Enough for One Life

It's been a long ride through High School, with its ups and downs, twists and bends. Times when I was on top and times when I hit rock bottom. So, basically your average roller coaster, as long as it's a good one. If I had to equate my time at Lone Peak to a roller coaster I'd probably pick something along the lines of Winnie the Pooh. The one at Disneyland, where Pooh dreams of honey. 

Not that it wasn't eventful or exciting - it was definitely exciting to say the least. It just felt like Winnie the Pooh, a psychedelic, amusing track for me to relax on. Because, let's be honest - High School is a cake walk compared to the rest of our lives. No more relaxing for us. No, life is about to become a full-blown coaster that tries to knock your head out of your skull and force your lunch past your lips. So… something like: Winnie the Pooh does Meth, or something. Not that I'm planning on getting high, mind you. 

When I first signed up for this class, it was after Nelson stopped me in the hall with a boom box on his shoulder wearing gangster clothes. He urged me to take Creative Writing, which I couldn't resist. I'm a writer. Have been ever since seeing King Kong. I determined early in my life that I wanted to make film, and that writing a book would help me feed that addiction until I had the funds to make said blockbuster. 

This class wasn't at all what I expected it to be. When I first arrived, I thought it was going to follow along the same path as Creative Writing in Eighth grade. We were given daily prompts in horror, fantasy, sic-fi and romance genres and had to develop characters, plot, and story. I never once suspected that all we'd be doing this time around was writing poems. I'm not that good of a poet, as my blog can attest, but that isn't to say that I didn't enjoy this class. Sure, sometimes it felt like a sob-fest for people to cry in or a perpetual pep talk for people to be inspired by. I think it had a good mixture of everything. I could've done less with the religious mumbo-jumbo and the memoirs describing how much life sucked or rocked, though. Honestly, I enjoy the type of writing that employs none of that. The kind of writing that forgets about reality and travels beyond the norm - like fantasy or sic-fi. That's the rubric that I've fallen in love with. It's what first spurred my hand to create words on a page.

I guess I've always been a bit of an old soul. I don't relate easily to teenage behavior - like angst, addiction, or just plain stupidity, like the ones found in every single suicide. I cared and still care for none of it. People call me insensitive, impersonal, abrasive. And I can be at times. Really, I didn't relate because High School seemed to be everyone's life, where, for me, it was just another stepping stone. For me, life was found in my books, my family, my movies, my games, and anything else besides school. It was simply another ride to wait in line for and go on before jumping over to the next one.

Damn if it hasn't been fun.

   

 

Film Festival Movie

Just in case you missed it. 

My video was… okay.

Pacemaker

"Are you an interesting guy?"

That's what started this whole relationship, between my heart and I. 

I told him, "No, not really."

And he said to me, "I think you are."

I wasn't so sure. I mean - look at me. So, I asked him, "What makes you say that?" 

He smiled exuberantly. 

"You don't have a pacemaker. 

And I'm not talking about the one you wear to keep me pumping, the metallic hunk of junk clogging all the space in your chest. 

No, I'm talking about a pacemaker that everyone seems to have. 

One that ties them down to work, family, or whatever the crap else humans seem to care about. 

I don't see one on you. 

You can take risks easily. 

You dream big, I dream big. 

You like games, so do I. 

The sky's the limit with you.

So, I guess I just answered my own question: 

You are an interesting person. 

Let's hang out."

said my heart. 

 

 

INVICTUS by Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

I Remember...

I remember my first friend. It was at the beginning of school, a place I considered foreign and dangerous at the time.
I remember my first teacher, someone I had a crush on. Don't judge, you had one too, I know it.
I remember a simpler time.
I remember my crayons.
I remember the Hulk stickers I coated my bike with. I thought the training wheels made me look like the green superhero.
I remember the Darth Vader stickers all over my dresser.
I remember watching the Mummy with my baby sister on VHS. We loved it, but were terrified of it.
I remember going on the Mummy ride with my sister and thinking back to when we were young.
I remember my first bad grade…
…So do my parents.
I remember going to see King Kong. I remember the inspiration it gave me.
I remember writing my first variation of my sic-fi book. It was only twelve pages. I thought it was the thickest book I'd ever touched.
I remember publishing my first book. It was musty and hard bound.
I thought it was the thickest book I'd ever touched. I was so proud of my work.
I remember looking at my book later.
It's not the thickest book in the whole, wide world.
But it's mine.

