The Accident

The following is a short story where you, the reader, are the main character. You've had a horrible accident happen to you, and your friend is the only one there when you wake up. While you don't have any actual written dialogue, any time there is a " ~ ", that means you are talking. Ideally, you'll know what you're saying. Enjoy!

                                                                                                                                                                   

            You’re awake. Oh my God, you’re awake! You’re probably disoriented, confused. Do you remember me? Do you remember who I am? Oh shit. You don’t, do you? It’s me, Daniel. I’m your best friend. We've been friends since we were little.

            I’m guessing you also don’t remember anything that happened, am I right? ~ Ya, I thought so. I guess I’ll just start outright then. You’re in the hospital. Saint Joffrey’s Memorial Hospital to be more specific. You’re under the care of Dr. Vu. You…You’ve been in a coma. You were in an accident, and you’ve been in a coma. For five weeks. A really bad accident. No one was sure if you were ever gonna wake up. I’m so glad you did. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

            Wait, what are you doing? Don’t try to get out of bed. Stay still. You’ve got a problem with your legs. I…I’m not…entirely sure what’s wrong, but Dr. Vu said you won’t be able to walk…So just…chill, okay? Here, I’ll put your bed up, situate your blankets. There you go.

            Okay, so I was told that if you woke up, you can’t go to sleep, otherwise you might slip back into the coma. So I’m gonna do my best to keep you awake, alright? I’ll catch you up on everything that’s happened since you've been out. Not much has, though. Just a warning. So your parents have been worried sick, obviously. They’re fine though. They’re down in the cafeteria getting food. I’d call them to let them know you’re awake, but my phone’s dead, and I don’t have my charger. Plus I don’t want to leave you by yourself to go get them. They’ll find out soon enough.

            Don’t worry about school. We contacted administration, and all of your professors. They know that you’ve been…uh…out. They don’t know what happened, but, apparently, because you’re so well-liked and are doing so well, you’ve been exempt from the work you’ve missed. So that’s pretty cool. Congrats. Hahaha.

            Um, there’s some bad news, though. You, uh. You kinda…well…you kinda lost your job. Now don’t freak out! I don’t know if you remember, but your boss was a huge asshole anyway. A total dick. You hated him. I’ve been submitting your resumé to a couple of places, though. A couple coffee shops, a bookstore, and ice cream shop. Your potential employers know your situation, and you have a few interviews lined up for whenever you want to start working again. If you do, that is.

            So, I mean, do you want to know what happened? About the accident, I mean. ~ Okay. Are you sure? It’s kind of grisly. ~ Fair enough. You deserve to know, I guess.

            We were going into the city. Jessica and I were in one car, you and Jacob were in another. ~ Where’s Jacob? Just…I don’t know how to tell you this. I…He…He’s dead. I’m so sorry. He’s dead. ~ No, it’s okay, really. You can cry. That’s it. Get it all out. ~

            You really want me to keep going? ~ Okay. I suppose it’ll keep you awake. Well…we were going into the city, like I said. We were on our way to the stadium to watch the game. We were late, and it was raining really hard. Jess and I were leading, you guys were following us. I don’t know if you remember, but any time us four go on trips, we keep each other on speakerphone so it’s like we’re together. ~ Oh, why don’t we just drive together? Well, we usually take two cars so if someone needs to leave, not everyone has to. That didn’t exactly work to our benefit this time though, huh?

            Anyway, we were rocking out to music and definitely driving faster than we should have been. We were in the city and only a couple blocks from the stadium. Damn it, we should have been more careful. I’m so stupid. I should have been more careful. Jake was following me after all. I was going too fast. I ran a red light. Jake followed, and that’s when it happened.

            As you guys were coming through the intersection, a big dump truck, one of those city ones, came barreling through. The truck tried to stop, but skidded and couldn’t. It t-boned you, right in the driver’s side. Oh God, the sound was horrible. Tires screeching, metal crunching, you two screaming. ~ What’s that? ~ Oh. No…Jake didn’t die instantly…

            When the truck hit you, it shattered the glass in the window that flew and imbedded itself into your faces. Mostly his. Actually, he got a lot in his eyes. He was blind in his left eye before he died.

