Below are 17 journal entries, after skipping by the 20 most recent ones recorded in Audita Sum's InsaneJournal:

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Saturday, April 19th, 2008
11:23 am	Modern Myth For Latin class. "Hey, Dad--" "Yeah, what?" said Jupiter, his eyes not straying from the TV. He chugged some of the Miller Light he was holding and belched. "I have to do this project for health class where--" "That's nice. Hey, can I ask you a favor? Would you mind picking up your half-nephew from target practice down at the gym?" "Um, alright, I guess." "Great. Now get out of here. You're too shiny." Jupiter threw the can across the room. "Juno! Get me another beer! And a sammich!" Apollo fumed as he jammed his car keys into his car. "This is seriously retarded," he said under his breath. "Just because I'm a bastard, everyone thinks they can order me around. Go pick up your half-sister's lovechild from target practice," he said in a mocking, high-pitched voice. He slammed the car door shut, and started up the engine. "Nobody cares about my achievements." He pulled out of the driveway, and sped to the gym. When he found Eros in the archery practice room, struggling to pull back the string of his 2004 compound bow, Apollo smiled gloatingly. "What do you think you can do with medieval weapons, saucy boy? Leave them for real men. Did you hear about last week, when I won Olympia the football state championship?" “I was there,” Eros grumbled. “Oh yeah! I remember now.” Apollo smirked. “It was middle school band night, wasn’t it? Hey, no offense, but you guys suck. You guys suck bad. I don‘t mean to judge or anything, but you guys were so out of tune--” “That’s interesting, coming from a guy who can’t sing on pitch to save his life.” “What?” said Apollo, fear suddenly filling his bright eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” “I know your secret,” said Eros. “I know about how you tried out for the spring musical.” “It’s not true!” cried Apollo. “Don’t believe a word of it!” “Anyway,” said Eros cooly, “I’ve heard you singing upstairs in your room when you think no one can hear you.” Apollo felt a slow horror creeping over him. “And you play that stupid lyre. Where’d you get that? A garage sale?” "Oh yeah?!” Apollo blustered, “Oh yeah? Well, you know what Cupid rhymes with? Stupid!" "You sonovabitch," said Eros, nocking an arrow. He let it go, and it hit the bullseye with a twang. "I'll make you pay." Apollo rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'm supposed to drive you home, midget, so hurry up already.” They walked to the car in angry silence, but were both calmer after they’d driven a few miles. “I’m sorry for what I said, man,” said Apollo. “The band doesn’t sound that bad.” “Yeah, just fuggedaboudit.” "You won't tell anyone about how I sing, will you, man?" "Nah, dude. I was just playin'." After a while, Apollo caught sight of a girl named Daphne, whom he knew from world history, walking alongside the road. “I’d tap that,” he said. “I bet you would.” Apollo, now coasting, rolled down the window. “Hey goodlookin’!” he shouted. She glared at him and turned her face away. “Aw, man,” said Eros, “she totally wants you.” “Are you serious?” Apollo stopped the car in the middle of the road and jumped out, running after Daphne. “Hey girl hey!” She also started to run-- away from him. “Okay, ew!" she shouted back over her shoulder. "Leave me alone!” “Aw, girl, don’t be like that!” said Apollo. Being the star track runner that he was, he caught up with her quickly. “You know you want me, girl,” he said, jogging by her side. “Ew. Okay, no,” she said, panting. “You know Diana, right?” “Who, that lesbo?” “I’m never going to get married, just like her.” “But I must have you!” Apollo flung his arms around her, and wrestled her up against a wall. Daphne screamed and turned into a flowerpot. Well, a flowerpot with a laurel tree in it. “What the eff?!” roared Apollo. He heard Eros snicker from the car and whipped around to face him. “What the eff did you do?” Eros, still giggling, pointed to where Daphne’s father, Peneus, stood. “Aw, crap,” said Apollo, raising his hands in supplication. “You know I wasn’t gonna do anything, man.” "Of course you weren't," said Peneus, pulling a sawed-off shotgun out of his coat. (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 17th, 2008
