Story 2

1 HOUR 1 MINUTE - Morning

The boy had been traveling on the road with his father for a long time. 10 hours to be more precise. Unfortunately, the boy's headphones had decided to give in to the urge to peter out the day before, so no obscure musical recipes for him. Instead, the boy had a really cool book to read.

The boy is thinking about the future as he often is, and he is less worried then he usually is about it. He had a good dream last night. It was a dream that consisted of a lot of whispering shadows. Ah, yes. Life is a strange occurrence, thought the boy. It is all about what the whispering shadows are saying. The boy reflects on the many situations where he was reminded of the whispering shadows, and how he seems to have had a good track record keeping the shadows from whispering evil omens.

What are the whispering shadows? Well, they are the beliefs of the people around you. But that is not all. They are the beliefs that spread as a contagion and are passed along to others unbeknownst to the one who's actions perpetuate said belief.

It is always wise to be careful with your actions because the whispering shadows will always follow you, inhabit those you know, and influence the course of one's destiny in the most unexpected ways.

The boy is reminded of the internship he recently was granted. An internship to screen films and do critical analysis of their content helping in an actual distribution process. He remembers rubbing the lamp on his key chain, hoping that everything would work out. The boy remembers how carefully he framed the structure of his cover letter, how to best display his creative experience and fuse it with his academic endeavors. He remembers thinking "I did my best here, but film's not my major, so I dunno."

It was up to the jurisdiction of the whispering shadows at that point.

He remembers the first interview, noticing that the phone call was coming from the United Kingdom and not having enough time to demonstrate his shock. The boy picked up the phone, prepared to go to battle. Well, he didn't think of it as a battle then. He thought of it as being Batman. He had his words typed and had a prompt answer for any and every interview question he could think of, no matter the detail.

The Q&A paper was five pages long, mind you. For once the boy had is thoughts organized. Perhaps that's why he writes in the first place? The boy remembers turning the phone call into a conversation. This was an attempt to influence the whispering shadows.

The whispering shadows are creatures of the mind. They are compelled by memory. One of the boy's deepest desires is to keep the shadows whispering about good memories, in every context of his life. The boy could hear the emotion of camaraderie in the voice of the foreign inquirer once the conversation was sparked. However, he had no idea whether it sounded genuine or not. He could not see the facial expressions of the man on the other end.

The boy remembers being told to prepare for the second round of questioning. He remembers being told that only three will be chosen out of twenty. He remembers being surprised that they only chose twenty to interview in the first place! The boy remembers hoping the shadows were whispering in his favor on the other side of the planet.

Somehow, they were. The phone rings its shanty, and the boy had prepared all the extra material that was recommended at the end of the first interview. When he hears a voice coming from the mother country, it was a voice of celebration. The boy thought he was going to be questioned again, but instead, the first test was all they needed.

It was the shadows. The whispering shadows knew the boy was directly appealing to them for help, and they had granted him an opportunity no less than awesome; an opportunity that in itself mentions the impact of whispering shadows. The boy looks again at the contract he signed, the contract telling him not to steal intellectual property and other obvious things. He looks at the final paragraph once again.

"It is not promised, but depending on your performance, you could be elevated to a paid position."

A simple reminder that the shadows are still whispering, and that the boy would do well to appeal to their tastes.

No person can control the future. They can only influence the present. In many ways the present dictates the future, and the past chronicles the events of the present. The whispering shadows only exist in the present. They are seldom seen. The boy likes to imagine their home.

The whispering shadows exist behind the ears. They cannot be touched. They cannot be seen. They can only be experienced. They only show themselves when they inhabit the mind and the mouth. The whispering shadows that inhabit one's body never belong to the owner of that body, no. Behind the ears of one body are the whispering shadows of every memorable human that body has experienced. They usually enter the conversation when said human being is not physically present. They morph and mould the hardcore evaluations of character that happen behind closed doors.

No one really knows how they came into existence. Many people like to study individual kinds of shadows. Praise, Tolerance, Judgment; but the boy has yet to hear of them on a broader basis and stuff LECTURE OVER WE DONE 4 NOW.

59 MINUTES - Night

The boy sits in front of his laptop with a plate of juicy salmon, typing with one hand. He is desperate to finish this second hour before the stroke of midnight. While he does feel a slight pang of guilt for separating his time like this, he also finds comfort in the fact that his day was filled with enough goals to complete that he is at the tail end as we speak.

