He stood, looking forward.
The room was still.
The room then shifted into the restaurant. He had on his black apron, covering his waist and pelvis in pens, notepads, smudges of various dips and dressings, and paper straw wrappers. "Slow Ride" was playing over the dining floor, and no families sat in the maroon chairs. It was empty. Jill glided by, showing off her new tye-dye hoodie and cyst, laughing like an 80 year old man who had smoked all of his life, and bitching about the new servers. She looked at him demeaningly, then smirked. "Here's your money," she rasped, placing a five twenties in his hand. "Hope it was worth it." She glided away.
He looked at the money. He felt humiliated and self-conscious. It wasn't worth it.
The restaurant shifted. The room returned.
"What did you see?" I asked him.
"It's starting to become not worth it anymore. You should quit," he answered.
I would take it into consideration.
-Brock-
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Gravity - Entry #1
And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine.
My father, my sister, and I were fans of the song "Winchester Cathedral" by Crosby, Stills, & Nash. I vividly remember laying in the family room on the pull-out bed in the couch next to my sister and my father, listening to the song with no lights on while watching the fire in the fireplace and the shadows it cast on the ceiling. A line in the song is sung very quickly, and goes, "And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine." My father and I had the inside joke of singing the lyric to each other as fast as we could during unexpected moments. We would spring the lyric onto each other and then laugh at the fact the other didn't see it coming. It was a strange contest, yes, but I felt like my father and I had something no else did.
I think I was in third grade when my dad was Santa Claus at my school. Santa Claus would go around to each classroom giving out candy canes and bellowing laughter. I remember most everyone in my grade found out there wasn't a Santa Claus around second grade, me included. The thought of Santa Claus visiting us children in our third grade classroom seemed cheap and irrelevant. And as Santa Claus walked into Mr. Hapke's classroom, dread filled my being when I immediately recognized my father underneath the white beard and red hat. My only thought was, "Don't embarrass me." My father walked through the aisles of our desks, handing us candy and asking what we want for Christmas. Some kids, mostly the girls, just giggled and played along. Most of the boys, including me, thought it stupid and it showed in our faces. When my father got to my desk, he placed a candy cane on top of my open textbook, leaned down close to my face, pulled down his beard, and softly said, "And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine," as fast as he could.
The other children stared for a moment. My face flushed to a bright red. He continued across the room to the door wishing us all a merry Christmas before moving on to the next classroom. All the other kids kept asking what Santa Claus said to me and how I knew him, but I didn't bother explaining the joke. I just said, "It doesn't matter. It was stupid." Mostly, I was pissed he had gotten me so good.
On Christmas morning, my father had left a note in my stocking that read, "And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine," in tiny lettering and very close to each other, for the effect of the quickness of the message. In retaliation, I made him a Christmas card that had the words scribbled on the inside. He saw it coming before I even handed him the construction paper card.
I was so mad that he had gotten me twice and really well. After that Christmas, I never really tried to out-do him anymore. The game died after that.
When my father and I lived in South Carolina, we would listen to every cd in our collection because of all the driving. One night on the road, I put in a cd with "Winchester Cathedral" by Crosby, Stills, & Nash on it. He was surprised I remembered the song and liked it so much. When I recounted the memory of our game, he didn't remember it.
-Brock-
My father, my sister, and I were fans of the song "Winchester Cathedral" by Crosby, Stills, & Nash. I vividly remember laying in the family room on the pull-out bed in the couch next to my sister and my father, listening to the song with no lights on while watching the fire in the fireplace and the shadows it cast on the ceiling. A line in the song is sung very quickly, and goes, "And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine." My father and I had the inside joke of singing the lyric to each other as fast as we could during unexpected moments. We would spring the lyric onto each other and then laugh at the fact the other didn't see it coming. It was a strange contest, yes, but I felt like my father and I had something no else did.
I think I was in third grade when my dad was Santa Claus at my school. Santa Claus would go around to each classroom giving out candy canes and bellowing laughter. I remember most everyone in my grade found out there wasn't a Santa Claus around second grade, me included. The thought of Santa Claus visiting us children in our third grade classroom seemed cheap and irrelevant. And as Santa Claus walked into Mr. Hapke's classroom, dread filled my being when I immediately recognized my father underneath the white beard and red hat. My only thought was, "Don't embarrass me." My father walked through the aisles of our desks, handing us candy and asking what we want for Christmas. Some kids, mostly the girls, just giggled and played along. Most of the boys, including me, thought it stupid and it showed in our faces. When my father got to my desk, he placed a candy cane on top of my open textbook, leaned down close to my face, pulled down his beard, and softly said, "And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine," as fast as he could.