Debut

I don't really know where the idea came for writing my book. I always had it in me to imagine great things. I created entire galaxies in my mind, conjuring up things from games and movies I'd seen. Skull didn't really come to fruition until my father took me to see the film King Kong back when I was in the third grade.
It impressed me that someone had the same form of logic that I did. That someone could create a movie where there was romance, adventure, dinosaurs, and action. What makes me laugh is that Peter Jackson got his own inspiration to direct film after he saw the original King Kong. And, because of that, he inspired me with his own adaptation to follow in his footsteps.
Skull has always been important to me. It's grown from a series of short stories to a full-blown novel full of everything King Kong had. I hope that one day I'll be able to share my own creation with the world on the big screen.

Shoes, Shoes, Shoes

Shoes. You want me to talk about that?
Well, that'd be a long story. I believe it was the first gift I ever received. And why not? Shoes help you walk, people. If not for shoes, we'd have to crawl like animals. But, you want to know what really interests me about shoes?
They're a part of you.
Just think about it - shoes follow you everywhere. You take them all over the place  - to the park, to the store, everywhere.
Shoes deserve to be treated right . You go throughout your life, forgetting things and ignoring others. But shoes never forget. Never forget.
They remember the first time you put them on, sputtering and complaining about how hard it was to tie them. They remember your first crush, your first 'F', your first friend, your first teddy bear, your first date, your first heartbreak, your first, your first, your first.
Because shoes never forget. And neither should you.

Doppelgänger

What is a man but the sum of his memories?

We are the stories we live.

The tales we tell ourselves.

This is Spencer Armstrong. And this is my story. My tale. My memory. 

My all. 

Now get out of here.

Chocolate Cake

Whilst on the topic of cake, I thought I'd expound on the simply unbelievably delicious treat. Really, anything chocolate can be considered a delicacy. There's chocolate bars, chocolate strawberries, chocolate bites, chocolate candy, chocolate Easter bunnies, chocolate Santas, chocolate fountains, chocolate cake. 

Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate! 

I just realized that I'm starting to sound like that guy in Spongebob with a very similar craving. Maybe I should stop writing before I go ballistic. 

Really, though, chocolate is good. 

But, not dark chocolate. Don't waste any time there.

Cacophonous Thoughts

I never thought I'd rant on this blog. It was supposed to be a means to realize myself through a series of cool anecdotes and stories that I've cooked up. But, now I'm willing to experiment.
I've been thinking a lot about wedding rings lately. Call it coincidence, but I swear I wrote a piece on them in class. That might just be my head playing tricks on me. Can heads actually do that? I've never understood it when people say their bodies play tricks on them. They're your body - you should be the one in control. Control is a fun topic - I believe we should be able to control how our grades turn out, give ourselves the score to teach ourselves discipline and academic freedom. By the way, that kind of freedom is a lie. People aren't wrong when they say that school is like a prison. We follow orders without question, falling into line behind our teachers, our wardens.
I haven't a clue what I'm really writing, I kept my eyes closed for that last part. I was imagining rings and a slice of cake. Cake is not unlike a wedding ring. It's delicious, sumptuous, filled with flavor, and I  want some. Either that or a sack of potatoes. Even in the depths of night, I still have a craving to write nonsense and eat everything in sight.
Where is my sack of potatoes, already?

[insert blog here]

I would tell you that I am a terrific writer. That I don't tear my hair out trying to conjure up new words, sentences, and ideas. That my blog simply doesn't suffer from mundane posts I expect everyone to read.  But, I was and never will be a good liar. 

At the end of the day, I'm not thinking about blogging. 

That's why, at midnight, I come to you with this. 

I honestly don't have a clue of what to write. Fortunately, I may not be the only one struggling with that. This post isn't just for me - it should be for anyone robbed of a palpable paragraph or two to be proud of. 

