Results 1 to 6 of 6

Thread: College

  1. #1
    Chiromancer Gobbo's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    Location
    The lower bricks of the pyramid.
    Posts
    15

    College

    Hey. Ok so I'm new here. I figured I'd start of by sharing a bit of the type of stuff I like to write -- that's usually a decent way to get into a writer's head. I think, at least.

    Ok so this story is called 'College'. It's something I'm working on now. It's one of those 'work on it while you're in it' type things. I'd appreciate any comments. I know my grammar is horrible at times. Bear with that... I'll hopefully get around to editing. (I say that but usually I just move onto write something else.)
    Me fail, grammar. That's unpossible?.

  2. #2
    Chiromancer Gobbo's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    Location
    The lower bricks of the pyramid.
    Posts
    15
    Prologue. “Still, waters.”


    In the middle of the Midpier College campus stands it’s tallest building: The Student Sciences Center. The building is stone, and capped at the top by the largest cell phone array in the city. A marvel of the sciences, it uses magnetism and alchemy. The umbrella of energy carries with it the thoughts and voices of the intellectual sphere, breathing a sort of life to the community. The uniform frequency marches away from one power source, compelled by another, a rainbow by the end of the fall, the world it creates. Invisible drops of theory pool, condense, solidify into perception, time, and matter. Books are written. Passion is (hopefully) rooted in the cool, transparent mist of the self, where our image is projected in color: any thought there is. College is a torrent. It relocates the sediment and sentiment of the earth such that they are factories of novelty on the continental shelves. If thought is an ocean of viscosity, surely this school --all schools-- are the thick honey, if not perhaps an image a bit less flattering. The cellphone array is like a strong river; it’s frequency has such a strength that it entrains all others towards it, downstream. That thick, black honey.

    In any case it’s sweet, right? It’s a wily collection of years where each day is a phase. Values change, they even cross-dress. Small things become big things, then have sex for hours. It is limbo. Of course, there are those who learn within one area of study, and these people do it well to various degrees. Your time there may run on an existential clock face -- some sort of singularity to family and friends which spews out Nietzsche. Your time there may run on the department’s clock, such that you become one with the community, and all it’s secrets. Whatever the experience, we all get wet. We all fall into those rushing waters.

    Some of us sink, and some stay afloat.
    Me fail, grammar. That's unpossible?.

  3. #3
    Chiromancer Gobbo's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    Location
    The lower bricks of the pyramid.
    Posts
    15
    1. "A Psychic, a Courtyard, an Institution.”


    Standing firmly on what she perceives, Teresa’s mother keeps her feet down on the lush grass of the campus courtyard. She stands with her daughter, looking up towards the array. “I can even hear it...” Susan Liev murmurs to herself, shaking her head. Above, in the clouds, there is a problem.

    “Hear what?” Teresa asks, the annoyance in her voice equalled by her general excitement with the big day. “I can’t believe this little mini-river they have through campus. It’s all so natural.”

    “I think it’s the c--...Sort of a buzzing sound -- do you hear it?”

    Teresa shrugs as the question slows her down. Her hair settles. “Kind of.”

    “Kind of? It’s...overpowering.” The mother’s grimace is hinged by her daughter’s beauty, and innocence. Teresa’s dress giggles praises to her form, anxious to be closer at any opportunity. Woe is Susan. Whoa is Teresa. The mothers fears her potential and hates herself for it is so much more than she can fathom, let alone fret over.

    “What is it? Do you see something?”

    “It’s...not important right now. What’s important is that my little girl is finally going to University. I feel so old..”

    Susan had not gone to University, in fact she had grown up in a Carnival as a psychic. Over six thousand aura scans to her name. While she was confident with her PhD in the esoteric, college was completely unfamiliar to the single mother. She lets her concern and motherly worry invade her face as she prepares to say goodbye to her little pillar of innocence. She stands there, in her eyes Teresa’s white light, surrounded by the shades of the machine. She tries not to cry.

    Teresa smiles, ripples of love washing over Susan, the slight moisture of heaven to cool her down. “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll be fine.”
    Me fail, grammar. That's unpossible?.

