Lexical Thoughts

noxlumos asked: YOU CAN DO IT MATT
I BELIEVE IN YOU
GO
WRITE
GO

YES

OKAY

JUST AFTER I FINISH PROCRASTINATING ON TUMBLR AND I FINISH MY SCHOOL WORK

When you spell “two” as “too” is when you need to stop writing.

katedoesnano:

Currently at 19,158 words. Not too shabby.
Wrote almost 4,100 words today. Pretty proud of myself, gotta say. New high score!
Time to crash. 

I’m so far behind it’s ridiculous. I still only have 10,500, and I should have twice that. Eep.

At 7,777 words on day seven with an average of 1,111 words per day. Boo yah. (I’m still behind on my word count though)

I’ve changed Mark’s name to Nick, and Rick’s name to Marshall. I thought they fit better. Also when December rolls around and I edit, the description of the tables in the cafeteria will be changed to avoid being so cliche. Anyway.

“Not just any comic! It’s #193! The fabled first appearance of The Red Robber! Possibly the most awaited issue of the entire series!” He was very excited.

“So…” I said slowly. “It’s…a comic?”

Marshall sighed again. “I don’t think I’ll ever find someone that shares my passion for onomatopoeia-ridden masterpieces.”

Nick lightly punched his arm. “Chin up, Marsh,” he consoled. “I bet there’ssomeone in this city of, what, two and a half million people?”

“Two million, six hundred and ninety five thousand, five hundred and ninety eight at the last census,” corrected Marshall.

“There you go, another couple hundred thousand people to choose from.”

“Alas, this plight is mine to bear, for I am but one in a sea of many. Oh, how the gods of love, and indeed, friendship, seem to frown upon me!” Marshall pontificated.

“He likes Shakespeare too,” explained Nick.

“Anyway, I’m attempting to steel my mind and body for the awesomeness that this issue shall inevitably bring.” And he went back to his preparation.

“So there it is - your introduction to my best friend. Old best friend, meet new best friend. There’s room for all in Nick’s friend-zone!”

I shook hands with Marshall - it seemed that that was the Chicagoan way of greeting. It was new to me, because since everyone knew everyone in a town of barely four thousand, hugs were abundant and consistent.

I looked around the full cafeteria. The cliques that were existent were clearly on display, with each table holding a different set of students.

“Ah, I see you’ve spotted the cattle,” joked Nick. “Let me introduce you.”

From where we were seated in the back corner, furthest away from the lunch line at the front and the door on the right wall, we could see every other table in the room. Nick worked in a clockwise direction moving inwards in a spiral.

“Okay, so there are twenty of these bench-table-things in this dump, and every one of them is inhabited by a different group. Starting with us, you’ve got the coolest people you will ever meet, then the Asian girls,“ I recognised the girl from Modern History, “the Mathletes, the football team,” they took up two tables, muscular as they were, “the emotional wrecks, the music girls,” everyone of them were wearing band t-shirts and had earphones in, “the geography geeks, the interracial environmentalists, the averagely-popular group,“ they extended into two tables as well, “the band kids, the petrolheads-“ Nick explained later that they all owned small hatchbacks with unnecessarily large exhausts, “the string orchestra kids, the I.T. geeks, the readers,” none of them were talking to each other - instead they were all reading various novels, “the Germans, the drug dealers who say they aren’t drug dealers but everyone knows that if they want quality weed they’re who you talk to, the gay rights committee, and finally, the popular jerks. You should also know that there are lots of people that’ll fit into more than one group, so they can flitter around to their heart’s content. You, on the other hand, can not - you’re stuck with me.”

“Right,” I said. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure? I can repeat it if you’d like,” Nick joked.

“No, I think I’ve aged enough today,” I quipped. “Just two questions, though - why are the orchestra and band kids separated? And who are the jerks?”

“Well, ever since the Great Band Room Riot of 2009, the two groups have hated each other. No one really knows what happened, but there were rumours that one of the violinists decapitated the snare drum player with their bow. Ridiculous, of course. Everyone knows it’s easier to use a cymbal.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, slightly wary of having my head chopped off with a cymbal. “What about the jerks?”

“As for them, they’re the ‘popular’ kids. The ones that think that they’re the bee’s knees. Or whatever other annoying idiom they decide to use. When really, they’re total jerks and no one likes them.”

“Alright, then. I think I’ve been successfully introduced to the inner workings of the social hierarchy in Lincoln Park High.”

“Welcome home, Will. You’re going to hate it here. I know I do,” said Nick with a wink.

At that moment, it seemed that Marshall had successfully steeled himself for the onslaught of awesomeness, because he suddenly grabbed the comic and flipped it open to the first page. I could see an insatiable hunger in his eyes that reminded me of the Discovery Channel.

“There he goes,” Nick said, looking at Marshall almost paternally. “He’ll be engrossed in that for the rest of lunch.” He turned to me. “Want to get some food? I’m starved.”

I nodded, and we left Marshall to his superhero escapades. Passing the other tables, every so often I saw someone turning to look at me, and, realising that I was new, swivelled back around to their posse and discussed the new arrival.

“Don’t worry about all the attention,” reassured Nick. “It’ll pass soon enough.”

We loaded plastic trays with piles of food, perhaps more than we actually needed. But, hey, we were teenage boys.

We returned to find Marshall still engrossed in his Blue Bandit, and since Nick assured me that normal conversation with him while he was reading was nigh impossible, we left him be.

“It’s funny,” said Nick, “You’re officially my other best friend, and I don’t know anything about you.”

“I did think that was a little strange.”

“Hey, I’m a strange guy,” agreed Nick. “Alright, it’s quick fire lightning round! Ready?”

