Let · me · take · you · to · the · movies

Dostoevsky is my idol...
Hugo seems to be working his way onto that list as well.

Current Location:	Ensconced in a good book.
Current Mood:	calm

Tomorrow I have to:
1. Finish the lesson on antiderivatives for Calculus
2. Fill out my OCU application and scholarship apps in hopes that there's at least a little money left
3. Clean my room

If time provides I will:
1. Try to connect to Xbox Live downstairs where the antennae can be closer to the router and maintain a stronger connection
1a. If (1.) succeeds, then I will download some more songs for Rock Band
2. Finish catching up on Iron Man (Yeah, I'm a geek. Leave me to my different mediums of literature. I read Hamlet just the other day... >_>)
3. Continue hunting demons as Dante in DMC4

If I catch myself playing Solitaire one more time, I'm throwing this computer out the window. Procrastination is a nibbling beast that pretends to be cute. You sit there admiring it for hours upon hours until you've realized that it's already gnawed your arm off.

If only it had done that with my galbladder two months ago... >_>

P.S. What the hell is up with that fox? I'm gonna leave the mood on "horny" and let you guys make your own interpretation on that one.

Current Mood:	horny
Current Music:	Jesus - Brand New

Here's a little recap for the two people on my flist:
For the past month and a half, my galbladder has been giving me trouble, probably stress related because it hasn't bothered me in over a week.
Also, I have returned to my independent studies of American Government and Calculus. Almost done with Calc... >_>
I like to read voraciously.

I turned on an old favorite today on iTunes: The Honorary Title's Anything Else But The Truth. 
There's a relaxing quality in his voice's imperfection.

Today is a day for reflection.

Current Mood:	thoughtful
Current Music:	Frame By Frame - The Honorary Title

"Prednick? Like hell! You're Mr. Shut-up! That's who you are!" - drunken sea captain, The Island of Dr. Moreau

"Well, aren't you Mr. Fancy-pants." - Ash, Army of Darkness

"Remember that time we took a shower together?"
"Totally."
"Yeah. We saved a lot of water that way." - completely heterosexual conversation between me and Ryan

Part One: Shattered

            A gray lightning bolt darted past Carter’s feet, sending him toppling backwards over a cluster of soggy cardboard boxes. There was a crash and a torrent of expletives soon accompanied by a slightly displeasured,

            “Diane! Can you get this damned cat put up or something!?”

            Diane hurried around the kitchen corner, stifling a laugh at her fiancé’s predicament. She gently strode towards him, her grace mirroring that of her cat’s in every soft, soundless step. In this same grace she extended her hand and teased,

            “Having a little trouble unpacking honey?”

            Carter rolled his eyes and stood back up of his own accord, brushing himself off and giving a mischievous grin.

            “I’ll tell you what I’d like to unpack. Come here!”

            Diane gave an excited scream as she ran past the empty boxes into the bedroom and slammed the door, giggling and pushing her weight against it. Carter turned the knob and leaned on the paint-chipped door, hoping that Diane would give out under his weight. Suddenly, the door flung open and he came toppling forward onto the carpet. A form leaped over him as he fought to regain his senses. Pushing himself back up, he followed the laughter into the kitchen where Diane leaned against the counter, her lips curled into a playful smile. Carter couldn’t help but notice in that moment just how gorgeous she was. Diane pressed her chin to her chest, her brown eyes traveling across the floor, then climbing upwards to meet Carter’s gaze. He made his way across the tile in a few steps and wrapped his arms around Diane’s waist, closing his eyes before pressing his lips to her’s. Mittens, the small gray kitten slunk in between Carter’s legs, mewling and pleading for attention with his wide green eyes. Carter looked down and raised an eyebrow.

            “Sorry buddy. She’s a little busy at the moment.”

            Hours later, Carter sat in his worn, burgundy armchair, fumbling through an unpacked box for a book he had been meaning to read. He bumped the lamp beside him and it came crashing downwards onto the carpet before he could grasp it. The room was suddenly engulfed in pitch black darkness. Carter cautiously stepped out of his chair and away from the shattered light bulb that the darkness implied. Slinking through the musty halls and towards the bedroom, he peered around the corner, relieved to find that the commotion hadn’t disturbed any of Diane’s dreaming. Carter quietly slipped on his shoes, not caring about the fact that he wasn’t wearing socks.

            The fluorescent light buzzed to life as Carter scoured the kitchen for cleaning supplies. He found a flashlight, a hand-held broom, and a dustpan and hastened in cleaning up his mess so that Mittens wouldn’t cut any paws treading over the wreckage. As he disposed of the shattered light bulb, a piece ran along the edge of his finger, slicing it like the edge of an unguided guillotine blade falling towards the wastebasket. Carter recoiled and put his finger into his mouth, a few droplets of blood escaping onto the floor with a quiet splash. Mittens began to mewl in the bedroom as Carter fumbled for the bathroom light. The bulb flickered against the rusted bathroom walls, illuminating the faded off-white paint that seemed to be wearing away with every second. As Carter ran his hand under the faucet the blood seemed to expand in a whirlpool of crimson. There was a rattling in the vents above him as he wrapped a band-aid around his injured finger.