  4. #4
    Chiromancer Gobbo's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    Location
    The lower bricks of the pyramid.
    Posts
    15
    2. “Damage Deposit, and first month’s rent. Check.”


    A student stands on a black and white linoleum floor -- both feet on white, incidentally. He notices this as he looks down to inspect the once shiny surface. He feels like a chess piece now as he surveys the condition of this section of the playing board. Is this square a strategic move?

    His opponent is unseen, but he lurks in that polite chess player way.

    “Another thing that makes this house interesting is that the land it’s built on is among the oldest in the city. I don’t have to tell you how hold the school is, but even before that there was a native tribe who lived here that spoke of a ghostly entity which taught them secrets of astrology, magnetism, and alchemy.”

    Eugene is a student; a potential lease signer; potential in the general sense. He stands there in the kitchen with the landlord, and history enthusiast. Just the two of them; but “Mike Palmgrean” is the type of person you never quite feel alone with. Eugene had quietly stood through three calls already. They came in through Mike’s earpiece, which the Polish man explained was safer.

    “So what do you think of the kitchen?” the landlord finally got around to, as well as the last piece of his KFC wrap. “Extra ranch sauce...it’s worth it.” He licked his lips, half talking to himself as he crumpled up the silver wrapping.

    Eugene thinks: What do I think?

    The microwave is covered in stains. Incidentally the word ‘apprehensive’ has been spelled by some errant mistake involving a red liquid. The illustration is there if you look with generosity -- like a Jesus image in toast, or something. The red contrasts the microwave’s black coloring, making it’s presence on the machine all the more obvious. At one time the nuclear cube had been a shiny black; a sleek device with a uniform touch-button operating panel. At present the stains performed visual war dances with Eugene and potential users alike, warning them of what will await trespass. Something is wrong here, but the microwave is functional. Eugene knew that the moment Mike popped the KFC wrap he had been eating in for a 0:45 seconds of 20th Century heat. He had made the trespass without hesitation. Perhaps that’s what is wrong, or perhaps that is his blood.

    Eugene thought if he was going to move in, he would likely be doing most of the cleaning. The stains had been there for a while... What if his roommates felt more comfortable with dirt than they would with him? What if the source of the red stain was a story which crucified his impression to the hands of time? Both very real possibilities and definitely something to consider. Sort of like choosing a religion as opposed to being born into one.

    “It’s uh... cozy -- a real collage of styles.” Eugene offers.

    His parents are big into interior decor(ating.) He imagined them standing in the kitchen with him, looking around, massaging their eyeballs as they strained to accept the unrestrained deformity that is this house. Still, time is running out. Sooner or later he has to pick a place, right? There’s that one guy who seems to live in the library, during the day at least...so that spot is taken. Eugene was no first year student, he had been around the block --this block-- quite a few times. He knew what he needed: a room to weather out another year. His last year. It didn’t have to be fancy, just not the streets.

    “Ok, let’s take a look at your room. It’s actually fortunate that you are here when you are, as this room comes with a bed, which is always a necessity right?” The landlord continues, pre-emptively justifying what is to come. He’s seen it all, likely. He knows the queen can be sacrificed for the better move.

    Eugene knows what is to come. A cell of visual redundancy; a cube of weird smells. A life boat in the meandering gusts of self-actualization. That is, somewhere where he’ll be alone a lot, thinking about stuff. Near the end, his next move.

    They make their way through a darkened corridor and Mike makes no move to light it. The conversation is muted for this stretch. Still, perhaps there will be light at the end of this tunnel: Eugene had been surprised with a safe haven in a house of uncertainty before. Intuitively, though, he felt there would be no repeat surprise found behind door number one. They stand on the threshold(s): The door is situated between the shadow from the burnt out light, and the range of the next functional one at the end of the hall.

    “Alrighty....” Mike Palgrean murmurs, searching for the correct key. The small brass instruments crash into each other lightly, creating a jingle. Ghostly knights and bishops grin as his hand slides past him, form and energy unseen. Finally his fingers find their destination. He slides ‘B4’ into the slot. “Ok, so this is the room...”

    The door swings open and Eugene peers into his own value system to see how he had last left it. A small window; a bed lies in one corner, mimicking it’s purpose. All of it functional, like the microwave.
    Me fail, grammar. That's unpossible?.

