I think our school should have a bus sick system.

I believe that everyone should learn to get car sick.

In my opinion, getting car sick is an enjoyable thing to do. I  beleive everyone should learn to get car sick. It’s fun, fast, and easy. All ya’ have to do is eat alot before the trip, also sit in the back seat. Wobble your head alot. Well, you’re half way there, ask if you can stop at a gas station. Get alot of junk food. Eat it all. Wobble around some more. Ask to stop at another gas staition, get 7 cans of pop. Drink it all. Shake your head. Ask sit in front seat. Well, your almost there. By this time you should have a stomach ache, head ache, and your eyes should hurt. Keep on holding it down. Well, by now you should roll down your window find a young couple and let it out. You should be there by now. Remember it’s fun, fast, and easy!

The padlock wasn’t a bad idea, but if the groundskeeper really wanted to keep curious people out, he certainly wouldn’t have left four screws exposed in the hasp. It was clear to Holden that either the groundskeeper possessed a false sense of security about the padlock protecting what was behind the gray metal door, or he was indifferent that his efforts could be undone by any inquisitive person able to make use of a screwdriver.

The gray door was two stories down in the damp, musty basement of a basement, underneath an 8-story tall stone apartment building at least a century old. Not many people cared to come down this way. After all, there wasn’t much in the way of lighting and the uneven brick floor held several pools of stagnant water; difficult to notice until you felt the splash and felt the cold water seep into your socks.

Certainly some people had been here before, though, and at least a few must have been curious about what was behind the gray door. The long-term apartment dwellers always tended to grow interested in exploring the bowels of their building, and their efforts were never met with much resistance, although it always seemed like the groundskeeper looked at them differently once they returned. Most tenants knew about the boiler room in the first basement, and the laundry room that was abandoned at least a few decades ago. Some had heard rumors of a fallout shelter, but unless it was the basement itself, no one who went looking for it ever found it.

Not as many people knew about the sub-basement. The only way to reach it was either to use the freight elevator, which serviced the two basements and the first two floors, or to climb through the hatch in the ceiling of the elevator and climb down the emergency ladder on the wall of the shaft. The ladder was the preferred route for the handful of explorers who, motivated by an even mix of extreme curiosity and boredom, needed to know what was in the basement’s basement. Since the sub-basement was technically off-limits, people would explore at night when the groundskeeper was hopefully sleeping in his first-floor apartment. Operating the freight elevator was loud enough to be out of the question, but climbing through the hatch and climbing down the ladder could be performed with the utmost amount of caution and stealth, at least usually. Once someone was caught climbing through the hatch and tried to plead curiosity, but the groundskeeper was annoyed enough to scold the man beyond belief in hopes that he wouldn’t try again. Liability and insurance issues and all that.

Of course he returned, like any true explorer; like anyone who can’t fight his curiosity.

Holden stood by the gray door fumbling clumsily, trying to control a screwdriver, hold a flashlight, and keep track of the screws he’d already removed. Next time, he thought, he should bring one of those lights with an elastic band for his head, like spelunkers use. The real explorers. Still, even in the darkness, the first three screws were easy enough to take out. Although Holden had a problem with the last screw: the person before must have used a power drill and gracelessly stripped the head. After some struggle turning the screw with a pliers, the head finally breaks off entirely, allowing the hasp to come free from the frame of the door.

The door creaked loudly as it opened, its hinges rusted from years in the dampness. Holden wanted to proceed with care; this is no-man’s land. He had never heard anything about the gray door or the room behind it in his two years living in the apartment building. The main part of the sub-basement itself was fairly interesting to explore, but mainly empty, and locked doors often have something more intruiging to hide. The possibilities were so intriguing that Holden had returned with tools the same night.

Dirt crunched under Holden’s feet as he stepped into the forbidden room. He tried to gently close the door behind him to mask his presence; although it wasn’t likely anyone else would find him here, and if they did his presence was obvious anyway due to the missing screws. He figured, though, that the creaking door opening again would at least provide evidence of someone else coming, maybe provide enough forewarning for him to hide somewhere.

After entering, the first observation Holden made was that the previously barred room was lit even less well than the rest of the sub-basement. There was a single visible bulb hanging from the ceiling, possibly having been burning continuously since the building was first wired for electricity. He found the thought interesting, and wanted to believe that he is entering a place that has been sealed off for much longer than it actually has been; he had already forgotten another curious soul stripped out one of the screws perhaps only a few hours earlier.

The thought of being the original explorer became more captivating but even less realistic after his eyes started to adjust. The wall parallel to the door was less than fifteen feet away, and was lined with ugly, forgotten furniture, some plaid, some with discolored floral designs, the rest very faded. This must be where the groundskeeper brings the furniture people leave behind, Holden thought; probably much cheaper than taking it to the dump–hell, this is the dump, at least for ugly old furniture. Trying to keep his bearings, Holden began walking one way along the row of furniture. The beam of his flashlight just barely hit the wall ahead of him; it seemed like it could have easily be hundreds of feet away. It was severely disorienting, and he began to worry that his flashlight would fail; that the batteries would die or that he’d drop it and the bulb would break. At least he had the antique lightbulb behind him in the distance to guide him back to the main door.

After a bit of walking, the passageway became wider on the righthand side and opened up into a large rectangular room with a concave brick floor. The beam of the flashlight happened upon a tall lamp, likely also something that made its way down here after someone abandoned their apartment decades ago. Shining the light down, Holden found that the lamp was plugged into a cord that stretched into the distance, beyond the reach of the flashlight. He turned the switch and the light flickered on, emitting a clearly audible buzzing sound. This bulb is probably even older than the other one, he thought. The light wasn’t enough to illuminate the entire room, but it provided enough light to see dozens of boxes of documents stacked near the middle of the room and a bare mattress near the far wall. Closer to the middle of the room, where the brick floor starts to sink, old newspapers, drawings, and typewritten manuscripts littered the floor. Bending over to investigate a sample of the papers, Holden found a newspaper from September 1967 with an odd headline: Soviet Union Bombs Great Britain; US in Upheaval. Must be something someone made as a gag. The other litter on the floor didn’t prove very interesting aside from a few creepy drawings and some heavily caligraphied essays. Most of the papers are damp and moldy, especially those closer to the bottom of the concave.

Holden’s eyes took a little while to adjust after he turned off the lamp. While he waited, he heard what must have been a mouse scampering away. It didn’t surprise him that mice, rats or even larger critters would live down here, although once he started thinking about what large critters there might actually be, his mood became a bit more uneasy. He breathed in deeply and it was apparent that the damp air was almost choking–it’s so musty that it was getting difficult to breathe. This was enough to send Holden back toward the first light, and the main door, walking along the wall of discarded furniture.

The air became a little easier to breathe after he was away from the damp papers, and after thinking for a moment, Holden decided to find out what was down the way he hadn’t gone yet. Following the furniture in the other direction, he soon found there didn’t seem to be a light anywhere in the distance ahead. The old chairs and couches were gradually replaced by end tables and coffee tables and kitchen tables for several paces, and then those were replaced by seemingly ancient console televisions. Going this way, the corridor was much longer than the way leading to the document room, and it wasn’t until after several minutes of walking that Holden realized it couldn’t even be possible that he’s still directly underneath his apartment building. He figured it must have been some weird underground railroad thing or an old utility tunnel leading to another apartment building that’s probably been torn down by now.

The wall in front of Holden appeared so suddenly that he almost got a bloody nose from running into it; instead he only stubbed his toe on it. The wall seemed to absorb all light, giving the illusion that the wide, dark corridor continues on much longer. The dull red bricks of the wall to the right, the wall with all the furniture lining it, was still visibile until where it intersects the dark wall. Looking left down along the dark wall, Holden noticed part of the wall wasn’t quite as dark as the rest. Sidestepping to investigate, he found a large entryway lined with brick that shined bright red under the flashlight. The entryway was topped with a brick arch, and above that was a rectangle of dull gray concrete. Imprinted in the concrete were the words GATEWAY NOCTURNAL, JUNE 1906.