The other children stared for a moment. My face flushed to a bright red. He continued across the room to the door wishing us all a merry Christmas before moving on to the next classroom. All the other kids kept asking what Santa Claus said to me and how I knew him, but I didn't bother explaining the joke. I just said, "It doesn't matter. It was stupid." Mostly, I was pissed he had gotten me so good.
On Christmas morning, my father had left a note in my stocking that read, "And the day he died it was a birthday, and I noticed it was mine," in tiny lettering and very close to each other, for the effect of the quickness of the message. In retaliation, I made him a Christmas card that had the words scribbled on the inside. He saw it coming before I even handed him the construction paper card.
I was so mad that he had gotten me twice and really well. After that Christmas, I never really tried to out-do him anymore. The game died after that.
When my father and I lived in South Carolina, we would listen to every cd in our collection because of all the driving. One night on the road, I put in a cd with "Winchester Cathedral" by Crosby, Stills, & Nash on it. He was surprised I remembered the song and liked it so much. When I recounted the memory of our game, he didn't remember it.
-Brock-
Monday, March 24, 2008
they speak to me
I sat, staring at the keyboard that lay before me, staring at a blank Word document with the blinking indicator, ticking away moments I could spend filling the screen with words, then faces, then places, etc.
Thomas
I noticed the small boy, around 9 or 10 years of age, sitting in an upright fetal position in the corner adjacent to the computer screen. His clothes were a size too big and worn, draped over his thin and pale frame, and his hair were separated into large tufts and obviously had not been washed for quite some time. I stared at him for a moment, then he raised his head and looked at me with his sad eyes. His expression was almost cold, but mostly blank. I could sense the power inside him. It scared me.
"Are you ever gonna write about us?" he asked, his expression remaining blank.
"Where are your Guardians?" I asked him in return.
"They'll be here. I wanted to talk to you first. Don't you think it's important?"
"What's important?"
"Our story?"
"Yes, it is very important. And I will write it....someday..." I told him
"You always say that."
I took a quick glance back at my blank computer screen. When I looked back to the corner, the boy was gone.
Derek
I looked back at the computer screen. In the reflection, I could see the outline of three individuals standing over my shoulder, placed parallel to the lines of my head.
On my right sat a young man, probably my age, who resembled me a great deal. He had thin blue wire glasses and soft brown hair covering his head and chin. His clothes were plain and earth-toned, and also looked worn and battered.
Thrill
To my left sat a beautiful black girl, around 19 or 20, with a hardened expression and her short, dreaded hair placed neatly around her face. Her dress, colored in purple and black leather, was short enough to show her toned, seemingly powerful legs.
Saint
Above my head stood a man, between 25 and 30, with short blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He oozed confidence and leadership, and his handsome face appeared reassuring. His wardrobe was the darkest black fabric available, with a hint of silver thrown into his long jacket and belt.
"I know why you're here. Thomas already told me," I replied calmly. Thrill did not look amused, but Derek and Saint gave small smirks.
"Then you shouldn't be nervous. But you have to do it soon, writing our story," Saint stated.
"We work our asses off, risking our lives and crap, and you can't write down one little fight scene?" Thrill said. I blushed at her words.
"And quit using excuses," Derek picked up, "I don't care about you working two jobs and going to school and all that other useless excuses. Just write it, and it'll all work out."
"I know," I said, almost whispering.
"They have to know why we are his Guardians. They have to know what we've been through, about the ones who came before us, about everything. You have to tell it," Saint said.
And then they were gone. I stared at the blank computer screen. The story would begin shortly.
-Brock-
Thomas
I noticed the small boy, around 9 or 10 years of age, sitting in an upright fetal position in the corner adjacent to the computer screen. His clothes were a size too big and worn, draped over his thin and pale frame, and his hair were separated into large tufts and obviously had not been washed for quite some time. I stared at him for a moment, then he raised his head and looked at me with his sad eyes. His expression was almost cold, but mostly blank. I could sense the power inside him. It scared me.
