James Aventure (some profane language)

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Thread: James Aventure (some profane language)

  1. #1

    James Aventure (some profane language)

    I have not posted or been active on this forum for I think 2 years and my last post was about me dealing with writers block, being busy, and being aggravated about not being motivated to write. I wrote this in about 3 hours when I should have been sleeping and am literally ecstatic that I have finally come across the mindset to write and just not stop until I pass out. This is really a messy writing style and I usually use a third person perspective, but when I felt the urge it came out that way. Directly from my brain to the paper and added story elements. I'm not sure if its good or works but It sorta flows easy. I would also love to start being more active and become more involved with the writing community and finally begin to pursue something close to a writing career. Maybe short stories in magazines, join competitions possibly. I would love some feedback if any of yall are interested in reading my stuff!

    My dream is to get lost. Not completely lost but in more of a controlled way. I make the decisions, but on a whim. Its almost as if each decision (even made by me) was meant to happen or is destiny per se. I often ask myself if I believe in destiny, a lot of the time I really do and think you just have to have the will power to follow it. Thinking about it now I think ones destiny is made by that persons actions and thoughts. Ah. This is too complicated. I could go on and on, switching the ideas around, considering others. I just want to get to it, get going, start. Now. Should I plan ahead? Or does that diminish the idea of it? I should be spontaneous.
    Its really nice at the moment. Quiet. The fan is whirring and the usual traffic is blurred in the background too much for me to hear it without full concentration. Everything is still. My paintbrushes don't move, my cabinets don't open, my camera doesn't take pictures, my journal doesn't write in itself. Standing makes my vision go dark and my head numb. Why does this happen? I sit and squint as my phones blinds me while I adjust to its light. The dark room around me becomes nothing and I type in the words. "Why does standing suddenly blur my vision?"
    I read the text. Apparently I have a total of 7 types of cancer. That can't be right? Oh here it is, Postural Hypotension. Or popularily known as a dizzy spell or head rush. Nothing to do with cancer.
    "Caused by sudden lack of blood flow to the brain when standing or stretching."
    Interesting. The phones light fades and I drop it onto my bed. I am now blinded by the darkness, I squeeze my eyes shut to yet again, adjust. Blackness, but never fully. Always fuzz of blue and red. A brilliant multitude of color displayed. Then moved by my thought, into patterns, shapes, poetry, landscapes. My dreams and imaginations lay inside, rising up, getting a head rush possibly? The thought amuses me and I open my eyes. I am staring at a green box filled with camping supplies. Pack. Empty my backpack. Clothes, nice warm clothes. What is that noise? Is that porn? Ear to my wall at 3 in the morning. My newest younger and definitely not so innocent brother is watching pornography. My newest mom would have a fit. Respect your women Thomas! Whatever, at least he gets SOME excersize.
    A fully packed bag with the essentials, saved money, very few memories, circular pop up tent, sleeping bag, some clothing, multitool, maps, etc. Where the fuck are my car keys?

