Light–the sole perpetrator in Mr.Riddle’s awakening. Faster than a river rapid (he knows from experience), Mr.Riddle leaps out of bed the moment the sun breaks on his window. The short, thin, Robert Downey, Jr.-look-a-like skips not one, not two, but all the steps of his staircase. Mr.Riddle is fully clothed and has grabbed three-packs of granola bars before I even finish this sentence. His goal: to bike the entire mountain range of the Rockies in a single day. With an explosive kick, his front door flies off its hinges and Mr.Riddle is pedaling away faster than high school students driving off-campus for lunch. After the rubber tires on his bike melt when he reaches Mach 5, the naked wheels drew a trail of flames on the cracked pavement. His face, though, is sagging with drowsiness. The twenty-one-hour ride is only his warm-up, you know.
- Mornin’ mountain air
- Wagging tails
- Light rain on a setting sun
- Ocean spray
- Long-winded crickets
- Starry nights
- Wet grass
- Bess Beetles
- Autumn trees
- Big city, bright lights
- “Approved for APPROPRIATE AUDIENCES” frame before movie previews
- Any wind in my face
- Misty woods
- The sun shining through oak leaves
- Long, vivid dreams
- Clif Bars
- Dry salami, bleu cheese, and red wine
- Bubbling creeks
- Rocking boats
- Guitar strums
- Speakers that make your ears bleed
- Being hunched over in the dark, lost in a world behind a screen (or within a book)
- Miserable, 10-mile runs
- Pretty faces
- People freaking out on YouTube
- Olive oil…mmmmm, yeah…
- Seeing-eye dogs
- Over-the-top movies
- Hot-Topic stores
- Jokes about how bad a joke is
- Finding the light at the end of the tunnel and finding out there’s another light at the end of the tunnel
- Tight T-shirts
- Lonesome cactus in a desert
- Platypuses. Or platypi? …Platypeople?
- Still art brought to life
- Going head-over-heels and landing on my feet
- Some WUB-WUB-WUUUUUBs and Ti-ba-ta-BING with a DROP THE BASS
- Fries at the bottom of the bag
- The food, house, friends, and family I am blessed with
- Never finding the right station on the radio
- Anything that is not math
- McCulley Culken (before he did coke)
- -To be determined-
“RAAAAH-YAH!” my battle cry cuts the air like a knife through butter as I charge forward and strike my enemy. He parries my attack with ease; his looming figure towers over the tumultuous sea of warring armies around us.
“Hmmm,” he muses, “I wonder why you continue this little game.”
I tighten my grip on the sword in my hand, inhaling the hot ash that is raining from the blazing sky above. The cracks in the earth widen and more of our minions plummet to the center of the dying planet.
“It won’t be long now,” Colin cackles, his violently forged armor clanking menacingly. The rage builds inside me, so I raise my blade and unleash my–
“Time to go Adrian! Recess is over!” Emily calls, already running through the playground. I look to Colin, we drop the sticks we were wielding, and we take off after the rest of our third-grade class.
“Same thing tomorrow?” I say to my friend, squinting under the radiant sun.
“Sure,” he sighs.
The next recess was different, of course. Everyday was a new adventure.
Sometimes at dusk we would see him come out from the hidden interior of his island. For years we had no idea who he was or what he did until his body dropped dead in the water and drifted over to our docks. The waves had had him knocking against the rotted wood as if to say, “Knock-knock, Hello? I done-diddily-died! Wanna see my viciously mutilated chest with the ribs poking out?” Well, we dragged the rancid mess of “Steve” (his grocery-store-vest nametag had survived) onto the bank, his eyes more white than his veiny, bald head, and Tippy and I set off in our riverboat to see what had gone down on that island in the middle of the lake. When I heard the grimy hull of our boat scrape against the sand of the small piece of land, a feeling of colder than a steel knife cut through my spine.
“Tippy?” I called out, seeing he had disappeared into the heavy mists. I found myself completely alone, embanked on this mysterious island. The only thing more mysterious was the pair of glowering eyes that skulk in malicious shivers deep within the island’s heart.
It begins by a small cabin. Warm light of the hearth vibrates from its single window which is carved sloppily from the pine timbers. A clouded sky threatens the surrounding forest with a storm. The cabin, though, is not in danger, for a single ray of light breaks from the heavens, soaking the roof and the peach gardens around it. Smells of the tempting fruit and fires crackling heartily beckon from within the splintered walls. A jubilant whistle resonates from inside. Every bone in your body (you, the reader) screams to go inside the radiant home.
You instead turn around and fly into the roaring clouds above, death only almost inevitable.
Quiet- not much goes on after the apocalypse.
“Welcome to Level 2. Please mind the gap,” the elevator buzzes. This particular lift is more popular than any other elevator amongst the three artificial layers encasing the planet Earth. The exponential growth of the human race spilled into the skies, carving shells of steel that more than tripled the living space. Earth is still overcrowded, though. Especially here, where my body is practically crushed like a soda can between the two hulking mafia-meatheads at my sides. Their words are more vulgar than the graffiti covered walls, and their faces are even worse. The only thing more revolting than my kidnappers is the rank stench of the buzzing crowd. We swarm from the now open elevator doors, leap the six inch opening between lift and level, and bustle under the vast third layer– transparent glass to signify the purity of the upper class. Us dirty underlings can at least see the sky, though.
Writing has always been a joy to me. Whether it was about dragons slaying knights, space marines fighting bear-ducks, a boy and a girl, or absolutely nothing at all (seriously, I wrote about NOTHING), writing gives me a high more elevated than what Wiz Khalifa gets on his best day. Or would it be Charlie Sheen? Nah, he’s apparently gone clean. Anyway, my head swirls in a cyclone of colors. Emotions, ideas, dreams– they’re all plopped inside my skull and set to “blend”. What comes out is what you see now: a toxic, pulsating discharge that either trickles or floods from my mind. This “milk”, as I would call it, is what I happily force down your throat, like a loving goat-mother would do for one of its reluctant children. Since these words have been baking in my head for the past ten minutes, I’ve already enjoyed writing what you’re reading. My only wish is that you do too.