Slip, slide, walk away
Turn away into the night
You’re not wanted anymore
No longer must you try to fight.
You did well, that is sure
Though it wasn’t meant to be.
You can’t cure a blind man
If he doesn’t want to see.
So dive beneath the churning waves
Let depth hide you again.
Hide in dark rejection
Among legions of other men.
Ignore the line cast down to you
It leads nowhere but Hell.
Swim instead toward the light
That reveals a crack in a shell.
Climb up onto a sunlit shore,
Just one more effort to give.
Reward waits for you and all
Who only wish to live.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Okay, so I kinda missed this past week...and remember that story about the student and teacher discussing God?
But I got busy. Lots of personal issues that I was dealing with. Because I'm feeling kind of lazy and have a headache tonight, I'll post something I wrote a while ago. It's a total bastardization of the infamous semi meme where a student in a philosophy class totally trounces his professor in an improbably set up debate...
An atheist professor of philosophy speaks to his class on the problem science has with God, the Almighty. He asks one of his new students to stand and…
Professor: So, you believe in God?
Student: Absolutely, sir.
Professor: Is God good?
Student: Sure.
Professor: Is God all-powerful?
Student: Yes.
Professor: My brother died of cancer even though he prayed to God to heal him. Most of us would attempt to help others who are ill. But God didn’t. How is this God good, then?
(Student is silent.)
Professor: You can’t answer, can you? Let’s start again, young fellow. Is God good?
Student: Yes.
Professor: Where does Satan come from?
Student: From…God…
Professor: That’s right. Tell me, son, is there evil in this world?
Student: Yes.
Professor: Evil is everywhere, isn’t it? And God did make everything, correct?
Student: Yes.
Professor: So who created evil?
(Student does not answer.)
Professor: Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred? Ugliness? All these things exist in the world, don’t they?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: So who created them?
(Student has no answer.)
Professor: Science says that you have five senses you use to identify the world and observe the world around you. Tell me, son…Have you ever seen God?
Student: No, sir.
Professor. Tell us if you’ve ever heard your God?
Student: No, sir.
Professor: Have you ever felt your God, tasted your God, smelt your God? Have you ever had any sensory perception of God, for that matter?
Student: No, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t.
Professor: According to empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol, science says your GOD doesn’t exist. What do you say to that, son?
Student: Nothing. I only have my faith.
Professor: Yes, faith. And that is the problem that science has.
Student: Professor, is there such a thing as heat?
Professor: Yes.
Student: And is there such a thing as cold?
Professor: Yes.
Student: No, sir, there isn’t.
(The lecture theatre becomes very quiet with this turn of events.)
Student: Sir, you can have lots of heat, even more heat, superheat, mega heat, white heat, a little heat or no heat. But we don’t have anything called cold. We can hit 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can’t go any further after that. There is no such thing as cold. Cold is only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold. Heat is energy. Cold is not the opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it.
(There is pin drop silence in the lecture theatre.)
Student: What about darkness, Professor? Is there such a thing as darkness?
Professor: Yes. What is night if there isn’t darkness?
Student: You’re wrong again, sir. Darkness is the absence of light. You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing light…but if you have no light constantly, you have nothing and it’s called darkness, isn’t it? In reality, darkness isn’t. If it were, you would not be able to make darkness darker, wouldn’t you?
Professor: So what is the point you are making, young man?
Student: Sir, my point is that your philosophical premise is flawed.
Professor: Flawed? Can you explain how?
Student: Sir, you are working on the premise of duality. You argue that there is life and then there is death, a good God and a bad God. You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can measure. Sir, science can’t even explain a thought. It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully understood, either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death is not the opposite of life; just the absence of it. Now tell me, Professor: Do you teach your students that they evolved from monkeys?
Professor: If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, yes, of course I do.
Student: Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?
(The professor shakes his head with a smile, beginning to realize where the argument is going.)
Student: Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot even prove that this process is an ongoing endeavor, are you not teaching your opinion, sir? Are you not a scientist, but a preacher?
(The class is in an uproar.)
Student: Is there anyone in the class who has ever seen the Professor’s brain?
(The class breaks out into laughter.)
Student: Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor’s brain, felt it, touched or smelt it? No one appears to have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable, demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain, sir. With all due respect, how do we then trust your lectures, sir?
(The room is silent. The professor stares at his student, his face unfathomable.)
Professor: I guess you’ll have to take them on faith, son.
Student: That is it, sir. The link between man and God is faith. That is all that keeps things moving and alive.
(The professor is silent for a moment. Then…)
Professor: Now that I’ve let you win and make all the points you’ve read off of the internet….
(He reaches into his desk and pulls out several sheets of paper. He drops them onto the student’s desk.)
Professor: Go ahead and have a look. Tell me, what do you see?
Student: It looks…like a brain, sir.
Professor: That’s right. Those are MRIs of my brain. Son, for thousands of years humans have been cutting each other open and seeing what’s inside. Every human who’s been cut open has had a brain. Therefore, the evidence that others of my species have brains, coupled with the evidence of this MRI, a technology that has been proven to be rather reliable on many occasions, work together to provide a sound basis for the assumption that a brain occupies my cranium. Would you like to dispute this?
Student: (quietly) No, sir.
(Professor reaches in his desk and brings out news clippings.)
Professor: Here I have a newspaper article describing an Indian girl who was born with four arms and four legs. Would I be correct in asserting that humans normally don’t have eight limbs?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: Would I also be correct in asserting that, if they functioned properly, these limbs could give this girl an advantage in survival over another girl in certain situations?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: Furthermore, would that increased chance of survival give her a greater chance of having offspring, if other potential mates for a male who have only four limbs are all killed off?
Student: I suppose so, sir.
Professor: Here we have evidence of evolution at work, son. I have another article here that describes a geneticist’s work in REVERSING evolution, who has successfully used a gene to make a chicken embryo grow a reptilian tail. Now, here is another article which describes a startling discovery that scientists have made: they have observed apes using SPEARS to HUNT PREY. Sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: Now, son, I know that there’s no such thing as cold, darkness, or death. I took devil’s advocate because I’ve seen this same conversation before, and I wanted to see if you had anything original to offer. You don’t. Tell me, son, can you define evil as simply the absence of good, or God, as it were?
Student: That’s how I think of it, sir.
Professor: You claim that God is all powerful. In fact, a common religious statement is that God is everywhere, is that correct?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: How, son, can God be everywhere if evil is the absence of God? Therefore, our definition of evil must be modified. Darkness is the absence of light, but evil is NOT the absence of good. There is a neutral ground between good and evil.
(Professor waves arm through air.)
Professor: Waving my arm did not have any tangible effect on you, me, or anyone in this room. Would you call my action good? Would you call it evil? It is neither; it is a neutral action. However, if I were to hit you, it would be painful. It would hurt you. It would be done without provocation, therefore it could be defined as immoral, or EVIL. If I were to hit you after you pulled a gun on me, it would stop you from shooting and killing me. Therefore, it could be defined as moral, or GOOD. Good and evil CAN be measured and defined.
(Student is silent.)
Professor: Nice try, son. I applaud you for trying to defend your beliefs, really, I do. However, you cannot call your beliefs reasonable or logical…unless you have anything else to offer the class today?
(Student shakes his head.)
Professor: Very well. I suggest that you concentrate more on checking your premises and less on attempting to make your professors look like fools for the remainder of the semester. Class dismissed.
An atheist professor of philosophy speaks to his class on the problem science has with God, the Almighty. He asks one of his new students to stand and…
Professor: So, you believe in God?
Student: Absolutely, sir.
Professor: Is God good?
Student: Sure.
Professor: Is God all-powerful?
Student: Yes.
Professor: My brother died of cancer even though he prayed to God to heal him. Most of us would attempt to help others who are ill. But God didn’t. How is this God good, then?
(Student is silent.)
Professor: You can’t answer, can you? Let’s start again, young fellow. Is God good?
Student: Yes.
Professor: Where does Satan come from?
Student: From…God…
Professor: That’s right. Tell me, son, is there evil in this world?
Student: Yes.
Professor: Evil is everywhere, isn’t it? And God did make everything, correct?
Student: Yes.
Professor: So who created evil?
(Student does not answer.)
Professor: Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred? Ugliness? All these things exist in the world, don’t they?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: So who created them?
(Student has no answer.)
Professor: Science says that you have five senses you use to identify the world and observe the world around you. Tell me, son…Have you ever seen God?
Student: No, sir.
Professor. Tell us if you’ve ever heard your God?
Student: No, sir.
Professor: Have you ever felt your God, tasted your God, smelt your God? Have you ever had any sensory perception of God, for that matter?
Student: No, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t.
Professor: According to empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol, science says your GOD doesn’t exist. What do you say to that, son?
Student: Nothing. I only have my faith.
Professor: Yes, faith. And that is the problem that science has.
Student: Professor, is there such a thing as heat?
Professor: Yes.
Student: And is there such a thing as cold?
Professor: Yes.
Student: No, sir, there isn’t.
(The lecture theatre becomes very quiet with this turn of events.)
Student: Sir, you can have lots of heat, even more heat, superheat, mega heat, white heat, a little heat or no heat. But we don’t have anything called cold. We can hit 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can’t go any further after that. There is no such thing as cold. Cold is only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold. Heat is energy. Cold is not the opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it.
(There is pin drop silence in the lecture theatre.)
Student: What about darkness, Professor? Is there such a thing as darkness?
Professor: Yes. What is night if there isn’t darkness?
Student: You’re wrong again, sir. Darkness is the absence of light. You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing light…but if you have no light constantly, you have nothing and it’s called darkness, isn’t it? In reality, darkness isn’t. If it were, you would not be able to make darkness darker, wouldn’t you?
Professor: So what is the point you are making, young man?
Student: Sir, my point is that your philosophical premise is flawed.
Professor: Flawed? Can you explain how?
