Highway 5 to Mission Viejo.
You'll pass a massive fortified garrison; battlements, bridges, gates, and walls towering over the roadway,
sprawling over a flatland amongst the California mountains.
Large enough and seemingly equipped to stand against any formidable attacker,
should any nation-state choose to lay siege to its stone.
The Citadel, it's called.
It's an outlet mall.
A beacon of civilized consumerism in a concrete waste where every road sign is entangled with circles of barbs in a failed attempt to keep the graffiti hooligans at bay.
A living example of the lies and vane facade that chokes this part of the world.
Only a few miles down the 5, you'll see my exit.
Another cookie-cutter piece of raped Americana they call Orange County.
My street is El Camino Blvd.
You'll recognize it by the rows of perfectly trimmed cubic shrubbery.
Corporate vegetation.
Manufactured nature substitutes.
It's just...
Have you ever seen a shrub in its natural habitat?
I believe I can say with certainty that I never have,
but then again I'm not sure I know what it would look like.
You know,
if it weren't a cube.
20045.
That's my place.
Nothing fancy.
Just a humble 2.3 million dollar custom two-story little shack.
Furnished to the brim with the latest in post-modern contemporary whatever.
I've never taken the time to measure,
but I have reason to believe that the flat screen LCD television
(the one in the living room, not the other 3)
is a little bigger than my bed.
I know what you're thinking.
But no, I'm not some big wig CEO
stock-trader guru
with golf buddies
and a Calcutta sweat-shop.
That's my dad.
I'm seventeen.
I've never held a job.
I drive a 2009 Cadillac Escalade with custom rims
and a twenty-five hundred dollar sound system.
It's meant to be a decent substitute for a father's love.
Did I mention it has television screens in the head rest of every seat
and built-in satellite radio?
Every day I come home from school
to find my family sitting around the dinner table.
Dad at the head, with his ever-present scowl
pretending to read the Wall Street Journal;
partly for the image
and partly so that he doesn't have to listen to my mother blather on about seeing Kate Winslet at the mall.
Ah, Mom.
Seems like every other week I have to get used to her all over again.
It's really difficult to establish a strong relationship with a shape-shifter.
The bride of Frankenstein.
Make-up covers the seams, but not the bolts in her neck.
I think she may be the most uninteresting
disgusting
braindead
vane
shallow
and talentless person I've ever known.
And I live in SoCal!
I've always suspected that she's rather unhappy,
though I'm not sure she has the cognitive capacity to understand why.
At least the Botox keeps her smiling.
And then there's my sis.
Dolled up like a harlot,
fifteen years having never read a word of a book.
I've come to believe that her Sidekick is actually an extension of her fingers.
And her iPod blaring one of four songs it must have on it.
After about a week,
time to check the charts to see what art to appreciate.
Out with the old
in with the new.
Did I say "art"?
Sometimes I really crack myself up.
Good that I do because it's not like my family has anything humorous to say.
Much less insightful.
Or even anything at all.
I believe I can safely say that they have never so much as pondered in passing anything of value
and certainly have no desire or ability to articulate it in words, even if they had.
If I recall correctly,
our last dinner time conversation was about which new television commercials they found the most amusing.
I would have vomited my supper and disdain right there onto the table had I not volunteered to prepare dinner that evening.
My mom was grateful for the break from having to pick up a phone and call in an order.
So I took it upon myself to prepare them a very SPECIAL meal.
It's the least I could do for all those wonderful things they bought me,
keeping me entertained and out of their hair.
Mom's beginning to slump again today.
I gently and lovingly drag her back up to her place at the table.
Sis' Sidekick is ringing.
I press "ignore."
We're having family dinner, after all.
I carefully replace Daddy's Wall Street Journal with today's edition.
I try to keep him current.
His scowl never fades,
but I know he appreciates it, somewhere deep down.
Every day I come home from school
to find my family sitting around the dinner table.
They never have anything humorous to say,
much less insightful.
Or even anything at all.
Author notes
For the contest "And then there were none..." this is a story based on my hatred of American consumerism. (Option 3)
A contest entry
- Don't Look Behind You by Sunless Spirit.
472 points, ended January 21, 27 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - And Then There Were None... by Memoirs of a Girl.
350 points, ended January 13, 24 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Points Up For Grabs. by Savage.
817 points, ended January 23, 33 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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A dark tale that brings to life the shallow, inane and dismal existence of the wealthy, soulless, corporate whores and their clueless, degenerate, superficial kiddies, brains too fried on radio waves and cellebratyisim to exist in anything more than their futile little richie bubbles…
I can feel the anger and hatred dripping from every sentence and can I say….it feels delightful.
Keep up the good work hombre
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Fantastic look at a subject that could easily have gone amiss. Pieces that I've read with similar themes often come across as hypocritical, self-pitying, or pointlessly derivative; not so with yours. This was a blunt and brutal look at something well worth examining, presented with finesse and a big helping of shock-factor on the side.
The work as a whole: Superb.
The ending: Disturbingly and amazingly done.
My hat's off to you for this one.
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Hi Ryan!
He poisoned them?!
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This, again, is quite amusing. You definitely have wit and skill in your writing. This story will probably be formatted in the tradition paragraph style if it is included in the anthology as will the other story you submitted.
Here is the link to join the anthology group:
http://storywrite.com/group/info/Storywrite%20Anthology%20Volume%20One?stay=1
Let me know if you have questions.
Andy
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Nice, this is set out well, but it sets the emphasise in the wrong places sometimes. I said sometimes, not always, in some places it's perfect. This style is interesting and very well done, no spelling mistakes and there is a considerable amount of insight, good job.
P.S I like your sn -
Hmmm. The story itself is pretty good, but the format of the story bothers me greatly. It's in an almost poem format. Hmmm.
Thanks for entering
~Memoirs
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Awesome. You're the first person to give me some real negative feedback (rather than just a disagreement with content.) If you have time, do you mind telling me what you don't like about the format? Is it hard to read? Distracting? Just plain silly? Thanks again.
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The format is very all over the place and distracting. Although it reads like a story, it feels like a poem, if that makes sense.
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Wow, I really like this piece. It gives me a feel of the in-your-face-but-you-don't-realize-it type of writing style that I wish I could produce myself. The vocabulary and descriptions you used made it very colorful, as well as enhanced the point you were trying to get across. I don't usually read stories that fall in this genre-- due to my very limited patience with fiction works, however I did laugh a time or two while reading this. Again, I enjoyed reading this very much-- surprisingly, and I hope you write others such as this in the future!
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I feel the angst. 2.3 mill ain't that much in Mission Viejo. Well maybe when you were seventeen. Not much comment on content, damn good. I really like the style of writing. There's no passive verbs that I can find and it's easy to read in entirety. The style could be compared to Hemingway or Paul Hemphill, no unnecessary words used.
JJ
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Whoa, dude. Thanks! That's the best compliment I've ever gotten on my writing. HIGH FIVE!
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