Category Archives: Writer’s Workshop

Graduation Speech

Greetings classmates, and welcome to Hell.

These were the greatest years of our lives. But now they’re over. Now, we are all off to the big boy world. A world full of debt, sorrow, work, exhaustion, and death. A world of excruciating failure and dreams forever left in ruin. A world where your neighbors steal your newspapers and loan sharks break your kneecaps. So it’s time to prepare for the bloodbath.

The whole world lies ahead of us now. We will all scamper off on our own paths, but they all lead to the same result. A broken back, and eventual mortal failure. Not to say that is immediately before us though. First, we must slowly decay into said condition. So on this great day of celebration, thus day of graduation from this tiny play world of menial sadness and meaning, into the real world, I hope you bought your barf bags.

If there is one thing living in this play world has taught me, it is that the cruelty of humanity is unrivaled by any other known species. People are mean, and go about their own empty lives in a crooked, empty attempt to make someone else’s life slightly less comfortable. I have learned of the impossibility of a happy life ahead, and really how pointless it all is. Our existence is an unfortunate happening at best. So, the wisdom that I can pass on to you, on to you all, is to be nice. Treat others at least slightly better than trash. We’ve all been treated like garbage before (actually my pet name among my friends is garbage) and it just makes us all feel slightly more grim. Which is a horrid way to feel when you’re literally waste high in the garbage of a garbagy world. I urge you all to treat one another somewhat nicely, hold doors and whatnot, because it really sucks when you’re wading through the earlier mentioned garbage of life AND people are throwing rocks at you, ranging from pebbles to boulders.

            With an act of kindness, there is always the chance that, just like a foreign agent infecting a nation of innocents and killing them all, your kindness might spread. Such cases are often rare (due to man’s inherit jerkish nature) but still, even the chance of an “outbreak of kindness” is worth pursuing. If one could encourage such an infection, one ought to. In a world where kindness is spread aggressively, we might even be able to forget about things like lawsuits, poor business principles, and warmongering. Kindness’ terrifying grasp might blot out negativity aimed at each other entirely, and I think that would be very nice indeed.

            However, being the semi-rational human male that I am, I find it very difficult to buy into an idea like that. I know that no matter how much one man might want a nice happy world with declining taxes and free veterinary care for thousands of cute little puppies, one hundred other men will say “No, we would rather bury ourselves in filth and then ferment for ten years, and after fermenting write a very long essay of perhaps 254 pages to explain to you why the world is better buried in the filth of our design”, and then proceed to beat the one man with a good idea into an early and unfortunate grave (see Jesus). Man does such things out of self-interest. Just as man is jerkish by nature, man is also rather entirely self-interested.

            To disregard the fact that most everyone ignores the negative effects of self interest, including at very least a portion of you all, would be unwise, so I won’t. Instead, I will urge those of you who are not sleeping right now to consider my words, and consider them heavily. Once you have done that, take on the paranoid and extremely cynical personality type that I have, and be very aware that no matter how much good you might want for the world, there will be many other that disagree, violently. So I ask you, those who listen, is it better to fight for the kindness you stand for (and plausibly die, accomplishing nothing), or to hide and survive in worthless silence behind the impenetrable wall of extremist self-lovers and destroyers of kindness, love, and eventually humanity, still accomplishing nothing.

Class mates, it is with great sorrow that I congratulate you on your graduation, and it is with half-hearted hope that I wish you the very best you can make of the garbage that life will hand you. One man’s trash, I suppose.


Here’s a little writing excercise we did in class today, writing about smells!:

“How does this smell?”

“Hmm… Quaint.”

“… What?”

Larry Jenson had a seemingly designless system of describing things.

In this case, his definition of a perfume scent, Curve by Liz Claiborne to be exact, struck him as quaint. However strange this might seem to an outsider trying to properly align the reasoning behind him saying this, there was in fact much reason behind that definition.

Continue reading

On the Bus

The buses leave at nine.

Broken backs and puzzle pieces startle cold floors.

Doors creak open with metallic slide.

Passengers board and cultures collide.

The chairs are ripped and battered

Like city streets.

The people are scarred and splattered

With character,

Bruised with colorful touches of pride

And hidden sides.

Passion and fury on the inside

Of us all,

On the bus, stirs endlessly.

Broken stares of tired kids and worn thin adults

Draw lines on the inside of the bus,

On the inside of all of us.

Exaggerated banging heads and thrashing arms

Of the head-phoned drummers

Express some hidden intention

To be free.

Freedom comes from worn thin adults

And air drumming citizens

Who pile on the bus in the morning.

To go somewhere.



Freedom comes


Those seeking rebirth,

Or getting to work,

Or riding the bus

Just because

That is what they want.

To journey with others

In a melting pot

Of worn out faces and

Chairs chased

By sitters

And backs awash

With sighing standers.

Because whether they have to,

Or not,

They can ride the bus

And be a part

Of all the rest of us

On the bus.



Reality is what I want.

Reality is


What you keep saying to me.

Reality isn’t A’s and college.

Reality is just

A word.

