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[Mushroom Pie]

Started this at 9:15 tonight. Starting from then, I'm writing more or less non-stop until 9:15 tomorrow night. I figured I'd post pieces as I finish them here. Most of them are probably "tl;dr," but if you've got some spare time I would really like a bit of feedback. I'm gonna make each piece a seperate post so they don't look as long. Of the three I've got right now, "The Magician's Funeral" is definitely the best. Anyway, yeah.

A Possibly Brief Introduction
Hello. My name is Luke Varner. I am fifteen years old. My hobbies include video games, and obviously writing. I am currently rather. This is because what I'm currently attempting is going to be rather difficult.
I am currently attempting to do something that is rather difficult, and most likely something that isn't done particularly often. I am attempting (and due to my computer, currently failing) at writing for 24 hours straight. I originally began this endeavor at eight o'clock PM EST, though now I have reset the clock, and am now starting at 9:15 PM EST (You can no doubt grasp why I am so frustrated, considering that I just lost an hour and a half of work). I don't know what I'm going to write. I will have to come up with it as I go. The genres will vary as from horror to drama to humor, and the formats will be just about any format in existence: poetry, prose, essays, and so on. There are a number of rules that I have set in place that I would now like to share with you.

1. Writing must be nonstop. I may stop only once every fifteen minutes for the duration of one minute, in order to gather my thoughts.
2. I cannot listen to music, because it may alter the ideas I think of. My own thoughts and you, my silent, invisible reader are my only sources of entertainment.
3. No caffiene.
4. I have prepared three sandwiches in advance. I may not get any other food, as it would waste writing time.
5. I can only leave the computer in the case of an emergency or if I need to use the bathroom.

If my parents' response to my explaining this is any indication, you probably think this is crazy. I don't particularly blame you, though there is logic to this endeavor. I claim to be a writer, and have done so for a few years now. I hope one day to be a professional novelist. And yet, I hardly ever write. The last time I attempted to write something of merit was three months ago. I have finally decided that this is unacceptable. Therefore, I am going to force myself to write for 24 hours straight. It will help get out half-baked ideas that I haven't granted the proper attention, and will perhaps make writing seem like a less daunting task in the future. I believe that forcing myself to constantly think of new things for an extended period is going to yield many positive results. Additionally, this are going to be further complicated by the fact that I am going to be running on less than a desirable amount of sleep for the majority of this project. As my mind grows more and more weary and I have to struggle more and more to think of new ideas, I believe that the tower in my mind that is constructed with my life experiences will slowly collapse wall by wall, until I no longer have any source to write from other than my basic humanity.
It's rather silly for me to think that the work of a mere high schooler could get work published in anything other than a teen literary magazine, and yet I cannot help but entertain the thought. Should that thought somehow be realized, I think I'd like to title this collection of works "I'm Awake: Writings from the Human Soul." Hm... But then, I suppose it could be argued that even when I'm dead tired, I am still being influenced by the collective subconscious beliefs of my ethnicity and nationality. So maybe I should instead call it "I'm Awake: Writings from the European-American Soul." But then, the European-American ethnicity consists of quite a large number of people from different backgrounds, with different interests and of different ages. So perhaps I should call this "I'm Awake: Writings from the Young, European-American, Upper-Middle Class, Video Game-Playing, 21st Century-Dwelling, Kentucky Soul." Ah, but then it's become so complicated that I've lost the original point. Maybe I'll just call it "I'm Awake." It's short, simple, and conveys my purpose quite nicely.
I said before that I was frightened. That's because what I am about to attempt is no simple task. I don't know if I'm going to be able to do it, and even if I do, I don't know if it will be any good. And if it's not any good, then this will have been something of a waste, won't it? Reader, please understand that I am not guaranteeing quality, only quantity. Hopefully, quality comes packaged with it.
I suppose I should start writing something, shouldn't I? It seems sort of unfair to waste too much time talking about what I'm going to do instead of actually doing it. So, without further adieu, let us begin.
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[Mushroom Pie]

The Magician's Funeral
Current Time: 9:42 PM EST
It was raining, the infinite raindrops blurring black-garbed forms standing solemnly in the graveyard, the occasional umbrella guarding some from the torrent above. 200 people; that is how many had come to the magician's funeral. Standing closest to the coffin was the mother of the deceased, black lines marking the path of her tears, which were nearly as many as those of the clouds above. She was held close by her other son, who merely looked off into the distance. He was not at the funeral. He did not know where he was, but it was most certainly not at the funeral of his elder brother. He couldn't be, because it wasn't possible for his funeral to exist. It was not possible for a man such as this, who had escaped death on a daily basis, to lose his life. And yet, death had achieved the impossible and captured its most elusive prey, in the same way the magician achieved the impossible when he created a tiger from nothing. Such would happen no more, and this is what was realized by the 200 as a new wave of tears slid down their cheeks.
The priest was the only one whose head continued to be bowed as he recited the prayer, his deaf listeners withdrawn into their own thoughts. Many, like the brother, could simply not believe that the dead figure that lay in the open coffin before them was in fact the magician. Their thoughts were jarred slightly when the priest finished speaking. He looked at them all solemnly, and moved slowly to the open coffin. He took one sorrowful glance at the magician, lying there in his black suit, gripping his wand to his thin chest, before pulling down on the heavy steel door. The stocky man then knelt slightly to fasten the latches, and then attached a large padlock to each latch. The entire coffin was steel, and extremely heavy. The magician's will had instructed that he be buried in a coffin from which not even he could escape, and his wish had been fulfilled.
The priest stepped away slowly, and nodded to the mother. She looked at him uneasily, then slowly emerged from the protection of her son's umbrella. She stepped slowly towards the coffin of her boy, her beautiful boy, and looked at it silently. Thunder burst out, not from the sky but rather her mouth, as she collapsed over the coffin wailing. Everyone else was silent as the poor old woman hugged the large casket as well as she could. A few moments passed, and then a few more. Finally the son stepped forth and put a single hand on his mother's shoulder, which immediately caused her to draw back and collapse into his arms. He took a single, blank look at the coffin before leading his mother away. After they returned to their place in the crowd, a few close friends took their turn, some stroking the cold metal sadly, others just nodding their head, struggling to hold back their tears. Once they were done, the crew of the magician's stage show came forward and formed a line. None of them would have had a job were it not for him, and each of them expressed their gratitude for this by placing a single twenty dollar bill on the casket before returning. The last of them lingered a bit longer than the others, staring sadly at the two padlocks that he himself had designed. It was true- there was no way that even the magician could unlock them without a key. He returned to the crowd slowly, head hung low, receiving a few comforting pats on the back now and then.
After the crew came patrons and fans, men and women who had loved the magician as dearly as any stranger could ever hope to love him, those who had stood out in the rain all day to watch him escape from a straight-jacket, and were now standing out in the rain to watch him descend into his final grave. Some were locksmiths, who had challenged the magician to unlock their most complicated and intricate handcuffs, only to be defeated with embarrassing ease. Others were wardens, who had watched him easily exit the strongest cell in the prison without so much as a lock pick. Most however, were simply those who had been captivated by the man's art, who had rooted for him in the theatre, who had spent weeks trying to understand one of his tricks to no avail. They each approached the coffin and paid their respects, sadly wishing the deceased a happy afterlife. After half an hour, everyone had come and personally said goodbye to their friend the magician.
The priest returned, and silently waved his hand. Four crew members emerged from the crowd once more, this time carrying large, heavy chains. Together with the priest, they wrapped the coffin with the chains, securing them with yet more padlocks. Once their work was done, the crew men each grabbed one of the coffin's handles and heaved it into the air with much difficulty. They marched slowly, the others following them, melancholy battling with the water for dominance in the air. The approached a hill, the top of which housing the deep ditch that had been prepared. The carriers began to climb, the steep incline making their work all the harder. The made it a few feet up the hill, but ultimately the great weight of the coffin coupled with the muddy hill caused the men slip and fall, the casket crashing to the ground. The filth-ridden men clambered to their feet and attempted to lift the casket back up, but their concentration was shattered when they heard the sound of metal sliding against metal. All eyes were drawn to the coffin, and grew wide when they saw the chains falling off. Padlocks, including the two on the coffin's latches, lay scattered about the ground. Heads turned towards one another. What was going on? Was this some sort of joke? The crew members all put their hands firmly on the lid, and forced it open. They had scant but lifted it but a foot before a cloud of white burst out and knocked them away, the coffin lid opening of its own accord. 200 doves; that is how many flew out from the casket, which now contained a corpse no longer. The rain suddenly stopped and the sun forced its way through the thick partition of clouds, illuminating the scene in a beautiful gold, as though the heavens themselves had been involved with the trick.
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[Mushroom Pie]