  5. #5
    Chiromancer Gobbo's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    Location
    The lower bricks of the pyramid.
    Posts
    15
    3. “Ye green creature of legends.”

    The last night of Frosh, a half fortnight since the hormone carnival had begun. Eugene had been impressed by the proceedings this year -- they had even gotten a Gypsy fluent in the magical arts. His class didn’t get the council of a psychic. Why not? He shakes his head grinning to himself at the thought, and many more, on his way to get a coffee. He wonders about the future: he walks in the wonders of the past.

    It’s Saturday. The sun is starting to set.

    The fumes of the creature’s breath waft through the city. He’s loose tonight. A couple figures sit high above on a cliff overlooking the night and the city -- they know. The creature lives in all of us. Tonight, however, externalized are the witch hunts for the great prize. Mobs of Frosh stampede through campus in green armor, waving banners of the same. Somewhere off in the distance sirens chase after a variety of screams. Somewhere and everywhere, it is always the luring scream of the siren. Timeless, lost, looking for their halos, the students search; some with brimstone flasks, and some with starry eyes and reward posters. Chained by notions of propriety our variable knights swing not towards the monster, but iron to iron their swords meet the chains which bind their brides.

    They retreat, inevitably. With age comes a shift from reckless warrior to a true student of God, and the natural sciences.

    The monks are adorned in their brown robes. They watch the proceedings amidst an aura of pretension from the house with the ivory shutters, high, high on the mountain’s shelf. The clergy in the front, thousands of small, roasted brains sealed in storage in the back room. Money in between. Derived for some by their intellect, and others through their utter liberal acceptance, the occupants sip tall wares on tall chairs, while far below antics abound.

    Eugene is in search of the tower. Mermaids watch him from just beyond the rocky ocean shore. He walks from the city, past the scaled vixen, and into the mouth of the ascending path. The color of nature and signs alike point the way.

    The student finally achieves summit and is greeted by the sultry sounds jazz. He can’t put his finger on the artist at play, but guesses it’s likely available for sale here too.

    Eugene orders a latte. He stands there watching the Milksmith forge out a blade whose edge will weather the strikes of lethargy. Upon receiving the tool, and sheathing the instrument for safety, he takes a seat at an open table. Beside him a trio of extroverts are engaged in the kind of talk which is worthy of a stranger’s attention. They enjoy these little debates, as they snack on hot wings and ranch sauce.

    “There’s going to be a lot of sloppy sex tonight.”

    “I like sex. It’s the lifeblood of an existential farm.”

    “Probably a couple rapes. Maybe a death -- look at how far we’ve come as a species.”

    “Halfway... at least. I think it goes: bone club -- gas powered vehicle -- Galactic Consciousness.”

    “How much longer till the apex of human potential?”

    “I think we actually past it back in Ancient Egypt.”

    “I think mummies were all we passed in Ancient Egypt.”

    “That’s a wrap!”

    “I don’t think anyone is even paying attention. It’s not that we don’t have...ambitions, just that we overheat entire celestial bodies in our endeavors, or otherwise similar epic ****-ups, and are too busy with all of that.”

    “You really think humans are responsible for global warming, huh?”

    “You don’t?”

    “I dunno. Maybe it’s the sun? Ever heard of sun spots?”

    “Ok... did you not watch “An Inconvenient Truth?”

    “No, not yet I--

    “Ok, well, then.... I don’t know how you can try and argue about this. I mean, the scientific method is not really up for debate here. We’ve obviously polluted the earth, and it’s obviously warming up. Case closed. You’re obviously free to believe anything you want, but...you’d be wrong so why would you do that?”

    Of the three people, one was a girl, and one had a beard. The latter started to laugh. “Cause I’m not a poli-sci major” he replied, still chuckling.

    “What? What is that funny?”

    The female explained. “Well, as a Chemistry Major I think what he’s trying to say is: the Scientific Method seeks to disprove, rather than prove. Global warming is a theory, not a fact.”

    “Gravity is a theory, and it’s a fact.”

    “Gravity is a phenomenon. A rather mysterious one.”