6:55 pm	Homophobia is a Problem It would have been weird and fun and have lots of swears in it, but it's for sociology class, so... kind of bland. 'Homophobia' isn't a great term for discrimination against GLBT individuals. It implies that fear is the only thing having to do with the issue, though fear is one of its causes, as it is with any kind of prejudice. It also sounds less substantial than words like 'racism,' with a suffix implying that homophobia is a mental problem and not a social problem. The word is mostly used casually. Still, it's the only word available. Homophobia has a base in fear and ignorance. Congress has failed to pass the Employment Non-Discrimination Act for lesbians and gays, which means that working people, especially teachers, can be fired if their sexual orientation is discovered. This is because, for some reason, America has decided that pedophilia and homosexuality are correlated. That's just stupid. Or, as our country's youth says, that's just gay. That's proof of the pervasiveness of homophobia right there-- the fact that 'gay' has become a synonym for 'stupid.' Homophobia also has a base in the society we live in. I'm not going to lie; Christianity in all its forms is probably the main concrete reason for homophobia in America. That's not to say that religion and gaiety can't be reconciled by individuals. There are a few protestant denominations that have accepted GLBT people into their communities. But people who are naturally inclined to hate like to use the six verses in the Bible condemning homosexuality (even the one that's right next to the declaration that shrimp is an abomination) to justify their fear and hatred of gays. So again, it comes back to fear. There are a lot of gay-hating liberal atheists, too. Well, no, there are probably a few of them. But they do exist. Though the statistics for hate crime involving sexual orientation aren't nearly as high as those involving racism, homophobia is a problem. In one study, of nearly 500 GLBT students surveyed, almost half said they didn't feel safe in their schools. 90 percent reported verbal harassment, 46.5 percent had experienced sexual harassment, 27.6 percent experienced physical harassment and 13.7 percent were subjected to physical assault. Not only gay students were affected by anti-gay prejudice in this study. For every gay, lesbian and bisexual youth who reported being harassed, four straight students said they were harassed because people thought they were gay or lesbian. What can be done to stop homophobia? At least 400 Gay/Straight alliances have been set up in middle and high schools across America. Many colleges have GLBT organizations. People seem to be slowly growing accustomed to the idea of treating people the same regardless of sexual orientation, but it's going to be a little while before rights are totally afforded. To lots of straight people, homophobia isn't a problem, because they've never had to deal with it. But homophobia is a problem. It's prejudice, and is just as harmful to its victims as sexism and racism can be. ----- Growing up with a gay on both sides of the family, I was raised with the belief that it's wrong to discriminate against people because of their sexual orientation. This is one of the reasons why I'm invested in GLBT rights. Another is my own experiences. I've been verbally assaulted a lot during my life here in [MUNICIPALITY CENSORED]. You can't really understand how disturbing it is for someone to call you a dyke (or faggot, I suppose) in a threatening voice until it's happened to you. References http://www.fbi.gov/ucr/hc2006/table13oh.html http://www.ocjs.ohio.gov/Research/HATECRIME2006.pdf http://www.thenation.com/doc/20000131/ireland http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/go/whatdoesgaymean (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 16th, 2008
5:55 pm	Prompt: What's the most boring day you've ever had? This is a long 'un. July 1999 The air was overwhelmingly muggy, but it was cooling with the onset of dusk. Ed picked at the fried chicken breast, which was starting to get cold on the soggy paper plate. "Yeah," he said in answer to Aunt Rose's question. "I got a new job." "Oh, good." She smiled, and her eyes crinkled up. "I've been trucking." "Oh," she said again. She sucked in air through her teeth, but then her face brightened again. "Peter may get a promotion soon." "Oh yeah? Well good for him." Ed smiled tight-lippedly. He and his cousin Peter had grown up together, graduated from high school together; even roomed together in college. Their only difference was how motivated they were by the promise of money. And Peter was kind of an ass. "But trucking! A trucker! How's that working out for you?" Ed looked up from the grease he'd been watching drip from the cooled, crusty chicken. "Oh, it's alright. Gets pretty dull after a while, so I've been listening to a lot of books on tape." "Books on tape, huh?" Aunt Rose wasn't really listening anymore. "Well good for you." "Yep." He knew that she really didn't care about his books on tape, and that didn't bother him. He just wished somebody would care about his