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The Toy Maker

Here's my first attempt at flash fiction. I hope you guys enjoy.

The Toy Maker

It’s been three weeks since the toy maker disappeared. I ask around town. No one seems to remember the name. When I flash his photo to irritated passersby, all I get in return are blank, confused stares. His apartment has been cleaned out. In his place stands an old woman in a creaky rocking chair.

“Excuse me ma’m, but do you know the toy maker? He used to live here.” I ask the gentle old woman over the noise of a cheesy old soap opera booming from the living room.

“Is this some kind of joke?” She furrows her brow. “I’ve always lived here.”

I persist.

“I’ve always lived here," she says.

Marionettes hang from the ceiling. I take the hat off my head and press it to my chest.

"I just have a few questions." I reach into my trench coat pocket and reveal a badge.

"Come in," the woman smiles, "make yourself comfortable, detective. I'll go fix us some tea."

I take a seat on a plastic-covered chair. Porcelain dolls occupy shelves. The marionettes looked like hanged men from the ceiling. Buttons, strings, and cloth lay on a small work table. Masterfully crafted wooden clocks click from the crowded walls.

The old woman shuffles from the kitchen and hands me a small cup of tea. Mint brushes against my tongue when I sip.

"What seems to be the matter?" She says.

"A man has gone missing. He used to live here."

"I've always lived here."

"I'm confused, ma'm," my voice deepens, "because I visited him here last week."

"You look tired, deerie," the woman smiles, "would you like coffee instead?"

My patience wears thin. "Did he move?"

"Who?" She asks.

"The toy maker," I growl. "The toy maker."

"I've always lived here," she repeats. "Let me go make us some tea."

I rise from my seat. "I should be going m'am."

"You can't go," she says.

"Thank you for your time. Goodbye."

I walk to the door. Two steps, five steps, ten steps, one hundred steps, one thousand steps. I still have not reached the door. One hundred thousand steps. I am in the same place. Two hundred thousand steps. I collapse from exhaustion.

I wake on the shelf. I cannot move. I cannot speak. My eyes are my sole weapon. I look around. My hands and feet are small, wooden. A wrinkled hand grabs me from the shelf by my strings and attaches me to the ceiling. I see hundreds of marionettes.

The doorbell disrupts her daytime soap opera. A young man with a comb-over stands at the door.

"Ma'm, I'm with the police department, and I have-"

She smiles. "Come in, dear."

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

The Great Rain Dance

 This is a story very special to me. I wrote this in one night, with the help of a few energy drinks and Explosions In The Sky blasting in my ears. It's a reflection of a few things that were on my mind at the time. I hope you enjoy.

The Great Rain Dance

By Ryan Gonzalez

This is where we were born, but it feels like a foreign world. Noah doesn’t seem to mind as much. Wrapped in a green blanket covered with dinosaurs and curled into a little ball in the backseat, he’s spent most of the trip sleeping his troubles away. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious of him. The point of this trip was to get away from it all: to escape the house, escape the yelling, and most of all, the tears. I thought that taking the annual family trip down to Earth with just the two of us would be good for Noah. It could give us a chance to talk, provide us with some much needed bonding time. So far, there hasn’t been much talking or bonding between brothers. I know it’s because we’ve both been feeling the same way. It’s not the same without the four of us.

I’ve always viewed Earth as a mysterious place. When I was in the third grade, right around Noah’s age, my family fled Earth, climbing to the stars instead. Every year since the move, we would take a trip back down and revisit our small summer home in Colorado. It was much more beautiful than the floating metal husk we called a “colony”. We didn’t have trees, real sunlight, fresh air, snow or seasons. When I would explore in the woods, swim in the lake, or sit by the warm campfire in the chilled nighttime air, I felt renewed. Then, we would pack up our things and go back home, to a place where everything was metal and cold. The colonists said they lived a good life, away from the troubles that Earth brought, but I never fully believed them. I would always count the days until we went back. As the years passed, less and less people populated the polluted cities and barren countryside of Earth, doing everything in their power to flee what economists called a “sinking ship”. Now, only tourists flock to the lonely planet, providing them with a “vintage” and “cultural” experience. That’s how the travel brochures defined them, anyway. The tacky, eye-roll-inducing tourists never stopped us. We visited our little home no matter the circumstance, not only for the refreshing beauty of the landscape, but because we truly loved the time our family spent together. My mother was so thoroughly entranced by it that she insisted her next child be born on its surface. A few months later, Noah was born in a small hospital on the outskirts of what had been Denver. After that year, the trips had taken a turn for the worst.

My mother became too infatuated with the planet; she was never really quite the same. A deep depression had swept over her whenever we returned to the colony. She resented my father for keeping us “trapped” in space, an “artificial man in love with an artificial life.” With each passing year, the yelling and fighting grew in intensity and viciousness. Whenever we returned to our summer home, Noah and I would play in the woods or countryside until sundown, fearful of our return to the little house, now a cramped space that forced the worst out of everyone. Our enthusiasm to return to Earth diminished each disastrous trip after another. This year, the divorce was to be finalized and the trip was the last thing on anyone’s mind…except for mine. I saw how Noah would look longingly from his window, down into the black abyss where the blue planet sat. I couldn’t ignore it either. I gathered all the money in my savings and took Noah. This trip was for us.