“Hold on, I’ve gotta brace myself.” I braced myself. “Okay, go.”

“Full name?”

“William Michael Archford.”

“Date of birth?”
“21^st of July, 1994.”

“Sexuality?”

“Straight.”

“Parents?”

“Judy Archford and Michael Archford.”

“Favourite colour?”

“Green.”

“Favourite animal?”

“Bengal tiger.”

“50 Cent or Mozart?”

“Mozart.”

 “TV shows or movies?”

“Movies.”

“Harry Potter or Twilight?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

“No, I guess not. I should’ve known you’d go for the sparkly ones,” he said with a grin.

“Nah, I love me some werewolf.”

Nick laughed. “You’ve got a good sense of humour. That’s good. You might’ve had to be demoted to ‘friend’ if you weren’t funny.”

Marshall looked up from his comic for long enough to see the steaming pile of fries I had gotten from the lunch line. He reached across for one, but I swatted his hand away.
“Hey, come on, just one?” he pleaded.

“Nope,” I refused, and just to tease him, stuffed a handful my mouth. “Gefyourown.” I discovered how ungainly it is to try and talk with a mouth full of hot salted potato.

“Please? I have a phobia of walking…or something.”

I swallowed before talking again. “Tell you what, you play me in Rock Paper Scissors, and if you beat me, I’ll give you some.”

“Deal.”

The first two times we both came up with the same hand, but the third time, I had a flat hand, and he had a fist. Game over.

“No fries for you,” I evilly joshed.

“That game is so flawed,” complained Marshall. “I understand that Scissors can beat Paper, and I get how Rock can beat Scissors, but there’s no way Paper can beat Rock. Is Paper supposed to magically wrap around Rock rendering it immobile? If so, why can’t Paper do this to Scissors? Screw Scissors, why can’t paper do this to people? Why aren’t sheets of college ruled notebook paper constantly suffocating students as they attempt to take notes in class? I’ll tell you why, because paper can’t beat anybody, a rock would tear that crap up in two seconds.”

“Well, when I play Rock/Paper/Scissors, I always choose Rock,” interrupted Nick. “Then when somebody claims to have beaten me with their Paper I can punch them in the face with my ready made fist and say, ‘oh, I’m sorry, I thought paper would protect you’.”

I laughed and ate some more fries. It looked like I’d found my two friends.

*                      *                      *

The train ride home was uneventful and peaceful. There was barely anyone on the train; except for the same girl I’d seen that morning. She was no less attractive than before, and was in the same seat, doing the same thing as before - staring out the window with earphones in. I took the time to study her - her brilliant green eyes and rich brown hair were still there, but this time I also noticed her fair skin, her small mouth perpetually curved ever-so-slightly upwards, suggesting that she smiled a lot. I liked that.

She was there when I got on and there when I left. I was about to tell my brain to file it in the ‘Interesting’ cabinet, but before it had a chance I opened the door to the apartment, and my sense of smell was immediately bombarded by a wonderful and familiar smell.

Pizza.

Dad might’ve cleaned up a bit, but he still hadn’t learnt how to cook anything more than a BBQ or toast. And I was quite thankful for that.

Just before I’d left home, Mum had gone on a detox-organic-hippy-vegan diet and got rid of anything in the house that wasn’t 98% fat free or more. Suffice to say, I’d missed the intoxicating aroma of melted cheese and various processed meats that now wafted into my nostrils.

Sprinting into my room, I dumped my satchel and sprinted back to the kitchen where I skidded to a stop in front of the beautiful meal.

“Evening, Will,” Dad said cheerily. “I got your favourite,” and he spread his arms wide from behind the counter, as if unveiling a masterpiece.

“Meatlovers. You’ve done brilliantly.”

“Ah, well, it was nothing,” Dad said faux-modestly. “I live to serve, really.”

“Thanks, Mother Teresa.”

I grabbed a few pieces and flopped down on the couch, where I proceeded to watch mindless reality television with Dad. All in all, it was a pretty brilliant first proper night in Chicago.

Near the end of the night, when we were feasting on double chocolate ice cream, Dad piped up.

“You know, Benjamin Franklin once said that ice cream tastes like ground up unicorn dreams?”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

“No, no, really, he did.”

“Oh, of course,” I sarcastically agreed. “They had abundant supplies of churned milk that was then flavoured, coloured and frozen in the 19^thcentury.”

“Definitely.”

“Just one question…why Ben Franklin?”

“People will accept your ideas much more readily if you tell them that Benjamin Franklin said it first,” Dad said sagely. It was interesting that even when he was joking, he seemed to remind me of an old wise man, or monk. I don’t know how pleased he would’ve been to hear that description. Then again, I was definitely noticing a fair amount of grey hair growing from his scalp.

NaNoWrimo Day Four, Five, and Six (I’m about 2500 words behind)

Before I even had time to scan the room, the door flew open with a bang, and an elderly woman strode in.

“Alright, then, quiet down!” she commanded. I was reminded of the way commanding officers in the army spoke to their troops.

“Now, first things first! We have a new student in our class today!” Did every teacher in Chicago have a voice louder than the gods of Greek mythology?

“I want you to make him feel welcome! Will, where are you‽”

I slipped up my hand, and suddenly felt twenty-three pairs of eyes staring solely at me.

“Good! Minions, this is Will Archford; Will, these are the minions!”

Murmurs of greeting spread through the class. Apparently they were used to be being called her minions.

“Okay, that’s enough of sizing up the new meat! Open up your textbooks, turn to page 153 and start reading!”

She walked down from the front of the classroom to my desk and introduced herself. “My name is Mrs Trillian,” she said at a reasonable volume. I was astounded - it seemed she was in fact able to speak quietly, rather than the Zeusian sound she had produced before.