Student: Sir, you are working on the premise of duality. You argue that there is life and then there is death, a good God and a bad God. You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can measure. Sir, science can’t even explain a thought. It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully understood, either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death is not the opposite of life; just the absence of it. Now tell me, Professor: Do you teach your students that they evolved from monkeys?
Professor: If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, yes, of course I do.
Student: Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?
(The professor shakes his head with a smile, beginning to realize where the argument is going.)
Student: Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot even prove that this process is an ongoing endeavor, are you not teaching your opinion, sir? Are you not a scientist, but a preacher?
(The class is in an uproar.)
Student: Is there anyone in the class who has ever seen the Professor’s brain?
(The class breaks out into laughter.)
Student: Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor’s brain, felt it, touched or smelt it? No one appears to have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable, demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain, sir. With all due respect, how do we then trust your lectures, sir?
(The room is silent. The professor stares at his student, his face unfathomable.)
Professor: I guess you’ll have to take them on faith, son.
Student: That is it, sir. The link between man and God is faith. That is all that keeps things moving and alive.
(The professor is silent for a moment. Then…)
Professor: Now that I’ve let you win and make all the points you’ve read off of the internet….
(He reaches into his desk and pulls out several sheets of paper. He drops them onto the student’s desk.)
Professor: Go ahead and have a look. Tell me, what do you see?
Student: It looks…like a brain, sir.
Professor: That’s right. Those are MRIs of my brain. Son, for thousands of years humans have been cutting each other open and seeing what’s inside. Every human who’s been cut open has had a brain. Therefore, the evidence that others of my species have brains, coupled with the evidence of this MRI, a technology that has been proven to be rather reliable on many occasions, work together to provide a sound basis for the assumption that a brain occupies my cranium. Would you like to dispute this?
Student: (quietly) No, sir.
(Professor reaches in his desk and brings out news clippings.)
Professor: Here I have a newspaper article describing an Indian girl who was born with four arms and four legs. Would I be correct in asserting that humans normally don’t have eight limbs?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: Would I also be correct in asserting that, if they functioned properly, these limbs could give this girl an advantage in survival over another girl in certain situations?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: Furthermore, would that increased chance of survival give her a greater chance of having offspring, if other potential mates for a male who have only four limbs are all killed off?
Student: I suppose so, sir.
Professor: Here we have evidence of evolution at work, son. I have another article here that describes a geneticist’s work in REVERSING evolution, who has successfully used a gene to make a chicken embryo grow a reptilian tail. Now, here is another article which describes a startling discovery that scientists have made: they have observed apes using SPEARS to HUNT PREY. Sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: Now, son, I know that there’s no such thing as cold, darkness, or death. I took devil’s advocate because I’ve seen this same conversation before, and I wanted to see if you had anything original to offer. You don’t. Tell me, son, can you define evil as simply the absence of good, or God, as it were?
Student: That’s how I think of it, sir.
Professor: You claim that God is all powerful. In fact, a common religious statement is that God is everywhere, is that correct?
Student: Yes, sir.
Professor: How, son, can God be everywhere if evil is the absence of God? Therefore, our definition of evil must be modified. Darkness is the absence of light, but evil is NOT the absence of good. There is a neutral ground between good and evil.
(Professor waves arm through air.)
Professor: Waving my arm did not have any tangible effect on you, me, or anyone in this room. Would you call my action good? Would you call it evil? It is neither; it is a neutral action. However, if I were to hit you, it would be painful. It would hurt you. It would be done without provocation, therefore it could be defined as immoral, or EVIL. If I were to hit you after you pulled a gun on me, it would stop you from shooting and killing me. Therefore, it could be defined as moral, or GOOD. Good and evil CAN be measured and defined.
(Student is silent.)
Professor: Nice try, son. I applaud you for trying to defend your beliefs, really, I do. However, you cannot call your beliefs reasonable or logical…unless you have anything else to offer the class today?
(Student shakes his head.)
Professor: Very well. I suggest that you concentrate more on checking your premises and less on attempting to make your professors look like fools for the remainder of the semester. Class dismissed.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
The Mental Trigger
This is my *other* short story. I wrote it almost two years ago from inspiration that struck while I was IMing a couple of friends. Based almost entirely around the second to last *scene*, the story grew out of my frustration at the way events like these often seem to go.
Angela walked on tiptoe, trying as hard as she could to be silent. Of course, she could have played a drum and remained almost unnoticed with the sounds of locker doors slamming and footsteps drowning out just about every other sound in the hallway. She knew this, but also knew that the muscular figure in front of her also had ears like a bat- and was listening for her. She had almost reached him when he whipped around, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her off the floor.
Jeremy laughed as Angela let out a little gasp of surprise. “You almost scared me this time, Angel. You’re getting better.” She was laughing now too; it was music to his ears.
“I should have known you heard me, Superman.” Jeremy smiled at his girlfriend’s- fiancé, he told himself, for he wanted badly to marry this girl- pet name for him. They had called each other Angel and Superman for almost as long as they had been together. The nicknames were not without justification; Angela had long red hair and green eyes that almost always seemed to sparkle with happiness. She had a smile that was as contagious as a virus; it was literally impossible not to be happy when she was around. Jeremy was well muscled, thanks to three nights a week spent at the gym. He was tall, with dark hair and blue eyes.
Strangely, Jeremy didn’t play any normal sports; rather, he opted for archery. However, he used a simple recurved bow, and few other senior boys were able to pull its string back at all, let alone hold it back long enough for a straight shot.
And to everybody’s surprise, Angela liked to fence. In fact, she and Jeremy had met during tryouts for the fencing team. They had faced off for the heck of it, and Angela had soundly beaten him. Most people agreed that that was the moment when everyone, including Jeremy and Angela themselves, knew that they were made for each other. They went out for the first time that night, and now, six months later, they were around each other for as much time as they could spare.
“So what’s the news of the day?” Angela didn’t know how Jeremy could always tell when she had something special to tell him.
“I got a letter fromRutgers today.” Jeremy knew what the letter said, but he bit anyway.
“And?”
“I’m in!” Jeremy came close to crushing the breath out of her as he picked her up and hugged her again, but, as always, he managed to restrain himself.
“That’s incredible! Did you get the scholarship?”
“Do you really think they wouldn’t give it to me? Jeremy, we’re going to college together!”
Jeremy scrunched his face up in mock disappointment. “Damn, I guess I won’t be doing any partying after all.”
Angela laughed again. “Oh, shut up and kiss me, you fool!”
So he did. A minute later, the bell rang. Angela pouted as they separated. “Saved by the bell? I think not. Have fun in class, Superman.” He smiled as she turned and walked away, red hair swinging behind her. She soon disappeared from view as she turned around a corner. Jeremy turned back to his locker to grab his grammar book.
Lockers slamming. Footsteps. Popping sounds. Screams.
Popping sounds? Screams? What the hell-?
Jeremy whipped around. The sounds were coming from the hallway to the left. Angela had gone down that hallway. “Oh, my God….”
He dropped his books and ran around the corner. He was almost knocked down by the people running past him. Through the spaces in the crowd, he saw Angela running toward him. There was an expression of fear on her face. Then Jeremy saw the three people behind her.
It was hard to miss them. They weren’t running, they all wore long coats, and they were all carrying guns. Their guns bucked and rattled as they fired. Shotguns, submachine guns and handguns all fired, the unseen bullets tearing into unshielded bodies.
Gunshots.
Angela turned to look back.
Gunshots.
Angela jerked as a crimson spray erupted from her shoulder.
Gunshots.
Angela jerked again as more crimson sprayed from her hip.
Gunshots.
A person plowed into Jeremy, knocking him down.
Gunshots.
Angela slowly, slowly fell to the floor.
Jeremy scrambled to his feet. He ran to Angela’s side. Her eyes were wide. Her blood spread out from her shoulder and hip. It wasn’t quite the same red as her hair. She was in shock. “Jeremy,” she whispered. Then her eyes fluttered shut as she fainted.
Jeremy didn’t waste any time. He grabbed Angela and hoisted her onto his shoulder as he stood up. He dove for a stairway to his right. He ran down them, three flights down, to the ground floor. There were already people running for the exits down here. He could only join the flood to the nearest outer doorway.
There were already paramedics coming indoors. The shooting must have been going on longer than he thought. Somebody stumbled and fell in front of him. He tripped over them and fell. He looked up as two paramedics grabbed Angela. They picked her up and carried her toward the exit. A third paramedic came up and applied pressure to her wounds. Jeremy stood up and started running after them. He wanted to make sure that Angela was all right.
More gunshots.
They were close. Two more kids with guns walked around the corner. They were between Jeremy and the exit. They were behind the paramedics, but facing indoors.
“Where ya goin’, pigs?” one of them shouted as he fired his shotgun. Jeremy turned and ran the other way. He went down the first side hallway he came to, bullets whipping by him.
This hallway was mostly empty. A few bodies lying on the floor told Jeremy that the shooters had gone through here. He kept running.
A body in a dark gray uniform caught his eye. He stopped. It was the school’s resource officer, Trooper O’Halloran. His gun was clutched in his hand. Jeremy picked it up. It was a Glock. Lightweight, simple, and it carried a lot of ammunition in the clip. There was no gunpowder smell. The trooper had been cut down before he fired a shot.
Jeremy looked at the gun. He looked at the dead officer. He looked at the gun.
Gunshots. They were close.
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor….
Something clicked in Jeremy’s head. These...people had no right to do what they were doing. They were killing others, just to see them run and suffer. Jeremy was through running. He was through letting them control his life. As the shooters pulled their triggers somewhere nearby, a trigger was pulled in his mind.
He worked quickly, stripping the gun belt off of the dead officer and strapping it around his own waist. He counted the clips. Four of them, not counting the one in the gun. Fifteen shots to a clip. He had 75 chances to stop the shooters.
“Turn the other cheek…..”
“Not right now,” Jeremy said as he turned toward the gunshots.
The shooters walked past the hallway and continued on, firing as they went.
Jeremy walked as quickly as he could to the end of his hallway. He hefted the gun and turned the corner.
The shooters were there. One of them was skinny, had freckles, and wore glasses. He held a shotgun that seemed too big for him. He and the other kid were reloading. The other kid was almost grossly obese and carried twin Mac 10 submachine guns.
“I guess all the pigs ran away,” said the skinny one as he finished reloading and cocked the shotgun.
“Don’t worry, pigs are easy to find. They’ll start squealing as soon as we come close.” The large one started to load a revolver.
Jeremy lifted the gun. He aimed it at the large kid.
“Drop them,” he said.
The two shooters whipped around, guns aiming at Jeremy. They obviously had no intention of surrendering. Jeremy tightened his grip around the gun, finger caressing the trigger. He pulled it as he dove to the right.
Gunshots.
The large kid took three shots in the chest.
Gunshots.
The skinny kid’s snap shot went wild, missing Jeremy by several feet.
Gunshots.
Jeremy put a single bullet in between the skinny kid’s eyes.
Gunshots.
Both shooters fell to the floor.
Jeremy got up. He was uninjured. The two kids in front of him were obviously dead.
The large kid took three shots in the chest…
The skinny kid’s head disappeared behind a crimson explosion…
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor…
Jeremy turned around and knelt. He began to vomit.
Afterwards, he turned and looked at the bodies again. He looked at the gun in his hand.
Jeremy got up and walked toward the nearest staircase. There were gunshots upstairs.
He stopped on the second floor.
Gunshots.
They were far away. Jeremy began to run toward them. As he got closer, he slowed down to a walk. He brought his gun up.
He saw a familiar body lying on the floor. He walked up for a closer look. It was Andrew, his neighbor and one of his childhood friends. He had been shot in the kneecap. Jeremy leaned closer, then stood up and backed up against the wall, fighting the bile back from his mouth. Somebody had slit Andrew’s throat.
Screams. Gunshots. Jeremy walked in the direction of the sounds.
As he came closer, he heard two voices.
“Oh, God, my knee, you shot my knee! Wait, what are you doing with that knife? Oh, my God, please don’t! I’ll do anything! Please! I don’t want to-“
“Nighty night, pig. Have fun in hell.”
Jeremy blinked in surprise. The other voice was female. It belonged to a quiet girl who sang in chorus and was on the chess team. Jeremy turned the corner to face her. She was about to slash another begging victim. She had cut her hair short and died it black. She held a Bowie knife in her hand.
“Stop!” he shouted before she brought the knife down.
She tossed the knife up and caught it by the blade, then turned and threw it at Jeremy. Her aim was almost perfect. If Jeremy hadn’t ducked, the knife would have buried itself in his chest. He brought the Glock up as she pulled out a handgun.
Gunshots.
She jerked backward and hit the floor hard.
Jeremy walked up. She was dead. He had hit her in the throat. He looked at the girl she had been about to kill. She was clutching her knee and moaning in pain. He picked her up and walked into a nearby room.
He put her up against an inside wall. He tore part of his shirt off and dressed her wound.
“Now, you need to be as quiet as you can be. If you make any sounds, they might hear you.” She nodded vigorously. Jeremy recognized her. She was a member of the cheerleading squad. Jeremy doubted whether she would ever participate again. Her knee was a bloody mess. Jeremy stood up and walked out.
“He who lives by the sword….”
“Lives one day longer.” Jeremy stopped and shook his head, trying to clear the images from his mind. It didn’t work.
Gunshots.
They were coming from the floor above. Jeremy went up the nearest staircase. He came out and almost ran into one of the three original shooters he had seen. This one carried a single Mac 10 and now had it pointing at Jeremy’s face.
Jeremy closed his eyes and waited for the gunshot. It didn’t come. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at the kid. The kid was wide eyed and trembling in fear. He slowly dropped his gun to his side and stepped back. Jeremy raised his own gun and pointed it at the kid.
“Please don’t shoot me! I don’t want to die! I didn’t want to go through with this, but they all called me chicken and said that this was my only chance to show that I could be powerful! I shot my gun in the air, I never shot anyone, I promise!” The kid threw his gun away and put his hands in the air. Jeremy suddenly felt massively tired. He lowered his gun and sunk to the floor. The other kid did the same.
“How many of you ARE there, anyway?” Jeremy needed information. He wanted the gun out of his hand as soon as possible, but he wasn’t going to drop it until he was sure that there was no more threat.
“There were six of us. Two on the first floor, one on the second, me on the third, and two on the fourth. I split off from the other two up there after the first couple of minutes. I’ve been shooting into the ceiling every couple of minutes so they think that I’m killing people down here.”
"What the hell are you doing this for?"
"THEY wanted power. THEY were through being ignored. THEY wanted to show that they were able to make you guys notice them."
"And what exactly did anybody do to them?"
Tears began to well up in the kid's eyes. "I don't know, all right? They're crazy, the lot of them. They forced me into it, I told you, I didn't want to do it!"
Then the kid’s eyes brightened in recognition. “You’re the guy who grabbed that girl that Derek shot!”
“Which one is Derek?”
“He was the one with the shotgun and Colt. He’s the leader of the group. You don’t know how pissed he was when you got away with that girl. He said you ruined his plans.”
"Wait a sec...plans?"
"Yeah, she was a hot girl, Derek figured he wanted to do a hot girl before this was all over. He figured, she's gonna be too scared to put up a fight, so she was the one." The kid trembled at the mask of fury covering Jeremy's face. "What's wrong? Who was she, anyway?"
“That was my girlfriend.” Jeremy was so enraged that he actually had to put down the gun so he wouldn’t be tempted to shoot the kid. When he had calmed down again, he got up and picked up the Glock.
“Where are you going?” The kid stood up too.
“After them. They need to be stopped. I don’t care how.” Jeremy reloaded the gun. He looked at the kid. “Go downstairs and go outside. Tell everything you know to the police. You’ll be arrested, but you won’t get it that bad if you’re up front and make sure they know that you didn’t actually hurt anyone.”
The kid hesitated. Jeremy looked at him. "Think of it this way. They're gonna find your fingerprints on that Mac 10. Kids are gonna say that you were one of them. Like it or not, you're going to jail anyway. If I were you, I'd at least give up quietly."
The kid nodded, then went downstairs. Jeremy watched him for a minute, then went upstairs.
The hallways were littered with bodies and painted with blood. Jeremy was almost sick again. He stopped and waited for the feeling to pass. Then he continued. He noticed someone sitting next to a window in an empty room. The person was assembling a sniper rifle. There were a shotgun and a Colt handgun sitting on a desk beside him. The room overlooked the crowd and ambulances outside. Jeremy knew immediately what the kid was about to do.
"He said you ruined his plans..."
"He has a shotgun and a Colt..."
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor...
He walked into the room. He didn’t stop or hesitate this time.
Gunshots.
There were screams outside.
Gunshots.
The kid jerked again and again.
Gunshots.
The kid slowly fell forward onto the floor.
Jeremy stopped firing. The bloody body on the floor in front of him had been about to fire at the crowd through the window. The sniper rifle had fallen four stories to the ground below. Jeremy stepped up to the open window. He saw a red haired form on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance. He looked at the gun. He realized how light it felt; he had emptied the clip into the kid. He reloaded and jacked the slide on the Glock.
The large one took three bullets in the chest…
He had shot her in the throat…
The kid jerked again and again…
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor…
Jeremy walked out of the room and continued down the hall.
One more. One more of them. And still all he could think of was Angela, lying in her own blood. He walked faster.
Footsteps. They came from around the next corner. Jeremy slowed down. He lifted the gun up. He stepped around the corner.
There he was. Blood adorned his jacket. A weird, satanic expression twisted his face into an inhuman mask. He held a shotgun. He didn’t have it in quite the right position, but neither did Jeremy. Damn, he had overestimated his opponent’s height.
The next few seconds stretched into infinity. Jeremy brought his gun down as the other kid brought his gun up. They were level.
At that moment, everything went by in a flash. The kids in long jackets. The strange expressions on their faces. Seeing them walk down the hallway, weapons drawn.
Seeing Angela jerk and spin, falling to the floor…
Carrying her, falling, the paramedics grabbing her…
The shooters coming around the corner, separating him from safety…
His discovery of the gun, using it on those who desired only to hurt and kill…
And now…the final contest, the final squeeze of the trigger….
“Thou shalt not kill”…not in this case….
He did not hesitate. His finger pulled the trigger as he moved to the left.
Gunshots.
Angela walked on tiptoe, trying as hard as she could to be silent. Of course, she could have played a drum and remained almost unnoticed with the sounds of locker doors slamming and footsteps drowning out just about every other sound in the hallway. She knew this, but also knew that the muscular figure in front of her also had ears like a bat- and was listening for her. She had almost reached him when he whipped around, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her off the floor.
Jeremy laughed as Angela let out a little gasp of surprise. “You almost scared me this time, Angel. You’re getting better.” She was laughing now too; it was music to his ears.
“I should have known you heard me, Superman.” Jeremy smiled at his girlfriend’s- fiancé, he told himself, for he wanted badly to marry this girl- pet name for him. They had called each other Angel and Superman for almost as long as they had been together. The nicknames were not without justification; Angela had long red hair and green eyes that almost always seemed to sparkle with happiness. She had a smile that was as contagious as a virus; it was literally impossible not to be happy when she was around. Jeremy was well muscled, thanks to three nights a week spent at the gym. He was tall, with dark hair and blue eyes.
Strangely, Jeremy didn’t play any normal sports; rather, he opted for archery. However, he used a simple recurved bow, and few other senior boys were able to pull its string back at all, let alone hold it back long enough for a straight shot.
And to everybody’s surprise, Angela liked to fence. In fact, she and Jeremy had met during tryouts for the fencing team. They had faced off for the heck of it, and Angela had soundly beaten him. Most people agreed that that was the moment when everyone, including Jeremy and Angela themselves, knew that they were made for each other. They went out for the first time that night, and now, six months later, they were around each other for as much time as they could spare.
“So what’s the news of the day?” Angela didn’t know how Jeremy could always tell when she had something special to tell him.
“I got a letter from
“And?”
“I’m in!” Jeremy came close to crushing the breath out of her as he picked her up and hugged her again, but, as always, he managed to restrain himself.
“That’s incredible! Did you get the scholarship?”
“Do you really think they wouldn’t give it to me? Jeremy, we’re going to college together!”
Jeremy scrunched his face up in mock disappointment. “Damn, I guess I won’t be doing any partying after all.”
Angela laughed again. “Oh, shut up and kiss me, you fool!”
So he did. A minute later, the bell rang. Angela pouted as they separated. “Saved by the bell? I think not. Have fun in class, Superman.” He smiled as she turned and walked away, red hair swinging behind her. She soon disappeared from view as she turned around a corner. Jeremy turned back to his locker to grab his grammar book.
Lockers slamming. Footsteps. Popping sounds. Screams.
Popping sounds? Screams? What the hell-?
Jeremy whipped around. The sounds were coming from the hallway to the left. Angela had gone down that hallway. “Oh, my God….”
He dropped his books and ran around the corner. He was almost knocked down by the people running past him. Through the spaces in the crowd, he saw Angela running toward him. There was an expression of fear on her face. Then Jeremy saw the three people behind her.
It was hard to miss them. They weren’t running, they all wore long coats, and they were all carrying guns. Their guns bucked and rattled as they fired. Shotguns, submachine guns and handguns all fired, the unseen bullets tearing into unshielded bodies.
Gunshots.
Angela turned to look back.
Gunshots.
Angela jerked as a crimson spray erupted from her shoulder.
Gunshots.
Angela jerked again as more crimson sprayed from her hip.
Gunshots.
A person plowed into Jeremy, knocking him down.
Gunshots.
Angela slowly, slowly fell to the floor.
Jeremy scrambled to his feet. He ran to Angela’s side. Her eyes were wide. Her blood spread out from her shoulder and hip. It wasn’t quite the same red as her hair. She was in shock. “Jeremy,” she whispered. Then her eyes fluttered shut as she fainted.
Jeremy didn’t waste any time. He grabbed Angela and hoisted her onto his shoulder as he stood up. He dove for a stairway to his right. He ran down them, three flights down, to the ground floor. There were already people running for the exits down here. He could only join the flood to the nearest outer doorway.
There were already paramedics coming indoors. The shooting must have been going on longer than he thought. Somebody stumbled and fell in front of him. He tripped over them and fell. He looked up as two paramedics grabbed Angela. They picked her up and carried her toward the exit. A third paramedic came up and applied pressure to her wounds. Jeremy stood up and started running after them. He wanted to make sure that Angela was all right.
More gunshots.
They were close. Two more kids with guns walked around the corner. They were between Jeremy and the exit. They were behind the paramedics, but facing indoors.
“Where ya goin’, pigs?” one of them shouted as he fired his shotgun. Jeremy turned and ran the other way. He went down the first side hallway he came to, bullets whipping by him.
This hallway was mostly empty. A few bodies lying on the floor told Jeremy that the shooters had gone through here. He kept running.
A body in a dark gray uniform caught his eye. He stopped. It was the school’s resource officer, Trooper O’Halloran. His gun was clutched in his hand. Jeremy picked it up. It was a Glock. Lightweight, simple, and it carried a lot of ammunition in the clip. There was no gunpowder smell. The trooper had been cut down before he fired a shot.
Jeremy looked at the gun. He looked at the dead officer. He looked at the gun.
Gunshots. They were close.
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor….
Something clicked in Jeremy’s head. These...people had no right to do what they were doing. They were killing others, just to see them run and suffer. Jeremy was through running. He was through letting them control his life. As the shooters pulled their triggers somewhere nearby, a trigger was pulled in his mind.
He worked quickly, stripping the gun belt off of the dead officer and strapping it around his own waist. He counted the clips. Four of them, not counting the one in the gun. Fifteen shots to a clip. He had 75 chances to stop the shooters.
“Turn the other cheek…..”
“Not right now,” Jeremy said as he turned toward the gunshots.
The shooters walked past the hallway and continued on, firing as they went.
Jeremy walked as quickly as he could to the end of his hallway. He hefted the gun and turned the corner.
The shooters were there. One of them was skinny, had freckles, and wore glasses. He held a shotgun that seemed too big for him. He and the other kid were reloading. The other kid was almost grossly obese and carried twin Mac 10 submachine guns.
“I guess all the pigs ran away,” said the skinny one as he finished reloading and cocked the shotgun.
“Don’t worry, pigs are easy to find. They’ll start squealing as soon as we come close.” The large one started to load a revolver.
Jeremy lifted the gun. He aimed it at the large kid.
“Drop them,” he said.
The two shooters whipped around, guns aiming at Jeremy. They obviously had no intention of surrendering. Jeremy tightened his grip around the gun, finger caressing the trigger. He pulled it as he dove to the right.
Gunshots.
The large kid took three shots in the chest.
Gunshots.
The skinny kid’s snap shot went wild, missing Jeremy by several feet.
Gunshots.
Jeremy put a single bullet in between the skinny kid’s eyes.
Gunshots.
Both shooters fell to the floor.
Jeremy got up. He was uninjured. The two kids in front of him were obviously dead.
The large kid took three shots in the chest…
The skinny kid’s head disappeared behind a crimson explosion…
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor…
Jeremy turned around and knelt. He began to vomit.
Afterwards, he turned and looked at the bodies again. He looked at the gun in his hand.
Jeremy got up and walked toward the nearest staircase. There were gunshots upstairs.
He stopped on the second floor.
Gunshots.
They were far away. Jeremy began to run toward them. As he got closer, he slowed down to a walk. He brought his gun up.
He saw a familiar body lying on the floor. He walked up for a closer look. It was Andrew, his neighbor and one of his childhood friends. He had been shot in the kneecap. Jeremy leaned closer, then stood up and backed up against the wall, fighting the bile back from his mouth. Somebody had slit Andrew’s throat.
Screams. Gunshots. Jeremy walked in the direction of the sounds.
As he came closer, he heard two voices.
“Oh, God, my knee, you shot my knee! Wait, what are you doing with that knife? Oh, my God, please don’t! I’ll do anything! Please! I don’t want to-“
“Nighty night, pig. Have fun in hell.”
Jeremy blinked in surprise. The other voice was female. It belonged to a quiet girl who sang in chorus and was on the chess team. Jeremy turned the corner to face her. She was about to slash another begging victim. She had cut her hair short and died it black. She held a Bowie knife in her hand.
“Stop!” he shouted before she brought the knife down.
She tossed the knife up and caught it by the blade, then turned and threw it at Jeremy. Her aim was almost perfect. If Jeremy hadn’t ducked, the knife would have buried itself in his chest. He brought the Glock up as she pulled out a handgun.
Gunshots.
She jerked backward and hit the floor hard.
Jeremy walked up. She was dead. He had hit her in the throat. He looked at the girl she had been about to kill. She was clutching her knee and moaning in pain. He picked her up and walked into a nearby room.
He put her up against an inside wall. He tore part of his shirt off and dressed her wound.
“Now, you need to be as quiet as you can be. If you make any sounds, they might hear you.” She nodded vigorously. Jeremy recognized her. She was a member of the cheerleading squad. Jeremy doubted whether she would ever participate again. Her knee was a bloody mess. Jeremy stood up and walked out.
“He who lives by the sword….”
“Lives one day longer.” Jeremy stopped and shook his head, trying to clear the images from his mind. It didn’t work.
Gunshots.
They were coming from the floor above. Jeremy went up the nearest staircase. He came out and almost ran into one of the three original shooters he had seen. This one carried a single Mac 10 and now had it pointing at Jeremy’s face.
Jeremy closed his eyes and waited for the gunshot. It didn’t come. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at the kid. The kid was wide eyed and trembling in fear. He slowly dropped his gun to his side and stepped back. Jeremy raised his own gun and pointed it at the kid.
“Please don’t shoot me! I don’t want to die! I didn’t want to go through with this, but they all called me chicken and said that this was my only chance to show that I could be powerful! I shot my gun in the air, I never shot anyone, I promise!” The kid threw his gun away and put his hands in the air. Jeremy suddenly felt massively tired. He lowered his gun and sunk to the floor. The other kid did the same.
“How many of you ARE there, anyway?” Jeremy needed information. He wanted the gun out of his hand as soon as possible, but he wasn’t going to drop it until he was sure that there was no more threat.
“There were six of us. Two on the first floor, one on the second, me on the third, and two on the fourth. I split off from the other two up there after the first couple of minutes. I’ve been shooting into the ceiling every couple of minutes so they think that I’m killing people down here.”
"What the hell are you doing this for?"
"THEY wanted power. THEY were through being ignored. THEY wanted to show that they were able to make you guys notice them."
"And what exactly did anybody do to them?"
Tears began to well up in the kid's eyes. "I don't know, all right? They're crazy, the lot of them. They forced me into it, I told you, I didn't want to do it!"
Then the kid’s eyes brightened in recognition. “You’re the guy who grabbed that girl that Derek shot!”
“Which one is Derek?”
“He was the one with the shotgun and Colt. He’s the leader of the group. You don’t know how pissed he was when you got away with that girl. He said you ruined his plans.”
"Wait a sec...plans?"
"Yeah, she was a hot girl, Derek figured he wanted to do a hot girl before this was all over. He figured, she's gonna be too scared to put up a fight, so she was the one." The kid trembled at the mask of fury covering Jeremy's face. "What's wrong? Who was she, anyway?"
“That was my girlfriend.” Jeremy was so enraged that he actually had to put down the gun so he wouldn’t be tempted to shoot the kid. When he had calmed down again, he got up and picked up the Glock.
“Where are you going?” The kid stood up too.
“After them. They need to be stopped. I don’t care how.” Jeremy reloaded the gun. He looked at the kid. “Go downstairs and go outside. Tell everything you know to the police. You’ll be arrested, but you won’t get it that bad if you’re up front and make sure they know that you didn’t actually hurt anyone.”
The kid hesitated. Jeremy looked at him. "Think of it this way. They're gonna find your fingerprints on that Mac 10. Kids are gonna say that you were one of them. Like it or not, you're going to jail anyway. If I were you, I'd at least give up quietly."
The kid nodded, then went downstairs. Jeremy watched him for a minute, then went upstairs.
The hallways were littered with bodies and painted with blood. Jeremy was almost sick again. He stopped and waited for the feeling to pass. Then he continued. He noticed someone sitting next to a window in an empty room. The person was assembling a sniper rifle. There were a shotgun and a Colt handgun sitting on a desk beside him. The room overlooked the crowd and ambulances outside. Jeremy knew immediately what the kid was about to do.
"He said you ruined his plans..."
"He has a shotgun and a Colt..."
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor...
He walked into the room. He didn’t stop or hesitate this time.
Gunshots.
There were screams outside.
Gunshots.
The kid jerked again and again.
Gunshots.
The kid slowly fell forward onto the floor.
Jeremy stopped firing. The bloody body on the floor in front of him had been about to fire at the crowd through the window. The sniper rifle had fallen four stories to the ground below. Jeremy stepped up to the open window. He saw a red haired form on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance. He looked at the gun. He realized how light it felt; he had emptied the clip into the kid. He reloaded and jacked the slide on the Glock.
The large one took three bullets in the chest…
He had shot her in the throat…
The kid jerked again and again…
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor…
Jeremy walked out of the room and continued down the hall.
One more. One more of them. And still all he could think of was Angela, lying in her own blood. He walked faster.
Footsteps. They came from around the next corner. Jeremy slowed down. He lifted the gun up. He stepped around the corner.
There he was. Blood adorned his jacket. A weird, satanic expression twisted his face into an inhuman mask. He held a shotgun. He didn’t have it in quite the right position, but neither did Jeremy. Damn, he had overestimated his opponent’s height.
The next few seconds stretched into infinity. Jeremy brought his gun down as the other kid brought his gun up. They were level.
At that moment, everything went by in a flash. The kids in long jackets. The strange expressions on their faces. Seeing them walk down the hallway, weapons drawn.
Seeing Angela jerk and spin, falling to the floor…
Carrying her, falling, the paramedics grabbing her…
The shooters coming around the corner, separating him from safety…
His discovery of the gun, using it on those who desired only to hurt and kill…
And now…the final contest, the final squeeze of the trigger….
“Thou shalt not kill”…not in this case….
He did not hesitate. His finger pulled the trigger as he moved to the left.
Gunshots.
Pain erupted in Jeremy's entire right side.
Gunshots.
The kid took shots in the hip, arm, and abdomen.
Gunshots.
Jeremy hit the floor, hard.
Gunshots.
The kid stood before him for a moment.
Gunshots.
The kid wavered, then collapsed.
Jeremy dropped the gun. He was bleeding. The right side of his shirt was well on its way to being soaked. Damn, it was his favorite shirt. He looked at the kid. He spotted slight movement in the kid's chest. He was alive. Jeremy looked at the gun. He knocked it away with a swipe of his hand. Strange. He couldn't remember ever feeling this weak. There was only one time, when he was very young, after he had broken his arm in a fall....his father had carried him back to the house....what was he going to tell his parents.....
The SWAT team found both teenagers lying unconscious on the floor. The doctors said later that if they hadn't, Jeremy wouldn't have lasted another ten minutes. The other kid only had five. They were the last two students to be airlifted to the hospital.
* * *
Jeremy woke up in a white room. Rich, one of his best friends, was standing over him. His arm was in a sling. He was grinning his head off.
"Dude, you are all OVER the news!" Rich was clearly very excited.
"What are you talking about?" Loss of blood and anesthesia had taken their toll on Jeremy's mental state.
"What you did, man. They got the story from that one punk who squealed on his buddy. They reconstructed the entire scene. EVERYONE knows what you did in that school! The news guys are calling you the hero of the century!"
"I'm no hero, Rich. What I did....I killed them, Rich. I killed them."
Rich's grin disappeared. He leaned in close. "Jeremy, what were they doing?"
"They were shooting people. They shot Angela...."
"Damn straight. Man, when they did that, they gave up every right to their life! You did the right thing, man. You stopped them. You made what they did....well, you didn't make it meaningless, but you took the punch out of it. People are talking about YOU, man, not them! What those kids wanted was power and immortality. They wanted to be feared. You denied them that! You stood up to them! You fought the power, man, you fought the POWER! They weren't counting on you. They knew the police were wusses, and they thought that everyone else would be too. They started the whole thing, but you sure as hell finished it. They still killed people, but you stopped them from killing everyone they wanted to. You know what they were gonna do? They were gonna set machine guns up and spray everyone outside once they were finished inside. You killed them, but you saved lives. You saved people, man, you took control of your life, and you stopped THEM from going through with THEIR plans to kill EVERYONE that THEY could. Deal with it, man, you're a hero. Nothing's gonna change that."
Hero....Superman....Angel ....
Angela jerked and spun, falling to the floor....
Jeremy grabbed Rich's arm. "Where's Angela?"
Rich chuckled softly. He gripped Jeremy's head and turned it to the left. Angela was lying in the bed next to his, apparently sleeping.
"How's she doing?"
"Docs say that she's gonna be out before you are." Rich looked at him. "You say you're not a hero? Look at her. You got her downstairs, away from the shooters. Docs say that if you hadn't, she would have bled to death long before you and the other kid shot each other. You saved her life. You're a bigger hero than anyone has any right to expect."
With that, Rich turned and walked out of the room, muttering something about visiting hours.
Jeremy turned back to Angela. He was overwhelmed by the desire just to touch her, to feel her warmth. He tried to get up, but was overcome by dizziness. He lay back down. He reached out with his hand. He could almost touch her...he fell back, panting a little. He had never felt so weak. He rested for a minute, then stretched out once more. He began to fall back....
A hand reached out and grasped his. Jeremy looked. Angela was looking at him, her thumb slowly moving back and forth on the back of his hand. "Superman," she said, "I didn't get to tell you....I love you, Jeremy."
"I love you too, Angel," he said in a hoarse whisper. He rested his head back on his pillows, but his hand remained in Angela's. Suddenly he felt much, much stronger.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Remembrance
Well, here I have my first short story. I wrote it during my senior year of high school in a sudden burst of inspiration- or maybe it was Mad Cow disease. Either way, the story was done largely in the form you see it here in about twenty minutes. Enjoy.
Remembrance
They ran around the jungle gym, shouting and laughing, lost in the joyful oblivion that could only be identified as a symptom of childhood. It was paradise, sheer and absolute. Nothing could take their happiness away.
Twelve-year-old Robert opened his eyes. That day had been five years ago; yet it somehow seemed like just yesterday that his older brother and he had played tag in the park down the street from their house. Robert wanted it to be just yesterday. If it were, today couldn’t happen, and Robert and his older brother could still be happy together, still playing, still innocent.
His parents had told him that John wouldn’t be coming home in the near future. They didn’t know that he knew more than that, that John would never come home again. They also didn’t know that he knew why. He had overheard the man in uniform, when he described the circumstances of John’s death. John was a hero, the man in uniform had said.
The insurgents had come from a mosque declared off-limits to the soldiers because the locals didn’t want it damaged. John had held his ground while the others ran for cover. He had kept his rifle level, aiming carefully, giving his comrades precious seconds and drawing fire to himself. A grenade had landed nearby. John had thrown it back and kept firing. Two more grenades came in. John hadn’t stood a chance. He had died where he had stood, finger on the trigger of an empty rifle.
Robert’s mother had immediately broken down. His father had stood there, expressionless, a cold anger rising up. Then something snapped, and he sagged into a chair. Robert had never seen his father look so old.
“Can you teach me how to play your guitar?” Robert pleaded.
“I can’t, Rob. I have too much homework tonight. Maybe another time.”
John must have seen the look of bitter disappointment on Robert’s face. This was, after all, the third time his younger brother had asked him in a week. He sighed and said, “All right. I’ll teach you the strings. Now, this is the C string, and this...”
The man in uniform had tried to break the news lightly, knowing that Robert’s mother was pregnant. He made a point of saying that John was a shoo-in for the Medal of Honor. Robert wanted to know how a metal star made up for John being dead. He wanted to know why John was dead. He couldn’t be dead. He was John. He couldn’t be both at the same time. He was the one that was always saving someone (usually Robert) from bullies. He was the captain of his school’s football team. He had tossed linebackers aside like they were made of marshmallows. He had been trained by the world’s best military. The good guys in the movies always lived, even when they were fighting armies single-handedly. Why had John failed to do the same? Why did actors in movies survive, while John died? The bad guys couldn’t be that tough.
One by one, the kids were yanked to their feet by strong, tanned hands. They each held a bewildered look on their face, as they tried to figure out who the guy was who had interrupted them. Was he a teacher? He certainly looked old enough, but his face showed a youthful anger that teachers never expressed. They watched as he helped the boy they had been beating up to his feet.
“What’s going on here?” the stranger demanded, looking them each in the eye.
The other boy spoke up. “They stole my Game Boy.”
The stranger turned to the other three, his face transformed into a mask of fury. “Give it back to him right now,” he commanded.
The trio may have been bullies, but they knew when to follow an order. One of them reluctantly reached into his pocket and produced the toy, then proceeded to slowly hand it over to its rightful owner.
“Now beat it,” the stranger said. The boys didn’t have to be told twice. They ran to the other end of the playground. John sighed. He turned to Robert. “I thought Mom told you not to bring that thing to school. You knew that it was going to get you into trouble.”
“I just wanted to show it to my friends,” Robert whimpered. He didn’t want to disobey his mother; his friends had pressured him into bringing the toy to school. John seemed to understand this. He sighed again and shook his head.
“Well, we obviously have to tell Mom what happened,” John said after a few moments. “She isn’t going to like this, but I’ll try to soften her up.”
That was John, all right. He was always Robert’s hero. No matter when or where Robert got into trouble, John was there to help him out. Now there was no way Robert could repay his debt. Why couldn’t he be there to help John out, when John needed him the most? Of course, Robert couldn’t go with John when John was called to Iraq. He wished he could, however.
“I have to board the plane now,” John said to Robert. He had already said his goodbyes to Mom and Dad; he always saved Robert for last. “We won’t be seeing each other for a while, so I want you to have this, to remember me by.” John took the chain with his guitar pick off his neck and put it around Robert’s. He kept the pick on the chain so he could play any guitar, any place.
“One other thing,” John said. “Whatever else you do, I want you to be me,” he gestured to their mom, who was just beginning to show the first signs of pregnancy, “but I also want you to be yourself.”
Robert was still puzzled. What did that mean? John had offered no explanation.
It was a huge event. Everyone was coming to the Battle of the Bands, if for nothing else than a cheap concert. Robert sat halfway up, listening to screeching guitars, cracking voices, and banging drums. He wasn’t interested in these clowns; he was merely waiting for his big brother’s band, nicknamed Quick Fix, to make their appearance. He wasn’t the only one. Half the crowd stood up and cheered when John and his band mates walked on stage. They played through a variety of cover songs and their own originals. John’s performance was flawless. He never forgot a line or chord, never hit the wrong string, never made a single mistake. The other members of Quick Fix were equally perfect, and the audience showed their approval. Quick Fix won the Battle, receiving a trophy and gift certificates for their efforts. The next day, the members of Quick Fix, and especially John and Robert, were the most popular students in the school.
Robert took the pick off his neck and looked at it. He thought of what his brother had given him and everyone else. Then he remembered his soon-to-be baby brother. Suddenly, he knew what John had meant.
Robert’s parents looked up when he entered the room. Robert strode over to his bewildered mother, crouched down, and addressed her swollen belly. “I’ll be him,” he said, “but I won’t die.” He then stood up and walked out, leaving his parents utterly confused.
They heard him walk up the stairs. A few minutes later, a few uncertain notes from an electric guitar came floating down from above. The notes stumbled at first, but they quickly grew in strength and confidence. Before long, the notes smoothed out into a slow, thoughtful riff that seemed to echo throughout the house. Robert’s mom broke down into tears. His father slowly smiled, the first time he had done so in three days. “He’s going to be all right,” he said, standing up. “Rob’s going to be all right.”
Remembrance
They ran around the jungle gym, shouting and laughing, lost in the joyful oblivion that could only be identified as a symptom of childhood. It was paradise, sheer and absolute. Nothing could take their happiness away.
Twelve-year-old Robert opened his eyes. That day had been five years ago; yet it somehow seemed like just yesterday that his older brother and he had played tag in the park down the street from their house. Robert wanted it to be just yesterday. If it were, today couldn’t happen, and Robert and his older brother could still be happy together, still playing, still innocent.
His parents had told him that John wouldn’t be coming home in the near future. They didn’t know that he knew more than that, that John would never come home again. They also didn’t know that he knew why. He had overheard the man in uniform, when he described the circumstances of John’s death. John was a hero, the man in uniform had said.
The insurgents had come from a mosque declared off-limits to the soldiers because the locals didn’t want it damaged. John had held his ground while the others ran for cover. He had kept his rifle level, aiming carefully, giving his comrades precious seconds and drawing fire to himself. A grenade had landed nearby. John had thrown it back and kept firing. Two more grenades came in. John hadn’t stood a chance. He had died where he had stood, finger on the trigger of an empty rifle.
Robert’s mother had immediately broken down. His father had stood there, expressionless, a cold anger rising up. Then something snapped, and he sagged into a chair. Robert had never seen his father look so old.
“Can you teach me how to play your guitar?” Robert pleaded.
“I can’t, Rob. I have too much homework tonight. Maybe another time.”
John must have seen the look of bitter disappointment on Robert’s face. This was, after all, the third time his younger brother had asked him in a week. He sighed and said, “All right. I’ll teach you the strings. Now, this is the C string, and this...”
The man in uniform had tried to break the news lightly, knowing that Robert’s mother was pregnant. He made a point of saying that John was a shoo-in for the Medal of Honor. Robert wanted to know how a metal star made up for John being dead. He wanted to know why John was dead. He couldn’t be dead. He was John. He couldn’t be both at the same time. He was the one that was always saving someone (usually Robert) from bullies. He was the captain of his school’s football team. He had tossed linebackers aside like they were made of marshmallows. He had been trained by the world’s best military. The good guys in the movies always lived, even when they were fighting armies single-handedly. Why had John failed to do the same? Why did actors in movies survive, while John died? The bad guys couldn’t be that tough.
One by one, the kids were yanked to their feet by strong, tanned hands. They each held a bewildered look on their face, as they tried to figure out who the guy was who had interrupted them. Was he a teacher? He certainly looked old enough, but his face showed a youthful anger that teachers never expressed. They watched as he helped the boy they had been beating up to his feet.
“What’s going on here?” the stranger demanded, looking them each in the eye.
The other boy spoke up. “They stole my Game Boy.”
The stranger turned to the other three, his face transformed into a mask of fury. “Give it back to him right now,” he commanded.
The trio may have been bullies, but they knew when to follow an order. One of them reluctantly reached into his pocket and produced the toy, then proceeded to slowly hand it over to its rightful owner.
“Now beat it,” the stranger said. The boys didn’t have to be told twice. They ran to the other end of the playground. John sighed. He turned to Robert. “I thought Mom told you not to bring that thing to school. You knew that it was going to get you into trouble.”
“I just wanted to show it to my friends,” Robert whimpered. He didn’t want to disobey his mother; his friends had pressured him into bringing the toy to school. John seemed to understand this. He sighed again and shook his head.
“Well, we obviously have to tell Mom what happened,” John said after a few moments. “She isn’t going to like this, but I’ll try to soften her up.”
That was John, all right. He was always Robert’s hero. No matter when or where Robert got into trouble, John was there to help him out. Now there was no way Robert could repay his debt. Why couldn’t he be there to help John out, when John needed him the most? Of course, Robert couldn’t go with John when John was called to Iraq. He wished he could, however.
“I have to board the plane now,” John said to Robert. He had already said his goodbyes to Mom and Dad; he always saved Robert for last. “We won’t be seeing each other for a while, so I want you to have this, to remember me by.” John took the chain with his guitar pick off his neck and put it around Robert’s. He kept the pick on the chain so he could play any guitar, any place.
“One other thing,” John said. “Whatever else you do, I want you to be me,” he gestured to their mom, who was just beginning to show the first signs of pregnancy, “but I also want you to be yourself.”
Robert was still puzzled. What did that mean? John had offered no explanation.
It was a huge event. Everyone was coming to the Battle of the Bands, if for nothing else than a cheap concert. Robert sat halfway up, listening to screeching guitars, cracking voices, and banging drums. He wasn’t interested in these clowns; he was merely waiting for his big brother’s band, nicknamed Quick Fix, to make their appearance. He wasn’t the only one. Half the crowd stood up and cheered when John and his band mates walked on stage. They played through a variety of cover songs and their own originals. John’s performance was flawless. He never forgot a line or chord, never hit the wrong string, never made a single mistake. The other members of Quick Fix were equally perfect, and the audience showed their approval. Quick Fix won the Battle, receiving a trophy and gift certificates for their efforts. The next day, the members of Quick Fix, and especially John and Robert, were the most popular students in the school.
Robert took the pick off his neck and looked at it. He thought of what his brother had given him and everyone else. Then he remembered his soon-to-be baby brother. Suddenly, he knew what John had meant.
Robert’s parents looked up when he entered the room. Robert strode over to his bewildered mother, crouched down, and addressed her swollen belly. “I’ll be him,” he said, “but I won’t die.” He then stood up and walked out, leaving his parents utterly confused.
They heard him walk up the stairs. A few minutes later, a few uncertain notes from an electric guitar came floating down from above. The notes stumbled at first, but they quickly grew in strength and confidence. Before long, the notes smoothed out into a slow, thoughtful riff that seemed to echo throughout the house. Robert’s mom broke down into tears. His father slowly smiled, the first time he had done so in three days. “He’s going to be all right,” he said, standing up. “Rob’s going to be all right.”
The Guardian, Kate Hilpern, and Freedomain Radio: A Critical Analysis.
As mentioned in my last blog post (i.e. a few minutes ago) I am a member of Freedomain Radio, and thus paid special attention to an article by Kate Hilpern of British newspaper The Guardian.
This article can be found here, now, live and in color.
Of course, being the kind of guy who spits on my knuckles and jumps up at the slightest sign of injustice and adversity, I was compelled to write a paragraph by paragraph critical analysis of the article's content, tone and overall quality. There are so many people exalting the article as the greatest muckraking expose (put an accent mark on that last "e," if you don't mind) of all time that I can't help but post my response in a place where it'll hopefully be read:
(note: by "paragraph by paragraph" I mean that each paragraph in this response exactly matches the sequence of paragraphs in the article itself.)
A detailed analysis of Kate Hilpern's article:
Paragraph one.
We have an immediate problem here. The article starts out speaking from the mother's perspective. The title and subtitle smack of this, and make it sound more like a missing person mystery.
Paragraph two.
The story continues from the mother's perspective.
Paragraph three.
The article implies that Tom's choice of the form letter is simply him parroting what the website telling him to do, instead of deciding that the rough layout of Stef's suggestion for the letter was the best way to go.
Paragraph four.
The mother (henceforth referred to by her name for brevity's sake) comes across as stalkerish and calculating. "She worked out that if she ordered a cup of tea, he would have to listen to her for about a minute." She planned the attack ahead of time, hoping to trip his wires and get him to come back into the fold. It doesn't say what else she said besides "If you ever want to come home you can." I'm betting there's more to it than simply that. Barbara also doesn't get that the content of the site is what matters, not the site itself; she also can't conceive that "an ordinary family" might not be a *good* family.
Paragraph five.
Barbara admits that Tom did not follow her expectations; that he'd be living with her until he was 40. This is chilling; what kind of parent expects, much less wants, their child to be living at home at that age?
Paragraph six.
A charming little paragraph on special trips to this and that place. This, of course, ignores that such nice, happy rainbow infested days would not have been the norm. The paragraph also takes care to mention the opinion of one of Tom's older brothers, because John thinks that they had a great childhood.
Paragraph seven.
Nothing special to report here, except that it shows that as soon as something like computers entered the home, they were considered to be often more valuable to spend time with than the rest of the family. If the family is so great, then why all the computer time relative to family interaction?
Paragraph eight.
Barbara admits that she didn't often make any special effort to show interest in her childrens' lives or communicate with them. Also, apparently Tom is a really, really nice guy. I'm sure that the necklace wasn't cheap. So why is such a nice guy so wrong for deciding that he'd rather not be around her anymore?
Paragraph nine.
A generalization is made which implies that any and all family ties should (instead of simply can) be cut. It also makes an offhanded and sarcastic generalization that the only friends you'd obtain by engaging in the ideas discussed at FDR would be the other members of FDR. When paired with the tone of the paragraph overall, this would be conceived as a negative connotation to the unsuspecting reader.
Paragraph ten.
A generalization is made on what is primarily discussed in the chatroom and what the call in shows are about.
Paragraph eleven.
Nothing in particular about the content itself, but it's written completely outside of Tom's perspective and doesn't make any attempt to reason about his motives for his behavior or his interest in FDR.
Paragraph twelve.
By now it seems that Barbara herself might as well have written this article for all the objectivity it displays.
Paragraph thirteen.
More from Barbara's perspective. Only one minor specific given about Tom's "accusations," along with an a priori denial of his allegation. No reasoning given as to why it wasn't true.
Paragraph fourteen.
More from Barbara's perspective. "We really did try our best." Doubtful. "Who does have a perfect relationship?" Who does live freely? I mean, since nobody does, there's no sense in trying to live freely, right?
Paragraph fifteen.
"One day" on a dark and stormy night, "when Barbara got in from work, Tom had gone." Dun-dun-dun! *Lightning flash.* "She read the note and was devastated." The poor, poor mother's illusion of security shattered! "For a moment," actually a day, until further stalking confirmed the opposite- "she wondered if he had run away with his girlfriend, (who has also since cut off her family to devote herself to FDR),"-the disease spreads!- "but she and Tom had recently split up." Gasp! The plot thickens! The entire paragraph is written like a Lifetime movie, not a news article. It is clearly meant to keep us implanted in Barbara's shoes and make us sympathize with her, while Tom remains the ambiguous, rarely seen figure in the story.
Paragraph sixteen.
"Then Barbara thought of the website and began to investigate." i.e. She began to stalk. Note how, when she realizes what he's done, how she jumps to the conclusion that since he's dropped her from his life, that he will instantly spiral into the oblivion of total failure. Also note how Nick joins in on the stalking.
Paragraph seventeen.
The poor, dear mother has barely caught tantalizing glimpses of her son.
Paragraph eighteen.
The poor, dear mother struggles to live without her son. In the meantime, her son continues to live without her, without stalking her in turn.
Paragraph nineteen.
Barbara keeps tabs on Tom enough to know that he's not living within easy stalking distance anymore. She also wants to be part of his life-never mind whether he wants her to be a part of it or not.
Paragraph twenty.
Policy statement from CIC that refers to cults in general, with no actual statement that FDR is a cult. However, pairing that with Barbara's statement that she uses this policy statement as an excuse to further harass Tom insinuates that FDR is a cult.
Paragraph twenty one.
There is an assertation that FDR is what Tom considers his new "family," with no statement from him that this is what Tom really thinks. (Not that there's anything wrong with such thinking, necessarily.) Barbara admits to more and more stalking, even obsessing over Tom's actions online.
Paragraph twenty two.
Poor, dear mother isn't allowed to stalk anymore.
Paragraph twenty three.
Twenty three paragraphs in and we finally get some perspective from the guy who's apparently inciting good people to disobedience. Hopefully the uninitiated reader will not lose this in the middle of the sob story as told by Barbara through her ghost writing persona Kate.
Paragraph twenty four.
In very, very briefly discussing Stef's background Kate fails to mention that he also holds a master's degree in history, that he is a well educated man. It also implies that he is a hypocrite who shouldn't be having his own baby because he doesn't believe that there's anybody who is an example of a truly good parent, never mind that he can and probably has learned from the mistakes of others and intends to become the exception to this rule.
Paragraph twenty five.
Another all too rare quote from the actual person being accused of being the ringleader of this *dangerous, online cult.*
Paragraph twenty six.
The paragraph insinuates that subscription is necessary in order to participate in Freedomain Radio. This is so obviously false that it must be pointed out and laughed at. The critics also falsely assert that members never get closer to anyone else but each other (while insinuating that getting closer to each other is bad) and that if they're going to go to therapy, they'll waste valuable money trying to tell the therapist what they're already telling themselves.
Paragraph twenty seven.
Ah, finally, a concession of fact. However, this is immediately negated by the assertion that FDR is simply a trivial outlet for teen angst.
Paragraph twenty eight.
Very brief (and most likely skewed) summary of a call in show from April which insinuates that Stef considers Tom's birth an intrinsic form of abuse. Small wonder why Tom wouldn't want to talk to Kate.
Paragraph twenty nine.
Kate probably misrepresents the conversation further here, and further demonstrates her complete lack of journalistic ability by including her personal thoughts on the matter.
Paragraph thirty.
Another false line drawn between cult awareness and reasoning behind why someone might not want to talk to a nosy sensationalist. Also commits a serious tactical error by helping Stefan call this article out for what it really is, by quoting his thoughts on the matter directly.
Paragraph thirty one.
Apparently removing one brick causes the whole house of cards to fall down. Barbara admits that the situation has actually improved her relationship with Tom's brother, but apparently fails to equate this to the reason why Tom left.
Paragraph thirty two.
Another attempt to paint Stef as a hypocrite.
Paragraph thirty three.
There is hope for Tom and the poor, dear mother! But maybe not, because Tom is decisive and may not want to jeopardize his mental well being for the sake of his mother!
Paragraph thirty four.
The article begins, ends, and consists almost entirely of Barbara's perspective.
Conclusion:
Pulitzer would be proud; Kate has just written an article that is a throwback to the old days of yellow journalism. There is almost no attempt to see things from any perspective but Barbara's, and doesn't respect Tom's privacy in the slightest. Not entirely surprising, but saddening nonetheless.
This article can be found here, now, live and in color.
Of course, being the kind of guy who spits on my knuckles and jumps up at the slightest sign of injustice and adversity, I was compelled to write a paragraph by paragraph critical analysis of the article's content, tone and overall quality. There are so many people exalting the article as the greatest muckraking expose (put an accent mark on that last "e," if you don't mind) of all time that I can't help but post my response in a place where it'll hopefully be read:
(note: by "paragraph by paragraph" I mean that each paragraph in this response exactly matches the sequence of paragraphs in the article itself.)
A detailed analysis of Kate Hilpern's article:
Paragraph one.
We have an immediate problem here. The article starts out speaking from the mother's perspective. The title and subtitle smack of this, and make it sound more like a missing person mystery.
Paragraph two.
The story continues from the mother's perspective.
Paragraph three.
The article implies that Tom's choice of the form letter is simply him parroting what the website telling him to do, instead of deciding that the rough layout of Stef's suggestion for the letter was the best way to go.
Paragraph four.
The mother (henceforth referred to by her name for brevity's sake) comes across as stalkerish and calculating. "She worked out that if she ordered a cup of tea, he would have to listen to her for about a minute." She planned the attack ahead of time, hoping to trip his wires and get him to come back into the fold. It doesn't say what else she said besides "If you ever want to come home you can." I'm betting there's more to it than simply that. Barbara also doesn't get that the content of the site is what matters, not the site itself; she also can't conceive that "an ordinary family" might not be a *good* family.
Paragraph five.
Barbara admits that Tom did not follow her expectations; that he'd be living with her until he was 40. This is chilling; what kind of parent expects, much less wants, their child to be living at home at that age?
Paragraph six.
A charming little paragraph on special trips to this and that place. This, of course, ignores that such nice, happy rainbow infested days would not have been the norm. The paragraph also takes care to mention the opinion of one of Tom's older brothers, because John thinks that they had a great childhood.
Paragraph seven.
Nothing special to report here, except that it shows that as soon as something like computers entered the home, they were considered to be often more valuable to spend time with than the rest of the family. If the family is so great, then why all the computer time relative to family interaction?
Paragraph eight.
Barbara admits that she didn't often make any special effort to show interest in her childrens' lives or communicate with them. Also, apparently Tom is a really, really nice guy. I'm sure that the necklace wasn't cheap. So why is such a nice guy so wrong for deciding that he'd rather not be around her anymore?
Paragraph nine.
A generalization is made which implies that any and all family ties should (instead of simply can) be cut. It also makes an offhanded and sarcastic generalization that the only friends you'd obtain by engaging in the ideas discussed at FDR would be the other members of FDR. When paired with the tone of the paragraph overall, this would be conceived as a negative connotation to the unsuspecting reader.
Paragraph ten.
A generalization is made on what is primarily discussed in the chatroom and what the call in shows are about.
Paragraph eleven.
Nothing in particular about the content itself, but it's written completely outside of Tom's perspective and doesn't make any attempt to reason about his motives for his behavior or his interest in FDR.
Paragraph twelve.
By now it seems that Barbara herself might as well have written this article for all the objectivity it displays.
Paragraph thirteen.
More from Barbara's perspective. Only one minor specific given about Tom's "accusations," along with an a priori denial of his allegation. No reasoning given as to why it wasn't true.
Paragraph fourteen.
More from Barbara's perspective. "We really did try our best." Doubtful. "Who does have a perfect relationship?" Who does live freely? I mean, since nobody does, there's no sense in trying to live freely, right?
Paragraph fifteen.
"One day" on a dark and stormy night, "when Barbara got in from work, Tom had gone." Dun-dun-dun! *Lightning flash.* "She read the note and was devastated." The poor, poor mother's illusion of security shattered! "For a moment," actually a day, until further stalking confirmed the opposite- "she wondered if he had run away with his girlfriend, (who has also since cut off her family to devote herself to FDR),"-the disease spreads!- "but she and Tom had recently split up." Gasp! The plot thickens! The entire paragraph is written like a Lifetime movie, not a news article. It is clearly meant to keep us implanted in Barbara's shoes and make us sympathize with her, while Tom remains the ambiguous, rarely seen figure in the story.
Paragraph sixteen.
"Then Barbara thought of the website and began to investigate." i.e. She began to stalk. Note how, when she realizes what he's done, how she jumps to the conclusion that since he's dropped her from his life, that he will instantly spiral into the oblivion of total failure. Also note how Nick joins in on the stalking.
Paragraph seventeen.
The poor, dear mother has barely caught tantalizing glimpses of her son.
Paragraph eighteen.
The poor, dear mother struggles to live without her son. In the meantime, her son continues to live without her, without stalking her in turn.
Paragraph nineteen.
Barbara keeps tabs on Tom enough to know that he's not living within easy stalking distance anymore. She also wants to be part of his life-never mind whether he wants her to be a part of it or not.
Paragraph twenty.
Policy statement from CIC that refers to cults in general, with no actual statement that FDR is a cult. However, pairing that with Barbara's statement that she uses this policy statement as an excuse to further harass Tom insinuates that FDR is a cult.
Paragraph twenty one.
There is an assertation that FDR is what Tom considers his new "family," with no statement from him that this is what Tom really thinks. (Not that there's anything wrong with such thinking, necessarily.) Barbara admits to more and more stalking, even obsessing over Tom's actions online.
Paragraph twenty two.
Poor, dear mother isn't allowed to stalk anymore.
Paragraph twenty three.
Twenty three paragraphs in and we finally get some perspective from the guy who's apparently inciting good people to disobedience. Hopefully the uninitiated reader will not lose this in the middle of the sob story as told by Barbara through her ghost writing persona Kate.
Paragraph twenty four.
In very, very briefly discussing Stef's background Kate fails to mention that he also holds a master's degree in history, that he is a well educated man. It also implies that he is a hypocrite who shouldn't be having his own baby because he doesn't believe that there's anybody who is an example of a truly good parent, never mind that he can and probably has learned from the mistakes of others and intends to become the exception to this rule.
Paragraph twenty five.
Another all too rare quote from the actual person being accused of being the ringleader of this *dangerous, online cult.*
Paragraph twenty six.
The paragraph insinuates that subscription is necessary in order to participate in Freedomain Radio. This is so obviously false that it must be pointed out and laughed at. The critics also falsely assert that members never get closer to anyone else but each other (while insinuating that getting closer to each other is bad) and that if they're going to go to therapy, they'll waste valuable money trying to tell the therapist what they're already telling themselves.
Paragraph twenty seven.
Ah, finally, a concession of fact. However, this is immediately negated by the assertion that FDR is simply a trivial outlet for teen angst.
Paragraph twenty eight.
Very brief (and most likely skewed) summary of a call in show from April which insinuates that Stef considers Tom's birth an intrinsic form of abuse. Small wonder why Tom wouldn't want to talk to Kate.
Paragraph twenty nine.
Kate probably misrepresents the conversation further here, and further demonstrates her complete lack of journalistic ability by including her personal thoughts on the matter.
Paragraph thirty.
Another false line drawn between cult awareness and reasoning behind why someone might not want to talk to a nosy sensationalist. Also commits a serious tactical error by helping Stefan call this article out for what it really is, by quoting his thoughts on the matter directly.
Paragraph thirty one.
Apparently removing one brick causes the whole house of cards to fall down. Barbara admits that the situation has actually improved her relationship with Tom's brother, but apparently fails to equate this to the reason why Tom left.
Paragraph thirty two.
Another attempt to paint Stef as a hypocrite.
Paragraph thirty three.
There is hope for Tom and the poor, dear mother! But maybe not, because Tom is decisive and may not want to jeopardize his mental well being for the sake of his mother!
Paragraph thirty four.
The article begins, ends, and consists almost entirely of Barbara's perspective.
Conclusion:
Pulitzer would be proud; Kate has just written an article that is a throwback to the old days of yellow journalism. There is almost no attempt to see things from any perspective but Barbara's, and doesn't respect Tom's privacy in the slightest. Not entirely surprising, but saddening nonetheless.
Introductory:
Well, folks, here it is: the first official post on my first official, independent, blog. In this blog you're going to find not only my semi coherent, sometimes seemingly a priori ramblings, but also stories, poems, dissertations, recipes, revolutionary manifestos, blurbs and thoughts on stuff I find around teh Intarweb, jokes, puzzles, and the occasional scream.
Background on me: I'm a college age sometimes college student in the first year of living completely on my own. That means I'm young, which means that I'm not exactly an expert on anything. However, my age does not denote automatic ignorance either. I love to read, I love to write, I love to watch movies and play computer games. I'm a hopeless romantic, an individualist, and yes, I really DO wear that hat. I have a flair for the dramatic, and have been known to both exaggerate and understate in the same sentence. As you have probably already seen, I obviously use a fair bit of sarcasm as well.
Notes on how this blog will work: I will attempt to update it at least once a week. There will be no particular rhyme or reason for what I choose to post, other than what I feel is appropriate for that particular time. As for reader input: it's absolutely welcome, even if you're going to troll. Hell, I've trolled too. I know it can be fun. Just don't be malicious about it, and don't attack other people who choose to post here. If I decide to take action and delete a post of yours, you are free to PM me and contest my decision, and I'll gladly hear you out as to why your post should remain up.
One more disclaimer: THIS IS TEH INTARWEB. Act accordingly.
Background on me: I'm a college age sometimes college student in the first year of living completely on my own. That means I'm young, which means that I'm not exactly an expert on anything. However, my age does not denote automatic ignorance either. I love to read, I love to write, I love to watch movies and play computer games. I'm a hopeless romantic, an individualist, and yes, I really DO wear that hat. I have a flair for the dramatic, and have been known to both exaggerate and understate in the same sentence. As you have probably already seen, I obviously use a fair bit of sarcasm as well.
Notes on how this blog will work: I will attempt to update it at least once a week. There will be no particular rhyme or reason for what I choose to post, other than what I feel is appropriate for that particular time. As for reader input: it's absolutely welcome, even if you're going to troll. Hell, I've trolled too. I know it can be fun. Just don't be malicious about it, and don't attack other people who choose to post here. If I decide to take action and delete a post of yours, you are free to PM me and contest my decision, and I'll gladly hear you out as to why your post should remain up.
One more disclaimer: THIS IS TEH INTARWEB. Act accordingly.
Freedomain Radio: Insight from a member.
Well, the story goes like this: there is a website known as Freedomain Radio where a gentleman by the name of Stefan Molyneux runs a podcast series, forum, book corner and chatroom to discuss the ideas he puts forth as a methodology for figuring out how to better one's life, particularly in terms of personal relationships. A major focus is on familial relationships, the effect they can have on an average individual, and how those relationships are so often utterly twisted into something monstrous and inhuman. When the familial relationship in question is particularly bad, and no other recourse is possible, Stefan does remind people that they don't have to be in that relationship. The process of extricating yourself from such a damaging relationship is known on the site as "deFOOing."
Of course, both members and haters have taken this all and run with it, twisted it around and made it sound like Stefan thinks that everyone should cut EVERYONE out of their lives who doesn't PERFECTLY match the moral ideals that Stef has laid out. More specifically, haters have taken the ideas of FDR to mean that ALL familial relationships should AUTOMATICALLY be cut off. This is simply not the case. As someone who has deFOOed, I can tell you that I only cut ties with members of my family as they proved to be more and more negative influences on my life. For instance, I cut ties with my parents after they advocated and enacted violence and verbal abuse upon me. Same with my brother. As for my sister and her family, I cut ties with them after they tried to dictate morality to me and threatened to cut me off when I wanted to have a drink for my 21st birthday. A. Drink. I'm one of only a handful of FDR members who has actually gone through a deFOO.
In conclusion: FDR has been totally misinterpreted by a great deal of people, and I fear that this misinterpretation will be spread to people who will thus have no interest in exploring the site at all, or worse, will come onto the site as trolls and then think that what they were told is confirmed when Stef brings the banhammer down on them for being adversarial, condescending and totally closed to any ideas but their own preconceptions.
Of course, both members and haters have taken this all and run with it, twisted it around and made it sound like Stefan thinks that everyone should cut EVERYONE out of their lives who doesn't PERFECTLY match the moral ideals that Stef has laid out. More specifically, haters have taken the ideas of FDR to mean that ALL familial relationships should AUTOMATICALLY be cut off. This is simply not the case. As someone who has deFOOed, I can tell you that I only cut ties with members of my family as they proved to be more and more negative influences on my life. For instance, I cut ties with my parents after they advocated and enacted violence and verbal abuse upon me. Same with my brother. As for my sister and her family, I cut ties with them after they tried to dictate morality to me and threatened to cut me off when I wanted to have a drink for my 21st birthday. A. Drink. I'm one of only a handful of FDR members who has actually gone through a deFOO.
In conclusion: FDR has been totally misinterpreted by a great deal of people, and I fear that this misinterpretation will be spread to people who will thus have no interest in exploring the site at all, or worse, will come onto the site as trolls and then think that what they were told is confirmed when Stef brings the banhammer down on them for being adversarial, condescending and totally closed to any ideas but their own preconceptions.
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