On Following

I've talked to a couple people and it seems a lot of people don't know how to follow a post. Well, since I very much like to know who's reading my stuff and all that, I thought I might give general directions on how to do so! It's really easy:

Step 1) click on the Blogspot symbol in the top left hand corner. That should take you to a dashboard which has automatically created an account for whatever email you're using at the time!
Step 2) Go back to my blog's homepage and click follow!
Step 3) If neither or either of those steps failed then there's nothing I can do for you. Because I'm a guy blogging on his computer. Not behind you at yours helping you to do this stuff.

And yeah, that's pretty much it!

Just Joshing,
Josh

Short Story: The Only Life Worth Living- Part 2

            That wouldn’t have mattered so much if the class hadn’t been History, but, as it happened, the history teacher was the strictest teacher in the school and would not tolerate lateness.

            When he finally got to class he tried to be as quiet as possible so as not to attract the teacher’s attention. She was talking to the class at the moment and, if he planned it right, he might be able to get to his table before she saw him. He barely had time to register the irony of trying to be quiet as a mute, when the teacher, a woman named Mrs. Norton, turned and noticed him.

            “One day of detention,” she said immediately. “And why don’t you come up here and fill in these blanks for us, won’t you Adam?”

            Ordinarily Adam really liked Mrs. Norton, since she was one of the teachers who actually took her job seriously and pushed you to do better, but right now her indifference to her students shone through as the cruelty Adam felt. Silently sighing, as he had done throughout the day, he walked up to the board to do the problems:

The battle of Waterloo was between the French and the _______.

The Queen of England in 1565 was Queen ___________.

The Constitution was created in the year ____.

The Nazi party was started in _______.

Russia and America were at a stalemate in the ______ War.

            Patiently Adam wrote out the answers: The Seventh Coalition, Elizabeth I, 1787, Germany and Cold.

            Mrs. Norton’s face turned a little bit red as the class gave a collective chuckle. Obviously she’d expected him to get one wrong. It didn’t last long, however. She had another task for him.

            “Take this to the Principal,” she said, handing him a prewritten letter from her bag. I meant to give it to him earlier, but because you have been such a nuisance you must take it for me this very moment. When you return go straight to your seat.”

            And with that, Adam found himself in the hall again, this time on the way to the Principals office.

            He would have gone straight there like a good messenger had he not heard sobbing emanating from in the girl’s bathroom.

            He stopped, looking up and down the hall for a girl who might be able to go in and check on the situation for him. Finding that nobody was even in the hall, since everyone was in classes, he hesitantly entered the bathroom.

            The sobbing was coming from the stall farthest to the right, and, from the whispered words the girl inside it was gulping to herself, he could tell someone had hurt her emotionally.

            “Not worth anything… ugly… never been born… Melissa… why?” she said, between sobs.

            Adam realized then that he was totally out of his depth. This girl needed someone to talk to, and he couldn’t offer spoken encouragement at all. Besides, it would be awkward of him to try communicating to her here in this bathroom. What could he do that would help her and be meaningful?

            The answer brought a smile to his face, and he reached again for his trusty marker. Above the sinks in the bathroom he wrote: “You’re wonderful, beautiful and amazing just the way you are!” He also drew a smiley face for good measure.

            Then he knocked on the stall door and hurried out of the bathroom, proud of himself.

            When he returned from the Principal’s office he saw a girl hurry out of the bathroom to her classroom.

            He was sure that he saw her smiling before she took off.

            That might have made his day… if Brandon hadn’t come strolling down the corner just then.

            Without missing a beat Brandon punched him in the stomach, flashing his hall pass as he went.

            “Just going to the bathroom,” he said, grinning as he departed.

            Getting home after such a day was a relief for Adam.

            With a look of relief he went inside, found his bed and fell onto it like a dead log. He would have slept like one to, but he found that he needed something else…

            Sitting up, Adam tried to figure out what it was he needed. It was Friday, so he didn’t need to work on homework. His mom would be home in a couple hours, so he didn’t need to do anything for her. No chores, no appointments, nothing… No, what he really needed, he realized, was something to revitalize his soul. His mind and body could recharge off of sleep, but today his heart and soul had taken a beating.

            Knowing that, Adam realized that he wanted to go to the park, his favorite place outside of his home. In 5 minutes he was out the door and on his way.

            As he strode down the street, heading three blocks north and two blocks west, he pulled out his whiteboard again. He liked to write with it when he walked. He often wondered why other people didn’t write when they walked, but he figured it was probably because he was used to it. When you’re mute and can’t afford special technology you have to make do with writing, and if you can write while walking you aren’t as limited.

            “Why do I like the park so much?” he wrote to himself. “Maybe because it’s so wide and open. Maybe it’s the people! There’s lots of people sometimes, and everyone’s together in the park. Or maybe it’s just that I like nature… I don’t know. I haven’t had much time to be in nature. I’ve always been here. I wonder what camping is like… We should go on a vacation when mom gets money.” He wiped the board clean.

            “That’s probably part of it, the nature. But I’m fairly sure I know what really gets me to go: the music. I’ll admit it; I love sound. Writing’s nice, and I’ll probably make a career of that, but music and sound… that’s beautiful. If we could afford an instrument I’d learn to play it perfectly. I’ve got the harmonica, I suppose, but a proper instrument would be nice. But the park has tons of noise! There’s that band that’s always there, playing their hearts out. And then everyone makes some noise while playing at the park, or chatting or something. It’s not quiet by any standard.”

            He ended up putting the board away to day dream about the park, noise and people. About 15 minutes later he arrived, and an unconscious smile graced his face. He really did love the park.

