Decided to delete some notes on Facebook because I'm super cool.

But then I couldn't let these go. So here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

"Places as People as Places", "Trailer Trash", "War", and some fucked up dream I had many months back.
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To answer the question, it'll probably take more.
If you're already there, well you probably don't know.
Well we were the people that we wanted to know and we're the places that we wanted to go.

Pacing the halls, he was waiting for his time. The cold air rose up from the cracked floorboards and mingled with the dust from the ceiling and the chairs. The musty old smell of the building always seemed to permeate him, like death. This was the smell of death. Funny, the connections people make between death and old age.

It's hard to get a hold of and hard to let go
Always something we looked for from the day we were born

He turned down the right side corner and followed the long hallway to the archives. Down some rusted stairs, through a broken archway. Inside a moldy brown box, an album. A photo collage. From time long past.

Instead we're the people that we wanted to know and we're the places that we wanted to go and we're the places that we wanted to go and we're the places that we wanted to go.

She was beautiful. The way her hair shined like a forest of light. Her dress was red, a hint to her fiery demeanor. She walked short on stilts of self-confidence. She only said hello in passing, and that was all he needed. That was when he knew he wanted her. He had to have her.

But came to him at the end of the night with a piece of paper in her hand, crumpled up with obvious tear stains on it and marks from mascara having been smudged. A napkin, a hastily written note. He took it in his hand and she turned away, tears in her eyes.

The paper hit the floor after she was gone. The noise it made echoed above and beyond the dying song of the night. No one would know. He just couldn't do it.

Always asking a question, and I don't wanna know like the wind across strings that had finally let go. And the people you love, but you didn't quite know and they're the places that you wanted to go.

At the bottom of the box, there they were. Pictures of her. She still was beautiful. Even after 50 years, her eyes sparkled and the hair glowed through the sepia-toned photo. Her immortal smile, candidly captured in ink and paper. He pocketed the photo and began the long journey up to the outside world again.

Bark at the neighbors, and then bark at the dog, HA! Sniffing the wind, whimpering for someone to know but we were the people that we wanted to know and we're the places that we wanted to go.

It was in all the newspapers, when she died. Beautiful, successful female lawyer took her life tragically. Everyone covered it. Every major news network. He still felt the twinge of pain for being reminded. The building. The glass. The scream. The fall. The crash. The silence. He couldn't even save her.

Yeah we're the places that we wanted to go.
Yeah we're the places that we wanted to go.

His foot kicked a rough object near the doorway as he approached the handle. He looked down and carefully picked it up. Paper. He even more carefully unfolded it. Napkin. And, in an eloquent script, lay the note he had never read all those years ago.


"It's not the intention, but we let it all go.

Well, it messed up the function and sure fucked up the flow. I hardly had people that I needed to know cause you're the people that I wanted to know. I'll be scrambling 'round, hunting high and then low looking for the face, love; or somewhere to go. I hardly had places that I needed to go cause you're the places that I wanted to go."




He turned away, tears in his eyes.
And collapsed on his knees to the ground, singing under his breath:

"Yeah you're the places that we wanted to go.

Yeah you're the places that we wanted to go."

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Eating snow flakes with plastic forks, and a paper plate of course, you think of everything.

Standing on the broken down porch, he rocked again on the balls of his feet and back to the heel. The winter weather blew against his face, although not as fierce as last season, but she still packed a punch. That icy bitch.

Short love with a long divorce, and a couple of kids of course, they don't mean anything.

The picture on the wall, the one with the beautiful brown hair and the shining smile. One he wished he could tear up, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. No, it was too precious to him. She may have taken the children, but he could never bring himself to hate her.

Live in trailers with no class. Goddamn "I hope I can pass high school" means nothing.

As he ran his fingers through his wiry, greyed out beard, his mind wandered off to the days of the past. These lines, these marks, they weren't here before. When had that happened? When had he gotten old so quickly? He tied his hunting hat up and secured his coat.

Taking heartache with hard work, goddamn I am such a jerk. I can't do anything.

Lifting his axe to chop down some more firewood for the day, he set out into the nearby woods. Every joint ached. He couldn't do this for much longer. He couldn't make it.

And I shout that you're all fakes.

He let out an scream of both agony and torment, for the loss of his life and the loss of his body. The scream was haunting. Birds flew from every treetop, animals stopped in their tracks. A painful force had been experienced.

And you should have seen the look on your face.

He crunched his eyes up, as if to shed a tear but he couldn't. He was long since cleaned out of tears. He had to press on. Maybe today would be the day.