“This year we’re starting with the Irish conflict - I suppose you don’t have your textbook yet?” I shook my head.

“Ah, well, just move to the person closest to you and look on,” and she went back to her desk.

I had two options - on my left was an Asian girl that was chewing bubble-gum and lounging back in her chair; on my right was a sandy-haired guy that was at least a little interested in the textbook that lay in front of him. I chose the latter, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, do you mind if I read your textbook?” I asked.

The kid sized me up before replying. “Will, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Mark,” he said, extending a hand.

I shook it, and unsure of how to reply, just said, “cool”.

If he noticed my awkwardness, he didn’t acknowledge it. “So, new here? Where’d you come from?”

“Moved from a small town in Wisconsin.”

“Oh, a country boy then? First time in the big city?” I nodded.

“Well, don’t worry - you’ll get used to the murders and terrorism,” he grinned.

“Comforting.”

He laughed. “Yep, just watch out for The Trill. She’s the real danger.” I guessed that he was referring to Mrs Trillman.

“Seriously, she seems as sweet as chocolate, but put even a toe out of line and she’ll rip you to shreds. Try not to get destroyed.”

Glancing back at her, I could see what he meant. Her gaze was a constant presence, melting anything that crossed its path. She was using her laptop, but touch-typing, which allowed her stare to never falter. It vaguely reminded me of Zeus again. Maybe she was a distant cousin.

“Anyway, you’ll like it here,” reassured Mark. “You seem like a cool guy. Tell you what, let’s be best friends.”

Slightly taken aback, I said, “Oh, um, really?”

“Look, you need someone who knows this place back to front, and I need a awkward country hick.” He smiled. “What do you say?”

What he said was true, and he seemed like a nice guy. What the hey, I thought.

“Alright then. We’re best friends.” I smiled.

 “Pleasure doing business with you,” he replied. “Now I’m new to this English Conflict too-“

“Irish Conflict,” I corrected.

“Whatever. So let’s read this stupid textbook and try and pass.”

*                      *                      *

Out of all the teachers I encountered that day, there was only one I was instantly enraptured by. Maybe it was just the subject he was teaching, maybe it was how enthusiastic and how knowledgeable he was, but whatever the reason, English Extension would quickly become my favourite subject.

I sat in the middle at the back again. I liked the back - it gave me full view of everyone. You could find out a lot about people by their little behavioural quirks.

I found out in the lesson after Modern History - Math - that Mark had Woodwork now, so I was on my own again.

Mr Fischer strode into the classroom in fourth period, dressed in a full suit, but not a business suit; more of a casual suit, with a skinny tie. More awesome, basically.

“Life. “ With a great sweep of the chalk, the man in his early 30s underlined the ‘life’ already scrawled on the blackboard. “Big concept, isn’t it? No, actually, it’s not. You know what’s a bigger concept? Meaning. You know what’s a bigger concept? The universe.” He paused and held up a hand. “You’re expecting me not to go bigger, aren’t you? Why? Well, because nothing’s bigger than the universe, of course. Wrong!” He clapped his hands together for emphasis. “Existence! Existence is bigger than the universe. It’s bigger than all of us! Why? Because it’s a part of all of us - we all exist together, as part of a collective consciousness.” He seemed asked a lot of rhetorical questions.

Continuing on his enthusiastic monologue, he began to pace the length of the classroom.

“What I just said was incorrect, though, wasn’t it? Certain concepts aren’t necessarily bigger than another - they may be more complex, or easier to explain, but ‘big’ is a very subjective word.

“I’m Mr Fischer. I’ll be teaching you English Extension this year. Ultimately, you’re all here because you chose to be. You could have picked Art or Woodwork or I.T., but you appear to have an interest in the complexities of our language, and by extension, existence itself. Those concepts I mentioned might not sound like the English language to you, but they directly pertain to their signifiers, as do all words.” He paused again.

“Don’t think that this subject will be easy. It isn’t. It’s tough and gruelling and is only for those with natural intelligence and a good work ethic. If you don’t know the difference between affect and effect, you probably shouldn’t be here.”

Glancing around I saw one or two people shifting nervously in their seat. They seemed to be affected by his words.

“But, for those that will put in the work and want to be here, you’ll be rewarded.” He looked expectantly around the class. A blonde girl in the second row raised her hand.

“Uh, sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the reward?”

Mr Fischer’s face lit up with joy - I know it sounds melodramatic, but that’s exactly how what happened.

“Ah, thank you, Nameless Student! The reward? Knowledge. Pure, nuanced, knowledge. And that should be one of the most prized possessions you have. Hopefully, if it isn’t already, it will be by the end of the year.”

His pacing led him to the back right corner where I was sitting. I knew what was coming - every class that day had begun with me meeting the class, even though there were quite a few people that were in quite a few of my periods. Mr Fischer’s steps stopped in front of my desk with a clack of his shoes on the tiled floor, and his golden-brown eyes fell onto me.

“Mr Archford, is it?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. He looked at my quizzically.

“You seem like a smart kid. Tell me, in your opinion, why Frederich Nietzsche hated humanists?”

For a moment, my brain decided to have a panic attack. It flung itself out of the comfortable chair it had been lounging in, happy to bask in the brilliance of the lecture, and sprang into action. It frantically ran around to all the filing cabinets that contained my memories, and threw files everywhere, madly searching for the right response. I had, thankfully, read enough about Nietzsche to answer the question though, and so my brain stopped its search. Relieved, it lay back down in its chair and put its feet up.

“Wasn’t it because they took the Christian morals but left the Christian God? Taking out the foundation but leaving the house?” I tentatively answered.

Mr Fischer smiled. “Well done, Will. Ten points to Gryffindor,” he added with a wink.