            With a flat, open and grassy plain, a gazebo and some tables lay at one end of the park, while a play structure with children lay at the other. A small restroom sat in the middle of one of its longer edges, unobtrusive and useful. A flat bit of round concrete lay in the center of the park with two basketball hoops at either end of the circle. It was the perfect place for demonstrations, bands, performances and other things, and, though most of the time people just played basketball there, a local band would come and play music. The band, named the Orange Trench-Coats, was made up of three guys and a girl. All of them could play guitar, but one guy could play guitar, another base, and the girl and last guy could sing.

            Today they hadn’t arrived yet. They tended to come out around when the sun was close to setting, probably because of the cool, orange color the sky sometimes looked around that time. Adam had expected this, so, while he waited, he took a walk around the park once.

            He saw a couple having a picnic in the green grass. They seemed happy, holding each other and talking about everything in the world. A few yards away a soccer group about his age was playing a small game. The players weren’t the best, but they worked well with each other. An old man and woman near the concrete were sitting on a bench, not saying a word.

            A pang of longing for any of those lives struck Adam at that moment, as it often does when people see other people happy. A lot of people grow cold from such pangs. They learn to hate happiness and those that have it, while desperately trying to grasp onto that sunshine. Adam, however, was like a small child witnessing a sunbeam hanging in the dust of the air; he was curious and overcome with desire for that life, not hate. Maybe that was why, when the elderly couple vacated their seats, he crossed the park to sit where they had.

            Perhaps he could absorb a bit of it from where they’d been.

            Suddenly, a soccer ball came flying out of nowhere, striking the basketball hoops post and flying toward Adam!

            Without thinking, Adam threw up his hands and caught the ball, stunned. He looked around and there was one of the soccer players approaching him.

            “Hey nice catch man! That’s our ball. Sorry about that!” He put his hand up, obviously asking for the ball back, so Adam courteously obliged him. “Hey! You’ve got a pretty good arm! Want to play with us?”

            Adam had never played soccer before. Eagerly, he nodded his head up and down, laying his backpack down at the bench and running over to the soccer player.

            “Say, dude, what’s your name?” he asked quizzically. Adam, realizing he’d left his whiteboard in his bag, ran and got it. He wrote something quickly on it and ran back to the player.

            “My name is Adam! I’m mute, so I can’t talk, but I’d love to play!”

            “Oh…” said the player, his look changing. The feelings of friendliness left his face, replaced by pity and slight disgust. “So… are you a cripple, then?” Adam gave a shrug that said “you could say that.”

            “I see… well, if you can’t talk to people then you can’t work as well with the other guys. Sorry.” And, not meeting his eyes, the player ran back to his fellows.

            Adam felt a deep, sinking, horrible feeling in his stomach as he watched him go.

            Slowly, he turned and walked back to his bag and the bench.

            Sitting there, rejected and beaten down, Adam could only think one thing: “this isn’t worth it”.

            He tried to be a nice guy. He really did. Didn’t he? Yes, he’d helped Lillian, and he’d helped Dirk, and he’d helped that girl in the bathroom… But what good came of it? Nothing. Nobody would talk to him, play with him, and treat him like a normal person. What was wrong with the world? Why did the evil people win? Why did he, the good guy, get trampled down? What was the point of being good if there were no benefits? No point at all, as far as Adam could see. Why not be like Brandon? Treat all the girls like junk, maybe one would go for it. Something! Anything! But being good… it was getting old, and it wasn’t making him any happier. You can only be nice for so long without people being nice to you before you snap. He’d get them… each and every person that had pushed him down. He’d be better than all of them.

            Yes… one day they’d all look at him and ask him for jobs, beg him for help. And then he would. Only when his reward was the satisfaction of their helplessness. The idea gave him a savage pleasure.

            But fate had put him in this position, hadn’t it? He hadn’t done anything to get his father killed, or put himself in such a terrible school, or earn anyone’s hate. It must be fate. And then Adam felt one of the worst things a person can feel… anger, tinted with hate, directed toward the universe, mankind and… maybe even God.

            He grew conscious of his sin then, and tears came to his eyes. No. No, he couldn’t think about that. He could think like that. That would kill him. He’d lose himself to hate and pain and anger. But what if just stopped trying? Nobody would hurt him then, would they? No more getting beat up. No more bleeding heart. If- if he gave up on stuff it would be easier, wouldn’t it? Yes… yes, he knew it would be easier. From this day on, he’d be nothing. Not good, not evil… just himself. No, not himself; less than himself. Anything. Anything to stop the pain…

            Then someone touched his shoulder.

            Looking up, Adam found himself looking into the eyes of the leader of the Orange Trench-Coats. He was a slender guy of about 17 with dark brown hair, dressed in jeans, a black shirt and, of course, an orange trench coat. Seeing him standing there, much less touching his shoulder, Adam struggled to wipe away his tears.

            “You okay, man?”

            Adam nodded, trying not to look at him so he didn’t see his red eyes.

            “Nah, you’re not,” he said softly, bending down to Adam’s level. “Well, I’m not too good with talking, and I’ve seen you watch us before. You’re the mute kid, so I know you’re not too good at talking either.”

            Adam nodded a little bit.

            “Well,” said the guy gently, “my name’s Rowan. What’s yours?”

            Adam scribbled his name on his board.

            “Well, nice to meet you Adam. I can guess what your problem is, so I’m going get my buddies to help me play a song for you, okay?”

            Adam finally looked him in the face. Shocked that anyone would do that, he nodded to him, and, smiling, Rowan turned and ran to his band, which had gathered at the center of the concrete. He huddled up his buddies for a bit and, though the other two guys and the girl looked over at him every once and a while, they said nothing. Then, nodding in agreement, they picked up their instruments.

            After a moment of checking with each other, Rowan began to play.

            Adam couldn’t describe what he heard next. It seemed to embody all that he had felt when he’d first come to the park. The music was happy, and searching; lost, but not out. Goodness lay there.

