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General Fiction Novels
Thu Jun 09, 2011 2:32 am
I have a theme I've been wanting to write about for a while now ever since I finished my last 'book,' but unfortunately I can't think of a plot to stick to it. I don't want it to be a biography of my life with changed names and exaggerated details, but I feel like that's what it'll come to if I'm left to my devices. So, I throw myself to the mercy of you guys. Tell me where to go with this one.
And it's not smut. You'll understand in a second why I need to quickly clarify that.
Once upon a time, you were always right. You did what you pleased when you pleased and you knew exactly why. You had no seeds of doubt in your mind or any bias. You were two years old and could count on your hand how many fucks you gave. Then you aged and became a shell of that. It was sad really, and you probably have noticed how people like you less.
But they changed too. Their conversations turned from red and blue crayons to the people that had them. There was never a sudden shift- it was gradual. You started giving more and more fucks than you should’ve, and slowly you became a less likable person. As you entered into adolescence, the amount of fucks you gave exponentially increased. What you wore? Two fucks. If she likes you? Five fucks. What your boyfriend did with his free time? At least ten. Eventually you became such a despicable individual that you started surrounding yourself with people who did the same thing. And that’s when it got out of control. Before we go into this story, we’re going to be talking about that.
Perhaps the biggest flaw we all make is assuming that what we accept as truth will supersede the reality. Generally our perceptions are accurate- the leaves are green, the sky is blue, the carcass on the road is the source of the smell, and the puddle that encompasses it is still wet.
How fat you are, how ugly your girlfriend is, or how much your dog hates you are all subjective. If you convince yourself that you’re in great shape, that your girlfriend is enviable, and that your dog, being an animal, is incapable of expressing emotions such a hate, know that there will exist others who think the opposite. Your job then is to not give any fucks.
Most people aren’t doing their job, and when their insecure perceptions match up with the bitter perceptions of someone else, you get what can be summed up as ‘everything that is wrong in this world.’
This book is not a self-help pamphlet. The characters in this story should not be emulated because most of them probably give too many fucks- as a writer I’m bound to give a sense of realism to the piece. But understand the fucks they give and why they shouldn’t.
Finally, before I start you off on this journey, know that some fucks should be given. The biggest fuckheads tend to be the biggest fuck hoarders and knowing the distinction of when to or when not to give one is the defining point of adulthood. Or at least, I’m assuming. I don’t really give a fuck.
Chapter 1: Paradise Lost
In a plot just North of San Diego, Paradise sat down to rest. He was a lazy sort- hardly traveling much if it forced him to leave the Californian coast. He had sat down to recollect himself, for the journey back from his last visit was especially long and arduous. It appeared that people, once able to make their own slice of paradise, began to rely on some timely arrival of it. Unfortunately for Paradise, timely was taxing.
He arrived back before the morning sun long before it could sense its absence. He could feel the rich sea breeze and hear the sounds it made as it whistled through fields and carried chirping birds on its way to him. The waves crashing on distant shores offered a soft bass to the accompaniment, and Paradise gave a worn smile. He sat down on the beaches, idly forming the red canyons that made up the natural sea walls.
And yet, he couldn’t rest. Perhaps it was an artist’s nagging sense of perfection. But no- he was always content with his work. Perhaps it was a sense of giddiness. He was restless to see how humanity would react to his gifts. No, he knew what the reaction would be, and the postcards would be printed by that Sunday. It was something else entirely. It was white noise. The sounds of a thousand complaints sounding out from a thousand people over a thousand different things, all echoing at once inside of Paradise.
The cause of death was never determined. It was assumed that Paradise up until the 90’s was a relatively healthy individual. But as people’s perceptions of paradise twisted away from the beauty of nature to a state of perpetually-sated want his livelihood slowly degraded as he attempted to adapt to changing definitions. Perhaps he would have been able to grow resilient to the voices had they slowed down to take breaths. We’ll never know if Paradise went mad in his final moments. The voices certainly didn’t get any softer.
When Paradise died, the effects weren’t immediately felt. Some remarked that he kicked it years ago- or at least left. He perished on the coast of that small town north of San Diego. And yet, the sun still rose to wake up the city of Carlsbad. As they would stumble out of bed to stumble into the showers and eventually the streets, they would never know the event that transpired as they rested. They wouldn’t know that it was them that drove the knife into Paradise as he rested or sent his body out to sea. They would only know that they needed that cup of coffee, their kids to shut up, and for paradise to finally arrive.
“And we’re looking at another beautiful morning in San Diego County, ladies and gentlemen. Traffic on the five is slow heading south around Solana Beach, but it looks like today none of us are going to have any excuses to be late to work. I’ll be sending it off to John to update us on this week’s weather. John?”
Brendyn didn’t hear any of us. He also didn’t hear any of John’s section, though most people don’t make a point to. John was pretty dull, even for radio weathermen. It was assumed that he enjoyed his job and the call for enthusiastic weathermen hardly ever sounded, so every morning from 6:35 to 6:40 an assumed forty thousand listened to him tell them that the rest of the week would be sunny, as it had been the last. Perchance a joke regarding the consistency of southern Californian weather would be thrown in, but only occasionally.
However, seeing as Brendyn was asleep until 11 that morning, John’s predictions fell on deaf ears as opposed to the apathetic he was akin to. But this story is not about John. This story begins when Brendyn, age 18, wakes up.
Fri Jun 10, 2011 4:45 pm
*Moved to General Fiction Novels*
I think you'll find a faster answer to your question here, than you would in the writers corner.
Moderator Emeritus (frozen in carbonite.)
Sat Jul 02, 2011 6:39 pm
This got my attention for sure! I'm dying to know more about Paradise, and the sudden change in perspective pulled me in even further. I'll be watching for more of this one!
Tue Jul 05, 2011 2:11 pm
I'm really liking it so far. The intro was especially original. And I actually mean that, I have the oddest soft spot for that sort of style.
Paradise's bit was also intriguing. I don't think I really have to tell you why. xD
I shall look forward for more, whatever direction this takes. I honestly don't think you can go wrong with this. I mean, you really can't even go wrong with this title.
We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.
— Arthur O'Shaughnessy
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