            You guys ended up stuck on the front of the truck. Your car was just so destroyed. It was bent around the grill of the truck. Fuck. Jake’s entire left side of his body was mangled. Bones were shattered and twisted. Skin ripped. Muscle snapped. He really did suffer…

            God damn it. God fucking damn it. This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. I need to be the one to tell you. I’m sorry. You’re never going to walk again. Your right leg was completely smashed up, and your left leg was only hanging on by a bit of tendon when the EMTs got you out of the car. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This was all my fault. I don’t deserve to be forgiven. I doubt you’d ever want to anyway.

            I have to go now. Visiting hours are almost over. I killed Jake. He was going to school. He was gonna be a newscaster. Now he’s nothing. It’s all my fault. You’ll never walk again. I can’t make that up to you. It’s all my fault. I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ll let your parents and doctor know.

            I have to go. For real now. One life for another. I can give that. I can’t repay you for your legs, but I can give my life. I’m so sorry. I hope your life turns out great. Remember the good I’ve done. Goodbye. One life for another.

Writing: My Passion for Years

     Ever since I can remember, I've loved creating stories. My parents have told me that I've always made up stories and was always made up stories and was always so excited to tell them. I used to enjoy drawing pictures, and I would always make up stories to go along with them. My earliest memory of me "writing" a story is when I was five years old in kindergarten. I drew a bunch of pictures on several pieces of paper, around 10 I believe. One of my daycare teachers came over to see what I was doing. I asked her if she would write down the story that I would dictate to get along with the pictures because I couldn't write yet. The story was about a scuba diver looking for treasure, and a shark tried to stop him. Ultimately, the diver triumphed over the shark, got the treasure, and lived a nice, lavish life. 

     I wrote short little stories for a long time until around junior high. I thought I was too cool to write or read. I was obviously very wrong. Eventually, several years later, I met someone who reintroduced me to reading and, consequently, writing. Since then, I've been trying to catch up. 

     I soon started work on a novel that I've done a lot of research on and have revised again and again to the point of only currently having three chapters. I went through a phase recently where I wrote a poem or two everyday. I've written several and am working on several more short/one-act plays. I really enjoy writing short stories. I've written quite a few and am working on a few others as well. 

     Everyone with whom I've shared my works has told me that I really do have talent. I would like to agree, but I'm not really sure. I am a little biased after all. I just know that I enjoy writing, so I'll continue to do so. 

The Human Condition

     Humans are an odd species. They preach actions but do not follow them. They will tell their children to be nice to everyone but then yell at a waiter for the food taking too much time. They'll say they're for peace and equality then demand blood when someone angers them. Such is the human condition. 

     Humans will say that they are happy with their standing in life but dwell on their lack of success in what they thought they'd do. They will realize that they haven't achieved anything but do nothing about it. Humans will be filled with absolute dread and depression but insist to everyone that everything is fine. Such is the human condition. 

     Humans will politely disagree, but detest the other's opinion. They'll long for success but dread any change. They'll wish for the best but hope for the worst. 

     Humans teach that showing feelings is the right thing to do, yet hide and muffle how they truly feel. They will be filled with total hate of another and act like they're the best of friends. They will be filled with total love but dare not say how they really feel. Such is the human condition. Such is our lives. 

On the Future

     Sitting in class today, we talked about possible careers for English majors. I saw that there were so many possibilities that I had never thought of. For a while I had wanted to get my PhD in English and teach at a university while still writing on my own. I'm not entirely sure of that anymore. I'm not really sure of anything, truthfully. 

     While I would love to teach, I'm not sure I would survive the schooling. I love writing, but not usually for class. Frankly, I have trouble doing any work for class. It's really only on special projects like writing a short story or poem or giving a presentation when I actually put effort in. 

     I want to be a writer. I mean solely a writer, but I'm fairly possible that's not possible for me. Not only would I have to be extremely talented to live off of that, but I'd also have to be extremely lucky to find someone who would want to publish my works. Essentially, I'm really just getting more and more nervous about the future and what I'll be doing with my life as time goes on. 