            Mittens continued his incessant mewling as Carter reentered the hallway and trod towards the bedroom. He nudged the cat and berated it with a harsh whisper. Suddenly, Mittens emitted a harsh hissing sound and arched his back, every gray hair rising in needlelike bristles.

            “Shut up. You’re going to wake her up.”

He approached Diane and noticed an expression that hinted at some unseen and unknown discomfort. Cold sweat trickled down her forehead as her brow indicated some inner struggle in her immune system. Carter gently laid his hand on her forehead and found that she had gone surprisingly cold.

“Diane? Honey, wake up.”

He gently shook her in an attempt to rouse her from her slumber. Diane muttered something unintelligible and rolled over, her soft hair falling against the pillow to expose her neck. Carter flipped on the lamp next to the bed and recoiled in shock. On her neck were two small punctures. An adrenaline-fueled uneasiness welled up in Carter’s chest as the implications of such impossibility began to terrify and bewilder him. He toppled backwards over a retreating Mittens and attempted to collect his staccato thoughts.

Attempting to awaken her again, Carter shook Diane in a panicked frenzy, almost violently. He stood up and paced the room, continually glancing from the floor to Diane. He ran his hand through his hair and began to search for his cell phone but to no avail. He then scoured for Diane’s and began to grow angry at its apparent absence. Upon this second delay, Carter remembered that the home phone hadn’t been connected yet either. He scrambled towards the front door in hopes that he could perhaps rouse a neighbor and borrow a phone. He tried to loosen the bolt, but found that it wouldn’t budge. He tugged harder still but the bolt refused to move. Shining his flashlight on the small metal rod, he felt a disturbing sickness as his stomach turned. The bolt had been bent in place. Whatever had gotten to Diane was still in the apartment.

