ICW Journal

First created October 3rd, 2023.
Last edited October 31st, 2023.

1.1

A horse is a horse is a horse. By any other definition, a thing is what it is, and while I could spend the next rest of my life or so discussing it with myself, I’ve still got quite a lot of life left in me, if I have anything to say about it.

It’s been raining since I woke up. Well, less rain as in “torrential downpour of biblical proportions, threatening to sweep everything into the bay,” but more like “inconsequential sprinkle that was much more of a mild inconvenience than anything else”. Still though, I’m most definitely not going to be a happy camper once I trek maybe a mile or so back to my room through the all-encompassing dampness, having to thoroughly shake myself out once I get indoors.

It is what it is.

1.4 - Ethan Uno - caminare solo¹

It’s been raining for weeks now. I’ve been lying here for just about as long, cold and shivering, my clothes drenched as I stare into the sky above. I don’t even remember why I came here in the first place. Maybe it was to remember. Maybe to forget. I’m not sure.

The pitter-patter of rain on pavement has become white noise to me. The chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the occasional car that whizzes by, like a comet in the night sky, a welcome distraction, but ultimately inconsequential. And still, I lie here.

I close my eyes, just for a moment.

When I open them next, I am a star in the night sky.

I am alone no longer, left in the grass, sopping wet and abandoned.

I am one of many, a light in the boundless nothing, a speck of white against a canvas of black, blues, and greens. I am among family, no matter how far they may be.

And I am happy.

2.4

The sticker reads “I am wanted in the state of Philadelphia for 5 counts of reckless endangerment”, with a poorly upscaled image of a wizard in the background.

Ironically, the car it’s attached to is a pristine 1983 Toyota Corolla Levin AE86, obviously well-maintained and loved by its driver. It’s in such good condition that one could mistake it for being factory new, if it weren’t for the subtle, yet silently aggressive custom bodywork that made the vehicle look more akin to a predatory animal than a machine.

Opening the door, you see that the owner has done quite a bit of work on the interior. The stock seats have been replaced with racing bucket seats, and a small beige sachet is hung from the rear-view mirror, filling the car with the subtle aroma of vanilla and cinnamon. The quick-release steering wheel in front of the driver’s seat is black steel and cushioned, the center console looks decently modern, all black dials and buttons, with a small blue-backlit display, and way in the back, mounted behind the back seats, is a decently-sized subwoofer, one that looks like it could rattle the teeth out your skull if turned up too loud.

You hear the voice of its owner behind you, as you’re carefully surveying it as you would a fine piece of art in a gallery. You look back at him.

He’s waving at you, a big dumb grin on his face as he lugs a cart behind him with a worn red toolbox on it. He yells, still a ways away.

“Ay, bro! How’s it been!”

2.5

Silence slips in, through a narrow gap in the walls. Dressed in soft eigengrau cotton garb, befitting their slender, wiry form. No one bats an eye at the figure they cannot see.

3.2

“Alright, sorry to say but I’ve got some bad news for you, man. You know how I promised not to ding up your ride while I was borrowing it? Yeah, sorry but I’m gonna have to go back on that. Some brainless asshat in a Prius brake-checked me on the intersection of 7th and Bradbury, and sped off like nothing even happened. Thankfully the damage isn’t too bad, just a bit of a dent in the front bumper, nothing we can’t tap out in maybe fifteen minutes at most, but still. Sorry about that. I’ll be back at your place in 30. Don’t worry about the garage, I still know how to get it open without the key.”

3.5

He’s dressed plainly, in a black tee with the sleeves cut off, tucked into a pair of baggy black cargo pants, and a pair of eggshell white and green sneakers, noticeably worn, but maintained with the same care he puts into his car. To break up the monochromaticity of his outfit, he’s adorned himself with several pieces of jewelry, a small opal pendant on a thin silver chain, a bracelet of colorful patterned beads (black, then pink, then green, then black again), and a set of carved steel and silver rings, on his pinky, middle, and index, but curiously, never on his ring fingers.

