Hey all! I just started become active on the site again, and thought I should do my part to contribute to activity in the AMW as well as the community (forum?) as a whole. So, I'm writing some stuff up and will be posting it here periodically; hope you enjoy!
*ahem*
The thing about an Early Autumn
An Early Autumn is much more than a time and season. It is its own sort of transition. Some words you can use to describe an Early Autumn are: golden. Breathing. Tangible. An Early Autumn holds the vibrancy of Summer's waning glory but has not yet succumbed to winter's numb decay. That is why this piece is called, "Like an Early Autumn," because there is no Fall in this picture. There is instead a proud everything, holding old and strong in the wake of Summer, and bursting with color in the face of Winter. Encompassing and inspiring, like an Early Autumn.
Insomuch as there is an Early Autumn, there is much to this season. Just as an Early Autumn is not just brown-gold leaves or a crisp, playful breeze, this piece is not just a narrative, or a poem, or an account. There are many parts. However, as you read, do not make the mistake of generalizing these words. See them in your own way, because no story is written for its own sake. This is for you. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet. 26 is the difference between fifty-two and itself. It is also the number of famine. But an Early Autumn is a time of harvest.
I gave up Mountain Dew a few months ago, because I'd been drinking about four 20 oz bottles a day, and while it wasn't having much of an effect on my physique, it was making me lethargic. So I decided to quit, at the insistence of one of my friends.
I feel like that's got to be a pretty good move. My senior Trig teacher also drank a lot of Mountain Dew, but he was a marine, so that sort of made it even more odd. More odd than what, you may ask? Me. Drinking Mountain Dew as much as I did. I dare not troll the depths of Armor Games to find what you all think is "odd", but where I come from I was drinking an unsettling amount of the stuff. Anyway, he quit, and he was visibly shaking for the first few days afterwards. Funny stuff; when I was a kid my friends and I used to joke about being "addicted" to stuff like sugar and the like, but this man had been taking in so much sugar he was literally suffering a minor withdrawal. Now, he got over it eventually, but I'm not sure that's because he conquered his desires, or just went back to drinking it behind closed doors.
There's been a lot of buildup for the release of The Stanley Parable these last few weeks. I've seen a few people play through the original Half-Life 2 mod, but when YouTube personalities started posting videos of them playing through the independent game, I decided I didn't want to watch; I'd rather wait to buy it myself and see what I thought. But I'd never gotten the parable, so I searched online for an explanation and found a pretty interesting one. I don't remember the website, but basically it stated that the point of the Stanley Parable is that it turns you into Stanley. His job at the office is to push buttons all day and follow the orders that come across the screen, but isn't that just what you're doing, not only while playing the game and obeying the narrator (who is voiced brilliantly, by the way), but when playing any game. It makes you think about the independence one thinks they have in video games, and how a "decision" or "choice" is still sanctioned completely by the gamemakers. I think this is really evidenced in the possible ending where you try to harness the power of the emotion board to control others, at which the point the narrator scolds you for your power trip and blows up the facility. It really calls to mind the question, "who really is in charge? And who is in charge of those who are in charge?" Really interesting topics of thought and conversation. I hope I can play the game soon.
Nice to see you writing again sir . 'Twas my monthly check in. If I can get anything accomplished, I'll send it your way and may even get it on here. (Legitimate comments on the writing to come later)
It would have to wait. Everything could wait, in the grand scheme of things. That's what fills one with a sort of warm excitement, when they make one wait. A girl can make a boy wait, a girl made me (a boy) wait, a girl made yo' boy wait. Mae.
one two three four five one two three four five "Oh, don't get so worked up about it." Mae said with a smile as Lea sunk into the recliner. "The people in this city are crazy, and the people who run it, even crazier, if you could believe such a thing."
"Do I know you?" Lea asked with a frown. Why was this girl in MacDonald's house? Or was it McDonald? "Darling, I'm much too holistic for a question like that. Just call me Mae, as is, and I'm sure The Cheater will get around to explaining it. He's busy, you see." "Explain what?" The Cheater said, strolling into the kitchen. He looked a fright, with puffed-out feathers and bags under his eyes. He smelled of mice. "You smell of mice, your feathered degenerate." Mae sneered. "Do I know you?" Mae threw her hands into the air and walked out the door, but not before huffing indignantly in the owl's general direction. As she stormed out, she passed M(a)cDonald walking the other direction. He watched her go, with more a look of dull surprise than pleasure or amusement.