And he liked Harry Potter. What a legend.

“Now,” he continued, addressing the entire class, “I’m going to throw you all in the deep end here, and we’re going to start with something difficult.” He strode back to the board, and in large letters wrote the word ‘LACAN’.

“Jacques Lacan was a prominent psychoanalyst and philosopher that put forward some incredibly interesting concepts. We will be studying his work this term. However, there are some basic concepts you need to know first.”

Mr Fischer spent the rest of the lesson engaging me totally. He strode around the room, flinging his arms in the air to make a point, and above all, actually teaching. I’d encountered far too many teachers, like The Trill, that set textbook work and sat behind their desks the entire lesson. Mr Fischer didn’t do that. He constantly asked questions, asked what we thought of certain concepts, if we agreed with this or that, and if we got something wrong or had a different viewpoint, he was entirely encouraging and respectful. And then my favourite part of his teaching? Somehow, he would jump from one topic to another, telling this anecdote and praising this critic, but it would all be linked. Not one thing he said was irrelevant. I’ve never enjoyed a school period more.

When the bell rang for the end of class, I was surprised. The time had gone far too quickly. As everyone was leaving, I went up to the teacher’s desk.

“Mr Fischer?” He looked up from packing his papers.

“Um, I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed that. It was…”

“Utter brilliance? Total genius?” Mr Fischer replied with a smirk.

“Kind of, yeah,” I grinned.

His smirk dropped a little. “Listen, Will, if you take away one thing from today’s lesson, it’s that you should never idealise people. Not celebrities, not your parents, and not me. Thinking of people as more than people is dangerous and I’d advise against it.”

I immediately felt stupid. He was right, of course. He wasn’t perfect - no one is. Nor was he a genius. Intelligent, sure. But not what I’d thought of him to be.

Mr Fischer seemed to see the sheepishness in my face, because he continued. “I’m not criticising you and I’m not angry. I’ve just made the same mistake before and little as I know of you, I don’t want to see you make the same one.

“You know, there’s an old religious parable that talks about this. Six blind men were asked to determine what an elephant looked like by feeling different parts of its body. The blind man who felt the leg said that ‘an elephant is like a column’. The blind man who felt the tail said that ‘an elephant is like a rope’. The man who felt the tusk said that ‘elephants are more like pipes’, and the one who felt the ear said ‘elephants are like fans’. The one who felt the belly said that it ‘was like a wall’, while the one who felt the trunk said that ‘elephants are like tree branches’.

“They’re all right. They could each only speak to what they knew. Because it is impossible for us to know what everyone else has been through and how they experience the world, it’s impossible to pass judgment on why they are the way they are or why they think the way they think. Judging people by their covers, the first few pages, or even the entire book, is a mistake, no matter if it’s a positive or negative assumption, because their words are never finished, and we will never know all of them.”

“But Will,” he concluded. “I appreciate the sentiment all the same. I hope you’re settling in well.”

And with that, he picked up his briefcase and strode out of the classroom, leaving me with my thoughts.

CHAPTER FOUR

The cafeteria was nearly full, but luckily when I walked in, Mark spotted me, and proceeded to wave manically from the opposite side of the room.

I sat down at the table, slightly distracted by another boy sitting next to Mark. He was intensely focused on the comic book in front of him. Not reading it, just staring at the cover.

“This is Rick,” introduced Mark. “He’s a friend.”

Rick pushed his glasses up his pointy nose and continued his starting contest.

“Uh…” I started.

“What’s he doing?” finished Mark. “That’s a very good question, and one I’ve been dying to ask, but I thought I’d let you do the honours, being new and all.” He began a drumroll on the table with his hands.

“Rick,” I said, “what are you doing?”

He looked up from the comic. “I’m preparing myself.”

Mark finished his drumroll, noticeably disappointed. “I was ready to do a game show sound effect but that’s much less exciting than what I was hoping for.”

“Ugh. Simpleton,” insulted Rick.

“And now you’re introduced to his incredibly delightful and yet vaguely malevolent charm that so draws me in,” laughed Mark.
Rick turned to me and sighed. “You see this here?” He held up the comic book.

“I’m afraid I don’t. What are you talking about?” I dryly joked.

“This! The thing I’m holding in my hand!”

“Oh, that. I see now.” I nodded my head vigorously.

“This is issue #193 of The Red Bandit!” He paused and swivelled from Mark to me and back again, as if his comment was supposed to provoke a reaction. We both shrugged.

“So, after careful analysis, I think we’ve come to the astounding conclusion that…it’s a comic?” Mark grinned.

afeelingweallknow asked: Yo Matt. So I have decided I'm gonna wait till your little story is done and read it then when its all edited and stuff :) Just to let you know :P

Alright then, Kiarna, it’s duly noted. :P

NaNoWrimo Day Two and Three (I’m about 1500 words behind)

Regathering my sense, I exited the station to the sidewalk and hailed a cab.

“721 West Randolph Street, thanks,” I said to the driver.

“No problem son,” he replied.

I thought for a moment, and then said, “Actually, can you take a scenic route? Like, through the skyscrapers and stuff?”

He chuckled. “First timer, eh? Alright then.”

The cab slid out into the flow of traffic on West Adams St, and I began to get my first taste of a bustling metropolis as we drove on - the sounds, the smells, the sights - every one of my senses were engaged with the city. Even my tongue was tingling with a light touch of smog. Massive towering structures walled me in on either side, and gave me a sense of safety rather than claustrophobia. We passed businessmen chattering incessantly on their BlackBerrys, twenty-something’s with their afternoon cup of Starbucks, elderly women walking their snow white terriers, middle-aged couples out for a refreshing stroll; every race, age and gender was represented. Chicago felt like a living, breathing being with multiple lungs and many hearts and hundreds of bones and 5thousands of veins and millions of cells and endless life. And yet, I couldn’t help the feeling that, for the moment at least, I was an invader, an organism out of place, and that at any moment the white blood cells would be mobilised and I would be erased from the body of the city.

Or maybe it was just the suspiciously strange-tasting sandwich sitting in my stomach from the train ride. I never much liked ham and cheese.

Within about ten minutes, the taxi had pulled over to the side of the road in front of a plain, brick, nine-story apartment block. I gave the driver his exorbitant fare and got out of the car.

Immediately, I spotted my father lounging on a lawn chair on the middle fourth floor balcony, holding a beer in one hand, and what looked like a party popper in the other.  I guessed that he saw me then; because he launched out of his chair to his feet, looking the most excited I’d ever seen him.

“WILL! WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR HAS ARRIVED! LET THE PARTY BEGIN!”

On ‘begin’, he ripped the cord from the party popper, and with a puff of smoke and a bang, a feeble collection of streamers burst from the end, apparently celebrating my arrival.

Dad might have been a cynical divorcee, but he was most definitely one for theatrics.

He left the balcony and started to sprint down the staircase. I took my suitcases from the taxi, and prepared myself for the onslaught of lameness.

He finally burst out of the front door, ran to me, and stopped, panting like an asthmatic seal. His greying hair flapped a little in the wind.

“You all right, Dad?”

He let out a hearty, albeit wheezy, chuckle, and patted me on the back.

“Yeah, Will, I’m great. And even better now that my dude’s here!”

“Uh, Dad. No one says ‘dude’. Not since Rodney Mullen invented the kickflip.”

“Oh,” he replied. “Well, you’re my dawg, then.”

“Not since Hammer wore parachute pants, I’m afraid.”

“Homie?”

“Not since Ike married Tina.”

“Bro? Brother? Brethren?”

“Wrong William.”

“Alright, then, Shakespeare. Brethren it is,” he grinned.

I rolled my eyes and pulled him into a manly hug. You know the kind, with lots of back slapping and no longer than five seconds.

“It’s good to see you, Dad.”

“You too, Will. You’ve grown since I last saw you, and do I spy some stubble peeking out from your pubescent chin?” He laughed at his own joke. He did that a lot.

“Wait. Whoa. Stop for a second,” I said seriously. “Shit, Dad. You actually mean to say…”

My dad looked at me anxiously. “Yes, Will? What is it?”

“That…my body. GREW? With TIME‽”

He relaxed, and he punched me on the shoulder. “Don’t do crap like that - you actually had me worried for a second.”

“Oh, like you’ve never done anything like that before,” I laughed.

He smiled. “Okay, fair enough. Let’s get your junk upstairs.”

Picking up one of my suitcases, he let out several unintelligible noises that vaguely reminded me of the sounds the Galapagos Island tortoise makes during sex. And then I was immediately grossed out at the thought of Galapagos Island tortoise sex.

“You got it, Dad?” I asked.

In between grunts I think I heard the sentence, ”it’s bloody heavy junk”; so, satisfied Dad could handle himself, I picked up my other suitcase, walked the few feet across the sidewalk to the door, and led the way up the stairs.

I was waiting at the fourth floor landing when he finally heaved my luggage onto the floor.

“Not as young as you used to be, eh?” I joked.
He just gave me a stare as he pulled out a keychain, and finding the right one, inserted it into the doorknob and turned.

The door opened onto a small, yet spacious, studio apartment. The kitchen was straight to my right; a living room was in front of it, with three doors lining the left wall, intersected with bookcases, and another door on the right in the living room. At the far end was the opening to the balcony.

The first thing I noticed about the apartment I entered was that it was, surprisingly, clean. The bookshelves were stacked neatly; the kitchen was free of grime; the floors practically winked back at me.

Dad, seeing my obvious shock, bounded forward, and spread his arms wide.

“Ta-da!”

“Wow, Dad. Um, what brought this on?”

“Well, your mother-“ his tone noticeably changed on ‘mother’ “-always said I lived like a pig, and I thought you might like not to live in, uh, um…where do pigs live?”

I raised an eyebrow. “A sty?”

“Ah, yes. That.” He looked pleased with himself, and I knew he was fishing for some recognition of his hard work.

“Thanks for going to all this trouble,” I commended.
“Aw, shucks, you’re too kind, son.” And with a hand gesture that reminded me of the intensely gay stereotype, he sidestepped into a room to his right.

“Come on, Will, I’ll give you a tour that’ll blow your mind!”

That afternoon was spent settling in, most of which consisted of Dad talking me through the ways to get the most out of the TV, the most out of the hot water, and the most of the internet. All of them involved some kind of violence or careful fiddling. I also found out that the three doors on the left were his study, the bathroom, and my room.

“I think you’re going to like it here, Will. I certainly do,” he smiled.

“I think I will too.”

That night I fell onto my bed, surprisingly tired from the day, even though, really, all I did was sit. I could faintly hear the sounds of the city as I lay there. I was expecting constant sirens and drunken yells and occasional gunshots - you know, the big city stereotype in all the movies. But no. Just the vaguely melodious hum of the highway close by. It became my lullaby.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning was uneventful - I got up at seven, ate an unhealthy breakfast of sugar-coated cereal that tasted like the rainbow wings of fairies, and with a quick pep talk from Dad about starting at a new school, I left and started my five minute walk to the train station.

“Now, son. You’ve lived in, a, uh-“

“Shithole?” I suggested. “Crapbag? Hell on Earth? Town of death by boredom and small-mindedness?”

He chuckled. “Take your pick. Anyway, Chicago’s obviously a lot bigger than Medford, so the kids are going to be used to different things. All I’m saying is, be on your guard, trust no-one, and don’t hit on any girls.” He winked at me. “Yet.”

Remembering the conversation as I walked with Jukebox the Ghost in my ears, I couldn’t help but smile. Dad had become a lot happier since he had moved to Chicago.

The constant fighting started when I was nine. I remember coming out of my room holding a toy dinosaur, and seeing my parents standing in the kitchen, arguing. It wasn’t even about anything important, but they were both angry - even my underdeveloped nine-year-old brain could comprehend that. I just stood there, watching them. After a minute or so, my mum turned and saw me, abruptly stopped shouting, and stormed off. Dad had tried to shake it off with a smile and a “don’t worry, Will - your mother’s just tired today”, but a feeling of discord stuck with me. It subsided into the background, but from then, I sort of knew they wouldn’t be together forever like they said in their wedding vows.

I was twelve when the divorce was made final. Dad moved to the opposite side of town. I stayed with Mum.

Eventually, Dad moved away altogether. He said Medford ‘choked his creative spirit’. At fourteen, I knew better.

Reliving and remembering the disharmony always made me feel depressed. Usually, I turned on some melancholy music and allowed myself to wallow in the gloomy nostalgia of it all. But, since I was starting at a new school in a new city, I wanted to make a good first impression, and walking into class sadder than a waiting room at a funeral home was perhaps not the best. I therefore pushed the memories away, switched to a more upbeat album, and began to jog the rest of the way.

Chicago has a subway of sorts known as the ‘L’, most of it above ground that links the city. To get to my new school, I had to catch a 7.48am train. And catch it I did.

I sat down in the first pair of seats I found unoccupied, and glanced around at the other passengers. No-one of note that I saw, apart from this one girl.

She sat perpendicular to me, about five rows in front, with earphones in. A beanie on her head covered the first section of her rich brown hair. Along with bright green eyes, and a pleasing appearance, I’d say she was a very pretty girl.  Just my opinion of course.

After glancing at her one more time, I thought nothing more of her, and instead enjoyed the twelve minute trip to Lincoln Park High School.

The one thing I was determined to do was to meet at least two people that I could easily talk to and strike up a friendship with. I didn’t think this would be too hard, because of a) I wasn’t bad looking, albeit with a few blemishes here and there, b) I wasn’t annoying or irritating, and c) I thought the kids would be friendly.

And for once, I was right.

After asking for directions from a 9^th grader, I found my way to the Administration Block, where they gave me my timetable and directed me to my first period: Modern History.

Just before the bell went, I entered the classroom, and found a spare seat near the back. Most everyone was already seated and talking.

I’m doing Nanowrimo.

And I’ll be posting every day’s work on here, unedited. Criticism is welcome, but no editing will be done on it until December. So, here’s yesterday:

CHAPTER ONE

There are a few things that I have long accepted will never happen; there will never be a ‘lite’ version of a beverage that tastes as good as their sugar-filled originals no matter how bolded the claim of ‘SAME GREAT TASTE’ is, there will never be a politician that I don’t think of as a coward with empty promises, and most impossible of all, I will never understand women. I know I’m not alone in this - show me a man who says he knows the workings of the complex infrastructure known as the female mind, and I’ll show you either a liar or a mental patient. I doubt even women themselves understand women.

This was proven to me once again on a pleasant autumn morning at the Fremont Train Station, where I stood with two large suitcases, a backpack, and my severely emotional mother. Patiently, I waited for the stop of the incessant flow of saltwater, but when it became evident to me, and most of the other travellers within a hundred feet, that she wasn’t calming down; I pulled out a tissue from my pocket, gave it to her, and put my other arm around a shaking shoulder.

“I ju-just can’t b-be-believe you’re leaving,” bawled Mum.

I sighed, and smiled at her. “Mum, I’m not going forever. I’ll be back for Christmas and your birthday.”

She sucked back a sob, and replied, “And Easter and Thanksgiving and your birthday too?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I smiled.

It seemed that even after seventeen years of my company - my, at times, crappy company, I should add - and with the knowledge from my birth that I would eventually leave home in search of, you know, a life, her female brain flatly refused to accept the fact, and instead retreated to a dark corner with whipped cream, a box of tissues and a chick flick starring Jude Law.

I will never understand women.

A crackly voice blared over the loudspeaker, advising the imminent departure of the express train to Michigan. At the words, a fresh round of sobs broke from my mum, cut off almost immediately by the other most used part of the female brain - the skilled organisational side.

“Well, you don’t want to miss your train,” she said, picking up my backpack and slinging it over her shoulder.

“Mum, it’s okay, I’ve got it-“

“No, no, it’s fine, come on, let’s go,” silencing my protest with typical swiftness.

We walked over the dirty concrete together, the clicking of her heels timing our journey, my heart filled with excitement at finally escaping. I think the only time I’d felt more excited before then was when I was eight and my parents took me to see The Wiggles live in concert. For weeks after I was enamoured with the idea of painting our SUV bright red. Needless to say, my dad was less than pleased at my eventual attempt.

Only a few other people were at the platform when we arrived - the town of Fremont wasn’t exactly bustling. I heaved the suitcases through the open door of the graffitied carriage, and jumped back down onto the platform to get my backpack.

Mum handed it to me, and almost started crying again, but successfully held it back.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said.

“I know Mum,” I replied. “I’ll miss you too.”’

“You have to call me every day. You hear me? Every day.” She emphasised the point with an extended index finger.

“Mum, I can’t ring every day. I don’t have the money, and besides, no-one does that.”

“Oh. Okay, then,” she agreed, looking crestfallen.

