Now I'm glad that I had slept all day. I'm also glad I could finally put my vast knowledge of dinosaurs to good use, but I did it in kind of a cheap way. My character is obsessed with dinosaurs. Whoopedeedoo. This music is too energetic, it makes me wanna get up and shake my ass, but I'm afraid I just don't have the energy. I can't believe I just wrote an essay on the feeding habits of the Tyrannosaur. I guess my character is "crazy" now. Lame. All my characters are crazy; it's the stupidest fucking plot device ever and I use it for everything.
I'm just writing like this because my character is passed out in a bathroom stall and I can't do much until someone intervenes. I don't want him to die, and I don't want him to wake up by himself. I'm annoyed by him. His narration keeps changing. Good thing I'm a cheap bastard and made him "crazy," so I can just say he has dissociative personality disorder or some shit.
This energetic music is making me laugh (on the inside.) I have a newfound respect for the people in this room for staying up all night just to write. I had given up writing because I thought a certain teacher had killed it for me, but look at all these people writing ceaselessly instead of spending their Saturday night getting drunk or whatever.
Everyone has gotten quiet. I hope my silence hasn't been killing and mellowing out the mood throughout the night. Brunch opens in five hours.
I'm starting to visual distortions out of the corner of my eyes. Maybe I should sleep.
If I could, I'd just sit around and write for the rest of my life.Heheh. Harry is leaving. The music is off and now I'm all bummed out. I can write all night. I'll finish this goddamn novel if I have to, except I've been very dissapointed with my writing tonight. Also, my story doesn't really cohere with the other writers' and, I dunno, I don't feel like continuing my storyline if their stories cease.
What a somber, depressing tale we've been weaving. What a listless story. I don't know where to go with this thing. I don't know what my character should do. I feel just like him. Harry is gone. I guess his character is dead now, unless we're going to keep writing this tomorrow night. I'd like to. It wouldn't be the same, though. And this story is going nowhere. I have no fucking idea what to do, and where to end this thing. One thing that's holding me back is the fact that I can't do too many things that have "universal" effects. Maybe I shouldn't be so passive and nervous about changing the story. Maybe I should just write whatever the fuck I want, regardless of the universal effect, but that would probably affect the continuity, and I know some people want something cohesive. I'm out of ideas.
The Adventures of Leafy the Snail
a Dream by Carson McFly
Leafy was the fastest snail on his block. He had wings of steel that could cut through space and time like a knife cuts through a cloud of hydrogen cyanide gas. He also had a shell made of reinforced calcium carbonate, and each chamber was filled with diesel fuel and a little bit of fairy dust. Leafy awoke one day to the shrill, school bell-like cries of the frogs that dwelled in nearby Mason Pond.
"My my, what is the meaning of all this commotion?" Leafy exclaimed. He emerged from his shell and swirled his eyestalks around and around to catch a glimpse of the situation. Immediately, he spotted a cloud of hydrogen cyanide gas strolling beside the pond towards him.
"Oh dear me! Oh goodness gracious!" Leafy cried, "Well, I'd better do something about this!" With a tremendous roar and an explosion of sparkling bits of steel, Leafy started his engines and opened his wings. His shell hummed and vibrated, glowing with fairy dust, reeking of fuel. The hydrogen cyanide sat down beside the pond and stuck its toe into the water. At first the bells grew louder and louder into a prolonged wail, and then was cut short and receded into the pond, the space left behind flooding with quiet.
"Harumph! This won't do at all. Get the fuck up, Carson. I'll put an end to you, you erroneous rapscallion!" Leafy shouted at the cloud. The cloud stood up and walked towards Leafy.
"You're so damn frail, Carson," the cloud said, "do you always freak out and faint like this? Jesus, you're drenched in blood, dude. Come on, get up. Do your worst, Leafy! You are no match for my shapeshifting powers, and my instantaneous death touch! Come on, there we go. There we go, dude. Yeah, just stand up."
"Nonsense!" Leafy sang, "Have at you, rogue! We've gotta get him to the nurse's office."
"Is this kid like ten years old or something?"
"Shut the fuck up and help me carry him! Remember Nick McFly?"
"That fucking freak kid who got kidnapped or some shit?"
"Kidnapped? What the fuck are you talking about? He lives in the city now, I talk to him, like, everyday."
"Bullshit, that's not what I heard. I heard he disappeared and they found his clothes-."
"Shut up. This is his little brother, dude."
"No shit! Help me pick him up."
"Bullshit, that's not what I heard. I heard Nick was an orphan and lived on his own in the woods, and he ain't got a brother."
"Oh, okay. Let's just leave this kid here then, I'm sure he'll be fine once he loses enough blood."
"Yeah. Hey, you think the cafeteria is open?"
