Edited first chapter of TWO SIDES TO EVERY STORY

OK faithful followers. It's been a slow, time consuming process, but I've been hammering out more pages to my next story. Here's the first chapter in its entirety. It's a continuation from my last post but some of it has been modified and improved, so I suggest reading from the beginning. When you're finished, let me know what you think! I really love it so far, not going to lie. If it turns out how I envision it, then it's going to be awesome. Enjoy!

Session One

            “Are you sure you want to do this?”

            The doctor’s voice speaks to me from somewhere far away. I veer off memory lane and crash back into my gruesome reality. I suddenly realize that my fingers have been gently caressing my neck for the past 30 seconds without my even knowing. It’s such a curious thing, the mind. “Excuse me?” I ask.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” repeats the doctor. He fidgets nervously with the photo ID dangling from a silver chain around his neck. He’s worried. But whether he’s concerned about my well-being or his own, I’m not sure. “You know he’s…not there, right?” he adds.

            My grip tightens on the handles of my laptop bag. “Please open the door,” I reply curtly. I shouldn’t be rude. The doctor is, after all, providing me with an extremely generous favor. Only authorized personnel are granted access into the next room, and as of this moment, I am the first exception.

            The doctor firmly nods his head, trying to mask his fear with a confident facade. “Very well,” he says. He attempts to remove his ID from the lamination, but it refuses to come out.

Watching a man with a MD struggle with a piece of plastic makes me uncomfortable, so I set my eyes on the metal door standing before me. Butterflies flutter nervously in the pit of my stomach. Behind this metal door lies an untold story; a mystery that’s been locked away for two decades; an enigmatic puzzle that I intend on piecing together. Beyond this metal door, the rules that govern our world of logic and reason will no longer apply. It would almost be appropriate to hang a sign on the wall beside it that reads: “Please leave your morals and sanity at the door, thank you.”

Finally, the doctor withdraws his ID from the lamination. He flashes me a weak smile, but his embarrassment refrains him from speaking.  He swipes the card through a small machine attached to the wall. I hear a noise that reminds me of the buzzer in my apartment. The door has just been unlocked.

The doctor wraps his fingers around the helve and pulls. With surprising ease, the door swings open to reveal the next room. It’s a long, dimly lit corridor.

“After you, Mrs. Liddell,” he tells me. The doctor tries to appear courteous, but I can see his true motives. He’s trying to postpone what awaits him on the end of that corridor, even if it is for only a few seconds. I take a deep breath, as though doing so would somehow inflate my courage, and step through the doorway to meet St. Matthew’s most dangerous patient.

This establishment is California’s most renowned mental hospital. It was first built in the early 1900s as a facility for the criminally insane, but since that time, St. Matthew’s Psychiatric Hospital has opened its doors to embrace all kinds of mentally ill people. Interestingly enough, the majority of its patients are here by choice. Only a small percentage of the overall population has been admitted involuntarily. And only one is being held in a supermax—a super-maximum-security facility. And that is exactly who I’m on my way to see now. 

When Jake Andrews first arrived to St. Mathew’s doorsteps, there was a lot of controversy and debate regarding his placement in the hospital. Some people wanted to lock him up in solitary confinement and throw away the key. Others demanded that he receive the death penalty, which was ludicrous given the extreme circumstances of the case. And beloved fans and sympathizers felt that, at the very least, he should remain with the other involuntary patients—the inmates. Their argument was that solitary confinement was a form of cruel and unusual punishment and wasn’t conducive for a person’s mental health, especially when that mental health was already damaged. Naturally, the story made national headlines when the chief of staff at St. Mathew’s released a statement saying that Jake would be placed in the same ward as the other inmates. According to this particular doctor, Mr. Andrews was deeply disturbed, was unable to comprehend the distinction between right and wrong, and should be treated no differently than any other involuntary patient in the hospital.

Five days after this announcement, Jake slit the chief of staff’s throat with a shard of glass, killing him within minutes. Security eventually restrained him, but only after he beat two of the guards over the head with a chair, fracturing their skulls and putting them in comas. One of them still hasn’t woken up. Suffice to say, following this incident, Jake was admitted to solitary confinement and has been here ever since; two decades of isolation, where he has only the voices inside his head for visitors.

The doctor follows me into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. I stare at the lonely metal door waiting for me on the other side. It calls to me, beckons me forward. It is the only doorway left for me to walk through. The doctor directs the door with his right hand, as though pointing through a thick, swirling mist, while the other continues to hold his photo ID. “After this,” he begins, “he’s all yours.” What a terrifying prospect.

He leads the way, and I trail after him like a child that is afraid to get lost. It feels as though I’ve trekked through a maze of obstacles to get here: security guards, elevators, metal detectors, locked doors. Now, I’m walking down a corridor that has only two rooms. One of them is my final destination. The other stands to my left behind a glass window that contains yet another group of security guards. They stand hunched over surveillance monitors. I give a quick, sweeping look of the hallway and spot a security camera lingering in each upper corner. The amount of security in this place astounds me. I understand that the patient is dangerous, but it all seems a bit excessive for just one man.

I smile at the security guards behind the window. Not one of them returns the gesture. I look at these men, and I see sleepless nights and haunted dreams, coupled with tired, gloomy faces and pale skin. They remind me of corpses, empty shells of the men they used to be, as though all of the life inside of them had been sucked out. Most men spend their nights with family or friends. But when the sun sets, these guys have only a homicidal maniac for company.  

Our footsteps echo on the tile floor, yet somehow, the corridor is eerily silent. Just as I begin to wonder whether coming here was a smart idea, I find myself standing in front of the door at the end of the hall: the last barrier between Jake and myself.

The doctor extends his arm toward the handle. Right away, I notice the violent tremble in his hand. He gives a nervous gulp and grips his fingers around the helve. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. A licensed doctor, a man who willingly pursued a medical degree that would allow him to work at a hospital such as this one, is afraid of his own patient. I look to the glass window behind me. I can no longer physically see the guards, but I can envision their worn-out, lifeless faces in my mind, staring at the monitors. The entire scenario disturbs me. I suddenly find myself haunted by a single question: what kind of man can have such a profound effect and instill such a heightened sense of fear in those around him? I can’t even begin to imagine the horrors these men have seen or the terrors that have filled their nights. It’s as if Jake’s insanity has somehow creeped through the door’s cracks and infected their minds. But perhaps the most disturbing thing of all is that the doctor isn’t even staying for the entire session. He’s merely providing the introductions and then shoving off on his merry way. And yet, those few minutes in Jake’s presence are still enough to terrify him. The doctor turns toward me, his face completely drained of its color. “Security will be monitoring you,” he informs me in a voice that quivers just as much as his hand.

Suddenly, I am struck by a question that I should’ve asked long before I stepped foot in the hospital. “He’s secured, right?”

“Of course,” replies the doctor. “And before we go inside, you have to remember one thing.”

My ears perk up.

“No matter what he says, he can’t hurt you. You have to remember that.” I observe his trembling hand and pale face and begin to wonder whether he lives by his own advice.

The doctor lifts another shaky hand, the one holding his photo ID, and swipes it through another machine. Once again, a loud buzz signals the door’s unlocking. And then, he begins to slowly lift the handle.

The butterflies zoom through my stomach relentlessly. I feel like I’m about to stumble through the rabbit hole and into Wonderland, as if this door represents the final border between normalcy and insanity. It feels like hours ago when the doctor asked whether I was certain about doing this. I was at the time, but now, I have the strong urge to get the hell out of this building. It was foolish of me to pursue these interviews, foolish to let my curiosity get the best of me. But at this point, there’s really nothing for me to do but go forward.

The door creaks open, and a ray of light squeezes through the crack.

My heart thunders against my chest. My laptop bag suddenly feels like an anvil in my hand. I try to prepare myself for what I’m about to experience, but I soon realize that there’s nothing in this world that can ready me for what lies behind this door.

Finally, the portal into insanity opens, and there, lying in a twin-sized bed in the center of the room, is the king of its realm: Jake Andrews himself. When he sees me, his dry lips curve into a malevolent smile. Right away, I can sense that there is something…off about this man, something that isn’t quite right. Danger seems to emit from his body like heat from the sun.

Jake’s living situation is appalling. The room is approximately 6 by 8 feet, and squatting in the upper left corner is a security camera that watches his every move. But as right now, Jake isn’t going anywhere. A white straight jacket, which matches the color of the padded walls, binds his arms to his torso. Leather straps keep his body fastened to the bed, half of which has been lifted to a 90-degree angle so that Jake is sitting straight up. And across from his bed is a wooden chair, which I assume is meant for me.

His face is unrecognizable to the handsome mug that graced the magazine covers of twenty years ago; not because of old age, but because of the long, matted hair growing from his scalp and face. He looks as though he hasn’t gotten a shave or haircut in years; probably because the nurses are too afraid to approach him with scissors or razors. But even with all of that hair dangling in his face, I can still feel those crazy eyes penetrating me with their ice-cold stare. My heart freezes up inside of me. Even the butterflies have suddenly stopped flapping their wings. My mind empties itself of its contents and spills them onto the floor. I don’t know what to think, how to feel.

At a loss of what to do, I turn toward the good doctor. The horror in his eyes matches what I feel inside. Yet even with his dread eating away at his intestines, the doctor enters the padded room. Somehow, I manage to get my feet moving and follow him inside. I stand to his right and gawk at the specimen of lunacy before me. The doctor raises a clenched fist to his mouth and clears the dryness from his throat. Once again, he tries to mask his fear with a confident façade, but Jake can see right through it.

“Good afternoon, Jake,” greets the doctor. “How are you feeling today?”

Jake just stares in response, that unpleasant smirk stuck onto his face. He doesn’t say a word, but there’s no need. His flagrant appearance does all the talking for him. “Look at me,” it says. “I’m wearing a straight jacket and locked away in a mental hospital. How does it look like I’m feeling?”

The doctor gives another nervous cough. “Your visitor is here. Remember when I told you that you would have a visitor today?”

Again, Jake remains silent. Tension begins to fill the room like a thick fog.

The doctor starts to introduce me to my captive audience. “This is—”

And then suddenly, Jake utters his first words. “I know who she is, dumbass. I may be psychotic and homicidal, but I’m not fucking stupid.” For a man in a straight jacket, he speaks with the utmost confidence. Twenty years in solitary confinement, and he still sounds exactly as he did in the movies.

The doctor turns to me and forces a smile. I know exactly what he’s thinking: My time here has expired. 

“Security will be monitoring you,” he tells me for the second time. And then, without even so much as a goodbye, he steps out of the padded room and back into the world of sanity. But before the doctor can shut the door, Jake bids him a hasty farewell.

“Say hello to that 16 year old daughter of yours,” he says with a sickening wink of his eye.

The doctor looks absolutely appalled. He responds to Jake’s comment by slamming the door shut behind him.

I am now alienated from society, trapped in a world whose population is comprised of Jake, myself, and a security camera. I stare at the bare, padded walls of the room. I would never be able to cope with Jake’s fate. No normal person could, but of course, Jake doesn’t exactly fit in that category.

I shift my attention toward the subject. He observes me from head to toe, absorbing my appearance. There’s a wild eagerness in his eyes, a rabid hunger. I suddenly feel like a small animal that’s about to be pounced on by a lion. Thank God he’s restrained.  “I guess it’s just you and me, babe,” he says in a voice underlying with sexuality.

I suddenly want to flee the room, to be as far away from this lunatic as possible, but that opportunity is no longer available. I muster up the small bit of courage in the corner of my heart and tell him, “If we’re going to do this, then I have one request.” I try to sound authoritative, dominant, but that’s hard to do with a man like Jake. 

The subject tilts his head in a way that makes him look more disturbing than puzzled. “Are you referring to a request other than having me restrained in my own bedroom? That’s not very polite behavior, you know. Didn’t your parents ever teach you any manners?” He chuckles.

I try to ignore his snide remark and continue. “Please don’t call me ‘babe’,” I instruct him forcefully.

Jake just stares at me in response. I’m not sure how he’ll react, but he’ll definitely be defiant about it. But then, he surprises me. “Fine,” Jake says with a sneer. “But I’m only doing it because you said please.”

I thank him with a silent head nod. My eyes dart to the empty wooden chair across Jake.

“Please,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

I force a smile and take my seat. I feel uncomfortably close to Jake, almost claustrophobic-like. I rest my laptop bag on the floor and pull on the zipper. I can feel Jake’s eyes watching me, waiting for my next move. I retrieve my laptop from the bag and rest it on my legs. Next, I take out a small tape recorder, set it on the tiled floor, and hit the ‘Play’ button. The session now officially begins.

“You’re married,” he says suddenly. “I didn’t get an invitation?”

His knowledge of my marriage startles me. “How did you know?” I ask.

“The wedding band around your ring finger told me.”

I suddenly feel incredibly stupid. I clasp my hands together and conceal my wedding ring beneath my fingers. I should’ve just left the damn thing at home. “Well, yes. I am.”

“How magnificently grotesque,” he remarks. “I’d congratulate you, but since I consider marriage to be a fucking joke, I’m afraid that I just can’t do it. Who’s the unfortunate soul that’s sharing your death sentence?”

I assume that, when translated in sane terms, his question reads more like, “Who’s your fiancée?” I’m just about to give my answer when I suddenly realize something: I’m the one conducting the interview, not him. “These sessions are about you,” I remind him with a polite smile. “Perhaps we should keep it that way.”

Jake grins at me mischievously. “So,” he says. “You’re one of those feminist bitches, aren’t you?”

This time, I don’t even bother acknowledging him. I open up my laptop and run my finger over the mouse. The monitor awakes from its slumber and reveals an empty page with a blinking cursor. I rest my hands on the keyboard, ready to type.

“Listen,” Jake whispers. “If my predicament weren’t so…inconvenient, I would toss you against these padded walls and fuck you until you came, regardless of whether you wanted me to or not.”