“Fine, I’ll ring once a week, how about that?”

Her face immediately brightened and she smiled. “Don’t get into too much trouble - you know how you like a party.”

“Oh, yeah, my last art show got real out of control. It was hectic,” I smirked.

She playfully hit me, and motioned towards the door. “Alright, then, enough of this mushiness. Get on there already!”

I grinned, and hugged her. “Bye, Mum.”

“Bye, Will.”

I took one last look at the train station and my mother, entered the train, and found a seat, stowing my luggage on the racks above me.

Finally. I was escaping the tiny, boring hellhole of Fremont, Wisconsin and moving to a big city. A place I might actually find some intelligent people. A place where I wouldn’t be singled out. A place where I could blend in with the crowd.

My destination? Chicago, Illinois.

I viewed it as the start of my real life, the beginning of what I so desperately craved - an escape, an adventure, a Great Perhaps. But there were a couple of restrictions to that.

One, I was still at school, and would still be learning utterly useless topics such as quadratic equations, how Columbus was a national hero (he was less of a hero and more of a bumbling murderer, for the record), the difference between an African and a European Swallow, and so on, and therefore would still be stuck inside most nights completing tedious homework.

But the most important thing to mention?

I would be staying with my out-of-work father.

Now, by itself, that’s not such a bad detail. I bet a lot of kids have unemployed fathers. But mine was different.

Ever since his divorce with Mum, anytime he visited, when he was with her, they bickered, and when he was with me, he complained about bickering with her. A constant stream of pessimistic advice would flow into my ear and out the other: “Women are temptresses with incredible ability to annoy you,” or “Never get married - it just makes you realise how much you hate the other person”, and then my personal favourite - “Relationships are for people that can’t handle being independent”. Needless to say, after six years of this advice, I had begun to believe it. My disenchantment with and aversion to relationships was well and truly cemented in me, which caused my subconscious to self-sabotage anything good that I had with the opposite sex.

Four girlfriends, all of them ended incredibly poorly. I was on speaking terms with only one of them. And all of them still lived in Fremont. Yet another reason to leave.

Regardless of my living arrangements or my dad’s bitterness though, I was determined to start over and not only try, but maybe, just maybe, I could actually win at something. I would win.

Repeating the mantra of I will win over and over in my mind helped to calm my surprisingly jittery nerves. Feeling the train begin to move off, I looked out the window to see my mother waving with a bittersweet expression on her face. I waved back, until she disappeared from view, and with the train picking up speed, heading towards a new city, new experiences and new friends, I settled back in the seat and watched the abundant greenery of Wisconsin flash by.

CHAPTER TWO

I knew I had slept for a fair amount of time, because the Death Cab for Cutie album that had been playing on my iPod had repeated and was back on track two.

Music was one of the few things that gave me true pleasure, lasting enjoyment. I loved hearing the melodies sweep across my ears, tickling the drum inside; the slick bass line complementing the swooning guitar, the vocals sweet and symphonic, the drums solid and smooth.

I had no tolerance for those that, when asked what kind of music they enjoyed, merely answered, “Oh, the Top 20’s great.” Don’t mistake me for a bigoted hipster, but if you can’t even answer with a specific artist, I won’t be talking to you.

The scenery had changed from the deep forest green of Wisconsin, even in autumn, to a wider palette, now with strokes of orange and brown interwoven with a lighter green. Nature was another thing I admired. I’m not religious, but there was something about the delicate balance of extremely organised chaos that was a sort of definition of beauty for me, that the idea of an accident creating all of it, of a mere collision of chance, was not sensible. I thought there must be some kind of architect,  some mastermind of my existence - who they were and what form they took was a mystery to me, however.

My philosophising was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from a train attendant. I pulled out my earphones to hear her ask if I would like some refreshments. Realising that my mouth and throat were actually quite dry, I replied, “Some water would be great, thanks.”

She smiled a perfect smile and walked away to get my drink. I wondered if there was a requirement for train, and indeed, plane attendants to have impossibly nice teeth and mouths.

Wanting a change of pace for the next part of the train journey, I scrolled through the other artists, taking my time to think about each one. I did this often; imagining myself hearing the music, thinking about whether I felt like that album, or maybe this one. Eventually, when the attendant had brought me my water, I settled on some Motion City Soundtrack, and went back to staring at the beauty that lay just outside my moving cocoon of fabric, metal and plastic.

                                                *                      *                      *

Reading about culture shock in Social Studies, I had believed it to only be reserved to the largest leaps, the biggest divergences. Evidently, though, I was wrong.

Immediately after stepping off the train, taking my first steps into the big time of Chicago, I was struck by culture shock.

The sheer number of people in one place wasn’t a new concept for me - movies had shown me that before, but the physical experience of being in a place where only the strangest and the most different people stood out from the crowd was both intensely shocking and rather liberating at the same time.

Time Is Running Out

I did this for English Literature - it’s a complex transformation of the song Tik Tok by Kesha. If you don’t know what a complex transformation is, it’s basically when you take a base text, be it a song, fairy tale, novel, or something else, you identify the ideologies of that base text and the invited reading of it (that is, what the text is wanting you to think), and you rewrite and manipulate it in such a way as to create a resistant or alternate reading of the original text. A good complex transformation is one that clearly highlights the ideological problems of the base text.

I’m not happy with it, I finished it the night before, it was painful to write and to read back to myself, but apparently no-one else thinks so, and I got an A for it, which is one thing I’m happy with. So here you go.

The way the multi-coloured lights were flashing, I was sure I was going to have an epileptic fit, and the people cramming in all around me gave me a distinct sense of claustrophobia. A stale scent of dried sweat and cigarette smoke wafted through the air, and somehow I could faintly hear the unmistakeable sound of someone vomiting over the booming music. This was my first experience of a club. Needless to say, it wasn’t pleasant.

