Journey into the Mind, Part 10

It’s been many a year since my son called. Hell, it’s been too long since my phone rang at all. No one seems to care for the elderly once their own independence begins. So, once again I find myself alone in this house without a soul to share a cup of tea with or talk about the affairs of the day. Again I find myself sitting by the phone, silently eating an apple, waiting for a caring soul to check in on me to at least ensure that death has not yet wrapped his hands around my neck and choked the life out of me. Why do I bother? My son is just an ungrateful philanderer, my eldest daughter a vacuous nonentity; the only person who bothers to check in is my youngest daughter, Eve, and she has been away in Europe for months now. I’ve tried calling them, the undeserving children, but they always insist that they are busy with work or something of that sort. I’m done. I feel no reason to care for them anymore, except for Eve. Always was a smart one, she was. I’m proud that she’s doing great things in Europe. I think I’ll amend my will to leave her everything. Yeah, I’ll do that now. After that, I suppose the best way to go would be by car exhaust. It’s not like anyone will find me for a while anyway.

Well, that is it. Those are all the short stories I wrote for my psych class. Assess them if you wish, tell me what you think, etc.

Journey into the Mind, Part 9

The crowd sat, many sharing a look of bemusement, as the speaker stood frozen in his spot. He didn’t know what to say, and his mouth hung open like a rusted gate. He couldn’t believe what he had just read from his prompt; all employees in the local branch would be fired with no benefits given. In an effort to cut costs and save money, the company had decided to close several office branches without so much as a moment’s notice. Only those branches that had a certain sales number were able to avoid downsizing.
“This is ludicrous!” one audience member yelled. “How can you judge our sales based on some arbitrary criteria that has no basis in reality? Our branch sold twice as much as the Little Rock branch did! How dare you!” The audience began to grow restless and murmurs began to grow. The speaker, still frozen, looked to his manager off the stage who stood as stable as a boulder with his arms crossed across his chest. He only gave a stare to the speaker, as if willing him to continue with the speech. The speaker looked back at the crowd, and then back to his boss. Closing his mouth, the speaker nodded his head and gripped the podium.
“I quit,” he said calmly to the audience, and walked off the stage.

Journey into the Mind, Part 8

I’m poor and I’ve always been poor. Growing up in absolute filth and poverty is not easy for even the most disingenuous, though I suppose that I have become accustomed to a certain level of disgust. It seems as though my family has never attempted to move out of the slums, most likely because of the bizarre job security of my father or of the fear from my mother of not being accepted in a higher class of society. That’s all fair and good, I suppose, though I’d prefer to not have to steal in order to afford my school supplies. I’d also prefer that the streets and sidewalks not be flooded with garbage, and I’d also prefer to not have to carry my stolen butterfly knife with me everywhere I go. I’d like to be able to afford to see a moving picture; I’ve heard good things about Casablanca. I’d like to be able to impress a girl if I were ever to bring one back to my home, not that I ever would since my 2 brothers would tease me and constantly berate me. I suppose that it’s on me to improve my life, but how can I do that when colored people still have no rights?

Journey into the Mind, Part 7

Standing in the doorway of his former classroom, in his former school, in what used to be a city, James gripped the doorknob as tears began to well in his eyes. Since the war, no one had returned to his once bustling city, now a skeleton of itself. The school had grown decrepit and putrefied, with dust and cracked walls now painting an ugly portrait. James walked into the room, and almost at once was hit with a resounding wave of memories. He turned around to face the blackboard, tears falling from his eyes, remembering the time his favorite teacher, Ms. Smith, had showed up to class on Halloween wearing a banana suit and had a hard time writing on the board. He remembered the sound of the children’s laughter, which cut through him like the sharpest of knives. He didn’t want to remember, but he couldn’t help it. I should not have come, he thought to himself. He turned away from the blackboard, instead facing where he used to sit. Almost immediately, memories began playing themselves like movies in front of his eyes, and no matter how much he tried, he could not stop it. He fell to his knees, sobbing in his hands.

Journey into the Mind, Part 6

As she lay there, the only soul in sight simply stood and took a picture. As she lay there, a perfectly dead beauty of a woman who seemed to have simply fallen from heaven, no one called for help or aid; the one man, simply existing there, took a picture. She was elegant, and by the expression on her face, had died peacefully. Her blond hair almost seemed to spread out like great golden waves of the ocean, and her face looked to be as soft as the finest silk. And yet, the lone observer only took a picture.
How she died is unknown to anyone; there was no blood, no bruises, no cuts, no scrapes, and no fear in her face. To the observer, however, nothing else mattered other than the serenity of her pose, the eyes-wide-open, emotionless, arms spread docility of her final pose. The observer knelt beside her, getting a close-up of her face. He felt no compassion and no urge to act. She was dead, he thought, and calling the police now or later would not make a difference. What entranced him was the beautiful simplicity of her face, as if she were still alive and posing for him in some kind of disturbing photo shoot. After the observer took his pictures, he stood up, turned on his heels and walked away calmly.

Journey into the Mind, Part 5

Tear gas fell upon the rioting crowd as riot police moved forward against the protesters. The people were angry; the government had reduced their social benefits, exported jobs, and threatened them with the removal of their health care. The workers had had enough; the day after the government’s announcement, they mobilized en masse to strike against the government’s austerity. The anger of the crowd was palpable, and they continued forward regardless of the tear gas. Covering their mouths, they charged forward against the riot police. There seemed to be an infinitely long moment in between their charge and their inevitable clash with police, as if the anxiety and tension felt by every police officer were enough to stop the rushing crowd. The footsteps of the workers echoed off of the surrounding buildings, creating the sound of giants stomping. The workers continued charging, their anger and fervor driving them forward like a locomotive out of control. A single policeman, in the moment before the rioters made contact, withdrew his shield, drew his gun, and fired in fear. The crowd hit the police barrier with the force of Hercules, knocking many officers off their feet. Defending the capital building was the only objective for the police, regardless of cost or casualty. The only problem with their objective was that, at the moment, it seemed unlikely.

Journey into the Mind, Part 4

Aafiya and Shariq walked through the empty alley in Ramallah. There was very little in the way of decorations or glamour, of joyful exhibition or of culture. The city seemed to be a skeleton of itself since the Israeli army choked off all supplies to Palestine with their complete blockade. The city was once a cornucopia of color and ebullience; now, a lone pair of siblings ventured into the dangerous back streets of the city. Shariq, the slightly chubby younger brother, looked up tearfully at his older sister; she only stared ahead, looking into that invisible object that was their uncertain future. Shariq stopped in place, tears gently falling from his eyes. Aafiya stopped, her eyes devoid of color or emotion.
“Come,” she stated sternly. Shariq stood like a sobbing statue, his arms stiffly at his sides as he refused to move. Aafiya sighed. She walked over to Shariq and kneeled in front of him. “What?” Shariq looked into her eyes, searching for a shred of empathy. “Mother, father…I miss them.” His nose began running. Aafiya grabbed a portion of her sleeve and wiped his nose for him. Her eyes still showed no emotion, as if she were repressing every single instinct within herself to mirror her younger brother and cry. “As do I,” she said coldly, “but we must keep going. We only have ourselves now.”