The first half of my money went towards getting us a shuttle to Earth, then one to the coast of California. We’d have to drive the rest of the way. I managed to scrounge enough cash to rent an antique car, a rusty 1967 Ford Mustang on its last leg of life. Despite the worn tires, squeaky breaks, and a trunk that didn’t like to stay shut, it runs fairly well. The tourists eat this kind of stuff up. It’s a tribute to how people got around in the “old days”.

This year is the first time I’ve driven by myself on Earth, a journey that becomes more difficult with each passing year. The roads are unkempt and craggy, especially the ones through the country. They cause the car to rock back and forth and the suspension to groan in agony. Grass slowly infiltrates the roads further and further, determined to blend asphalt into earth. Old telephone poles line the sides of the road, made of flimsy rotting wood. They sink into the ground at different angles, some at different heights than others. The wires stringing them together are tangled and gnawed through, most likely by ravenous crows or hungry squirrels. Various weeds and plants coil at the base of the poles, reclaiming the rotting structures. Despite their withered state, they stand tall amongst the empty countryside, massive aged monoliths that cast refreshing shadows amongst the brutal summertime heat. I find a subtle charm in them; it’s been years since I last saw one.

It’s a shame Noah is missing this; he always liked to point at the birds sitting atop the telephone poles and gaze at the azure sky, trying to associate the puffy white clouds with various objects and animals. Noah was always curious about anything and everything concerning Earth. He brought a slew of books with him from his school’s library, ranging in topics from prehistoric dinosaurs—they’re his favorite—to the Great Collapse of the 21^st century. Under his arm rests a history book, titled “Native American Culture”. The book rests awkwardly between his chin and his elbow, digging into the side of his cheek and his ribcage. I reach into the backseat and try to wiggle the book free from his grasp, but he cracks his eyelids open and responds with a yawn. 

            “Where are we?” He rises from the backseat, still cloaked in his dinosaur blanket.

            “Almost there, bud. About forty miles away.”

            He rubbed his eyes and stared out the window, hair pointed to one side. “I was sleeping for that long?”

            “Yeah, you knocked out,” I said while reaching for the passenger seat and grabbing a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil, “you forgot your lunch from the rest stop. Eat up while you can, we won’t see another restaurant until we get into town.”

            Noah fixed his vision on the passing landscape, unbothered by the sandwich I was clumsily forcing to his hand. “I’m not really hungry.”

            “You said the same thing during breakfast.”

            “I wasn’t hungry during breakfast.”

            I could feel my temper rising. “Just eat the damn sandwich.”

            “I’ll eat it when I’m hungry.” He pressed his forehead against the window, hiding his face between the glass and his shoulder. The car fell silent for a while, until a series of sniffles projected from the back seat. Through the cracked rear view mirror, I could see Noah’s exposed cheek turn a bright red.

We remained silent the rest of the trip. Noah buried his head in his Native American book, and I cranked the radio up, listening to a station popular in the colony. The prairie slowly transitioned into a forested area as we got closer to our house, the air ripe with the smell of pine. From here, the directions to our house were simple. Take a right on a road called Sycamore, then a left on a dirt path that could hardly be classified as a road. This leads to a hill in the middle of a large clearing where our house sits. However, the drive isn’t quite what I remember. There are far less trees this time. The vibrant emerald, blue, and pearl hues of the mountains was gone. Noah seemed to notice the change, too. He pressed his nose against the window, a look of confusion washing over his eyes. Then, a small flicker of hope ignited within me. In the distance, we saw our little house, unchanged, standing tall atop the hill.

Noah and I wasted no time running to the front door and letting ourselves in. Everything was exactly as we had left it; our warm, comfortable furniture, various electronic devices, our old bunk beds, pictures of the family accumulating dust. While I was overcome by nostalgia, Noah stood by the massive pair of sliding glass doors on the back wall of the living room and stared into the wilderness beyond.

            “What happened?” He points.

            “What do you mean?” I glance out of the window. The clearing is dead.

The once mighty pine trees that populated the clearing withered, their branches now barren of life. Brown pine needles litter the ground, blending in with the other dead plants. Even the small pond beside the hill was no more; dried into a muddy pit. The various streams running through the clearing also evaporated, reduced to mere trenches of pebble.

            I try to search for the right words, but they don’t come.

            “Maybe we should leave. It’s not the same anymore.” Noah said, avoiding eye contact.

            “Let’s give it a chance. We came all the way out here, right? We should make the most out of it.”

            Noah grabbed his suitcase. “I’m going to go unpack.”

            “Ok, I’ll start setting up then.” I smiled. He responded with a faint smile of his own and headed to our room with the bunk beds.

Hours passed as I ran through the usual things we did when we first arrived at the house. Turn the electricity and water on—check. Give the house a quick cleaning—check. Check the mailbox on the bottom of the hill—check. It contained a single item, an advisory pamphlet concerning the longest drought in the history of the country, issued by the Earth Tourism Committee. By the time I finished the tasks and unpacked, it was already sundown. Noah still hadn’t come out of his room.

I tip toe over to his room, gently nudge the door open, and poke an eye through the crack. He’s sprawled against the bottom bunk, asleep, suitcase still full of clothes. On one side of him was his Native American book, and on the other side was an old picture of the four of us. Although closed, his eyelids were red and puffy.

My heart sank. I know my efforts are meaningless. No matter what I do, or what I say, I can’t change anything. The divorce will still go through. Noah will still cry. I’ll still have anger and resentment linger within me. But I also realize, I have to be strong for him. I know my role is crucial. I have to let him know he’ll never be alone in this world, in space, in the universe. Words aren’t enough anymore. In the colony, with so many artificial people and things, words have lost their power. I have to show him. I grab the Native American book from his bed and spend all night reading it. One chapter in particular catches my eye.

When I wake in the morning, I immediately get to work. I pick various twigs from the dead pine trees and string them together in a circular pattern first, then attach them standing in rows along the circle. All the pots and pans from the kitchen are now outside and I have a few strung through my belt loops. I gather all the pinecones I can find into a pile. They’re what I’d like to call my “centerpiece”. I manage to find a few feathers on the ground, mostly from crows, blue jays, and cardinals. Once I attach them to the makeshift headpiece I made out of twigs, I’m ready to start my dance. It’s a scorching summer’s day, but I’m going to make it rain.

I start in the early afternoon. Basing my movements on the contents of the book, I dance in a circular pattern around the pinecones, reverberating my voice through the bottom of my throat. I beat the pots and pans strung across my waist with wooden spoons from the kitchen and clang them together while making swaying motions mid-dance. I must look like a damn lunatic. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.

In the corner of my eye, I see Noah staring at me through the sliding glass windows. A big smile is strewn across his face. I keep dancing, despite the fact that my stamina is quickly running out. I keep moving, only to trip on a pinecone and land flat on my face. Noah laughs hysterically at my blunder, now sitting on the back porch of the house watching my clumsy dance in fascination. I get back to my feet and give him a thumbs up. He greets me with a smile and a wave back. Still no clouds.

I dance and dance, in the same circular pattern, for what seems to be a little over an hour now. The afternoon heat is beating on my skin, but I persist. I find new ways of making noise, like dragging fallen branches against tree bark, rubbing the pinecones together, beating the pots and pans with metal spoons. Noah has disappeared from the porch. Has he gotten bored? Dismissed me as a crazy person? Is he reading another book?

I hear the sliding glass door open and close, and my doubts are instantly erased. He stands proudly on the porch, in a costume of his own. Cardboard tubes circle his arms, feathers from his pillow haphazardly glued on. Blue chalk from the pool table upstairs runs in streaks across his face, proving to be intimidating war paint. In his right hand he holds empty toilet paper rolls taped together and at the ends, filled with rice to create a rain stick. His dinosaur blanket is tied to neck, creating a mighty cape. I signal to him to come over. Noah runs behind me and mocks my dancing, adding his own twists here and there. The sky turned grey.

We danced and twirled around the pine cones, banging on the pots and pans and shaking the toilet paper rain stick towards the sky. Occasionally, I would add in my variation of the robot and Noah would “shake his booty”. I would pick him up and swirl him through the air while he makes superhero “whoosh” noises and shakes his rain stick towards the clouds. It was then that I felt a drop of rain plop against my cheek. “We’re almost there!” I let out an excited yell. Our dancing has now reached a fever pitch. We dance frantically, causing the clouds above to shift and spew lightning across the sky. The wind picks up and we dance even harder, our legs numb from exhaustion. Without warning, the rain comes down in sheets. We raise our fists in triumph, screaming to the sky with roars of victory. We high-fived and hugged, and I lift him on my shoulders, propelling him higher towards the sky. He raises his soggy rain stick with a laugh, and in that moment, we had conquered nature. It was us and the Earth, how it used to be.

When I woke the next morning, and packed all our stuff and loaded it into the car, I saw Noah standing by himself in the middle of the muddy clearing.

            “What are you looking at?” I called to him from across the hill, slamming the Mustang’s trunk multiple times until it finally closed.

            “Come here!” 

I rushed over to him, scanning the plot of earth he was examining.

A small sapling managed to break free from the mounds of dead pine leaves scattered across the ground, a green speck amongst a sea of brown.

            “Looks like all it needed was a little bit of water.”

            “Do you think it’ll be ok when we leave?”

            “It’ll be fine. We gave it a good start.”

            “Grow big and strong, ok?” Noah patted the ground and followed me to the car, back to the stars.

Little did we know that in the years to come, even though we were worlds apart, we would watch the sapling grow. It would be the tree our children would play on, and our children’s children.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

Introducing The Good, The Bad, and The "Meh"

Well guys, it was inevitable. You know those blogs you see everywhere, where people review random crap and you're supposed to care? Well, I just made one of those. Except mine is way better than the "average" review blog.