     It is with great reluctance that I recite the events of this past week. There are some things which mortal men are to remain ignorant of for their beneficence. Prior to recent events, if one were to ask me about that gaunt man that plays his guitar in the labyrinthine streets and alleyways of downtown Cavthalem, I would have scoffed at such nonsense and regarded the poor fool as an old beggar; for such things as I have seen simply cannot be. I can give no explanation for the abomination to which I have held witness. I am not certain there is an explanation. In lieu of my inability to comprehend the nature of this event, I shall provide all the information I am aware of in this manuscript in hopes that I, or someone who reads this, will be able to draw about an understanding of that unhallowed vagabond.
     It was about eight o’ clock last Sunday when I first made the acquaintance of that sallow-cheeked traveler in his tattered clothes. I was emerging from one of the finer restaurants in which I had been attending a business meeting when I passed the beggar’s post. I would have passed him without regard if it had not been for that somewhat unearthly quality to the melody that emerged from his instrument. Enchanted, I took a step into the passageway to appease the curiosity that had taken hold of me. The way his fingers glided over what I have recently learned to be the fret board was with a grace and slender movement unmatched by anyone I had ever seen. It is impossible to describe the beauty that was conceived by the marriage of his fingertips to that guitar. I somewhat regret I will never hear it again. When he was finished, he lifted his eyes to meet mine, his wiry gray hair falling about his shoulders, and I caught an uneasy feeling in my stomach. His face had a somewhat twisted quality to it, and although he did not give a malign expression towards me, I felt somewhat offended by his stare. He had a crooked nose and his eyes didn’t seem to fit the sockets that held them. At this look, I decided it was best for me to leave. I took a couple spare coins and a bill from my pocket and made a sweeping glance for whatever the poor bastard used to accumulate his donations.
     Then my eyes met a black guitar case that seemed too small for the acoustic guitar that was ensconced within the man’s arms. I leaned down to open the case and with a lightning quickness, he snatched the case from where it sat. There was fire in those blue eyes that only an occupant of hell could describe. Obviously insulted, he disappeared into the alleyway evading my view. I ascertained that it was best not to follow such a man as this and acquiesced to pocket my donation and proceed homewards.
     That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, my mind absorbed with some quality about the guitar player. The muses themselves could not surpass the supremacy that was given shape and form from the man’s guitar. Yet, there was something strange about the player that I wasn’t able to completely pinpoint. Upon hours of waking and brooding, I eventually resolved that I would have to find the man again to hear that melody and satisfy my lust for such immaculate composition.
     The next day, I journeyed into downtown Cavthalem once more and probed every beggar I could find for the whereabouts of the player. I was often forced to bribe them and was only met with rumors regarding his unearthly nature. One man whispered that the player was the offspring of a siren, mute at birth and forced to channel his sorrow through the medium of his guitar. Another man claimed that the player had sold his soul to Beelzebub in exchange for the unearthly talent that manifested itself in his fingertips. And yet another man recalled in adamancy that the guitar player was the spirit of every guitar player that ever lived, destined to roam the streets and play his song. Each story narrated became more farfetched than the previous. Eventually finding that none of the beggars could locate this man, I took to a bench and watched the sun descend below the rooftops of the city.
     It was when I resolved to leave the godforsaken district that I hailed a cab on one of the further streets, and upon doing so, caught the faintest note of that melody once again. I quickly waved the cab off at the displeasure of the driver and began to follow the music. I was led past forlorn and ruined buildings, through the abandoned alleyways, the streetlights above illuminating my path. Near a building that was advertised to be the victim of hasty demolition the man sat in his dirty suit and scuffed shoes. His fingers were dancing upon the guitar like the satyrs of centuries passed. Each step harbored life to a new sensation of radiant sound. The perfection of such clarion beauty brought me closer to observe the methods by which this man achieved such art.
     I once again observed in ravenous curiosity until he was done. His head lifted to stare into mine again and I averted my eyes from contact, muttering an apology and thumbing through my pockets for change. I found some coins and a few bills and offered them to the man once more in reconciliation. His gaze traveled from the money to my eyes, but when our eyes intersected, I could not help but take a step backwards, scattering the change upon the ground. His eyes were no longer that blue that they had once been. They were hazel! I have seen eyes metamorphose between colors before, but never had I seen so drastic a transformation.
     Quite aware of my decorum, I apologized again and crouched to gather the change that I had so clumsily scattered upon the rocky gray earth. God, if I had only left at that moment, all could have been avoided. For when I glanced upwards, the man had stood up and was now looking down at me, analyzing my every movement with the absorbed interest of a feline. He had set his guitar on its back by the case and was now leaning over me. I gestured again to offer him the change, but I could not break his stare.
     Suddenly, I caught the glint of metal and the man made a sudden lunge at my throat. Had I not been on my guard, I surely would have been felled at that very moment. But seeing the blade, I had dodged to the side and grabbed the arm in which the weapon was yielded. The struggle is a blur now, but after a moment that seemed to similar to wrestling match with death itself, I emerged victorious with the knife in the man’s chest. If only I had let my victory alone be enough... The prostrate body now lay under the lamplights, a pool of blood beginning to form around it. I would have reported him to the police, but the repugnance of the event that followed left such a shock, that I felt it of vast importance to dispose of the remains of the plague that had once roamed the streets of Cavthalem. With this resolution in mind, I dragged his body and belongings into the building scheduled for demolition, praying that he would not be discovered amongst the structure’s rubble.
     Since that time, I have learned that the guitar player was born a poor, blind man and that his condition had plunged him into a series of events that would eventually lead to his plight. I would have had sympathy for the bastard if it had not been for my discovery. The inhumanity that surrounds his memory leaves a black stain upon my recollections. The horror that followed his demise will haunt my dreams until the day that the Grim Reaper bestows his mercy upon me.
     After I had killed the man, I resolved to discover the reason behind his defensive nature regarding his case. God, how I wish I hadn’t. Heart throbbing, I approached the case and unhinged its latches, slowly opening its lid. But God! I should have walked away! How I wish I had not witnessed nor possessed the curiosity to witness the contents of such a terrible vessel! When I opened the case a multitude of grotesquely gelatinous objects returned my gaze. My God! When I processed the realization, my stomach turned in disgust. The devil had been carrying human eyeballs in his case!

As one of you may or may not be aware, I have been reading mountains upon mountains of literature in pursuit of inspiration. As such, inspiration or boredom (whichever comes first) have been helping me build onto a story that has been in the makings since about May (and probably would have been finished if not for finals...)

Anyways, to be a tad more concise, I suppose I shall post book reviews onto this page as well, seeing as to how short stories might be few and far between. These reviews will contain spoilers, so if you wished to read it for yourself, then avert your eyes.

The Island of Dr Moreau is an uneasy novella that criticizes experimentation with animal vivisection in the 1800s. In this subject, H.G. Wells establishes his motif of controversy for the sake of science. However, since it can be easily inferenced that it is morally incorrect to pain a living creature for the sake of curiosity, this motif isn't what makes the book enjoyable.
The book is somewhat satirical of human society and religion, creating a metaphor of humanity's primal instincts and the means by which society attempts to separate itself from beasts. In this, Moreau plays God in his creation of the creatures and they obey him as thus, unknowing of the extent of his power. However, Wells's thesis can later be ascertained that the removal of God (Moreau) would revert society back to primality. It is a very interesting prospect indeed and the means by which it was executed made the novella somewhat enjoyable. The ending however, seemed somewhat anticlimactic and the protagonist's revelations of society upon his return seemed somewhat drawn-out.
But I am overly critical of everything that I read.
If I were to rate The Island of Dr Moreau on a scale of one to ten, I suppose it would get an...

8.5/10

Current Mood:	sleepy
Current Music:	Who's Next - The Who