"Are you ever gonna write about us?" he asked, his expression remaining blank.
"Where are your Guardians?" I asked him in return.
"They'll be here. I wanted to talk to you first. Don't you think it's important?"
"What's important?"
"Our story?"
"Yes, it is very important. And I will write it....someday..." I told him
"You always say that."
I took a quick glance back at my blank computer screen. When I looked back to the corner, the boy was gone.
Derek
I looked back at the computer screen. In the reflection, I could see the outline of three individuals standing over my shoulder, placed parallel to the lines of my head.
On my right sat a young man, probably my age, who resembled me a great deal. He had thin blue wire glasses and soft brown hair covering his head and chin. His clothes were plain and earth-toned, and also looked worn and battered.
Thrill
To my left sat a beautiful black girl, around 19 or 20, with a hardened expression and her short, dreaded hair placed neatly around her face. Her dress, colored in purple and black leather, was short enough to show her toned, seemingly powerful legs.
Saint
Above my head stood a man, between 25 and 30, with short blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He oozed confidence and leadership, and his handsome face appeared reassuring. His wardrobe was the darkest black fabric available, with a hint of silver thrown into his long jacket and belt.
"I know why you're here. Thomas already told me," I replied calmly. Thrill did not look amused, but Derek and Saint gave small smirks.
"Then you shouldn't be nervous. But you have to do it soon, writing our story," Saint stated.
"We work our asses off, risking our lives and crap, and you can't write down one little fight scene?" Thrill said. I blushed at her words.
"And quit using excuses," Derek picked up, "I don't care about you working two jobs and going to school and all that other useless excuses. Just write it, and it'll all work out."
"I know," I said, almost whispering.
"They have to know why we are his Guardians. They have to know what we've been through, about the ones who came before us, about everything. You have to tell it," Saint said.
And then they were gone. I stared at the blank computer screen. The story would begin shortly.
-Brock-
Friday, March 21, 2008
hiding behind other people's sung words
"It's like I'm pressed on the handle bars
Of a blind man's bike
No straws to grab, just the rushing wind
On the rolling mind"
Spilt Needles - The Shins
It's strange how emotionally sensitive I truly am. And that I'm a lot like my father. A lot more than I want to be.
Yes, my health hasn't been great. And I'm stretched a little thin. Two jobs, school, trying to maintain a shred of a once-thriving social life, figuring out what I am really going to do and how I'm going to do it.
It's been four years since I graduated high school. I'm only now completing my first successful semester of college. Well, I shouldn't speak so soon, I have a month left. The only real accomplishment I've done in the last four years has been moving 600 miles away and experiencing a new state, really leaving my comfort zone.
"Like the naked leads the blind
I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind
Sucker love I always find
Someone to bruise and leave behind"
Every Me Every You - Placebo
I am not a weak person. In fact, I'm quite the bitch. But I can be a helpless person. Many times stubborn and arrogant, many times irritable and foul, and many times ungrateful and selfish. You can't help me with those things.
But I digress. I'm a very emotional person, as aggravating as I find that. Today I felt extremely exhausted and stressed. Not to mention I had a cyst removed from my left shoulder blade today and the stitches hurt like a bitch.
So when my mother called me and said my 1 year old nephew was in the hospital and they think he might have a hole in his heart, I freaked.
"I was just a boy like every other
I thought I was something fierce
I thought I was ten times smarter
Love would be something that I just know
How you gonna know the feeling till you've lost it?
I've been losing plenty since"
Always Be - Jimmy Eat World
One thing I really thought about for most of the night was, "I really could use someone in my life right now." Then I thought how pathetic that must sound, that I should be able to do this on my own. But the truth is, I don't fucking want to. I want to be in love. And I have no idea if I'm even capable of it.
I am not a martyr. This is the fucking shit hole of life and everything that goes with it. The truth is, I was sheltered. I was what some may say "lucky" for not experiencing true worry and loss. My life has been this gleeful romp of fortunate situations and it has forever damned me to these uncontrollable outbursts when everything goes wrong.
"That's when it turned on me
A motorcade of 'meant to be's'
Parades of beauty queens
Where soft entwines make kindling
These many detailed things
Like broken nails and plastic rings
Will win by keeping me
From speaking to my new darling
And there's no way to know
Our future foe scenarios
That's when it turned on me
Where bobby pins hold angel wings
It's alright"
Future Foe Scenarios - Silversun Pickups
I must adjust. Before I lose anything else.
