Discover Top Posts Tagged with #loganjohnson

The Gaels always get dealt a great hand.

Logan Johnson put up 37 points against local rivals Santa Clara. The Gaels fell short 66-64 in the end, but for LJ this game was monumental! Many top moments of the season. @smcgaels

#smcgaels #College Basketball #ncaa division i #designedbyshilei #loganjohnson #basketball

Simon, by Logan Johnson

Opening scene

A bare wooden table set with four places. One is empty. One elder woman and one elder man. A man in his twenties sits across from the elder couple. His face sunk into his hands. Food uneaten lay on plates in between his arms.

Mother

Simon, you have to talk to us

Father

Please, listen to your mother

Simon

(Muttering)It was my fault

mother

That’s not true! Sometimes things happen and we can’t explain them. You have to tell us what happened.

Father

I know it’s difficult but if you won’t see a therapist, you have to talk to someone. Might as well be us.

Simon

She died dad, it’s not like I can fix her.

mother

I know. I can’t possibly believe how hard this is for you but you have to talk to us.

Simon

She was driving. I was in the passenger seat. George was in the back, behind her. I didn’t see the truck coming. It’s all my fault.

Mother

It’s not, my love. (She puts her arm out to comfort him)

Simon

I can’t live without her.

They sit in silence. The father clears his throat and goes to stand

father

Shall I make some tea?

mother

(She looks at him scoldingly)

Father

(Sits back down in silence)

Silence

Simon

(Quietly) I would love a drink, thanks Dad. Mum, I’m sorry to have dragged you into this -

Mother

Excuse me? What are you talking about, your wife and best friend just died. You have every right to grieve, I want to make sure you do it safely and properly. I want to support you like any mother. Don’t distance yourself from us

Simon

I’m going to get some air

Mother

Be safe

simon

(Gets up to leave) I really appreciate you, I do. It’s just hard.

Simon gets up and walks out of the room. Leaving it in silence.

mother

(Gets faster) Steve, what are we going to do? He’s going to have a breakdown and spiral out of control and lose himself. He’ll start drinking and then become me when I was younger and then we’ll abandon him and it will all end up with us in care dribbling into metal bowls.

She starts crying, placing her head in her hands.

Father

It will all be okay. You’re a wonderful mother, you’re so much better than yours. I promise. I love you.

#script #loganjohnson #submission

Stasis, by Logan Johnson

I waited for the sun to set. Its harsh burning rays slowly melting behind the towering buildings. I walked down the cobbled dark streets, blending into the murky shadows. The dark cloaking me in as I hunted. I was ready.

She was beautiful, not conventionally, but to me she was everything I had ever dreamed of. Her auburn hair flowing around her shoulders as she walked ten paces ahead. I pushed forward, silent, perfect. The narrow roads made it easier to keep track of her movement, I knew the route blindfolded. A left at madison, two hundred paces, then a right on Aldridge, thirty-seven paces then another right. I saw her take the right turn down onto Baring, I waited a moment before following her. I knew I had twenty-three seconds before she got to her door. Number thirty-one. I’d imagined this moment for as long as I’d known her. I imagined her face as she saw me, a flash of recognition before I showed her mine. I looked around me, empty, as expected. I snuck round, hiding before a box I had placed the day previous. Peering over I saw her, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. She was almost there. I kept my head down, picking up the pace. As she entered the empty lot of thirty-one I followed. Trapping my hand in the door as she let it swing shut I pushed it open. Silently entering. She’s in the front room to my left. I know this as I know many things, routine and rehearsal, I’ve been here before. Once, she’d invited me. I push the door open, keeping low I reach for the knife on my belt. I feel it’s presence, it’s burning desire, matching my own. I approach the sofa she’s sitting in before straightening myself up before drawing a line from ear to ear with my knife. Blood spurts from the wound. I run round to see her dying expression. Her hair sitting above her shoulders, she’s so beautiful. Grabbing her throat she falls to the floor. A look of shock on her face, there frozen in early onset rigor mortis. I slip out the same way that I came. The night eating me up for afters.