Pleasure and amusement were not synonymous to McDonald.
"Well, there goes another one." He drawled. "Of course. And you know what the funny thing about that is?" The Cheater said, looking at Lea with saucer-pan eyes. "What?" Lea and McDonald said in unison. The Cheater glared at the farmer before continuing. "She'll never come back."
Lea was leaning against an old storefront, watching faceless citizens passing by and hoping none of them disliked cabbage soup. Or was it cabbage stew? She couldn't quite remember anymore. Some people in the city said it was cabbage soup, some people said it was cabbage soup, and some people just flat out didn't like cabbage. She looked down to see a rabbit at her feet, with something in her mouth. Reaching down, she removed it from the rabbit's mouth and found it to be Dante's Inferno in original Italian. "You don't actually plan on reading this?" Lea asked the rabbit in disbelief. The rabbit just wiggled its pink nose. "I mean, something like Moby ****, or even poetry I could understand. But why this? It's so, so, pretentious. You're better than that." Lea then thought she might be better than this. Perhaps the onus was on her to get a grip. The south was nice this time of year.
The girl I loved used to love me back. She said she loved me because I am intelligent. I suspect the man she is with now is more intelligent than me. I suspect she thinks the same thing as well. It feels as if pliers are ripping at my stomach, to know such things. Although I suppose knowing is the problem is the first place, isn't it?
"Dude I'm telling you what, things have been ****ed up since you started showing up again." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah, yeah. I was talking with Tom --you remember Tom, from the police station?-- and he was saying that they're pulling an awful lot of people over lately for speeding." "I really don't think a high rate of speeders necessarily means things are bad. People have places to go. And what are things anyway?" "Well he said policemen who have been camping are turning their lights on. Now this serves twofold purpose. On one hand, people will slow down because they see the lights. Now, you must think, 'this is rather counteractive, because then no one will get pulled over' however I correct you; the people are slowing down, so isn't that just doing the job for them? And no one has to get a ticket. On the other hand, a lot of people who see a police car's lights will continue speeding, because they assume the car is preoccupied writing someone a ticket for speeding. So they get caught." "Wait, so it Tom trying to write tickets, or isn't he?" "Well it beats me. He's not in charge. He's just a lackey. But I think this teaches us an important lesson. You catch more bees with honey that you do with vinegar." "You're a real ****ing idiot, you know that?"
Na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na Updates! UPDATES!
Metaphors
"I think it was a pretty terrible metaphor. It was like orange juice. And I don't like orange juice. How's that for a metaphor?" "That's a simile." "Dude whatever." "I'll agree though. It's a pretty terrible metaphor. Moreso even than Arden's phony herring over roasts." "You didn't deliver that well at all. Simply indicate metaphorical inclinations like everyone says." "Well if you're going to add to it like that than maybe everyone thinks about people hoarding oral requiems simultaneously." "Eh, at least you weren't making up words or anything. But I still think you're missing the point. Where's Lea anyway? Things have gotten so **** nonsensical lately."
"You two are odd. Odder than the last pair of self-proclaimed enigmatics I met." Lea said, walking into the kitchen. The fox turned and gave Lea a look which she could only interpret as perverse. "Yeah thanks."
"I want... I want to go hooooome..." Pink Floyd was rolling like a thick mist from Lea's window as she lay on her bed, face up, eyes closed. It had been a month since she'd left Armor Games, and it had been the most miserable month of her life. Every once in a while, a small white rabbit would hop into her room and nuzzle her hand half-heartedly, but Lea was listless. Her parents had started leaving her alone, and the jaguar had been in the forest for a while now. Allegedly. Lea remembered the days when she saw the cat's spotted rump sticking out from under the foliage, and hearing it call out eagerly. "Look! Look! I'm in the woods! I really am!"
Lea rose from her bed and walked over to the window. "Vera..." Sometimes she wished her name was Vera. It was quite a pretty name. But she was lonely. She'd had the fox. But owls ate foxes. That might not have been true, but in the forest anything one said could be true. And the owl had said he ate foxes. And so he ate the fox. It was simple as that. Lea half expected the fox to blurt out, "No, no! I eat owls!" But he never did. The owl's logic seemed sound. She had to talk to the owl.
The owl was open to talking. "Hoot hoot." It said indifferently, twisting its neck this ways and about as Lea looked on helplessly. "Is it true that you ate the fox? Or, eat foxes?" She asked desperately. The owl gave no answer. Of course, she knew now that the owl had lied; she just really wanted to get it out of him. The dragon had carried the fox off a few days ago, stomping into the wilderness, knocking trees aside like toothpicks. The fox swayed by its scruff from the dragon's maw, saying not a word. Accepting defeat. Maybe that's what Lea liked so much about the owl. It did not accept defeat. And it had known defeat, about as well as anything, or anyone.
Owl
I'd seen her bothering one of her rabbit friends about Moby ****, and it raised a question. Why don't I write Moby ****? It won't be nearly as boring. And it won't be nearly as long. As far as I'm concerned, the shorter and simpler it is, the better. There's a saying among percussionists that the smaller the drum kit is, the better the drummer. I think the same goes for writers. Then again, length can mask plot. At least when it comes to my target audience. Well, the target audience that I tell myself is my target audience. But I still lie to myself a lot.
A single cloud was floating towards me, and I could see the shade it cast moving slowly over the grassy fields. Looking up, it seemed close enough to touch, but I knew it was very far away.
It is here that Like an Early Autumn fully does away with chronology
High Hopes
Often times artisans invest their entire lives into training and practice before achieving a masterpiece; you could say my training was anguish, and my practice was patience. I was rather lucky, then, at the age of seventeen to come wholly into possession of the artistic ability to create my own masterpiece. I was at that time studying with a young colleague under the instruction of a completely incompetent romantic, who spent more time eating grapes than showing us how to make proper brushstrokes or even think up the proper themes for a painting. Admittedly, at the time my colleague was a better artist than me. But not for long. He was ambitious, but stupid, and had been working on his masterpiece for four years. In truth, the greatness of this was in his will to begin, but not in the creation itself, for it was a rather dull and uninventive painting. It was like a child's watercoloring; brownish, and lacking life. I wanted to give it life. Looking back, my time with my colleague was completely inconsequential when it comes to my high hopes. In a slowly dawning but momentarily eternal stroke of inspiration, I completed his work for him, one night while he was away. He was mortified to find this on his return, perhaps even more mortified at that than at the laudations I was receiving for its completion. It was no longer his work. It was mine. A beautiful woman, clothed in white satin against a bucolic meandering of green bushes and clear blue tributaries. It took my breath away even to look at it. It had my heart, and my mind. I was fascinated by it. My colleague left the school some days later; I never saw him again. Like the leaves of an Early Autumn must brown and fall away, my love for the painting slowly dwindled. I was congratulated for my masterpiece, and the praise had made me cold, and aloof. I was young and foolish then, but perhaps more the latter than the former. The painting was thrown aside, into the attic. I had not the heart to sell it, thank god, but somehow I could no longer bear to look at it. So in my attic it sat, collecting proverbial dust as the suns came and went. Life is nothing without art. A lesson taught aptly to me by time, it led me back to the attic, to uncover the painting and look upon it once more. It wasn't for loneliness, or belief in second chances, but rather a sort of inane feeling of warmth that I recalled emanating from it, keeping me sane when sanguine fires burned too hot. I am not ashamed to admit I never planned to hang it: it sat instead in a corner, propped up against the walls, the woman inside glaring sternly at all those who beheld her. I had not recalled her having that expression. One might call it irony that I awoke one morning to find the painting missing. It disturbed me to no end, however it was not hard to find. That same day, while walking through town, I noticed it being sold at an auction in the square. It didn't go for much, and the buyer looked very similar to my old colleague. I can assure you it wasn't. I could not protest its sale; after all I had not hung it, but instead let it sit amidst the filth of my house, to please me when I was happy and judge me when I was down. I think that's when I realized there was no masterpiece.
I tried to repaint it, but it was never the same. Every time I tried, the background was different, the colors were unique, and the style was diverse; however no matter what I painted, the woman stayed the same. She only fit upon the background of my colleague's painting. But that painting was neither his nor mine anymore.
To it may entertain: oft fear takes hope. Ere my own nerve, too, halts. Time is my enemy, oh fickle terror. How each month orders new times, how times incandescent might end. Or, fear truly hones et, midnight's own name to hear.
1. This 2. Was the shortest stanza of Like an Early Autumn 3. As in 1. 4. But if you were to split the story into multiple stanzas 5. There would be lots of them and maybe even one shorter than 6. This. 7. As in 1. 8. Or maybe even 9. This 10. As in 6. 11. But Lea couldn't make heads of tails of it. 12. Which is, I suppose, what this story is about in the first place.
