A Hope and Dreams

“Ten!” Who’s next to me? In this moment, we’re all cheering, “Nine!” celebrating, I need to remember it as vividly as I can. “Eight!” And all those around me are now calling it out, with one voice. “Seven!” When else can you catch a group of people this large, doing anything in sync? “Six!” “Are you going to do anything different this year?” He asks me with a smile, glass raised up to his mouth, trying to take one more sip but finding it empty. “Five!” He’s planning on stopping drinking, I remember, and I smile. But what will I do? “Four!” Maybe I could do the same, something that I know will never happen. “Three!” I don’t know if I’ll remember this in the morning. I probably won’t. I glance down at my glass, and tip half of the contents into his. “Two!” Or maybe I could tell the truth. Maybe I could do something small, something I’ll remember. “ONE!”  “Nothing,” I whisper, and I meet his eyes. Everyone cheers, and the shouts fade back into pleasant conversation. N...

I want to start by apologizing for the radio silence, other work got the better of me and I didn't have time to write anything that I thought was worth publishing. However, for the new year (at least for January) I plan on trying to post one story, poem, or work of some kind every day. So, you can hopefully expect more updates soon. - JS

In the beginning, it wasn’t terribly difficult for us to find one another. Now I find myself wondering, if it had been harder, if we had to search for each other, if we would have still fallen apart. I wonder if we still would have thought that we were on the same team. We all wanted to take down the corrupt leader, rescue our partner, find out what happened to our family, avenge our dog… we all wanted to be heroes. Who could blame us? We were raised on stories, being told about how those who believe in themselves and don’t give up will find others who are looking for the same thing. They’ll find these others, and they’ll work together. They’ll become companions, and although they may not always agree, they’ll always come back to each other. They’re all fighting the same enemy. So we found ourselves in our stories, the heroes that we had always dreamed of being, leading our team of misfits, brought together by disparate circumstances. We worked together, trying to write the story ...

Some people don’t like anonymity. They look at a fake name as a shield, behind which people can’t be accountable for their actions. Behind which people can be whoever they want, and not have to fear the consequences. They rant and rave against those who feel the need to hide behind this barrier, that aren’t sure enough of themselves to brave the storm that the public can bring with them. The storm made of others with this same power, with this same buffer between their actions and consequences. Their actions and the real world, separated by a thin film, one that they see as unpuncturable, invulnerable. Some people come charging in, wishing to puncture the film. Some, behind the veil, some aren’t hiding. They aren’t trying to stay invisible because they wish to hide, but instead because they wish to be heard. Because sometimes, only through being someone you aren’t, can you be heard. Because the stories you wish to tell, can sometimes only be heard with the phantom chanting of a cr...

A quick status update. I've been really busy with other work, but I did fix a bug I found in A Memory of Heroes. Expect a new update soon, hopefully. -JS

The first time I mentioned to my friends that my life had changed in a drastic way, they seemed to pity me. They swarmed around me, offering support at every turn for the next minutes before I eventually asked them to stop. I don’t think they understood that I told them because I was tired of keeping it a secret more than I needed them to know. I didn’t need anything they could offer me, except the ability to no longer be hiding a secret I didn’t find worthwhile. -- I eventually told them, after a long night of what passes for gossip amongst young children, who I had a crush on. I made it seem as though I didn’t want to tell them, as though they had convinced me to do something I wouldn’t have otherwise. But I had wanted to tell them, and by letting them think that my secret was something I truly wished to hide, I felt as though I had gained a secret of my own. I don’t think I was the only one who felt this way by the end of the night. -- Whenever I’m sitting amongst a gro...

A Memory of Heroes is a choose your own adventure story that I wrote last year. I have been spending the past few weeks copying it into Twine, a program that can be used to create choose your own adventure games. Here is a link to a document that contains the HTML code of the story. To access the story, you must download this code and open it in a browser. Hope you enjoy! -JS

We never really realized what we had set out to do until we did it. Usually it was only a quick favor, turning the shoulder so we didn’t see what the others were up to ( Do you need to lean on me, you don’t look so good, are you able to stand? ). None of us set out to be heros, in fact we didn’t even realize that we were fighting until we found ourselves stumbling home, telling our roommates that It was just another flight of stairs and Yes, I really am that clumsy ( I really just bumped my head guys, nothing to worry about, we’ve all done it ). Nothing we were doing was dangerous, until the days that we woke up (came back to consciousness, head spinning I’m seeing three of everything ) unable to stand. We never realized we were changing. We never had ( I’m really not feeling so well, I think that might’ve done more damage than we thought. You got some advil waiting back at base? ). We never realized we had crossed a line, because if we had realized we wouldn’t have done it. Or m...