Although his feeling of unease had only grown, Holden still decided to continue exploring. He shined his flashlight–gradually growing dimmer–into the room beyond the entryway, but it was too difficult to make anything out. It must open up into a very large space since the light isn’t hitting any walls; or maybe the interior walls are made out of the light-absorbing material. As soon as he stepped through the entryway, an overwhelming feeling of anxiety filled Holden, and then for the longest moment he felt nothing aside from the feeling that he’s waiting for something to happen, as though he was frozen in place and time was standing still. In the distance he heard the gray metal door creak, which was enough to break the moment.

He stepped forward again and immediately felt an impulse to turn around, and in doing so was horrified to see himself standing near the doorway, not moving, with an anxious look on his face. After realizing that there was no mirror, and that it couldn’t logically be an illusion because he could touch his cold, unmoving aspect, he screamed and then passed out, his head hitting the rough stone floor.

* * *

While driving on forest roads with my last five dollars in gas, the car kicks up dust from the gravel below and the smell is thick and stale, almost like an old musty basement. The sun is setting and the trees cut up through a huge sky that fades from dark blue to purple to orange. Soon the stars will show and their light will bend through the clouds above, effortlessly reaching us from almost immeasurable distances.

Just past Stockfarm Bridge, I bring the car to a stop. I leave it idling calmly near the smooth, dark flow of the Chippewa River, and walk back to the bridge. The bridge itself is long and narrow, set atop ancient pilings, its deep brown wooden road surface smoothed from decades of use. There aren’t many of these old bridges left, even on the other remote forest roads. The structure is wide enough for only one vehicle, and too much traffic at once would likely cause it to splinter and plunge into the river below.

These antiquated bridges and roads are remnants of life years ago, when the land was still being stripped clean of its lumber. They were arteries from the heart of the forest, feeding humanity’s hungry expansion. Now they are neglected by most travelers, but they remain as a testament to the way so many men struggled to make a living, cutting down and hauling the huge trees out along dirt roads.

Tonight, no one else is here. There is likely no other human being for many miles. There are no power lines, no cell phone towers or other obtrusions. If not for the pines swaying and creaking with the wind and random unexplained sounds in the distance, the forest would be completely calm and still. Of course, the forest does not desire to explain itself or its noises. It simply exists, though continually changing, unable or unwilling to express itself through more than creaks and crashes.

No one else is here, and I am waiting to capture a certain feeling. It cannot be replicated on command, nor can it be described in much detail, because although it is universal in experience, the details are unique to each individual. It may or may not happen for me tonight, but the conditions seem right. I am searching for the feeling of being alive.

I do not feel truly alone in the forest at night. My senses awaken; all movements and sounds are exaggerated by the dulling of nightfall, and a certain connection can be felt. Although isolated from humanity, the connection that I feel is overriding and strong. A person may be reminded of late night childhood pseudo-philosophical conversations: We are one with the Universe, one with Everything. We are always connected despite our best efforts of isolation.

After the sun sets, the stars come out and the temperature falls. Half a moon rises, cratered from epochs of unfeeling abuse. The river below flows quietly, wide and slow, and gradually changing the landscape by moving the dark, loamy earth. It is languid in its role of erosion, if not completely uncaring and unknowing.

There are now night sounds throughout the darkened forest. Nocturnal animals are living out their night lives, and the general feeling shifts from peaceful to slightly eerie. There is not much to do but listen to the forest and look around, trying to find something real to focus on. Many shapes are blurred, lacking contrast and detail, but an overall composite of the forest can be drawn.

The ground cover is dense, as are the tall, slender pines penetrating through it. If trees could want, perhaps they would want the unobtainable feeling of being part of the sky. They reach down into the soil and have something firm to grab, to feel; they reach upwards but can never grab the stars or do more than sway with the wind.

The sky above me is so huge that I get the human feeling of being small and utterly insignificant. There are more stars than people, and there is more distance to cover between them than all of humanity combined will ever travel. Most will never travel the world. Many will never stare into a night sky and truly let their mind roam.