            Then the music changed… It got dark. The goodness and contentedness were gone, leaving only that searching emptiness… there was more there too. All that pain that Adam felt. The sound spoke to him in an intimate way, in with the passion only music could convey.

            The music slowed to nothingness; the prelude was now over.

            Then the true song began. The drums, beating out the rhythm, kept the pace of the base and two guitars. It drummed on, refusing to stop. What did it convey? Adam was sure he felt it but- Hope. It was hope it conveyed.

            And the hope built. It grew and grew until it was a magnificent flower of sound, turning to the sky with pronounced beauty. Adam, as a writer one day, would try to describe that sound and what it was like. He’d find it impossible to do, of course.

            Rowan broke into a sweet, loving guitar solo. There was that goodness again. That drive.

            His female partner joined him, and the goodness became love and passion.

            The base lent its voice and it became wisdom.

            The drum threw in its beat at last, adding strength, and, with a bang, the song came to an end.

            Adam stood slowly.

            He understood.

            Goodness was its own reward. Beauty and satisfaction was both in traveling the path and reaching the end of the road.

            Love was precious.

            The world, moments before hell, now seemed heaven to Adam. It’s beauty and peace, tranquility and wonder; all of that was fantastic! The world was a fantastic place, populated by fantastic people! And goodness did, in the end prevail. Evil couldn’t triumph. It only destroyed itself. Right was better than wrong. And giving up? Giving up! Impossible! Who would give up on a thing such as this! This wonderful, beautiful, amazing life!

            This, his life, was the only life worth living.

            In a state of pure joy, Adam ran to Rowan and band. Like old friends, they all embraced. Through mutual understanding, they were all as good as friends. Adam, looking in Rowan’s eyes, mouthed the words “Thank You.” Hugging him one last time, Adam waved to them all, grabbed his stuff and ran home, knowing that he would see them again. Maybe he might even become friends with all of them. But right now, he felt like he had to get home to his mother: the source of all his love and good.

            It was she who had raised him, educated him and bestowed on him this glorious way of living, and he owed her the world.

            He flew through the door and searched the house. He found her in the dining room, sitting at the table. Beautiful, wonderful, loving, hard working… all these things embodied her in Adam’s eyes.

            “Hey honey, how was your day?” she said, smiling up at him.

            Adam, without a word spoken or written, hurried over to her and hugged her as tightly as he could, and she, with her mom-like senses, hugged back silently as well.

            For how long they were like that neither knew, but many silent things passed between them. Love. Companionship. Gratitude. Passion. Forgiveness. Courage.

            All, however, was interrupted by the doorbell.

            Adam, standing up, hurried to the door and found, to his surprise, Lillian standing before him.

            “Hey, Adam… was wondering if you were home. I just wanted to say… thank you. For earlier. That was really nice of you. Maybe we could hang out again sometime?

The End

Short Story: The Only Life Worth Living- Part 1

This one's a big long, so I've split it into two parts. As of now I'm doing my best to update once a week, so look forward to the next one coming around next Saturday!

            The noise of the alarm woke him from his slumber. Laying in bed, he took a moment to fully wake, then, inwardly groaning, he reached out to his bedside table and deactivated the alarm. Struggling with the blankets, he threw his legs out of bed. Holding his head in his hands, he sat there for a minute or two. He bemoaned himself for not going to bed earlier. As his mother always told him, teenage boys had to get enough sleep so they could grow.

            At last he stood up, stretching, and got ready for the day. Glancing at the mirror while brushing his teeth, he saw two quotes he had put there a while back:

            “Only a life lived for others is worth living- Einstein”

            “Just because you’re mute doesn’t mean you can’t do great things, Adam.”

            The last one had no author, since he had written it to himself. He glanced to the right of the quotes and looked into his own brilliantly green eyes. He hoped that those eyes would be able to communicate things well enough to people today. As a fifteen year old in high school you needed all the help you could get.

            He finished and packed up his school stuff. As quietly as he could he opened his door, left the room and closed it, not wanting to wake up his mom in the other room. Working two jobs, one day and one night, he wanted her to have the most rest that she could.

            In the kitchen he pulled out a few slices of bread and made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grabbed a water bottle. Stuffing them in his backpack he went to the fridge. To his dismay there was only half a gallon of milk left, half a dozen eggs, a bit of cheese and some leftovers from two days ago to work with. Disappointed but not put off, he grabbed two eggs and a bit of cheese then went to the burner and started to make scrambled eggs.

            Crossing his fingers, he flicked the switch on the electric stove, praying that it still had power today. It did, and he proceeded to make breakfast. In 5 minutes he was finished and took a quarter of the eggs for himself. The rest he put on a plate with a fork and wrapped in tin foil before silently making his way to his mother’s room.

            Pushing open her door he found her fast asleep, still in her work clothes from last night as always. Laying the eggs at her bedside table, he looked at her for a moment and smiled. To him she was the most beautiful creature on the planet.

            Bending down he kissed her on the forehead and hurried out.

            Checking his watch he realized he was running late and in a frenzy grabbed his backpack and hurried toward the door. The minute he opened it, however, he was greeted by a pack of stray cats, all of who began to meow and yowl. Adam’s eyes widened. There had never been this many cats before! They must have been telling their friends. He ran back inside, being sure to close the door so the cats didn’t come in and wake his mother, grabbed a stale pizza crust from inside the fridge, and returned. Breaking the bread into pieces and then crumbs he sprinkled it around a bit for the cats to eat, then grabbed his bottle and poured a bit of water into a bowl next to the door. He put a little more than usual in this time, seeing as there were so many more cats today, even though he knew what remained wouldn’t tide him over. He’d have to use the disgusting water fountains at the school today.