    “Who cares? I know you took a philosophy course last year, and that’s all fine and good, but I’m right, and you’re wrong.”

    “How do you know?”

    “Because the Green Industry has already started to bloom. Cleaning up the planet is a cause that everyone can get behind -- even fascist governments. You have to understand the money at play here. Even if we’re not responsible for Global Warming, we are now. The machine has already been put in motion. In theory, science is theory. In practice, science is what money tells it to be. I’d say in the coming years that’s going to be a harsh, fiscal dictator.”

    “Well that’s... one way to look at it.”

    “I for one think it’s good. We’ll see reforms like making fat people take a break from Macdonalds.”

    Eventually the trio gets up and leaves. Eugene turns to his laptop, and with one hand on the hilt of his latte, allows the aroma of the coffee house to facilitate his contemplation for the rest of this stay. The landlord’s question had stuck with him. What does he think? The world is so confusing. He realizes the limitations of his class, and wonders what truth lies behind the closed doors of the library. The native people’s secrets of astrology, magnetism, and alchemy.

    Darkness now. Diamonds affixed to the vast black; Saturn wears her ring. Eugene makes his way down the (stress relieved) concrete mountain path towards the city with the rest of the clergy. The howls abound after themselves into the night, and across the ocean. Sirens. Steel on steel.
    Me fail, grammar. That's unpossible?.

  6. #6
    Chiromancer Gobbo's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2008
    Location
    The lower bricks of the pyramid.
    Posts
    15
    4. “Walking down Centre Pointe Dr.”

    Today is a very windy day, and Teresa is loving it so far. The shower this morning had washed away the last grime of the past couple days, but she needs something more and the exuberant gusts are just the call. The air propelled the line of trees beside her into stationary flurries, and she danced through the mental car wash. Guilt, lust, and the green fumes of the creature are strained from her aura. Headed downtown, she figures wherever she ends up will be an adventure. A nice, quiet adventure.

    Frosh Week had been so much.

    A young man walks by her, and their eyes meet. He is familiar to her only through impulse of the lower chakras; through an approximate style that she fancied. No, they had never met. Still, the moment stretched out -- longer than she could have imagined. She thought it weird as she clawed into his back, just how many ways it could all go. She watched herself from the future; she knew what the screams meant. In a way that only someone else can, he had opened her up and coaxed out the answers for her to see. It was all right there -- oh, yea, right there. To say it was mutual would be lying -- she had done it her way, and she was proud of that. It could have gone so many different ways. No, they hadn’t met, not really. It was of course better this way.

    “God, you’re beautiful. You’re eyes, they’re so...”

    “Piercing?”

    “I don’t know, but I like it...you should be on TV.”

    “Please...don’t say that -- at least not right now.”


    Yes, a nice quiet adventure downtown. Frosh Week had been a doozy, but so had her childhood. She feels so prepared in a certain sense; kind of hung over in another. Well-conditioned hair, fresh from the blow dryer shines like an opera singer in the afternoon light. “I’m every woman... it’s all in me!” The young girl in the dress could be seen humming to herself that day.

    The beast, disguised as a passing dog darts over from it’s owner, verifying the scent of Teresa’s particular melody. With a massive grin on it’s face the small grey dog stands before girl in the dress, wagging it’s tail.

    The young girl follows the leash from the animal to an aging bald man sporting an aging undershirt, and many tattoos. He raises his free arm to point at her, revealing a tattoo of an eight-pronged star set in a circle half it’s size. “You’re special” he breaths. The beast pants.
    Me fail, grammar. That's unpossible?.

Similar Threads

  1. classes in highschool 4 college
    By lovely244 in forum General Chat
    Replies: 6
    Last Post: 07-24-2007, 10:23 PM
  2. college essay 2
    By ssjandu in forum General Writing
    Replies: 4
    Last Post: 11-09-2006, 08:56 PM
  3. A Suggestion for College Students
    By Shannanigan in forum General Chat
    Replies: 16
    Last Post: 09-05-2006, 09:04 PM
  4. College: Do and Don't Do
    By ktd222 in forum General Chat
    Replies: 13
    Last Post: 06-08-2006, 04:18 AM

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •