A Short Story of a Memory Not Yet Written

Please don't take this, it's an original work by me.

                                                                      Exhale

The night was black, but the unnatural illumination strategically placed along the road left a trail of pail orange hue going into the distance. It was a late summer night, and the air was dry and crisp. The mall and shopping centers running along side of the illuminated blacktop were partially absorbed into the blackness, with the only hint of the their existence being the flickering logos; off and on, off and on, existence and nothingness. The night was not silent however, for the annals of civilization played on behind the blanket of black. Reflecting and refracting off of the walls of the valley; the freeway can be heard pumping the local populous to and from.

            I sat there on the hood of my car, listening, and looking at the small blips of light that littered the valley floor. You could almost loose where the industrial lights end and the stars in the sky begin if it wasn’t for the silhouette created by the moon shining behind the opposite mountain side.

            I looked over to my friend, he was leaning against the sloping fender of his Trans-Am, arms crossed, looking at his phone, missing out on the opportunity to expand the senses with the sights and sounds presented in front of him.

            He looked up at me, and I signaled to him with the wave of my head over my shoulder. He sat up from the fender, and simultaneously I got up off of my hood. My feet met the dusty ground and the front of the T-bird sprung up like a rising tide. We both walked to our driver’s side doors and pulled up on the door handle. The locking mechanism released the latch in heavy clank, the kind of clank only associated with a classic American automobile, a symphony for my ears.

            I swung my body into the soft cushions of my bench seat, ducking my head to clear the low roofline. The keys that had been prodding my leg for the evening finally came out, and I put them into the ignition. Turning only halfway to bring power to the radio. The Doors was playing, it was Riders on the Storm, perfect for that calm evening. I turned the volume down for a moment, rolled down the window, and turned over the engine until I heard it come to life. The cam gurgled in a long lopping motion, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling, creating a slow deep aggressive exhaust note.

            I put my foot on the brake, and I pulled the column shifter down into drive. The 2 tons of vintage iron lurched forward for brief moment.

            My friend across from me in the lot started up his Trans-Am; a long whine from came from the starter until the mixture of fuel and air ignited. The idle of his engine was higher and less lopping, yet still just as aggressive.

            I waved my hand in the direction of the exit to the lot. He put his car into first gear, and slowly crunched the gravel under his tires until getting onto the smooth black pavement of the main road. A small trail of dust followed suit behind his taillights. I took my foot slowly off of the brake, and the T-bird chugged behind. It rolled down the sloping gravel path and onto the road, the rear end floating up and down like a buoyant object in the ocean as the weight shifted.

            On the main road traffic was almost non-existent. The subtle glow of a few taillights could be seen miles down the straight stretch of asphalt, and there were no headlights in my rearview mirror, just a never ending expanse of street lamps and dimly lit store fronts. My window was down, and my left arm was hanging out, while my right hand casually rested on the thin leather wrapped steering wheel. The Doors played on in the background, but was slightly muffled by the rush of air coming in from the opened windows.

            My friend rode along in front of me, his taillights a solid bar of glistening red. A street lamp reflecting in his blue metallic paint with every one passed. I could hear the angry hum of his exhaust, as he would let on and off the gas pedal. The speedometer crept up, 40-45-50-55-60-65. The objects on the side of the road melded together into globs of strobing lights, one after another, after another. The sight of a stoplight came into view, and the road split into two lanes. I slowed into an eventual stop in the right lane, with my friend to the left.

            I looked over to him. He gave me a smirk and revved his engine in short bursts, letting the exhaust backfire in loud pops. I knew what he meant, the challenge of a race from this current light to the next light about a mile down the two lanes of blacktop.

I nodded my head in acceptance and shifted my seating position. I sat up in the cushiony bench seat, tightened my grip of the top of the steering wheel, took my left arm out of the window, and placed my left hand on the lower eight o’clock position of the steering wheel. I looked down at the needle of the rpm gauge skipping up and down; my heart felt like it started to go along with the rhythm.

            At that moment it felt like it was just us and our two pieces of iron the decades long ago left to die. My 77’ Thunderbird glistened the sharply lit street lamp off of its metallic deep forest green paint. The car itself felt like a mere spec on that long desolate road, and in reality it was massive vehicle, with an expansive hood and sharp bodylines. The T-bird had a slight downward rake as the rear tires were thicker and wider compared to the front. It’s polished chrome wheels shimmered back what little light there was.