            After locking the house, Adam ran to where he knew the bus would stop and waited. He looked around for other kids that might come, but he knew there wouldn’t be any. There never was. Most kids in this neighborhood ditched out on school.

            A couple houses down he saw an old woman with a walker trying to bend down far enough to grab the newspaper. She must have been 70 years old at least, dressed in a nightgown and robe with slippers. She was having a hard time of it, so without thinking he ran over to her. Grabbing her paper, he straightened and handed it to her.

            “Thank you very much young man,” she said, smiling up at him. “What’s your name, son?”

            Adam reached into his backpack and pulled out a whiteboard and marker. After writing on it for a second he turned it to her.

            “My name is Adam Rathburn and I’m mute. What’s your name?” it read.

            “Oh. You’re that mutie with the young single mother I heard about,” she said, her face darkening a bit. “Your mom works hard, I’ll admit that. I see her rushing about all the time and what not. But she should be ashamed of getting pregnant so young, and without being married to boot! Why if I-”

            But Adam had wiped out the words on his board and written more which he held forward to her: “My dad was married to my mom and I love her. My dad died before I was born.”

            “Oh really, boy? That’s not what I hear! The gossip around is that your papa was a drinker and liked his ladies! I’ll have you know- Wait! Where are you going, boy?” she yelled at him, for he had run off to catch the bus which had come when he wasn’t looking and which was now leaving without him. “Bah! Stupid kid!” she yelled, before turning and hobbling back to her house.

            Adam ran as fast as he could and tried to bang his chest and the parked cars to make some noise but nothing worked. The bus didn’t even notice him. There was nothing to do but run after it.

            As he ran he couldn’t help but think about the old woman. She was wrong about his dad. His mom had shown him the newspaper article about his father’s mugging and murder in the city on his way back from work. She’d also shown him her wedding pictures. There was no disputing those facts... But still people gossiped about it. Adam couldn’t help but feel that whoever had started it had to have been a cruel, cruel being.

            After a block or two the bus came to a stop and Adam finally managed to catch up. A girl about his age was the only passenger for this stop, and she stood staring at him as he leaned against the bus and caught his breath. He’d seen her before; he missed the bus a lot, so he was familiar with her.

            She had light brown hair and thin glasses. She was kind of thin but not petite, and wore jeans and a stylish but inexpensive t-shirt and coat. As far as he could tell her name was Lillian, though her friends called her Lily; but he’d never asked her so he couldn’t be sure. The biggest thing about her was her eyes, Adam thought; blue eyes, which stood out from the brown of her hair and the lightness of her face. He liked those eyes…

            After a moment he caught his breath and smiled at her. Stiffening, Lillian nodded curtly and hurried into the bus. Adam, grimacing a little at her reaction, hurried to the door as well.

            “Well, well! You managed to catch up, did you Adam?” asked the bus driver, a cruel, rotund man with a sour smile. “Figured you needed the exercise!” he said, his mouth laughing and his pudgy eyes squinting.

            Adam ignored him and turned to the back of the bus. You kind of had to ignore people like that when you can’t talk back.

            Just then a commotion arose.

            “Get off of me you jerk!”

            “Don’t you want to sit with me, Lillian? You know I’ve got a seat here and you can always sit next to me.”

            “I don’t want to sit next to you Brandon! Let go of me!”

            “Are you sure? I’m not so bad once you get to know me!”

            Looking down the rows of seats Adam saw what was happening. Brandon, the high school jock, seemed to be manhandling Lillian and trying to get her to sit next to him. Holding her shoulders, he was half pushing, half steering her to a pair of empty seats while she struggled to break free. All of the girls knew that you wanted to avoid sitting next to Brandon at any cost, so they often tried to exchange seats with a guy if push came to shove. They whispered in the halls that he didn’t keep his hands to himself. It looked like he had gone on the offensive, now though. If he couldn’t get girls to sit with him he’d make them do so.

            The rest of the bus, girls and boys alike, sat talking in their seats, not paying any attention. Realizing this, Adam rushed forward and, with a shove, pushed Brandon into his seat and away from Lilian.

            In an instant the bus went silent.

            Brandon stood up.

            “You’ve got a lot of guts, kid,” he said, glaring down at him. Only now did Adam realize just how tall the guy was. “But… obviously you don’t have the right guts in you if you can’t even talk, you dumb moron.” Three or four guys, known to all as Brandon’s flunkies, laughed and guffawed on cue as he turned to smile stupidly at them.

            Then, with a quick movement, Brandon punched him in the stomach.

            A gasp of air left Brandon’s lungs, but he made no sound. Nor did any cry or scream escaped his lips when his attacker kicked him once, twice, three times.

            “Hey, stop fooling around back there!” called the driver. “Everybody get in your seats!”

            Adam, blinded by his pain, felt himself lifted into the air and carried to the back of the bus. He felt himself hit the back bench and dully registered a pain in his head from the shock. Then he heard Brandon whisper in his ear.

            “Never do that again you little bastard or I’ll beat another of the five senses out of you.”

            And then he was alone.

            He opened his eyes a couple seconds later after he’d determined that he wasn’t badly hurt, and saw briefly the scared face of Lilian. He smiled at her again, but her eyes just grew wide and she turned to face the front just like everyone else who was avoiding looking at him.

            And since nobody was looking at him it was very easy to curl up in the corner and cry a couple tears.

            Soon Adam found himself in Pre-Algebra.

            He’d been the last to leave the bus and had tried to ignore the cruel look the bus driver threw at him, and after general assembly he’d walked to class without much thought at all. His mind was still on the bus with Lilian and Brandon, and it was still with the old woman from earlier. It wasn’t until class was halfway through that he snapped out of it and realized where he was.