An expression of what is,

Is reality.

Everything reality is



So why can’t everything be what

I want it to be?

Why can’t reality be me.

Mine to decide,

My trigger to pull and

My fuse to burn.

My blinding light

In the sky

To warm me and my heart.

Why can’t it be


And my girl.

Why can’t it be friends

And sometimes work.

Why is reality a jerk?

Why is reality another war

And a bomb down the street.

Why is reality people being mean.

An actress hanging herself.

Why is reality a broken window

From another tornado.

Or people not getting along.

Or another pop song

That’s a dud.

Why is reality not

Two guys with a cello and a piano

Rocking out

Loud, beautiful, and proud

Of the sound they make.

Why is reality not my music,

But who hates my music instead.

Why does reality pound in my head


Of drawing pictures of some better tomorrow

That I would rather have


The one that

You gave me.

Character Draft 1: The Mountain Man

I watched his spidery, muscly muscular form warp and stretch as he shifted up the building. Night was settling, and the Mountain Man was traversing his begotten obstacle; the dusty grey monument of a building that he currently clung to the side of. The streets had been drained of any hint of life that may have existed earlier, and nothing but an empty, flat, and straight space remained. An overtone of grey comfortably rested on the fully urbanized streets of District F2. The Mountain Man’s coat was pushed and pulled by the wind, and he shifted ever so slightly with it. It was worrying to watch him, he always threatened to slip, but somehow never did. He climbed steadily, tirelessly. Over the days I had spied on him, he seemed always to be climbing. He climbed drowsily, without hurry, but never ceased.

He was as grey as the city itself. His coat, grey and crumpled, shrouded his sooty flesh marked with lines of age. His hood revealed nothing but the occasional touch of his stony eyes, and his unsmiling, unshaven mouth. He moved very slowly.

Yet, in danger, a vitality incomparable to any other radiated from him. Under his thick coat–and thicker shell–was a heart throbbing with life. A mechanical drive for action, for victory, for justice. In his heart were the scorching flames of a dissatisfaction with a life set in stone.

And a chance at action had arrived.

On the street below, a child had been abducted. The frontest foremost man had thrown the boy over his shoulder, and the group carted him down the nearly abandoned street. The boy was screaming murderously. Across the road I saw other eyes peaking out of cracks in curtains, watching the scene unfold. The men moved slowly, with little worry. They wouldn’t be caught, the Guard cared little about petty crimes amidst civilians. However, from the view of my window, I saw the rooftops above, and the swift fate approaching the abductors. The hooded man leapt from one building to the next, gaining on the group rapidly. He moved with such grace and speed I could not resist but to simply staring at him in awe, mouth agape. He had sped far ahead of the men at this point, and now stood directly across from my place in the window, perched at the top of the splotchy, cheap building. Waiting, like a hawk choosing eyeing its rabbit. He drew his crudely constructed hooks from under his jacket. They resembled crooked ice picks, but had a much more quiet and menacing glow about them. The group was entirely incredulous of the man, and laughed amongst themselves as they pushed the few bystanders aside who got in their way.

The Mountain Man’s head tilted up, and for only a fraction of a moment, he looked right at me. His eyes were squinted, and gleamed with the sureness of impending victory. A crooked smile was plastered to his face. And no more than a second later, his heavy frame delicately lifted from the ledge. He stylishly fell from the height, catching windowsills with pedaling feet to slow the effect of gravity on him. Within five seconds, he had reached the exact spot of where his prey had stepped, around three meters above them. With masterful timing, he lashed out with his feet against the façade, projecting himself from his close proximity to the building, towards the open space above the sidewalk. Now he fell, with nothing between him and the men but a suspenseful cloud of air. His picks were drawn above his head.

With a sharp crack I could hear from six stories above, the tip of the left pick drove into the skull of the man to the farthest right, burying themselves itself deeply within his head. The man in the back was the only one to instantly realize the arrival of the violent guest, and his peeled open with terror-stricken surprise. The Mountain Man left the pick lodged in the skull of the falling corpse, and swung his right pick into the guts of the unfortunate witness, before the criminal could even flinch. The other two were turning now, reacting slowly to the commotion. The pick that was lodged in the stomach of the second victim was quickly retracted. The remaining two, thoroughly shocked, were slow to draw. The Mountain Man swung his pick with immense velocity towards the remaining two men, splattering them with gore drawn from the impaled man’s insides. They drew back, to shield themselves from the spray, and in the moment they were blinded, he struck at them, ripping out their throats. Ten seconds had passed, and nothing was left but a bloody mess of paling, lifeless bodies.

The child, who fortunately had been dropped near the beginning of this episode, was lying in the street. The hooded man, now painted with blood, turned to him. He slowly approached the boy, and slowly offered his hand. The child was tiny in contrast to the massive features of the Mountain Man, his uncultivated hand barely wrapped around one of his savior’s fingers. He pulled the boy to his feet, and knelt down to whisper in his ear. A second later, he was scaling the building again, more quickly now, and the child was scampering home, in a frightened daze.

He followed the boy the entire way.

%d bloggers like this: