“To Be Continued…”

By Hao Anh Nguyen (The Anonymous Counselor)

Based on a journal written by a man named Nameless,

Interpreted by Theodore Andrew Collins

Prologue

“To be continued…” isn’t that phrase just a bitch. I get the “to be” part, fresh out

of Hamlet, and maybe the word “continued” isn’t so bad either. Words are easy to

interpret. What really irritates me are those three simple dots. For you brainiacs out

there, I know it’s an ellipse and yes, I know what it is used for, but in this sense it means

just one thing: the story isn’t finished. Congratulations Mr. Holmes, you solved the

mystery, do you plan on taking Watson to Disney Land? Now most people would just

tell me, “Just go read the sequel!” Well sorry to break this to you: this isn’t Harry

Potter; there isn’t going to be a movie.

What strikes me odd, upon constant review of those three words followed by a

simple English tool, is that why leave such a story to end at such an intense moment?

Coincidence? Never. Pre-meditated? Definitely, but why? Those three stupid dots

are only replacements for where a lazy writer could easily have written and finished. It

is truly frustrating, hanging on the word like a mountain climber ready to breach the

summit but no longer has any rope. I guess there’s not much to do but think, wonder,

and anticipate until new words arrive.

Yet some will say, “Just read the story and enjoy it, don’t worry about the end.”

Well, I know the end and I know the story. Actually, I read this cursed journal as often

as I can, always finding myself back to those three damn punctuation marks. A mute

can only write so much I suppose until their hand cramps like a liberated jaw. But

instead of listening to my frustrated rambling, let me tell you the story of a young man’s

journey, his hardships and pleasures, failures and successes, his metamorphosis, and his

aspirations to inspire. However, brace yourself, there are no happy endings.

Theodore Andrew Collins

Chapter One: “Meaning of Life”

“Much can be

learned

About the meaning

of (life)

From a red

box

In a white

room.”

If there isn’t anything confusing about the first page of his journal, then congrats,

you are a master of interpretation. For the rest of you, I too was confused. I must have

read this short piece over and over, at the edge of my seat or whatever was comfy at the

given time, and every time I looked at it, all I could think was…nothing, nada, just dust

to mind. Was this his initial thought? Why this “Red Wheelbarrow”-esque poem to

start a journal?

“Maybe he just wrote it for no reason?” My apologies that is not the case.

Skeptic? Trust me, as the other pieces begin to appear, all will be clear: the motive, the

character, and the story. All will make sense in due time.

Although I never had the opportunity to get to know him, other than a few

ambiguous conversations, I had the privilege of viewing his life during his trying years in

the form of his written texts. And I tell you this; there is nothing more intimate in books

than reading another person’s handwritten sentiments and thoughts.

He never gave me his name, and his journal did not mention it either. It’s a

shame I never got to learn it, but I can only assume the guy didn’t intend to share his

words at the time, so I suppose a name was not necessary. Who knows anymore? Even

during the time we met, he didn’t give me his name, so whenever I ever shared one of his

stories to whoever happened to be confused and troubled, I always referred to him as

Nameless. Seemed quite fitting: ironic and mysterious, but existing.

Nameless…from what I can remember, he was a bit older than me at the time,

maybe about 20 or 22, give-or-take a few years. Quite an oddball according to his

entries referred himself as a mute; not the medical condition either, but by a definition

entirely created by him. Which was extremely confusing because to do such a thing

would take so much commitment…to never speak? A person, who didn’t speak,

especially a poet, would be like John Milton not mentioning God, or e. e. Cummings not

abusing symbols, and Emily Dickenson not using a dash. It’s capable, but just strange

imagining. I don’t know whether he was shy or if he was trying to prove a point, he

never wrote about it, so I tried not to pay it much mind.

He was a bird watcher, but instead of birds he observed people; their actions, their

words, everything he found appropriate. At first I thought he may have been a weirdo,

but as the book progressed, I became surprised by the truth.

He cared a lot about people.

Not in the sense that you would think, but he wanted people to be happy,

intelligent, and moral. Quite the contradiction for today’s majority of society, but he

was simply a complex individual seeking simplicity while being surrounded by

mediocrity and obscurity. However, he was a passive man, didn’t think much of it, only

worrying about the day-to-day obstacles, big dreams hidden in harsh realities. Yet,

somewhere down the path, he must’ve realized that hiding from the corruption would not

suffice for a person with his type of mind.

So maybe in a leap of aspiration, he left the confines of his safe abode to pursue a

goal much greater than he could ever accomplish. What that goal is, it would be

unsatisfying to spoil that for you.

“Much can be learned about the meaning of (life) from a red box in a white

room.”

Just open your mind, listen to the story and the answers will come.

Chapter Two: “Windmills and Slaying Dragons”

“See those windmills in the distance?

Not the ones from Don Quixote,

but the eco-friendly ones.

With a simple turn of its arms,

it brings about power for cities---fuel for society

but watch as it stands there.

Just still and stubborn in the wind.

They have potential,

but they don't use it

to better the world.

At least Alonso attempted

to follow old footsteps

despite negative peer approval.

Crazy as he seemed,

He was not crazy,

Just innovative with an old idea,

Rewritten by messy pens

And shaky, rushing hands

Taking their time with each line.

Maybe some of us like to think

That we are slaying dragons,

When our swords only slash

At old windmills.

Perhaps to the rest of the world

We have lost our minds

Just because we don't use

Virtual simulations to accomplish

Our fantasies.

"Don't bite off more than you can chew.”

"Take it easy.”

"Stop working so hard"...

We always wish to be famous,

Be the rock star,

Owning restaurants,

Being CEOs,

But many will not

Unless they turn the blades

And process the electricity.

We can't just sit still

When the wind pushes us forward

To accomplish our goals,

And we can't sit still laughing at those

Who can slay dragons;

We have more potential than that.”

His entries began right about the time of summer, driving through the country

side, windows down, music playing, and the AC completely out. If it weren’t for fast

speeds and a little science, he probably could’ve died of heat exhaustion. With the right

tunes, it did not matter; Nameless was never the type to complain.

He was on his way back from a trip, he didn’t say where, but back nonetheless.

He was tired though, either because the sun was falling down or that he had been driving

for a few hours. He had been driving back from a recent job for a company he had

worked for the previous year; not a company job, but it was something that paid the bills

and occasionally satisfied his stomach. He was content with that, singing along to

certain songs in his old green, ‘97 Stratus.

“Old Agnes”, he would call that car of his. Sounds like a strong grandmother

with a tough background. Not at all. With a new engine, replaced water pump, new

tires, a dented door as well as many other problems not worth mentioning, Old Agnes

was more like a nursing home resident who couldn’t change her own diaper, ready to

break down at any second if given the chance. It still baffles me that he spent more

money on repairing the damn thing than what he bought it for. I guess he just really

needed to drive and for whatever reasons, only he would know. He just had faith in it,

giving the piece of junk another chance every time it fell, building it back up, regardless

of knowing that it would fail once again.

Unfortunately, Old Agnes never failed to surprise. Slowing down, and the gas

gauge on empty, Nameless pulled to the side of the road, away from the traffic, or lack

thereof; country roads were rarely traveled.

This is the part the story where our protagonist began his amazing journey by

hitchhiking his way home where he met a really cool dude named Mike…not. As

always, Nameless carried a spare gas tank in the trunk. My apologies for deceiving, this

isn’t a traveling thumb story.

Boring as it sounded, Nameless filled his tank, checked under his hood, and

kicked his tires to make sure none were sagging, and sometimes Old Agnes liked to sag.

“Routine” he referred to it as, “You can never be too careful.”

Stretching his legs, releasing the many cramps that made themselves comfortable

in his muscles, he leaned against his dented door, taking in the clean country air.

Different from the polluted car exhaust breaths he was so accustomed to, but he relished

the moment. Dirt stains created a fashionable pattern on his sweat-stained shirt. He

laughed to himself, “here’s the next new clothing trend”.

The country side, the complete serenity, he found it quite peaceful, trying to make

thoughts clear as the breeze dried the droplets from his hair. At least it was cooling

down and at least the clouds were finally coming in. A heat wave plagued the Mid-West

for the past few days and rain would be refreshing, cleansing, and quite pleasing. He use

to hate rain, or at least the sticky feeling that you got from soaked clothes and how his

hair became so messy from a downpour. As time passed, however, he became infatuated

with its simplicity and spontaneity. It wasn’t cheesy; he didn’t want to be the rain, but

he didn’t mind being caught out in it. The sounds just drowned out the thoughts and the

water cooled the tension. Everything became calmer.