            Glancing around, he could see teens sitting at desks strewn across the room. Half of the kids weren’t paying attention, while the others were dull eyed and writing whatever the teacher said. All in all, it was a sad sight, and Adam felt a pang of annoyance with himself when he realized he’d been in just as bad a state moments before.

            The teacher, one Mr. Egbert, made such idleness and dullness forgivable, however. Whatever school he had learned teaching methods at should be torn down and all of its faculty fired, or so was the opinion of the school at large. The only enthusiasm he displayed was in making terrible jokes at the students expense. Though not a cruel man, he lacked the social confidence successful people possessed and so attempted to garner favor with students in an altogether childish manner, much like how children first begin to flirt by making fun of one another.

            “You, miss Martinez, don’t seem to know your denominator from your decimal point.”

            “Mister Flannigan, only an idiot wouldn’t know what a fraction was.”

            “Do any of you ignorant children understand the genius of this equation?”

            Such were his comments most of the time. Students often commented that if he really wanted them to like him he could at least call them by their first names, but, though students had complained before, he persisted with calling them “Mister” and “Miss”. Today it looked like it would be Adam’s turn to experience Mr. Egbert’s childishness.

            “Mister Rathburn, would you come up to the board and solve this problem for us?”

            Adam nodded and rose from his chair. Studying the problem as he approached the whiteboard, he saw that it wasn’t that difficult at all. Then again, he was an excellent student. He studied constantly, unlike some of his classmates. This might have been due in part to Adam’s lack of any significant friends to hang out with, but it had its benefits.

            Pulling his own marker out of his pocket, Adam reached up and finished the equation with ease; X ended up equaling 42.

            “Very good, Adam,” said Mr. Egbert. “Perhaps the language of mathematics is one of the few languages you can actually speak!” He turned to the class and got a few stifled chuckles from the more cruel kids. “Well…” he said, a little disgruntled, “it certainly doesn’t make up for your being a cripple. Back to your seat.”

            And with that, Mr. Egbert continued with his lecture.

            On his part, Adam gave up taking notes and instead stared sadly into space for the rest of the class, dreaming of a quality education rather than the drivel before him.

            The lunch bell couldn’t have come sooner. The one good thing about Pre-Algebra was that it was the closest class to the cafeteria, so everyone there got to be first in line.

            Adam had managed to get a spot somewhere in the middle of the line when the rest of the school arrived. Almost immediately someone cut in front of him; a big boy with a mean look.

            “Hey, no cutting!” called the girl behind Adam.

            “This kid here was saving me a spot! Weren’t you, kid?” he said, leering at Adam.

            Adam shook his head no, but this only caused the guy to laugh.

            “Sorry, bud! You’ve got to speak up!” and he turned away from them.

            Creeps like that took advantage of Adam’s muteness all the time in line. If they could take advantage of him fast enough then Adam would have no opportunity to write anything by the time they got away. This cutting in line thing was usual, so Adam, while dejected, wasn’t surprised when it happened. At least this time it was only one guy.

            After getting some of the free food the cafeteria offered to compliment his sack lunch, Adam found himself an empty table close to the back of the room, though not too far back. He hoped that people might choose to sit with him voluntarily, but today was no different. Everybody sat with their friends at the other tables. Adam consoled himself that this was because everyone was afraid of the bullies that pushed Adam around. If they made friends with Adam they’d just be a target too, so Adam didn’t blame them.

            So, regretfully, Adam found himself doing what he usually did after finishing his lunch: talk to himself. Or, perhaps more correctly, write to himself. Laying out his board in front of him, he wrote whatever came to his mind. When the board got full he’d wipe it clean. This was partly a writing exercise, partly a coping mechanism, but for whatever reason Adam found it useful and enjoyable.

            “Maybe I could talk to Lillian sometime,” he wrote. “She’ll recognize me now. And she’s not that far away from my house. I could hang out with her! Maybe invite her over! But… wait, that wouldn’t work. The house needs a good cleaning, and we need more vacuum bags. Maybe eventually. And helping her out like that was only the 14^th time we’ve interacted. (Why do I remember that number?) Well anyway, it was only the 3^rd major time.”

            He paused to wipe the slate clean.

            “Perhaps I should wait. Nah… you’re just scared. Get over it. Scared… maybe she’s scared like everyone else who doesn’t hang out with me. I only got beat up that one time. Just the once. Ah, but I bet they haven’t done it again because I’m too easy. What if the kids aren’t scared? What if they just don’t like me? Nah, they don’t even know me. What if they’re all just so narrow minded they won’t give me a chance?”

            For a moment Adam stared at the board. A pulse of deep sadness coursed through him.

            Then he wiped the board clean and wiped out the sadness along with it.

            On the way to his next class, History, Adam overheard some whispers from a huddled group of girls in the hall.

            “Yeah, that puny kid Dirk broke down in class today

            “I know, right?”

            “What’s his problem?”

            “Apparently his uncle died or something.”

            “What a shame.”

            “Should we say something?”

            “Nah, let him suffer. He’s annoying anyway.”

            Adam stopped and thought for a moment. He knew Dirk. He was a nice kid, it seemed, though he was definitely thin. He was two years older than Adam, but wasn’t very popular either. Adam felt sympathetic, and immediately resolved to write Dirk a note of condolence.

            Quickly, for classes were starting, Adam wrote out the letter on a nearby wall, but he immediately ran into a problem: he had no idea how to get the letter to Dirk. He paced for a second, the gears in his brain silently working at the problem, when suddenly he remembered which locker Dirk used and ran to find it. It took several minutes to locate, by which time most of the students had gotten to class, but he felt satisfied when he stuck the letter in the locker door.

            Checking his watch, Adam realized that he was going to be late. History class was on the completely other side of the school, and the only way to get there in time was to run. So run he did.

            Until, of course, the janitor yelled at him to stop running in the hallways, of course.

            So yeah, he was going to be late.

Superman vs. Batman: A Very Serious Comparison

On the way home from a bike ride I found myself talking very seriously with my brothers about the natures of two of our favorite superheroes: Superman and Batman. Thinking about how interesting the conversation actually was, I decided I’d put my thoughts here for people to peruse.

Superman:

Oh boy. The big one. The first real superhero. The Man of Steel. Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman!

His name is known the world over.

But have you really thought about who he is as a person?

He typically personifies everything that is good in man. Strong, powerful, moral, kind, and good, he is the perfect man in almost all ways. But something interesting is that he has never let that power go to his head. Not once (in the comic cannon) has he turned evil (on purpose) and attacked the people for any reason! Now, if you look at all the powers he’s got and all the leaders throughout history, this is almost not humanly possible! No man has ever had such power, and all that have come closest have been corrupted.

What makes him different?

Well, in my opinion I think it was the way he was raised.

Though alien, he grew up in a humble lifestyle and without his powers. Superman’s body turns sunlight into energy and gives him the powers he has, but his body apparently hadn’t done enough of this until he was in his teens. That gave him plenty of time to develop a humble, caring nature, instilled in him by his equally humble Earth parents.

So that reveals one thing: Superman is humble. Super-humble (if you’ll pardon the pun), since he can possess so much power yet remain incorruptible.

This is further evident that he chooses to be a small, barely noticeable reporter. Sure, perhaps this position gets him the news quickly, but there are other positions he could have been in equally useful. His choice of a reporter fits this trait of his wonderfully.

And what about his mind? Is Superman super smart? Not really. He gets all of his knowledge through ordinary means. Granted, he can use his super-speed to read books far faster than a normal person, but that doesn’t make him smart. Nope, his mind’s about as normal as anyone’s, though he has more opportunity and drive to improve it than most.

And how about his weaknesses? To list them out from Wikipedia, Superman is weak to kryptonite, Red Sun radiation, magic, massive physical forces and lead. But this list forgets one thing: Superman, even though he is a super powered alien, is, interestingly, only human.

Superman is only human.

Now, I know that technically I’m dead wrong there, but let what I’m trying to say sink it.

What does it mean to be human?

It means making mistakes and regretting them, trying to be good, having to do things you don’t like, and being subject to the pain in your head and heart.

This is Superman’s greatest characteristic, funnily enough. Though alien, he still loves, learns, hates, fears, and is subject to ordinary, mental and emotional pain.

Most people will tell you that Superman is too inhuman and un-relatable.

Instead, I’m saying that he is extremely human. In many ways more human than other heroes like Batman, Wonder Woman, Wolverine, Hulk or Iron Man, who were all (mostly, at least) human. All of those characters have some basic, core issue in their souls that distances them from people, and I’ll get into Batman in this regard in a minute. Superman, however, is just that: an ordinary man with superpowers.

Batman:

Oh Batman… how we love you so. And how little you seem to reciprocate. And how abusive we are. Seriously, the Adam West Batman and the movie Batman and Robin were completely uncalled for. But why do we like Batman so much? I mean, he’s got no real powers and he’s not that nice, but he’s the one who gets all the movies and t.v. shows while superman seems to have been left behind.

Well, I’ll tell you why: Batman embodies our struggle through pain.

The fact is that Superman is too perfect. He fights, he struggles, he saves the day, but at the end of that day he is smiling and happy and perfectly fine. Batman though… Batman is fear, Batman is pain, Batman is horror, and Batman is a man pushing forward through all of that. He’s flawed at his core, which I think a lot of us identify with. Superman’s core and spirit are just fine.

You see, Batman is what he is because of two things: 1) the murder of his parents, and 2) his first fear of bats. The murder of Bruce Wayne’s parents caused him deep and unstoppable pain. A boy with everything, it only took losing his two parents for him to feel like he’d lost everything. Nothing could replace him. None of the money, now his, could bring them back to life. That agony tore at his heart and changed him inside. While other people would let the pain eat them alive until they hit rock bottom where they could start again, Bruce Wayne used his pain to his advantage and used it to drive him to become the Batman. That pain keeps him going even when ordinary men might just give up. And why a bat? Because his fear, his torment, he wished to impose on his enemies. Every dark part of his soul he used to build his persona and strengthen himself in mind and body.

A big question in the comics community is which is the mask? Bruce Wayne or Batman? Which one is he really? I think the answer is fairly obvious: Bruce Wayne is the fake and Batman is the real. Bruce Wayne is built on nothing, while Batman is built on personal torment. I am forced to admit, though, that neither seems adequate to describe the whole man. Somewhere inside there is still joy and goodness in a pure form, but he never lets that part of himself out.

Now, let us get into how inhuman Batman is.

He has no powers. None at all. But he has gadgets galore; realistic things that we can believe might actually exist. He is smart; smarter than perhaps anyone else in his world, it seems. He has spent years honing his intelligence, reasoning and focus. Seeking a battle of wills against Batman is almost certain suicide. Well… it would be if Batman were to kill you, which he won’t. (Also, though I don’t want to get into his rouges gallery, the Joker might be the only one to consistently put Batman’s mind to the test. All the other rouges are forgettable or made specifically because Batman is so darn smart writers have to keep coming up with better foes to pit against him.)

He’s strong, having trained his body to the best of conditions. He has money and wealth, leverage to achieving his goals. All of this is what we, as people, could achieve if we truly tried. This is why Batman is so human and so much more liked sometimes than Superman.

But I want to make it perfectly clear that few people could be Batman, for he is, inside, almost inhuman. At his core something has gone horribly wrong or right, depending on your perspective. He has incorporated his negative emotions into his soul, making him more a creature of the night than a man. If you really wanted to be Batman you would have to shape the core of your being, something so dangerous and precarious you could just as easily become the Joker as Batman.

