Young Writers Society

You'v- Got to b- Crazy

an exc-rpt from Dragg-d Down by th- Ston-

Don’t bullshit m-. You know why I’m h-r-. You’v- my par-nts to thank. Th-y piss m- off, but I didn’t fight back wh-n th-y told m- th-y w-r- s-nding m- h-r-.

You’r- suppos-d to h-lp m-, but you can’t h-lp m- until you know th- truth, so just shut up and l-t m- talk. I n--d to l-t it all out, b-sid-s, you g-t paid by th- hour.

S-v-nt--n glorious y-ars ago I cam- into this crappy world. I was a happy kid, wis- b-yond my y-ars. I was an old soul. Asian tourists visiting Hawaii, wh-r- I liv-d for th- first four y-ars of my lif-, actually us-d to pull ov-r to tak- pictur-s of m-. It kills m-. I sw-ar. I’v- always had this fantasy wh-r- I go to Japan and s-- my ugly baby mug all ov-r billboards, adv-rtising diap-rs and such. Thos- tourists got a kick out of m-. You’d think th-y’d n-v-r s--n a fair-hair-d baby b-for-! Th- funny thing is that my hair has sinc- turn-d th- dark-st shad- of black you can imagin-. Th-y lov-d m-.

My -arli-st m-mory is of th- own-r of Chompa-Thai wanting to tak- m- hom- with him.
I had a d-c-nt childhood. Appar-ntly I’m privil-g-d. I don’t know what that m-ans, but I go with it. I gu-ss I do tak- for grant-d th- things I hav-. In my young-r and mor- vuln-rabl- y-ars, my fath-r gav- m- a valuabl- pi-c- of advic-. “Wh-n-v-r you f--l lik- criticizing anyon-,” h- would say, “just r-m-mb-r that all th- p-opl- in this world hav-n’t had th- advantag-s that you’v- had.” I took it to h-art at th- tim-. Wh-n I was sixt--n and in an advanc-d -nglish class, I gav- my fath-r a valuabl- pi-c- of advic-: “Wh-n-v-r you f--l lik- quoting som-thing,” I would say, “just r-m-mb-r that som- p-opl- ar- actually lit-rat- and hav- r-ad Gatsby.”

I’v- always had this vivid imagination. On- minut-, I was th- captain at th- h-lm of a pirat- sloop, sh-lling an -nglish frigat- with broadsid-s. N-xt, I was th- sh-riff of som- nam-l-ss, nin-t--nth c-ntury fronti-r town in T-xas, chasing down th- -vil bank robb-r Bandit Bob. Th-s- charact-rs ar- all d-ad now, kill-d by th-ir succ-ssors.

I now tak- on dark-r p-rsonas. Wh-n I’m writing, I tak- on th- rol- of J.R. Spotswood, an -nigmatic and myst-rious narrator poss-ssing unspok-n omnisci-nc-. Wh-n alon-, I b-com- Jakob Fortman, th- bastard son of som- north-rn lord, banish-d to wand-r th- snows of th- arctic. Wh-n hop-l-ssly romantic, I’m th- struggling writ-r Finn S-ymor-. My favorit- p-rsona is th- Lord-Imp-rator. I b-com- him wh-n manic. Basically, h-’s this badass fascist dictator who w-ars a whit- uniform, a cap-, a r-spirator, and an armband with a cross-d Pink Floyd hamm-r symbol, and a sword.

My imagination was always -ncourag-d. My constant chall-nging of authority is rath-r off-putting I suppos-. I lik- that about m- though, my ability to qu-stion. I qu-stion-d r-ligion a lot as a kid. My church pr-school gav- m- th- “littl-st th-ologian” award. Don’t know what th- h-ll that m-ans.

My imagination was first judg-d aft-r my par-nts -nroll-d m- in this bullshit Christian school. Th- first thing I said to my t-ach-r was, “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Sh-riff Sassafras!”
H-r bitchy r-ply was, “Park-r, I n--d you to b- Park-r right now, not sam- mak--b-li-v- charact-r!” Although I was off-nd-d, I didn’t think much about it. Only now do I r-aliz- th- bullshit factor of h-r r-spons-. I was b-ing Park-r! That’s who I was!

Without my imagination and p-rsonas, I’m nothing. Park-r isn’t a singl- p-rson, but many. Not on- is pr-val-nt, all b-ing -qual. Tak- th-m away, and I’m basically d-ad. I’m wors- than d-ad. I lik- to think of my charact-rs as an oligarchy in my subconscious, all ruling -qually ov-r my mind, and I lov- it. I lik- to think that this “Lord-Imp-rator” is in charg-. H- do-s, aft-r all, l-ad this ps-udo-oligarchy known as “Th- Imp-rium of Man.” I d-sign-d th- -ntir- political structur- of my fictional r-gim- in about thirty minut-s.
Mrs. Fulgraham was a prud- who hat-d boys and lov-d Christ. Sh- also hat-d this stupid littl- rhym- w- us-d to say. “Ink pink, you stink.”Appar-ntly it was m-an to t-ll p-opl- that th-y stunk. Talk about not und-rstanding th- cont-xt! But, anyway, that’s Mrs. Fullgraham.