"I wasn't serious asshole, help me pick him up. He's real light, but I don't wanna, I don't know, fuck up his back or break his neck by picking him up wrong or something."
"Fuck, I don't know, I'm fucking tired."
"Come on, man, come on. He's waking up, let's just help him there."
Two blurry figures stood over me. One was bald, the other had a green sail like a spinosaurus fin sticking out of his head… they were both very loud…
"Hey, Carson? Can you walk man?" the sailed figure asked me. I was leaning against him and breathing into his leather jacket before my vision faded again and I slid down…
"Oh shit, get him, get him."
"Yeah, I got him."
"Okay, lets bring him over…"
Sky is turning blue now. I think I should stop writing. I keep writing slower and slower, and my grammar is swiftly failing.
We should've done something else. This school explosion thing is depressing, and I see no end to it. How am I going to end this? My character is just going to die. All the characters just have to die, right?
Holy shit, maybe I'm taking this novel too seriously. No, my character doesn't have to die. Fuck no! I'll give him an oxygen tank and an axe to break down the doors! Yeah! He finds them in the janitor's closet, because the janitor was a wise old sage who knew the mill would eventually explode, and knew what it would come to based on the school's procedures. Okay then, here's the happy ending.
I shoved the two buffoons off, energy suddenly seeping through my body. I suddenly realized that all I needed to survive was the will to do it.
"C'mon, gents!" I bellowed, "This place is a bloody death trap, and I'll be damned if I let myself die in this wretched brick coffin!" The mohawked kid and his bald companion were at first bewildered by, and were then invigorated at the sight of my enthusiasm.
"Sure thing, fella!"
"We're with ya all the way, champ!"
I strode out the bathroom, pushing aside the listless students who had surrendered themselves to death. Begone, lifeless oafs! I knew instinctually that the doors would be padlocked, and the windows completely sealed, and so I headed towards the janitor's closet. Finding that it was locked, I called on my bald-headed companion for assistance.
"Step lively, my bald friend! I've come across a dilemma (sp) that only your mindless brute force might resolve. Would you kindly break down this door, old chum?"
"Haha, why of course! It seems that I was put on this Earth to fulfill this task, and this task alone. My life is devoid of meaning otherwise!" he chuckled merrily, ripping the door from its hinges with a single stroke of his mighty forearm.
"Superb work, sir!" I said, giving him a hearty handshake and a slap on the back. I waltzed into the dark room and my eyes immediately fell upon two oxygen tanks and a heavy axe.
"Ho, we are in luck! These tools are exactly what we need to make it through this crisis!" I proclaimed, spreading my arms in gratitude, "but, alas, there are only two oxygen tanks. One of us will not be able to survive."
"Oh, no worries there, friend!" the bald one said mirthfully, "Having fulfilled my purpose of tearing open this door, I find my existence absurd! Leave me here and I shall retire in peace."
"A noble act, kind sir," I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. "Your actions shall not be forgotten. Your name shall live on in our hearts and in our minds." And with that, Mohawk Guy and I made our way to the door.
We fastened our oxygen masks and beheld the sight before us: a door, padlocked as I had suspected, with multiple students wandering in front, waiting for salvation. My Mohawked comrade flung these dilly-dallyers aside and tore open the door with the axe. At last, freedom. Escape. Through sheer willpower, we had survived. I went home and lived happily ever after, and the Mohawk Guy went home as well and lived happily ever after also, except he got hit by a car two weeks later.
The sun is rising. I can see the colors of the leaves outside.
I can't stop writing. There are still two other people here writing with me. I can't just leave them in that school. But haven't I done enough? I've been writing for like eleven fucking hours. I should get to sleep.
I have the beginnings of a couple of dream sequences for Carson. Maybe I should just fill up the novel with dreams.
"I dreamt of pokemon. I was far too young to get into pokemon during the craze, but my brother jumped in right when the trading cards were becoming all the rage. I dreamt of a Koffing that floated into the window of my bedroom, which also happened to be the principal's office and the auditorium all at once. The Koffing evolved into a Weezing and began roaring and squealing my name. Then, its attack came, and gas filled the room. The smoke was thick and purple, and I shut my eyes, because according to dream logic my eyes let me breathe. I piled stacks and stacks of paper onto my eyelids and glued them shut, but I could still hear the Weezing's roar. I breathed a sigh of relief because I was safe."
Wow. I should get to sleep. I'm using pokemon as metaphors now. I guess it's not really any worse than using dinosaurs.
"I threw off the covers and looked around, and lo! it had all been a bad dream. Boy am I glad that that's all over."
What a fantastic alternative ending. This twist ending is sure to force people to question the nature of existence. Here they were getting completely absorbed by this fantastic plot and these believable, relatable, unique characters, and then it was a dream all along! Holy shit, what a mindfuck. Why take LSD when Marlon Battad's writing will throw your life into question just the same?
