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02/01 Direct Link
Alex keeps interrupting me to borrow my laptop so he can check if something he ordered online has shipped yet.  He knows it won't get here any faster based on how often he clicks the order history; he needs to calm down about this.  Even if I did hand it over, I know as soon as I look the other way he'll be on 4chan or another website.  It isn't my fault your laptop isn't working, Alex.  I tell him I'm busy and to use the computer lab- now he's after his roommate's laptop.
02/02 Direct Link
Wednesday has always been the day for working.  Only working, as opposed to working for a few long hours to get the day's assignments finished and then listening to music until the sun sets outside and I have to switch on the lights.  There is a story behind Wednesday; there are several stories in all likelihood.  The word Wednesday originated as Woden's Day, an Old English word for a Germanic deity similar to the Norse god Odin.  That isn't why Wednesday is the day for working, however.  I don't remember the reason for that. 
02/03 Direct Link
The play is opening tonight; I'm not sure if I'm going to attend.  It's Thursday, and seeing the play over the weekend seems more time efficient, but it's free on opening night.  I'm supposed to sketch out costumes for the cast, and if I see the play beforehand I might be biased in my own designs.  A friend (I still need an alias for him) thinks I should get it over with tonight.  A play isn't something you 'get over with,' though.  A play is something you enjoy, something that you take into yourself forever.
02/04 Direct Link
I often play Dungeons and Dragons games on the weekends.  In some ways, I feel as though the game has a number of elements in common with writing.  While each player maintains only one character of a given storyline, these characters must be as well-rounded as those of written fiction if the game is to be exciting.  Player characters in Dungeons and Dragons have strengths and weaknesses, powers and flaws, just as they would in a fantasy novel of the same plot; the plots themselves having at times the same complexity as such works. 
02/05 Direct Link
I enjoy writing prose, I always have, but I'm never sure how to start.  I have ideas, generally leaning towards fantasy and magical realism, but there is so much going on in my life that I rarely have the chance to just sit down and write.  For now, I will continue making use of what opportunities I have and keeping track of my goals, however distant.  I'm treating this website as a diary, and I really shouldn't.  This is an opportunity I have to improve my fiction, and I need take advantage of it.
02/06 Direct Link
The house is always busy these days, everyone with their own chores wandering about, but it's enough to keep the place functioning.  Angelo thinks of it as a family, though none are related by blood.  We are Stephen's teammates, and Matthew's council.  The name Matthew doesn't suit the man, but there's still a discomfort with using birth names online.  Mostly, one could say that we're friends.  Even when music is blasting and Alex is driving everyone else up the walls, Angelo knows that the rest of the house support him in everything.   
02/07 Direct Link
It's a very 'college' thing to ponder the apocalypse, apparently, and Angelo found bemusement heading his way after dismissing the idea of a zombie apocalypse.

"Come on, what would you do if we were attacked?" questioned Stephen, but the freshman only shrugged.

"Probably get eaten by zombies.  I don't see the-"

"At least pretend to have a strategy.  What if, uh, a virus mutates and turns people?"

"That isn't how mutation works, there's no way that-"

"There's this virus in ants," Sidney butts in, looking up from his game controller.  "It makes ant-zombies."
02/08 Direct Link
Well, I have a week down but only a few entries which I could consider creative writing, and this opening doesn't help.  I suppose there's no going back.

A lot can be learned about someone from the way they study; not just the subject being studied but the environment.  Alex studies on the ground, surrounded by papers, splayed across the floor like so much disinterested roadkill.  Matthew works at his desk, standing up to 'improve blood flow.'  No music- an attempt to avoid procrastination.  Instead the desk gets reorganized weekly. 
02/09 Direct Link
Wednesday is the quietest day of the week.  It's almost solumn, filling out papers with purpose hanging over one's shoulder.  Matthew shifts his weight; cold winter air is rolling through the closed window above the desk.  A lone train whistle slits open the silence.  He rubs his eyes blearily, fighing to avoid the errors of exhaustion.There's nothing to see out the window, the sleeping monuments of campus consumed by night's teeth.  Golden parking-lot lights stare back at him, a dozen eyes in the blackness.  Shaking his head, Matthew gets back to work.
02/10 Direct Link
Not existing is more stressful than people think.  Stephen doesn't seem to care; I'm not sure if Matthew even notices.  I'm not sure who one would talk to about something like this- after all, the average person would assume that everyone who they talk to exists.  It isn't like I'm not existing on purpose.