What? Don't judge me.

The truth is, I've been mulling around the idea of creating a review blog for some time now. At first, I was thinking of integrating it into this one. Then, my brain objected. This is a place for stories, and I want to keep it that way. Instead, I created a separate blog, called *drumroll*...

The Good, The Bad, and The "Meh"

The name says it all: I'll rate Graphic Novels, Books, and Video Games based on a scale that goes from Good, to Bad, to "Meh". If you're curious or just plain bored, give it a read and tell me what you think. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Also, a word of warning: This blog will concentrate heavily on the Graphic Novel side of things.

Bonus! Speaking of graphic novels, here's an essay I did back in the day about the legitimacy of the genre:

The Graphic Novel and the Canon

            We are lucky. Unbeknownst to many, we live in a very special time: a time where a new, innovative, and explosive new form of art is emerging. This form of art is known as the graphic novel. This medium is akin to a comic book, relying on visual aid in accordance with text to weave a meaningful story. By definition, it is “an extended comic book that treats nonfictional as well as fictional plots and themes with the depth and subtlety that [has come to be] expect[ed] of traditional novels and extended nonfictional text” (Tabachnick 2). Over the past decade, graphic novels have gained a great prominence within our society. In fact, the graphic novel is everywhere—from bookstores, to theatres, and even the classroom. Despite its explosive popularity however, not everyone regards the graphic novel as a serious literary form. As a result of being associated with the comic book, the medium is surrounded in misconception and prejudice. Graphic novels offer a relieving departure from the stereotypical superhero story and provide the reader with a deep, meaningful story rather than a formulaic comic book story. Based on this statement, the medium of the graphic novel is qualified to enter the literary canon, presenting itself as a valid form of serious literature. As Francisca Goldsmith states in her article, Graphic Novels in Literature, “Graphic novels that succeed as literature escape the norm and invite critical discussion, analysis, and, often, comparison with text-only books featuring similar situations, climactic crises, or aesthetics” (Goldsmith 986). The graphic novel, V for Vendetta, agrees with various aspects of the cannon, including age/endurance, influence, and originality. V for Vendetta is a compelling story about loss of freedom and identity in a broken, hopeless power-thirsty world, concentrating on the life of a radical, self-proclaimed anarchist who is determined to bring a totalitarian England to it’s knees and ultimately, restore freedom through chaos. Powerful, frightening, and smartly written, Alan Moore, the author of the book, forces his readers to contemplate prominent social issues and the very core of human nature itself. It would be a crime not to include such a masterful piece of work in the literary canon.

            To be included in the literary canon, one of the prerequisites a work must meet is the test of time. Works included in the canon, offered by authors such as Shakespeare and Austen, are considered to be “timeless”. Because the graphic novel is still a relatively new form of literature, one may omit it due to this fact. On the contrary, while V for Vendetta is still considered “recent” (although originally published in 1989), it presents weighty social issues and themes such as fate and justice that are resistant to time. For example, the terrorist known simply as “V”, both the protagonist and antagonist of the story, reveals his views on justice and anarchy in a humorous exchange with the statue that sits on top of the parliament building in London. He treats the statue as a lover, and orchestrates a scene reminiscent of a play between the two, acting out a lover’s quarrel. “Her name is anarchy. And she has taught me more as a mistress then you ever did! She has taught me that justice is meaningless without freedom. She is honest. She makes no promises and breaks none” (Moore 41). V views the statue as the very manifestation of justice, and proceeds to “break up” with her by blowing the statue up, renouncing the justice he once “loved” and moving on to a new “mistress” representative of anarchy. “The flames of freedom. How lovely. How just. Ahh, my precious anarchy. O beauty, ‘til now I never knew thee” (Moore 41). Justice is a concept that is timeless. If a reader were to read this book several years from now, they would be able to relate to this idea of justice. V for Vendetta also includes issues pertaining to racism and prejudice, yet another concept that won’t wither with time. V writes his own satirical song about the white supremacist totalitarian government in control of Britain, who, when the party first came in power after a fictional nuclear war, proceeded to place minorities, homosexuals, and liberals into concentration camps. “The bulging eyes of puppets, strangled by their strings! There’s thrills and chills and girls galore, there’s sing-songs and surprises! There’s something here for everyone, reserve your seat today! There’s mischief and malarkies...but no queers…or yids…or darkies…within this bastard’s carnival. This vicious cabaret!” (Moore 92-93). Many literary works in the canon deal with race issues, and V for Vendetta is no different than these. The themes presented in the work explore the foolishness of human nature and darkness present in the human mind. “I heard of an experiment once…they had volunteers working a shock generator. The volunteers were told that it was wired to a patient in an adjoining room…they were told to gradually increase the voltage. The victim began begging them to stop…they were ordinary people, and they were prepared to torture a stranger to death just because they were told to by someone in authority.” Issues such as this involve basic human nature and authority. In this way, V for Vendetta qualifies for the canon because it can survive the test of time by providing readers with themes and subjects that can endure against the test of time. In the words of V from the motion picture, “beneath this mask there is more than flesh. Beneath this mask, there is an idea…and ideas are bulletproof”.