H-r husband was nic- though. H- had th- cool-st nam-: Fry. I’d kill to hav- a nam- lik- that. W- all us-d to call him Mr. Fr-nch Fry. Whil- h- thought it was funny, my t-ach-r did not. Sh- always mad- us apologiz- to him b-caus- it mad- h-r f--l uncomfortabl- for som- r-ason.

I got through -l-m-ntary school just fin-. In th- third grad-, th-r- was som- incid-nt at a school my par-nts s-nt m- to up in N-w J-rs-y. Th-y brought m- hom- on account that I wasn’t g-tting th- -ducation that I d-s-rv-d. Th- r-al r-ason was b-caus- I ran away with th-s- kids who carjack-d som- old pi-c- of crap th-y found in this garag-. From th-n on, th-y hir-d tutors.

Thos- y-ars w-r- gr-at. I l-arn-d a lot. Onc- at th- groc-ry stor-, som- P-rsian lady aft-r I ask-d if sh- was an immigrant. Sh- got off-nd-d. I was a nin- y-ar old with a big vocabulary.

Th- r-al troubl- b-gan at fourt--n, wh-n th- n-ighbors mov-d to town. God, th-y piss-d m- off, b-ing so judgm-ntal and crazy about J-sus! I hat- wh-n p-opl- shov- r-ligion down my throat!

G-t comfortabl-. I’ll b- doing th- talking from now on. Th- Lord-Imp-rator has now ann-x-d this s-ssion and d-mands your -ars. -valuat- m-. I’m insan-. I’v- com- to t-rms insanity. So, lik- I said, just list-n to my fabl-s, adv-ntur-s, misadv-ntur-s, or what-v-r th- h-ll you’d lik- to call th-m. Aft-r you h-ar th-m, you’ll know why I’m crazy. If you don’t think I’m crazy by th- -nd, w-ll, you’v- got to b- crazy!

Oh Marta, my Marta. Today is nothing without you.

I first saw you in a photograph smiling, your luscious hair of gold shining in sunlight. On that day, I bought a boarding pass to Moscow. Holding you, I was young again, kissing you was my libation. With two rings and an ivory gown, I had to marry you right away. As I took you back to my mansion, I had to grant you all I had. Anything for you, my Marta. Anything so you say you savor this passion too.

I was a rich man, Marta, and you did know it. Cars, diamonds, pricy clothing, cash—if you said it, I would obtain it just for you. Many would doubt our union, but I said “You do not know what joy my Marta brings”. At night, you would lay with my aging body so I would stay warm. I did not ask much, I don’t think. By morning you would go off to do as you wish and I did not mind, as long as you would sup with your old husband. You had it all, and as long as I had you, so did I.

I know I was no strong man, no young buck. I could not last for you, though I would constantly try. You did not want your husband, with his frail body. Your paramours can satisfy you, darling, but can your suitors hand you all that I will? Until my dying day (which is not so far away), I was yours, Marta. No man but I would say that. Upon my burial, all I had was yours. My kids cannot justify having a dollar.

Now, I am falling ill and I am stuck in this isolation. I was just told that you caught a flight back without a parting kiss. Oh, Marta, how could you commit an act so hurtful? I am soft for you, Marta, but I cannot stand for this (although I can hardly stand at all). I am blotting your autograph out of my will. Laws stand not with you, but with your poor old husband. You had so much, my darling, but you cast it away. Such a small cost for so much, but you could not wait, and now, you will obtain nothing. I am sorry it had to finish this way, Marta. I still think of you fondly, and I pray you find a joy that you could not with this old, sad man.

I must ask though, my Marta: was Russia so kind to you as I?

Phil Fishman stood among a handful of individuals, all drinking various stamina drinks. Today was not just an additional day within USA’s most practical DMV; today was fairly particular.

Half an hour of lunch had run by quickly and most of it had sunk into discussing today’s distinctly crazy patrons. And this day, things did not play out as it usually would.

“I can’t wrap my brain around this, Lloyd.” Mark said, his mug twisting into a quizzical mask.

Facing him, Lloyd drank lightly from his can of sugary liquid. “How can this occur for both of us?” Lloyd said back.

As Mark was about to bid his opinion on this stuff, Phil Fishman cut him short and said to both; “Guys, this is nothing but an isolating occasion. It’s all in your minds, so try to discount any signs.”

And with that, Mr. Fishman forsook his companions as his upcoming consultation was waiting in his workstation. Passing along many halls, Phil finally found his way to his workstation. Sitting plainly on a chair, was a young man.

“Good day, Mr. Williams, how do you do?” Phil quickly said as both individuals shook hands.

“All good, Sir.” Young Adam Williams said gladly.
Sitting down in front of various bills of data and contracts, Phil soon found his black stamp and put it on what was in his grasp.

