An Adolescent's Journal

I've decided to start something different today and I'd be pleased to recieve comment and criticism about this piece. :bow:

An Adolescent’s Journal

August 20th, Las Vegas. The Sun was at its height over the burning sky.

“So, what are we supposed to do again?”

“Well, firstly, we’re going to the Meadows Mall to get you a backpack and some black jeans you need.”

“Fine. What else?”

“Then we will go to Wal-Mart. The school’s gonna open next week, so you need some stationary stuffs. Then, you can go to the ‘Border’ bookstore as you asked for.”

Satisfied with the answer my mother gave, though not at all satisfied with the prospect of the actual trip itself, I sat down on the nearest chair, stretched my legs, and sighed. You see, my parents were ordinary people. Just like any other ordinary people of today‘s United States, they, along with so many others, took for granted the convenience that massive supermarkets like Wal-Mart offered as a place where you can go and get everything you‘d ever need or wanted. For me, this was increasingly irritating. I did not like this exchange between convenience and choices; I’d rather go to more specialized shops to get what I needed, where there will be more alternatives - REAL alternatives - even if that means I’ll have to go to ten places rather than one in just one day. Naturally though, I didn’t voice my opinion about this. In my own familiar gloomy silence, I kept quiet. It was far better this way.

It surprised me whenever I thought back of how I became such a different person; to everyone else around me, to the majority of people around the world, even to myself in the past. It is a mystery; a divine mystery, perhaps, one that none except the most intelligent of supernatural beings could answer. Well, unfortunately, there were no angels in the neighborhood to talk to, and gods certainly won’t listen to my atheistic prayers. You see, before this, I was just an ordinary boy. I enjoyed, like everyone else, the prospects of going out, meeting friends, lived with my family, and, all-in-all, lived a full, loud, secure, and happily ordinary life. I was a simple young boy for all my life, despite that strange little fascination with history and an above-average skill in school presentations, writing, and the classroom's second, insignificant language was English. These traits were just little things that set me apart; little enough to ensure my normality and yet special enough to set me apart from the crowd and made my life worthwhile. That was enough for me, and for my many friends, whom I enjoyed company.

Until my world was turned upside down.

Before I became who I was, and started living in Vegas (for the two events could not be separated or distinguished from each other), I was born into a complex and ever-changing society that was Krungthep, a.k.a. Bangkok, a sub-society of sorts in the country of Thailand. Before I began to touch other societies, living in other cultures different from what I was born with, I never appreciated the Oriental exoticness of the nation of my birth, and especially the city of my youth. It was normal for me. Everything from the polluted air, stinking canals, broken, traffic-filled roads, dangerous run-down neighborhoods, crowded, dirty street markets, and even the usual petty corruption and crimes that would’ve troubled many foreigners made no difference to me. This was Bangkok; this was what I was born with. Despite the prince-like treatment and care my family gave to me, together with the clean, happy rooms and relatively prosperous situation I grew up with, the many troubles plaguing the city were still just…well, problems. You could always look at the nearest temple or ruined palace and enjoy the peace of mind that came with centuries of Buddhism in Bangkok’s blood, or you could go up that very same street a little more than a mile north and an hour away just to visit the nearest department store and participate in the cosmopolitan activities it offered. That was normality. Everyday struggle put one through the understanding that things were simply the way it was. There was no concern, not even conscious awareness, that I should be troubled, that anyone should be troubled.

So I lived through a happy childhood. A normal childhood.

Until my mother’s voice hit my ears, and my daydreaming was put to a halt, “Bank! Are you ready to go now?”

“Yes, mom!” I responded, and sighed, secretly. Fine enough. If they would drive me to the bookstore then I’ll tolerate Wal-Mart, for now. I hope they had what I wanted.

With that thought, I went downstairs, and out of the door, away from what was my house yet still not my home. I went… back into reality.

I think your first few lines of dialogue would have been a good place to sneak in some character description. It wouldn't have to be a lot, just enough to give the reader a rough idea of what our main character looks like. leaving the child, reletively faceless, does give the sense that it "could be anyone".

However as we are supposed to connect with him as he looks back on his life, its always good to know what he looks like.

DamN! I had the same idea!!!!
Dang....

Oh well, good story until now. I wonder what happens next, especially at school.

Speaking about school, it gave me an idea. I'm gonna do the "School diaries" ~D

Very interesting, AntiochusIII. I do not agree with Monk that you should describe what the character looks like. I am content with leaving him "faceless", as long as his personality starts to appear.

Anyway, I am interested in how this story will unfold, though I hope you will take care not to lose the main story line out of sight. I have seen a couple of "biographic" (is it auto-biographic, by the way?) stories get stuck in meaningless details when the author did not know the difference between creating an atmosphere and telling a lot of unimportant nonsense.

Good luck with writing.

But reality is something terrible. Reality is destructive, changing, ruinous, oppressive, ever-terrible in its indiscriminate wrath; so that the fickle fury of reality had left a very long absence in the Journal of me, marked by a blackened path of life. It is necessary, absolutely necessary, then, to recognize the power of change that had its way against the Adolescent who used to hate Wal-Mart. Idealism? Nah, he changed. He very much changed that a man could scoff so very loudly against King Louis and his court that everything really had changed and still be understating. The fears of capitalism gone; the idealism of brotherhood, of utopia, of a different reality than this one, gone; the fears of mundane nature would take in, replacing the fiery spirit of the youth.

So that he would learn to be the murderer. Me. Of two crickets.

The Murder of Two Crickets

Crickets are wonderful things. They ought to be recognized as such. Crickets are creatures that writers of old had known as guardians of the hearth, so that they would protect the tranquility of their adopted home as much as any loyal dog would his master. Unlike the aggression of rats and cockroaches, or the traitorous venom of snakes, crickets do not harm the owners of the hearth, for they are their guardians also, and their protectors. The sound of crickets, with their Chirp! Chirp! and Chirrup, sooths the mind; even as they chirp, happy with the warmth of the hearth, they remind men to be pleased with the hearth also, and gladly would he share it with the chirrup of the crickets, pleased as he was to have as company such wonderful things.

But men are also terrible things. We kill, slaughter, murder, rape, rob, and disprove the righteousness of our hearts with the movement of our hands. Terrible, indeed, that I'd hazard a bet that, in your lifetime, you would at least come face to face with men who kill crickets. Men who are so terrified of everything, so insecure, that even the Chirp! Chirp! and Chirrup of crickets would grate their ears, shake the very foundations of their core beings, so that they would go out of their way to murder off the merry ways of crickets to protect themselves from reality. One such man is talking to you right now.

Much like a criminal earnestly defending the innocence of his crime, I will explain to you the rationale of my execution: I fear crickets. I fear their very ugly selfs, their jumpy ways, their swiftness, their inherent dirtiness, so irrationally conceived from my terrified mind of germs on their bodies and the steel of their teeth--the fact that they never ever bit me bothers me not--so much so that I have to kill crickets to go on living. Much like a man who sees enemies everywhere, who sees one-sided things, and advocate loudly, claiming rationality, of genocide, slavery, oppression, destruction, for the sake of his own security--so I justify the murder of the two crickets with a barren face.

A question of why aside, a question how comes in. The weapons, the manners, the rituals of my murder of crickets ought to be investigated. How did I kill the crickets, if I so fear them such? What weapon did I use? What movement of hands, feet, and eyes are needed to catch the swift cricket? How many hits, how many times, in how many ways?

How is the question of tomorrow.

:sweatdrop: "Environmental disturbances" are soooo easy to screw up my mind. Tomorrow's hopefully better for longer periods of writing

I only came across your story when you posted the second element, so forgive me for any tardy comments.

The earlier auto-biography was an interesting start, though you had some confusing sentences worth changing. I see Monk's point, but I too felt there was enough of your personality emerging that I could continue without a description.

The passage of time changes us remarkably, and your second, new piece is much darker, much 'older', with strong elements of self-loathing for the narrator. I like it, and it draws me in to the narrator's world using the crickets as an interesting symbol - for what? I hope we shall see.

The two, however, do not feel connected, except by their author. I would say that the second story is the start of a tale that holds promise, and you may wish to re-work the opening sentences to reflect that. Or perhaps you will link the two in as yet unsuspected ways.

Good work - I look forward to more. :bow:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by edyzmedieval

DamN! I had the same idea!!!!
Dang....

Oh well, good story until now. I wonder what happens next, especially at school.

Speaking about school, it gave me an idea. I'm gonna do the "School diaries" ~D

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NO WAY im already working on that i have over 100 pages and 30 conversations already...that project is mine, MINE MY PRECIOUS

Banquo's Ghost: Aye. I really should go back to rewrite the first opening: it's been years (this is one ultimate necro'ing on my part--and I intend to do the same with my other unfinished ones, too; I always have problems with false pretenses of honor!) and a lot of things had changed. I'm still not sure on where to go yet, but I hope it'll be at least...interesting.

I intend the next "installment" to be less melancholy and more with dialogue and other, more conventional ways of storytelling. Brooding on and on forever will be tiring even to the most nihilistic of minds. I always have problems with dialogue, though, and any comments will be much appreciated.

I can't possibly compare to your newest story (that was very nice, by the way!) but I'll try to make it at least something worth reading about, or not.

(For the record, I'm actually in real life quite scared of insects--somethingphobia, I guess--so the piece is more realistic than would first appear ~;) )

Stranger: You're responding to an ancient post. Epochs ancient. :sweatdrop:

Crickets are fast, elusive creatures. One jump away and they would be safe from the attack for a moment; two jumps and a moment more; three jumps the safer; and four jumps into the corner and they defeat you fair and square. The larger they are, the wiser they become, and the farther they jump. That has to be taken into account when I say that the two crickets I murdered so cold-bloodedly were indeed quite sizable.

That I fear crickets, and moreso disgusted by them, had been established; it is a question, then, of how I equip myself to successfully assault the innocent creatures. Logical reasonings ought to produce the result that, should one be scared and disgusted by something, one would not be able to fully bring to the fullest his resources and will to bear, especially if his opponent is an elusive, wary, and perfectly capable cricket, with no ill intentions whatsoever. But logical reasonings do not define instincts, and instincts are what drove me to such heinous acts.

It started innocently. A peaceful neighborhood; a beautiful house; a comfortable living room; a computer; a favorite movie on the scene; me sitting in the chair in front of it all, and I was perfectly capable of enjoying the peace and tranquility that came with the solitude of the night. It has to be taken into account, then, that I enjoy solitude, and that rarely did I ever enjoy a perfect one. Solitude is a gift rare in houses whose hearths are warm enough to attract the blessings of crickets, and whose liveliness left little room for silence. Thus, when I had the chance for one, I became protective of it, and aggressive towards things that dare disturb it. In this case, it was a simple cricket.

He came harmlessly enough, moving in his usual way through the floor, seeking nothing, finding nothing, perfectly content to be with himself in a comfortable living room of a beautiful house. It was his terrible luck, then, that brought him to meet me, for I was wary of crickets, and have eyes for them, much like the prey who learn to have eyes for his enemies out of his own necessary fears. I catched the sight of the cricket, and was angered. How could such an ugly thing be in my house! How dare it disturb my righteous peace! What if it comes climbing on my legs! What if that jumpy bastard dares touch the food! A thousand grievances came up in quick succession, and I prepared to move to file them away.

At first I was lenient, or perhaps craven. The weapon of choice was a peculiar thing of long history: a paper bag originally, very large, pulled out of the form, to create something of a framework, then tied back together in its new incarnation of a long, heavy, and quite deadly piece of once-a-bag to squash the offending insects; it was used quite often too, executing the many trespassers in the most gruesome fashion, more terrible than French guillotine, and even more unjust. This time, however, instead of fulfilling its purpose, I simply sent a warning. I moved out of my chair, prepared to attack, and, in a swift motion, hit, a short way missed. The cricket jumped, scared, braving death in his innocence. I hit again, missed again, and he jumped again. A dance of life and death continued for three-four times more, and he escaped beneath the sofa. From the open ground, I swept, he jumped; next to the beach ball, I was fast, him faster; under the chair, the clash of that once-a-bag next to him sent the cricket flying, and down the sofa he went. And he ought to think himself lucky, for I chose mercy to protect the carpet; his squashed blood would give it a terrible case of rash.

But the cricket must've thought differently, perhaps with victory in his mind. For when I returned to enjoy my peace (and a piece of a favorite movie, I'd say), and left only a fraction of interest in pursuing the innocent criminal, he came out again. Arrogant! How dare he! Punishment! Away with him! Another thousand complaints lodged itself in the fashion of a great Lord Admiralty Court. Another punitive act: I picked up the weapon; I hit; I missed, so to spare the carpets of the corpse, and the dance continued; 'til he returned to his sanctuary under the sofa, and I my chair and my movie in the disturbed night. Not a chirrup was uttered in the dance, but the loud noises when the paper hit the ground.

The grand ballet of movements, of the hits and the misses, and the jumps of the cricket, there and back again continued for two, three, and four times in the night. I wanted my peace. He wanted his right to walk freely upon the floor. We both couldn't possibly talk it out. We clashed. He escaped, back to where I couldn't hit him into the ground. So the struggle went. Until I had enough, the last of the mercy drained, the great disgust, the grand hate, the bigotry between species grew, and I was intent on making an example of the arrogant insect of the price of peace and order of mind. Carpets be damned. I was on the first step to murder.

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I have no clue how did I came up with this...confusion, and how incredibly pointless it must be. ~;) Oh well. The art of writing is learned, not borne, and I am but an apprentice of a novice.

I am glad you picked up writing again, Antiochus. I agree with Banquo's comments, and I am curious where this story will lead to.

Nooo, don't stop writing in such cliffhanger-ish spottts, I want to know what happens after he kills the poor couch cricket! Is he satisfied with himself, does he feel remorse? Does guilt make him pity himself for his actions? Does he do it again because he enjoyed it?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Lucjan

Nooo, don't stop writing in such cliffhanger-ish spottts, I want to know what happens after he kills the poor couch cricket! Is he satisfied with himself, does he feel remorse? Does guilt make him pity himself for his actions? Does he do it again because he enjoyed it?

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I'm not stopping yet. :sweatdrop: It's just that there's been a bit of chaos lately; I believe once I managed to get my hands on a new computer I'll be able to write more regularly, and hopefully better as well. Right now, you see, the place where I write (namely, in front of my computer) is not exactly ideal for such a distracted, irritable person, while the new computer will be in my own room, quiet and personal. An altogether far more suitable place.

Besides, I'll have to write up something for the contest, too. Not that I'll win anyway, though.