story ideas.

1) psychological warfare:

Russian interrogator vs English psychologist

1. russian attempts to out-think the doctor
2. after repeated failures he tries to break the doctor's psyche
3. the doctor proves to be more mentally troubling for the russians then for himself.
4. eventually, they just torture him.
5. doctor dies after weeks of pain
6. turns out, he wasn't lying from the beginning.

i'm excited for this one. probably shouldnt let you bastards see my ideas so blantely but nobodys reading anyway. shrug.

2)..actually, i'll keep the rest to myself.

interlude

i am the son of the beast.
the monger of peace.
wanter of all things unified.
strong. loving.
wise. knowledgeable.

but i am the son of the beast.
making me some sort of beast myself.

and as such,
i should not be taken lightly..

even by the beast himself.

scene

: bus stop.

envision:

a side-walk-view of the street and, consequently, the other sidewalk. cars fly by, you can hear their rubble. their whizzing. music in some cases, lots of bass, high notes, etc. the sun is high in the sky and the wind is blowing steadily. tree tops sway forcefully in the gust as if nodding to a classic Kanye beat.

the screen begins to move further up the street. the soundtrack begins to change: loud chattering. cursing. music played off the speaker of a phone. before long, the composers slide, unknowingly, into view. 

one 24 year old black male on his phone handling, what seems like, either, baby-momma drama or a drug transaction. one cannot tell. another male crumbling weed in a dollar bill bent in a V shape, a child in a stroller crying by his leg, cell phone in his sagging back pocket blasting boisterous music through its annoying static.

there is a metal bench with four divided spaces. 

in the first sits a young black woman with a smaller child in her lap. she, at times, kisses the drug holder. in the space total opposite of the first sits another young lady with an oversized sweat-hood draped over her. the sweat-hood's owner is draped over it and practically swallowing its current wearer. a cigarette in all of the men's hands. 

the area smells of filth and thin smoke. loud, foul and necessary.  

in the middle of all of them, sitting peacefully on the bench is a boy looking of 19. he is almost submerged in a book. everything about him seems out of place. he is quiet, neatly put together, alone, harmless even and seemingly content.

he looks up from the pages, directly into the camera. he holds this gaze for some time before looking further upward into the unheeding sun. his face is now a slight but distinguishable grimace as though to keep the sun from his eyes. he looks back to the camera with the same grimace. closes the book with a single hand forgetting to mark his space. 

he stands up abruptly, no one takes note. 

still grimacing intently at the camera he walks two steps forward and is met instantly by the bus for which he waited. 

everything halts.

screams.

fade to black.

smarty arty

"being able to hold two sides of an argument and still manage to function is the sign of true intelligence." -F. Scott Fitzgerald

guess it's fair to say im at least somewhat smart, eh?

i'm about to try a few expirments with my writing and train of thought: bare with me these next few posts.

this is my warning.

beach of night.

there is nothing but darkness here.

darkness in the sky. 

darkness under the feet. tangible darkness. 

little grainy pebbles of darkness that slide between the fingers that try to hold them.

its ominous and foreboding. a slump of world with no sun to guide the lost. 

and so its inhabitants wonder without purpose. without cause. thus, they are a meaningless people. 

but few find reason. what they cannot see, they hear. 

life crashing against the darkness somewhere far off into the unseen.

following nothing but their own desire to see something, to know something, to find the world anew, they wonder purposefully.  on a mission. 

following sounds. learning the texture of that which blinds them. that which binds them. 

their heavy, unremovable dark is bearable but old and unfulfilling. 

these that seek the other find something more.

amidst the unrelenting nothingness, they find the ocean.

an ocean of light. bright, inviting, cutting light. it covers the black ground with a crash to prove its worth and power just to recede to show its slow hand to anger.

the thirsty find this lake of light and submerge themselves within never to be seen by the night again.  some sink to the bottom and touch the black soil beneath. some float at the top. others swim around simply elated to know something other than nothingness. 

here we can see everything. we are not blind. we are not ignorant. our light cuts the night. it is our beacon. it is our refuge. we are no longer lost for this light has shown us everything. it holds life. it is life.

oh, me? i walk atop the lake of light, for someone must bring the thirsty to the drink. 

full circle.

i believe in Karma fully.
"Give and it shall be given unto you[..]," so says the Bible. i like to think that this also applies to the negative we feed into the world.

ie: i was a total dick to my step-father. entirely. though we never got along in my childhood, i can look back now and see the error of my ways. i was wrong a lot of the time. made his job that much harder for no reason. (but i was still a damn good child. don't trip.) and now, i'm receiving the same treatment from the man i probably inherited such a trait from. Living with Tarrance sr has become something of a nightmare. the Devil deceives with creature comforts. its not until we accept his gifts that he begins his torture. i have learned my lesson. he is not the man i had hoped. he is not a man i wish to associate myself with. he is hardly a man i'd wish to introduce to my children. and certainly nothing of the kind of man i'd wish to emulate.

i have humbly apologized to my Dad (Herbert James Moore II) and am currently trying to sever intimate tides with my father (used lightly(Tarrance Bernard Foster Sr.)).

ie2: Tarrance (now known simply as Sr.) has four children. he raised none. recently he went to check on his 17 year old daughter in Gary, Ind and was surprised, to say the least, to find that she was with child. in what could possibly be known as the most mature moment of his life, he decided to take the girl and her baby and bring them here, to vegas, with him. though this is a great and honorable thing to have decided,  helping another lost soul escape the pit of Gary, he has no clue how to raise a baby...yet alone a teenage girl. having never raised a child or even been in the presence of the same person for more than three years consecutively, this is going to show him what hes been avoiding for all these years. for once in his life a father will be a dad, even if it is to his grandchild. and its about goddamn time. deadbeat.

tread lightly, world. your ills do come full circle. 

a hard day's night

Finally able to rest, our young hero sits and props his leg up on the row of seats he finds refuge on. he can tell his foot is swollen, aside from the constant tingling, his show is much tighter. stomach empty. his current savior, an ipod, flashes its impending death. his only company, an outdated cell phone, mimics the action.
The young man is weary. rest occupies his every thought beyond all else. but he knows sleeping on such bus is ill-advised. so, instead, he stares out his window.
cars fly past him. neon lights. street lights. bars boasting their best deals. fast food spots trying to outwit the next.
no one is walking.

the world passes him by. the defeated youngster knows he cannot stop it; in fact, he wishes he could hurry the process. he'd much rather be in a time ten years from now where his feet can rest and his mind can work.
he is smart indeed, though his nose is green.

the lights continue to gleam through the glass. people come and go on and off the bus, each making sure to thank the driver. he watched them all. their mannerisms, facial expressions, posture and the like. he created stories for them, living their lives was much easier than his own.

he loosened his tie.

felt anxiety creep up and instantly began his breathing excerises. five second intervals of inhaling and exhaling both. he needed this technique.

finally, he scribbled a few thoughts on his worn notepad, tucked it away again and pressed the button to tell the driver to stop.


(unfinished. forgive the spelling.)