Project Searchman: Ready to Launch

Konbanwa!

Okay guys, so to start off today, we have some business. First off, the blog has been secretly working underground on a very special surprise. Alex and I will reveal more and more about this as the month moves along, so you should stay tuned and attentive! What I can tell you today is that L.I.F. is getting a major overhaul, and I mean MAJOR changes, in order to get our readers more interactive with the site as a whole! That way, it'll be your heads soaring the clouds with us instead of having only us stuck on Cloud Nine. ;)

©2011-2012 ~FoReal100

Now, as many of you know, I have been working on plenty of projects since the creation of this site. But I have yet to finish any of them... until now. At last, I have finished a project! Project Searchman is done at last! Now, for those who are unaware of what Project Searchman is, Project Searchman is a series I started in order to dive deeper into who I am and the story that began it. Through multiple poems, short stories, and prose, I have finally develop three layered pieces that detail the depths of my soul. The finished product is called: "Searching For Cloud Nine"!!!!! Each of these pieces will be split into two parts: a piece of prose, and a short story. This will be a Friday exclusive series, opposite of Alex. Hopefully you all will enjoy it. Well then enough rambling, on to the piece!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Suicide; considered a sin in most cultures. The strength it takes to kill one's self is miraculous. Ironically, it comes from losing all the strength to live in this world. One day, I found myself surfing Facebook, where multiple of my friends from Ohio were posting R.I.P. statuses. I was completely confused, so I messaged a friend to see what was going on. She told me a classmate of ours from while I was in High School there had committed suicide. She was apparently bullied so much that she couldn’t take it. 

I was speechless. I was no stranger to death. I had lost my share of close friends to death. Yet this struck me the wrong way. I was moody, attacking my friends, completely upset. Yet I truly had no reason why. I had no business caring so much. I wasn’t close to her. I barely knew who she was. Hell, I had never spoken to her before in my life. Yet I still cared. I saw her face. I heard her voice. I saw her smile, heard her laugh, like another human being. She was no different than me. I was there when people made fun of her, yet I did nothing. I may not have said a word to her, but by ignoring the situation, I might as well have said, “I don’t care what they do to you honestly.” Why do I care so much? Because I watched it happen to a friend once before. I was the one who let it pass, who didn’t care, until it was too late. I remember what it was like to know someone was in pain, yet I did nothing. I said to myself, “Nah, it’ll be okay. Things will work themselves out.” Yet they didn’t. She lost her life, because we… I…left her for dead. Once again. Oops, there I go, being dramatic again. Time to put back on this mask, and be someone else for a change.
=====================================================================

Dim lights illuminating my path, I trekked through the snow-covered streets of downtown Cincinnati. Nose chilled and runny, I dragged my way through the snow as I attempted to reach my destination. At the edge of my vision I noticed a couple cuddled together as they walked down the street. I zipped up my coat and put my hands in my pockets.

“Cold huh?” a voice spoke in my head. “Don’t expect to ever be like that guy.”

I watch as the man smiled at the girl draped on his shoulder. Gay expressions spread across their faces; they embraced momentarily to kiss one another before heading into the theater across the street from me. I quickly caught myself staring and moved on, accidentally running into a passing businessman.

“Sorry…” I said embarrassed, but the man continued without a word.
“Don’t bother, you’re invisible remember?” the voice said again.

I continued to my destination, arriving at a small café on the corner of the street. I took a quick peek inside and found it empty. Confused, I pull out my sidekick and dialed my friend’s number. After about five rings, she picked up.

“Hello?” she asked the sound of music almost louder than her.
“Hello, Ashley? I’m at the café,” I said.
“Oh, Rey babe, I’m sorry we won’t make it tonight.”
“Oh I see… another day perhaps?”
“Um yeah sure sweetie, another week… hey stop I’m on the phone!... Okay, well bye!” Ashley hung up.
“More like never again,” the voice chuckled. I dropped my head, and entered the café alone. The bartender was cleaning glasses when he noticed me. He gave me a concerned look.

“Alone tonight?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“When is it ever more than just us?” the voice said sarcastically.
“I’ll get you the special,” the bartender said. I spun around in my chair, before I noticed the piano in the corner of the café. It was made of black wood from what my eyes told me at the current distance. “Just got it in, you can go play if you like,” the bartender said softly.

