Irony piece

   Everything was going according to schedule, no calls had come in all day, and the unrest in the station was beginning to be palpable. All of the firefighters on duty were sitting around a table in the kitchen of the station, there were four of them on the clock on this particular Saturday night. Being a firefighter in a small town in Minnesota isn’t the most interesting job they weren’t anything special, but when something is on fire there’s no one you’d rather have there than these men.
   The oldest man there, sitting at the head of the table giving his gear a thorough look over was the Fire Chief, Chief O’Sullivan. He was hassling the new firefighter they had just hired, telling him to do menial tasks the whole day for his entertainment. Now, realizing how hungry he was, the chief yells to the young firefighter, “Hey Jack, why don’t you go make us some food to eat we’re all starving in here, hurry it up.” While picking up his mop and bucket Jack replied, “Alright Chief I’ll see what I can whip up in the kitchen”
   Jack exited the room leaving the chief behind with his two sons, Adam and Jerry. “What’s up with that kid? Is there something wrong with him? He has the IQ of a toaster!” Jerry said sounding rather annoyed with Jack’s presence. “You’re just salty because the kid scored better than you on the civil service exam, you can’t hold the kids achievements against him just because you’re jealous!” “Act like that’s my problem with him, I just don’t like” before he could finish the sentence his father interjected, “both of you shut your mouths, from the day you two could talk all you’ve done is bitch at each other, now go clean the fire truck off before I put my foot in your ass”
   As the two brothers leave the room, Jack returned with the ingredients necessary for his meal. He planned on making some baked chicken, nothing flashy or overly indulgent, just needed a simple healthy meal for some simple working men. He began the process of making dinner, slicing the chicken, breading it, preparing the side dishes. And when all the prep work was done, Jack triumphantly threw the pan into the oven and with a noticeable look of delight declared, “Alright Chief, food should be done soon enough!” “Great, I’m withering away over here.” the chief replied sarcastically while rubbing his protruding stomach.
   Out of nowhere, a deafening siren cut through the silence that filled the station, as the two brothers scrambled to get dressed and onto the truck the Chief turned to Jack. “You know what, you go today, I’m old and it’s probably only someone with a campfire that got out of hand, there be plenty more times for me to go out. It’s your time to get your feet wet.” Nervously Jack replied, “Are you sure? I usually stay here and everything goes alright that way, I don’t want to mess anything up!” “How are you going to learn if you don’t go out there and get experience? Now go, I’ll be able to handle this station by myself, I’ve done it for 30 years! Now go get dressed before they leave your ass here.”
   As soon as the chief was done saying it, Jack was already halfway out the door on his way to the truck, he was enthused for his first call, knowing it would be the first of many. The three firefighters leave the station fully clad in their gear, ready to put out any fire in their path. When they arrive on scene, it’s immediately evident that this is no routine call. A large house is engulfed in flames and they are the only thing standing between the fire and the surrounding homes and businesses. They start battling the fire and after hours of search and attempted rescue, the grim truth is revealed, there are no survivors. And on top they would have to start an investigation because the fire started in a suspicious pattern, destroying a large house in such a short time period.
   “Call the chief down, he’ll save us hours of work figuring this shit out.” Adam said as he turned to his brother and motioned towards the fire truck. Jerry jumped in the front seat, grabbed his phone and started to dial, thirty seconds pass and he shakes his head, “No answer…” “Keep calling him, you know he can’t hear shit.” Jerry tried a couple more times before he started to get worried, “You don’t think the old man lost his phone again do you?” “Try the station, he’ll have to pick it up!”  After dialing the number in, his heart dropped, running from the truck he grabbed his brother and put the phone to his ear. The monotone electronic voice calmly says, “The number you have tried to reach has been disconnected, please hang up and try again.”
   “Budget cuts, huh? How do they expect us to put fires out if no one can even fucking call us! Jerry, take the car back and grab our Dad, he needs to be here.” “Alright, let me grab the keys, I'll be right back!"

    The short drive back to the station drew on for what seemed like years, and something just seemed off. Jack noticed it for the first time when he turned the corner at the old graveyard, he was speechless. Fierce flames had engulfed the entirety of the fire station, and the flames were rapidly spreading to other parts of the building. Jack sat there in his car, immobilized, not knowing what to do. "Who the fuck do you call when your fire station burns down?."

3 Poems

ACROSTIC POEM:

Pressuring young minds into pursuing materialistic lives.

Unchanged despite the inefficiency.

Based upon the concept that everyone learns in the same way.

Largely ineffectual in encouraging struggling children to succeed.

Incongruous with the needs of young children.

Controlled by the government.

Encouraging mediocrity and underachievement.

Diminishing creative capacity.

Unsupervised and under regulated.

Creating stress and conflict

Accommodation over equality.

Tearing apart people’s images of themselves

Initiating a lifetime of dependence and excuses.

Oppositional to individualism and freedom.

Neglecting those who refuse to conform.

Refrain: Growing Up.

You climb your way to the top,

Paying your dues and waiting your turn.

Just to discover a false peak…

EPIGRAM

They tell you to get your degree and not be a slob,

But even if you get one, good luck getting a job.

For the rest of your life you will pay for it financially,

When in reality it didn't affect your career substantially.

Conforming and pursuing what society believes is right for you,

Despite the deep desire inside of you to do what you want to do.

When approaching life’s metaphorical fork in the road pause,

And think, do I truly believe in this cause?

Because a life spent constantly in regret,

Wondering how you’re going to pay back your debt,

Will wake you up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

Casting aside relationships and commitments in a narrow minded, blind pursuit,

So eager to throw everything away and uproot.

The real poetic aspect of this whole situation,

Is that if you give into the temptation,

And leave your comfort zone to obtain knowledge,

You disinherit and destroy the relationships you established before college.

2 TONES

     Chip Kelly, an all knowing, all seeing, wizard of the National Football League. Making personnel changes, trades, and cuts, no one would ever see coming. Slowly amassing weapons of mass football destruction like the crazed dictator of the Philadelphia Eagles. Strengthening the defense by re-signing DeMeco Ryans, his self proclaimed Mufasa. He also showed those who questioned LeSean McCoy's release that they knew not what they were talking about by signing Demarco Murray and all but guaranteeing the NFC East title this year. In Chip we trust.
   

     Chip Kelly, is he in over his head, or is he really a behind-the-scenes football genius? A great deal of the hype surrounding Chip comes from his days at Oregon University. He was a great coach there, using the hurry up offense, and blistering speed to out finesse his opponents. But that was in college, he has yet to prove himself in the league, and many Eagles fans are reluctant to place their trust in him. He signed the knee-less wonder, Sam Bradford, who has suffered two major knee injuries in the league, as well as letting our #1 receiver Jeremy Maclin walk, to that over sized walrus of a man Andy Reid and the Chiefs. I hope he can prove himself, but being an Eagles fan, I know he probably wont. Three things are constant: death, taxes, and disappointment for Philadelphia Eagles fans.

Distillation

    The Narrator of this excerpt uses decisive language and vividly describes the detriments of the scientific process, to express his negative attitude towards intellectuals. Through his diction, and comparison of the scientific process to the destruction of nature, the Narrator airs his opinions on the pursuit of knowledge. The Narrator's excerpt depicts intellectuals as individuals with "nothing to think of with your poor empty head, and nothing to do with with your poor idle hands..." This insight into the Narrator's mind provokes the question of whether or not the Narrator's views on intellectuals come from unfamiliarity or just plain ignorance.

Tone Letter

Dear Mr. Kefor,

     Although the English language is a beautiful one, and exploring it with such a scholarly individual as yourself is an engaging experience, this has been out of hand for a while. As the 2014-2015 school year has dragged on we have journeyed from journalism, to creative writing and film; throughout all of them I have been drowning in a sea of work. This work has not only been monotonous and tedious, but mentally taxing and maddening. You have shown no regard for the mental stability of my classmates and me, which is alarming because mental stability is something we are lacking. Some may argue that the work is beneficial, but if they say that then: A.) they are a freshman B.) they are a teacher C.) they are a square D.) A and C. I know you are aware of what you are doing because of the sarcastic and satirical comments you make, while sneering with your disparaging look. Behind those discouraging looks, I know your true motive, the complete mental destruction of your students. You continue to pile on work with a sick sadistic smile, like a psychopath burying someone alive one shovel-full of dirt at a time. Trying to balance this work with the stress of senior year is enough to make me snap mentally and set fire to your personal property. I appeal to your morals, to your humanity, that you cease this endless barrage of mental terrorism that is homework and writing assignments.

I strongly suggest a change,

George Reese

Apostrophe

     Oh! Chip Kelly, you wild and wondrous football wizard. What is it that you plan to do with the Eagles? Who do you plan to sign at wide receiver? What plans do you have in store for the draft? What is the next move? Will we win the NFC East? Will we finally bring a Superbowl to the city of brotherly love? I need an answer, and soon, but until then; In Chip We Trust.

Synedoche

     The sun seemed to be blocked out by the wings, casting a shadow over the ground below. The engines wailed harshly, breaking the calm, sleepy demeanor below. The flashing lights on the fuselage contrasting strongly against the pitch black of night.