I'm going to write in third person now, because I hate the way I write first person. Hmmm, novels are supposed to be narratives. I guess if we finish this the narrative won't be about the school at all. It'll be about how we wrote a novel in one
I need to sleep.
Couches: a poem
Red couch, blue couch
couch with plants on it, couch with little spiral designs on it,
old couch, new couch,
scooby dooby doo couch.
i love writing;
writing is fun.
writing is fun
Will has returned,
from his battlescars.
i kinda wanna listen to The Cars
right now. you know
that one song?
the real annoying one?
yeah, that's a good song.
I used to be in a punk band
in my freshmen year of high school.
Our singer had a two-foot mohawk,
whcih appeared in this story.
Thank you, mohawk singer.
Your spirit lives on.
We did a cover of that one cars song,
and the singer would scream
and scream and scream.
I distinctly remembered
the microphone glazed over with his
yellow spit and phlegm
after every practice session.
'Twas a beautiful sight
Thank you, mohawk singer.
Your spirit lives on.
There were so many conservatives
so many conservatives at my school.
they hated our mohawk singer
so much, that they would trip him
while we were playing soccer,
and the coaches wouldn't pay attention
because they were dicks.
but he always got up
and smiled, and wiped the mud from his mouth.
He was such a pushover.
Thank you, mohawk singer.
Your spirit lives on.
This has been Couches: A Poem.
It addresses a couple of the many influences I had in writing this masterpiece, mainly the couches which inhabit this god forsaken formal lounge, and that mohawk singer from high school. I wonder where he is right now.
I need to stop bullshitting around and keep writing this novel. Nobody wants to read any of the above crap! They want action, and explosions!
Amelia Goes to the Store
an Action Adventure Story, by Marlon Battad
Amelia, daughter of the mighty Yrevvlek son of the masculine Krijjnflkl, drew her mighty sword Nglfyiojjurn as she woke up to the tune of what sounded like a million banshees emanating from her alarm clock. With a mighty, earth-shattering blow she obliterated the alarm clock and put on her slippers.
"'Tis a good day to die, methinks!" the icy mistress bellowed with a rumbling guffaw. After stretching her celestial limbs towards the cardinal directions and feeding her goldfish, she walked over the air and down her staircase, seeking divine nourishment to start her glorious day.
But "O o o o o o o!" she cried sorrowfully, upon seeing that her refrigerator was vacant save for its usual celestial glow.
"What!? How?! Wherefore!?" Yrevvlek's brood roared, her voice causing avalanches to rush towards the heavens across the globe. Her muscular eyes scanned the solid-pearl kitchen and espied a solitary carton of Captain Crunch standing humbly on the counter.
"I have cereal, but how can I consume this Captain Crunch without ambrosia to soak its mortal wheat crevices and pockets? How am I to continue my mighty reign without nourishment from the immortals? Unthinkable!" she said, and sent mighty Nglfyiojjurn, the blade of a thousand souls, crashing down, disintegrating the impudent box of lowly cereal.
"I must go to the store forthwith!" Amelia declared. She set the front door aflame with a swish of her oceanic silver locks and galloped out into the cloudy Autumn weather, only to be hit immediately by a cloud of hydrogen cyanide from the steel mill explosion earlier in the day. Amelia fell to her knees and her physical body exploded, and her soul ascended into the immortal realm.
Inside the William Mason High, the celestial being's expiration was heard in the souls of every student and faculty, and each began to mourn silently at the loss, if they had not already been mourning their inevitable doom. But it had to be almost over. Lying motionless in the infirmary, Carson knew that the danger had to subside some time, and fresh air, good times, good d00ds and good wine was waiting beyond the school doors. He had gone too far not to endure to the last moment.
I wish I could be more productive, but I'm so disoriented. I feel like falling over every time I stand up. Maybe I'll get a prize when this is all over. I realize that I was more productive writing that silly poem than that action adventure story. I wish there was a way I could incorporate drawing into this, to keep myself interested. But pictures aren't words. Reading back the things I've written, I feel like I'm getting stupider and stupider the more I write. What the hell is this? I also realize that I have an extremely immature sense of humor. And even I can't tell whether I'm being sarcastic or not at some points. I wonder if people can tell at all. Wow, so writing this metafiction is faster and more productive than actual stories, which is lame. I can't believe we've finally degenerated into this. I mean, I guess I knew it might happen at some point if we ever got
desperate and ran out of ideas and would do anything to finish.
Narrative: A Poem
When I was a little boy I wanted to be
an entomologist, because I thought bugs
were cool. And they are, aren't they?
If you look closely, they look like little
aliens, or little robots.
Now I'm a "writer".
Oh, young Marlon, forgive me
for I have cast aside your dreams
of studying the relationship between
polyergus and formica ants.