            My friend’s 86’s Trans-Am was almost a literal contrast to my car. The body of the car flowed in a wedge shape front to back, having been designed to be aerodynamically superior to anything on the road at the time. It was leaner than my T-bird, yet just as wide. It’s deep rich blue shimmered a lot more than my car, and the black tinted t-tops reflected back a clear image of the night sky. The wheels were all black, giving the illusion that his car was just floating there on the asphalt.

            My eyes shifted back and forth from the current stop light, and the stop light at that ran perpendicular to the road.  As soon as I saw that light start to change, I immediately got into battle position. I kept my left foot firmly on the brake and I slowly started to press my foot down on the gas. The gurgling idle soon turned into a low roar as the car twisted to the left desperately trying to counteract the force of the engine while car was at rest.

            My friend did the same, except he left the shifter in neutral, bouncing the needle in the rpm gauge into the red, indicating the engine was at its maximum potential. The car gave a higher pitched growl, almost matched to the volume of my exhaust.

            The light perpendicular was now red. A second or two more and the hint of green will have to be met with a reaction time on the level of precision to that of a surgeon.   

            The presence of that green illuminated circle was all that I could see, and with that I immediately let off of the brake and stepped harder on the gas. The rear of the T-bird squatted down and the tires wrinkled as the power transferred from the fire breathing v8 engine to the blacktop. I could see the long hood twist from the raw power, and for a second I could swear the right tire was off of the ground for a split second. My friends Trans-Am left the light at almost the same pace, with a lot less dramatic body roll, and all four tires firmly planted on the ground.

Our tires squealed and smoke filled my rear view mirror. We were neck and neck. The street lamps and stars melded together into strings of illumination swiftly rushing around the windows, reminiscent of a ship hitting light speeds. The only thing that wasn’t muddled in my high velocity was the stoplight creeping closer and closer.

We both raced on into nirvana, and yet it could be considered oblivion. The end of that road could come anytime, and yet it could take a millennium.

           

           

           

            

The Ramblings of a Mad Man

The wonderment of the future, and the thoughts of the past keep me a constant loop of feeling stuck. I constantly look back at of my past experiences, the good and the bad. I would say that my life for the most part has been very positive. Yet I feel as though I deserve more, and the trials I've experienced in the past merit such rewards. My parents got devorced when I was in kindergarten. I remember being at my grandmothers house the day my father told me, and I couldn't stop crying. Luckily my grandmother was there to support me through that. So I lived with my mom, and my father would pick me up and bring me back to my grandparents, where he lived, on the weekends. My father was the most hard working man I know, he had a great work ethic, and he knew so many tangible skills when it came to anything hands on. He knew how to wire, paint, plumb, and a huge amount of carpentry. He has always helped anyone he could. The problem lied in the fact that he was a raging alcoholic, and that truly stopped him from reaching the success he really deserved. He never was abusive to me, and never did he lay a hand on me, and for that he still is a morally righteous man. The fact is, addiction runs in the family, and I feel as though he drank out of fear and regret. He was constantly overshadowed by my successful uncle, who had gone on to become a doctor. My father has a degree in biochemistry,  and could have gone on to become a doctor or a dentist. I feel for him, and yet I just want to slap him and tell him to get his act together. Now that he's in his 40's he's even worse, and he seems to be convinced that he's stuck. His tour in Iraq didn't help much either, he was a military man, going though the national gaurd to pay for school. The way he has become however,  has left a bad taste in my mouth looking at any military opportunities. It's just not for me, and I think he's slightly disappointed in me because of it.
That brings me to my own observations of myself. I try to look at where he went wrong,  and I try to take the good from him, and apply it to my own ethics. Sometimes I think I'm just a whiney teenager with daddy issues, because I know for a fact that people have had it worse than me.
Growing up, it was usually me and my grandmother,  because my mom worked until late in the evening. My grandma and I were the best of friends, she always encouraged me with my art and education. She was always with me, and I think that I gave her a purpose, considering she lived alone.I wouldn't be half the person I am today without her, and I hope she will always know that. Here's where life seems to have told me something, in her final months of heart problems and deterioration, I was going through the end of grade school, and I was getting progressively more independent. I found myself not wanting to visit her in hospice. Then on my birthday my mom got the call, she had gone into a coma, and passed away in that morning. I spent the day with my friend Ray, and when he dropped me off all of my family was at my house. I just knew, they didn't even have to say. Happy birthday to me right? Maybe it was her telling me something,  a last goodbye. It was at that moment, I knew she would never fade from memory. Even as I type this I can barely finish the sentence. I'll always take what I've learned from her and apply it to my life, and I hope that for my own peace of mind, there is a life after death.
My homelife was good for the most part, I had a roof over my head, and lived a nice middle class lifestyle. However my mom could never find anyone after my father. She had a few unsuccessful boyfriends, that usually ended with me in the middle of a fight. She finally settled on one, and I've had to deal with him ever since, also a drunk by the way. He's been kicked out so many times,  I've lost track. Always with the fighting,  with me stuck right in the middle of it, I want to use profanity, but the decency I have is keeping me at bay. She had a kid with him too, like that would change his habits,  and it didn't. In his later yeats, he has become nothing but lazy drunk, who will amount to nothing. I resent him, and there has been nothing good thay has come from him. I love my sister to death, but I hate him more. In my own "journey" through life, I'm going bto have to forgive him at some point,  but not yet. He is everything I never want to be, and my mother foolishness is something I never want to inherit. My mother is a hard working woman, and a loving, butbher own faults and self abuse have worn her spirit. She settled,  and I hope to give her something better in her later years. I criticize my family,  but am I any better? I can't tell, but I can hope, and try to be self aware.
My older sister, well half sister, my mom had her with her first husband at the age of 16, is a whole other story. She was always smart and talented,  until she started hanging out with the wrong people at the end of high school. She let the addiction that ran in bither my mothers side and her father side take hold. She became addicted to heroine. Also going to rehab more times than I could count. To this day, in her late 20's she still suffers from addiction. If it's not heroine, its booze, or a slew of prescription drugs. She has overdosed in my house twice, and a few other times at her family's. When she overdosed I had to sit in my room, helpless,  just like when my mother would fight. My mom broke the bathroom door in, and she called the paramedics. They came and saved her just in time. I love my sister, the sister that I remember before her addiction. I hate what she has become, and for that I resent her. The selfishness she displays has slowly torn my mother apart. She has made me bitter against addicts. With the little shred of love I have for her, I hope she can come back from her hell. A week before highschool graduation I had to pull my intoxicated sister off of my mom, or vice versa,  they would have killed each other. I was always the person stuck in the middle, and I looked at her with disgust as the police took her to her aunt's. She has also been kicked out of my house several time, each one ending with her screwing up.
It's because of these people I see the harm of abusing drugs, and I have seen how it tears people apart, and hurts the ones around them. So help me god, I vow to never be them.
I try to find the good in my life. My dad's side of the family specifically. My father, my three uncles, my father grandmother, my great aunt and uncle, and of course my numerous cousins. Lets say my father's side of the family is big, and very close. With everything at home, I could always go to my grandparents and know there was family. They are the model of what I want for my future. I want my kids to have the same family dynamic I have with them. My yearning for the past come from the memories I've had with them.
My uncle and I were always the closest, he's the youngest of the four brother, and is only a few years older than me. He is my role model, as I've seem his struggles and triumphs. He's got a fair paying job, a new house, nice vehicles, and a very nice girlfriend. He ran with the wrong crowd in high school, but was always extremely intelligent, respectful,  and hard working. He got in trouble for selling drugs, and suffered from addiction himself. Through all of this he has come out on top. We share so much in common, and are almost the same people. We've only gotten closer as we've gotten older, and I'll never forget the times we've had as kids growing up.
Well that's it. I wanted to end on the positive. I try and take what I've experienced and apply it to my path. I hope for success,  and I hope it comes soon enough.

Design Final

Final Storyboard

Pattern/Line Project

Using my own portraits and silhouettes, I've created a few really interesting peices of line and pattern work.

Transition Project 2

This project used a technique of foreground/background transition, while also having a biomorphic object transform into a rectilinear object.

Foreground & Background Transition