I dashed from my seat over to the piano, where I took a seat and slowly ran my hand over the fine black wood. I lifted a finger to touch a key. I hesitated for a moment, then lightly pressed the B-flat key. The beautiful tone of my favorite note infected the air. I closed my eyes and let the note vibrate in my ears. I reached into my pocket and took out a beat-up crimson journal. I opened to where the bookmark was and placed the small book on the stand in front of me. I strained myself to read the hand-written notes before me.

“You know you really are a piece of work.” The voice said.
“F sharp, E, B…” I said as I began to play.
“Too much of a worm to be loved…”
“E, G, A, E, E…”
“…The pen that writes your life in everyone else’s hand…”
“G…”
“…Invisible to the entire world…”
“F sharp, G, A, D…”
“…Even when one girl gave you a shot…”
“B, A…”
“She loses her life while you chase another!”
“F sharp, E, B….”
“You even got three chances with one…”
“E, G, A, E, E…”
“…But in the end…”
“G…”
“…when they find who they are…”
“F sharp… G… A, D, E…”
“…They’ll forget about you.”
“…I know.”
“Oh? So why would you insist on continuing?”
“But one day, that won’t be the case…”
“What makes you think you’ll be a special case?”
“I don’t think I will be; I hope I will be.”
“How do you ever expect to be happy like that?”
“Well you’ve got to think about it: What is happiness to anyone? What you find depressing I may find inspiring. What you find garbage I may find to be a treasure. What you find to be solitude, I may find to be loneliness… But you see these notes never seem to change among those of this world, so I’ll keep playing until someone… anyone… hears them.”
“You ignorant little rat! You fucked up bro! There is no saving you anymore! No hope! You’ll fail at everything you’ll ever do! Haven’t enough people told you how weird you are? Stop being your friend because of it? You have no RIGHT to be happy!”
“….I know that.”
“Do you truly understand? If you did you wouldn’t continue this charade…”

“What else do you want William?!” I rose up shouting, the bartender with a puzzled look on his face now. “I have nothing left! Nothing! With all the hardships we have endured, we, yes ‘we’, are still to blame for our problems. We screwed up in the end! We didn’t fight our parents hard enough to stay put! We let our immaturity get in the way of the only one who cared for us! We let the next one walk three times because we didn’t know how to finish a sentence! We make ourselves forgettable! We chose to be like this! We could have practiced night and day! Studied around the clock instead of writing our lives away! But guess what? We chose to whine. Sure we caught some bad breaks, but it was our own lies, misses, and mistakes that landed us here! So give it up already… I’m tired of blaming others for being such a screw-up… I’ll perfect something in order to make up for it… so either keep complaining or make yourself useful. Because whether you like it or not, we are built to shoulder our burdens alone now and forever…”

I flip the small pages, sit back down, and begin to play again. The voice continues his monologue, as the sound of the piano creates the voice for the sorrow in my soul. The rain falls outside, as the teardrops on my own face refuse to fall.

~APLIW~

~Edited by: TMH, Elizabeth, AAA

Dream Chronicle 14: Second Place Champion

Konbanwa!

Alrighty guys so I don't really have a lot of news for you guys at the moment. However, I can say that the blog is currently working underground on something BIG, so be sure to keep your eye out. ;) Also, with the Super Bowl coming up, I will be writing a poem for the Super Bowl Champion, with it changing depending on the victor. (Though my money is on the Giants), so that will be posted either Sunday evening or tuesday evening.

Now, lastly, in order to get the community, I will allow all my viewers to choose what my next story/poem topic will be about. Just post a comment and I will choose one of the lucky readers topic and write either a poem or story on that topic. So be sure to comment! With that said, let;s get to today's post shall we?

================================================

Sweat was dripping down my face, and my body tight, I would periodically pull at my shirt collar. The others assigned to my table weren’t nearly as nervous as I was nor were they as pensive. I was lost in my own thoughts, denying every drink that was offered to me by one of the waiters on scene. All my thoughts were on this contest and the upcoming announcement of the victor. I was currently at the New York Times Annual Writing Contest Ceremony, where the top writer in each category would be announced, as well as the grand prize winner. I submitted a short story called, “The Second Place Gold Medalist”. If I won the grand prize, I would earn 10,000 dollars and finally gain a bit of recognition. I looked around Radio City Music Hall and at what had to be over a thousand people. Although there were over 500 participants, most of these people here were supporters for the participants. Except for an unfortunate few people, everyone had someone there who was there to cheer them on and give their support. I was one of the unfortunate few who were alone. The whole issue though was irrelevant, because very soon they would call my name for the grand prize winner. After another five minutes the host and special guest of this contest, Stephen King, stepped up on stage and walked over to a podium in the middle of the stage. He began to give his welcome speech yet all my mind could focus on was how my story came to be in the first place.