Descent
Current Time: 10:50 PM EST
The blindfold was whipped off sharply, and he immediately wished that it hadn't been; the flashlight in his eyes was incredibly obnoxious, and made worse by the fact that it was the only light source in the room. If only he weren't wearing the straight jacket, he would do to the guard what he had done to all the others.
"Prisoner Number 667, you are to come with me," the flashlight-wielding guard said firmly. The man smiled.
"Actually, friend, my name is-"
"Your name is Prisoner Number 667. Maybe you were called something else out there, but you're not out there anymore."
"And just how long will I be in here?" Prisoner Number 667 asked.
"It will be shorter if you just grin and bear it," the guard said bluntly. "Now come with me." Prisoner Number 667 shrugged as best as his straight-jacket would allow him to, and followed along behind.
"You know, this thing is a tad extraneous," Prisoner Number 667 remarked as the walked through the darkness, referring to his straight-jacket.
"That's standard prison uniform. All of the others are wearing the exact same."
"Ah, so there are others around here somewhere, then."
"Of course." Just as the guard said this, the two emerged into a vast circular chamber. A path spiraled from them downward, deep into the darkness of the dimly lit room. Glass panels lined the walls, the form of a single person visible through each. Next to each glass panel was a heavily bolted and locked door, as well as a lever. The two followed the path until they reached the first window. The man inside wore a straightjacket labeled with a large "1."
"Prisoner Number 1," the guard said, "it's time."
"All right then," Prisoner Number 1 said with a small sigh. The guard reached up and pulled the lever, and the man inside the cell jumped suddenly.
"That shock gets me every time," Prisoner Number 1 remarked as the two passed him by, Prisoner Number 667 eyeing him curiously.
"Is that the best you've got? a small shock every now and then? That's nothing!" he remarked.
"They get worse," the guard remarked without turning to his prisoner.
The two marched a bit further down, passing a few cells until they reached that of Prisoner Number 15. The guard stopped abruptly and turned towards the cell.
"Prisoner Number 15, it's time." Prisoner Number 15 didn't respond. Instead, he inhaled deeply and held his breath. The guard pulled his lever, and water began to fill the cell rapidly, until Prisoner Number 15's head was just barely sticking out of it.
"That still doesn't seem particularly terrible," Prisoner Number 667 said.
"They get worse," the guard repeated as the two continued downward.
Deeper and deeper the two went, ever lower. Each prisoner they passed seemed to be more depressed and unhealthy than the previous. The two finally stopped once more, at Prisoner Number 162.
"Prisoner Number 162, it's time." Prisoner Number 162 weeped lightly as the guard pulled the lever. A large panel opened and a large man walked into the cell, carrying a whip. Prisoner Number 162 yelled in pain as the leather struck him again and again, red stains beginning to show throw his straightjacket.
"You know, I've got a rather high tolerance for pain," Prisoner Number 667 noted. Once again, the guard replied bluntly, "They get worse."
And thus the two went further down the spiral. Some prisoners were curled in a corner of their cells. Others were sprawled out on the floor, bawling. Prisoner Number 667 was beginning to feel vaguely uneasy, but was still smiling defiantly. The two stopped at Prisoner Number 312. The man's flesh and clothes were were torn to shreds, the straightjacket the only thing completely intact.
"Prisoner Number 312, It's time." And thus the lever was pulled, despite the protests from the prisoner. Four panels opened on the walls, and a crocodile emerged from each, snarling as they approached. Prisoner Number 667 lingered for a moment, watching the crocodiles.
"Couldn't that kill him?" he asked the guard, who was pulling the lever on Prisoner Number 313's cell.
"They get worse."
Down, down, down. Ever further down the two trekked, following the spiraling path in a solemn silence. The prisoners were beginning to look as though they were on the verge of death. Some were running about their cells, screaming and ripping their hair out of their heads. They stopped this time at Prisoner Number 578.
"Prisoner Number 578, it's time." Prisoner Number 578 leapt up and clawed at the glass, screaming wildly, begging the guard not to pull the lever. But the guard did not waver for a instant, and the lever fell. Whispered "hellos" begin to pour into the cell, causing the man to curl up and scream. Prisoner Number 667 swallowed a lump in his throat.
"I think you've gone and driven him insane."
"They get worse."
Prisoner Number 667 could no longer bear to look at the deteriorating condition of the prisoners as their descent continued. Though once they reached the 600s, he could not block out the screams. He didn't dare look at the cell windows. Finally, the path leveled out. Prisoner Number 667 looked down, to see that the entire floor was made out of glass, and in the room below them lay a man. No, not a man, an abomination. Pieces of flesh were absent. He was a zombie.
"Prisoner Number 666," the guard said dutifully, "It's time." The man's only response was a widening of his eyes. The guard threw the lever, and the man turned on his side, clutched himself tightly, and let out the single most blood-curdling scream Prisoner Number 667 had ever heard.
"What's going on!?" he frantically demanded. The guard did not lose his stone-hard face.
"He's being infected with a flesh-eating virus." Prisoner Number 667's eyes grew wide.
"But... but... you can't..." was all he could say.
"It gets worse." The guard turned and approached a door labeled "667," and grabbed the lever. No window accompanied this door.
"Prisoner Number 667," the guard said slowly, "it's time."
"NO!" he shouted, his eyes clenched tightly shut. He threw them open again and looked frantically about. He ran, ran straight towards Prisoner Number 665's cell, which was coated with spikes on all sides that were slowly closing in. Prisoner Number 667 leapt at the glass and smashed through it, impaling himself on the spikes within.
The guard paid no heed to Prisoner Number 667's actions and pulled the lever all the same. The door swung open, and bright light poured in. A butterfly floated in from the door. It was the door to the outside world.
"It wouldn't have been long if he had grinned and bared it," the guard said before shutting the door again.
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[the bunk]