His hair is ever-so-slightly curly, medium length with shaved sides. It seems to naturally flow to the side, like waves crashing onto the shore, and helps accentuate his subtly soft features. He has a few piercings, two for his left brow and one for his septum, and his nails are trimmed and painted alternating black and white.

He’s your best friend, a true ride-or-die. And you’re under his car, trying to fix the dent that got put in it earlier today.

“You know what don’t make sense?” he asks.

“What?”

“Guy who hit you, he just booked it without a word?”

“Didn’t even bother to apologize, ask about insurance, tell you off, nothing?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Dumb drivers are a dime a dozen in this town.”

“What bothers me is that he wasn’t willing to give you even a minute for denting my ride. Like, most people I’ve met after an accident like that would’ve at least tried getting all the legal shit over with before driving off, but not that guy.”

“That’s this town for you. Nobody cares, and nobody cares that nobody cares.”

“You know that makes no sense, right?”

“That’s why it does.”

“Man.”

“I would sock you right now if it were anyone else saying something as dumb as that.”

“And that’s why we’re friends.”

“You know it!”

Putting on the finishing touches, you carefully get up, and inspect your handiwork.

“Sweet.”

“All good shape-wise, just need to buff out the scratches and it’ll look good as new.”

“Nice! Knew I could count on you, man.”

“Hey, I was the one in the driver’s seat when the dent was put in, don’t forget”

“And? You fixed it. Hell, I’d say you did a better job on it than the aftermarket chain grease monkey that messed up my right-side tail light that one time”

“Aw, come on man. Give that dude a break, he was a new-hire.”

“He installed the bulb upside down. I don’t even know how he managed to fuck up that badly, but he did.”

“And when I went back to ask about it, dude just said he was ‘following directions’, like,”

“HOW.”

A faint chuckle.

“You have to be on some major cartoon shit to literally TWIST A BULB WRONG.”

He starts cracking up, trying to hold his composure long enough to finish his thought.

“Like, genuinely, what could that guy have done to mess up like that?”

“I dunno,”

“Have the manual upside-down on the table while you’re lookin’ at it?”

You both stare at each other, for a moment. He looks absolutely bewildered.

“Bruh.”

Then, you both start laughing.

And all was well.

8.5

There was once two boys who went to school together, in a quiet suburban neighborhood. At every opportunity they had to play together, talk to each other, they did so. Out in the fields at recess, at the long lunch tables in the noisy hall, even in classes, if the instructor didn’t mind. Then, as quickly as they met, one departed. The first boy never heard from him again.

The first boy didn’t mind, however. He had a lot of friends who left like that, without a word and without notice. It had happened to him so many times throughout the years that it didn’t even faze him in the slightest. He just accepted that people disappear sometimes, and no matter what he did, he would never truly know why. He just chose to remember his friends fondly, for all the good memories they made together.

The second boy was a good friend. In many ways, he was similar to the first boy. He enjoyed things other boys in school would, like video games, and sports. He didn’t like how strict some of the teachers in school were, and often would participate in little silent rebellions against the iron grip of his instructors. He had lived in a neighborhood as quiet as the one the school was in, in a little house with his mother and father. He’d even invited the first boy over one night, to watch movies on a little television set in his room.

The first boy chose to hold onto these memories, and many others like them. And sure, the friends he left behind may not remember all the good times they had together, he did. And that was enough for him.

8.7 - 1.1

It is what it is.

But what’s the point of it?

The point could be that there isn’t one at all. The point could be anything, anything at all. The point could be a horse. But that wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Would finding the point in this make it make sense? Would finding the point in this do anything of substance? Would finding the point in this make the horses mean something?

Great question, honestly, but I don’t know. And I was the one who asked it!

4.1

Kay is a 25-year-old grad student who just wants to rest.

Thomas is a 20-year-old computer science major who wants to be remembered for doing something good.

Rhys is a 23-year-old microbiology major who wants to help others as best as they can.

Nikolai is a 21-year-old music major who wants to enjoy life to its fullest.

Rowan is a 19-year-old psychology major who wants to understand both themself and others.