life for a reason besides small talk. He wished he was still with Cathy. He would've told Cathy about the dreams he'd been having. They'd all been narrated, like his audiobooks. Ed didn't know why, but this disturbed him deeply. He'd come to the party to get away from the solitude he'd been subject to. He'd forgotten how annoying all his relatives where. How they always had to ask how he was doing, but didn't really care about the answer. "You and Cathy not back together yet, then?" asked Aunt Rose, ripping open an old wound as she simultaneously ripped the last morsel of meat off her drumstick. "I don't think that's going to happen," Ed said. "She's moved on pretty completely." Aunt Rose clicked her tongue. "That's sad. I liked her. We all liked her." "Well, you're preaching to the choir. I miss her t--" "Then get her back!" Aunt Rose's eyes sparkled, and Ed leaned back involuntarily. "It's just not going to happen." "Well, it's none of my business." She smiled falsely, and got up. "I'm going back for more potato salad." Ed stared at the corner of the fold-out table, then shifted his gaze to some teenagers, who were throwing a frisbee back and forth. The really little kids were wrassling in the grass, and chasing each other around. The exception was one boy, clinging to his slightly drunk (by the looks of it) mother's hand and looking terrified. Talking to the woman was Ed's sister. A wave of relief washed over him, as cool as water. He rose, feeling the muscles in his sore legs unclench as he did so. "Hey, Suz." She turned around, smiling widely. "Ed! I didn't know you were coming! Come on over!" She gestured with her hand. Ed left his food where it was. His eyes met that of Suzy's new friend-- girlfriend? She was dark and probably from southeast Asia. There was a patch over one of her eyes. "Who's this?" He smiled in a way that he hoped appeared friendly, but his shy nature often made him seem angry. Or so Cathy had told him. "This is Veata McAllister. Her husband runs that coffee shop down by the Easterly." "Ah." "Veata, this is my brother Ed." "The one that speaks Khmer?" she asked, not moving her eye from his. She didn't have much of an accent. He figured she was probably a first generation. "Not all that well. I was in the Peace Corps for a couple of years, so... I kind of picked some of it up. I take it you're of Cambodian descent, then?" She nodded quickly, and her eye lighted on her son. He pulled against her hand. "Can we go home?" he murmured, seeing that he'd gotten her attention. "Not yet, honey. Don't you want to stay for the fireworks?" She drew in a breath. "I escaped from there a while back, while the civil war was still on." "Really?" Ed tried to hide his surprise. "But that would make you at least... thirty something." "Thirty six. Anyway, that's how I lost this eye. A landmine. It messed up one of my knees, too." She didn't look thirty six. Probably because she was so thin, and all the people Ed knew seemed to be approaching corpulence was they grew older. She was short, too-- shorter than him, which was something. Veata put the beer can she was holding to her lips, then changed her mind. "George, either stop pulling at me or go play with the other kids." "I want to go home!" The kid's face reddened, and tears spilled out onto his cheeks. "Take me home!" Veata sighed. "We'll see if we can get your dad to take you." She turned to Suz, who'd gone off to talk with Aunt Rose. "Could I bum a ride off you, assuming Alan takes the car somewhere else?" (Comment on this)
Monday, April 14th, 2008
9:32 pm	going promptless, bitches I was going to make this a daily thing, but that's just not going to happen. Here's some random shit. I was nine when I met my first death. We were in the hot air balloon over a million symmetrical fields, and the swirling patterns of the silk balloon captivated me. When my mother was staring out at the fields, I climbed up on the wicker basket. There wasn't a sensical reason for it. I just wanted to. I'd never had good balance. Gravity pulled me down, and after a while, the air started to hurt. Meh. (Comment on this)
Friday, April 11th, 2008
11:58 pm	Poetry Friday...? White Cherry Blossoms pridie Id. Ap. MCCLV White cherry blossoms In the mouth of the storm While I was stirring oats and Sugar and butter, I smelled them Through the open window While chance was concocting Cold fronts and warm fronts I smelled them Through the open window As the narrator said "Severe Weather Warning" I could see them falling from the red lips Of a raccoon, white petals like water chestnut Slices, like nutritionless bread, flakes of Scented, dehydrated snow Out the nose out the ears Out the eye of the storm Through the empty arms of the Cherry tree I smelled them White cherry blossoms In the mouth of the storm While I was pouring butterscotch Chips into the bowl, I smelled them Through the open window (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 10th, 2008