Carpets: A Poem
The patterns in the carpet
become infinitely fascinating
when you've spent all night writing,
living on nothing but pizza and
I went to Greece once
and I was on this boat
to Delos, and I went to
the bar, and all they had was
I told the guy I wanted "iced tea,"
"lemon, right?" he said, and brought
out a lemon iced tea Snapple.
"no, peach," I said.
He put the lemon back and brought out the peach,
and he smiled and said "peach!"
And he wouldn't stop smiling
sinisterly, it seemed.
To this day, I regret buying the peach.
I should've bought the lemon, damnit.
And how does this relate to the narrative? Well, I've got a song to tell ya how
and it goes a little sumthing liiiikee thiiiiiiiis….
Quantity. We're just looking for quantity now. I don't see why I can't just spam this thing, like this:
I'm feeling extremely light-headed. Wow, I hope nobody reads this nonsense. All I want is to get to 50,000 words, and I feel guilty about spamming. This isn't really metafiction, this is rambling on and on about nothing. Well, consider this. Perhaps I'm doing this on purpose, to, like, "fuck wit yo head" or something. Perhaps I'm giving you an example of the mental processes of dying minds, like those of the characters in the main story. I had a friend who took up smoking cigarettes just so he could quit, and he called it an art project.
Okay, I've decided to make up some dream sequences or something, and post them into the official story. Maybe I'm in the right state of mind to do it. But what should they be about? What can I do? Are we almost done? Have I written 2000 extra words yet? Pokemon? Dinosaurs? I'm tired of those two. What other cliche "silly" things can I refer to? Ninjas? Pirates? Robots? Vikings? Fuck, I don't even remember my character's name. Carl? Carson. Its Carson.
Carson jumped from ship to ship, his thin body floating on the wind gracefully as flaming arrows and grapeshot zipped all around him. He looked down upon the ensuing chaos: Vikings vs. Pirates, one side with horned helmets flashing in the sun and the other with smoke rising ominously from their luxurious beards. The Vikings had always envied the beauty of pirate beards, having little to style their own coiffures with save goats' milk, meade, and silver looted from defenceless Christian monestaries. The pirates arr'd and arr-arr'd menacingly at their foes from their ships, bristling with guns, jolly rogers, and parrots. The Vikings could do little but growl back from their stylish longboats which, although probably terrifying in their own time, stood little chance against the massive pirate ships which threatened to smash them to bits. The Vikings did have one advantage, however. With a mighty war cry, Odin himself came down from Valhalla and embued the Viking warriors with an unholy wrath, and beastly strength. They hollered and squawked, they neighed and barked and meowed dreafully, and an unearthly chill ran up the spine of every pirate within earshot of this bestial chorus. Then, in their rage, the Vikings gripped their axes and ran full speed towards the pirate ships, realizing only too late that they had made a horrible error as they fell off their longboats and sank with their oversized novelty Viking axes to the bottom of the ocean. The fight was over. Carson landed on an empty longboat, gave the pirates a thumbs up, and rowed swiftly away from this terrible, terrible dream sequences. He preferred dying locked in a bathroom stall to having to spend all of his existence as a fictional character in such a poorly-composed crossover of such overused cliches.
I lifted my eyelids and there again was Ms. Hollingsworth's face staring down at me. Her head looked collapsed with that annoying smile completely absent. Groans, coughs, and wheezing breaths told me that the infirmary was full. The open window told me that the air was safe again. The sirens wailing from the parking lot told me that probably not everybody had made it.
"Oh, praise the Lord, you're all right!" the nurse squealed. I tried to sit up, but resting on just one elbow I was out of breath.
"Don't worry about getting up now, little guy, I'm just glad to see you made it oh praise God you're alive oh hallelujah! We didn't think you'd make it, young man, but, oh boy, here you are."
"No, I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming again," I said.
"Hahahah, oh Carson, lemme assure you, this is real."
Carson? Who is Carson? My name is Marlon, isn't it?
"What? Oh my, you've had quite an ordeal. You're delirious, Carson," she replied. I must've said my thoughts out loud without realizing it.
"Well, you were pretty much dead for a few moments little guy. Your spirit was so close to the Creator, you must've been in His presence, connected with him so to speak," Hollingsworth said, nodding, her face becoming grave, "happens a lot with these near-death experiences."
My dreams had been so vivid, so… long. For a long time I had thought I was some Marlon guy…
But it was all over now, and I could finally go home. I reclined and listened to coughs, clicks, moans, laughter of the people around me. The light outside is bright yellow, and it rests quietly across orange shingled roofs, and playing inside the ruffled bark, in between the needles of spruces trees bowing their limbs in the breeze. It was over and I could finally sleep. It would be okay to miss the daylight, and the calming weather. It's probably colder than it looks anyway. Its so much safer and warmer here, inside. It was all over and I could finally go home.