Archive for the Fiction Category

Comtemplation of Regeneration in “Heroes”.

Posted in Fiction, Illness, Science, TV, Writing on January 29, 2008 by geniusadvice

Let’s consider the last episode of Heroes and Adam Monroe, the horrible mastermind who can regenerate from almost any wound. Of course, it is obviously implied that a devastating blow to the brain would stop the regeneration from death, basically, and this also connotes that the special and superhuman abilities originate from the brain. This is supported by the fact Sylar, a.k.a. Gabriel Gray, “eats” the brains of his victim to gain additional powers for himself.

I dislike the end of Adam, however, as he is seen to be trapped helplessly in a casket and buried for all eternity. Of course, I would think that logically, death would be imminent due to suffocation or starvation. Unless, of course, these ‘Regenerators’ are some kind of perpetual machine, able to create oxygen for themselves, or somehow become autotrophs.

Let’s face it, the oxygen’s gonna run out. Take that Tom Kring.

That’s disappointment on his face.

I quote.

Posted in Culture, Fiction, Life, Science on August 9, 2007 by geniusadvice


I wanna tell you something Mark, something you do not yet know, that we K-PAXians have been around long enough to have discovered. The universe will expand, then it will collapse back on itself, then will expand again. It will repeat this process forever. What you don’t you know is that when the universe expands again, everything will be as it is now. Whatever mistakes you make this time around, you will live through on your next pass. Every mistake you make, you will live through again, & again, forever. So my advice to you is to get it right this time around. Because this time is all you have.
– Prot, K-PAX


Posted in English, Fiction, Language, Love, Poetry, Writing on July 24, 2007 by geniusadvice

This is a compilation of one-liners (i.e. single sentences or fragments) from my mysterious black book that happens to be an address book. Mystery solved. May or may not be used in future poems.


The inferno in your eyes; they blind and bind me to your retentive frame.

You can’t put out fireflies with water.

It’s so quiet, you can hear the current passing through the lights overhead and the cold stares the chairs give.

City lights on sleepless nights…
…The sleepless nights with city lights…

It was the deer-in-headlights fact that you hit at 100 miles an hour.

I have a thing for your fingers, how they clasp and unclasp…

Tears race down your face and nobody wins.

It was the weight of debris and hubris.

The perfect cloud that doesn’t look like anything.

Maybe if Jack hadn’t used so much fertilizer for his beanstalk…

Unrequited love: If you were poison ivy, I’d jump into you and pretend the itch was my love returned.

The future’s not written in stone, but maybe it’s etched into small rocks that break apart when they’re stepped on.

We’ll make storks fly tonight.

I would jet lag for you.

I’ll leave you to Morpheus.

Who can stop tycoons like typhoons?

Like tapered drill bits that don’t fit;

As if you could roll a pair of dice to paradise…

Unlike time, I don’t wait on your every whim of silence.

We won’t make sense; we’ll break sense…

The intoxicating smell of newly paved asphalt on a sweltering summer day…

Karma gets around, if you know what I mean. As in, she sleeps with everybody.

Welcome to the Lazy Age; the rigor mortis of life like the twitching of a dead man’s hand…

You give me bones to stand alone.

Spindly trees on their knees…

In other words, Frank Sinatra’s got nothing on us tonight ’cause, baby, we’re aiming for the sun.

I’d cut off my arm for you if I was a starfish.

When you frown, give me your lines to write.

Palindrome: Smut

Posted in Fiction, Issues, Life, school, Writing on February 20, 2007 by geniusadvice

She’s so pitiful. Look at the tear-stained face. Does she have no idea she’s making a fool out of herself? I knew I hated her the moment I saw her on the first day of school. It was just bad luck I had to endure all my classes with her; I would have to say it was torture. And now, the last year, the year of all highschool years, the graduating class. She was one of the popular” kids, of course. I’ve seen them, what they do behind her back. The snickers and the “she did this and that…” Even then, I felt no shame in spreading those online rumors. About how she made out with all the guys (or at least the desirable ones) in the boy’s restroom. And how she was such a slut.

She’s such a slut, how she made out with all the desirable guys in the boy’s restroom. I felt no shame spreading the online rumors, then. The snickers and the “she did this and that…” they do behind her back, I’ve seen them. She was one of the popular kids. And now, the graduating class, the highschool year of years, the last year; it would be torture. It was just bad luck I had to endure all my classes with her. On the first day of school, I knew she was hated the moment I saw her. Does she have no idea she’s making a fool out of herself? The face with the tear-stained look. She’s so pitiful.

Dear Mr. Sandwich,

Posted in Fiction, Food, Humor, Writing on February 19, 2007 by geniusadvice

I must be frank – I don’t think we can be friends, or even acquaintances, anymore. It only seemed like yesterday when I made you, and I think it was. Your outer shell, made of white bread, because whole wheat wouldn’t be good enough for my pal. With the white sesame seeds that graced the bread, you were handsome. And the freshest iceberg lettuce money can buy went into you. Tomatoes, proud and ripe, are embedded in your core, powering you, sir, with its succulent juices. I cut my finger for your cause, too. Cut my finger peeling the onions…for you. And you grew. Tasty. Mr. Sandwich. We can’t be friends anymore. This is the end, I’m afraid. But not as much as you should be.

