The Tralfamadorians (standard:drama, 2334 words)
Author: Anonymous	Added: Mar 31 2003	Views/Reads: 3572/2240	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A short story written in letter-form. It's about individualality

To whomever it concerns: 

The Tralfamadorian's 

At this particular moment, I started writing this letter. At first, it
wasn't a suicide note. . . 

It was like the seventy-fifth day of the year, fall was approaching as
the world revolved. The day was sickeningly gloomy. The television 
presented some horrible news channel that was conveying a message that 
our cities will be struck with a heinous snowstorm; will It be measured 
in inches or feet? 

Other than that and the inevitable war in Iraq, the day was quite
mundane. 

At this particular moment, I was listening to some music- Led Zeppelin,
AFI, Bad Religion, NOFX, The Who, The Doobie Brothers, Pink Floyd, 
Unwritten Law, The Vandals, Anti Flag, Diesel Boy, Lagwagon, 
Propagandhi, The Eagles, Grateful Dead, Sex Pistols, Dr. Know, Dead 
Kennedy's, Rancid, The Cars, Merry Pranksters, Boston, Dropkick 
Murphy's, Black Sabbath, Nirvana, Hi Standard, Op Ivy, Frank Zappa, 
Jethro Tull, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc- 

At this moment, I was listening to 30-Foot Fall, actually. A rock band
conveniently labeled “punk,” so that people like me know what to wear 
to the shows. Which reminds me, why do so many people strive at being 
unique and complacent through means of the clothes they wear and the 
music they listen to? 

I smoked some pot, listened to some music, I was relaxed and I. . . 

I was descending down the stairs getting ready to go to a concert
downtown. To see NOFX. It was like eighteen months ago. I don't think 
death was on my agenda back then. My parents didn't even question me 
about going “out,” they weren't too concerned. They trusted me I guess. 
Also, when you're young, there is a moment when the teachers stop 
telling your parents you have potential but your hanging around “bad 
influences.” It's that fucking moment that the world decides you're 
irredeemable. Oh, you're still smart, and you still act the same, but 
everyone finally got sick of waiting for you to use all that promising 
talent to do what society wants. You can compromise your individuality- 
start acting like an adult, stop causing so much trouble, and start 
being a little dishonest about what you will and will not do, and 
pretend to like jobs you hate until you don't even remember you once 
hated them. OR you can stick to your beliefs that most people's music 
sucks ass, that sitcoms aren't funny and that money is a shitty measure 
of individual achievement. Because of that, you end up on the outside, 
trying to feel superior! 

“Poseur!” Some random dude yelled. 

“Poseur!” Someone else yells 

“Poseur!” Someone reiterates. 

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. We stood in line waiting
for the show to start. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. At this moment, it was 
brisk outside and my nipples obviously didn't agree with the weather, 
not at all. There were a few gray ghosts in the sky, none were ominous 
though. The moon shone like a fingernail. 

His head was covered with six-inch long, black spikes. He wore a leather
jacket, of course. He had other assorted apparel that one would expect 
a “punk” to wear. You know, spiked belts, necklaces, patches, etc. 
Things Sid Vicious wore before he died of a heroin overdose. A few 
yards ahead of me, this kid causes some ruckus and makes a few people 
laugh. A few others, naturally, get angry of course. 

I smirk a little bit because I happen to find a source of endless
amusement that the most effective way to insinuate oneself into the 
gooey embrace of mainstream is by becoming a rebel. But what the fuck 
is a rebel? Sid Vicious was a rebel, but so was Rosa Parks when she sat 
in front of the bus. 



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