The experience of being alone in the forest at night is intense. There are layers of thoughts and emotions as my imagination fills the gaps of what my senses perceive. My mind is left to blend the abstract imagination with concrete reality, and as the night darkens, the line between the two shifts quickly out of focus.

The sound of light rain hitting the trees above becomes prominent, as does my realization of the declining temperature. My senses have fully awakened and work to gather as much information as possible, and the night is as dark as it will
become. Every sudden sound is startling because such a lack of light means no sources can be pinpointed. It is now very easy for my imagination to fill in the details, and every sound becomes a predatory animal stalking slowly through the shadows. Every bush or tree or stump becomes nondescript but dangerous, and the wind causes distant branches to move in threatening ways.

While the fear itself is real, it is a fear of something imagined and not real. It is extremely rare to see an animal searching for prey, even at night deep in the forest. The bears and wolves of this forest are not animals, they are merely branches moving with the wind. The sounds of the forest are similarly not of anything inherently dangerous, but rather trees creaking in the wind and the occasional brush snapping underfoot as a deer wanders by.

The landscape itself is not very dangerous, being that many predatory animals have been hunted to the brink of extinction. Yet my mind will not allow a feeling of peace and calm, and my imagination continues to fill in the bleak details. A battle between rational and irrational is being waged, with the rational mind temporarily keeping the imagination in check, but always with no clear winner.

After I hear a thunderous crash, my mind is quickly snapped back to reality. I do not know what the sound was, but it was very close. My heart races and I dash for the bridge, car still waiting. I had not wandered far, but I am out of breath. As I begin my escape, contemplating the noise, I realize that for one brief moment I captured the feeling I had sought out by coming to the forest: I felt alive.

As the months and years wear on, taking their toll on our minds and our bodies, it becomes important—even vital—to remind ourselves of what it means to be alive; what it feels like to know, unassailably, that we are truly alive. This feeling is not easy to capture, nor is it simple to explain. Yet it remains significant, because someone who never thinks of the implications of being alive—who never desires to truly feel anything—is little more than a walking zombie, drifting through their days with little conscious awareness.

The feeling of being alive comes easily in the forest after nightfall, with our senses alert and working to gather as much information as possible. As cars pass down this old gravel road, the smell in the air is thick and musty, almost like an old basement; perhaps evoking distant childhood memories of someone’s grandparents’ basement where the kids would play hide and seek on long summer days. As the sun sets, the trees cut up through the huge, open sky that fades from dark blue to purple to orange. Once the stars begin to show, their light bends through the clouds above, effortlessly reaching the earth from almost immeasurable, unthinkable distances.

The car calmly idles on Stockfarm Bridge, resting above the smooth, dark flow of the Chippewa River. The bridge is long and narrow, set atop huge, ancient pilings, and its deep brown road surface smoothed from decades of use. Its structure is wide enough for only one vehicle, and too much traffic at once would likely cause the bridge to splinter and plunge into the river below. Stark thoughts like this help remind us we’re alive, as do thoughts of those who traveled these desolate roads so many years ago—the loggers and the lost, wary travelers. These antiquated bridges and roads are remnants of life years ago, when the land was still being stripped clean of its lumber. These roads were arteries from the heart of the forest, feeding humanity’s hungry expansion. The roads now remain dormant, and rutted, with the gravel compacted from decades of rainfall and the seldom passing of a car. The feeling of being alive comes naturally knowing that we are here, now, actively observing the world and thinking these thoughts, thoughts of those who came to the forest so long ago; those who are no longer with us.

If not for the pines swaying and creaking with the wind, the forest would be completely calm and still. There are no other human beings for many miles, nor are there any power lines, radio towers or other obtrusions. All movements and sounds are exaggerated by the dulling of nightfall in the forest, and the night sounds of nocturnal animals are nearly overwhelming. The ground cover is dense, as are the tall, slender pines penetrating through it. If trees could want, perhaps they would want the unobtainable feeling of being part of the sky. They reach down into the soil and have something firm to grab, to feel; they reach upwards but can never grab the stars or do more than sway with the wind. As the trees are alive, we are alive as well, and like the trees we are often rooted into our mundane existences. Being able to break free is what makes us human, and reminds us that we are alive.