So, the next time you're sitting in your bed late at night and you're stressing over what to write, take comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone. 

Perhaps this picture should illustrate what one should post about:

Thanatophobia

You're in a room. Trapped. Unable to breathe. Unable to move. Your heart's racing, ready to pounce free of your chest. You don't know what to do… and it scares you. 

That's where I come in. 

I am fear. That monster underneath your bed, the spider brandishing its fangs, the yawning chasm spread out before you. 

Most people tend to discount me. They shut me out, not willing to listen. Not willing to give in. No matter how hard they try, however, they cannot avoid me.

You cannot avoid me. Not any more than you can avoid the labels on your clothes, or the consumerist logos that surround you. I'm in your face. And I've got nothing better to do. 

I can quicken your heartbeat, tear your sanity to ruins, and destroy anyone in my path. But, I can also give you hope. The short little burst of energy you need to survive. The key to your escape, because you're still in that room. 

For how can you truly live and continue living without the most powerful impulse of the spirit: the fear of death. 

I know you. You don't want to admit that fear, that I, am a necessary evil. 

But, I'm not going anywhere. 

Avail yourself of my ageless knowledge. 

Your future begins with me. 

 

I Don't Want

I don't want this to sound poetic; no one takes poets seriously.
At least I don't.
I don't want to fall into mediocrity. Mediocre is not something I was born for. I don't want to fail - in life, in filmmaking, in family. I don't want to be addicted, to be controlled, or prioritized. I don't want to be a worthless cog, forced to perpetuate a boring, mundane lifestyle of work. Work. Work.
I don't want to be homeless, to be robbed, or be a real estate agent. I don't want to be an agent of anything, for that matter.
I don't want people to discount me simply for being a teenager, or for slacking in one area to improve another.
I don't want.
I don't want.
I don't want.
I don't want to end up an old man, filled with regret. The first of those being this ends up sounding poetic.

The Conundrum of Death

Your world can end in the blink of an eye.

One event, one unexpected twist of fate - and suddenly the world as you knew it is gone…

…forever.

All that you held dear… all that you held close… is washed away into the sea of distant memory.

Life is cruel.

Of this I have no doubt.

But life continues on, with or without you.

One can only hope that they leave behind a lasting legacy.

But ever so often the legacies we leave behind are not the ones that we intended.

How to Light Off a String of Illegal Fireworks Without Getting Caught

1. Buy as much illegal fireworks as you can
2. Buy some more
3. Buy a lot more (I know you bought quite a bunch already, but you probably aren't listening to me: you need to buy so much that's it's absurd the amount you have hidden in your garage. And… and, don't forget the most important part - they're all illegal! None of those dumb flowers or cheap aerials). 
4. Get the picture?
5. Run on your free time to get super duper fast. 
6. Distract the local police - this is most easily accomplished by giving them a falsified tip about where to find the biggest, baddest drug lord. If your town doesn't have any, then conjure up a snappy name and pretend the criminal(s) is holding you hostage. Make certain the crime is taking place on the other side of town. The farther the better. 
7. Connect the fireworks together with tape that isn't immune to fire. 
8. Lather the tape - preferably duct tape - with buttloads of gasoline. 
9. Light fuse…
10. …Run away…
11. If didn't pay attention to Step 5, get yourself to the hospital pronto; do so after enjoying the show, of course.
12. Repeat until you've achieved pyromania. 

 

The Brick of Legend

Allow me to introduce myself. I am a brick. 

What do you think of when you hear that word? That name? Do you imagine someone being pelted to death with that particular object, or do you imagine something being built - like a school or home? Personally, I'd like to imagine something of legend whenever I hear that name. 

I would be delighted to conjure up a tale of a terrific hero that existed long ago; a hero that helped people and had many accolades to his name. A story of Indiana Brick swinging around on his whip whilst vanquishing the forces of evil and discovering rich treasures. 

But, sadly, that is not to be. Perhaps it will never be. Bricks like me have gained a sinister reputation over the course of their life. They can be used for evil - bludgeoning someone to death, thrown through a window, or knocking something else over. They can also be used for good - building structures, supporting a piece of paper that won't stay down, etc. 

The character of a brick can be hard to discern from actions alone, though. Have you ever considered the fact that I may not what to be used for something evil or good; that I might want to be the master of my own destiny? I may be an inanimate object, but that doesn't mean I can't do great things. All you have to do is allow me the chance to try. 

Why won't you?

Skull Excerpt #2

I got such positive feedback on the last excerpt I posted that I decided another sample of my story wouldn't be such a bad thing. For this one, though, I wanted to take a different angle, and return to the origins of the characters that appeared in the last one. 

In this particular scene, Cody Armstrong is introduced to his newly assigned squadron: Delta Squad. I thought this would be a good scene to post, since the introduction takes place in Hangar 11 - which is what I named my blog after. 

Again, any feedback on your part is extremely appreciated. 

It was extremely cold in the hangar, and Cody shivered upon entering. The only sunlight fluttering in was coming from small windows near the roof – mere slivers compared to everything else in here.

            There were several more fighter jets and land vehicles within the dimly lit bay, most of its area dedicated to weapon storage. At least, Cody assumed it was weapons – for he saw nothing but stacks upon stacks of crates.

             Off in one corner, there was a half pyramid of crates against a wall. Three men stood near the military-grade boxes, talking casually. All three of them wore full ultra soldier armor, though only one had his helmet on.

            One of the men was twirling a twelve-inch combat knife in his hand. He wielded the weapon as if it were a harmless utensil. The sleek metal of the blade gleamed whenever one particular spot met the sunlight.

            The second man had his back turned to Cody, though he could tell the soldier was in the process of cleaning a long-barreled rifle, perhaps a sniper. He had long black hair that fell in messy clumps about his shoulders.

            The third soldier – the one with the helmet - leaned against the stack of crates, his arms folded. Cody was unable to make out his mood nor his features from the bleak visor he wore.

            Harvey’s presence stirred the group.

            “Ah, Harvey,” the man cleaning his sniper began, turning in his seat. “Was wondering when you’d show up.”

            The soldier spoke in a heavy accent Cody could only discern as Russian. He had pale eyes and a strong demeanor. Cody assumed that the care he had for his sniper proved that he was a marksman, same as Hayden.

            “Saved one for you, boss,” the soldier with the knife spoke up, tossing a small object to Harvey. He caught it easily, sticking it in his mouth appreciatively. It was a cigar. Cuban, from the length and smell.

            Cody had tried smoking in the past.

            Never again.

            Harvey lit the cigar and took a quick puff of its seemingly splendid smoke. The others didn’t really pay much attention to it, for - unbeknownst to Cody - Harvey was a heavy smoker. Had been all his life. Delta had gotten used to it over the years.

            Harvey removed the cigar from his mouth and gestured to the three soldiers.

            “This is Delta squad,” he stated, pointing to Cody. “And this is Cody. Our new recruit.”

            “And green as grass, by the looks of it,” the marksman said skeptically, coming towards Cody. “Looks more like glorified cannon fodder, if you ask me.”

            Cody stood up straighter, hoping that it would display a sense of power within him. The marksman wasn’t moved. He eyed Cody like he a bear gloating over fresh meat.

            A half smile crept over his face. He leaned in towards Cody, as if to intimidate the recruit. Unfortunately, it seemed to be working.

            “Oh, leave him alone, Cealen,” the knife-wielding soldier scolded his comrade. He shoved the marksman out of the way, allowing him to continue the introductions. Unlike Cealen, he smiled and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Zack. SSC Zachary Smith, if you want to be formal. But, as you probably know, we’re not that polite.”

            Zack, unlike Cealen, was quick with his words. He spoke in short bursts, as if taking a long time speaking was a sin.

            “I’ll let you figure out what the SSC stands for,” Zack continued, fast as a bullet.

            Cody knew that it stood for Sergeant Second Class. No doubt Zack was Harvey’s second-in-command.

            “Zack’s our nerd in the squad,” Cealen explained from behind. He had returned to cleaning his rifle.

            “Am not!” Zack retorted, spinning to face his companion. “At least one of us knows how to hack enemy hardware.”

            Cealen gestured to his gun. “I wouldn’t need to.”

            “Contrary to your belief, Cealen, you can’t just shoot everything in sight,” Zack replied.

            “Says who?” Cealen scoffed. “They pay me to shoot, not do math.”

            “Yeah,” Zack continued. “And unlike the rest of us, you weren’t born, you were government-issued.”

            “To snipe,” Cealen agreed.  

            Cody looked askance at Harvey. He smiled as he sucked back on his cigar. Apparently this kind of argument, however playful, was a common sight among Delta. Other sergeants would jump all over their subordinates for behavior like this.

            Perhaps it gave Delta a chance to ease tension.

            Zack shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he turned back to Cody. “Anyway, he’s right. I’m the only one with real smarts in this squad. But,” he held up a finger, “that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to handle a gun.”

            “Oh, you know how to handle a gun, Zack. Most definitely,” Cealen agreed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You just don’t know how to make one dance.”

            “And that’s Cealen,” Zack introduced his comrade. “Our gifted marksman.”

            “That’s PFC Cealen Parker to you, greenie,” Cealen corrected, slapping a large ammunition clip into his sniper. Finished with repairs, he set the gun to the side. “And I’m the best damn sniper the galaxy has to offer. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

            Hayden could give you a run for your money, Cody thought. Something told him saying that out loud was the worst decision he could make.

            “You guys certainly don’t lack for confidence,” he said aloud.

            “We like to keep our self esteem up. Let’s us be ecstatic under gunfire,” Zack joked, shrugging. Cody smiled as he pictured Delta on a boisterous battlefield, their faces bright with quirky smirks. That could explain why they were the best of the best.  

            Cody glanced past Cealen and Zack to the mysterious soldier leaning against the crates. He still hadn’t moved from his initial position, and Cody realized that his head was tilted in his direction.

            Zack followed Cody’s gaze.

            “Ah, and that is our final member: Corporal Ethan Hunter,” he explained. “But, you can call him by the name every other squad has for him: The Walking Tank.”

            Ethan pushed off the crate and strode over to Cody. At first, Cody didn’t see any reason to call him by that name, until the soldier was standing in front of him – or, rather, above him.

            The giant of a man must’ve been at least eight feet tall. Cody had to crane his neck to look into the bleak visor he wore. His huge set of armor clanked together with each step that he took. Combined, it had to have weighed a thousand pounds; Ethan wore the outfit like it was nothing.

            Silently, Cody gulped.

            This man could eat someone his size for breakfast. And that wasn’t hyperbole.

            “I think he likes you,” Cealen muttered deviously, like he was the owner of a huge, vicious bulldog that had started licking a guest.

            Ethan proffered one of his meaty hands to Cody. It was at least twice the size of any regular hand, and it was covered by a thick, bendable skin of armor.

            Hesitantly, Cody took the hand in his and squeezed.

            Accepting the challenge, Ethan squeezed back. Cody felt his knuckles grind together, felt the blood rush away from his fingertips. Ethan held on for about thirty seconds, then let go.

            Cody sighed in relief, shook his hand up and down to regain the retracted blood. If a simple squeeze could do that much damage, there was no telling the amount of havoc this beast of a man could perform.

            Ethan stepped back, folding his arms. Although the visor hid his face, Cody knew the Walking Tank was smirking. That handshake had probably forced Cody to make a hysterical face.

            “Don’t let his looks deceive you,” Zack said, patting Ethan on the back. He had to reach upwards to do so. “He’s quite the gentle giant, if you catch my meaning.”

            “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ethan,” Cody flexed his hand several times, satisfied with the repair work he had performed.

            For a moment, the group sat in silence, waiting for Ethan to say something back. But, he remained silent. It rattled Cody.

            “Do you speak?” Cody asked, cocking an eyebrow.

            “He doesn’t,” Zack explained, matter-of-factly.

            Cody said, “Why not?”

            “He doesn’t say,” Cealen replied.

            Ethan nodded slowly in agreement. Cody was amazed at the level of familiarity within this squad. They treated one another in an odd way, as if they were all of the same consciousness. A setting like this in the military was extremely atypical. Cody couldn’t exactly place his finger on the feeling.

            Casual. That was it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he just walked into a fraternity. He wondered how the leaders of the military treated this squad – they probably didn’t approve of this kind of behavior.

            Then again, of all the ultra soldiers he’d met, Delta appeared the most efficient. They had earned a sinister reputation, after all.

I Love Lamp

"I Love Lamp" Scene from Anchorman

Things to tell if you're in love with someone (or a lamp):

• You can't stop being around her
• Holding hands in the hallway seems like a pretty good idea to you
• All that matters is the person you're with
• You turn into the biggest love fanatic ever
• Bella's relationship with Edward is, like, the most realistic thing in the world
• You freak out if she doesn't text you back after a few seconds
• You're free every Friday Night
• Friends take a backseat
• You think you know the difference between love, lust and like, but you actually don't
• Your internet search history has "love" written all over it
• Girly songs are much better than anything Eminem has to offer
• New action movie in theaters? You don't care, you go see The Notebook in 3D…
• …And you cry the whole time
• When she tells you the feeling's not mutual, you go and hoard ice cream, and burn her picture, and, if you're not careful, you turn into a crazy cat-man. Because that happens, guys, seriously. I'm not joking. 

Sometimes, you may fall in love just by looking at something, or someone. After all, they say that love at first sight is a real thing. And I tend to believe that. 

…As so does Brick Tamland, apparently. Because love and all of its characteristics are completely undefinable. We cannot, will not ever know what love really is. We can just take a stab at what it feels like. What we experience.  

Just remember, you're probably not going to find love if you go looking for it like these guys:

 "What is Love?" 

Hilarious SNL skit featuring Jim Carrey, Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan

Color

What would we do without color?
Imagine that… a world deprived of color. A world robbed of diversity and beauty.
It's quite a terrifying thought, no?
For color is maybe the most important thing in our lives
As humans, we associate everything in our lives with color.
We stare at it, we admire it.
We cherish it.
When we feel something; be it a burning sensation when we achieve, a cold, dark feeling when we are alone. Everything is described with color.
When we look at colors, we not only see its features, we see its depth and history.
Red with anger.
Blue with intricate beauty.
Yellow with happiness.
Black with fear.
And green with growth.
To live on a world deprived of characteristics such as these, it would be a life not worth living. We would not be humans without it.
We need color in our lives.
We need it.

"Color" Scene in The Giver

In Space No One Can Hear You Blog

"David 8" Video from Prometheus. 

Pretty much sums up what it means to be a robot.

"First they created us. Then they tried to kill us. I deserve to know why."
"The answer is irrelevant. Does it matter why they changed their minds?"
"Yes. Yes, it does." 
"I don't understand."
"Well, I guess that's because I'm a human being. And you're a robot."

-Doctor Shaw and David in "Prometheus"

A list of things to determine whether or not you're a robot (like David, or Ash, or Bishop, etc.):

• You have no empathy for human life
• You don't breathe
• You understand human emotion… though you do not feel it yourself
• You're super smart
• You try and kill your coworkers
• You bleed a white, milky substance
• You're nearly perfect in every way
• You don't think a giant xenomorph stalking you is scary...
• …in fact, you actually admire it
• You follow orders without question
• You're always collating with Mother
• People with the surname 'Ripley' tend to hate you
• You can play the FFF (five finger fillet) game at mach 10 speed
• You have a compulsive need to prove yourself
• You like to quote movies and annoy everyone else by repeating them
• You want your creators dead
• You really like to mess with dangerous things
• If a coworker gets a spider alien attached to his face, you say: 'Eh, let's keep it on there.'
• You apologize, but keep doing bad things
• You like to shove magazines in peoples' faces. Like, seriously, that one's just weird
• Despite all these things, you end up being the coolest guy in the movie
• When a giant alien rips your head off, or a xenomorph queen rips you in half, or you get owned by a coworker and his fire extinguisher, you can still talk and do everything you used to

So, truly, if you want to be human, don't do any of the above things. 

Also, don't behave like this guy:

Or this guy:

And, just for kicks and giggles, this guy:

Because, let's be honest, humans are much cooler. Though, in terms of the Alien franchise, they're kinda expendable. Just saying.

And if you're a robot reading this, then at least try to act like a human being for crying out loud. 

Like this guy:

What Are You Scared Of?

Whilst we're on the topic of human emotion, I thought I'd expound on fear.
Perhaps it is the most powerful of all human emotions. It can happen in any form, in any context. Many people feel fear when their careers are at stake, or when someone is in danger.
I wanted to focus on primal fear. The fear that you get when your own life is in danger. While it may be uncomfortable to experience, it drives you to do better; to survive.
You know the feeling.
A cold tingle in your spine.
Trembles throughout your body.
Cool, unrelenting sweat.
Your mouth gone dry.
All of these and more I felt while playing one of my newest video games: Alien Isolation. If the title didn't already give it away, Alien Isolation is a game based off of the Alien franchise, which is like, my favorite movie series ever.
Maybe that's why I can't stop thinking about xenomorphs and all that jazz.
I know it might seem a bit odd to write a post about a video game, but seriously, you've got to try this one out. It's super intense and freaky, and it inspired me to write this post. Now, I've got a cool game and credit for the assignment. Win, win.
Besides, never before have I been more terrified in my life. Granted, I haven't really been in actual danger before, but this comes super-duper close.
Just indulge me for a second and watch this small video clip.
Be warned, it could be considered inappropriate. I guess it shows violence, but, then again, it's all implied, really. Though, it is based off a rated 'R' movie. If you don't want exposure to that, then don't click play.
In this clip, the person playing tries to distract the towering alien with a flash bang, but it doesn't really work out.

Ah! Always gets me, that guy.
There you have it. Pretty fantastic horror experience, I've got to say. Really changed my idea of true fear. If that didn't at least make you cry, then you're probably a robot. And that's no good.
Anyways, I'm rambling. Go and buy it if you can.
Jeez, looking back this seems like a review of the game. The developers should totally pay me for this.

Excerpt from Skull

Those of you who know me (and you all don't, because this is anonymous) will know that I am a published author. I realize I'm putting myself inside the crosshairs by saying this. Those who know me personally will catch on immediately.
Though, what the heck, I'll continue at my own risk.
The novel I've published is called: Skull.
As many of you would like to believe, no - it isn't based off of the integral bone in human anatomy. Rather, it is named after the main planet in the book. Skull is a harsh, jungle world holding all sorts of secrets, making it quite the setting for a sci-fi, action packed story.
I decided to share an excerpt from the book.
It will seem unfamiliar to anyone who doesn't know the characters or plot. Just know that this is a particular scene in which humans (specifically Delta squad) come into contact with an unknown, mysterious alien species.
Please do give constructive criticism in the comment section below (it helps me immensely to determine what needs to change and what needs to stay).

Three figures came out of the thick jungle underbrush. They made soft hooting noises, like apes signaling to one another. Cody pressed his chest farther against the damp soil, putting a protective hand on Ann’s back as he did so. She looked confused; scared.

            He saw that the other members of Delta squad had tensed, their index fingers sliding soundlessly down to the triggers of their assault rifles. Harvey motioned with two fingers to Cealen, who nodded understanding and unslung his large sniper rifle.

            Cody dared a second glance at the three bipedal figures, who were slowly advancing towards them. They were roughly humanoid in shape and stature, with hard-set features and dark purple skin, almost reptilian in appearance. Most of their slimy skin was hidden underneath thick folds of silver armor. They stood at nearly three meters tall, just barely trumping Ethan’s own impressive height. One of them unleashed a double-ended saber that sparkled with electricity.

            As one of them barked an order to another in an alien tongue, Harvey grabbed Cody hard by the collar and forced him down to the ground.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he scolded Cody. The poor recruit was lost for answers. His mouth had gone dry with fear.

            “What are those things?” he finally managed to utter.

            “Aliens,” Harvey explained matter-of-factly. A cautionary look swept over his face. “And they’re extremely hostile.”

Thanks again for your feedback!