My stomach churns with disgust, and my hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. His words are vile, repugnant, so much so that I feel like I may vomit on my laptop.  I close my eyes and try to contain the sick within my stomach by swallowing mouthfuls of saliva. The more spit I swallow, the better I feel. In the darkness, I can hear Jake’s laughter. I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to mentally dominate me, belittle me, degrade me until I’m nothing more than a sexual object, just like all of the countless women he’s used throughout his life. But I won’t allow it.

I wait for the sickness in me to subside. After another 20 seconds, I open my eyes. The blackness disappears, and I’m instantly greeted by a wide, maddening smile. It’s time to remind this psycho who’s really in control. “Have the doctors informed you of the reason behind my visit?”

Jake’s smile fades slightly from his face. My willpower has disappointed him. “Yeah, they told me,” he says. “You’re writing my biography. That’s a fucking national bestseller right there. Although, I’m sure you’re already aware of that. The drones are going to line up outside the goddamn bookstores just to obtain a copy. I’m sure they’re all extremely curious to know the truth.”

“Drones?” I ask. I stretch my fingers out on the keyboard.

“Yeah, drones,” repeats Jake with a sneer. “All of the ordinary people in society who don’t have the balls to pursue what they want, who choose to work monotonous jobs and live mundane fucking existences.”

I type what he speaks, every crazy, intriguing word of it. “You said that they’re curious to know the truth,” I say. I finish typing the last word and glance up from the computer screen, back at that evil face. “What truth exactly?”

Another sly smile finds its way onto Jake’s face. “The truth about everything,” he says. “Every single fucking thing. Isn’t that why you’re here? To learn the truth?”

At first, I respond with a brief hesitation. And then, “Partially,” becomes my ultimate answer.

Jake tilts his head with curiosity. “Partially?” he repeats. “What other reasoning do you have for coming here?”

I refuse to acknowledge anymore of his questions. “Let’s keep this about you,” I tell him. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Jake contemplates my words, as though I just asked him to do something obscene. It takes a few seconds before he finally says, “ Fine. This little fucked up tale begins a very long time ago. But as you and I both know, it doesn’t start with me.” He gives me another mischievous smirk. I know exactly what words are about to leave those dried-up lips. And then, he says it, “ This whole fucked up story begins with Walter Vascko.”

Two Sides to Every Story

OK, OK. I'm back. It seems like a lot of people enjoy my stories, and I'm currently working on a new one as we speak. This novel, however, is strictly for adults. The tentative title is Two Sides to Every Story, and I have about 150 pages written so far. It's a psychological mind-bender, a thriller that explores the psyche of two very different characters. One of them is sane, and the other is far from it. I'm going to post the first half of chapter 1 on this blog. If you guys want to read it and provide me with some feedback, then that'd be awesome. I'd love to hear what you guys think so far and if you see the potential. Without further ado, here's the first part of Two Sides to Every Story.

Session One

            “Are you sure you want to do this?”

            His voice speaks to me from a far away place. I veer off memory lane and snap back to reality. I suddenly realize that my fingers have been gently caressing my neck for the past 30 seconds without my even knowing. It’s such a curious thing, the mind. “Excuse me?” I ask.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” the doctor repeats. He fidgets nervously with the photo ID dangling around his neck. He’s worried, but whether he’s concerned about my well-being or his own, I’m not sure. “You know he’s…not there, right?”

            “Please open the door,” I reply curtly. I probably shouldn’t be rude. After all, this doctor is providing me with a very generous favor. Only authorized personnel are granted access into the next room, and as of this moment, I am the first exception.

            The doctor firmly nods his head, trying to mask his fear with a confident facade. “Very well,” he says. He tries to remove his ID from the lamination, but it refuses to come out.

Watching a man with a MD struggle with a piece of plastic makes me uncomfortable. I set my eyes elsewhere, and where better to focus them than on the metal door standing before me. Butterflies flutter nervously in the pit of my stomach. Behind this metal door lies an untold story; a mystery that’s been locked away for two decades; a puzzle that I intend on piecing together. Beyond this metal door, the rules that govern our world of logic and reason will no longer apply. It would almost be appropriate to hang a sign above the door that reads: “Please leave your morals and sanity at the door, thank you.”

Finally, the doctor withdraws his ID from the lamination. He gives me a weak smile, but his embarrassment refrains him from speaking.  He swipes the ID through a small machine attached to the wall. I hear a loud buzz, which I assume signifies that the door has just been unlocked. The doctor wraps his fingers around the metal handle and pulls. With surprising ease, the door swings open to reveal the next room.

“After you, Mrs. Rita,” he tells me. He tries to make the gesture sound courteous, but I know that he’s just trying to postpone the interaction, even if it is for only a few seconds. I take a deep breath, as though doing so would somehow inflate my courage, and step through the doorway to meet St. Matthew’s most dangerous patient.

The doctor follows and shuts the door. There’s no going back now. He stands beside me and points to a lonely room at the far end of the hall. In his other hand is the photo ID. “Just one more door,” he says. “And then, he’s all yours.”

It’s a terrifying prospect. I stare at the door across the hall. It waits for me and beckons me forward. The doctor leads the way, and I follow after him like a child who’s afraid to get lost. It feels like I’ve traveled through a maze of obstacles to get here. I had to deal with security guards, elevators, metal detectors, and locked doors that rarely get opened. Now, I’m walking down a corridor that has only two rooms. One of them is my final destination. The other contains a few guards and security monitors. I give a swift look around the hallway and spot a surveillance camera in each corner. The amount of security in this place astounds me. I understand that the patient’s dangerous, but all of thise seems a bit excessive for just one man.

I pass by the glass window and smile at the security guards that stand behind it.  But not one of them returns the gesture. In that room, there’s no smiles, no joy. There are only tired, gloomy faces with pale skin. I look at them, and I see sleepless nights and haunted dreams. They remind me of corpses, empty shells of the men they used to be, as though all of the life inside of them had been sucked out. Most men spend their nights with family and friends. But when the sun sets, these guys, on the other hand, have only a homicidal maniac for company.  

St. Matthew’s is one of the most renowned psychiatric hospitals in California. Interestingly enough, the majority of its patients are here by choice. Only a small percentage of the overall population was admitted involuntarily. And only one, the one that I’m on my way to see now, is being held in a maximum-security facility. In fact, this entire ward was constructed solely for him.

When Jake first arrived to St. Mathew’s, there was a lot of controversy and debate regarding his placement in the hospital. Beloved fans and sympathizers felt that he should remain with the other patients. According to them, solitary confinement was a form of cruel and unusual punishment and wasn’t conducive for a person’s mental health, especially when that mental health was already damaged. Others demanded that he receive the death sentence, which was ludicrous given the extreme circumstances of the case. Naturally, it came as big news when the chief of staff told the public that Jake would be placed in the same psychiatric ward as the other involuntary patients. According to this doctor, Mr. Andrews was deeply disturbed, was unable to comprehend the distinction between right and wrong, and should be treated no differently than any other patient in the hospital. Five days after this announcement, Jake slit the chief of staff’s throat with a shard of glass, killing him within minutes. Four security guards went to restrain him. He beat two of them over the head with a chair, fracturing their skulls and putting them in comas. Suffice to say, after that incident, Jake was admitted to solitary confinement and has been here ever since; two decades of isolation, where the only visitors he gets are the voices inside his head.

The sound of our footsteps on the tile floor echoes all around, yet the hallway is eerily silent. Just as I begin to wonder whether coming here was a good idea, I suddenly find myself standing in front of the metal door: the last barrier between Jake and myself.

The doctor raises his hand to the metal door handle. Right away, I notice the violent tremble in his hand. His fingers grip the handle, and he gives a nervous gulp. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. A doctor, who pursued and received a medical degree that would permit him to aid the mentally ill, is afraid of his own patient. And the sickest part of it all is that the good doctor isn’t even staying for the session. He’s merely introducing me to the subject and leaving, and yet those few minutes of being in Jake’s presence are still enough to terrify him.

The doctor gawks at the handle. He’s horrified of pulling it open. I look back to the glass window. I can no longer see the guards, but I can envision their worn-out, miserable faces staring at the monitors. I begin to feel disturbed by the entire scenario, haunted by a single question: what kind of man does it take to affect others so horrifically? I wonder about the inhumanities they’ve seen and the terrors that have filled their nights. It’s as if Jake’s insanity had somehow slipped underneath the crack of this metal door and infected their minds.

The doctor’s face turns toward mine. His face is completely drained of its color. “Security will be monitoring you on the screens,” he informs me in a voice that shakes as much as his hand. “And before we go inside, you have to remember one thing.”

My ears perk up. I’m almost afraid to hear what he’s going to say.

“No matter what he says,” begins the doctor, “he can’t hurt you. You have to remember that.”

I nod my head in silent reply. As I observe the doctor’s trembling hand and his pale face, I start to wonder whether he lives by his own advice.  He lifts another quivering hand, the one that still holds his photo ID, and swipes it through a machine similar to the one before. Once again, a loud buzz signals the door’s unlocking. I stare straight ahead. I suddenly feel as though I’m about to stumble into Wonderland, as if this door represents the final border between normalcy and insanity.

The doctor slowly lifts the handle.

The butterflies zoom through my stomach. It feels like hours ago when the doctor asked me whether or not I was certain about doing this. At the time, I was, but now I have the strong urge to turn back and run out this building. It was foolish of me to pursue this, that having these sessions with Jake was a good idea. But at this point, there’s nothing for me to do but go forward.

The door creeps open, and a ray of light squeezes through the crack.

My heart thunders against my chest. My laptop bag suddenly feels like an anvil in my hand. I try to mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to experience, but I quickly realize that there’s nothing in this world that could ready me for what lies behind that door.

Finally, the portal into insanity opens, and there, sitting at a white table in the center of the room, is the king of its realm: Jake Andrews. Right away, I can tell that there’s something…off about this man. It’s as though danger radiates from his body like heat from the sun.

The rest of The Creature in the Dark

OK, so I guess only posting the first 4 pages of the story was a terrible idea. A lot people seemed annoyed that they couldn't read the entire thing, which I suppose is a good sign. I was going to post 4 pages at a time, but what the hell. I'll post it all. When we last left our hero Sanz, he was just about to step into the unnaturally dark cave to battle the monster. Here's the rest of the The Creature in the Dark in all of its glory.

“Nonsense!” yelled Sanz. “It is too dark in there! I will not be able to see you!”

The creature in the cave laughed. “Then, I suppose there will be no battle. Unless…”

“Unless what?” demanded Sanz.

The monster paused before continuing, “Unless we can set up an arrangement.”

“What sort of arrangement?” asked the bloodthirsty warrior.

“Everyday, you must come to my cave, and I will give you a single task. And every time you complete a task, the darkness that blinds you will brighten, until you are able to see through it. Then, we can battle.”

Sanz laughed at the beast’s proposal. “Why would I ever agree to such a thing?”

Even after being mocked by laughter, the mysterious creature remained as calm as can be. “Because if you don’t, then I will stay in my cave and be protected by the darkness. And if you do not slay me, then your reputation as the greatest warrior to ever live will be ruined.”

Sanz sneered into the cave. If there was one thing that he loved more than himself, it was his title as the world’s mightiest warrior. “And what of your plans to attack the town?”

“If you agree to my offer, then I will refrain from attacking the townspeople,” replied the monster.

But Sanz trusted nothing but the sword in his hand. “Lies! You’re trying to trick me! You will probably attack the town while I carry out your tasks!”

“I will do no such thing,” responded the creature. “You have my word.”

Sanz considered the proposal. As he did, the monster continued to speak, “As I see it, you have three choices. You can agree to my proposal, keep your people safe, and battle me once our arrangement is complete. Or you can be stubborn and enter the cave to fight me. But I assure you, you will not be able to see through this darkness, and I will immediately kill you. Or you can reject my offer, return to town, lie to your people, and tell them that you have already slayed me. But I wonder, how helpful will that lie be when I emerge from this cave, slaughter your women and children, and tell all the men the truth behind your fib?”

In frustration, Sanz struck the cave wall with his sword. “Fine!” he shouted angrily. “Give me the first task then!”

“Excellent,” said the monster slyly. “For your first task, return all of the gold that you have collected to slay me. Then come back tomorrow for your next task.”

Sanz’s jaw dropped open from the heavy weight of shock. “Return my gold? To the people? I will do no such thing!”

For the first time, the beast shouted back its response. “Then I will see to it that your reputation becomes ruined!”

Again, Sanz angrily swung his sword against the cave wall. “Fine, you stupid beast! I will carry out your task and then I will return tomorrow!” And with that, Sanz headed back to town to carry out his first assignment.

As soon as Sanz returned, the townspeople swarmed around him, begging to know what happened.

“Did you slay the beast?” asked the carpenter. 

 “Of course!” lied Sanz. “I ran inside that cave and strangled the monster with my own two hands! I didn’t even need to use my sword! I have saved the town yet again!”

The people whispered excitedly among themselves and applauded Sanz for his heroics.

“It was no problem at all,” assured Sanz, bowing at the applause. But then, from the back of his mind, he could hear the creature’s manlike voice speak to him, reminding him of his task. “Oh, and there’s one more thing,” he added spitefully. “Since the monster proved to be such an easy kill, I have decided to return the gold to every man who paid me. Come to my house this evening, and you will get your money!”

At first, there was silence. The townspeople couldn’t believe that this selfish man, who had collected their gold only hours ago, was now returning their money. But once this crazy truth registered in their minds, the people cheered enthusiastically for Sanz. Getting back their gold made the men and women even happier than discovering that Sanz had slayed the beast.

Later that evening, Sanz watched as the men in town lined up at his doorstep and retrieved fives piece of gold from the basket at his feet. Each of them expressed their gratitude and shook Sanz’s hand before they left. But even after all of this, Sanz remained as cold and icy as ever. Watching the townsmen take his gold scathed him more than any beast or man that he had ever fought.

The next day, Sanz returned to the cave for his second task. “OK beast,” he yelled into the cave. “I have completed the first task. Now what is next?”

“I want you to go the carpenter’s house,” said the monster. “You will find his daughter there. I want you to spend the afternoon with her. Walk her through town, treat her to a meal, and then come back tomorrow for your next task.”

Sanz groaned with disdain. The carpenter was among the poorest men in town; the type of man that Sanz would never even bother to talk to. And now, this beast was asking him to visit this impoverished man’s house and spend the afternoon with his daughter. How dare the creature make such a request! He was Sanz, the greatest warrior to ever live! He didn’t have time to waste on the poor! But Sanz knew that it was pointless to even argue. So he just grimaced at the beast within the darkness and headed back to town.

In no time at all Sanz arrived to the carpenter’s house. It was a small shack, a sorry excuse for a home, and the last place where Sanz wanted to be. He tapped his knuckles against the door and waited. It wasn’t long until it swung open to reveal a small boy in tattered clothing. He stared up at Sanz, too speechless to even utter the word ‘Hello’. The last thing that he was expecting to see was the greatest warrior to ever live standing at his front door.

“Hello,” said Sanz as unpleasantly as possible. “Is the carpenter’s daughter home?”

“I am here,” came a sweet voice from inside the house. A young woman stepped into view, right behind the boy. “Run along now, brother,” she told the boy. After one last glimpse of his hero, the boy ran back into the house, leaving his sister alone with Sanz.

Sanz observed the young woman’s appearance. She wore a rugged dress, no shoes, and had dirt smudged on her face. “Can I help you?” she asked.

Sanz released a heavy sigh. It was the last thing that he wanted to do, but he had no other choice. “I was wondering if I could take you for a walk through town,” he said in the least energetic way possible. “Perhaps, treat you to a meal.”

The young woman’s cheeks blushed beneath their smudges. “Sure,” she said.

The pair wandered aimlessly through town and ate lunch at the local pub (Sanz paid for the meal), and wherever they went, curious stares were sure to follow. The townspeople just couldn’t believe that the selfish warrior was now spending time with such a poor, young woman.

As the pair ate lunch and wandered through town, a conversation sprung between them that lasted the entire time they were together. To his surprise, Sanz found the carpenter’s daughter to be a humorous and interesting young woman. He was intrigued by the hardships of her life, her devotion to her family, and actually found her company quite enjoyable. Over the course of his life, many women had competed for his affection, but none of them had ever left such an impression on him.

As the sun began to set, Sanz walked the carpenter’s daughter back home.  “I would very much like to see you again,” he told her. His own words caught him by surprise, and judging by the expression on the young woman’s face, she felt the same exact way.

“Of course,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

Sanz smiled. “Tomorrow it is.” He waited for her to step into her house before heading back to his own, where the only thing that awaited him…was nothing, 

Everyday, Sanz returned to the monster’s cave for his next task, and everyday, he was given one that was just as absurd as the last. The creature made him help the farmers pick their crops, buy clothes and shoes for the carpenter’s family, give money to the homeless and the beggars, help the builders construct new homes, and many others. And throughout all of this, the monster never once attacked the town. Yet even though the creature had kept its word, Sanz was growing increasingly unhappy with the arrangement. Days swiftly became weeks, and still, the monster remained hidden by the cave’s darkness.

“How much longer will I have to do these stupid tasks?” demanded Sanz on various occasions. But every time he asked this question, the beast would always give the same reply. “Soon.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but Sanz had no choice but to carry out the beast’s unbearable tasks. But as more time passed by, the ice that covered Sanz’s heart began to thaw, and the tasks that were assigned to him didn’t seem as awful as they once did. He began to take delight in the townspeople’s gratitude and was treated with more respect and kindness than ever before. And whenever he wasn’t completing tasks, Sanz continued to spend time with the carpenter’s daughter. In only a few short weeks of her company, his sword was no longer the only thing that he cared for.

After completing another one of the creature’s strange assignments, Sanz headed to the carpenter’s house. Along the way, he became distracted by the sound of a woman screaming in the distance. Running as fast as he could (which was really quite fast), Sanz followed the distressful voice, which belonged to none other than the carpenter’s daughter. She was screaming at the top of her lungs and kneeling in the grass beside her brother. The young boy appeared to be unconscious, and a large gash lied on his forehead, spilling blood down his face.

“I don’t know what happened!” the young woman cried to Sanz. “I found him like this! He’s not moving!”

Sanz scooped the boy into his arms with unnatural ease. “Don’t worry!” he assured her. “I will bring her to the town doctor!”

“But I can’t afford the doctor!” cried the carpenter’s daughter.

“I will pay him myself,” said Sanz without the slightest hesitation. “Find your father. Then, come to the doctor’s residence as soon as you can.” And with that, Sanz jetted to the town doctor, carrying the unconscious boy in his arms.

The young woman immediately fetched her father and brought him to the doctor’s residence. When they arrived, they found the doctor and Sanz deep in discussion. And lying on one of the many beds was the young boy, still unconscious. The young woman and her father sat around him, holding onto his hands for comfort.

“Is he alive?” the carpenter asked the doctor.

“Yes,” said the town doctor. “But I am not sure how long it will take for him to wake up. We will just have to wait.”

The young woman turned to the mighty warrior. “Thank you so much for your help,” she said gratefully.

Sanz nodded his head in humble acknowledgement.

 “Do you think you can stay here with me? Until he wakes up?” she asked

This time, Sanz did hesitate. He wanted to be there for the carpenter’s daughter, but there was no telling when the young boy would wake up. For all Sanz knew, the carpenter’s son would be unconscious for days! And everyday that he spent at the doctor’s residence was a day that he would fail to show up at the monster’s cave. Would the creature be angry with him? Would it attack the town and reveal the truth behind his lie? The thought of this happening greatly worried the mighty warrior, but he just couldn’t find it within himself to leave the young woman’s side. “Of course,” said Sanz finally. 

As he had feared, Sanz wound up staying at the doctor’s residence for days. He comforted the young woman and carpenter as much as he could and fetched them food and water whenever they needed. He was happy to offer his help, but everyday, Sanz grew more fearful of the monster. For the first time in his life, he felt completely vulnerable and helpless. There were even a few times where the thought of leaving the carpenter’s daughter crossed his mind, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He constantly peered out the doctor’s window and searched the skies for a winged beast, ready to attack his little town. Whenever he went to get food and water, he waited for the townspeople to scold him for his lie, but they all greeted him as kindly as ever. Sanz wasn’t sure what the creature was doing, but he was very glad that it wasn’t attacking his town or telling the people of his lie.

After a few more days of torturous waiting, the carpenter’s son finally awoke. He seemed groggy and dazed, but he was alive. In her happiness, the young woman threw her arms around Sanz’s neck and kissed him. “You saved his life!” she cried, as her eyes welled with tears. “Thank you so much!”

“It was my pleasure,” said Sanz. He looked back to her younger brother. The boy had just woken, and Sanz was already planning to leave his side. But he had to.  He had unfinished business to settle. “Listen,” he told the young woman. “I have a certain matter to attend to. Is it alright if I leave?”

The carpenter’s daughter smiled. “Of course,” she said. And after one last kiss, Sanz finally departed from the doctor’s residence. Sanz had never run so fast in his life. He bolted into the forest, toward the old, winding brook.

He would have to tell the beast everything that had happened, and hopefully, the creature would be able to forgive him for his disappearance. If not, then he would just have to ask for more tasks to compensate for all the days that he had missed. At last, Sanz came to a halt in front of the creature’s cave. Like always, the blackness within it looked unnaturally dark.

“Creature!” he shouted into the cave. “Are you still there?”

And then from the darkness came the monster’s reply in its usual manlike voice. “I am,” it said. Sanz opened his mouth to speak. He was just about to explain his disappearance when the monster interrupted him. “And I am ready to do battle.”

For the first time in his life, Sanz felt completely caught off guard. He couldn’t believe that after all of those weeks, and after all of those tasks, the creature was finally ready to emerge from the dark. Sanz heaved his chest, wrapped his fingers around his hilt, and withdrew the sword from his belt. “Very well,” he shouted, pointing his weapon at the darkness. “Come out here and fight me, monster!”

“No,” said the beast. “You come in here and fight me. After completing my tasks, the darkness should no longer blind you.”

Sanz squinted into the cave. The inside still looked as dark as ever, but the creature had proven itself trustworthy. So, Sanz stepped into the cave. He walked a few feet, waiting for the darkness to brighten, but it never did. Sanz snarled angrily and ran back to the outside. “You liar!” he exclaimed. “You told me that I would be able see through this darkness! But I am as blind as ever! You have deceived me! I have accomplished all of those tasks for no reason!”

“Very well,” declared the creature. “Then, I will step out of my cave and battle you.”

Again, the beast had caught Sanz completely off guard. He quickly raised his sword and prepared himself for battle. He looked into the cave and waited for the thunderous sound of approaching footsteps. He searched the darkness for a large, looming shape of a monster. But instead, the only thing that emerged from the cave was the small shape of an old man; the same old man who had first warned the townspeople of the creature. 

Sanz gaped at the so-called monster. He was so shocked that he actually lowered his sword to the ground. “You?” he cried. “You are my opponent? You were the one who gave me all of those tasks?” He could feel his rage building within him, taking control of his mind. “You old fool!” he yelled. “You wasted my time for nothing! I will have your head for this!”

He raised his sword high into the air, ready to strike down his opponent. But then, the old man spoke. “I did not waste your time for nothing,” he said in the same calm voice as the monster. “Don’t you see? You are no longer blind from the darkness.”

“What are you speaking of?” demanded Sanz, his sword still high in the air. “I still couldn’t see a thing in that cave! Although, that doesn’t really matter because there wasn’t even a creature in that darkness!”

The old man beamed at the mighty warrior. “No, no. You were the creature in the darkness,” he told Sanz.

For some reason, these words resonated something within the warrior’s mind. He lowered his sword to the ground and listened attentively to each of the old man’s words.

“Your whole life you have been blinded by your greed and pride,” continued the old man. “You were a selfish and wretched monster, who cared about no one but yourself. But after completing my tasks, that darkness has brightened. Now, you are able to see the beast that dwelled within that darkness. And at long last, you have slayed it.”

The Creature in the Dark part 1

Wow. I HATE blogging. I really hope that one day, I get published, so I never have to waste my time with this again. Although, I've gotten a lot of positive feedback about my last entry, The Four Writers, which was pretty awesome to hear. For those of you who were fans of the story, I've submitted it to a few short story contests, so hopefully I win.

Last week, rather than waste my time writing blog entries, I edited a short story that I wrote in my Creative Writing class in high school. I have since submitted it to a young adult short story contest, so once again, hopefully I win. This particular story is titled The Creature in the Dark, which actually makes a brief appearance in the newer version of my manuscript Phantasma. In Chapter 2, Gia is working on her Life List (which is a list of everything that she wants to do during the course of her life) but is having some trouble coming up with ideas. She then turns to her bookshelf to find some inspiration. Among these books are the usual fairy tale classics: Cinderella, Peter Pan, Beauty and the Beast (which is mine and Gia's favorite fairy tale), and a few others. But there is one fairy tale story on Gia's bookshelf that no one would ever be able to recognize: The Creature in the Dark. That's because it's a short fairy tale that I wrote myself (it was titled The Queen and the Flute in the older version of my manuscript, which was yet another short story that I wrote, but I like this one better). As I was rattling off fairy tale stories, I thought it'd be kind of cool if I tossed in one of my own. Anyway. with that background knowledge in mind, I decided to go ahead and post this story on my blog. It's 13 pages long, which is an absurdly long blog post, so I think I'll post every 4 pages on here a week. Or something like that. And now without further ado. here are the first 4 pages of The Creature in the Dark.

 

The Creature in the Dark

by Matt Perrino

            Before there was Leonidas and Hercules, before Achilles and Beowulf, there was Sanz, the greatest warrior to ever live. The people of his town often said, “Sanz was gifted by both the moon and sun”. In other words, he was a very lucky man. He was so handsome that women vied for his affection. He was so skilled and deadly as a warrior that he could defeat an entire army of goblins by himself. He was so fast that his body became a blur whenever he ran. He had the strength of twenty men and could lift a boulder into the air with one hand. But Sanz also had the greed of a hundred thieves, coupled with one icy heart.

Whenever danger visited his town, the people would call upon Sanz to save them. But the brave warrior would only do so under one condition: every man in town, even the beggars and the homeless, had to pay him five pieces of gold and not one piece less. The people found this demand selfish and wretched, but they had no other choice. It was either pay Sanz his gold or be killed by whatever threatened their lives.

Again and again, Sanz rescued his people from the clutches of destruction. He fought dragons and three-headed monsters, warrior kings and entire armies. None of them could outmatch the almighty Sanz, and with each victory, he gained more wealth. But as his riches grew, so did his pride. He declared himself an invincible warrior and felt like a god among the people. Every man, woman, and child became unworthy of his greatness and trust. The only thing in the world that he trusted and cared for was the sword on his belt, which he carried with him at all times.

This story truly begins, though, on a summer afternoon that started off just as normally as any other. A bright sun hung in the sky and showered its warmth upon the town below. The people carried out their business as usual, concerned with only their own everyday problems. But this peaceful atmosphere was suddenly disrupted when an old man came running into town, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and gawked at the old man. “What is it?” asked the baker in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a creature!” exclaimed the old man. “Hiding in a cave!”

Fear gripped the people’s hearts and immediately pushed them into a state of panic. “A cave?” cried the fish merchant. “What cave?”

“One in the forest!” shouted the old man. “By the old, winding brook!”

“Did you see it?” asked the carpenter.

“Was it huge?” questioned a child.

“No, no, I did not see it,” replied the old man. “But it spoke to me!”

“Well, what did the beast say?” demanded a gypsy.

“It said that it plans to attack our town! Tonight!”

The townspeople gasped and screamed at the old man’s words.

“We must fetch Sanz immediately!” cried out the town doctor.

“Yes!” agreed the blacksmith. “Sanz will rid us of this beast!”

“That greedy, prideful fool?” protested a beggar. “But he will ask for five pieces of gold from every man in town! And I do not have that much to give him!”

“Then someone else will pay your share like always!” proclaimed the farmer. “Now come! Let’s go tell Sanz of the situation!”

And so they did. A large group of them traveled to Sanz’s home, which was large enough to suit a king.  There, they found the mighty warrior in his front yard, practicing his swordplay. They all watched him in awe, astonished by his swift movements and fierce swings. These actions quickly relieved the townspeople of any worry they had regarding the monster. Right then and there, they knew that the poor beast didn’t have a chance against the mighty Sanz.

The people waited for Sanz to acknowledge their presence, but he just continued with his exercise, as though none of them were standing right behind him. Finally, the town doctor let out a small cough to grab the warrior’s attention.

Sanz froze in place and turned to the coughing culprit. He gave the town doctor the same look that so many of Sanz’s victims had seen before their last breaths. He stood to his full height, towering over the trembling doctor. “How dare you interrupt me!” scolded Sanz. “Do you not see I am busy?”

“Please forgive me, Sanz!” pleaded the doctor. “But there is something we must tell you!”

“And what might that be?” snarled the mighty warrior.

The crowd parted to reveal the little old man who had warned the town of the monster. “There is an unknown creature in the forest!” he declared. “It hides in a cave beside the old, winding brook! It plans to attack us tonight! It told me so!”

Sanz sheathed his sword back into his belt and stroked the hairs on his chin. “I see,” he said, much more intrigued by the people than before. “Well, if my services are required, then you know the price. Five pieces of gold from every man in town!”

The people didn’t argue. After all, how could they oppose the mighty warrior who had saved their lives so many times? But as they stared at Sanz and at his giant house, they couldn’t help but detest him. He had everything that a person could ask for, and yet he stilled demanded more.

Every man in the group walked in front of Sanz and begrudgingly placed five pieces of gold at his feet, one-by-one. Sanz beamed down at his growing pile of gold. “Excellent!” he declared. “Now return to town and tell the other men to bring the gold that they owe me! Once every man has paid my fee, I will find this beast and slay it with ease!”

With heavy sighs and long faces, the people returned to town to spread the news of both the monster’s warning and Sanz’s instructions.

Sanz waited patiently at his doorstep. He watched the men line up in front of his house and drop their gold into a large basket that rested by his feet. Every now and then, one of them would tell Sanz of his poverty and beg to keep the gold. But Sanz was just as ruthless off the battlefield. He made every man drop their gold into his basket and forced the wealthy merchants to compensate for the beggars and the homeless who couldn’t afford the fee. Finally, once every piece of gold was collected and every man in town had paid the price, Sanz was ready for battle.

He trekked through the forest, until he found the winding brook that the old man had described. And sitting beside it was a giant stone cave, filled with a darkness so black that it looked unnatural. Sanz grabbed the hilt of his sword and withdrew it from his belt. He squinted into the blackness, trying to see the monster that resided within it, but the cave was too dark. “Creature!” Sanz bellowed into the cave. “I am Sanz, the mightiest warrior to ever live! Come out here and battle me!”

Sanz waited for a response. And then finally, it came. The beast spoke in a calm, booming voice that sounded very much a man’s. Its words bounced off of the cave’s walls and made their way into the warrior’s ears.

“If you wish to fight me,” began the beast, “then step into the cave.”

The Four Writers

Its been a long time since I've posted anything on this blog, but that isn't entirely my fault. Hurricane Irene stole my electricity for 5 days, so obviously I couldn't post anything that week. Of course that was like 3 weeks ago, so its not really much of an excuse at all. I just hate blogging. Thats pretty much what it comes down to. But have no fear, I'm back, and I have something very special for you guys today. During the week that Irene robbed me of my electricity, I wrote a short story, which I now plan on submitting for publication. Believe it or not, but this short story actually somewhat relates to a minor part of my story. Some of you may love it. Others may be offended by it. It all really depends on your views, but remember, its FICTION. Its just an absurd idea that popped up in my mind, and I found it intriguing enough to turn it into a short story. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Four Writers. Enjoy.

The Four Writers

by Matt Perrino

A fire dances on a heap of sticks and illuminates the tired faces of the four men around it. These men are the greatest authors of their time. Individually, they have crafted some of the most beautiful literature ever written. And now, these four men have chosen to come together to create a single story; a masterpiece that will be praised for generations to come. They stroke their beards in thought, rummaging through their imaginations for the perfect idea. Each of them looks exhausted, yet they remain determined.

            One of them releases a heavy sigh and removes an unscathed stick from the fire. In his boredom, he draws a line aimlessly in the sand. “Perhaps we should meet tomorrow,” he tells the others. “Nothing is being accomplished tonight.”

            The offer sounds tempting. The men yearn for the comfort of their beds and the warm touch of their wives.

“No!” responds another. “We have gathered here for 39 nights already, and so far, we have not come up with a single idea! I refuse to let this night be another failure!”

“Well then, let’s think,” states the second with a frown. “What is it that each us wants in a story? I personally would like to write a fantasy. A story of magic and wonder. I want to bring the readers into a realm of impossibility.”

“But that is just the opposite of what I want!” exclaims the third. “I want to tell a historical piece that reflects the times and struggles of the people! Something real that people can understand and relate to!”

“But that has no emotion!” yells the one holding the stick. “I want to tell a story that moves people! I want them to weep for the character’s struggles! I want them to feel as though their lives have been impacted by both his losses and accomplishments. What do you say, John?”

The fourth author, John, glumly shakes his head. “Alas, the story I want to tell is just as different. I want it to be spiritual. Something that can give hope and inspiration to those who read it. After all, these are very dark times…”

Silence falls upon the four men. For the time being, each of them retreat back into their thoughts.

“Well what if we were to combine all of these ideas into one?” asks the second man.

“And how can we possibly do that?” questions the man with the stick. “They are all so different!”

“Perhaps through the character,” replies the second. “We would need to create one that embraces each idea. A strong character.”

“How about this?” proposes John. “What if the character himself is fictitious but the people and events that he is affiliated with are actually real?”

The third writer strokes his beard and considers John’s words. “If we were to do that, then I could tell history, and Mark can still write his fantasy.” He dwells on the idea a bit longer before he makes up his mind. “I love it!” he declares.

Excitement begins to blossom within each of the four men. “As do I!” proclaims Mark, the second man. “Perhaps we can give this character magical powers! He can heal the blind!”

 Their voices bounce with enthusiasm. Slowly but surely, the idea comes together. “Yes!” cries out John. “And with the help of his magical powers, he can give hope and inspiration to the people! He can bring them good news! They can view him as a leader and rally around him!”

The man with the stick stands to his feet. He has just envisioned the final piece of the character’s story. “And then what if this character were to fall? What if he were to lose the support and faith of the people? What if he is a tragic hero worthy of praise? It would be brilliant!”

“Yes!” cry out all the men together. Goose bumps crawl up their arms and legs. The small hairs in the back of their necks stick upright. Somehow, they know that this is the idea that they were meant to write. They suddenly feel as though every second of their lives has been leading up to this one moment.

