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My Dad
Friday. 12.1.06 11:57 pm
< STEVO BLOOPER >
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Creative Writing, 4th Block
Miss < TEACHER >


I love my dad. He tells stories, plays games, takes my brother and me places, and generally hangs out. As I get older we stop playing hide and shriek upstairs and he starts helping me with school. Every night he comes in to tuck me in with a good night prayer, and then when Mom comes in he moves over to Sean’s room and bids him good night too. When Mom also moves down to Sean’s room, Dad comes back to my room. He sits on my bed, and I ask. I ask everything I can think of, and he answers all my questions in almost perfect detail. It seems as if my dad knows everything, and I want to be like that when I grow up.

I finish fourth grade like this, always asking questions and thirsting for answers. We spend Summer Vacation in Maryland, at my fake aunt’s house. She isn’t my real aunt; she has been best friends with my mom since forever. She has two daughters, Clarissa and Rosena, who love to play outside, and her husband acts crazy and loves the Three Stooges. They have three cats, (one of which is diabetic,) a swimming pool, and attic/loft area, a basement full of old stuff, a long, winding, and steep driveway, about an acre of backyard, and more. In other words, it’s the prefect place to have a vacation.

Dad and Uncle Glen are hunting all four of us through the basement. We’ve set up a series of forts made of old boxes and shelving, and Dad and Glen have to figure out where exactly we’re hiding. When they get close Clarissa starts giggling, but they don’t hear us because Dad launches into a coughing fit. He’s been coughing all day, but now his face is turning red and Glen has to help support him. Sean and I don’t think much of it, we know how dusty it is in the basement, and Titi Donna points out that he’s slightly allergic to cats anyway, so nobody worries about it, except Mom. She worries about everything. After all, he did just get back from a mission’s trip to Mexico. He probably drank some bad water.

I’m in the fifth grade now, and Dad has been diagnosed with cancer. His lymph nodes have become a problem; when they get too big they squeeze the lungs and blood vessels around them. He coughs all the time now, and lately he’s even had to lug around an oxygen tank and sleep with a humidifier. My mom is losing sleep fast, not only from her constant worrying, but just from being kept up all night with Dad’s “snoring.” One day he comes out of the shower kind of chuckling. All of his thick dark hair has fallen out, leaving behind the whites that had started sprouting recently. He shows us the lump of black hair he pulled out of his comb.

One morning I wake up earlier than usual. At first I can’t figure out why, but then I notice the sirens. I go out to the hallway, and from the top of the steps I see Dad being loaded onto a stretcher that barely past our picture table. I don’t see mom. I go back to my room and start getting dressed for school.

I’m doing my spelling homework. Mom’s out with some friends, and Dad’s downstairs taking a nap. There is a really hard word that I don’t know, but I don’t want to go downstairs and wake Dad. He’s been sleeping badly lately. But I really need help with this word, so I sneak downstairs to see if, by chance, he’s awake. He is. I ask him if he isn’t too tired to come up and help me with my homework. He just nods his head and follows me upstairs. I show him the book, and he just sits there for a minute, and then writes out the definition on a piece of paper. This really creeps me out, he hasn’t said a word the whole time, and I see that his face is a weird color. I ask if he’s alright. He looks at me for a second or two, and nods his head.

When he goes downstairs for some water, I call my mom. I’ve been reading too many fiction books lately; thoughts of imposters, crazy killers, even aliens race though my mind. I tell mom that I’m scared, and that Dad won’t talk to me. It isn’t until later that we know that Dad has had a stroke.

The stroke leaves Dad totally normal. Maybe he’s a bit clumsier than usual, but totally normal. But he can’t talk. A blood clot has blocked off the part of his brain that gives him speech. He writes fine. Sometimes if you surprise him he yells, and if you ask him a simple question, like “Are you OK” he whispers “yes” involuntarily. But that’s all. Now he spends most of his time in the hospital. The doctors are afraid that he might have another stroke, another blood clot, or anything. I don’t really like going to visit him; it smells funny and there’s only one chair. I hate standing around his bed, just looking at him. We can’t really hold a conversation. He’s always tired, and I feel totally useless. I hate it. I start sleeping over at friends’ houses, even on school days because mom stays overnight at Piedmont.

