Perception

[Schroeder]

Remember way back when we had the Nubblies short story contest? Yeah, I never submitted an entry but I had a story. Read it and comment if you want.

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Perception

Time was not his friend. Time was always moving forward. It never stopped. It never gave him the chance to fix his mistakes. Time never gave him the chance to atone for his sins. Time had given him so many memories, and yet made him forget the good ones. One of the very few good memories he had left was of the plaque he had in his room as a child. It contained a simple prayer, but it helped to keep him going, even in the worst times. It went like this:

God grant me
the serenity to accept
the things I cannot change,
courage
to change the things I can,
and wisdom always
to tell the
difference.

Time had taken most of his good memories like a thief takes candy from a baby. Oh well.

Regardless of all this, he had accepted time. He had to. Everyone had to. Time had shaped him into what he was: A man who had been chewed up and spit out by the world, like so much rancid meat. And the metaphor didn’t stop there. He was like a steel rail: Just as thin, just as rigid, and just as cold. You wouldn’t have known there was life in him at all except for his eyes. They were sad eyes, like those of a man who’s whole life had been one rained-on picnic. There might have been something else in his eyes, something deep down, but there probably wasn’t. He wasn’t ashamed of his appearance.

The serenity to accept the things I cannot change

Most people would say the world doesn’t need steel rail people. Others would say that the world takes all kinds of people. And it does.

He was walking down the sidewalk. Dressed in a black trench coat, he was like a shadow scampering through the night. He thought that his walk was strangely lonesome. If he had been paying attention, he would have noticed that people were avoiding him. They were smart to avoid him. He was scary. If the rail would have noticed, he would have wondered why the people saw him as scary. But he wasn’t going to notice. His mind was somewhere else. Isn’t everybody’s?

He had gotten a new job. He was on his way there. He moved on, and time did, also, until eventually he reached the house. It was a large house. Some might have called it a mansion, but it was certainly not a church. Every dollar, peso, mark, franc, or whatever that went into that house had been made illegally. The owner of this mansion was named Diego Castellano. Diego had been stealing candy from babies his whole life.
The world was better off without him.

The rail walked into the house. He stepped into a large room with chandeliers and statues and other items that were not judged by their value or worth, but by their price tags. Diego had thrown some great parties here, where he had invited all his scumbag friends and they had had a good time. Diego’s scumbag friends had all gotten filthy rich off of other peoples’ misery and suffering. The world takes that kind of people, too.

The rail proceeded down a long hallway, came to an enormous wooden door, and opened it. Diego’s office was in there. Diego was sitting at his desk, filling out an order form for a 24 karat gold bathtub. How extravagant!

Diego looked up. “Who the hell are you?” “I am a man who keeps with time,” the rail said, “and your time is up.” The rails speech was a bit contrived, but that was okay. The rail pulled out a gun and pulled the trigger. This, in turn, caused a hard piece of metal called a bullet to be ejected from the barrel. The bullet hit Diego. Somewhere far off, a dove cried and a crow cawed and an angel got its wings and the cow jumped over the moon. Not really. Diego slumped in his chair. The world was a better place. Diego was dead. So it goes.

Courage to change the things I can

He went back to the source of his job and got his money. Time, inevitably, will produce people who are willing to spend lots of money to have other people killed. The world takes that kind of people, too. That rail was not ashamed of his morals; he had done what he thought he needed to do to get by. He figured the amount of money he received was worth more than his morals.

He proceeded back into the night and became the shadow again. People still avoided him, and he wondered why. Time kept moving, and so did he. At one point, he entered a building and later came back out with a rather heavy bag. What was in the bag? Who knows? Probably something evil.

Time passed on, ticking and tocking, sometimes even cuckooing, until the morning came. The rail came out of his house, still in the black trench coat, with the bag in his hands. In the daytime, the trench coat didn’t make him seem like a shadow. He seemed more like a stain, a blotch against the beautiful midday sun. The rail scampered all the way until he reached another building, but not the same building as the night before. It was probably just another sinful place, a place to pick up a new job, or some other den of evil. He looked up at the sign, smiled, and walked in.