    After a good half hour of silently searching for bastard keys I realize they reside at the bottom of my fully crammed and packed backpack. Wonderful. But not as wonderful as the feeling of the cool and still night air. Whats really not wonderful is falling into newest mothers thorny roses from the second story window to my room. Every once in awhile you have to fall and smell the roses I suppose. A few randomly selected roads, a freeway with cars I am suspicious of. Who are you people driving north on the Interstate 15? Where are you going? Maybe someones like me. Tired of it. A foster, delinquent, constantly moving. I was always excited by the drive and the possibilites. The scenery from California to Texas, from Texas to California. Fake mother #3, Julia had always asked her retired military husband why I had been such a nice boy on the trip, compared to my hellish behaviour back home. Your daughter was a pothead BEFORE she met me and of course you didn't believe the foster. The foster who took the metal bat and thrashed his room. Got bad grades in school when his teachers say he has potential. Yes fake dad, I can hear you say I'm a fuck up from the top of the stairs, no I am not asleep.
    Silence was heavy in the car as I reminisced the many families i've been with. Some I actually missed. The ones at the start at least. Then the monotonous repetition set in, marijuana became a blessing and a curse all at once. My last step parents were okay. They weren't worried about my depression, more so the homework. Content with my general unsocial divide from them. Not that they even noticed their real son, just acknowledgements and occasional questions that he can mindlessly answer as he works on his thumb reflexes, playing video games.
    "CAN YOU PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TURN YOUR VIDEO GAME DOWN? MAYBE READ? FUCK!"
    I chuckled at the memory. Darlene and David gave me quite the lecture for this one. So aggravating the way they talked. It was all in numerical order.
    "First of all Thomas is only 12" said the father in a dissapointing tone. "Second, we do not allow cussing in this household." Said the mother with her squeeky rat voice.
    They said a boatload more but I've gained a certain talent. Blur your vision and see through them, block my hearing, I am content and in control. Nod and agree to everything, the occasional "sorry." or "I understand sir."
    The fucker was laughing as they made me apologize to him. They will get a kick out of my note labeled, "Shit you don't know about your 'innocent' son" I began with the porn.
    4:30 am when I click on the radio, silence finally broken. What do I want to listen to? Rap? No to hardcore. Maybe oldies. Yeah, The Beatles. No, to cheesy for right now. I need something mellow but not stoned mellow. Fuck it, jazz. "I can get into this." I say, tapping my fingers on the wheel and imitating the instruments. Distractions are my life it seems. Music is a distraction, writing, video games, drawing, running away. But this is for good. This is my life. I need this. My heart is pumping erratically from the excitement, lets see America, lets REALLY be free. Why join in with the masses? Its diverse but in a bigger picture its the same. School, school, school, college, job, money. Systematics that I can't see myself being apart of. I've followed my talents, i've mapped out my future. Mapped it out. Its set in stone, this is where I'm going its going to work. This is your next family. Boring.
    My eyes are weights, waiting to fall and rest. Turn left on to the 67 off of scripps poway road. Can my navigator sound more like a math teacher? Suddenly, a gigantic yawn followed by intense pain and a bump inbetween my jaw. Did I just pull a damn muscle? Ow ow ow. Massage it, massage. Okay. I'm okay. My drowsiness fades for the next five minutes then returns in a greater level. Drifting, calmness, smooth jazz. BRGRRGRRRGGRGR.
    "AH FUCKK!"
    The wake up bumps have worked beautifully at giving me a heart attack and preventing my cliffside jump of faith.
    I turn into Ellie Lane with sweaty hands and a hard concentrated grip, heart pounding maniacally. Where the hell does this road even lead? The thought runs through my mind. Large oaks covering both sides of me as I drive down a winding and bumpy dirt pathway. Finally the path becomes flat and the headlights shine brightly onto a grandoise victorian style home. Paint chipping, old fashioned distortioned and wavey glass mostly broken. A front porch caved in and rotted, it was a truly dead, lost in time mansion. I sat for awhile staring at its features, the jazz losing connection to a country radio station. Right, further inland, more country. Yee-haw. I turned the station to the classics. Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds played. Thank you beatles for making the atmosphere a million times less creepy. Seriously. Higher elevation. The wind speeds picking up. The shadows seemingly moved with the shaking leaves of the oaks and pines. Everything a dark and lingering silhouette. A heavy breath out, a grab of my handheld lamp, and a brave turning off of the headlights. Time to get the hatchet from my trunk, i've made up my mind. Gonna stay here until morning, explore the area, get gas, head out and continue to Stella's house. A friend of mine residing in town at the base of mountain country. Near my home for 2 months at the age of Ten.
    A slow cautious walk towards the house. Its uneven gravel pathway crunching under my feet, all five senses jacked into overdrive. The mailbox read "The Morely Residence"
    "Shall I check the mail?"
    A screech from the rusty handle and a few letters flutter down to the dirt. My eyes fixated on them, a cool breeze running through the oak trees. This. This is meant to be. This is amazing, this is insane, this is fucking creepy! Who has been here last? How long has it been? Thoughts ran through my mind. Finally I grabbed the mail and slid them into my hoodies pocket.
    "Really hope you have a fireplace or some sort of furnace." I spoke to the house as I arrived at the front door. Should I knock? I laughed nervously as the images of ghostly presences creeped into my mind. Fuck that. I moved on. The porches floorboards creeked with every careful step, afraid that i'd fall through. I peered into a window to the side, shining my flashlights light through and setting my lamp beside a clay pot holding a decayed flower.
    "Everythings dead here.."
    The light casted large menacing shadows into the kitchen. An island in the middle, oversized sink, cabinets top and bottom, pantry door, and a furnace. A chill shook my whole body as I climbed through the window. From both anxiety and how god damn cold it was. Don't think of ghosts. Fuck them they don't exist. I set my backpack on the island and grabbed my lighter. The paper from the book "Hell House" made good kindling for the dry firewood that sat next to the furnace. My attention hypnotized by the flames my mind began to doze and thoughts left me to sleep. My eyes shutting finally, the fire rumbling softly, owls hooting, and crickets playing. My sleeping bag warm and mind finally clear, I deeply sleep at 5:54 am.

