Taxi (a work in progress)

"Taxi!"

I jumped back as the beat-up old taxi pulled up to the curb, barely avoiding the puddle it splashed onto the sidewalk. My gut sank at the sight of it; if it hadn't been raining, I never would have gotten in. I quickly pulled the rear passenger door open, only to find the seat occupied. I shoved the door shut, ran around to the other side and jumped in the other back seat as quickly as I could.

Sitting there, looking like I'd taken a shower with my clothes on, I surveyed the inside of the cab. It wasn't all that different from any other cab I'd been in; dirtier, and there were postage stamps pasted all over everything, from the floor to the ceiling. I took my glasses off to clean them to get a better look...

"Where are you going, friend?"

It was the driver. He spoke in a heavy accent, and I couldn't make out the origin... it sounded almost Russian, definitely Eastern European. I looked up at him in the rear-view mirror - only to find there wasn't one.

So, I said to the front of the cab, "The airport, please."

As the cab pulled away from my office, I set my briefcase on the floor in front of me and took a look at my fellow occupant. He looked as shabby as the cab. His brown boots were dirty and scuffed, and his pants were hopelessly soiled. His raincoat managed to remain whole, and covered everything but his hands, which were as pale as any I'd seen and covered in wrinkles. There was something else... but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

(To Be Continued)

Entropy.

Note: I'm going to simplify this and skip on some more detailed and accurate explanations to prevent more ranting than is necessary.

Imagine that you live on a piece of paper. That is to say, your universe consists of nothing but what is on that piece of paper. Perhaps think of yourself as a figure drawn there. You can see and interact with things that are drawn on the paper, but everything else (the desk, the pencil, other pieces of paper, etc.) may as well not exist. If someone outside the piece of paper were to draw something on it, to you, it would appear out of thin air. If they poked a hole in it with a pencil, all you would see is a sliver of wood appear in your world, flowing into and out of thin air, and leaving behind a strange "gap" in reality.

While keeping that concept in mind, imagine a perfectly still body of water... a small lake, for example. No movement whatsoever; a surface that could be mistaken for glass, and an absence of any currents. Now, merge the two ideas. Imagine that you live on the surface of a perfectly still lake. You are aware of existence on the surface, but nothing in the air, and nothing underwater.

So, what happens if I throw a boulder into your lake? All of a sudden you've got this huge dispersal of energy (a.k.a. an apparent explosion), resulting in waves, drops, bubbles and ripples. The chaos that someone living on the surface would perceive would be beyond comprehension.

Move forward in time 2 or 3 seconds after the boulder impact. Things have calmed down some, but there is still a lot of activity. Living on the surface, your space would be distorted by the bubbles that have formed, and by the waves and ripples traversing your universe.

Take this whole idea, and put it in three dimensions instead of two. The surface of a lake is a two-dimensional (2-D) plane (length and width), and the space we live in is a three dimensional (3-D) space (length, width and height). Living on the lake, the boulder passes through your 2-D world using the third dimension. In a 3-D version of our lake analogy, our "boulder" passes through our 3-D world using a fourth dimension.

Now, replace "lake" with "universe". "Bubbble" becomes "matter". "wave" and "ripple" become "energy"... but it's all the same stuff. ...

When our current reality was formed, energy became matter. The energy produced by the collision we call the "Big Bang", in it's early state, condensed and formed matter. Since then, no new matter has been made. If we change matter into energy (during nuclear reactions), we get a LOT of energy in relation to how much matter is used. It stands to reason, then, that there is a lot of energy contained in matter. But, energy is matter, so, matter is merely energy condensed and contained.

Which brings me to entropy. When we throw the boulder in, it's chaos, then ripples... then what? Ripples forever? No, obviously not. It eventually settles, right? So is the universe. Matter and energy will continue to decay through the eons until the universe reaches it's zero state once again.

What about the Big Crunch, you say? That's not how it works.... but I'm tired. I will likely edit/finish this soon. Goodnight for now, and rest assured, everything ends.

20 minutes before work (unfinished/rough)

Pushing the door aside, he stepped into his bar. It wasn't technically his, per se, but that's what he liked to call it. He would come here after his shift, tired from a long day of incompetent bosses and lazy co-workers, to sit with the people he knew and push the world away for a few hours.

(description of environment needed)

"Billy!" she exclaimed from behind the bar, arms thrown into the air and a look of affection composing her face.

"Heya Betty," he replied from behind a grin. "How's tricks?"

She gasped as her arms dropped and a shocked look crossed her face.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" she said.

Waving his hand dismissively, he said, still grinning, "Yeah, yeah. Grab me a beer and pour us a couple shots, but hold on a sec, I've gotta take a leak."

She stuck her fists on her hips and set her jaw, glowering at him as he walked across the bar... but he knew he saw the smile cross her lips just before he entered the restroom.

Standing there, washing his hands after relieving himself, he happened to glance into his own eyes in the mirror. He paused for a moment, then looked down at the soap on his skin and his hands beneath, and he sighed. They were still dirty, but not due to lack of washing... there is just some dirt which never comes off.

As he grabbed a paper towel to dry his hands, he heard a yell from the bar, followed by raised voices. He quickly strode across the bathroom and opened the door - but as he pulled on the handle, the door came inward by itself, forcefully, slamming against him, nearly pushing him off his feet. He staggered back a few steps as two men fell into the room, grappling with each other. On the other side of the doorway he could see the faces of the entire bar looking at him and the two men. He could also see Betty with the bar's portable phone against her ear, talking to someone, probably the police.

(to be continued, maybe)

It starts...

I'm going to start posting whatever I write here, no matter how short or bad (well, if I think something is awful, it probably won't make it).

My problem with writing fiction is that... well, I don't know. I just know I have one.

The One Contained, pt. 1

"Dinner! Come and get it!" I hear in the distance, followed by the ringing of a triangle.

I stand upright and use my shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I look up towards the house, having to squint against the falling sun. My brother turns to me as I turn to him, and we grin at one another.

"Race ya," I say, and we're off.

He's the younger of us by a full six years, making him just shy of eighteen, but the boy is a big'n; he's nearly half a foot taller than me, and outweighs me by at least fifty pounds.

Wordsmith's impediment

I have been told by a small number of people that I write well. Some of these people have suggested that I should, perhaps, think about writing professionally. This would be ideal for me, I think. In reality, it's something that I've wanted to do for a long time... I just never felt as though anything I wrote was any good, mainly because I think I was writing the wrong things.

It's rather intimidating. Where would I start? What would I write, or write about? I can't very well just write a book of rants; I'd be lucky to not have it burned, let alone have someone actually publish it.

I suppose I could give it a shot, though. Any ideas?

I walked the line from here to there
Without a care or fans of fare
They could not help but stop and stare
The day I touched the moon