            For a text to be included in the canon, it must be influential. Several works within the graphic novel medium have met this criteria—such as Watchmen, Sandman, and Maus—and V for Vendetta is no exception. Since it’s initial release in 1989, it’s remained a staple in the graphic novel medium. In 2006, it was made into a major motion picture, resulting in an explosion of popularity. The porcelain mask that V wears, the Guy Fawkes mask, has become an iconic symbol in our society. The mask has become synonymous with anarchy and has been worn by protestors the world over. The internet group called Anonymous has adopted the mask as their trademark symbol, wearing it in their often “radical” protests against the church of Scientology. In reaction to a scandal involving parliamentary expenses in the United Kingdom, a group of protestors dawned the Guy Fawkes mask and lit a barrel of fake gunpowder in front of parliament, emulating the events of Guy Fawkes in British history and the events within the graphic novel. Stephen Tabachnick states in his book, Teaching the Graphic Novel, that, “graphic novels are powerful weapons of change because they encourage [people] to revise their racial or cultural assumptions simultaneously and also sequentially” (97). The graphic novel forces us to think and adapt to new views placed on society—much like the existing works within the canon. It’s “an art form that has room…’for truth, for a naked perception of the world, for a kind of honesty that people can rally around’” (Cart 1301).

            The literary canon requires an entry to be original. This is an easy criteria for the graphic novel to meet, as most of the works in the genre defy and challenge the norm. V for Vendetta does this by skewing common literary plots in an original manner. V himself is not a normal protagonist. While he’s a freedom fighter concerned with freeing his people, he is not the common hero we’ve come to expect. The character of V is dark and, on many occasions, shows signs of schizophrenia. Throughout the novel, V tracks down and assassinates the former government employees who worked at the concentration camp he was trapped in. However, he doesn’t just simply kill them; instead, he passively forces them to repent via mental torture. He first targets a former, tyrannical officer who has a fascination for his “prized” doll collection. V proceeds to kidnap him and throw him in a jail cell that mimics the old concentration camp, filling the rooms and ovens with his doll collection. “It’s odd, isn’t it? How you can show so much concern for porcelain and plastic…and show so little for flesh and blood” (Moore 33). Following this tradition, he forces a corrupt priest to swallow a poisoned communion wafer later in the novel. V has a particular taste for irony and metaphors, showing his victims what wrongs they’ve done. Instead of mindlessly killing his victims, he does it in an original way that showcases the ironies present in our society. Again, it makes the reader think about the concept of human nature and the brutality that often accompanies it. Another instance where the graphic novel invokes originality is a sequence where V hijacks a television station and tells the people of England to band together and fight the fascist government. However, instead of being blunt about the subject matter, the novel takes an original approach to his speech by setting up a kind of “scenario”. V addresses the English public like a boss talking to an employee who is about to be laid off. He says, “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here this evening. Well, you see, I’m not entirely satisfied with your performance lately…to be frank, we’ve had our problems too…it’s your basic unwillingness to get on with the company. You don’t seem to want to face up to any real responsibility, or to be your own boss…I understand that you are unable to get on with your spouse. I hear that you argue. I am told that you shout. Violence has been mentioned…though, to be sure, the management is very bad…you have no spine. You have no pride. You are no longer an asset to the company. You’re fired” (Moore 113-118). The novel uses personification to get its point across in an original and sarcastic manner. It doesn’t rush into complex issues headfirst—instead, it carefully and artistically maneuvers around them, striking a careful balance between seriousness and humor. By tackling these issues and themes in an original way, works like V for Vendetta deserve a place in the literary canon.

            The graphic novel is more than just a series of illustrated panels surrounded by a flurry of thought and speech bubbles. Graphic novels help define modern society by presenting social issues to us on a platter, forcing us to think in ways we may have not thought possible. “Many agree that comics [and graphic novels] create modern myths that help define a society” (Tabachnick 256). Like the classic works present in the literary canon that helped define their era, graphic novels chronicle our current times and social situations. Tabachnick includes a quote by Plutarch in Teaching the Graphic Novel that states, “even though artists with color and design, and writers with words and phrases, represent the same subjects, they differ in the material and the manner of their imitation; and yet the underlying end and of both is one and the same; the most effective historian is he who, by a vivid representation of emotions and characters, makes his narration like a painting” (254). Graphic novels can be considered historical documents, utilizing both art and literature to enchant their audiences. It’s an evolution of previous literary works in the canon, and this is why the genre should be included. V for Vendetta, for example, easily meets the three requirements of the canon: age/endurance, influence, and originality. We live in an age where a new form of art is emerging. We are lucky.

Works Cited

Cart, Michael. "A Graphic-Novel Explosion." Booklist 101.14 (2005): 1301. Academic      Search Complete. EBSCO. Web. 19 Nov. 2010.

