Prisoners of Clutter The quiet evening descended upon the quiet neighborhood of Nutree as the lamp posts and car headlights slowly awoke to spread their path to those travelling home after a long days work. One house however, remained void of any outside lighting, or cars resting in front of the house. By all accounts, the house seemed dead. The only evidence to the contrary was a blinking computer screen situated in the North West corner of the Robin’s Egg blue house. I sat rocking slowly in front of the widescreen monitor as a Word document stared back at me, blinking each time the input bar demanded to be fed memories and imagery. The page remains empty save for a name decorating the top right margin and a title announcing: “Prisoners of Clutterâ€. Why this title, why not something generic like Symbols of Me? Do I even have any symbols in my life that are out of the ordinary that if one were to look at this be able to instantly come to the conclusion that they describe who I am without words? The answer, is writer’s block. The medium is open, yet I was drawn to make a creative work that encompassed the ideology of what I am with my possessions and all I have before me is a blank document and a collection of Star Wars collectibles giving me the third degree as their emotionless eyes gaze down as if judging my productivity would be better off with a lightsaber hole smoldering between my third and forth vertebra. Do I have a muse, no. Just a cluttered desk stacked high with sunglass remnants and manuals to the latest video game and no matter what they say, I’m still stuck. Maybe this is symbolic of how I use video games as a way of escaping reality, thrusting myself against hoards of undead zombies or chasing after the Princess yet again kidnapped by the nefarious Bowser. Maybe I wish that my life was more adventurous than the cut and paste daily lifestyle of school and work. I stand up slowly, letting the creaks and pains from my knee and back breathe. An idea begins to form as the objects decorating my desk begin to swirl and come to life, each describing the joys and pitfalls of how they came to my sted. My mind refocuses on the screen as a spattering of words are painted across the page. It’s not perfect, but nothing ever is as I put on my ear phones and Ray Bans, and blink. The lights dim as I watch the internal movie slowly unfold through the opening credits. Tattered Index Card My eyes spy one small strip of paper resting beneath my speakers: a torn index card. It seems misplaced, a prisoner of clutter from years past waiting to meet its maker. I delicately uncurl a crumpled edge, letters bleed into sentences. I stare down at the list of New Years resolutions from New Years Eve 1999. • Make enough money to buy a car. My 2007 Seattle Blue Hyundai Elantra sleeps outside beneath the tall oak tree. • Complete college. Seventy eight credits down, twelve more in the pipe, thirty-two to go. • See every state. Missing: Hawaii Five-o, Oregon, Montana, Louisiana, Arkansas, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, Sweet Home Alabama, Mississippi Queen, Georgia, The Carolinas, Virginias and Maryland. • Complete every video game. …Pending completion. • Get a girl. …On hold since 1998. • Write how you want to write. Don’t write how other’s want you to write. Be me. I pause, re-reading the final resolution. Something inside spring’s to life, demanding to rebel against the restraints of form and normality. Be me. Show the world what life is like behind the shades. A splintered Sher-wood Blade Lights warmup. The ice is cold, unscathered. Sweat mixes with nerves. Fabric blends against padding. Laces tighten. Gloves flex. Two thin lines tear through silence, approaching center ice. Adrenaline. Concentration. Focus. Puck. Sticks mashing together, breaking loose, circle around center, pass up the middle, deflection. Clears the zone, must double back, give chase. Sweat streaks, cross check, board, glass, pain, whistle. Two minutes. Five on Four power-play. Scouts sit up above the benches taking notes and motioning towards different players while having silent arguments. Face-off, pass to outside. Holding. Holding. Holding, 79 releases. Puck flies low, bouncing across the ice. Goalie falls on the puck. Whistle. 1:30 left on power-play. Coach roars, we crowd the crease, he points 21 out, mouths: Dangerous. Puck drops, bounces between skates. 21 skates in. I follow. Collision behind our net. He swears, I kick the puck away to 13. 13 flies up the far side, breakaway, deke, goal. 1-0. Elation. +1. Assist to 29. The power-play ends. 21 watches. Waiting. Center ice again. Adrenaline returns. 21 stares me down, I smirk. Puck drops, skates clash, sticks mash, fist strikes chest. Refs see nothing. 21 skates into zone, breaks one defender, slap-shot: Goal. 1-1. War. Clock ticks through two periods, both sides duel as the score reaches 3-2. A good game, with two assists in my bag. Scouts smile and point to 21 and me, they must like the pairing. Coach notices and warns to watch the left side. I nod. Adrenaline replaces blood. Puck drops. Poke check, two line pass deflection, clears the zone. Stick buffets the ice, 21 sits on point, hungry. I circle behind the goal, bringing the pressure. He smile, I hesitate. His stick swings back, whipping forward as a long pass meets his stick blade. Slap-shot bounces. Impact. Crack. Pain. The puck deflects wide, bouncing calmly against the boards. I teeter, pain. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!! Yelling. Gloves drop, fists fly, whistle. Team doctor slides across the blue line. My head swims, I crash against the boards falling to the ice. Pain. 21 enters the penalty box, fighting continues within the ranks. The doctor touches my knee. Pain. Adrenaline fades to blood, I hobble between 13 and 8 back to the dressing room. MRI results: The doctor gets the coach. Fractured Patella with a torn Quadriceps tendon. “Your done.