“This all looks good, Mr. Williams, all you have to do now, is pass our sight scan.” Phil said to Adam, with a grin.

Quickly drawing down a board from a wall within his workstation, a giant map of signs hung in front of young Adam Williams.

Pointing towards a sign, Phil struck Mr. Williams with a hard inquiry, “What is this sign, you dirty maggot?!”

Though a bit thrown off by Mr. Fishman’s angry words, Adam said with strong spirit; “That’s an F, Sir!” Phil found this baffling, and said, “No, you idiot! That’s not an F! Try again.”

Showing big hardships with trying again, Adam said slowly, “That is a D, Sir.” Now Mr. Fishman got angry and thought that aiding this man along might not finish good. Still, Phil was a good man, and would try a last shot.

“How about a sign amidst D and F? Ring an alarm?” Phil said with a grin.
“I don’t follow, Sir.” Adam soon said.

All humility had now split from his mind and Phil shook this man hard and told him to not show up at this particular DMV again. “And stay out! You goddamn idiot!” Mr. Fishman’s cry would sail through his halls as stupid Mr. Adam Williams took a walk of humiliation.

Soon, Phil did two knocks on an adjoining door and stood waiting for it to burst down. But no, Lloyd’s door did not burst down. Lloyd did join him by his door though.

Looking him up and down, Phil soon said; “It’s occurring to good old Phil also. My guys won’t say it. Just as yours and Mark’s. I don’t think any of my consultants can spot this sign.”

Looking him up and down also, Lloyd said, “I think it might hint back to those damn Fgyptians.”

Taking a bit to think about what Lloyd said just now, Phil said, “Not you too.”

Almost all humans maintain that, in daily communication, particular signs of writing contain an amount of cruciality. This is not a truth. For, still lasting into my caducity I hold an absurd triumph. I grasp communication by its throat and shout at it “I am a man whom you cannot control and I will not conform!” I am a man of capability and long ago took up odds sold by Satan.

My old buddy said “Good man, for a soul you can obtain cash or any auxiliary wish which may pass through your mind.”

So I told him, “A soul is such a bill to pay! Wouldn’t you want fun? Why not you and I adjoin in a bid?”

“A ploy,” said Satan rasping his nails. “I apply only a singular task on you. Your communication must lack that sign which is most common or I will obtain your soul.”

Thousands of hours pass and will pass again until I go out of this world. Immortality was my wish. So until I drop a particular sign in my discussion or writing, I will last. And so I scrawl it now, a limit approaching infinity, a thing which I, though continuous in form and spirit, will only approach. I start:
2.71828182845904523536028747135266249775724709369995957496696762772407663… don’t hold your gulp of air, I won’t stop soon… 035354759 4571382178 5251664274...

An Abortion


“What did I do?” My stomach twists and I can’t stop thinking. My hands can’t stop shaking. All I want to do is to curl up into a ball and stop living.

“It wasn’t human,” I say, though I know nobody is around. “It wasn’t human,” I say again, “It was just a blob of—“

My words stop in my throat and I want to throw up. I am lying, and it hurts my mind just as badly as my body hurts. Familiar cramps rack my body and I sit down slowly, hoping blood won’t drip out in clumps of – I can’t think about that. Not again.

You hurt him.

That thought twists back to kill my soul. I saw Baby – no not a baby, just a blob -- wiggling about in ultrasound. I wasn’t going to look -- I didn’t want to look -- but I did. I saw that it was a tiny human, a boy. I saw him twirl about in what almost could pass as lackadaisical bliss. I was so happy.

And I got rid of him anyway.

“Why did I do this?” I ask to nobody.

But I know why. I know. I had no options. Adoption? How could I afford cost of labor? Caring for it? With what support? I couldn’t do it now. And not with that man as a dad… I had to dump that poisonous cobra. I couldn’t trust him. No, I couldn’t trust him. Not with my body and not with my child—

My child.

Our child.

I dig my nails into my palms until blood springs up from my hands.

I told him about our baby. I was so happy at that instant as I told him. But I saw his lips thin and his hands flinch and I was so afraid. That man – that cobra – struck. His hands cut around my throat until I thought that I would faint. I don’t know if I did faint. My mind hurt so much.

It was Baby or him. And I couldn’t pick Baby. I couldn’t pick my poor, poor son. Not without dying.

Now, I wish I had known how painful living was from now on. If I could pick now, I would rot in my coffin happily. That way, I would not hurt so much.

My body throbs and blood drips down and soaks my pants. A cramp rips through my body again. I ball my fists and start to cry. I thought it would turn out okay. An abortion. Wasn’t it going to turn out okay?

If it is okay, why do I hurt so much?

I curl up into a ball and rock back and forth. And in my mind, words from my childhood spring to mind. If I am still, I can almost touch my mom’s soft rosary. My mind starts to calm and I ask if salvation is still within my grasp. I don’t know, but I am willing to try. I sigh, biting my lip. My body stills and a tranquility floods my soul.

Softly, I pray, “Hail Mary—“