Sadly, there was neither rain nor promise of rain. Just an evening sky, a sun

slowly resting, and a white windmill in the distance. It wasn’t one of those wooden

wonders, practically extinct like a good book, but it was one of those new power

windmills, designed to produce energy for cities. Nameless rarely saw them back at

home, but during his recent trip, they were everywhere, like metallic trees, just not as

useful. Not sure what he saw in them or why he cared so much; random things sparked

his interest often. He was good at that sort of thing, creating connections between

complex ideas with simple moments expressed as well as language could allow.

However, he was not fascinated, more so irritated, by the blades of such a structure,

stubborn and lifeless in the wind. There weren’t any tornadoes or hurricanes; the wind

can only contribute.

Light illuminated, dividing it, left appearing, right in shadows. Not much of a

picture perfect moment (could have qualified for amateur photography), but in that

moment, he scribbled a few words in a small journal, fresh and new with only a single

page written upon. The words came down like rain, quick, satiating, spontaneous,

refreshing.

A phone call interrupted. Family once again complaining for his absence, but

with few phone calls a day, the sound was welcoming. Quick and to the point, there was

no need for an unlimited plan if he could afford it. He slipped the phone back into his

pocket, hoping for calls from many voices he hadn’t heard from, but people don’t work

that way sometimes. Sometimes they just stop like windmills. It didn’t really bother

him. He just threw the journal in the backseat with the rest of his bags, put the key in,

turned it, and viola, enough gas to get home. We can’t sit still.

Chapter Three: “Intentional Fallacy”

“When I wrote about a raging river

Running through the verdant valleys

During the days of spring,

The masses flocked to my work,

Claiming that I knew much about life.

They discussed and exclaimed!

How my words spoke to them,

Alluding to various stories

Once seen through their eyes

And tasted through their tongues.

They called my words genius,

As if I was Edmund Spenser himself.

Ironically, little did they know,

I was only writing about a raging river.”

Nameless entered his dark apartment, lights unplugged due to an oversized

electricity bill, returning to his “wonderful” abode, or at least one that was decent enough

that he could afford. Locking his doors, he yawned, trying to wipe the dryness from his

eyes as he searched for intruders in convenient hiding spots throughout his home. He

wasn’t afraid; it was just a byproduct of his father’s strange parenting. It was a relief to

find no shadows, although with routine done each day, the fear slowly dissipated through

time.

It was getting late, the old street lamps turning on, one by one, or at least a few at

a time. The prospects of living in the poor side of the wonderful city. The thieves

didn’t complain.

Nameless, moved to the corner of his pitch black living room, memorizing the

lack of furniture sitting on the ground around him as he maneuvered gracefully from any

actions that would result in stubbed toes. Bandages on his right foot were one lesson

enough. The lamp was on, he only had to place the plug in, allowing currents to surge

through and transform into a yellowish glow, illuminations that did not reach beyond

walls. Nameless preferred to be able to see things, day or night, and never once did he

prefer the dark. He was not afraid of the dark, just paranoid of what breathed beyond it.

His stomach churned and played to the beat of old, slightly relevant songs. He

opened the fringe, the light bulb burned out; he immediately assumed that garbage bags

would be necessary. One touch of the hand changed his mind, yet he always wondered

why he didn’t just change the light bulb. Simple tasks never seem to take priority over

ambition. Yet, upon opening this wonderful treasure, only a melon, some bread, and a

case of soda lied within. Disappointed in his inability to shop for groceries, he grabbed a

can of carbonated poison, inhaled each drop before forgetting to recycle the can. The

burning sensation on his throat always did produce a feeling of light-headedness and a

quick euphoria, sometimes allowing him to relax like a draw from a cigarette; eyes

watering from such a simple pleasure. He always enjoyed the little things that he could

sometimes afford.