†1/6th scale Academy Award <Cue> Dim house lights. PHAROAH stands at the top of the catwalk with his back upstage. NARRATOR sits at the base of stage right, holding a SMALL CANDLE, while the KIDS sit in a half circle on stage around NARRATOR. Narrator: Pharoah he was a powerful man with the ancient world in the palm of his hand. To all intents and purposes he was Egypt, with a capital “Eâ€â€¦ PHAROAH keeps his head low, hidden behind a spread cape sequined in the pattern of a soaring eagle. The red and black jumper sits better than the blue suede nightmare that PHAROAH has pushed from his memory. Narrator: …Whatever he did he was showered with praise, if he cracked a joke, then you chortled for days… PHAROAH smiles to himself, arms growing heavy beneath the spread cape. Row 1 seat 14. It’s reserved for her. She walked in during the cue for places before Act 1. The golden microphone glistens off the backlighting. Narrator: …No one had rights or a vote but the king, in fact you might say he was very right winged. <Cue> DANCERS from Stage Right and Downstage Left. PHAROAH remains statuesque, watching friends surge from backstage taking their positions around the central staircase, 100% in character except for Katie, who winks as she passes beneath the light board. Narrator: …when Pharoah’s around, you get down on the ground. If you ever find yourself near Ramses….get down on your knees. NARRATOR rises, and leads KIDS to midstage while DANCERS sing, “A Pharoah’s Story†with NARRATOR. PHAROAH’s smile widens as he begins to feel a warm calming come over him. He tunes out the next three verses. Microphone: check. Mic pack: locked and loaded. Wig: sexy. Elvis lip action: in progress. Key change. NARRATOR enters back into his head. There’s been a run of crazy dreams, and a man that can interpret could go far…could be come a star. Music fades out, the audience roars with cheers and applause. It’s standing room only. BUTLER enters from Stage Left. Smoke fills the stage, the hieroglyphs ignite, raining their neon glow through the auditorium. Showtime. Torre di Pisa L'aria calda oceanica roteato il mare come persone giovani e vecchi attraversato la città . Turisti, negozio proprietari, mariti e mogli in ogni respiro l'odore della bella Italia. Sedermi su una panchina come traffico regate intorno a me. Il mio gelato mi tiene lontano dal mio giorno per giorno le preoccupazioni tornare a casa. Per un attimo, ho perso un rifugiato in un mare di storia. Sono un gladiatore lotta contro la Casaer accontentare. Sono in piedi non più di cinque piedi dal obelisco del Circo di Nerone all'interno di Piazza San Pietro. I passi indietro al mio albergo, scattare foto e scrivere le memorie. Mi fermo in un mercato e l'acquisto di una piccola torre di Pisa. Sto prendendo Italia a casa. 10, 10 MG Propanolol The morning of March 25th 2007 awoke normal, within a week as routine as any I could imagine. The weather was warming as snow drifts began to diminish, showing trampled earth below. 10:30 am inside the Ken Garff Building, Third floor, room six, seat 1 row 1. Discussions of proper uses of conversing between past present and past perfect. The Italians gave us art, music, and romance…and a language as complex as any I’ve ever seen. A finger prodded it’s way beneath my shoulder blade, I reached back to sway away a curious hand, only to feel nothing at the same moment my left hand cramped up. I shake it loose, but the finger persists and after a minute turns into a rotary drill, burrowing through the soft muscle, unstoppable. I cough, air escapes but doesn’t return. My airway and chest begin to constrict. I walk out of class with my books and do the only logical thing as I hobble down the flights of stairs. “Mom?†“ya?†“I think that I’m having a heart attack.†Pause. I know what’s going through her head. The last month’s worth of heart problems. “WHY THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING ME?! CALL 9-1-1!!†That would have been a bit more logical. I step out into the Business Loop as my vision begins to blur at the corners. I see a good sign: People. Pain racks across my body now, I’ve lost feeling in my entire left arm. Panic is beginning to set in. “Derek?†I look up to see the curious face of Sarah Fowler. I can’t help but laugh. I’ve not seen her since seventh grade and here she is standing next over me. “Why are you on the ground?†My mind searches for an answer that doesn’t sound too crazy or off putting, but nothing comes. “I’m having a heart attack. So what have you been up to with yourself?†She blinks at me as I hand her my phone. “9-1-1 please.†Pain. I black out. I wake up an hour later in a hospital bed, machines beeping, parents pacing outside as a medical technician withdraws a vial of blood. Discovery Channel eminates from the television. The doctor enters as my parents rush in my mom is in tears and shaking. “Well Mr. Prior, we have some results from the blood tests. You suffered a heart ack without the release of the cardiac enzymes. So in a sense you didn’t suffer a heart attack, but felt all the symptoms of one.†“What does that mean?†He smiles. “Your heart gave you an early April Fools.â€
Nice. Just have to say now that I like the style used for this essay. It could be a bit better, you know small things, but overall I can't complain except for my Italian is barely workable so I missed quite a bit. Not thinking there's anything worth mentioning, because I feel that the only thing you could improve upon here might be in the syntax/diction area, not my specialty but I still find a few parts could be a little more to my taste but that's just an opinion really.
Why truly it is..... The Italian.....man was that hard to read.....>.> but a very ispiring work nonetheless. There's something special about this.....I can't put my finger on it. This style resembles somewhat the creators of animatrix.....<.<