I remember talking to Sara about this stuff, years ago.  She didn't mind that I'm not real.  Maybe more people wouldn't mind, if I told them.  Maybe they would- better not to find out.  Sorry I'm wasting an entry, Angelo.
02/11 Direct Link
The cube prefaces the promised puzzle
While angles wait in line
The hexagons are getting hasty
They're like that all the time

The disks are rather two-faced
And spheres just won't sit still
The test will be beginning
The pyramid is ill

Each polygon attempts its piece
The prisms hang about
A commontion in the circles
Makes all the rhombus shout

Hysterical hyperbolae
Are hopping through the aisles
The cynical icosagons
All wearing bemused smiles

The leader of the triangles
Who always thinks he's right
Waves his corners through the air
To try and stop the fight

But it's too late to calm the crowd
No one knows what to do
No shape will ever truely solve
The elsuive Rubix Cube

02/12 Direct Link

Antidisestablishmentarianism is considered the longest word in the English language; it's easier to spell than people think. It refers to the philosophy of not supporting the dissolution of the Anglican church, or something like that. I' see most of how that fits together, although etymology (not entomology) isn't my strong suit. The definition isn't important. The important thing is that it is a very long word. There are longer words, but these are usually chemical names so a lot of people feel they don't count. I don't know how to spell the longest chemical name- I'm not sure anyone does.

02/13 Direct Link
Valentine's Day is either a terrible idea for a holiday, a rather pointless one, or one of the greatest.  Where any individual stands on this issue depends greatly on one's marital status.  Angelo has been with his girlfriend for five years, six in August.  Sending flowers can be almost prohibitively expensive, he discovered.  As a college student, he tried not to feel bad ordering one of the least expensive bouquets, but even that was nearly ten dollars for each rose.

When she calls tomorrow morning, her voice distorted in exitement, it will have been worth thousands.
02/14 Direct Link
His pencil skitters across worn paper, underlining and marking notes.  The window is closed, shutting winter away to the extent that it can, but the voices of windy spirits chill him all the same.  That sound, which even at midday calls to the darkness of the unknown, always finds him.

The laptop is open, ready to sing at the touch of a finger, yet something won't allow him to drown out the ghosts.  The wind is nature's voice, and will not be surpassed by the voices of man.  He presses the laptop closed, listening to ghosts.
02/15 Direct Link
Angelo considered himself to be an ordinary boy, although he wasn't.  When there was no one in the house, he would take off his shirt and lounge about the house the way his brother always did.  His pants were always too narrow in the hips.  He wore a suit to his prom, because his mother wouldn't let him rent a tuxedo.  He wore heavy clothes, so she didn't notice he wasn't shaving.  He sat backwards on the toilet seat, because it was almost like standing up. 

Angelo considered himself to be an ordinary boy.
02/16 Direct Link
Wednesday again.  Matthew's day.  Alex wanted Thursday; the others have nothing.  I worry that they'll leave someday.  People have left the house before (too many people.  said to forget their names and I might).  Alex told me that he's leaving if someone else comes. Alex is used to changing hands anyway, he said.  It's too late tonight to be coherent, I'm sorry.  I know this is nonsense.  I don't mean to replace anyone. 

I cried near the end of Nim's Island.  Not for the reasons I was meant to.
02/17 Direct Link

The same one hundred words can take up a varying amount of space, depending on how they lie.


In poetry

each line

may be

quite

sparse.


On the other hand, poetry doesn't necessarily need short lines, or even lines at all. That's what prose poetry is. Even when Angelo tries to write stories, they often turn into prose poetry. This is because he isn't very good at depicting action. A description, however defined, isn't the same as plot.

    “Would dialogue help?” ponders Angelo.

No. And you shouldn't be talking to a narrative, Angelo. It doesn't make sense.

02/18 Direct Link
"You know Matt, if you were a chick I would totally go out with you."

"Are you drunk?"

"No, seriously.  It would be epic- like Romeo and Juliette."

"Don't say 'epic.'  And Romeo and Juliet didn't end well."

"Whatever.  I'm not dumb enough to poison myself, so-"

"I thought I was the woman?"

"What?  What's that supposed to mean?"

"Juliette is the one who faked her own death, not Romeo."

"Whatever- so you're saying you want to be Juliette?"