His eyes turned to the sink. Clean as he had left it minus a few dead bugs that

found themselves in the bug spray layered around the cracks and crevices. At least there

were no dirty dishes, but then again, there never really was or any messes, just trash bags

leaking cups from “diet corporations” with the purchase of fries.

For being new at living on his own, his home was relatively decent. Slightly

boring, but livable. There were no bugs to kill, no leaky pipes, a mold problem, or scary

neighbors (so he hoped, even though he always locked the dead bolt each night). The

wood panel floor did not stain, the walls were light, and the archway in the door to the

square kitchen gave the room an artsy atmosphere. With all pencil products of free time

hanging from the walls, the rooms felt like an art gallery and he liked it. He was always

the creative type since he could hold a pen; he was an artist, transitioning from the past’s

obscure doodles to today’s literary ambitions. Something in the art of creating

something different or random always released the stress from his day-to-day life.

Along the wall, a small bookcase stood. Not a large one, but one he took from

home. No one in his old home read anything other than the large, misguiding words of a

bag of chips. And why waste such beautiful space, reserved for art and knowledge, for

simple things like crumpled papers, some empty boxes, and a half-eaten candy bar?

Nameless didn’t like things put to waste, and thus was why it now belonged to him.

Upon its shelves, arranged in careful order, rested various titles that would make

the normal individual either make the assumption that Nameless was an esteemed

academic or a literature nerd. Mainly college books, titles ranging from John Milton’s

Paradise Lost, Alexandre Dumas’s The Three Musketeers, Virgil’s The Aeneid, and

collections of short stories and poetry lined each evenly spaced shelf among fresh books

that Nameless just enjoyed buying for the sake of having a personal library. Most

college students sold their books, but Nameless found no point in the sort. Why waste

good references for the lesser amount of money? Quite ridiculous if you ask me, but

today’s society would choose a DVD of a mindless television series than Bradbury’s

Fairenheit 451. Sad, mad world. Although he collected them, he rarely sat down to

read them. He knew few portions of each, understood what to look for in their

acclaimed tales, but to read was always difficult for Nameless growing up. Now some

would call him a hypocrite. Why write books and stories when you don’t even like to

read? The same reason why high class chefs can cook delicacies but prefer simple

meals. Why inventors create their own gadgets than buy existing ones. He just wanted

to create and be original and by having a large foundation of knowledge about stories and

plots that have already been done, it would be far too easy to find oneself copyrighting

another’s work. He didn’t want that. If anything, he wanted to show that he could write

without reading. It just made such a feat even more amazing and the thought excited

him whenever he would succeed in the field. Odd yes, but admirable from a creative

point of view.

Few pieces of furniture were arranged in his small home: an unused bed from

home (sometimes still unused), a futon couch (rarely sat on), a few glass tables, a

decorative glass chess set with a few broken pieces left from cheaters in the past, and an

old drawing desk, full of graphite stains from long ago. He saw images made by an

eraser on the surface, slightly covered by composition books with blank pages due to

laziness. There was no TV, internet, or even radio. He didn’t have the money yet to

afford such luxuries. It was a good thing Nameless was rarely home, or else the silence

would get to him. At least his kitchen was well stocked. Not with food, but with

gadgets and random tools used to make food despite his lack of ingredients. Nameless

was a food fanatic, trying to create common dishes with a twist to test out flavor

combinations that often turned out better in mind than on tongue. He just enjoyed

creating new flavors, making new meals, and having new experiences. Monotony bored

him much more than anything in the world.

Few pictures (excluding artwork) hung from the walls. All of them sat in his

head, so he found no point in pounding nails into the walls. His neighbors wouldn’t like

that anyways. At least there was light, or lack thereof; living in the basement of a

complex didn’t have quite the best view.

Crumpled, unfinished “to-do” lists littered most flat surfaces, a reminder of what

he left and what was returned to. Long lists of simple tasks with checkmarks scribbled

all about. Lazy but productive. Picking one up, pulling the corners to straighten the

creases, the sound echoed. Strange to come back to a place one calls “home” to find it

all quiet and alone. The lack of shoes piled by the door and the lack of voices seemed

eerie and almost unwanted.

Nameless walked out of the door, turning back to secure the stubborn locks as he

walked outside to pull some weight off of Old Agnes. He stopped and gave her a

thorough examination, recalling such quality time together from long road trips. Being

home he would not spend much time with her much anymore, but sometimes space is

needed. Pulling the luggage from his back seat, he filled his living room full with

sweat-stained clothes as well as abused notebooks. It had been a long trip and his socks

were proof of it.

Garbage littered the interior, empty bottles and food containers from long drives;

all brought back certain memories. He could see why hoarders found it difficult to let

bottle caps go. It would’ve been wise to throw them away then, but he didn’t have the

strength and patience to do so. Instead he sat on the trunk of his car like he use to do

when he wanted to relax, stare at the sky and take in deep breaths. Serene, he could fall

asleep if the streets weren’t so sketchy unlike the country sides of the summer.

Although some people would argue, he found it comfy, the metallic bench he was once

so accustomed to.

It would take some getting used to, to forget the feel of the recent past, all it

needed was time. In the meanwhile he would just “bird watch”. He stared across the

street, not completely directly, but enough to notice a couple walk down the sidewalk,

closed up and distant. Strange that although it was cold out, neither thought it

appropriate to keep the other warm. Such a pity that we live in a world where chivalry is

almost extinct, yet to assume that they were a couple and that there was a conflict

between them could be false as well. At one time, Nameless would have jumped to such

a conclusion with no second thoughts, but as people go through life, they learn that there

is no such thing as facts without facts and complicating such a rule would only become

problematic, Nameless understood through time that making assumptions never helped

any situation until the truth was known. It never stopped him from doing so, but by

nature, he limited its use.

The sun falling down, and a body aching from restless nights, Nameless retreated

to his simple, quiet home, ready for tomorrow’s tasks. The lists sat on his bed stand,

quickly scribbled and possibly forgotten in the morning. The morning would be busy and

he would need his rest, but as he lay on his bed he couldn’t help but think about so many

thoughts, too many memories, stories that swarmed his mind like a nest of bees, but

without a queen. There was no order, just chaos. Hopefully they would cease soon, but

what did it matter if he fell asleep at that moment? He had time to relish the past a few

more minutes. He didn’t work for the next few days and it looked like heavy rain would

pay him a long visit; plenty to remember, plenty to write. He just needed a pen.

Chapter Four: “Adamant Abecedarius”

“Adamant you are in your attempts,

Blatant with your betrayal,

Ceasing only to critique my character.

Done at such a depressing matter, you

Effectively prove your incompetence by

Fluidly speaking its tongue.

Grand you must be!

Harnessing such thoughts of

Irrelevant skills and ideas,

Joking about how I waste my time

Knowing knowledge.

Little do you know, I will continue

Making influence with my words, being

Non-narcissistic,

Optimistic,

Powerful.

Quick you are to dismiss, but questions you

Raise have some truth to them.

So you say I am flawed, and you are the better.

True in few eyes, but why do you not relent?

Understanding I have become, but

Valid you still assume you are!

Xavier, come quick! This mutant cannot

Yield to its ignorant ways.

Zealous I may be, at least I know my ABC’s.”

Not every person has a happy ending, and with that never is there a happy story,

just positive moments mixed among negative periods. If you disagree, you have a great

life, cherish it. It does sound pessimistic and maybe it’s harmful to have such mentality

to always see the half-empty glass filled with poison poured by peers. Kids will be kids

I guess, can’t change them, they hold that power even though a little positive influence

never hurt.

Like many children across the world, Nameless was a victim of various issues,

undefined and unaddressed to ears unwilling to listen. Then again he was never much of

a talker, an actual mute at the time and not by his new definition of the word. Quite

strange for a high school freshman, static of change for almost five years, to never open

to anyone. Not a conversation, never a greeting, just stares from eyes unable to patiently

understand. It didn’t help that he was different: mentally, physically, and culturally.

Growing up as the minority didn’t come with a manual. He couldn’t have prepared for

childish insults and the bullying that commenced at such a young age. Easy to always

ignore as adults, terrifying for a child to always focus on.

It wasn’t a surprise that he kept to himself; no one tried to hurt him then. Silent

and alone, a way of life, not that he was unstable and ready to leap off a bridge from all

the troubles, but he just didn’t know how to hold a conversation, interact with the bullies

and spectators, or even say “hi” to a person walking in the hall. They just usually stared

with strange expressions that he never could figure out at the time other than the negative

feelings that came from each glance.

Shy, timid, you name it; he had it, call it a stage of ignorance that he went

through. He wasn’t dumb though, he was quite advanced for his grade, age, maybe

more. Potential remained hidden, possibly halting from the ridicule of ignorant kids and

their social stigmas. He just liked to impress, not to be the best, just to feel adequate.

There was never anyone to tell him that he did a good job unless he was in the classroom,

and only by a teacher. There were no test papers with giant “A’s” and gold stars

hanging from his fridge. And with praise often came from knowledge, attentively

acquired from attendance and active participation.

Nameless loved to learn new things. They fascinated him, brought different

ideas to light and expanded his world that he creatively kept organized in his mind.

Geography remained in one spot, mathematics sat in another, and English was placed at

the top shelf as science remained lost in the clutter. Different subjects came with

different capabilities with all minds, yet unlike his fellow peers (minus a select few), he

did not push them away but rather embraced them, nurtured these lessons, learning and

becoming into a brainiac kid that the less intelligent others often loved to target. It’s

never cool to be smart when we are kids and usually it’s too late when we learn that it’s

never smart to be cool at that age. We just did what we wanted, took the consequences,

and complained when we didn’t get it our way. Life isn’t fair. We just didn’t get it.

Nameless just couldn’t understand. Not about the fact that life wasn’t fair, he got

the idea of that early on from family and childhood poverty. The idea that he couldn’t

grasp was how his peers didn’t appreciate their education, that instead of encouraging

him to succeed, they wanted him to fail. Things don’t ever really change as society gets

older, but the questions remain even as answers become apparent. And it frustrated him,

to levels he couldn’t handle sometimes although he did, clenched in his teeth and tensed

in his fists, he remained passive and patient, hoping that maybe one day, they would

understand, and maybe one day, he would be worth something to them. Time doesn’t

settle well with children though. It always seemed forever for Christmas to pass by until

the years flash so quickly and soon its a few days away and we had hardly noticed.

At least he wasn’t completely alone. He had a few friends of whom he had given

labels rather than names. He called them: the Abuser, the Moocher, the Crackpot, the

Sloth, and the Impossible Crush. From what you could tell, not exactly the Ron or

Hermione. Maybe it’s harsh to completely disregard all the times they helped him out

like when the Abuser would harass him even more than the bullies, sacrificing a

“friend’s” self-esteem for his own. Or the time they helped him when he was in

financial need when the Moocher would take his food and money, complaining that he

wouldn’t need it anyways. And I suppose giving Nameless the attention he deserved by

going around with a survey with the question “Do you think Nameless will kill himself?”

was a great idea, Crackpot, brilliant idea actually. Good thing the Sloth was there to

never stop them, but rather encourage the acts. Nameless was obviously in good hands,

and from all these positive experiences, not once did the Impossible Crush stop following

him like a lost puppy in search for a love he would never return. Maybe a puppy was the

wrong word, more like rabid bunny eyeing one down like a diseased carrot that it just

cannot give up on, staring contently, patiently waiting to consume. Odd, not at all,

disturbing, beyond one could imagine.

It wasn’t a spontaneous act that he picked up writing during these times, people

all over the world coped with the fashion of creative words. And through his, he found

escape from all the chaos, from all the reality that he didn’t want to understand.

Explained why he was always found lost in the page; hand in risk of carpel tunnel from

all the pencils and pens melted on paper. He just couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. He

wrote notebooks all full of stories, tales, wars and battles, characters and enemies, all in

the attempt to block out the desks and students, always reaching an end of the small

journals, just to feel that there could not be an end. He wouldn’t allow it.

Eventually, he couldn’t handle it anymore. No amount of paragraphs blocked

together in unformatted clusters of letters could subdue the torture. He couldn’t handle

the bullies, the friends, the peers who stared, and how he was being mocked for being

different. It had consumed him and he desperately fought to climb back out to turn to a

new page in a different journal to make a change and write a new story. Maybe this time

he would focus on just one character, one setting, one story, and one goal. This time he

would learn how to format it, and this time it wouldn’t matter if he knew as others

ignored.