    The music of birds and a dry mouth awoke me. My watch read 12:40. The furnaces fire had died at some point in the night and I felt warm and content in my sleeping bag, dozing into the swirling galaxy of dust. I stood and began to roll my bag and in my peripheral vision I noticed a quick sudden movement. I turned my head and a squirrel did the same towards me, a nut in his cheek. I laughed and it retreated up the stairs, running along the dark handrail caked in dust. The house was extravagant and beautiful. The old appliances in the kitchen, pots and pans still hung from above the island. I packed my bag and slung it on my back, taking creaking steps out the side of the kitchen into the main hall. A massive chandelier swung slowly from the cieling. Along the walls were crooked paintings and vintage photos of what I could guess were the family that had resided here. I studied them in awe, wondering who they were and where they have gone.
    Last edited by Nixrp; September 8th, 2016 at 03:21 AM.

  2. #2
    I'm not quite sure that you have a story here rather than an interesting collection of thoughts and description. However, it's good that you are back to writing after suffering from writer's block! Good! Keep at it and write more. You had some moments in here that I thought were curious in a good way. If you can fit in writing more into your schedule then you will get past all the rough edges and onto smooth grass.

    Thanks for sharing and keep on writing!
    ďAs far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light of meaning in the darkness of mere being,"

    -Carl Jung

  3. #3
    I agree with Daniel. It seems more like a collection of thoughts than a complete story. I feel the urge many a time myself and its not a bad thing. Especially i find it helping me refine my thoughts when i put them on a string in writing...

  4. #4
    I'd ease back on the word "fuck," it starts to lose its meeting.

  5. #5
    A bit rushed, but that is to be expected when the flood gates open!

    I see the story forming, though, I would guess you haven't figured out the whole entire thing yet yourself. Reminds me of a possible coming of age story like The Body, (Stand by me) or could be a sci-fi/supernatural type adventure. Either way it has potential and just let the muse guide you. Welcome back to the writing world.

  6. #6
    Member
    Join Date
    May 2018
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    Bronx Ny
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    17
    When I get writer's block there is usually this same dialogue in my head, "I need to write not how I am feeling but to write which changes with my feeling". In my personal opinion there are 100s of moods you could be in, with equal affect on your writing. In the most extreme cases(hardcore sulking) I will read some of my more alter ego pieces which if not turns me toward writing new story's always makes me rework how I really felt in that specific piece. As for what you have written, I am sure I have plenty of these, I would suggest picking out little pieces and somewhat interrogate those individual moments to see why you wrote it that way. Good luck with writing.

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