Speaking of tail ends, the boy has no idea what he was even typing this morning. It seemed less like a story and more like a lecture. It just goes to show you can take the boy out of college but you can't take college out of the boy.

The boy figured he had to end the day with a story at least. So he takes a deep breath and a quick bite of salmon...

The boy glanced at his Playstation 3 sitting in the corner of his bedroom. It was 10:18 PM. Almost 10:20.

Not today he thought. Absolutely not.

You see, five years ago the boy lived in suburban New York. The one thing that they never tell you about suburban New York is the fact that there are family owned businesses everywhere. Please do not misinterpret the meaning of family owned business.

We are talking FAMILY owned businesses. The Mafia. That kinda family.

What does this have to do with the PS3, you say? Well, it all started when the boy invited a girl named Tanya Lasagna to his 15th birthday party at Chuck E. Cheeses. The creepy animatronics were on stage doing their concert, the creepy animatronics were on the televisions doing cruddy music videos, the pizza was on the table, somehow tasting better than every other pizza in the vicinity.

But you see, Tanya Lasagna's aunt, Lotta Ricotta, owned a pizzeria right next to Chuck E. Cheeses, and was sick and tired of this Mickey Mouse rip off taking her money. The boy had no idea Tanya Lasagna had connections to the mob whatsoever. He was just happy to be turning fifteen at Chuck E. Cheeses.

But when Lotta Ricotta found out that one of her niece's classmates decided to have a birthday party at the specific Chuck E. Cheeses directly next to her pizzeria INSTEAD of AT her pizzeria, she decided to go to the freakin DON because Lotta was famously known as an "overreactor".

One time she assassinated a Shop Rite cashier because the tomatoes were out of season. Yeah.

Tanya Lasagna had gifted the boy with a PS3, the thing he expected his parents to get him because it was the one hella expensive gift he wanted. Little did he know, this PS3 spat fire.

During the first week of owning said PS3, the boy found its rap lyrics very cute and he did not mind that the PS3 was constantly speaking. He didn't even mind when it played the Jamaican air horn sound at 3 AM. That shit was hilarious!

However, after three months, the boy was on the verge of death. He could not sleep because his PS3 would not stop spitting fire, and he had no clue when it came to finding a solution. He attempted a google search on the matter, but all he found were mothers complaining about their children spitting on other pedestrians. Which was gross but incredibly hilarious. No seriously. If some kid came up to the boy and decided to spit on him, he would probably laugh. It's not a big deal the boy thought. We're all made of the same stuff.

When the boy could not find the solution on the 10th page of Google, he knew there was no hope left whatsoever when it came to finding a practical way to solve the issue of the rapping console. The boy did what any boy would do when a Google search failed: he wrote a letter to Beyonce. It read:

"Dear, Queen The Black One Not The Band,

I know you're kind of busy running a lemonade stand for charity or whatever, but I need your help. You see, my PS3 is lit af, and there is nothing I can do to get it in formation. Google has failed me. I think you are the single lady that could help.

Sincerely,

A Survivor That Is Not Going To Give Up"

Beyonce was at the boy's front door about a month after receiving the letter. She remembers being in the crypt of the earth goddess with her sisters when she was young. The goddess of the earth, with elegant vines for arms and a fabulously strong tree trunk torso sat with winced eyes glaring at the children before her.

The goddess of the earth touched Beyonce on the shoulder gently. A milky, motherly voice slowly ebbed and flowed through the liquid inside her skull. "You are the child of destiny," the tree whispered.

Beyonce was reminded of this just as she was entering the household. As soon as she opened the door she heard the constant rhythmic noise, and she was not deterred. The boy, shocked that Beyonce pretty much entered his house without even knocking began wagging his finger.

Beyonce yawned, revealing her shark-like teeth. She brushes way too often and way too well the boy thought. After thinking this, he promptly and nervously put his hand into his pocket, and wagged his finger from there.

All Beyonce did was touch the PS3 on the top surface and it stopped spitting fire indefinitely. Now it was just a normal PS3. The Mafia's plot on the boy's life had been stopped, and the boy could sleep comfortably once more...

THE END!