serveitup61
01-05-2012, 07:22 PM
*Thanks for reading! Please, please, please critique me to your heart's extent. I can handle it. I love the feedback. Thanks again :)*
Powerless, by Tommy
I was sitting at my computer several days ago when the power went out in my house. The sudden darkness and collective halting of every piece of machinery I owned startled me, and I found myself sitting alone in the dark. I never felt truly alone when the house was alive with electrical rhythms. My appliances, I felt, kept me company.
I thought to myself, “No problemo, my laptop will still work.”
But when I sat back down in my desk after checking to see if the neighbor’s lights were out (they were), my laptop would not turn on. Stranger still, my cell phone, my mp3 player, and even my camera would not work either. Everything was dark.
I was bored. I swiveled in my chair for ten minutes, with the intent of returning to my useless net-surfing.
That was when I first realized how frightfully pathetic I am.
I pulled a flashlight from my desk and aimed it all over the walls as I swiveled in circles. The little ball of light danced on my striped blue wallpaper. After a few minutes of this I decided that I was far too old and mature to be as enthralled as I was by a flashlight.
I released a heavy sigh, gripped the chair’s armrests, and lifted myself to the feet. I walked around my house searching for candles. The lack of power gave the house an abandoned feel. I was so accustomed to the subtle blinking lights, and the silent whirrings within the walls, that when they were gone, I felt I had never been in the house before.
I found a big scented candle in my kitchen, and took it to my bedroom where I would wait for the power to come back on. It wasn’t long before my room started to smell strongly of “Cinnamon Spice.”
After swiveling in my chair a few more times and a few a unsuccessful attempts to finish books I had started years ago yet never finished, I decided to search my closet for something to do.
Apart from clothes, I liked to keep old nostalgic mementos from my childhood in my closet. I kept those things in boxes that I hadn’t so much as touched for decade or so. With my flashlight in my mouth, I looked through boxes of things I had long forgotten: athletic awards from high school, overly expressive handmade cards from old girlfriends, old song lyrics I had written.
“Junk,” I said to myself.
I pulled out some pictures of an awkward, skinny me. There were pictures of me at a middle school dance, with my arm around my date in what appeared to be an uncomfortable fashion. Back then I never thought that girl that I was standing next to was attractive, but she eventually became one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women I had ever seen. If I could go back, I would have held her more closely and I would have certainly offered her my jacket when the night got cold. There were other pictures of myself as a brace-faced, squeaky pre-teen at summer camp. I shook my head, tacitly reprimanding my former self for allowing my hair to grow that out of control. One set of pictures showed me at a prom picture party senior year of high school. I smiled as I thought back to that night. My date was a girl I was dating at the time, and I thought she was perfect. We held hands everywhere we went, and she kept saying I bore a striking resemblance to James Bond in that tuxedo.
Before I could reminisce too thoroughly, I ran out of pictures and moved on to another box of old things.
At one point I looked up at the boxes taking up so much room in my closet and considered throwing them away. They were big boxes, going against my natural inclination for an efficient use of space. Besides, they only contained memories that reminded me how much of a loser I used to be. I’ve worked hard to grow out of my self-conscious, dweeby years. I’ve come to like the man I am in relation to the kid I was once.
I was going to move the boxes from my closet to throw them away, when I came upon a box of old plastic soldier figurines. “My little green army men,” is what I used to call them. These little guys, with their crudely molded bodies and their bent rifles and their dramatic battle poses, had fantastic battles on the scuffed floors of my childhood home. I used to create two teams and built them forts, which was the fun of the entire thing, and acted out spectacular battle scenes where the occasional giant tennis ball would knock out an entire troop of men. I loved these little guys.
I was going to put them away, but I accidentally tipped a few of them out of the box.
As I reached down to pick them up, one of them got to his feet. He looked me in the eye and yelled, “At your command, sir!” And he threw a salute. Almost impulsively, I removed the flashlight from my mouth and said, “As you were soldier.”
The other soldiers were climbing out of their box and lining up next to that one. They all saluted me and addressed me as their supreme leader. One soldier had to put his flamethrower down to properly salute me.
I was a child again.
I split the men into two troops, and built bases for them out of big books and shoes. I had to chew out one soldier who was slow to respond to one of my orders because he was too busy chatting about his wife and kids back home to a fellow private.
The battle was set and about to begin.
At the moment I was poised to throw a tennis ball at a few unfortunate fighters, my room was filled with light and the noise of my air conditioner began whirring away. My computer, phone, and mp3 player came to life with their familiar startup noises.
I looked down at the floor. The army men had become lifeless plastic toys among flimsy forts of books and shoes.
“Stupid,” I muttered to myself, chuckling.
I put them back in their box and put the box back on a shelf in the closet, next to other boxes of childhood nostalgia. I had forgotten about my idea to throw them away, so I left them there in the closet.