After a rather sad and quiet visit, Sean and I go to Jared and Robbie’s house. We play video games, swim, and watch Monty Python. School has been out for few weeks, (4th of July in two days!) so we’ve pretty much been there all day. When we pull into my neighborhood and make the first turn, I see all the cars along our driveway all the way down to the street. Most are still wet from the recent rain. We head into our over crowded house. Mom finds us and quickly pulls us back outside to the front lawn. She’s crying, and she hugs us. “Daddy’s gone. He finally let go. He’s in a better place now.” But it’s OK. Because over Mom’s shoulder I see the rainbow.

< END ENTRY >

This was written for school. My teacher wanted her students to write something sad, scary, or happy that had happened to them, explain how it affected them, and write it to seem as if it was happening again. (present tense) Tommorow we share these with the whole class. I normally wouldn't post something like this, but I felt like I had to. Plus, I really like the way it turned out, and I want people to see it and appreciate it, even if they go all soft on me. 98% true.

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Everything on this site, from the tidbit above to the background image, is a Stevo Original. It was made by me.

I didn\'t invent words, however, and something as large as the NuTang server is beyond me.

Please, e-mail me at [email protected] with questions, comments, and concerns. Thanks!
George's Job
Friday. 12.1.06 11:56 pm
George was very tired. He’d been working all day, and he had the aches to prove it. His fingers felt like the tendons were trying to pop out of the inside of each knuckle, while his eyes told him that there was a giant with a thumb in each of his eye sockets. His back was also rather stiff; it seemed as if every time he turned, a whole section of bones popped with a loud CRACK. His knees were also creaking; each pop sent a shudder through his leg.

His work wasn’t finished yet, but George had a mighty need to stuff his face. His stomach growled at him angrily. George’s work was important to him; he hadn’t bothered to eat anything all day, and he was pretty hungry. The way his stomach was acting, maybe he could spare a few minutes or so and eat. He opened his lunch-box and began to work on his ham sandwich. Thank God for lunch boxes.

The sandwich was pretty good, and the apple left him content and thirsty. George downed a miniature bottle of water and grimaced. He glanced at the bottle and made another face. Deer Park. Man, that stuff sure is Deer Something, but it isn’t Park. Still, he was satisfied. George took a minute to reflect, them burped. If there ever was a philosophical belch, this was it. George considered himself a master of burping. Burping, and his job.

Several hours later, George finished. He cracked his knuckles and burped again, tasting his late dinner. His fingers and other joints still throbbed, but he was happy with a good day’s work. By now the FBI would be sending the money to his bank account in Switzerland; this pleased him. He needed the money, and he didn’t feel like launching any missile. It was too bad he’d had to launch the first one. George shut off the power to his bunker complex, and went to sleep on the trundle bed in front of the gleaming bank of computers and other hacking tools.

Comment! (1) | Recommend!

Everything on this site, from the tidbit above to the background image, is a Stevo Original. It was made by me.

I didn't invent words, however, and something as large as the NuTang server is beyond me.

Please, e-mail me at [email protected] with questions, comments, and concerns. Thanks!
In a Drop of Water
Friday. 12.1.06 11:54 pm
< STEVO BLOOPER >
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Creative Writing, Fourth Block
Miss < TEACHER >

I just got out of sanitation. I’m traveling fast with all my brothers and sisters, and we don’t even know where we’ll end up. Last time I made an exit I was in a sink, but the time before that I sat in a dirty toilet bowl for three hours before being mixed with various organic wastes and getting flushed back into the pipes with a loud swooshing sound and a swirl that changes direction from hemisphere to hemisphere.

It’s a shame, really. I’ve been around since before the first organic crawled from the sea. I’m a free roaming spirit, with the wisdom of the ages. My brethren and I have been to many places, in many forms. I’ve been to the bitter cold landscapes of Antarctica, both as a feathery, white flake of snow and as part of the brittle, smooth icebergs. (I especially liked being part of the few thousand emerald ones that I’ve joined; they look like lime, but they taste oh-so-salty!) Sometimes I go to the cozy shores of the Bahamas. I’ve made my vacation as a diamond of condensation on the outside of many cups smelling of lemonade, as an over sized drop of rain, (I usually have to share the space with ten or so of my buddies.) or both. A warm drop of water is a happy drop of water!

A few times (a few being so many million,) I’ve touched the rim of the deep black sky. For truly, the sky only looks “sky blue.” Silly organics. I’ve been in and out of every organic species on the planet; I know their inner workings better than my own. Being broken up into my base molecules is kind of like being tickled, but all over and inside. I hear the organic humans speaking in their unnaturally deep voices through the echoing pipe walls; they think they’re so smart. Surely, they have enough knowledge to enslave the elementals, but they are still foolish. They have no respect for those who give them their power. Without us water drops, all of the earthling organics would die. Their machines would outlast them, but soon they too would return to the collective of nature. Such are the thoughts of a high-spirited drop of water.

Still, in all my elemental glory, I am forced to do the bidding of the humans. I actually kind of like the roller-coaster ride through the pipes, it’s quite the hydrogen rush. Still, I don’t think it’s worth my freedom and my dignity. Oh lord, here comes a split in the pipes. Which will I take? I guess I’m off to the left. Down, down, down we swirl. If we don’t stop, I just might hurl!

I come out of a rusty shower head and whistle through the air. I’m sparkling in the light, free falling, separated from my brethren for a moment; this is why I like showers more than most other things. I fly right by the woman standing in the tub, and lose my euphoria. The humans make each other pay for water, and they waste it on absolutely nothing. I join other drops at the bottom of the tub. Some are messy with the dirt of the woman; I can taste her sweat inside me and the see it floating in the other drops like a miniature lava lamp. This isn’t so bad. No drop is 100 per cent water, there are many other things mixed into us. It’s part of what makes us individual. I smell grime and the musty smell of shower milder as we flow into the drain with the natural smooth grace that comes with our age. We quickly form into our signature blob and run down the drain. The path is predictable now. Though the actual route is undoubtedly different, all drains lead to the same place. They lead to freedom, simplicity, to the sea. I like being part of such a vast collective, being among my friends and relatives without so much interference from the humans. Then evaporation, flying with the air, falling as rain or snow, back to sanitation and the pipes, into eternity.

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Everything on this site, from the tidbit above to the background image, is a Stevo Original. It was made by me.

I didn't invent words, however, and something as large as the NuTang server is beyond me.

Please, e-mail me at [email protected] with questions, comments, and concerns. Thanks!
Oh, Snap!
Wednesday. 11.29.06 9:39 pm

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Everything on this site, from the tidbit above to the background image, is a Stevo Original. It was made by me.

I didn't invent words, however, and something as large as the NuTang server is beyond me.

Please, e-mail me at [email protected] with questions, comments, and concerns. Thanks!
Introduction
Wednesday. 11.29.06 6:24 pm
Firstly, this is middaymoon speaking. Welcome. Welcome to the Archives. This blog will serve as a place for me to store everything that I feel is important. Recently I have started to become more creative, and have expressed myself through writing, mostly, but I also dabble a lot in photo art. By art, of course, I mean pretty much anything that I've manipulated, or even drawn myself in a few cases. This will be a kind of portfolio.

Now, with here's a tidbit of my mind. Using the tag feature in a new way (as far as I know), I have set up a kind of book. At the left you should see a module entitled "Table of Contents". It is as it appears; this will be your starting point. Everything, from short stories to movies, from trip details (for my sake) to animations or just funny stuff, will be posted in an entry. Also, using a combinatoin of URL forwarding and link replacement, I have successfully changed the entire layout of this nuTang. For the most part, entries will contain only one "tidbit", but some that go together will go into the same entry. Comments are encouraged, but please notify me if you comment on a post that has been buried. It will become hard for me to monitor all comments, so you can e-mail me if you're a non-member, or just note me.

Links in the main menu will most likely lead to sub menus once things get going. Navigation might get real weird, but I'm not worried. As to linking, as long as you link to the actual entry and not just the page, you shouldn't lose anytihing. Any questions, comments, or concerns should be directed here. Thank you!

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Everything on this site, from the tidbit above to the background image, is a Stevo Original. It was made by me.

I didn't invent words, however, and something as large as the NuTang server is beyond me.

Please, e-mail me at [email protected] with questions, comments, and concerns. Thanks!
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