Goldsmith, Francisca. "Graphic Novels as Literature." Booklist 99.11 (2003): 986.             Academic Search Complete. EBSCO. Web. 19 Nov. 2010.

Moore, Alan, David Lloyd, Steve Whitaker, and Siobhan Dodds. V for Vendetta. New       York: DC Comics, 1989. Print.

Tabachnick, Stephen Ely. Teaching the Graphic Novel. New York: Modern Language        Association of America, 2009. Print.

V for Vendetta. Dir. James McTeigue. Perf. Hugo Weaving, Natalie Portman, and   Rupert Graves. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2006. DVD.

Now that I've bored you all to tears, be sure to visit The Good, The Bad, and The "Meh" and keep sending those stories!

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

Reader Story: Where I Am From by Colleen King

Well folks, the time is finally upon us. It's time for the first Reader Story post! 


This week's featured Reader is Colleen King, a talented, phenomental writer and someone I know very well. I would usually use this space to describe the piece, but I don't want to give too much away. Read it and simply allow yourself to be swept along Colleen's journey.


Where I Am From
by Colleen King

I am from poor immigrants who ate like kings
Sprouted from window-sill mint and tarragon.
I am from front stoops, back yard kick-ball and
Races between trees.

I am from the music I heard as a child
Formed from welcoming aromas and confusing drama.
I am from imaginative escape and 
Vivid dreams.

I am from early independence
Launched to a life built out of trial and error.
I am from a journey of time and 
Magical moments.

I am from a forest of thin air
Whispering with pine and spruce.
I am from a cold place that warms me and
Embraces my spirit.

I am from those who decided to live 
Struggling to understand.
I am from unanswered questions and
Blind love.


Remember, keep sending me those stories at ryozg@yahoo.com!

Life Stuff #1

After a week of constant tweaking, editing, confusion, and most of all, writing, Obsessive Chronicle Disorder is now officially ready and primed to be awesome.

Aside from getting everything in working order on here, I've also been working on fresh, original content just for OCD. This means nothing written in the past; whether a class assignment or something just for the hell of it. This stuff is all new. And, it's really good writing exercise to boot.

Not-so-pro writing tip: For some reason, this song has helped me tremendously as I pound away at my keyboard. It's moody, hypnotic, and just an overall badass reiteration of "Wayfaring Stranger".

"Wayfaring Stranger" by Pretty Lights

Also worth mentioning, after months of procrastination and outlining, writing for OCD has given me the kick in the pants I needed to finally start a novel 5 years in the making (insert audience groan here). Every time I've tried to start, the first chapter has never been "good enough".

Come to find out, as a writer, nothing will ever be "good enough" on the first draft.

This is something I've learned the hard way. I'm forcing my way through the project this time, and I'm liking it more and more each day. If you're having trouble writing, just stick with it until the end, then dissect, tweak, and add as necessary. But make sure to finish it.

I'm actually pretty stoked about the new project, and occasionally, I'll give you guys some updates on how it's going. For now, I'll insert a tentative jumping off point:

Novel Progress

Project OS. 0%. 0 Words.

But, back to the blog. OCD has been in existence for a week now and things are looking good. I've gotten some really cool feedback from some of you and have already received some of your stories.
I'm really excited about the future of Obsessive Chronicle Disorder, and can't wait to read more of your stories. Keep sending 'em!

In unrelated news, this little guy has been keeping me extremely busy:

On Wings of Wax (Excerpt)

The fall of Icarus

 On Wings of Wax was a class assignment I wrote last semester for a fiction workshop. I wanted to work with the myth of Icarus in some way, so what better way than a futuristic ballerina cursed with a cybernetic leg? I ended up going with the idea, and the end product was something I really enjoyed creating. This is a short excerpt of the beginning of On Wings of Wax. Let me know if you'd like to read more.

Dahlia let the smoke escape her lips, past the zigzag scar that lined them. The relentless winter winds and the stream of smoke twirling against her face took the edge off. She perched along the balcony, allowing her leg to dangle freely in the frigid night current. It didn’t feel cold. It didn’t feel anything.

The metal leg was foreign to her and she hated the very sight of the thing. It was large and clunky, composed of alloy plates and multicolored wires strewn together to emulate muscle fibers. She let it hang there in the open air, hoping it would dislodge from her body and plummet all twenty stories to the street below. She knew that was impossible. The leg was part of her now, attached to her nerves, whether she liked it or not.

She took a long drag of her cigarette and flicked it as far as she could. The wind cradled it for a moment, then sent it airborne, out of sight. Dahlia stared at the dancing ember and smiled sadly. Her eyes grew heavy. She wanted to fly again.

            Her memory was hazy of the night it happened but she remembered the pain clearly. It was unbearable. Her vision blurred as row after row of fluorescent lights flashed above her. There was a ringing in her ears, but she could still hear the doctors and nurses screaming over her. Her mouth was coated with blood, and she could taste every last drop of it. She tried to speak, but nothing would come. Her mind kept repeating the same phrase, over and over again.

            I can’t feel my legs.