4.2

In Thomas’ trash, there lies only energy drink cans. Many varieties, of course, in flavor, brand, caffeine content, but energy drinks nonetheless. Some of them are even crushed, maybe out of an effort to fit more in the bin, maybe in frustration at a project he’d been working on. Alas, no matter how many times he empties out the bin, it always seems to be overflowing just a little bit.

In comparison, Rowan’s bin is quite neat. They demonstrate quite the amount of care into making sure the liner bag fits just right on it, and stays put, no matter what they toss in it. Even so, most of the waste they dispose of is paper, crumpled sticky notes and note cards, torn pages, receipts, nothing with enough mass to actually shift the bag in any meaningful manner.

4.3

Nikolai: If there’s anything I can’t stand…

It’d have to be my peers. Easily, and without question. Yes, I do enjoy my classes (I wouldn’t’ve chosen any other program if I had even the slightest chance of getting into this one), but I swear, if there’s one reason I drop out, it’d have to be them. Every single lecture I attend with them is like spectating a snobbish toddler cage match to see who can be the most pretentious about their taste in music while the professor idly stares into his mug like a bug is floating in his coffee, and I absolutely cannot stand it some days. I’m genuinely surprised all of them graduated high school, let alone got admitted to this university. At least the content is interesting.

6.1

We set out for the coast at sunrise. My friend woke first, unzipping his tent to sit and stare at the warm orange sky, and breath in his first breath of cold, crisp morning air. I only woke up when he threw a pebble at my tent and it hit the frame with a rattling, shimmering clang.

It took a half hour to pack all of our gear and set off. He parked his truck a ways away from the hill we set up camp on, a sturdy old olive green pickup, dusty and old, yet well loved and maintained like all good tools should be. Our packs were haphazardly tossed into the back seat, and away we went.

For 2 hours, the road was nothing but trees and cliffs. The hills looked like they went on forever, and the sun made its slow trawl along the morning sky, and was quickly muffled and shrouded by a blanket of clouds and pouring rain. We took a pit stop at a little gas station in a college town, refilling our stockpile of snacks and washing ourselves at a local gym.

Fresh-faced and chipper, we hopped back in the truck and drove down a winding mountain road, where the endless forests and historic buildings were replaced by salt-spray winds and gravel beaches. My friend rolled down his window and took a deep breath of the effervescence of the bay as we drove on. I saw a flock of gulls swarming some poor soul who was having lunch at a little picnic spot along the coast.

They were ravenous. My friend thought they were adorable. I never trust birds that run people for their fries.

We made it to the coast by noon, sharp. By the time I roused myself from my stupor in the passenger seat, my friend was already out of his clothes and in a loose tee and swim trunks, sprinting down a dock at mach speeds, practically flinging himself into the bay. Of course, being a reasonable person, I panicked and grabbed our stuff from the trunk and joined him out by the shore. He was cackling like a tickled raccoon as he swam about, chasing fish in the water with his goggles on, trying to wrangle one out of the water with his bare hands.

I laid out our towels and opened up a small basket with our lunch. Thankfully, we parked by a sand beach instead of gravel, so I didn’t have to worry about lying on anything sharp, but my prospects for relaxation were quickly stifled as my friend actually managed to grab a fish and, against all better judgment and sanity, threw it at me like a football. Needless to say, the rest of my time here was spent chasing him around for trying to hit me in the chest with a trout.

We were there for four hours. Thankfully, the rest of our night was spent at a hotel, where he decided to make up for nearly winding me with a fish by ordering dinner. We ended up falling asleep watching old cartoon reruns off of my laptop (hooked up to the hotel’s TV), two half-eaten pizzas on the end table between our beds.

I still could feel salt in my hair the next morning, but I didn’t mind.

9.2²

Heat.

The first thing you feel as your eyes shoot open is searing, awful heat.

postscript: this anthology(?) was actually a running document my Intro to Creative Writing professor had the whole class start on day one to run through some textbook prompts in lecture.

the prompt for this one was to write based on a song I'd listened to recently, and this happened to be the most notable one at the time. YouTube link for that here.↩
I don't actually know what 9.2 was going to or supposed to be.↩

#archive #writing