-Brock-
Of a blind man's bike
No straws to grab, just the rushing wind
On the rolling mind"
Spilt Needles - The Shins
It's strange how emotionally sensitive I truly am. And that I'm a lot like my father. A lot more than I want to be.
Yes, my health hasn't been great. And I'm stretched a little thin. Two jobs, school, trying to maintain a shred of a once-thriving social life, figuring out what I am really going to do and how I'm going to do it.
It's been four years since I graduated high school. I'm only now completing my first successful semester of college. Well, I shouldn't speak so soon, I have a month left. The only real accomplishment I've done in the last four years has been moving 600 miles away and experiencing a new state, really leaving my comfort zone.
"Like the naked leads the blind
I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind
Sucker love I always find
Someone to bruise and leave behind"
Every Me Every You - Placebo
I am not a weak person. In fact, I'm quite the bitch. But I can be a helpless person. Many times stubborn and arrogant, many times irritable and foul, and many times ungrateful and selfish. You can't help me with those things.
But I digress. I'm a very emotional person, as aggravating as I find that. Today I felt extremely exhausted and stressed. Not to mention I had a cyst removed from my left shoulder blade today and the stitches hurt like a bitch.
So when my mother called me and said my 1 year old nephew was in the hospital and they think he might have a hole in his heart, I freaked.
"I was just a boy like every other
I thought I was something fierce
I thought I was ten times smarter
Love would be something that I just know
How you gonna know the feeling till you've lost it?
I've been losing plenty since"
Always Be - Jimmy Eat World
One thing I really thought about for most of the night was, "I really could use someone in my life right now." Then I thought how pathetic that must sound, that I should be able to do this on my own. But the truth is, I don't fucking want to. I want to be in love. And I have no idea if I'm even capable of it.
I am not a martyr. This is the fucking shit hole of life and everything that goes with it. The truth is, I was sheltered. I was what some may say "lucky" for not experiencing true worry and loss. My life has been this gleeful romp of fortunate situations and it has forever damned me to these uncontrollable outbursts when everything goes wrong.
"That's when it turned on me
A motorcade of 'meant to be's'
Parades of beauty queens
Where soft entwines make kindling
These many detailed things
Like broken nails and plastic rings
Will win by keeping me
From speaking to my new darling
And there's no way to know
Our future foe scenarios
That's when it turned on me
Where bobby pins hold angel wings
It's alright"
Future Foe Scenarios - Silversun Pickups
I must adjust. Before I lose anything else.
-Brock-
Thursday, March 20, 2008
I don't mean anything I say.
And just as things were looking up...
I don't know where this sudden fascination with my own misery came from, but it seems as if something is getting a kick out of it. I mean, first you throw me no boyfriend at all, then you throw me a group of misfit drama queens for friends. My family, which is now split into individual sectors, each one more and more pathetic, looks at me like the retard who should be applauded for putting on his shoes. My health has deterorated from "healthy as a horse" to "why is there blood in my stool? why does my right nut hurt? why is the lump on my back growing larger? why does my heart skip beats when I'm trying to fall asleep?" What happened? What have I done? Am I a martyr, or someone blinded by their own flaws? Is this something to overcome, or to bring about my downfall? What is the plan here?
I mean, really...
...what is the fucking plan here?
-Brock-
I don't know where this sudden fascination with my own misery came from, but it seems as if something is getting a kick out of it. I mean, first you throw me no boyfriend at all, then you throw me a group of misfit drama queens for friends. My family, which is now split into individual sectors, each one more and more pathetic, looks at me like the retard who should be applauded for putting on his shoes. My health has deterorated from "healthy as a horse" to "why is there blood in my stool? why does my right nut hurt? why is the lump on my back growing larger? why does my heart skip beats when I'm trying to fall asleep?" What happened? What have I done? Am I a martyr, or someone blinded by their own flaws? Is this something to overcome, or to bring about my downfall? What is the plan here?
I mean, really...
...what is the fucking plan here?
-Brock-
Monday, March 17, 2008
I've arrived?
Saint's collection of sins and knowledge starts here, on this, the most Irish of all days.
I'm not sure what every blog will contain, but I hope to develop some semblance of a theme. Perhaps it will be entirely fiction, perhaps not. I haven't decided.
A brief history of I, the Saint, the last of the Grahams:
At the beginning of time, I served as Destruction of the Endless, one of seven siblings who are higher than all gods. I have now since renounced the title, and if you're interested in the whole story, ask Neil Gaiman.
I was born into this mortal form on September 10, 1985. My mother and father decided that I would be the last of their planned two children, leaving me and my older sister to bear the cross our parents have placed on our shoulders: we must be successful or God will never notice us.
I am the last of my family's name, passed down from Irish immigrants through our Catholic blood. I am the only remaining Graham capable of passing on the name.
When I was 15 I came out of the closet as a homosexual. No one has taken me seriously since.
After some time fighting the forces of evil as a superhero (upon discovering I was a mutant), I graduated from Leo High School in 2004. It was a horrible expierence. My parents divorced when I was 18, leaving me more confused over the concept of love than I was to begin with.
After employment at a nursing home, a craft store, a furniture factory, and finally, a bar/restaraunt and a comic book store, I, the Saint, have decided to continue my aspirations of college, and ultimately a writing career, preferably in the comic book industry. No word on whether I will most likely sabotage my own dreams, but stay tuned.
The only two towns known for containing the richness of me have been Fort Wayne, Indiana and Greenville, South Carolina. Both reject me, but I refuse to let them be.
There is no romantic situations in my current life, and none have really been relevant for the past year and half of my single lifestyle. This will probably be a hot topic for these blogs.
My friends are my family. The Saint's alumn includes the crafty Aaron, the mischevious Chris, the adorable Josh, the stoic Todd, the lovely Robin, the magnetic Jessica, and the motherly Brooke. Although sometimes they can be an emotional burden (mostly through ridicule), I trust these people with my good name.
I, the Saint, the last of the Grahams, the mutant, the Endless Destruction, the alternative rock junkie, the constant eater, the comic book collector, the writer, the wannabe singer, the theatre geek, the mick, the red-headed step-child, the agnostic, the fag, the friend, the brother, the son, and the soul: I am so much and then more.
These blogs should turn out quite interesting.
-Brock-
I'm not sure what every blog will contain, but I hope to develop some semblance of a theme. Perhaps it will be entirely fiction, perhaps not. I haven't decided.
A brief history of I, the Saint, the last of the Grahams:
At the beginning of time, I served as Destruction of the Endless, one of seven siblings who are higher than all gods. I have now since renounced the title, and if you're interested in the whole story, ask Neil Gaiman.
I was born into this mortal form on September 10, 1985. My mother and father decided that I would be the last of their planned two children, leaving me and my older sister to bear the cross our parents have placed on our shoulders: we must be successful or God will never notice us.
I am the last of my family's name, passed down from Irish immigrants through our Catholic blood. I am the only remaining Graham capable of passing on the name.
When I was 15 I came out of the closet as a homosexual. No one has taken me seriously since.
After some time fighting the forces of evil as a superhero (upon discovering I was a mutant), I graduated from Leo High School in 2004. It was a horrible expierence. My parents divorced when I was 18, leaving me more confused over the concept of love than I was to begin with.
After employment at a nursing home, a craft store, a furniture factory, and finally, a bar/restaraunt and a comic book store, I, the Saint, have decided to continue my aspirations of college, and ultimately a writing career, preferably in the comic book industry. No word on whether I will most likely sabotage my own dreams, but stay tuned.
The only two towns known for containing the richness of me have been Fort Wayne, Indiana and Greenville, South Carolina. Both reject me, but I refuse to let them be.
There is no romantic situations in my current life, and none have really been relevant for the past year and half of my single lifestyle. This will probably be a hot topic for these blogs.
My friends are my family. The Saint's alumn includes the crafty Aaron, the mischevious Chris, the adorable Josh, the stoic Todd, the lovely Robin, the magnetic Jessica, and the motherly Brooke. Although sometimes they can be an emotional burden (mostly through ridicule), I trust these people with my good name.
I, the Saint, the last of the Grahams, the mutant, the Endless Destruction, the alternative rock junkie, the constant eater, the comic book collector, the writer, the wannabe singer, the theatre geek, the mick, the red-headed step-child, the agnostic, the fag, the friend, the brother, the son, and the soul: I am so much and then more.
These blogs should turn out quite interesting.
-Brock-
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