I sat down at my computer and didn’t get up for hours after that.
Powerless, by Tommy
I was sitting at my computer several days ago when the power went out in my house. The sudden darkness and collective halting of every piece of machinery I owned startled me, and I found myself sitting alone in the dark. I never felt truly alone when the house was alive with electrical rhythms. My appliances, I felt, kept me company.
I thought to myself, “No problemo, my laptop will still work.”
But when I sat back down in my desk after checking to see if the neighbor’s lights were out (they were), my laptop would not turn on. Stranger still, my cell phone, my mp3 player, and even my camera would not work either. Everything was dark.
I was bored. I swiveled in my chair for ten minutes, with the intent of returning to my useless net-surfing.
That was when I first realized how frightfully pathetic I am.
I pulled a flashlight from my desk and aimed it all over the walls as I swiveled in circles. The little ball of light danced on my striped blue wallpaper. After a few minutes of this I decided that I was far too old and mature to be as enthralled as I was by a flashlight.
I released a heavy sigh, gripped the chair’s armrests, and lifted myself to the feet. I walked around my house searching for candles. The lack of power gave the house an abandoned feel. I was so accustomed to the subtle blinking lights, and the silent whirrings within the walls, that when they were gone, I felt I had never been in the house before.
I found a big scented candle in my kitchen, and took it to my bedroom where I would wait for the power to come back on. It wasn’t long before my room started to smell strongly of “Cinnamon Spice.”
After swiveling in my chair a few more times and a few a unsuccessful attempts to finish books I had started years ago yet never finished, I decided to search my closet for something to do.
Apart from clothes, I liked to keep old nostalgic mementos from my childhood in my closet. I kept those things in boxes that I hadn’t so much as touched for decade or so. With my flashlight in my mouth, I looked through boxes of things I had long forgotten: athletic awards from high school, overly expressive handmade cards from old girlfriends, old song lyrics I had written.
“Junk,” I said to myself.
I pulled out some pictures of an awkward, skinny me. There were pictures of me at a middle school dance, with my arm around my date in what appeared to be an uncomfortable fashion. Back then I never thought that girl that I was standing next to was attractive, but she eventually became one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women I had ever seen. If I could go back, I would have held her more closely and I would have certainly offered her my jacket when the night got cold. There were other pictures of myself as a brace-faced, squeaky pre-teen at summer camp. I shook my head, tacitly reprimanding my former self for allowing my hair to grow that out of control. One set of pictures showed me at a prom picture party senior year of high school. I smiled as I thought back to that night. My date was a girl I was dating at the time, and I thought she was perfect. We held hands everywhere we went, and she kept saying I bore a striking resemblance to James Bond in that tuxedo.
Before I could reminisce too thoroughly, I ran out of pictures and moved on to another box of old things.
At one point I looked up at the boxes taking up so much room in my closet and considered throwing them away. They were big boxes, going against my natural inclination for an efficient use of space. Besides, they only contained memories that reminded me how much of a loser I used to be. I’ve worked hard to grow out of my self-conscious, dweeby years. I’ve come to like the man I am in relation to the kid I was once.
I was going to move the boxes from my closet to throw them away, when I came upon a box of old plastic soldier figurines. “My little green army men,” is what I used to call them. These little guys, with their crudely molded bodies and their bent rifles and their dramatic battle poses, had fantastic battles on the scuffed floors of my childhood home. I used to create two teams and built them forts, which was the fun of the entire thing, and acted out spectacular battle scenes where the occasional giant tennis ball would knock out an entire troop of men. I loved these little guys.
I was going to put them away, but I accidentally tipped a few of them out of the box.
As I reached down to pick them up, one of them got to his feet. He looked me in the eye and yelled, “At your command, sir!” And he threw a salute. Almost impulsively, I removed the flashlight from my mouth and said, “As you were soldier.”
The other soldiers were climbing out of their box and lining up next to that one. They all saluted me and addressed me as their supreme leader. One soldier had to put his flamethrower down to properly salute me.
I was a child again.
I split the men into two troops, and built bases for them out of big books and shoes. I had to chew out one soldier who was slow to respond to one of my orders because he was too busy chatting about his wife and kids back home to a fellow private.
The battle was set and about to begin.
At the moment I was poised to throw a tennis ball at a few unfortunate fighters, my room was filled with light and the noise of my air conditioner began whirring away. My computer, phone, and mp3 player came to life with their familiar startup noises.
I looked down at the floor. The army men had become lifeless plastic toys among flimsy forts of books and shoes.
“Stupid,” I muttered to myself, chuckling.
I put them back in their box and put the box back on a shelf in the closet, next to other boxes of childhood nostalgia. I had forgotten about my idea to throw them away, so I left them there in the closet.
I sat down at my computer and didn’t get up for hours after that.