7:51 pm	Prompt: Write a story about an empty glass. September 2007 George looked at the carefully-packed box of glassware. He wasn't sure why his mother had entrusted this task to him, given his tendency to drop things, but he gathered a few of the glasses in his arms and carried them to the cabinets. "I like it," he heard Ed say from the other room. His mother was silent for a moment. "We'll have to paint the walls." "What color are you thinkin'?" George returned to the dining room, and drummed his oversized hands against their worn wooden table. "Green," he said at the same time that his mother said "Blue." He picked up a few more glasses, and stepped into the kitchen. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 9th, 2008
11:35 pm	Prompt: One of the easiest? October 1998 Veata squinted into the fridge with her one eye. The hot dogs were ready, but she believed in a balanced diet, which meant a good deal of fruit. Would it be pears, oranges, or mangos this time? Pears were George's favorite, but she had always loved mangos as a child. She reached into the fruit box, and grabbed a cold mango with her good hand. (Comment on this)
11:24 pm	Prompt: Write about one of the most difficult decisions you've made in your life. May 1974 "Are you ready?" Veata asked. Her brother, thin as a stick of bamboo, leaned against her. "I will try," he said. Veata shivered despite the intense, watery heat. "Now." As they ran, uneasy words clanged in her skull, accompanied by her mother's sunken face. Get yourselves out of this satanic place. Fear coursed through Veata's veins, and it was all that kept her running. She grabbed Veha's hand, and he held on tightly. They hadn't eaten in days, but if they made it past the fields, she knew that a boat would be waiting out on a shore somewhere, with mangos. Her mouth craved mangos. She hazarded a look down at her feet and looked away again, up at the unfalteringly blue sky. It was too much to worry about all the wires she may be tripping at any given moment; the pressure plates she could be depressing. She knew they were getting into the landmine zone, but all she could think about was the pleasurable feeling of a rare breeze across her skin, sunburnt as she was from all the work. "Stop." They stopped, Veha swaying a little bit. "We have to be careful now." They proceeded slowly, Veata hoping that her bare ankles would feel the tension of a wire. They took one step, and didn't explode. They took another. It went on like this, as slowly as the sun fell from its summit. They gave the bodies of cows and people a wide berth, even if it meant a longer path. They didn't pick up food planted tauntingly, though hunger gnawed at them. Finally, after a long time, Veata was starting to feel safe. She looked forward to sleeping tonight under the bare stars. Then Veha's foot floundered. There was a faint click, and the pop of an exploding cap. They would have a few seconds if they were lucky. Veata fell back in her tracks, arms crossed protectively over her lower body. Veha didn't think as fast. The landmine exploded, and Veata's body immediately felt the nauseating discomfort of disorder. Shrapnel shot into her left eye after skimming her cheekbone. She wasn't sure if she could feel her legs. (Comment on this)
Monday, April 7th, 2008
8:21 am	Prompt: Rewrite the fairy tale Snow White. Her body was buried under a foot of snow when my buddy unearthed her, and the only thing that made her distinct from the snow itself was the thin blue veins in her eyelids. We'd been taking a detour through a back road, in hopes that the po-po wouldn't catch us swerving drunkenly. I, being the more lucid of the two, spotted a boot sticking out under a drift of snow. I stopped the hummer, and we got out to investigate. Prince Charles (I'm not even kidding; that's the guy's name) moved the snow away to reveal a pale, triangular face, blinking on and off in the light of the headlights. "She's beautiful," I said, and started sobbing. Prince Charles swayed, and then bent to kiss her. She sat up and wiped away his drool, her pretty mouth mottled with disgust. "What the fuck!" Prince Charles sprang up, then fell over again onto his side. "I was a-breakin' the spell, white Snowy. Snowy White. Haha." She started shaking the snow out of a crossbow. I pulled Prince Charles into the hummer, and drove away. We didn't look back. (Comment on this)
Sunday, April 6th, 2008