And I guess that's what it takes.
When comparing your bellyaches.

Staggering back to the lonely trailer he called home, he dropped the wood near the door. He took his boots off and rocked his feet back and forth from heel to ball. After enough time had passed, he retired back inside.

And it's been a long time.
Which agrees with this watch of mine.

He scanned the room for something to take his attention.
The clock.
Looking, it was almost 5:30.

5:29:50
5:29:51
5:29:52
5:29:53
5:29:54
5:29:55
5:29:56
5:29:57
5:29:58
5:29:59
5:30:00

5:30

And I know that I miss you.

He pulled out two place settings as he had every night since she had left.
He ladled soup into the bowl, some roast onto the plate.
Some beans and corn on the sides.
Some tea in the mason jar.
And he bowed his head in prayer.

Looking up, he ate alone again tonight.

And I'm sorry if I dissed you.

She didn't come back today.
So he turned the space heater to maximum.
He tidied up after work.
And for the last night, he laid his broken bony feet under the covers.

The winter wind outside ceased to blow.
The blustery snow stopped falling.
And a calm aura fell upon the tiny silver trailer in the middle of the woods.
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This was going to be part of the series, but i can't find a place for it to fit in.

I still like the steampunk thing though.
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Boom!

The blast rocked the tiny cabin with tremendous force. Enough force to cause him to jolt up from his horizontal position. But it was only a dream, nothing of concern. At least for now. Already upright, he grabbed his goggles from the bedside table and clumsily put them on. Walking down the hall, it was quite evident that everyone had already woken up long before he did, and they were probably already doing their jobs.

He emerged on the deck and took a breath of fresh air; this high up in the sky, nothing is more powerful than the soothing effect of depleted oxygen. Glancing around, he noticed a sudden shift in cloud movement, a sign that either the ship was changing course or a storm was brewing. Both were curious alternatives, but the more pressing matter in his mind was the fact that no one seemed to be on deck but he. Usually, this wasn't odd in the slightest, but judging by sun position, it was probably two in the after, and by now, it would surely be a-bustling with the crew.

He went back down into the bowels of the airship, checking each room with quiet abandon. The one room he saved for last was the control room; only ship captains are supposed to be allowed inside, of which he was far from being. Silently, he opened the door a crack and peered in.

Boom!

The hull shook with a violent force, equivalent of a gale storm. He sat upright in his bed; this time it was real, he was sure of it. He grabbed his goggles and his blunderbuss, and bolted out the door. Sure enough, when he approached the side of the ship, there was another airship not two-hundred yards away. The salvo began. The captain let out a furious cry as cannonball after cannonball shot out of the side hatches. The Iron Maiden retaliated with its own barrage of equally-powerful ammunition. Sprinting to the crow's nest, he took careful aim of the ever-approaching crew aboard the opposite ship. He adjusted the scope to account for wind and the ship's evasive maneuvers, and squeezed the trigger twice. The mechanisms within the gun whirred and clicked and he watched as two men opposite of him collapsed onto the deck. He ducked down and waited for his turn.

Boom!

The Iron Maiden took a large hit to the starboard side which caused the captain to have to make a quick shift to the opposite side to account for the sudden depressurization. He took aim again, and squeezed off another shot. The cannoneer on the left hit the deck in a crumpled pile. He took his chances and fired off another two shots, but they would prove to be his demise. The first one hit its mark: the cannoneer in the middle. But the next shot wasn't so lucky. It hit the wooden pole behind the target, who then turned toward the opposite crow's nest and fired off his own bullets. Inaccurate as they were, one managed to rip his left shoulder open, and without his firing arm to support him, or even allow him to get down and escape, he was trapped.

The ships made contact, and a boarding ensued. The Iron Maiden managed to break the connection with a sharp turn, and the few men that were still crossing would plummet to their deaths miles below. One crewman in particular had a bloodlust; an insatiable appetite to kill one person and one person only. He made his way up to the crow's nest to finish of the kid that nearly killed him. Pistol to his head, he clicked the hammer back as the spring made a loud popping noise.

Boom!

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This is mainly for chelsea to read since she can't read it any other way in work study, and I'll also be posting it on my blog. It's incredibly choppy because I had to try to remember the good stuff before I lost it, and then I went back and added in things I remembered later. So basically, it sounds really funny, but excuse it, I'm not a professional author :D

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I awoke that morning with an aching in my head. As per normal, I hopped off the bed, down the stair-thing and down to my desk to grab some Advil.

The pain subsided, for now. I walked outside, and as I grabbed the door, the hinges flew off and behind me, the door still standing in place with my hand on it. I figured it was odd, but I didn't mind. I walked outside and as I did, I felt the wind cross my face, the sun beating upon my exposed skin.

I was aware of that throbbing pain within my head again, but I tried to ignore it.

Later, I was sitting on my roof-overhang, smoking a cigarette, when Richard came up behind me and pushed me off, jokingly. But he actually pushed me, and I started to fall three stories down. Except I didn't hit the ground. I hit nothing. I continued to float a few feet above the ground. Richard, astounded, ran outside. By then, I was back on my feet. The occurrence seemed very out of the ordinary, coupled with the fact that I had ripped the door off the hinges earlier, and apparently I had gotten some kind of super abilities.

For the next couple of days, I began to hone my abilities: I learned to fly properly, not in a superman fashion but in a floaty kind of way, I learned to control the strength aspect to decent points in time.

This part short circuits, but apparently, something intense happens, and I find that only I can save it. I go to New Orleans to stop this invading force of men, and on the way there, I find some sort of copy of myself. The copy, however, didn't possess my powers, but it still wierded me out. He saw me, and ran off, and I chased him down. I asked him what he was doing here and when he told me he had no idea, I throttled him in my anger. Right before he died, his body suddenly phased out of the world and disappeared. Strangely, without remorse or concern, I continued on my way.

When I finally got to where I needed to be, I encountered another clone. Perhaps it was the same one, but this one had a scar across his left eye and the previous one did not. I asked him where he had gotten that scar. He said he didn't know, and I then asked him if he knew where he came from. It was then that he did a double take at me and ran toward me to try to kill me. I jumped in the air and choked him out. He too disappeared right before death and again, I felt no remorse or concern. The army started to advance upon my position. Eventually, things got really heated between the army and myself, and I was doing pretty well at keeping my defenses up. At one point, they managed to get a hold of Janet and were about to fire away into her.

It was at that point that I flew through the air, in front of her, holding a large slab of metal behind which I put her for safety. By the time I had realized it, I was full of bullet holes, and i fell to my knees and died.
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I woke up on a train headed to some place I wasn't aware of. When I got off, I was in New Orleans, and I began to try to figure out why I was here. I wandered around the city; I knew where I was but I had no idea why. It wasn't amnesia, just a temporary loss of memory. I turned a corner, and walked into a large crowd. All of a sudden, one man, similar in face to me, started running at me through the crowd. But he wasn't so much running as he was floating, a rage in his eyes. I ran as fast as I could, but eventually he caught up with me and asked me why I was here. I told him I didn't even know, and he got this angrier look in his eyes as he began to choke me. As I felt Death's cold embrace, my body suddenly started to disappear and phase out. The last thing I remember was a voice saying "You have a purpose, not yet my son."
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I woke up in the middle of a street crowded with debris, unaware of why or how I'd gotten there. I knew who I was and where I was, but again, no idea why or how. There was a throbbing in my head and a pain in and around my left eye, of which I could see through, but it was enhanced: I could see heat signatures, through buildings, etc. A man came running around a building with a rage in his eyes, headed straight for me. He asked me about my eye, and I told him I had no idea, but it was certainly special. He then asked me why I was here, and I told him I didn't know. Without hesitation, he grabbed my throat and started to squeeze as hard as he could.

I heard a voice saying "The time has not yet come. Be patient." and I started to black out.
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I awoke in a laboratory with a few doctors around me, asking me if everything was alright. I told them I was fine, aside from a throbbing in my head and my hands. One of the men on the left side buried his face in his hand, as if relieved and two of the women at the foot of the table turned simultaneously to the blacked out glass window behind them. A needle was shoved into my arm, and I began to feel my heartbeat slowing.
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I awoke in the middle of a bloody puddle, my chest riddle with holes and my head throbbing more than ever. As men in black outfits with guns marched forward, I staggered up and punched my fist forward at a supersonic speed. The resulting wave obliterated the wave of men into nothing. I picked up the metal plate protecting a young woman behind it, and told her that she was safe.

2 copies of me appeared nearby, and the doctors from the laboratory were carrying a large machine.

"It's time to bring your memories together Jordan. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

We all stepped into the machine and with there was a flash of blue light and then nothing.
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I awoke in my bed, my head throbbing like it always does in the morning. So I climbed out of bed and took some Advil.