Goodbye forever, Mr. Sandwich.

My Resumé.

Posted in Fiction, Humor, Life, Writing on February 19, 2007 by geniusadvice

I hold the record for the longest abstinence of eating ginger and garlic, vegetables that aren’t even green like they should be. Unless you disguise them in disguises, like ginger ale or garlic bread. But nobody really counts those occasions, because that’s trickery and I’m a straight shooter.

I believe that paper breeds imagination, so I draw on desks instead. During class. Because you can’t neuter paper or imagination and because the posters on pet hospitals tell me you should. Over-population is bad enough with the crows, pigeons, and squirrels already.

Armed with only a short twig and sometimes the bottom of my right sandal, I can demolish colony after colony of ants and prove that I rightfully earned my title, the Ant-Bane. Once, using a butane lighter and newspaper, I tried burning my house down, but that didnt quite work out so I decided to become a petty arsonist and set fire to a wasps’ nest conveniently nestled underneath the gutter. I hear the police are still looking for me.

Every summer, I go feral and spend time with chickens in the wilderness, hunting for berries and dozing off in the shade. This summer, a nice lady found me and asked me if I lived on the streets at night. Or so she implied. A conversation started and she was surprised I wasn’t an illegal immigrant. I wonder how much money I would’ve got if I had said yes.

Nobody ever wants to assimilate me into their workforce because of their lack of intricate and implicit vocabulary. I know they really fear my knowledge and how I use a mnemonic device to recall the Linnaeus classification system, which I really learned from an ER and CSI addict. And maybe because I have three pages on my résumé and not two.
I have some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder. My doctor tells me I just think I do, but that could mean the same thing.

Like Superman, I run on solar energy and go phototherapy sessions three times a week to recharge. The only drawback to this is the risk of skin cancer, and, like Superman, I can fight it off. With UVA/UVB rays.

Speaking of running, I sprint faster than Mercury, and, unlike, other people, I have ten hole-ridden socks to prove it. I take three steps at a time going up stairs and at least five descending. I have been rejected by the police academy as well as the Olympics. I blame my high metabolism, aversion to donuts, and the unwillingness to participate in drug scandals to draw attention and publicity.

I have perfectly aligned teeth and don’t need braces. The secret is a strict diet on ice cream and highly-caffeinated drinks. It doesn’t stop caviities, but I’m still working on that. It shouldn’t take long because my IQ is 11 digits long.

I had my midlife crisis four months ago. I’m going to live until I’m thirty-four. Although I should live until sixty because I said school takes up a quarter of my life. No, I’ll live forever because I’ll keep on studying and accumulate a six-million dollar debt.

It may seem like I can do a lot of things, but I can’t. ‘Cause I don’t have a beard.

Silvia Plath Imitations.

Posted in Culture, Fiction, Life, Writing on February 19, 2007 by geniusadvice


My list grew longer.


Left, right, slide, upside-down. Things that I put down disappeared. When a neat and washed pile of clothes sat in a corner, destruction would be inevitable. Demolished completely by my hands. A new textbook ruined by my pens; my locker, a landfill. I had tried so hard to catch up to the first, second, third runners, only to fall behind to the place where you always get lapped. I would sleep everyday afterschool, waking in odd intervals, sometimes losing marks for late and messy work. I had no future. I hadn’t bothered to make one.

I had a dream. From it, I saw myself on a bed of needles, under a dark cloud. It began to move. Thousands at a time, mosquitoes puncturing the surface of my skin, drinking and toasting to the blood of my flesh. As my own blood, the special juice, filled each one up, I raised and dropped my palms, painting abstract masterpieces of red and black on my arms, my legs…everything. They multiplied, coming on faster and faster. My arms blurred, matching their pace. But then my vision clouded black and I could see nothing. And then, my head through the layers of wings and legs. Having their fill, they had all died. Except one. Who, as I had become exhausted and closed my eyes to sleep, landed on one of the fingers of my right hand. I felt the stream of blood open up to it, and I surrendered to the unknown, the leeching vampire, eternally feeding.

But nothing lives forever.



A thousand volts into five of those flying buggers and the black swarm still came. They dropped to the hard linoleum floor dozens at a time like noiseless rain. My love of chocolate, gone in a furious swipe. The dense cloud of buzzing insects showed no signs of dispersing.


Another handful, fried, fell spasming uncontrollably before becoming motionless. My job as a medical doctor, pharmacist, brain surgeon. But I knew they were doomed from the beginning. This wasn’t doing any good. Angry, I waved the paddle-like object faster and faster until my arm became a blur. And I watched them fall: Billionaire, talent show winner, record breaker, extreme unicyclist, full-contact chessmaster. I looked back and forth, trying to spot for any challengers, the environmental activist, humanitarian, mediator. But they must have gone down with the others.


I had lost the time and part of my mind. When I became conscious of where I was, in a kitchen ankle-deep in a sea of black, I realized none of them had made it. I poked around the hard, chitin bodies with the now spent zapper. And I heard a buzz and the translucent wings of a worry-wort.