“… And the Texas Rangers will take down the St. Louis Cardinals for the 2013 World Series title!”

Everyone in the Sidney Street Café threw their hands up in unison; sadden to see their beloved Cardinals fall to the Texas Rangers. I was at the bar, drinking a Miller Lite that I obtained thanks to an inaccurate I.D. I ‘forgot’ to mention it was incorrect. I turned around and went back to drinking, but I could hear one fan screaming in victory. I turned around to let the man have it, but my friend beat me to it.

“Can it will you bud.” Kinser said.

“Forgive me for being happy that my team won.” The guy said.

“Did they?” Kinser asked.

“What do you mean did they win? Dude they just took you guys down in a seven games! Are you drunk bro?”

“Look around you; there isn’t a single Rangers fan in this room is there?”

“So?”

“There is however tons of cards fans in this room. Hey Quinton, you remember 2011, Game 5 in the National League Divional Series against the Philadelphia Phillies?”

“Of course,” I said, “Chris Carpenter out-dueled pitching legend Roy Halladay, shocking the world and allowed the Cardinals to move on to take down division rival in the Brewers.”

“Hey Yogi, how about that 1981 year?” Kinser said.

“It’s simply the season our pitching legend Bob Gibson got into the hall of fame in his first year of eligibility Mr. Kinser.” Yogi said.

“Tell me about that 2006 season somebodyyyyyyyy!”

“It was the season that we won our 10^th World Series, despite having the worst regular season record of any champion!” We all said simultaneously. The sole Rangers fan had taken a seat now.

“You see, a victory only means something if there is someone to share it with. Otherwise, what good if there is no one you can go to and say, ‘yo, remember when…’? What good does it do to win the gold medal when everyone just wants to see the next guy get the sliver? You can’t even see that no one ever cared whether your team could win, they just cared to see if the Cards would lose. The Rangers won the Series, but the Cards won the public ages ago.”

I watched on, taking every one of Kinser’s words to heart. I took a final sip of my illegal beverage, before the bartender gave me a hard glare.

“How old are you kid?” He asked. I flipped him a golden dollar.

“42.” I said, before I walked out of the bar with a new concept dominating my brain.

I shook myself awake just as King got around to announcing the names of each category winner. My category was ‘Short Story’, and most likely to be the last one on the list to be named. I had to win my category if I wanted to win the grand prize. I clasped my hands together and began to pray to a god that I don’t believe in.

“The screenplay winner is…. Without Reason by Samuel Morris!”

People at table near the front of the stage erupted in celebration.

“Please refrain from celebration until the end of the announcements.”

They all sat down in shame.

“The winner of the comic category… The 100-Gin Grill by Michael Harvey!”

The hall started to celebrate again, and Stephen King glared at them to cease action. After five minutes they did.

“The songwriter winner is… Midnight Sidestep Jose Cortex!” King said waiting for the celebration that never came before continuing, “The essay winner is… The Circulation by Lennox Zackary! The winner of the prose category is… Thoughtless by Terra Nova! The winner of the narrative category is… Enduring Hope and Instilling Compassion by Stephanie Pickles! The persuasive writing winner is… Apathy: America’s Shackles by Alexi Andrews!”

I began to grow anxious, knowing my category would be upon us in mere moments. I already cringe at the list of names on this list. Plenty were friends of mine long before this contest, and were great writers in their own right. I had very little reason to believe that I would beat Cameron in the short story category. My only shot was if he would win the poetry category, which would mean he couldn’t win the Short Story category. I licked my chops, awaiting the biggest 60 seconds of my life.

“The winner of the general admissions category is… Individuality by Amanda Samuels! The winner of the poetry category is… Memoirs of the Wise by Cameron Cooper!”

I gave a mighty fist pump, confusing those sitting across from me. I sat back down, smoothing out my jacket and putting up an indifferent façade.

“The winner of the short story category is… The Second Place Gold Medalist by Quinton Staten!”

Afterwards, the whole hall erupted into celebration, everyone celebrating their individual victories, and other consulting those who came up short. I simply grinned with satisfaction, but I still had a mighty obstacle in the way of my greater goal. Cameron may not have won the first prize in my category, but that’s simply because his poetry is out-of-this world. Jose and Michael were also fantastic in their respective category. I no longer could rely on a miracle to get me in. My heart raced even faster. Stephen King settled down the crowd, and prepared to call of the grand prize winner, which would be done by announcing the top three recipients and tell which one of them won.