            She regained consciousness after three days in the hospital. She could hardly move. The doctor tried to explain everything over the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Her leg was far too mangled to save. They had to make a decision: doom her to a life confined to a wheelchair, or give her mobility by attaching a cybernetic limb, the latest in cybernetic neural synchronization technology. Dahlia cried when she first saw it, when she first ran her fingers against the cold hard surface of the alloy. It was unnatural, intrusive, hideous, and it would be with her for the rest of her life. The nurses explained that it was attached directly to her nerves. She couldn’t remove it, unless she wanted to irreversibly damage her body. She was trapped, confined in a mechanical prison. She could walk, but the price was too steep for her liking. She knew she would never dance in a ballet again. No one was interested in a crippled ballerina.

            The sky was beautiful. Clouds whisked across the bright blue canvas, accented by the golden glow of the sun above. Dahlia glided amongst them, white wings spread wide. They protruded from her back and spanned double her arm length. She tilted her body up and soared higher, even with the clouds. She looked towards the city below; the obnoxiously bright neon skyscrapers looked like small toy buildings from the heavens. Thick smog hung over it, shrouding her view of the noisy streets and the ant-like legions of people. She no longer had to worry about the world below. Here, she was free. The sun felt good against her skin, against her beautiful wings. She smiled and climbed higher, extending her arm towards the orb of light.

A massive gust of wind sent her hurdling upward. She tried to dive back down, but the wind was relentless. She was no longer in control. The sun beat down on her the closer she got. She had trouble breathing. The wind carried her higher and higher against her will. The heat quickly became unbearable. Dahlia’s skin began to burn, and her wings caught fire. They melted off her back and returned to the sky, liquid. She screamed and writhed in pain, until finally, the wind subsided. She hung there for a moment, gazing at the sun, stunned and betrayed.

The light was blinding. She could hear the honking of horns, metal crash against metal, and ear-splitting screams. Her eyes grew wide with fear as she began to plummet down to earth. She could do nothing but scream as gravity clung to her, a cruel force bent on her destruction. She collapsed through the smog of the city, and into the arms of an army of voracious shadow creatures, claws outstretched, fangs extended, ready to devour their prey. A pair of metal wings quickly sprouted from her back and curled around her, protecting her from the grasp of the creatures. They clawed viciously at her, but failed to penetrate the metal shell encasing her. Then, she heard her voice.

            “Fight…”

            Dahlia woke.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

Why Are You Here, Again?

Why Are You Here, Again?

 If I wrote a manual pertaining to my job, it would go something like this: Hold the shirt up by the shoulders. With a combination of your index and middle fingers, fold the creases on the sides of the shirt back, making sure the sleeves don’t poke out. Lay the shirt forward and fold the crease along the base. Finally, connect the shoulders of the shirt with the base. Congratulations! You just folded a shirt according to retail standards, a shirt worthy of being placed amongst merchandise ready and prime for sale. Now, repeat a few hundred more times. Maybe more, depending on how well behaved the customers are. You may feel a sudden ping of anger at the customer beside you, that savage turning your perfectly folded display into a messy, unorganized mountain of sadness. Maybe one of their kids decides to kick a soccer ball into the nice stack of jeans you just folded and sized. But don’t worry; your shift will be over soon. Why are you here, again?

            Nine minutes until close, and a customer asks me for help.

            “Could you get the shirt off of that mannequin for me?”

            I fumble with the plastic woman for several minutes, dislodging her arms, head, and torso until the shirt wiggles free.

            The customer looks at the shirt and raises her brow. “Oh, this is a medium? I wanted a large.” She hands me the shirt and walks away. Closing time was seven minutes ago.

            I begin locking the doors and cleaning the front counters when I overhear a conversation between the cashier and the customer who has overstayed her welcome. The customer thoroughly cusses her out due to the lack of large green shirts the store has in stock. Because she is obligated to, the cashier gives her name to the customer. The customer leaves with a final “bullshit!” and slams the door behind her. I’m quick to lock it. The next day, the cashier gets reported.

            Why are you here, again? I ask myself.

I redress the mannequin I disrobed the night before. I lock both her arms in place and slip an undershirt and a casual button-up shirt onto her torso. I take her head and lock it into place on top of the torso. She looks me in the eye with a plastic smile (she smiles even while decapitated) as do the rest of the mannequins beside her. There are mannequins of every color and every gender and every age.  There’s even a dog. They all sport the hottest trends of the season, adorned with featured items and jeans on sale for 25% off. We call the female mannequins Jenny and the male ones Mike. During training, my manager told me that the mannequins—and all sales goals and strategies—cater towards the “average” customer (aka. The Mikes and Jennies of the world).

            My manager might as well have just said, “Make Jenny feel welcome. Cater to Mike’s needs. They’re busy and have children. They have no time to shop. Get them in and out of the store with as much merchandise as quickly as possible. This is your job. They’re too busy with their own.”

            No one pays the mannequins any attention. Customers are far too busy for such things, except for the occasional toddler who gets curious and pets the dog or a customer who only wants the shirt off their backs. Jenny and Mike are merely means to an end—assembled, stripped, sales made. Why am I here, again?