A man is leaning on a column, waiting for something. A man and a woman come walking in, dressed in fresh cream colored suits. “Oh, sir, I almost didn’t recognize you!” the man in the black suit exclaims. “Me neither, what are you doing here?” the other man mutters, the second part quietly under his breath. “You best get out of here darling, I’ve got money on the underdog for this next race,” The woman nods, and continues away from the two men, but does not make her way to the track. “What were you thinking, showing up here?” the younger man asks. He waves a package of cigarettes at the other man. “No thanks, you know I hate that crap. And I could ask you the same thing. You’re in at least as much danger as I am.” “No, you’re not. I’ll use my own lighter. You have to get out of here.” “As do you. I’m not as naive as you think, I have some idea of the danger that you’ve put yourself in by even just talking to me here.” “You get out, and I’ll meet you in the usual spot. I...

Hey everyone, sorry for the long gap in posts. Life snuck up on me, I think you probably know how that feels, and if you don't then I don't think I can describe it in more depth then 'I lost track of time'. Anyway, the whole point of this post isn't to say sorry, but to let you know what to expect in the coming days, because I want to try something new. I usually don't write dialogue, so I was working on a dialogue exercise that I'm going to post. A few days after that, expect something big to come in. I don't want to spoil what it is, but I spent a lot of time on it last year and I'm trying to fix it up now, and that's also taking a lot of time. After that, I'm thinking of starting writing a longer story that I will post in segments here, so I'll start working on that too. Long story short, I'm sorry for the break and you should expect great (I think) things in the future! -JS

It looked like it was abandoned, worn to the point that it didn’t seem as though it had been used in years. And perhaps the tracks hadn’t been used for year at that point, but years from now the tell-tale orange signs of constructions planned may morph into new ground. Trains may run past the blockade, beyond the water, continuing into the city that for now lies forever on the horizon. The worn out, scuffed walls that to the right person may tell an entire story, but then again they may not, may be broken down and reformed into something sleek, shiny, and new with a new history written over the erased chapters of another life. The water may dry up, or be redirected to the train, whipping around it like long hair in the wind, pushing the train forward as it surges forward to its destination. But then again it may not. Perhaps the ground around the tracks will continue to crack. Perhaps the memories on the walls will be allowed to fade away, slowly forgotten. Perhaps the 26 protesto...

the distant school bells chime, in summer in the same moment, a nearby belltower clangs the rhythm they create together is imperfect, bumpy in the lack of synchronization, I look up at the sky for a moment the echo of the sun rings in my closed eyes, glowing red

She backed up slowly, her back pressing against the back of the closet, and a slight groan sounded from behind her. Turning around, her eyes growing larger with fear, she saw a rotting hand reaching toward her. Her eyes followed the hand, back up the arm attached to it, up to the caved in head slowly dripping a sticky, oily, black-ish substance; the viscous substance flowing down, clumping their hair, dripping to the ground in an irregular beat. She didn’t open her mouth to scream. In that moment, her mind shut, as primal fear took over. She jolted back, avoiding the brush of the monster reaching toward her, but in her haste, she slammed back against the door of the closet, the door bursting open under her weight. She fell backwards out of the closet, falling on her back with an impact that knocked the air out of her lungs. Gasping for air, she struggled to sit up when something grabbed the back of her jacket and the next thing she knew, she was upright again. The grip on the back...

The sun quickly rises today, heralded by the presence of of the girl in the orange dress. She has been holding a lamp in one hand, and nothing in the other every morning that I can remember. We don’t know why she stands there, motionless, staring at the horizon as the light of the sun slowly creeps over the hills until the sky is the same brilliant shade of her dress and she fades into the sky. One day, when we were children, an adventurer–or perhaps they were another child, no one cares to remember–tried to find her, to ask her what her duty was, why she always stood there, motionless. The next morning, as we rose to greet her from afar, we could see him, his faint grey silhouette pale and lifeless next to the vibrant contrast of her dark one. But she met him, holding his hand tightly with her smaller one, until the sun absorbed her once more, and he was left there, standing alone. We watched as he turned, framed against the vibrant light of the sun and suddenly his silhouette did ...

A few unrelated short poems Seeing a double of the world next to me through my neighbor’s glasses. Standing up to pace only then seeing the clutter blocking your path, and sitting back down. Flipping the page of a new book only to not recognize the words at the top of the page and turn back to find the missing link. A door slamming shut jumping to face it, then realizing you opened it originally. Blinking your eyes, realizing that fifteen minutes have passed.

The train station was silent. Years ago, it would have been impossible to find such emptiness even if you tried, but today there was nothing left. They had never known there to be anything, but others had explained to them it had once been so. The fluorescent moss creeping up the rusted track was the only gleam in the darkness, the only assurance that they were still there, that they hadn’t just imagined everything in the first place. They started to walk, balancing on top of the rails, arms pinwheeling to keep their small frame steady and upright, to keep them from plummeting into the abyss to either side whenever a silent gust of wind leaned against them, grappling to share the illumination. Grappling to share in the illusion.   Their footsteps were silent, an unwillingness to do anything to disrupt the atmosphere around them even as it pressed down with every moment’s breath. The only thing that could assure them of having made any progress at all was the seemingly random pat...

As she stepped onto the train, embarking on her journey into the sunset she met the shining, teary eyes of her mother, crying for the loss of the life that she had chosen to leave behind. Her mother’s hand moved slightly, as though she was going to attempt to reach out to her, but the movement was quickly aborted. Her hand quickly moved, retreating behind her back as her posture straightened, unconsciously trying to hide her earlier movement. The train’s bell rang and her mother winced, the sound too loud for her aging ears. She quickly covered them with her hands, taking a step back. No one waved to her as the train pulled away, like they always did in the stories as the protagonist faded into the distance, finally at peace. The hero would look forlornly out of the window, sending farewells to family as they slowly pulled away. As the train pulled away, she did not look out the window at the horizon, contemplating her lost past and approaching future. Instead, she slung her backp...

Sometimes it's easy to write. Sometimes, words flow like a waterfall, I tell myself. Sometimes I’m able to step up to my computer, pick up a piece of paper and a pen, and let the ideas that crowd my mind escape. I will let them march in orderly rows, directly to where they need to be, filling in the gaps that were never perfectly filled in my mind, perfectly explaining the story threads that I had never been able to articulate. I tell myself that the words will flow like this, that I’ll be able to sit down and start typing, and I’ll stop only when I realize that hours have passed, that the light outside is dimming, that I’ll have to start lighting candles to full up the space that the day has vacated and the night has not filled. I’ll be able to write continuously, smoothly. I’ll be able to remember everything that my teachers have told me to keep in mind, but not let it overwhelm me. Try to write something that can’t be filmed, who or whom, always keep your verb tense constant,...

Three main things that I should explain: The first is why I named this blog what I did. People say that you should follow your hopes and dreams. However, I believe that a hope and a dream are two different things, with different levels of possibility, different connections to reality, different connections to me, and different connections to you. I have many dreams, but I like to think that I know myself well enough that I have only one major hope. The second is how often I plan on posting. I plan on posting things as often as I write them. I've got a backlog of a few stories that I'm willing to post, but after that things are going to be posted as I write them. I'm not the quickest author, but I'm also not the slowest, so expect around one story/poem/work of fiction post per week. This next week or so will most likely be an exception, as I want to work through posting my backlog as soon as I proofread it (leaving only a few things unposted for those weeks when life g...

Hello World is the phrase that is generally used to test a new program you're writing. If you're a student in a new Computer Science class, you will undoubtedly get the assignment of doing something that will end with your computer telling you 'Hello World'. Assuming you eventually manage to code it correctly. This isn't going to be a Computer Science blog, but this was the first 'First Blog Post' title that I could come up with that I think really fits me. Also it was the first one I could think of on the spot. Getting to the point. I'm going to be using this blog to post various stories, poems, and other creative writing pieces that I write. Feel free to email or comment with feedback, I'm always looking to improve! So, I hope you enjoy the writing you find here, and leave with something that you didn't have before. -JS