thank god you dont write for 24
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[the bunk]

i mean, it's a fine enough story, but the pacing, man.

also it's too long and i didnt read .
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[Mushroom Pie]

A Very, Very Poor Attempt at Poetry
Current Time: 12:02
I am not very good
at the type of writing
we call poetry.
This poem
in particular
is bad.
Essentially,
I'm just typing up
a sentence
and then I'm adding
random line breaks
to turn it into a poem.
I should stick to prose.
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[Mushroom Pie]

A List, Describing Why I am Better than You
Current Time: 12:06
1. At 6'2", I'm most likely taller than you.
2. My opinion is better than yours.
3. I have never seen a single second of Titanic.
4. I am wasting my time trying for no good reason to write for twenty four hours straight. I don't see YOUR wastes of time doing any better!
5. I'm not good at poetry, which is extremely girly. And everyone knows that girls are inferior to guys, as displayed in the simple equation y > x, where y represents any given male and x represents any given female.
6. I have a bobblehead of a monkey with a fez cap named The Senator.
7. I've solved a Rubix Cube once.
8. I have never typed "myspace.com" in my entire life. Wait.
9. My kidney has a better taste in music than yours does.
10. I'm kind of narcissistic, so I mean, you can't really expect me to say that I'm not better than you.
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[Yazz]

i read it, and when there is more to come i'll keep reading it, good luck to you with your goal of writing for 24 hours, it'll be interesting to see what it produces.
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"Everyone makes choices in this world, sometimes we choose right and sometimes we choose wrong, with that in mind no matter what we choose we should aim to have fun no matter what we are doing." Yazz

[Mushroom Pie]

Why?
Current Time: 12:14
X. Why? Z. Because.
Why Z? How X? Wait, um, what?
Because I said so.
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[Mushroom Pie]

I Am a Logician
Current Time: 12: 19
I always submit to logic. Always. My mother tells me to make my bed; logic tells me that I reap no benefits from making the bed, and it will be unmade by tonight. I am told to bathe; logic tells me that daily bathing isn't necessary for a healthy level of cleanliness. I'm told to clean my plate because children are starving in Africa; logic tells me that eating more than I want is actually prolonging the world hunger problem. I am told to go to school, because with an education I can have a good job and live a comfortable lifestyle; logic tells me that I don't submit to logic when it's turned against me.
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[Yazz]

What are your views on philosophy as a profession?
_________________
"Everyone makes choices in this world, sometimes we choose right and sometimes we choose wrong, with that in mind no matter what we choose we should aim to have fun no matter what we are doing." Yazz

[Mushroom Pie]

I think that I could make an entire career out of that haiku. It's deep, let me tell you.
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[Yazz]

tell away.
_________________
"Everyone makes choices in this world, sometimes we choose right and sometimes we choose wrong, with that in mind no matter what we choose we should aim to have fun no matter what we are doing." Yazz

[Mushroom Pie]

Well, the X, uh, represents the, you know... the one thing....

It's too complicated to explain. Just take my word for it that I didn't string random words together to make a haiku. Because that's not what I did at all.
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[Yazz]

Shadows grow at night,
Releasing a dark feeling,
Until morning breaks,
Scattering shadow with light,
Light replaces dark,
And shadows hide until night.
Where they start again.

a haiku, but yours is better
_________________
"Everyone makes choices in this world, sometimes we choose right and sometimes we choose wrong, with that in mind no matter what we choose we should aim to have fun no matter what we are doing." Yazz