…

I sit, in my cell. Waiting. I’m the two-thirty-seven hearing; case 1317. I know inside me that my sentence will be tough. A thousand years maybe, anything but life. Ten minutes later and I’m sitting, watching a man wearing a wig decide my punishment. He sits there, looking at me like I’m the physical representation of Lucifer himself. He calls my name I correct him, my chosen name Belial, long for Belle, is kind of fitting here so I call it out, to make my position known. The devil. I see his face, contorted into something I had seen many times. When people see me, the real me. He reads out my case ‘details’ before the audiences decide my face. Guilty or not hasn’t been used in about fifty years, it’s all about the punishment these days. How long will I be in stasis for? The screens light up, flashing numbers between fifty and life. I pray to my fake idols that I will not get life. The judge looks up at me, his smile stretching ear to ear. He raises the tablet. In white bold numbers, 15,000. It takes me some full silent seconds to realise what I’m seeing. He reads aloud my number before I am taken away. I think deeply of all the things that I’ll miss. My lover, Cate, my best friend Marvin. I think of their faces before I can’t think anymore.

…

I’m in an all white jumpsuit, my number 1317 plastered on the back in crude black numbers. I look down, remembering all the details of my body before I go under. The doctors lead me into the room. I see rows and rows of beds, thousands of people, surrounded by bullet proof glass on this floating fortress. They lead my to my bed. Orange sheets lay above a thick, expensive looking mattress. They undo one of my handcuff, tying the other end to a hook next to the bed. They lower me onto the bed. I lay there as they cover my eyes with a mask, pressing two cold plasters onto the sides of my head. I know for them it will only be a moment, I will only age thirty minutes in the time I’m there for. As I slip into the darkness I feel my control fleeting away. All I can think of is my sentence. “Miss Belle Glardice you are sentenced to 15,000 years in stasis.” They say that it simulates death, the never ending nothingness of death. As it surrounds me, I feel my control leaving, I’m in for the long haul.

…

Thirty minutes later I wake. My mind broken. Empty. 15,000 years of nothing can do a lot to a person.

#loganjohnson #prose fiction #submission

Logan, by Emily

Logan’s favourite form of writing is script, which is convenient seeing as he wants to do film at university. Probably also something to do with his preferred watching over reading. Logan’s writing started at the young tender age of 7, due to boredom and to preach for injustice. When asked to describe himself in 4 words i was given “never-ever-organised-enough”.

#biography #loganjohnson #emilywarner #submission

About his person, by Logan Johnson

A crumpled pile of headphones

An old pen, dry

A 20p and 1p coin. A £10 note

A rubber wristband, new

A necklace with a key, on the brink of collapse

A recipe for a phone

A marvel wallet, second owner. Inherited

A lighter, with a secret hatch

A pile of notes, handwritten, for scrap

Another pair of headphones, broken

A pile of papers, some written, some not

4 silver earrings, 1 wooden

1 pair of thick framed glasses

A pair fold Dr Martins, laces, broken

An oyster card, photo scratched away

11 buttons, varying degree of ware.

#poetry #objectivecorrelative #loganjohnson #submission

Biography of Emily, by Logan

Emily sat opposite me. Within 5 precious minutes I would learn about her. About her life, which she describes as a mess. She says that if her biography was written she’s want it done by the Freemans. Martin and Morgan working together to tell her story. The future that she would dream of would be to not have to do anything at all. Cats over dogs, take from that as you please. Her favourites, I have learnt, have fluctuated over time from Enchanted to Jungle book to Finding Dory. It’s clear to see that she likes to connect with her childhood. Emily also enjoys the works of Cat Clarke and Ruby Francisco. Her favourite however, is the ending.

With one explosive line, making you question everything.

#biography #emilywarner #loganjohnson #submission

I come from, by Logan Johnson

I come from an old yellow rug

from dust stained memories of a time ago

from please and thank you

from not putting my elbows on the table

but doing it anyway

I come from ‘nee nor’ ambulances

and porchways

I come from always and never

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