“This was an extremely close year. We had to revote a total of ten times, with everyone tying for first place the at least once. Three guys tied for first the most however, from the short story, poetry, and songwriter categories, and only one of them was constantly placed in the top three. So, by a total of two votes, this year’s New York Times Annual Grand Prize Winner is… The Second Place Gold Medalist by Quinton Staten!”

The entire hall erupted in applause for me while I sat in my seat shell-shocked. I had to receive a tap from a man at my table to even rise to my feet. I slowly walked to the stage with screams surrounding me but I couldn’t hear a thing. Cameras flashing, watching as I crossed the stage where one of my biggest heroes, Chad Ochocinco, took his own historic steps. I shook hands with Stephen King himself, and he handed me an envelope and gold medal. I took them and we both posed for the cameras. I had finally earned my fifteen minutes of fame, clawed my way to the top of the world. Afterwards, everyone prepared to leave, and I went to gather my things. A few people would walk past me every now and then and congratulate me. I looked over towards Cameron and Jose, who were swarmed by reporters. I dipped over near Cameron, intrigued to hear what they were interrogating him so thoroughly about.

“What do you think about Mr. Staten’s miraculous upset of your piece of mastery?"

“I would say that it’s disrespectful to call it an upset. His piece was simply better then mine,” Cameron replied viciously.

“But you are surely twice the writer he is…”

I cut away, unable to bear what they were saying. I dipped towards the entrance, walking slowly enough to be approached by any of the reporters to be inquired for my victory. No, I simply wanted someone to share my victory with someone. Before I could exit the door, I was stopped by a single reporter.

“Excuse me I just wanted to say that I loved your piece today. You threw in a little shocker you did, but most of all you gave us a philosophical piece unlike any I have ever read.”

“Why thank you, it wasn’t originally meant to be actually,” I chuckled.

“Oh it definitely turned out to be a fantastic little essay,” The man laughed.

“Excuse me?” I said dumbfounded.

“The essay you wrote? That you came in fifth place with? Come on Lennox, I didn’t know you had a joking side to you,” The man patted me on the back still laughing.

I stared at the ground, and the man gave me a worried look. He stared at a photo he had and instantly realized his mistake.

“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Staten, you both are so similar. Well um, congrats on your victory!”

The man ran off to talk to find Lennox. I walked outside, taking the bus fare to the Hudson River Basin. While on the bus, I had multiple people ask what I had won the medal for and I told them it was for the New York Times Annual Writing Contest. Many of them asked if I got to meet Cameron and Jose or Terra and Amanda, and I told them I was close to all of them, promising to get autographs for them all.

When I made it to the Hudson River I stood on a bridge overhead. I stared at the bright crescent moon reflecting off the bleak, blue water. In the distance I could hear people talking about how shocked they were that Cameron and Jose lost the contest, never mentioning my own name. I took the gold medal from around my neck, heaving it into the river water before me. Soft, fluffy snow began to drizzle on me, as I bowed my head on the railing.

“Hey.” The voice of a little kid said to me. I looked over to see a little blond boy in New York Giants winter attire standing right next to me.

“Hey,” I responded.

“What did you throw that medal for?”

“It wasn’t really accurate of how I did.”

“What did you win the medal for?” He asked.

“A writing contest hosted by the New York Times.”

“Isn’t that the one that Cameron participated in?”

“The one and the same.”

“Wow! I heard he lost… and you got a medal!”

“Yep.”

“What color?”

“Gold.”

“What place is that?” he asked. I looked into his crystal blue eyes.

“Second place kid. Second place.” I said, patting him and his head, and I headed towards the airport.




~APLIW~

~ Edited by Elizabeth, Logan, AAA

Ciao Sig. Nessuno

Konbanwa!

So it's been awhile since the last time I was on here! How has everyone been? There has been a lot of changes since the last time we post. We have multiple new writers, as well two new artist! We also have a special monthly crossover with Life as You Dream with Illya. Not only that, but we have many new things on the way! Vlog posts, artwork, new mini-series, and a special surprise that my fellow bloggers don't even know about. ;)

But as of now, I, Chris, and Tara will slowly catch you guys up to speed on the inter-workings of the site. But as for now, I shall post a three part poem that is part of "Project Searchman". I hope you like it!
==============================================

Il Cardinale

Falling at someone else’s discretion

Personality drawn up
to another’s expectations.
The pen outside my hand,
fate drawing my path like a Puppet’s master
creates his puppets movements.
Emotion raging through the catacombs of my soul
Only to be repressed by

the restrictions of my pen’s holder.