“I’m here”, he said in a gruff tone. “Yeah!” came a happy reply from a different room. Like a swarm, children descended on him from all sided. They hugged him and loved him like only children could. “Who’s hungry?” he said, and opened the bag to reveal groceries. Nothing evil, just food. They all sat down and ate.

These children were doing their best to continue in time. Time, in its unrelenting march, had stopped too soon for most of their parents. He took care of them. The orphans could see that something deep down, that no one else could. The orphans finally gave the rail some good memories, ones he could remember. He knew he was only one man, and that he could not do everything. He could do something, though, and that was helping those children.

and wisdom always to tell the difference

Time eventually stops for everyone. The rail had accepted that. He knew time would eventually stop on him. That same time that gave him memories and took them away would eventually stop his march. But if he could get those children to have good memories and thoughts about him, than he had exceeded time’s grasp. If he could be remembered as a good person, that would be the greatest prize of them all. And time could not stop him. He had found a loophole.

[victim]

I hoped perhaps that one fine fucking day
You'd go without posting something so fucking gay
But your "Perception" story reinforced my fucking fear
that all your posts are fucking queer
Your tale was lame, to say the fucking most
quite the waste of another fucking post
The style was fucking lame, the plot was fucking weak
like your fucking arms, you fucking pansy geek
First, the theme was stolen from Slaughterhouse-fucking-Five
You better be glad Kurt Vonnegut is still fucking alive
Or he'd be rolling in his grave from that piece of fucking shit
You butchered something fucking good, your throat should be fucking slit
The characters were fucking undeveloped, like your half-inch long fucking dick
and if given the choice, I'd have to fucking pick
licking the clits of two fifty-cent fucking whores
than having to read another one of your fucking metaphors
Why don't you just go back to something you're fucking good at?
Uh... nothing, you say? Have you tried fucking the housecat?
In your case, it might be more productive than trying to fucking write
and if you approach from behind, Kitty probably won't scratch or fucking bite
But if you insist on more fucking writing, here's my fucking advice
I'll try to be fucking constructive, I'll try to be fucking nice...
Oh, fuck it! I know I'd just be wasting more of my fucking time
As if I haven't spent enough already getting this reply to motherfucking rhyme.

[Titan]

Fucking A victim.
That was fucking grand.
I'm giving you a fucking ovation.
The kind where you fucking stand.

[Pliedes]

Count of the word "fuck" used in victim's post: 31

[Schroeder]

Originally posted by victim:
First, the theme was stolen from Slaughterhouse-fucking-Five

No, the style was designed to emulate Kurt Vonnegut. I was not trying to write as well as him.

The characters are supposed to be undeveloped. That is Vonnegut's style and you'd know that if you had read more than just one of his books, as I have.

That was the 2nd best paper in that english class, right behind Combat's.

Whether you like it or not, I still do and it is a good story.

Since you're freaking Shakespeare, victim, how about you grace us with a work of your own?

[Ugly Bastard]

Originally posted by Schroeder:
Since you're freaking Shakespeare, victim, how about you grace us with a work of your own?

Victim, did you read what Schroeder said to you?

-Ugly Bastard

[Titan]

Originally posted by Schroeder:
Since you're freaking Shakespeare, victim, how about you grace us with a work of your own?

He did, it was brilliant, did you not read it?

[victim]

Originally posted by Schroeder:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by victim:
First, the theme was stolen from Slaughterhouse-fucking-Five

No, the style was designed to emulate Kurt Vonnegut. I was not trying to write as well as him.

The characters are supposed to be undeveloped. That is Vonnegut's style and you'd know that if you had read more than just one of his books, as I have.

That was the 2nd best paper in that english class, right behind Combat's.

Whether you like it or not, I still do and it is a good story.

Since you're freaking Shakespeare, victim, how about you grace us with a work of your own?</font>[/quote]You stupid bitch, I was talking about the theme, not the style. Your theme was a piss poor derivative of Slaughterhouse 5, right down to the use of that old cheesy adage that "the rail" kept on the wall as a kid.

Your style was shit. Emulation my ass. That's like a crayon smiley face being an emulation of the Mona fucking Lisa. It was no good. Vonnegut didn't pull things out of his ass like you did and just plop them down in the middle of fucking nowhere. I don't give a flying rat's ass that it was the second best paper in your English class. People, especially high school students and college freshmen (especially WCHS spawned fuckwads) can't write if their fucking worthless lives depended on it. You are no different. (Right now, as some of you may know, I'm in a position where I have to deal with this bullshit on a daily basis...)

*By the way, this is not to say that Vonnegut has or should have a trademark on his style. I'd recommend you check out other authors of a similar flair, such as P. G. Wodehouse or Douglas Adams, to see this (Don't you dare insinuate I'm unread, bitch, I'll crack your bastard skull).

[Schroeder]

Originally posted by victim:
People, especially high school students and college freshmen (especially WCHS spawned fuckwads) can't write if their fucking worthless lives depended on it. You are no different.

Well then, high school and college students can't judge writing to save their lives then, either.

Those were some extremely harsh and uncalled for comments, victim, the likes of which I would not expect out of a civilized person such as yourself. Deep down I know you don't even believe that comment, but whatever.

Probably some of the best art, writing, acting, storytelling, singing, instrument-playing I will ever see or hear I experienced at WCHS. Maybe it wasn't perfect, but it was damn good for high school kids.

Originally posted by victim:
You are no different.

I don't usually like to pat my own back, but I'm going to on this occasion. I am different. I'm not just an average creative writer, but a great one. If I would have gone to Ball State or IU or Purdue and had wanted to major in writing, I would have been just fine.

If you want perfection out of life, you're going to be dissapointed all the time.

[ November 23, 2003, 12:23 AM: Message edited by: Schroeder ]

[StDx]

[quote]Originally posted by Schroeder:

I don't usually like to pat my own back, but I'm going to on this occansion... I'm not just an average creative writer, but a great one.

I've got to agree with Scrote here... that was a very creative spelling of the word occasion.

[victim]

Schroeder:

When I made that statement, I meant it as a general statement, not an unbreakable rule, I apologize if that wasn't clear enough for you.

It's true though. On the whole, high school kids can not write well. Ask any educator about it, and I can assure you that he/she will tell you the same thing. That doesn't mean there is not talent out there (which usually has it's own means of revealing itself)...

Look:
I did not like your story.
I did not like the plot.
I did not like the characters.
I did not like your style.

You asked for comments, I gave you my opinion, even gave some justification for it (in badass poetic style too...).

It's a good thing you chose not to explore writing, because anybody who gets as insanely defensive as you wouldn't survive long.

[Schroeder]

Originally posted by victim:
Schroeder:
It's a good thing you chose not to explore writing, because anybody who gets as insanely defensive as you wouldn't survive long.

I don't think I'd get criticized like that.
It was a cool rhyme, though.

[the Butcher]

Schroeder, suck a dick. Your story wasn't good, and you're the only one to see that. You're a fucking conceited bastard to keep claiming how "great" of a writer you are. Great my ass. Everything about your story was weak, including the violence. When you get a major in creative writing, if they even have it, then you know what? I'll still fucking hate your writing, because it still sucks ass.

Edit: You still suck ass.

[ November 23, 2003, 01:53 AM: Message edited by: the Butcher ]

[Titan]

Honestly, I don't know where you get off calling yourself a great creative writer. I'm willing to bet you don't even spend 20% of your time reading the work of your peers. Just because you think it's good and you know it's better than people's writing in high school, doesn't mean you're great. Do you have an abundance of friends who write and compare there writings with you? I bet you've hardly read any stories from people who write who are around your same age group. I doubt you have any clue how many other writers there are out there that are as just as good as you.

Last year in my freshman drawing class, I was the best, bottom line. No one had control of the materials as well as me nor could anyone make as reallistic and skilled a drawing as me. But just because I'm better than a class full of freshman hopefuls who don't have much experience, doesn't mean I'm great. There are a fuckload of people at this school that are a fuckload better than me, older and younger students, grad students, and professors.

I've been one of the best artists around wherever I live for my whole life. Guess what, that's mostly because no one else was that great, not because I was. Just because you stick out in your surroundings or in your own head doesn't mean you're great. Good luck getting better with that air.

[ November 23, 2003, 02:11 AM: Message edited by: Titan ]