at the dirt.
Teddy started and grabbed Billy’s shirt. He looked his brother dead in the eye. “Goldfish,” he said and the two bolted toward the house.