J. Quinn, or just jq.
I know a bunch of random facts because I read so much, so people tend to tell me I'm too smart for my own good. However, I'm lacking common sense.
Catholic, Self-proclaimed nerd(fighter), Shakespeare geek, Theatre and Music Kid, Ballroom dancer, general Performing Arts geek, advice giver, mediator, IB graduate, GA Tech Freshman, helluva...Economics and International Affairs major?
Bass guitar+Double Bass+Singing+Acting+Books+Sonnets+Econ=Me
Chapter 1
His voice rang out clearly, aimed at the studio microphone. “Well folks, it’s looking to be the greatest tournament Augusta’s seen since the dissolution! We’ve got golfers coming from all across the America to play the fabled fairways of our very own Augusta National Golf Club, from the NorCal Collective to the Northeastern Megatropolis, representatives can be found from most of the metro-states. We’ve even got two natives of our Sovereign State, hailing from the Capital district and Columbia.
“This broadcaster can definitely say he’s excited to get through that check-in to the hallowed halls of our State Clubhouse, along with millions of visitors from around the world. We’re hosting the biggest, classiest sporting event, and have continuously since eighty years before dissolution. The Chairman speaks for himself and the Members when he says he can’t wait to meet them all, and to see our metro-state reap the benefit. But enough of that fluff. Here’s Sam Turner with intermetro news!”
He paused and took a drink of water as she took over. “Thank you, Jack. With reports from beyond our borders, I’m Samantha Turner. The Atlanta Protectorate’s diplomatic arm is in the process of mediating disputes between the Smokey Mountain States and the Nashville Metropolis. In response to Mountain citizens’ claims of trespass by Nashvillites, the Mountain states have once again placed an embargo on their western neighbors. Atlantan diplomats have been called in by both sides to moderate bilateral talks.
“The Everglades Territories, the Panhandle Confederacy, and the Keys are still in the process of replenishing the citrus crop, after one of the worst freezes on record, paralleled only by the pre-dissolution freeze of 2012, almost fifty years ago. In response, the price of orange juice and other citrus products have risen throughout the American metro-states. But where some see devastation, others see opportunity. The coastal citrus farms of the Charleston-Savannah Trade Federation and the Albany Union have reported greater crops than before, thus bringing greater profits to their already thriving market.
“I’m Samantha Turner, and that’s the news. It’s seven past the hour”
He took a deep breath, and dove back in. “And I’m Jack Montoya, your host and music man, the voice of Augusta’s people. This is Augusta Public Radio, sponsored by the Members themselves! Let’s start your afternoons with more than twenty uninterrupted minutes of music. Here’s a classic from Augusta native James Brown, the twentieth century’s hardest working man in show business. See you in twenty!”
The needle dropped, the music faded in, and the on air light went off. Jack Montoya took a sip of water, and looked at Sam Turner. “You’ve still got too much of a monotone.”
Sam took her headphones off, avoiding the long ponytail she kept her light red hair in. “And you didn’t have enough of one! We aren’t some pre-dissolution rush hour rabble-rousers, we’re APR! I swear, you’re so unprofessional, on today of all days!”
“And what is today, exactly?”
“You’re not telling me you forgot about promotion consideration?!”
“No, I’m just making sure you remembered.”
Sam’s face flushed. “Montoya, I swear you’re going to drive me crazy some time.”
“Let me know when, so I can throw a party.”
The door began to open, and they both shut their mouths. An executive walked in, wearing a blue blazer.
“Mr. Smith, it’s a pleasure to see you,” said Samantha, rushing to straighten her wrinkled skirt and blouse. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
Smith’s face betrayed no emotion. “Mister Montoya, Miss Turner. Mister Rhodes wishes to see the two of you.”
Jack could feel the color draining out of his face. “Smitty, are you serious?”
“Quite serious. He wants to dine with the two of you.”
“Where are the reservations,” asked Sam eagerly. “I’ll need to plan my wardrobe.”
“You’ll have no time to change, Miss Turner. The car is already on its way to take you to his Summerville estate.”
“But we have almost three hours left.”
“Two interns who have just been promoted are on their way from the basement as we speak. They’ll be taking the show from here.”
Jack frowned. “Do they know our protocols and schedules? I have a very specific system for music choice, and the people want to hear that.”
“Mister Montoya, if I have to tell you again that you need to leave, I might tell the driver not to stop for you. And yes, they do know the protocols. I should hope so, as they are your replacements.
Jack gulped, and exchanged a frightened look with Sam. He then turned to Smith, and nodded.
“Very good. Now, if my watch is correct, the car has arrived. Considering that the broadcasts run on my watch, it had better damned well be correct.” He opened the exit door for Sam. “I wish you the best of luck, Miss Turner. As for you, Mister Montoya…”
He gave Jack a quick look up and down, and sighed. “…Don’t talk too much.”
Here’s some stuff from the astonishingly campy novella I’m attempting to write.
For some background, the narrator (James) and his two friends (Peter and Lauren) are driving through the line between the main wave of zombies and the last of the National Guard in his hometown, in an effort to make sure that the narrator’s girlfriend, who is on the other side of the town, has made it out in time. This is especially crucial considering that the area they are heading to will be bombed within a couple of hours to clear out the infected.
In an effort to avoid the chaos presented by the horde on the road and the fire from the few remaining guardsmen, the narrator veers off of the road and into a ditch, which, unfortunately, proves to be just as infested as the road. Find out what happens below the cut.
His charts said that he woke up on 21 March, at 4:53 AM.
Of course, to him, it wasn’t so much waking up as being hit in the back of a head with a hammer, jolting him out of the lovely blackness that he had been in for what seemed like millennia and milliseconds, like eternity and the blink of an eye.
When I get bored, my attempt at Moleskine art happens.
Excerpt from Cold Nights, my NaNo novel.
After sprinting back to school, it was time for Literature, and an in depth study of Hamlet. We’d already read the play, so we were now watching Kenneth Branagh’s film interpretation, with frequent stops. We had gotten past the initial slow scenes of the first act, past Hamlet’s wish that his too solid flesh would melt. We were now coming upon the end of the first act, and one of the most important scenes: Hamlet’s meeting with the ghost of his father, and the charge of vengeance.
I don’t like the way the ghost is being acted, though Branagh, as always, is doing a brilliant job…if only he were a bit younger. I like the thought of a younger Hamlet. Perhaps that’s why it’s easier for me to see Tennant in the role.
“Mr. Foster, you’re being uncharacteristically quiet.”
I hadn’t realized that we had paused for discussion. My thoughts had gone from Hamlet to David Tennant to Doctor who, to the possibility of Hamlet being set in an alternate universe and back.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas. What was the discussion topic again?”
“‘So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.’ What do you think of this quote? It’s not as if the ghost is commanding Hamlet, it’s just as if he’s stating a fact, as if it’s guaranteed that something could move someone to desire vengeance simply by its existence. What do you think of that, Mr. Foster? Could you be moved to vengeance so easily?”
Mr. Thomas, as always, knew how to ask the hardest questions. When we studied Dante’s Inferno, he had asked us about Ugolino’s conundrum. If we were being starved to death and our family was imprisoned with us, would we eat the bodies of our family if they died first? His response had been, “Dude, you’ve got to eat.”
“I don’t know if I can answer that question properly, having never been in that situation before—”
“But if you were. Say a guy punched your sister.”
“I’d kick him in the balls.”
Laughter tore through the class.
“That’s much more like it, Foster,” said Mr. Thomas. “Now that we know you can think like Hamlet, imagine yourself in his place. Would you be indecisive, like him? Would you take matters into your own hands? Or would you leave it to a higher authority, and wait for the perpetrator’s eventual divine punishment?”
I sat in thought for a few seconds. “Frankly, Mr. Thomas,” I said, “I don’t agree with an eye for an eye. Ideologically, I don’t think it is right to punish a crime with the same crime. But if someone threatened or harmed my family, and there was a sufficient amount of evidence to prove they did it and went unpunished under the law…I’d throw my ideology out like a crappy Nickelback album, and hurt the son of a—”
“THANK YOU, Mr. Foster, for that eloquent display of ideas. Okay, class is just about over, so I’m going to go ahead and warn you guys about the essay—”
A chorus of groans rang out.