1:50 pm	Promptless Sunday? Mrs. Tucker didn't understand what she was getting herself into that day when she proudly told our white, middle income, suburban seventh grade class that she wished that she had a child of every color there instead of us. Maybe she honestly thought that there were only twenty or thirty human skintones in the world. The next morning, the smells of defecation and death radiated from her classroom on the second floor. When we opened the door, the bodies started spilling out. Bisque, almond, cornsilk skin. Ivory, leather, wheat skin. Brick, beige, ochre, umber, sienna, sepia skin. Skin white as a lily and freckled. Skin of a deep and bluish black. Skin everywhere in between, in colors we'd never seen on humans. The ones that hadn't died already from being crushed were dying from suffocation. Standing knee-deep in a wounded multicultural river, we finally found Mrs. Tucker, a stick of chalk still her hand, and horror in her large green eyes. (Comment on this)
Friday, April 4th, 2008
6:38 pm	Prompt: Write about one of your most memorable house moves. cont. George held the cardboard box in his hand, staring at the front of the small, white house. Ed jumped out of the moving truck and pulled down the door. "That's it." He slapped George on the shoulder like a comrade, and George flinched. "You wanna... go in?" George's stepdad was out of breath, and the stubble made his face look thin and blue under the muted light of a rainy day. George got a hold of himself. "Yeah, I'm just..." He followed Ed into the new house. His mom was in the midst of unpacking. "You wanna put this in the cabinet, George?" "Sure." (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 3rd, 2008
5:25 pm	Prompt: Describe how you feel right now using your sense of smell. September 2007 His frustration felt and smelled like rusting copper, turning green and crumbly in its long repression. The idea triggered a memory-- once, when he hadn't cleaned the french horn for several years (not knowing, as a child, what that could do to an instrument), he'd unscrewed a valve to squirt in some oil. The spring within had been coated in powdery wet green. He'd thought that it was rotting. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 2nd, 2008
5:55 pm	Prompt: What if merfolk were real? If humanity’s ancestor evolved into merfolk in a manner similar to a dogs’ ancestor evolving into whales, dolphins, sea lions, walruses, etcetera, one would expect that there would be many and varied versions of merfolk, and they wouldn't be capable of bearing offspring across their own species or with humans. Their nostrils might be inclined to migrate higher on their heads so as to reach the surface faster. Their tails wouldn't be fishy. They would start as a kind of flattened monkey tail, probably, and they might end up with really tiny back legs or no legs at all along with a large tail thing. Their hands would gradually turn into flippers. As hair would only cause resistance to the water, it would have to be done away with completely. Eyes might migrate to either side of the head, and would probably get larger and more sensitive to light as opposed to color. Ears would adapt to hearing underwater, which is different than in air. They would need to be able to hear low-frequency sounds. The shoulders would probably smooth down. Merfolk would move their tails up and down to move like whales, not side to side like fish. There aren't a lot of color variations in sea mammals, so I would think that merfolk would end up grayish, brownish, or blackish as a rule. They aren't fish, so why would they look like fish? Again, this is from a scientific standpoint as opposed to a magical one. As for their diet... the ancestor of dogs was a carnivore, but monkeys tend to be fruit-eaters. Without fruit to eat in the sea, why would they take to the sea in the first place? Maybe these monkeys have developed very sharp teeth, and dive for fish. Maybe some of the merfolk end up developing those comb-like teeth some whales have and eat krill. In any case, they wouldn't be humans with fish tails. They would be monkeys with whale tails. Maybe, they could even eventually develop human-like intelligence, making the actual humans think that the merfolk were descended from humans themselves. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 1st, 2008