And with that I will leave you to ponder these two heroes, one of light and the other of darkness. Both, I think, have their merits, and I find it hard for myself to pick between the two. While Superman is good he is also impossible, and while Batman is possible he is also darkness and broken inside. These two characters define our world to some extent, and I hope that you, dear reader, regard this topic as more than just fanciful ramble but as a deep and intriguing topic.

Seriously yours,

Josh

SOPA and PIPA

I'm sure you've heard by now about SOPA and PIPA, and if you haven't please get out from under your rock because I'm not going to try and explain everything about them here.

I do want to get something straight, though: Piracy is wrong. It is stealing and a crime. Period. But giving massive power to the government so they can censor the internet is far, far worse and extremely dangerous. Politicians have been throughout history notoriously corrupt when it comes to power. Every abuse they can get away with they commit. Even then, men in general are corruptible when it comes to power, so it is unwise to trust anyone with much power. Because the internet is one of the only things outside of the government's reach, entirely free from restrictions and regulations that might hamper it, and allows for the free flow of information to everyone who can use it, giving the government power to interfere with this is downright dangerous and not acceptable.

To summarize, piracy is criminal, but overpowering the government is dangerous to our freedom and success as a people.

Also, I am a little disgusted by how much attention this has gotten. 7,000 websites went on strike against this thing and why? Because it threatens peoples' freedom on the internet. But what is the rallying cry? Not "protect freedom!" but "save our entertainment!" Yes, people are concerned about their comics and "LOLs" and stupid, wasteful junk which they waste their time on. I'm going to let you in on a little not-so-secret-secret: there are much bigger things to worry about. What disgusts me is that the biggest fuss and worry have been made on this, while threats to personal rights, self defense and other infinitely more important things have been ignored or remained invisible to people. If this is the real state of America, that we are willing to work ourselves up in defense of our ability to waste time but remain unwilling or unable to see and prevent threats to our basic rights, then I worry for the future. It is pitiful.

Seriously yours,
Josh

Short Story: Heart on Fire

(A little experiment in first person writing that I did. It's a little darker than normal as well, which I wanted to try out and get a taste for. Please feel free to comment, criticize, and question this one. I welcome anything, negative or positive, that you have to say wholeheartedly.)

           I used to hate the rain. It was like the whole world crying. Crying for mercy. Crying for forgiveness. Crying for the pain to stop. I didn’t hate it for that. I hated it because while its cries were freezing tears while I burned.

            My name is Jonathan Stone, and I lived once for what felt like an eternity in my own little hell. For a while my heart was consumed by fire.

            This is my story of how I put that fire out.

            When I was born in 1934 in Victorian England. My parents, educated folks that they were, insisted that I go to school and make something of myself. They paid for everything, and sent me off to America to get a degree in medicine. Not that I wanted a degree in medicine, mind you. I had long wished to be a violinist or a theater performer. But my parents didn’t approve. They told me that it was better to dwell on what was outside you, not to try and understand the mysterious workings inside of man. “Leave that to God,” they said. “He’ll deal with your insides just fine,” they said.

            Whilst I was off at college a fire burned through my home town. Many people died, including my parents. When I got the news I cried. I cried not because I was sad; I cried because I wasn’t sad.

            With the death of my parents I was entitled to the contents of their will, but I found out too late that all the finances which had been left to me had been misappropriated. I was left alone, poor, homeless, and without a degree in anything. I managed to buy a ticket back to London and for years, endless years, I begged on the streets for money.

            I had to collude with ruffians and thieves to fill my stomach. I had to steal to pay off the thugs that came through the streets long after darkness had fallen on the city. I saw terrible things… terrible crimes. I was prey to them, every now and again. At first I reported these to the police, but when they refused to listen to such a vagabond as me I stopped trying.

            I could have died then.

            I wanted to die then.

            I would have died too, if my heart hadn’t been on fire.

            For all those years of pain, and fear and poverty I held inside myself a living fire that kept me alive… a fire that kept me going. When I was hungry and had nothing to eat that fire gave me the intelligence to find food. When I was being beaten by ruffians it gave me the power to hold out through the pain. And when I wanted to give up hope on everything it gave me the will to carry on.

            Don’t ask me to explain this fire to you. I don’t know how it began, nor what it is. Many people have asked me before, but I can give you no straight answer. This fire was peace and hope, light and life; but it was also strength and muscle, passion and grit. It was the dream of green pastures and the consuming heat of a billion suns. It was the hope of love, given by a beautiful woman. It was something to inspire terror in the hearts of villains and purge corruption from men like a sword purges the world of men. It was all that and more… and it lived inside of me. It was not me, for I was weak and humble and poor in spirit, but it was no parasite either; if anything, I lived on it.

            It spoke to me, this fire. It told me things I couldn’t hear, and insisted on my completing an unknown mission. Sometimes I listened to it; most of the time I didn’t.

            This fire is gone now, for I no longer need or want it. It disappeared one day as I was walking in the rain.

            I had finally decided to abandon the streets of London that night, for I had resisted the prowling thugs too greatly. I knew that if I stayed there I would be murdered, so I picked a road out of the city and took it. I didn’t even know where I was going. Wearing an old coat I had snitched from a wealthy looking man I made a fine impression on the guards despite my rough looks, so they let me out without a fuss. I still regret taking that coat, for it was obvious that the man who I’d stolen it from was of great character, but I rationalize it even now as a necessary action.