“—the essay, due next Tuesday, about the differences between your mental staging of this scene and the film’s interpretation. Come on people, it’s only two hundred and fifty words. You can do that in your sleep.”
The bell sounded, and everyone rushed out.
“Go on, you little oxygen thieves,” said Mr. Thomas. “One hour until you’re free from this hellish prison we call a school.”
She was on the floor. That’s all she could really think. In fact, she wasn’t thinking it. She was just seeing it. But she was cold. So cold. She could feel herself shivering. But she was sweating. Where was she? This wasn’t her room. But why was she wearing so little? Was she wearing anything at all? What time was it? It was dark outside, but dark in there too. There were drums. No, not drums. Bass. Singing. A party. That’s what it was. Why was she there when the party was out there?
She turned her head. It hurt to turn it, so she stopped. She moved her arm around. Maybe there was clothing somewhere. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be cold. But she was still sweating. Still sweating, still shivering. She must not be cold. No, not cold. Why was she shivering when not cold? What was happening? She touched her face. It was wet. Tears? What was going on? Why was she crying? She didn’t know.
She tried to get up. No. Didn’t work. Too sore. Too hot. Too cold. Didn’t know. She pulled herself towards the bed. She wanted a blanket. She needed to cover herself, because it hurt and she was cold and she didn’t know what was happening and she needed help and she didn’t know why and she was crying and she was shivering and—
“Elizabeth, where are you?”
Elizabeth. She was Elizabeth. She tried to respond, but the words were stuck in her throat.
“I think I’m gonna go home, just wanted to find you to say bye. Where are you?”
No, the person couldn’t leave. She needed the person. She needed something. She didn’t know why. She needed someone.
“Come on, Liz, I have a curfew!”
She tried to say something, but words didn’t form. She just made noises, like an animal. She couldn’t say anything. She was sore. She was tired. She was crying. Where was she? The floor. She was on the floor.
“Liz? Are you okay? Where are you?!”
More noises. Something that sounded like “the floor.” She was cold. She was sweaty. She needed someone.
Light. A door opening. A creak. Someone gasping.
“…help me…”
That was her. She said that. Why did she say that? Why was she crying?
A hand in her line of sight. A blanket falling on top of her.
“Jesus Christ, what happened?”
She couldn’t say anything. Lumps in her throat. Words stuck. She was shivering.
“Who did this?”
Sobs started to rack her body. They hurt. She was sore, and she was crying, and it hurt. It hurt so much.
“No…he didn’t. He couldn’t have…”
The person wasn’t near her anymore. He was somewhere else. He saw something. He was angry.
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU PIECE OF SHIT, YOU DON’T DESERVE TO EXIST. YOU DON’T DESERVE TO CALL YOURSELF A MAN. I’LL KILL YOU. I FUCKING WILL!”
“…help me…please…”
She didn’t know why he was angry. She only knew about herself. She knew where she was. She needed something. She didn’t know what. She was cold.
A deep breath. Footsteps towards her. Arms underneath her. She wasn’t on the floor anymore. A blanket wrapped around her. She let out a whimper. It hurt.
“I’m sorry…I’ll be careful, but I know it’s going to hurt.”
A hallway. Bright lights. It hurt her eyes.
“I’m going to make this right. I’m getting you to a hospital. You’re going to be alright. I’m here for you, I’m here.”
Outside. Yelling. Music.
“What’s wrong with Liz? Had too much to drink?”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY!”
The sound. It hurt. She hurt.
A car door opening. She was in a seat. A car door closing. The car starting. It was loud. She was cold.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, okay? You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine. Okay?”
The person was crying. Why was he crying? She was crying too. What was happening? Where was she? She was shivering. She was sweating. It hurt.
***Author’s note: This was written in the font, Papyrus, as an assignment to reflect the font.***
It was a dark and stormy night.The lightning flashed across the snowy peaks of the eastern mountains, with thunder threatening to start an avalanche.
An avalanche could be nice, thought Nolan. Bury me, bury my sword, bury this temple, and bury the scroll.
But he knew in his heart it wouldn’t happen…it couldn’t happen. The scroll was eternal. The temple was eternal. He was, unfortunately, eternal.
All these years guarding the scroll and all I really want is a night off.
He looked out into the snow, his vision still sharp, despite his old, old age. From his perch on the temple steps, he could see a silhouette. Roughly man-shaped, average height, it looked to be at least three miles out.
“Lovely,” he grumbled. “I have to kill someone tonight.”
Nolan climbed the stairs, back to the temple gates. Two torches were lit, on either side of the gates. Nolan took one, and threw it in the brazier at his feet. If he was going to kill someone, he might as well make sure they could find the entrance. He figured that, thanks to the storm raging outside, he had at least an hour until his guest arrived. With time on his mind, he walked to the armory.
Light armor, tonight, I think. The more warriors he encountered, the faster their weapons became, and the faster he needed to be. Not that it mattered how fast he was. He could only be killed one way.
He looked at the collection of armor from around the world. A horsehair plume caught his eye. Roman centurions always cut a nice figure, he thought. Nolan stripped to his tunic, and pulled on a pair of wool stockings. He hefted the breastplate onto his chest, and tied the scabbard and leather skirt around his waist. He looked at the weapons rack. I want this to be quick. He slid a gilded rapier into his belt, with a pearl handled dagger to accompany it.He sighed looking at the weapons, remembering the young musketeer he won them from. His corpse was buried out there somewhere, under the never-ending snow.
He checked the banquet room. The table was set for twenty, as usual, with food fit for kings. Nolan didn’t know how, but the food had remained fresh and plentiful for as long as he’d been there, and, as far as he knew, for centuries before that. At least his guest would not die hungry.
Nolan returned to the stairs, and sat, grabbing his whetstone and drawing his dagger. He sat and sharpened. The silhouette was, at this point, a full figure. He was larger than Nolan had thought, though still short compared to Nolan himself. He was wrapped in a white parka, and wore large glasses to shield his face. On his back was strapped something that looked something like a rifled musket, but shorter, and more menacing…if that was possible.
More than 100 years since my last guest. Times have certainly changed.
“HELLO UP THERE!”
Nolan looked up, startled by the sound. The man had already made it to the stairs. “If you’re searching for the scroll, you’ve come to the right place,” he said solemnly. “But I’m sure you’re cold, tired, and hungry. Come, eat, and rest. And continue your quest.” Nolan’s words were solemn, but they stank of false hospitality. These were the same lies he’d told for centuries—the lies he used to kill.
Half an hour later, Nolan sat at the head of the table in the banquet hall. The stranger, who introduced himself as Daniel Johnson, sat across from him, in a fresh tunic, warmed by the fire.
“Now, about this scroll—“, Johnson began.
“You don’t really want the scroll.”
“We are talking about the same scroll, correct?”
“The scroll with the secret to eternal life?”
“The very same. That accursed scrap of paper has haunted me for centuries.”
“Centuries? So you’re the keeper, then!”
“Yes,” Nolan sighed. “I was like you, once: young, adventurous, looking for eternal life and eternal glory. I only found one. A note in the scroll that isn’t well known: he who obtains the scroll becomes its keeper. There cannot be more than one in possession of the scroll.”
“Are you saying that…?”
“Yes. To gain the eternal life, you must kill me first.”
“And yet you host me, you dine with me?”
“I’m here to offer you a choice. You don’t want this life. You don’t want to live alone on a mountaintop, each day growing shorter, but never growing older. You don’t want to lose whoever it is you have left in the land you’ve come from. You don’t want that life. You don’t want my life. I’m offering you the chance to go home. Return to your family, to your old life, and forget the scroll even exists.”
Johnson paused. “And if I choose not to leave?”
Nolan sighed, knowing that the boy had already made his choice. “Then I will kill you. Make no mistake: you will not leave this temple alive.”
The boy threw his plate at the other end of the table, and ran toward the armory. Nolan sighed; he knew the way this would end.
He walked towards the armory, and found the boy in a corner, holding his “aykay”, as he had called it earlier.
“This will not end well for you,” Nolan warned. “It will take more than that to defeat me.”
It was as if a legion of musketeers fired in quick succession when Johnson squeezed his weapon. Seven little holes appeared in Nolan’s breastplate, and seven little impacts hit his chest.
Nolan drew his rapier, and moved forward.
A look of terror consumed Johnson’s face.He squeezed his weapon again, and thunder filled the room.
But then, there were clicks.
Just clicks.
Shock on his face, Johnson stuttered, “H-h-how are you alive?”
“Eternal life, the scroll called it. It was a mistranslation. It meant immortality. The only way to kill me is to remove my head. Can your aykay do that?”
Johnson swallowed, his hands shaking. “I don’t want to die. I’m not ready yet!”
Nolan stared him straight in the face. “Then you have my envy. I’ve wanted to die for 800 years.” He placed the tip of the rapier on the boy’s chest. “Be thankful.” He pushed inwards. “I’m saving you.”
The light drained from Johnson’s eyes, pooling with the blood beneath him. Nolan wiped his blade on the boy’s shirt, and turned around, placing it on the rack. He walked to the scroll room.
It read “The keeper will find eternal youth, unending nourishment, impossible death, and eternal solitude.”
I would damn that piece of paper, if it had not damned me already.
She was happy with someone, had been since late March. I was happy for Her
Spring break happened, and started out with a concert, when I temporary fell for someone else. When I wasn’t singing on stage, I was singing right next to Harmony in the back of the audience.
We joked about how I needed to teach her to flirt. She didn’t need lessons. We ate dinner at the Mushroom, sang/ate the Magical Mystery Tour, and talked about nerdy movies, and about how much I didn’t like my best friend’s girlfriend…not as his girlfriend, at least.
Three days later, there was a bonfire at my house. Everybody was falling for everybody…EVERYBODY. I ended up with Harmony…for two, two and a half weeks. I didn’t understand why she ended it, and I was rather sad.
I mean sure, there was Evans prom, which was fun. But it was just fun. That was all.
And then right before Richmond’s prom, she ended it.
I went with Megan, and the dinner was fun, and the beginning of prom was fun. Then I ran into Ashley. And that went the way it went. It was fun for me. it couldn’t have been for Megan though.
And then I think I spent the next few days pining over Ashley, and then getting rejected ish. But it was the end of April. IB stress was in full swing. I think She got dumped toward the end of April. That or early May. It was a bad time for everyone. And then Taylor told me about her feelings for Wood, and how we should’ve gone to prom together, and I was just ridiculously confused.
Then IB exams started. And I really had no idea what the hell I was feeling/thinking emotionally anymore. It was all about the assessments.
I suppose this is the least poetic detox I’ve written. But this wasn’t a poetic time. I mean, I was deep into Harmony. But I’ve talked about that before. This was a time of mistakes, and academic stress.
At least I talked about it now. At least I can deal with it.
Remember that one March when I fucked my personal life? Yeah, so do I.
Remember when I just chose to not go for the one I was in love with, and went for a cute Filipina instead? I didn’t have a chance either way.
Remember how I got written out of a concert because I put school first? I might have missed rehearsals, but at least I made deadlines
Remember all the all-nighters I pulled? I do believe it was worth it, though. There’s a little something called an IB Diploma that I have because of them.
Remember the prom I went to at Augusta Prep? I wish I’d kept up with Haley after. That could have been nice.
Remember how I set up Patrick and Alyssa? That ended up interestingly.
Remember the bonfire party? I do. I wish I could have that night again…one more time.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Type. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look at poster. Breathe in. Breathe out. Sip tea. Put glass down. Think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think more. Keep thinking. Hurt your mind cause you’re thinking. Realize you weren’t breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Whisper “fuck this” Feel lump in throat. Wish things had gone differently over the last eight months. Wish things were better. Look at poem you wrote instead of taking notes in class. Slam notebook closed. Close eyes. Lean back. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out…