Unreliable Narrator

Unreliable Narrator

     BAM! A debilitating flash accompanied with a deafening bang left all those in the house with temporary blindness and ringing ears. The sound of footsteps and voices filled the room as the dust settled. When I finally came to it, I noticed the 5 men in my home. They were yelling in a language I couldn’t understand, and took my wife, my son, and I into a back room where they zip tied our hands behind our backs. This was our food pantry, there was only enough room for my family and me, so the intruders stood in the hall. As the five men in fatigues speak to each other, they motioned down the hall for someone else to enter the room.

     When the sixth man enters the room, I immediately notice he is different from the others, he is shorter, less built, and looks as if he is from Afghanistan; if not definitely from somewhere in the middle east. He paused in the doorway, talking to who seemed to be the leader of the men in the fatigues, and then continued into the pantry towards me. I was sitting on the ground with my wife to my left and my son to my right, this sixth man bent down and looked into my eyes. “These men are American soldiers, you know why they are here. Tell us the information we need to know and we will leave you alone, possibly reward you…” he said in perfect Arabic, not even stumbling over pronunciation once. I quickly replied, “No! No! I know nothing! Please!” but the man just turned and talked to the leader of the group again.

     As the interpreter tells the leader what I said, he is noticeably irritated, he instructs the interpreter what to say and he turns to me, “This is your last chance, tell us what we need to know!” “I know nothing! Please-”, but before I can finish my sentence the leader of the American soldiers kicks me in my head, knocking me out cold.

     After the standard issue American combat boot to the face, the next thing I remembered was waking up in a dark, damp, cold room. The room was about 10ft by 15ft, and entirely made from concrete. There was only one single flickering light bulb, hanging by a slender black wire in the middle of the room. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, and I were completely soaked with water. I tried to move, but only then had I realized I was restrained to a chair. It was a simple, metal chair, with arm rests that held the restraints in place, as well as leg restraints. I looked around the room, and the only things I could distinguish were a table to my right and a large hose on the wall opposite of me. After about an hour, or at least I thought it was an hour, I heard footsteps approaching in the distance.

     The footsteps grew louder, and louder, and louder until there were two men standing in front of my cell door. One of the men I could recognize as being the interpreter I met at my house, and the other I had never seen before but he looked at me as if he was looking through me. The latch clicked and the door swung open, the interpreter approached me, looking into my eyes he said, “So are you going to talk now? We know you know something.” As he said that the second man placed his bag on the table and began unpacking. The interpreter waited a minute for my response, and when he did not receive one he stated, “Abd Al-Aziz Mohammed Kassab, we know who you are. We know that you have some shady associates buddy.” I thought of responding, but I decided to keep quiet, nothing I would say could change their minds. They already have their minds set, in their eyes I’m already guilty. The interpreter, growing more impatient by the second, is handed a folder by the second man in the room. He opens the folder, looking inside with a look that was equal parts curiosity and disgust, then he nodded his head, turned and left my cell.

     Now I was left alone with this mystery man, he circled around my chair, removing things from his bag and placing them on the table outside of my field of vision. He was humming an eerily familiar tune, it sounded familiar and foreign at the same time. When he had finished removing his things from his bag, he paused. He looked at me and in butchered Arabic he murmurs, “Only god can save you now you filthy savage.” This made me exponentially uncomfortable, what was this man going to do to me? What does he think I know? For the first time I think about telling them what I know, but that is not an option.

     As the man circled behind me, I heard him pick something up. He walked around in front of me, and that was when I saw what he had in his hands. He raised the sledge hammer up into the air, and with all the force in his body he brought it down on my foot. Although I saw the blow coming, it didn’t come anywhere close to preparing me for it. As soon as the hammer made contact with my foot metal shattered bone. I tried to keep in my screams, but the excruciating pain forced me to let out a yelp. My torturer seems amused, like he is gaining pleasure from inflicting this awful pain upon me, “Oh wow! Look at that! Now he wants to talk!” I took a deep breath, raised my head, and spit at him. He chuckled, turned back to the table and began humming again. Now that his sick, sadistic nature had been revealed, the melody he hummed bothered me a great deal more.

     “One last chance….” his broken Arabic made me sick, that’s their problem. These Americans come to OUR land, kick down OUR doors, but don’t even take the time to learn OUR language. They believe that they can come here and know what WE want, know how WE want to be ruled, without even asking US. I must have spaced out, because my torturer was on the move again. He approached the table and scratched his head, “Hmmmmm…..” he pondered his decision like his whole life lead up to this point. He reached out for a belt sander, but hesitated and pulled his hand back before deciding decisively to pick up a blow torch and a coat hanger. Giggling as he heated up the hanger to red hot, he asked one more time, “You wanna talk now?” Waiting for my response, he looked me in the eyes, but when I looked back there was nothing. He was cold, expressionless, whatever humanity was in this young man when he was sent here is long gone. His government has made him into what he was sent to fight, a fanatic. He didn’t become a defender of freedom, he became a fanatic of democracy.