Do what you love, is a phrase often heard. It seems that the human race had this concept figured out way before it became truly relevant in the modern era. Confucius even knew this. To do work that one hated was to go against the universe; that is, wasting energy on a fruitless endeavor was considered shameful. Inversely, to do what one loves is keeping balance within the flow of the cosmos, projecting positive, creative energy towards the heavens. Such a way of life was rewarding and spiritually beneficial. This is what I’d like to believe, if it weren’t for this lady yelling in my face. The credit card terminal is broken. I tell her I’ll print a receipt out for her to sign. However, I notice an error; I accidentally charged her for two things. I tell her I’ll fix it right away, but this does little to calm the berserk soccer mom. I hand her the pen, and she signs the corrected receipt.

            “At least something works here.” She grabs the bag from my hand and storms out of the door.

            I abandon my duties on the spot, grab the dog mannequin, and chase after the woman. She doesn’t notice. Now’s my chance to strike. I smash her on the back of the head with the smiling plastic collie and loose a victory roar for all to hear in the parking lot. This is how it went in my head, anyway. I call for the next person in line. I scan their items, and the rapid beeps of each item being scanned slowly sends me back into my own mind. I was talking about Confucius or something, right? Why am I here again?

Why am I here, again? I would like to think that there’s another way. Some way out of this cycle. Get a job, graduate high school, get an internship, graduate college, get a “real” job, support yourself, get married, have kids, support your family, be trapped. I’m not so sure. While I fold shirt after shirt after shirt, I sometimes catch myself daydreaming of quitting my job. Go out. Live on a whim. Go wherever fate takes me. Hell, maybe backpack through Europe or climb a mountain or some other kind of self-discovery cliché. But I’m scared. Will I be able to find another job? What if I’m not successful? Fear blocks us from everything we could ever possibly want in the world—but I don’t think I can conquer it. I don’t think anyone fully can. Doubt and fear will always be present, but why? What are we (what am I) so afraid of? What is the driving force that prevents people from quitting their jobs and living? Money. Safety. Security. Comfort. I stand in the middle of the threshold between the door and the mannequins. Sunlight leaks through the glass doors. Jenny and Mike stand on the other side of me, accumulating dust. The exit is there.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

Obligatory First Post

Like most of you out there, I woke up this morning and thought to myself, “why not start a blog?”

Yeah, just a few years late. The truth of the matter is, until recently, I haven’t had the time to start and tend to a blog (that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it). Now that I recently graduated from college, I’ve found that time once taken up by studying and stumbling around the bars is now plentiful.

I guess now would be a good time for random background information. I graduated with a degree in English (roll out the red carpet, bust open the champagne, and get my mansion ready) and a certificate in Tech Writing. English has, and probably always will, be my “thing”. Also, I'm from Texas.

The allure of English for me isn’t the formation of words or a fascination of grammatical accuracy.

It’s an outlet for me to tell stories.

 (Insert Wayne’s World flashback transition)

As far back as I can remember, I’ve been telling stories. Admittedly, pretty awful stories. But hey, I was seven. My stories consisted mainly of a superhero named RBL Man, who reflected my drawing skills at the time. He was a small circular character with big round eyes, a cape, and a bitchin’ pair of sneakers. He took down villains ten times his size and always saved the day.

One day, I realized that drawing little scenes on paper wasn’t enough. This began a tradition of tyrannical improv-plays that my friends and cousins took part of, and that I directed with an iron-fist. Poor kids. My characters had to be perfect, my scenes had to be perfect, everything had to be perfect. We usually killed time this way, and I would always devise new stories to tell.

Fast forward ten years. Growing up, I always had story ideas in my head. But I didn’t like reading. Writing seemed tedious. Comics were out of the question, since my skill level in drawing didn’t advance past RBL Man. But the ideas kept coming, swelling in my head. One day I sat down and did the impossible. I wrote. And I liked it.

(Insert transition back to the present)

Q: Okay, that’s great, but what’s the purpose of this blog?

A: Slow your roll, reader. Ahem. And so, this blog was created.

My goal is to share some of my stories, while hearing some of yours in the process. Here, I’ll chronicle some of my exploits (usually involving booze-filled exploits, travels, hobo-attacks, and other kinds of shenanigans I get into), and post works of both fiction and non-fiction. This includes short stories, excerpts, and flash fiction. 

Yup, it’s one of those.

However,

I don’t want to simply show my stories off. I want to get to know your stories, as well.

I’ll post stories frequently, but also want to hear from you guys, my readers. Feel free to send me your stories; I’ll post some of my favorites on here and give you full credit, as well as any additional details you'd like me to give.

You can send me pretty much anything. Snippets about your day, something that’s happened to you, poetry, short stories, flash fiction, illustrations, and more are all cool in my book.

I want this blog to become something more than a single outlet for stories. I want it to become a community where storytellers connect in any form they want.

I think that’s enough rambling for right now. Stories and other junk coming soon, keep an eye out.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan