Issue 01
"No boners. No boners. No boners."
This is me. That is, Darien. And I am about to give an oral presentation. I only hope my marine stands at ease. Usually I can control it, but a sweet looking skirt with 'junk in the trunk' is slipping out of her low riders. The fabric is blue but fades to black as it separates the meaty flesh of her backside. God I love being a pervert.
"Darien Scott, your presentation please?" asks Mrs. Morrison, my General Culture teacher. It's a new course that goes over influences in art, music, film, and television.
"Ahem," I say, jokingly clearing my throat as I stand up before the class, soldier luckily standing down. "Although I am a huge fan of Science Fiction and Star Wars in particular, I am forced to argue how it has negatively influenced society. I begin my argument with sequels. Never has there been a better trilogy than Star Wars, yet movies continue to spawn series' of thoughtless dribble. Argument 2: prequels. Stay away from them. Only Red Dragon was a decent prequel. Final Argument: Endings. With the spectacular truth at the end of Empire Strikes Back, so has ended the great hero – villain relationship. Tons of movies have tried using the father – son villainy, although I can't remember any. Oh well. What did you expect from trying to get a nerd to insult Star Wars?"
Having ended my speech, I return to my seat, but not before the bell rings for my next class. To the gymnasium I walk, humming 'Singing in the Rain.' I see the mass of screaming normal kids chasing the basketball trying desperately to sink the next basket.
"How utterly mundane," I think to myself.
"Participating today, Darien?" asks my gym teacher Mr. Burrows.
"Nah," I say, slapping my gut. "I plead the fat."
He gives a snicker and marks down my zero for the day. I take a seat on the bleachers. I grab my copy of 'War of the Worlds' out of my bag and start reading. Although I don't really read. I take in the about three words and look up and the students. Particularly the female students. Particularly Lizzie Piccolo.
Lizzie Piccolo reminds me of Marilyn Monroe, but not in the ditzy character way. I think of an epic beauty that defines the ages and a talented young woman with range and power. I have an intellectual crush on her.
Michelle Stewart was, is, will be the first girl I truly loved. She was just so damned sweet and she had all of these incredible little perks about her that just drove me wild; She had this beautiful hair that bounced when she walked, and she wore these adorable shoes and, she would pout her lips with her finger on her chin while we played chess. I lost every game. Anyway, I loved her. It didn't work out. I don't really know why. She won't tell me.
I can't concentrate so I toss my book back into my bag and take out a notebook. It isn't my notebook though. When Michelle and I were dating she used my locker and she forgot it there. Lo and behold four months after we break up, I discover it. I haven't looked at it. I want to really frigging badly. It's a series of notes between her and Lizzie. I'm sure it talks all about me.
Damn my conscience! Damn problems of morality! I don't even open it. I toss it in the book bag and zip it up. I sit here thinking depressing thoughts to myself.
Enough! I can hear the rain picking up and crashing onto the gym roof, like some bees constantly humming in their hive. The news said there was something odd about the weather lately and the meteorologists were puzzled. Big shocker.
"Phew!" says Lizzie, walking up to me changed out of her gym clothes. Had the period already ended? "That was intense."
"What was?" I ask.
"Volleyball."
"Volleyball is intense?" I ask.
"Volleyball is always intense. Just like anal sex," she says as if it is the most normal statement in the world.
The comment couldn't have been more random than us actually having anal sex right now; it is completely out of nowhere. I don't really know quite how hard I laugh but my jaw begins to hurt.
"Wow," I say, regaining my vocabulary. "I needed that so desperately." Something like that really clears the head and for some reason puts things into perspective. "Here," I say unzipping my bookbag. "I found this. It's yours." I hand over the notebook. "I haven't read it but if I keep it any longer I'll probably give in."
"Oh. Thanks," she says, tucking it into her bookbag. "So that's where that went."
And the bell rings. Four strokes of that ominous gong. For whom the bell tolls? Me? For us all? I have a terrible feeling in the hollow of my gut; maybe it's just an ulcer. Hmmm . . . impending doom or abdominal agony? I hope it's not an ulcer.
"What's that noise?" I say out loud to myself. It's a high-pitched sound, like a plane passing by overhead but it sounds like something smaller. The light from outside breaks, as if something, is passing through it. An oddly shaped shadow casts over the American Flag that is hanging on the gymnasium wall. It gets smaller and smaller like whatever the shadow is of is getting closer. I'm getting this terrible feeling over my body. "This is it," I tell myself. "The terrorists have done it."
I guess I should be sad about not finding true love and being a virgin and all but I don't care. Girlfriends and crushes and homework all of the things that I thought were so important really aren't. I'm content with my family; they all knew I loved them. It's a strange thing to die. Everyone around me is panicking the principal is on the loud speaker telling us to remain calm. I always thought I'd be praying to God but I have no desire to. My life should speak for itself.
The sound is deafening now, the sound barrier continues to be broken. I can feel the impact and I can hear the muffled sounds of confusion. The dust is upon us. Darkness engulfs . . .