Voices telling me of
my imperfection every waking hour,
Fingers pointing me to

the roads they want me taking.

Oh how I long for that
pen to be in my hand,
to finally get to write
a script made just for me.

Longing to think with my own soul,

But every day I wake up someone else.
I’m a little blue bird, singing to another’s,
While the Cardinal inside
sings an unheard song.
No, only the vengeful raptor

gets out of his own accord,

While the Desert Cardinal flies south,
waiting for winter to pass.
Shooting for Perfection to please others,
But never truly taking those steps please himself.
Sing your lonely tune Blue Bird,
For maybe the next day you’ll wake
the Cardinal you know you are.

Il Rapace

 Masked Cardinal, continue your flight,

Glide at top speeds and don’t ever stop.

 Mask off, Mask on,

Fly pass, they want nothing to do with you.

Mask on, Mask off,

They were simply waiting until you’re gone.

Trust you? HA!

Who would trust a Masked Cardinal?

They all have grown tired of you,

It’s time to move on.

You’re generic, you’re everywhere,

Your song ugly and dull.

 Who would take you when there is

A raven or hummingbird nearby?

Just glide non-stop,

And don’t open that beak again.

 This is where you belong,

Alone with me in the Northern blue sky.

L'Uccello Blu

Voices, Voices,

Everywhere.
Crying, Dying,
All in My ears.

Hear them, See this,

Anywhere.
Feel Love, Feel a Soul,
An loneliness with no end.

Mask off, Mask On,

The Queen of Hid-and-Seek.
Mask on, Mask Off,
Dodging me as always.

Who am I to talk?
I don’t even exist.
You know nothing of me,
Just like you should.

We are of two different worlds,

What chance did I really have?
I’m just like your mask,
Invisible to all except me.

Yet I can handle that,

They did it before you.
I desire hopelessness foremost,
Unlike these other fools.

Bash me, destroy me,

I’m fine with that too.
As all as you get what you want
You can forget about me too.

~APLIW~

You Miss Us?

Salute!

The L.I.F. crew is back and here to let you know we are still alive! Sorry to take such a long break, but the blog went underground in order to calm the chaos that we were dealing with in each of our lives. Nevertheless, the blog is back and we have a few treats for you! Joseph has more chapters to his fantastic story, A New Beginning, as we continue through Bruce's journey, while Anora has her always marvelous writing to keep your tastes appeased.

As for me, I will be slowly building up a new project on the site that I have been very secretive about; Not even my fellow bloggers know about this project. All I will tell you about it right now is that it's codenamed "Jokes". No this isn't a really late April Fool's joke, but don't worry I will be posting information and doing a little Q&A soon on the details, along with a new challenge and discussion that will have a lot to do with it. Speaking of jokes though, I thought it would be downright rude to leave without giving you a taste of the future, so here is a poem that Ms. Anora inspired me to write. Enjoy! :)

Put his life into words didn't he?

===============================

What A Joke

We call society’s outcasts freaks,

Labeling them for having a personality.

These people with nothing but pure desire,

Insanity brought about by humanity’s cruel fire.

Pocket knifes stealing the lives of a mother’s child,

Gang violence poisoning the mind into ignorant denial.

Yet worship is given to the monsters of this world,

Sitting fat onto a greed infested order.

Shooting, Killing,

Ruining the lives of the hard workers.

Creating these madmen that rape a father’s daughter.

Molding the psychopath that stabs a lady’s poor grandfather.

No one thinks of the ones who lose their world,

Until they are person screaming unjust.

Not realizing that this all steams

From a man who had one bad day.

Not realizing we are no different then him,

And he was only ahead of the curve.

So in that asylum,

We toss the loon, the freak inside.

Calling for his head,

Wishing he was dead,

The monster we gave birth to.

It’s too much ask,

To save a freak,

Because most the time we’re too late.

Yet every now and then comes freak,

Who can be save, but dies cause no one

Stands up and becames a little brave.

No, homo sapiens are content,

With excluding their own,

In a species that hates individuals,

Anyone too different from the world.

You call that girl,

The one who loves a little too dear,

A freak and crazy right beside her.

You name that Boy,

That loving boy,

A creeper and weirdo then egg them.

Then when hanging from rope,

You crack a few jokes,

Our people never truly caring we caused it.

Then we all go out,

To hear how they caught the real freaks.

HA! That’s a joke if I ever heard one.
========

~APLIW~