     Maybe that's normal though. 

Living Vicariously through the Internet

     I find it extremely interesting how we now, as a culture, can live through others' experiences and be comfortable with it. For example, while in a new place, instead of getting off of the bus to see a fantastic sight, one might just google it when she got home. I think this is ridiculous! We are more able now to see the greats sights of the world and have new experiences than any other point in history. Yet, we are also perhaps the least likely to go out and do these things because we can just search for them online. 

     

Explanation of the Writers' Indulgence

     When we think of the creativity of writers, we also tend to think of their unhealthy habits lie drinking and drugs. Being a writer myself, I feel like I have at least some idea of why this is. 

     As a writer, I am always trying to portray the way I see the world, and my way of seeing it is by having new experiences. Drugs and alcohol are one way to have new experiences without having to actually do anything. Even though they have extremely negative outcomes and can be addictive, they really do produce different experiences. 

     These paraphernalia may help writers, but it certainly isn't a good crutch to use.

The Problems with Billy Shakes

     William Shakespeare, as we all know, is the Great Bard. He is, however, not the most enjoyable writer to read. While I'm not discrediting his works or his genius, it's hard to deny that his plays can often be quite boring. 

     Any play I've read of his, I've been very underwhelmed. I can appreciate them for what they are, but I really can't say that I like Shakespeare's plays. I want to like them so bad because I feel like I should, but I absolutely can't. 

     I do however really enjoy his poetry. His poems speak to me on an almost spiritual level. I hope to be as good of a poet as Shakespeare, though I hope I'm a much better playwright. 

Humanism in Modern Culture

     The way I see it, Humanism isn't represented nearly enough in the modern culture. Whether the medium is television, film, music, literature, or poetry, Humanism just isn't represented. Sure, people like to say that Humanism still has it's place today, and it certainly might, but there's nothing quite the way it used to be. 

     Now, a philosophical Humanistic view often involves the looking towards science instead of religion, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about a viewpoint that sees every person as valuable because they are human and have their own lives and experiences and thoughts and dreams and wishes. 

     I wish more people would be able to see the greatness in every person and treat them as they deserve. 

My Wishes of Being a Romantic

     Ever since I've started writing, I've had this utter desire to be a romantic. Not necessarily a romantic in the sense of a relationship, but rather as a romanticized vision of a person and a writer. I would give anything to be able to just up and move to Paris or London, sit in café, and spend my days writing. I would do like Thoreau did and move out to the woods all by myself, and send all of my pieces to a relative to get published.
     I do my best to have a positive outlook on life. I believe that love is a true force in the world. I think that everything happens, not necessarily for a reason, but everything happens. People are inherently good-natured. We, as people, can't make sense out of life, because there's nothing really to make sense of, but that's the beauty of it.
     Everything that we do as a species is to better the human condition. Whether or not we want to admit it, we are all on race on this tiny little rock in this vast, vast universe, and because of this, we need to do our best to make the best of our situation called life.

My Desire to be the Ideal Character

     I've found recently that I have been yearning to be this perfect character in the story of my life. I constantly try to be the best that I can be, and often, my vision of the best falls into line with what one might attribute as a stereotypical English major. I'm talking pipe-smoking, scarf-wearing, greatcoat wearing, guy who sits in a coffee shop and writes in his journal. 

     Now, I don't necessarily think this is a bad thing, rather, I find comfort in knowing what I'm trying to be like. I don't plan to be like this my entire life, but it gives me a base to start with. 

     I am in love  with the romanticized idea of what a writer is. Someone who thinks and communicates so eloquently, gives breath to a breadth of ideas, bringing them to life out of pure imagination. A writer can spend hours upon hours just reading, writing, and watching the world around him. He is idealistic, kind, and sentimental. I want to be a writer, and the only way I can seem at actively portray that is to portray what people currently think of when they think of a writer. I'm not changing who I am, however. I do believe the stereotype of a writer is who I am. At least, at the moment.