"No boners. No boners. No boners."
This is me. That is, Darien. And I am about to give an oral presentation. I only hope my marine stands at ease. Usually I can control it, but a sweet looking skirt with 'junk in the trunk' is slipping out of her low riders. The fabric is blue but fades to black as it separates the meaty flesh of her backside. God I love being a pervert.
"Darien Scott, your presentation please?" asks Mrs. Morrison, my General Culture teacher. It's a new course that goes over influences in art, music, film, and television.
"Ahem," I say, jokingly clearing my throat as I stand up before the class, soldier luckily standing down. "Although I am a huge fan of Science Fiction and Star Wars in particular, I am forced to argue how it has negatively influenced society. I begin my argument with sequels. Never has there been a better trilogy than Star Wars, yet movies continue to spawn series' of thoughtless dribble. Argument 2: prequels. Stay away from them. Only Red Dragon was a decent prequel. Final Argument: Endings. With the spectacular truth at the end of Empire Strikes Back, so has ended the great hero – villain relationship. Tons of movies have tried using the father – son villainy, although I can't remember any. Oh well. What did you expect from trying to get a nerd to insult Star Wars?"
Having ended my speech, I return to my seat, but not before the bell rings for my next class. To the gymnasium I walk, humming 'Singing in the Rain.' I see the mass of screaming normal kids chasing the basketball trying desperately to sink the next basket.
"How utterly mundane," I think to myself.
"Participating today, Darien?" asks my gym teacher Mr. Burrows.
"Nah," I say, slapping my gut. "I plead the fat."
He gives a snicker and marks down my zero for the day. I take a seat on the bleachers. I grab my copy of 'War of the Worlds' out of my bag and start reading. Although I don't really read. I take in the about three words and look up and the students. Particularly the female students. Particularly Lizzie Piccolo.
Lizzie Piccolo reminds me of Marilyn Monroe, but not in the ditzy character way. I think of an epic beauty that defines the ages and a talented young woman with range and power. I have an intellectual crush on her.
Michelle Stewart was, is, will be the first girl I truly loved. She was just so damned sweet and she had all of these incredible little perks about her that just drove me wild; She had this beautiful hair that bounced when she walked, and she wore these adorable shoes and, she would pout her lips with her finger on her chin while we played chess. I lost every game. Anyway, I loved her. It didn't work out. I don't really know why. She won't tell me.
I can't concentrate so I toss my book back into my bag and take out a notebook. It isn't my notebook though. When Michelle and I were dating she used my locker and she forgot it there. Lo and behold four months after we break up, I discover it. I haven't looked at it. I want to really frigging badly. It's a series of notes between her and Lizzie. I'm sure it talks all about me.
Damn my conscience! Damn problems of morality! I don't even open it. I toss it in the book bag and zip it up. I sit here thinking depressing thoughts to myself.
Enough! I can hear the rain picking up and crashing onto the gym roof, like some bees constantly humming in their hive. The news said there was something odd about the weather lately and the meteorologists were puzzled. Big shocker.
"Phew!" says Lizzie, walking up to me changed out of her gym clothes. Had the period already ended? "That was intense."
"What was?" I ask.
"Volleyball."
"Volleyball is intense?" I ask.
"Volleyball is always intense. Just like anal sex," she says as if it is the most normal statement in the world.
The comment couldn't have been more random than us actually having anal sex right now; it is completely out of nowhere. I don't really know quite how hard I laugh but my jaw begins to hurt.
"Wow," I say, regaining my vocabulary. "I needed that so desperately." Something like that really clears the head and for some reason puts things into perspective. "Here," I say unzipping my bookbag. "I found this. It's yours." I hand over the notebook. "I haven't read it but if I keep it any longer I'll probably give in."
"Oh. Thanks," she says, tucking it into her bookbag. "So that's where that went."
And the bell rings. Four strokes of that ominous gong. For whom the bell tolls? Me? For us all? I have a terrible feeling in the hollow of my gut; maybe it's just an ulcer. Hmmm . . . impending doom or abdominal agony? I hope it's not an ulcer.
"What's that noise?" I say out loud to myself. It's a high-pitched sound, like a plane passing by overhead but it sounds like something smaller. The light from outside breaks, as if something, is passing through it. An oddly shaped shadow casts over the American Flag that is hanging on the gymnasium wall. It gets smaller and smaller like whatever the shadow is of is getting closer. I'm getting this terrible feeling over my body. "This is it," I tell myself. "The terrorists have done it."
I guess I should be sad about not finding true love and being a virgin and all but I don't care. Girlfriends and crushes and homework all of the things that I thought were so important really aren't. I'm content with my family; they all knew I loved them. It's a strange thing to die. Everyone around me is panicking the principal is on the loud speaker telling us to remain calm. I always thought I'd be praying to God but I have no desire to. My life should speak for itself.
The sound is deafening now, the sound barrier continues to be broken. I can feel the impact and I can hear the muffled sounds of confusion. The dust is upon us. Darkness engulfs . . .