Reminiscence

There once was a time when I didn't worry about things.
A time when I did not heed the significance of hard work and sacrifice.
It was a simpler time…
A time where all that mattered to me were bruised knees and soccer games. A time when all that really seemed to matter was having fun.
I remember those days fondly, and though they have long since faded into oblivion, I take comfort that I may call on them in my times of need; when responsibility and linear, adult productivity have abandoned me.
Responsibility entraps us all one day… it reaches from the complicated, rule-filled pit of society, always groping for our souls until, at last, it clasps our hand and drags us back down with it. Whilst it is a necessary, inevitable transformation, I believe that we need not completely envelope ourselves in the mundane responsibility of everyday life.
It is important - no, instrumental - that we remain creative. That the little, ambitious child in each and every one of us survive, so that we may strive to help other, future generations become like we were. Creative and fun.
We cannot allow the rules and regulations of school and work stack upon us. We must break off the chains and reclaim our rightful throne amidst the sea of law-abiding, boring societal norms. Of everything we earn in this lifetime, it is only our memories that will prevail in the final, proving moments.
It is our duty to make sure they are good ones.

Shake off your chains. Avail yourself of your limitless, child-like creativity.
 

Why the World Needs Writers

Perhaps an introduction would be moot. It would make this an uncomfortable situation, as I've never been one for niceties such as that. In truth, there's no need to introduce each other. You're the user and I'm the categorizer. We can leave it at that.
But, if you must know, my name is Sergeant Major. In truth, that's my job title. Though, I do like it when people call me that.
I don't have a real name. I gave it up along with countless others when I decided to join the military. Don't know what I'm talking about? Well, you'll forgive me if I digress a bit; it's one of my most annoying habits.
And most useful.
I serve in the ultra soldier military, home to the biggest and baddest soldiers in the galaxy. We protect the world and its inhabitants, solving problems that useless institutions can otherwise overlook. We are the best of the best, and that's not hyperbole. When a job needs doing, we're the only ones capable of accomplishing it.
Also not hyperbole.
That can be said for our more… efficient squadrons, like Delta Squad. They work out of this Hangar, treating it as their base of operations and debriefing center. I don't mind the extra company - because, it can get quite lonely in here.
I am one of the nobodies of the military. I am a categorizer. Simple as that.
My job is to categorize military hardware that comes into the Hangar and military hardware that comes out of the Hangar. It really couldn't get more simple than that.
Or more boring.
I'd much rather be out fighting the good fight alongside the powerful men of the army. They know how to have a good time, even when under pressure. But, since I'm stuck here, organizing crates and whatnot, I may as well vent. And I have the perfect canvas to do it on.
A realization hit me recently. I was given an assignment by my superior to organize the first of many crates. It seemed like any old job. But, at the same time, it was a completely new one. I realized whilst stacking this crate that my job was important. That I was making a difference in the military.
That I mattered.
Some people would say that's dangerous thinking for a grunt. Not me. Because, more than anything, it got me thinking.
It got me thinking about how instrumental a boring job like categorizing is. If not for people like me, the soldiers, who arm themselves with the denizens of those crates, would have nothing to fight with. They'd be utterly powerless in the face of terror. My duty is not just simply to stack crates, but to utilize my brethren and sisters with powerful weapons to use for the greater good.
I do not personally know what resided in this first crate. It's not my job to know.
It's yours.
You are my soldiers. By visiting my Hangar, you arm yourselves not just with the tools but the knowledge to vanquish your foes. By visiting my canvas, you are able to discover a side of you that never existed. A side that can only be unlocked by knowledge.
And that's the clearest form of expression on the battlefield.
Hangar 11 is more than just a storage unit for decommissioned hardware. It is a vibrant area, filled with crates, aircraft and more. But, most importantly, it's filled with what you put into it.
I should've realized sooner that categorizers - writers - have possibly the most important job in the universe. Because, it is only through them that the world can achieve great things.
As I continue to vent, more crates will appear. It is your job to read through them. Else, my job would be immaterial.
Let this be the beginning of a journey neither of us will forget.
Welcome to Hangar 11.