The goofiest of the goofy men came from the mountains. They had lived there for many years, in a small establishment which they fondly called The Mountain Men Establishment Upon Which We Look Fondly. It was in 4062 that they had first moved up to the mountains, coming up from the outskirts of the world’s largest city, Megamathaward. They had grown tired of viewing all the eyeballs and ice cream relics which were found all over the city. They no longer wanted to be part of the Order of the Night Cats and they certainly wanted nothing to do with the Religion of Cultic Fanaticals.

They had constructed most of the Establishment by 5327. It was mainly a collection of small huts, which they called Aquapiks–which were used for selling goods–and small storefronts, which they called Picklejams–which were used as homes. Most of the buildings were constructed of lunar saw dust, which is actually a very sturdy building material once it’s been placed in a Zip or Rar machine and compressed to a near-singularity. The best thing about this material, though, is the fact that it has been incredibly abundant ever since the moon was sawn into four peices–one for each of the major Tribes–in 2104. The lunar saw dust had been raining down to earth for many years, and while many of the Earth-dwellers were growing tired of eating it, sleeping in it, wearing it and bathing in it, the Mountain Men gladly made use of it.

This is one key element that ideologically separated them from the most of the other societies in the galaxy; in particular the Religion of Cultic Fanaticals, who had first rallied in 2112 in order to begin secret construction of a large shield to block the lunar saw dust from ever reaching earth. The shield was going to be called Large Shield Num. 12 & 35, but its construction was never completed. Each time a piece of the shield was put into orbit, one of the four major Tribes would immediately begin squabbling over ownership of what they felt was a gift from Earth.

Unfortunately, it is not physically possible for the Religion of Cultic Fanaticals to communicate by any conventional means with any of the major Tribes, as the Tribes use a very refined smell and taste-based language. Any time the Earth-dwellars attempted to communicate with the major Tribes, the Tribes heard only what sounded to them like sweet music and fell immediately to sleep. Each time communication was attempted in the other direction, the Earth-dwellars smelled and tasted the best food imaginable which put them into states of pure ecstasy.

The benefit of this situation is that the Earth-dwellars as well as the four Tribes were peaceful towards most other societies because they were so content. The major drawback, of course, has to do with the fact that direct communication is not possible and that the Tribes interpret anything more than 50,013′ above the surface of the oceans as gifts, and once they’re taken, there is no way for the Earth-dwellars to explain to the four Tribes that this is not the case. This is where the Religion of Cultic Fanaticals ran into trouble with their project.

So, the Mountain Men made use of the lunar saw dust as much as possible and got along quite well up in the mountains. Communication with Megamathaward was never attempted, because the Mountain Men refused to go back to the city. The inhabitants of Megamathaward never found out where the Mountain Men had actually went, so it was simply assumed that they had inadvertently tunneled through spacetime. This was a satisfactory arrangement for everyone involved.

The favorite activity of the Mountain Men was to perform what they called Sit-down routines, in which a person would take stage and be audience to a room full of people telling jokes. The Mountain Men also enjoyed sunsets and long walks on the beech stand.

Everything went very well for the Mountain Men until 8973 when a group of unknown humanoids apparently tunneled through spacetime and suddenly appeared on the mountainside very close to the Establishment. Unbeknownst to the Mountain Men, the new arrivals were actually from a city on the other side of the mountain called Don’t Look Now But… and after thousands of years they had grown tiresome and decided to explore more of the mountain.

The Mountain Men did not welcome visitors, especially those who tunelled through spacetime. The Montain Men were incredibly democratic, so they took a vote in order to decide what to do. The winning vote was to walk to the nearest large cliff and jump off. Though reluctant, all of the mountain men obliged because they were very democratic. They never would find out that the winning vote was actually to ignore the new arrivals as long as possible and send out a peace-convoy when absolutely necessary. This solution had 1,000 votes, but it was read as 0001. The other solution had 0001 votes, but it was read as 1,000.

The arrivals from Don’t Look Now But… were very puzzled by the actions of the Mountain Men, and fearing the Establishment was cursed, they blocked it off entirely and vowed never to return.