            Not a mile down the road it began to rain. Hard. I pulled the coat over my head, but the cold shook me in my bones nonetheless. It was nothing I wasn’t used to, but it wasn’t the best thing that could have happened at the time. For many miles I walked like that, sometimes splashing through huge puddles in the road or traversing mini-rivers that had formed in the landscape. The truly terrible part of my travel was when I found a sign by the roadside. It told me that the nearest town was many miles away. I cursed at my misfortune, and berated myself for having been such a fool as to choose this path. I was about ready to head back…

            Then I heard the sound which heralded my salvation from all the misfortune of my life: the cry of a man in the darkness of that dreary, rainy night.

            He called for someone, anyone to help him, and from the way he called I could tell he was being attacked. But there was something else in that voice, though… an innocence I hadn’t been witness to for many years. This man was a good man.

            I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, hearing every cry the man let out; every shriek of pain he was unable to suppress. I could have left him like that… left that good man in the darkness, in the rain, tormented by the darkness and it’s workers. I could have left him to die……

            Instead I ran forward and saved that man. I drove off his attackers with a tree branch and my fists, forcing them to retreat into the night. That man ended up being a very important man; a lord, if you’d believe that. I couldn’t believe that such a man would travel in public at so late an hour, but I learned it was a pastime of his and that the thieves who had attacked him had learned of this hobby and were attempting to exploit it when I came upon him.

            I half carried, half helped him back to London where we found his lodging. In gratitude he allowed me to stay in his lavish residence… A residence which, since that day, I now manage. In his goodness he took me in and gave me the job of running his household. I am greatly blessed to have experienced that fortune, but let me tell you that serving under such a good man is reward enough. I now live in peace, happiness, and have met and married a very fine woman. I play music on my violin, and I have no enemies in all the world.

            But that fire in my heart is gone. I shall never have it back, for I know now what it was and it is irretrievable once lost. I lost it that very moment I made my choice to save my master that night. Since the death of my parents I’d had that fire tearing through my heart, a fire I’d kindled all my life until it finally sprang to life on the occasion of my misfortune. Though it drove me and kept me alive I now see that, in the end, it would have destroyed me.

            Do you know what that fire was?...

            It was pride.

            It was the urge to be better than everyone else; a self love without any love for anyone else. Yes, it kept me alive… but fire burns, my friend; one day I would have burned with it. Only when I finally gave up my selfishness to help a good man, when I abandoned my pride and arrogance, only then did I find peace and what I had sought all this time.

            Maybe you feel this terrible fire as well, my friend. As I tell you this tale I can see in your eyes your disbelief, but do not be so sure.

            Everyone must deal with pride.

            Even you. 

New Years

Well everyone, it's the start of a new year.... in case you didn't notice. Though I guess it might not be if you're waiting for Chinese new year... Anyway, I intend to make a couple of new years resolutions this year.

1) First off, I want to be more fit. You can't see me, but I definitely don't have six pack abs or toned muscles. And it would be good to have those and be more fit because, you know, it's good to be personally fit. *cough*nothingtodowithgirlsoranything*cough* Wow, excuse me. That was a terrible cough there. I should get some cold water or something.

What? No! Not at all! Nothing to do with girls! And it's not like I heard a bunch of girls swooning over guys because of their muscles and felt totally inferior because I have love handles or anything....

....

Moving on...

2) I want to get a drivers licence and re-learn how to properly care for a bike. I'll probably need and use both in college, so that's pretty important. And the bike has nothing to do with my earlier resolution. At all. Don't even think about it.

3) Moving on...

....

No, really, my third resolution is to move on. Funny thing, but I think I'm friend centered, though nobody would believe it I stay in my room so much. (Just so you get my lingo, friend centered is having friends as the focus of your life. The best thing is to be principle centered because principles never change, or God centered if you're religious, but either is difficult to do). So it's important that I let go of them. Already I'm starting to lose touch with most of my friends as they drift off into adulthood (though I have one or two friends I'm pretty sure I'll be keeping in my life for much longer). It's important then that I find peace in that. Sorry guys, but friends ain't forever (oh no! I used "ain't"... my teacher of a mother and my only follower will surely punish me some how).
Friends, it seems, come into our lives, bless them, then leave by one way or another. Being okay with that and moving on is important. If you try to hold on to that you just end up waiting your life away... And nobody wants that. Especially the people you love and who love you back.......
I'll be trying to accomplish this through pure mental will power and prayer by taking time every day to address this issue and issues like it. Not the best plan, I know, but it's all that works and all I've got. Fact is, I can't turn to anybody else to help me learn how to let go of people. I'd run into a bit of a paradox there.


4) Blog more. Oh yeah!!!!!
I'll be trying to do this by keeping a good schedule! Oh ye- Oh no.... I'm terrible at keeping schedules...
But for you, my loyal fans, I shall push myself and do so!!!! (my loyal fans who will one day exist, but who do not yet do so as far as I know)

5) Develop my character. No, not "A character," "MY character". As in my integrity, morals, ethics, virtue, discipline, and all that jazz. If you need to know why that's important I highly suggest getting off your horse because it's obviously to high.
I'll be trying to do this through practice, so I'm going to need to spend time with people more often. Hahaha! An excuse to hang out with people! Perfect!

6) and finally, I will be getting ready for college. Yeah.... scholarships, jobs, planning, scraping money together, contests, essays... pretty big thing and it's going to be difficult. In fact, to help me get a little bit more money together, I'm offering to tutor writing for $10 bucks a week if anyone is interested here. I've got loads of experience editing, writing, explaining writing and all that, and I've written some pieces that have won awards and another piece that was actually published! So anyways, if you're interested just call me at:

Hah! Thought I was going to put my number on here, didn't you! No? Oh... well that ruins the fun. Well, if you're interested you can email me at seriouslyjoshing@gmail.com. Or comment. Either way.

So that's it for my big new years resolutions. Hope your new year is wonderful and that you make and keep a few resolutions of your own!