Creative writing

People are always telling me, “D.J., you’re so funny,” and I’m always like, “Shut up, baby, I know it.” Then they tell me that I should write some fictional stories, to which I reply, “eh, nah.” What I can do, however, is to post a couple of stories that I’ve already written. Sure, some of you may have already read them, but there are some who haven’t, so for those people it’s like new content.

That’s right, you’re getting old material, but it’s packaged in a new way. And you get this nifty intro. And it’s in HD. And 3D. BooYa!

Alright, you’re all smart enough to realize that this is basically just a double-dip version of a blog post. Well, just be thankful you’re getting an update at all, you little vultures.

Story 1

…and then he was struck in the face by a fish.

While this may seem like an odd way to begin a story, it’s actually remarkably fitting.  William, or, as his friends called him if he had any that is, William, he hated being called Will or Bill or Billy and especially Willy, had led up until this point and with one extremely major exception, a unremarkably usual life.  His was actually only remarkable in how usual it was.  So usual that it was downright boring, or was considered boring by most normal folk, who by comparison, lead ironically unusual lives.  William worked as a tax accountant.  Around tax season he was confined to a faux cubicle hastily assembled in the check out area of a grocery/convenience superplex.  He was one of those people that you see and feel abject pity for because they have to put up with the constant ringing of the cash registers. Beep.

It’s one thing to work as a cashier and have to put up with it. Beep boop. At least then you are taking an active part in the process and are more readily able to tune out the constant ringing. Beep.  But to be a passive listener.  Beep beep boop. One who is confined all day every day.  Beep.  It must be truly maddening.  Boop.

Besides the ringing, there is the fact that you never happen to see the accountant with any actual customers.  Usually you catch them playing solitaire or pacing back in forth in their cubicage with looks on their faces that suggest that their are contemplating the most effective way to off themselves, and whether or not they should take a couple of cashiers down in the process.

If you do happen to catch these accountants with a client, they’re generally little old women, carrying in shoe-boxes filled with receipts talking his ear off about how she considers her cat a business partner and wants to write off his food purchases as a business expense.  The tragedy was that William enjoyed his job.  Well, enjoyed it as much as William enjoyed anything.  Which is to say that he didn’t hate it.

William, for a short time, was a remarkably intelligent and inventive young boy.  He was considered by all of his teachers to be the brightest boy they ever taught, and, had he grown up in a more nurturing environment, could have gone on to do remarkable things.  However, his imagination and inventiveness was snuffed out, as it must be for all young children.  Unfortunately for William, his was snuffed at such a young age and so thoroughly, that not even a spark remained which could later be rekindled.

Of William’s pastimes, of which he had only one, he most enjoyed making model airplanes. The intricacies which it took to build them put him at ease, and took his mind off of the absolute nothingness that utterly surrounded the rest of his life.  The finished models would’ve also made a nice conversation piece for his apartment, which was utterly bereft of any kind of decoration beyond some simple furniture.  Unfortunately, William took absolutely no joy in his finished creations and would throw them away as soon as they were finshed.  Not that he would ever have anyone in his apartment (friends or otherwise) to converse with about his model planes. In fact, if directly questioned about it, William would be hard pressed to explain exactly why he made model airplanes, it was just something he did.

Fortunately, William’s meager possesions adequetely fit into a nice apartment which anyone else (meaning any normal person) would describe as cramped but William saw as being roomy.  The delicious irony being that William lived in the hustling, bustling, alive city and commuted out to the cookie-cutter, doldrum, same-old same-old suburbs. It was from one of these suburban gorcery/convenience superplexes that William was desperately hurrying home from, not that he had any reason to hurry; there was nothing at home to hurry to and there was nothing that he dreaded so much about work that he had to hurry away from.  Regardless, he was hurrying and walking in his usual fashion, head down, only looking up far enough to make sure he wouldn’t run into anyone.  For some odd reason, something caught his attention long enough for him to raise his head up to a normal eye-level height, and if truth be known it was actually a degree or two above that,

…and then he was struck in the face by a fish.

Thus begins a story which I never quite figured out how to end.  It would’ve gone on to explain how he got struck in the face by a fish and what it was that so irrecoverably squelched William’s ingenuity, but where that story led was entirely uninteresting to me, however, I did like the opening enough to jot it down here. Consider yourself lucky.