“This has great potential!” exclaims Mark. “What shall we call this character?”

The four men fall quiet. The only sound that could be heard is the cackling fire between them. They stare at the sand beneath their sandals, deeper in thought than ever before. Then suddenly, John lifts his head. The men all stare at him. They know that he has just come up with something brilliant.

“What have you thought of?” asks the third writer.

“Let’s call him,” began John, “Jesus.”

Dreams

Dreams. We all have them. And I'm not talking about the kind of dreams that pop up while you're asleep. As far as I'm concerned, those mean absolutely NOTHING. Sure, every now and then, a subconscious desire or memory will finagle its way into our dreams, but most of the time, I find them to be complete nonsense. For example, back in high school, I had a dream that I owned a Twizzler gun. That's right. A gun that shot Twizzlers instead of bullets. TWIZZLERS. Like the red, licorice candy that you eat. Now, you tell me. WHAT does this dream mean? If you have any idea, then leave me a post. My mind is open for interpretation. But don't you dare waste my time by feeding me that Freudian garbage. I learned all about Freud's "brilliance" in college, and I'm not buying it.

ANYWAY, that totally wasn't the point of this entry. I warned you that I would occasionally get lost on a tangent. Now, what were were talking about? Ah, yes. DREAMS. If you haven't guessed by now, the type of dream that I'm referring to is the kind that you have while you're awake. These dreams can occur at any given moment. You could be driving down the road, and suddenly, your mind will drift away into your fantasies (yet somehow, your body will still manage to operate the car perfectly). You could be in the middle of a conversation, and as the other person chats away, your thoughts will wander to a place where anything is plausible. You could be staring at the computer screen at work, but in your mind's eye, you're looking at something completely different, something that only exists in your head. As Leonardo DiCaprio teaches us in Inception, our dreams allow us to create worlds that don't exist and give us the lives that we wish we had. Now, THESE dreams actually mean something.

Maybe you just threw the game winning touchdown in the Superbowl. Maybe you're performing on a stage in front of thousands of cheering fans. Maybe you were voted to be the next President of the United States. Maybe you're lounging out by the pool in a multimillion dollar mansion, doing absolutely nothing. Maybe you're handing out food to the poor and giving money to the sickly. Or maybe, your dreams are a bit more down to earth. Maybe you finally mustered up the courage to talk to that person you really like. Maybe you're expressing your love for a family member or friend that passed away. Maybe you're cuddling on the couch with a spouse or partner that is no longer apart of your life. Maybe you're cradling the child that you hope to one day have.

These, my friends, are the dreams and thoughts that pass through your head every single day. Dreams alter over time, but I guarantee that most of you can still remember your most cherished childhood fantasies. These are the dreams that you grew up with and held dear to your heart. The ones that made you tell people, "When I grow up, I'm going to be (fill in the blank)" or "One day, I'm going to do (fill in the blank)" Look at your life now. Did those dreams come true? Or did you lock them away in your mind and haven't seen then since?

Maybe your dreams did come true. But for most of you, they probably didn't. Why is that? Is it because....

A) You experienced It's a Wonderful Life and something came up to prevent your dreams from ever coming true
B) You were afraid to fail
C) You were too lazy to pursue
D) You didn't think that you'd be good enough
E) Your dreams seemed unrealistic and beyond your reach

Or maybe it was the people in your life who convinced you that you would fail, that your dreams were unrealistic, that you weren't good enough, that you should stick with something practical. Maybe they told you, "No! You can't be a professional athlete! That's unrealistic!" or "No! You're not good enough to be a singer!" or "No! You're not attractive enough to date that person!" For most of us, dreams only exist in our heads. We watch helplessly as the realistic ways of the world rip apart our fantasies and then burn the remnants into ashes. But even after they melt away, even after we grow from children to adults, those wild fantasies of ours stay close to our hearts. We never forget them. So why did I just ramble on about dreams? Because dreams are what gave me my book. Well, partly. The main inspiration came from a drawing that I stumbled upon on Facebook, but that's a completely different blog entry.

Dreams. Imagination. Fantasy. Whatever you wish to call it,  it has become  major theme of my story. Just think about it. What if your wildest dreams, your most incomprehensible fantasies, came true? What if your childhood-self got the chance to experience the things that you yearned for? What if you were able to see all of the wondrous and extraordinary things that you dreamed of? And what if those dreams turned out differently than you imagined....

Now since I got all deep and philosophical on you, asking you to examine your life and wishes, I'll share with you a dream of mine. Well, it's actually a memory, but in this case, it's the same thing. When I was living on Stanton Avenue, in Baldwin, NY, this guy named Rich came to my house. He was my Grandma Jo's boyfriend at the time and was the closest thing that I ever had to a grandfather. One of my grandfathers was an alcoholic, ditched his family, and I never met him. The other was also an alcoholic and got ran over by a car when my mother was 11. So anyway, this guy Rich saw me sitting on the stairs in my house, scribbling away into a notebook. I was about 7 at the time. He came over to me and asked, "What're you doing?"

"I'm writing a story," I replied without even glancing up from my writing.

"That's great," he responded enthusiastically. "Let me guess. You want to be an author when you grow up?"

Finally, I lifted up my head and looked at him. "No," I said. "I'm going to be a famous author."

I've carried that dream ever since. For a long time, it was been locked away in my mind, totally forgotten. Now, I'm opening that door and striving for what I've always wanted. I'm going to do all I can to make that dream come true, even if it means writing blogs that no one reads.

Oh and by the way, Rich later became Grandpa Rich. Just in case you were wondering.

And here I am

There are many things in this world that annoy me. Automatic toilet bowls is one. Hearing birds chirp pleasantly in the morning after surviving an all-nighter is another. And blogging is a third. Yet here I am, a starving artist (or maybe I am just a maniac suffering from delusions of grandeur) who started a blog solely to expose my name, my writing, and my ideas, and share them with people I have, and will, never, meet. All because a woman  named Caitlin, who I’ve never met but sounds very attractive on the telephone, suggested that I do so. Marvelous.

Now, if you’re reading this, I’m sure you don’t care. I’m sure you people want to read blogs that relate to current events and pop culture. Well unfortunately, I am not here to do that. At least, not all the time. Instead, I will offer you intellectual, thought-provoking allegories and short stories that pertain to my soon-to-be-published book. Actually, that’s a BLATANT lie. It’s not even close to getting published. However, I am very confident (or again, maybe I am just delusional) that it WILL get published and become a child’s fictional classic. I hope. Until that glorious day arrives, YOU will be my audience.
Many of my blogs (I’ll most likely get lost on a tangent every now and then and discuss totally random things) will offer insight and thought-provoking analysis to the ideas  that I concocted while writing the first draft of my book. Some of these ideas will be oh-so-sweet and endearing. Others will probably offend you. But that’s OK. You can’t please ‘em all. With that said, my first OFFICIAL blog shall commence tomorrow, and I think it’ll be a good way kickstart the madness. So if any of you wonderful bloggers out there want to get your minds BLOWN, then stick with me. Hopefully by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be sitting in a chair, contemplating your life.

Love you all,
Phantasma