     This train of thought was abruptly brought to an end when the red hot coat hanger was plunged deep into my right thigh, it was so hot that it felt almost cold. At this moment I had decided what to do. The torturer continued to heat up the coat hanger, and eventually plunged it back into my leg. I constantly whimpered as I thought of someone to implicate. If I give them information they will let me go, but if I send them after the wrong person, when I get home I will be killed. I had decided, my neighbors, they will be the ones who will suffer for the greater god. They will be the ones who die so our cause can gain ground, they will suffer to push the Americans out.

    Just before the hanger was stabbed into my legs for the third time I exclaimed, “My neighbor…. Haydar Ibrahim… he is Al Qaeda…” The torturer yelled in English out the door to the translator, who came back into my cell. They conversed for a minute before the translator left the room running. The torturer had a smug look on his face as he untied me from the chair, in his horrible Arabic he sneers, “See now wasn’t that easy?” He seems pleased by my information, but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the horrible pain he is going to inflict on an innocent man and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t know that I am the one they want. He doesn’t know that they will never win, he doesn’t understand US.

Flashback Classwork

The three movies I would think of writing a piece looking back on, would have to be A Nightmare Before Christmas, Toy Story, or The Lion King. I'm leaning towards doing A Nightmare Before Christmas because as a child this was my favorite movie to watch and it will be Interesting to revisit it again,

Free Write 2/24/15

    It was Christmas Eve. Fog Stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. All was calm, except for a single marshaller, awaiting a plane to direct. He sat and waited impatiently, the cool night air blowing against his face. He pulled out his phone to check the time, 12:45am. As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he saw a huge flash followed by an alarmingly loud noise.

     “Did y’all hear that?” he nervously murmured into his walkie-talkie. A minute passed, with no response, so he thought he’d go back to the tower to check out what was going on. He climbed into his truck and began to drive toward the tower. He stopped his truck about 100 yards away from the building, and reached for the door handle.

     BAM! As he came back to his senses, the man realized what had just happened. An aircraft tail stuck from the rubble of the tower, sticking out like a flaming flag pole, contrasting against the night sky. It was then he noticed it.

     He scrambled through his pockets, frantically trying to find his cell phone to disprove the idea he had in his head. In a panic he reads the last message out loud, “Flying into Lindbergh at 1am, I’m on flight 187. Love you, see you there…” As he finishes the last words, he slowly picks his head up, looking towards the conflagration. As the last bits of the airplane burned up, he could distinguish only one marking on the plane, the big black numbers across the tail, the numbers “187’.

Self Deprecation

     Thinking on your feet, some people can, some people can not. I, for one, have been blessed with the curse of a machinegun mind. Well, its not as precise as a machine gun, its more like a fire hydrant with a truck plowed through it. An uncontrolled, constant flow of knowledge from my face hole to the sidewalk that is my audience.

     With such a plethora of information swirling around in my head, choosing the right thing to say is nearly impossible. Filtering through the good, the bad, and the wildly inappropriate, all in a timely manner as to respond to the person talking to you. This chaotic process is similar to salvaging all the valuables on the Titanic before it goes under. The stress from this selective process is exponentially harder then one would think, and amplifies when there are more spectators waiting for your response.

     And god forbid you lose your train of thought, then everythings out the window. Its hard enough to pay attention to anything anyones saying when my mind acts like a kid with ADHD on speed. Every second of my life is spent fighting the voice in my head thats saying, “Eh…. dont pay attention to that, think of something more irrelevant and useless.” and I do not always win.

     An even worse situation is saying something completely wrong, when you’re thinking about 100 things at the same time you’re eventually going to say something stupid. When this happens you’ll want to set yourself on fire, like a Buddhist monk protesting war, and vacate the area as soon as possible. But you can’t always get away, sometimes you need to just stick it out, and receive the verbal barrage from those waiting to correct and insult you.

     Although, by far, the most excruciatingly painful situation has to be when others ignore what you’re saying. As if anything they can conjure up in their simple minds can top the beautiful masterpiece of linguistics that is cascading from my mouth hole. As if to say, “What you have to say is stupid I hate you.” This infuriates me to the point where I want to abduct a woman, climb to the top of a skyscraper, and swat bi-planes from the sky, like a slightly angrier King Kong. I want to shove my foot in their mouth and not remove it until they apologize for the wrong they have committed.

      Basically, anything to do with speaking to other humans, or formulating coherent thought brings me an intense trepidation; although it doesn’t show on the outside, but it's a constant struggle. But you win some, you lose some I guess.