"I'm just pointing out that-"

"Why do you still remember the plot to Romeo and Juliet anyway?"
02/19 Direct Link
I turn nineteen on the nineteenth of February.  My golden birthday.  Also, my first birthday spent away from home.  I spent the day watching the sky and fielding relatives' phone calls.  I opened the presents that were sent in the mail- two books.  I read one.  Tonight, as my thin black cellphone ceases to ring, I lie back onto my bed and consider myself.  One day, even a day which coincides with the anniversary of one's birth, means nothing.  The calender is based on the orbit of the earth, not my own.
02/20 Direct Link

Alex sleeps curled up against the unwashed pillow shoved against the wall. His sleeping form clings to the blankets, fearing their nighttime escape.


Sidney doesn't sleep under blankets. He lies back, feeling the pressure of the bed- the earth beneath him. He doesn't snore, not except when he isn't really asleep and trying to trick you.


Matthew goes to sleep like the dead, arms loose by his sides beneath folded sheets. He read somewhere that people who sleep on their backs are more confidant. He tries not to mind that, however he goes to sleep, he wakes on his side.

02/21 Direct Link
Today I noticed                   that pressing          space                     repeatedly                                             will add               to your word count.
02/22 Direct Link
The flowers on the desk before the windowsill are dying now.  They appeared a week ago, but now their slit stems are failing.  A white petal, dried, lies silent on the worn wood as he stands there, watching out the darkening window.  The vase, formed from a crinkled water bottle he never recycled.  The sun, setting.  He doesn't close the curtains at night, to be woken by the dawn sun.  Do those living flowers sleep, or even wake?  Either way, his flowers are dying now.  If they do sleep, it is forever.
02/23 Direct Link
There are people for whom everything happens at once; for whom excitement is an ordinary occurance.  Angelo's life isn't like that when people see him.  The others have their own lives to reminesce upon, but he's bound to reality by his own presence.  He is the one to hold the tides of fantasy back.
    There are nights Angelo wants to give up being the head of the house.  He would hand control over to someone, maybe Stephen, and never take it back.  There are nights he isn't sure if anyone would notice.
02/24 Direct Link

I think, once artificial lighting was developed, people paid less attention to sunsets. The sun once painted the rolling earth below in watercolor, the green trees bathed in her flowing orange. The snow shone like fire, and we watched. Today in our houses, our neighbourhoods, we sit by the tortured whiteness, the light of our captive suns.

    The sun sets outside our windows like she always has, but people don't notice her. The subtle golden shine of twilight is overwhelmed. You go inside, away from the sun, in the afternoon and don't notice when she leaves you.

02/25 Direct Link

I pull my ball cap further down my forehead as Hay-zeus comes in. No, I don't care how it's really spelled. He shrugs off his coat with a nonchalant motion, hanging it on a chair and glancing at my jacket on the floor, but I'm not gonna take the hint. I'm the one letting him stay, not the other way around. He's sitting on the couch, doesn't even have his feet on the table or nothing. Looks at me sometimes like he wants to make me like him- the guy who folds his clothes and brushes for two minutes.

02/26 Direct Link

Jessica bites her lip, fumbling with the small plastic device Mister Blake gave her before abandoning her to the city. A slip of paper with a series of numbers has been taped to its back, and she repeats them into the telephone, which beeps softly. She holds it up to her ear.

    “Mister Blake?”

The device continues beeping unnaturally, blaring into her. Jessica runs her free hand along her scalp. She's father away from home than when she tested the telephone, it might take a while for the call to move through the-

    “Jesse?”

02/27 Direct Link

    Before the young woman can step forward, giving chase to the Sun, a calloused hand slips onto her shoulder.

    “Seems to me he'd rather be left alone,” the man slurs, spinning her to face him. She... isn't sure how to react.

    The Sun's 'accomplice' is a scrawny man in his late twenties, wearing a dirty rust colored jacket and dark sunglasses. He is scarcely taller than the woman herself, and far from athletic enough to be a threat. If not for the escape of the Sun himself, she would have laughed. 

02/28 Direct Link
This is it.  The last day of my first month here (albeit a short month).  I suppose I'll keep at it.  While my passages tend towards the meaningless, it can't hurt to keep writing as a part of my daily life.  It feels like an achivement- 2800 words.  That wouldn't even make up a novel's chapter, but it's a start.  I wonder if it will upload as soon as I send this, or not until midnight, or not at all (I may have been late on occasion).  Only one way to find out...