6:48 pm	Prompt: Take the last line of a poem and use it as the first line of your own. I thought about using 'from my lyre within the sky' from Poe's "Israfael." That made me think of marching band, because of the plastic silver lyres on our hats, and so I wrote about that instead. August 2008 The field smelled like a jungle because of the humidity, and George was slapping his skin compulsively, thinking he felt a mosquito's stab with every tickle on his skin. "Let's take it from page 9," echoed Mrs. O'Connor's voice through the dusk. She was now nothing but a silhouette at the top of the bleachers. The sweet, dark melody of her humming broke out on the field, letting them know what part of the music they were on. George stood still, fingers clutching his elbows. "'C'mon, Sinner," said his squad leader with authority, steering him back to the hash. Tabitha thought she was funny when she made fun of his surname, which happened to be Sin, but no one was amused. George resisted and returned to pick up his french horn from where it had been standing, bell down, on the ground. Mrs. O'Connor counted off. The marching band erupted with sound, and George, now on autopilot, went through the familiar routine. It was getting dark enough that no one could see the white meter lines, and so the forms that the band made were crooked, especially in the front. George could hardly hear his own horn as he stumbled over uneven ground. How could he concentrate when the air was so full of earth? He felt like some latent ancestral memory was manifesting, maybe from all the stories his mother had told him about her childhood in Cambodia. He could hear wind rustling through nonexistent low-hanging trees, the people around him now only anonymous bodies--panthers and shrieking birds. The sky was so deep and fathomless that he forgot where he was. The band came to a halt, and George realized that the song was over. It had to be at least 8:00, but he didn't have a wristwatch, so he had no way of knowing. "Circle up!" said Mrs. O'Connor, and George ran to the drum major's platform, jubilance rising in his chest. The day's grueling practice was over. Now he could go home to the air conditioning he so worshipped, and watch that episode of Lost that he was sure his stepdad had TiVoed. The world was a magical and comfortable place. (Comment on this)
4:08 pm	Prompt: What if someone had a hard time saying "I love you"? I wrote this last night, but then my computer had a seizure. And as a preface, I can't write romantic relationships worth shit, so I end up writing melodramatic scenes of rage and self-deludedness. “Say it,” demanded Amaranta, her words muffled against the plaid of his shirt. “I...” He shivered and Amaranta pulled away, looking at him with dark, disappointed eyes. “Loh-hove...” He swallowed reflexively. “Hhhyou.” The word was pushed out of his mouth only by the force of his flexing abs. Amaranta’s eyes darted to the floor, and her skinny face looked even more birdlike than usual. “You love Hugh,” she said, almost laughing. “I lllll--” his tongue was between his teeth-- “ove yhhhoooo.” Amaranta shook her head quickly, trying not to smile. “Let me get this straight. You hate chew, you want Jew, and you love Hugh. Is there some long-buried trauma in your past involving--” “I can’t help that that’s the way I say things!” he said, his face turning purple. “I hate how you always need to-- to control everything and everyone.” He gritted his teeth. “I'm tired of this. We're over. Done. So get out.” Her eyes turned opaque and immovable. She wanted to scream that he'd still be sleeping on subway benches if it hadn't been for her, and tell him that he was being an ungrateful bastard, but she didn't. Amaranta picked up her purse, put on her coat, and walked out. She knew that he would change his mind. (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 30th, 2008
10:22 pm	Prompt: What if chocolate was a banned/controlled substance? Hiding behind a dumpster, I press the chocolate against the roof of my mouth. When it's gone, I lick the residue the illegal bar left off my hands. Oh god. The high. I said it back in 2008. I said that if anyone was ever going to ban caffeine, the U.S. would be the country to do it. I was right, and then some. "If sugar touches your lips, those lips shan't touch mine" was the stirring slogan, stolen from the old women's temperance movement. Fuck those bitches. You buy them chocolates for Valentine's Day, and they turn around and illegalize your ass. (Comment on this)
Saturday, March 29th, 2008
3:30 pm	the post that is first and foremost, being the first post posted There comes a time in one's life when one says, "You know what? I want to start a somewhat anonymous blog that pretty much no one will read." Since Blogger's layouts piss me off and I've become disallusioned with Livejournal, I've set up camp here. But di immortales! this website stole all its code from Livejournal. That's despicable. And I wanted an excuse to say 'di immortales.' So what'll be on here? Probably some short fiction, drabble, poetry, and the occasional essay. Right now I'm just trying to get into the habit of writing, even if it is only a drabble a day. [everything in this and ensuing posts copyrighted by Audita Sum 2008] (Comment on this)