Something you should know about me - I’m straightedge. You could use me as a ruler, I’m that straightedge. So why was I in a hellhole of a club on a Friday night rather than at home curled up with a nice book? Because my friend dragged me there, saying, and I quote, “You gotta hit this city! We’re not gonna come back when we leave for the night!” I reluctantly agreed.

She wasn’t the most literate of people, nor was she entirely sober most of the time. She had come into work a number of times smelling distinctly like whiskey, explaining later that she had run out of toothpaste and had had to brush her teeth with ‘a bottle of Jack’. The manager was less than impressed, and I had to remind myself why I was friends with her. It took me a while, but I got there.

And so I was feebly moving my body in time with the music while many, many intoxicated people danced wildly around me. It really was starting to get claustrophobic in there, so I squeezed past all the mindless drones, including one particularly confident sleaze who attempted to grab my butt, to the bar, where Kesha was downing her third drink.

“It’s rocking in here!” she screamed over the thumping music, as I took a seat.

I just nodded back; the music was too loud to even try - well, a sober person could realise this - Kesha, however, did not.

“It’s like the DJ’s blowing up the speakers!” She pulled me in, yelling her surprisingly astute observation straight into my already battered eardrums.

I nodded again. It was the best way of communicating clearly, partly because of the environment, and partly because Kesha was quickly and unquestionably becoming very drunk. She was already beginning to slur her words.

I was about to tell her to slow down on the alcohol, when I suddenly heard a faint bang. Well, I suspect it was actually rather a loud bang, but it was drowned out by the pumping beats. I looked around to see what had caused it, and I saw a small group of guys jumping around with apparent glee, and a faint cloud of smoke rising around them. I walked over, seeing what the fuss was about, and strewn across the floor almost unrecognisably was a thousand tiny pieces of Kesha’s hot pink Nokia.

“What the hell?” I demanded of the guys, who were now noticeably less excited at my presence. I stared every one of them down, and it was then that I noticed the firecrackers in one particularly gawky-looking guy’s hand.

“You’re kidding me? You BLEW UP her phone? Why the HELL would you do that?”

The man with the explosives shrugged. “Dunno. Bored, I ‘spose.”

My anger and frustration at the utter imbecility of the situation started to boil over, so instead of releasing my rage in a violent fashion, I saw reason, screamed and walked back to Kesha.

“You do know that some random idiots just blew up your phone?” I asked.

Kesha looked horrified for a second, and then laughed. “Ahhh, who cares? Boys blowing up our phones! WHEEWWWW!”

She was very drunk.

But as soon as I thought this, she collapsed, the drink in her hand smashing on the floor along with her body.

I stood frozen for a split second, shocked at what had happened, the music muted, the lights gone - and then sagacity broke through along with the bombardment on my senses and I quickly knelt down to her unconscious face.

“KESHA! KESHA! WAKE UP!” I screamed, willing her to crack a smile and return to her wild, drunken state, outing the performance as an elaborate prank. But as my hands shook her limp body, I knew that this wasn’t a joke - something terrible had happened.

A crowd of people had now formed around Kesha’s collapsed body and me - I could just hear the mutters and exclamations of the clubbers over the music. I turned around and yelled at someone to call an ambulance, and a couple of people took out their phones and dialled. I still didn’t know what had happened - one second she was happy and partying as usual, the next she was passed out on a dark and dank club floor.

My mind raced through possibilities, but none of them seemed plausible; she wasn’t dehydrated, she wasn’t on any medication, no medical history - and then I realised.

“Hey! Barman!” A scrawny tattooed youth about the same age as me looked up from the glasses he was cleaning behind the bar. “What drink did this girl have?” All my speech was in the form of shouting due to the raucous music.

He peered over the counter and saw her sprawled on the ground, noticeably shocked. “Uhhh, I think it was a vodka lime with a twist.”

That didn’t help. Kesha had many, many of these on a number of occasions with no adverse reactions. But…what if there was something else? Something that wasn’t meant to be in the drink?

I went back to her stationary but still breathing body, and smelled the spilled drink, taking care not to cut myself on the shattered glass. Nothing out of the ordinary, so I dipped my finger into the liquid and tasted it, and immediately gagged. It tasted like…I don’t even know…like someone ground up a brick and mixed it with prune juice, or something. How could Kesha not have…of course. She was heavily intoxicated. Right. She probably wouldn’t have noticed if someone had poured hot sauce in there.

Someone had spiked her drink; that much was certain. But with what, and how much of it? That didn’t matter right now though - I had to get her to the hospital.

“Did someone call an ambulance?” I addressed the crowd.

A short blonde girl replied. “Yeah, I did. They’re on their way.”

“Thanks so much,” I said, and tried used my barely existent muscles to pick Kesha up. Luckily, a couple of guys from the assembled group came to help me, and together, we carried her out of the club, past the gawkers, to a bench just outside, where, thankfully, my eardrums could relax and take a break from the beating they were being given inside the club. I thanked the men, and they went back into the club, so I waited there, essentially alone, sitting on the bench beside the unconscious figure, as the seconds ticked by - tick tock, tick tock, the precious time slipping between my fingers. Every minute I spent there was a minute lost to finding out what had happened.

Finally, whether two minutes or two hours later - I couldn’t particularly tell - the sirens came within earshot, and then the flashing blue and red lights were in sight. The paramedics leapt out of the back of the ambulance as soon as it stopped in front of me, and one of them immediately began asking me questions. I answered them as best as my sleep deprived self could, when a thought occurred to me.

Kesha had said one true thing that night - when we left for the night, we definitely weren’t coming back for a while.