Sunday, December 17, 2006

 

Hundlegreth was sick of his job. He was a consultant for a large law firm in Manhattan. They'd call him in when a particularly sticky plea bargain required a spell of some kind. He'd been in the New York Times when he testified in the Mulroney murder case. Mike Mulroney had killed his business rival's wife using a spell from the Californian Book Of Darkness. Hundlegreth abhorred the stench of celebrity. He couldn't even go to the magic shop without some half assed pagan approaching him for a mystical autograph. One quiet Sunday he left his modest townhome for a walk. He needed to clear his head. He hadn't gone two blocks when a young girl with pink hair and a unicorn t-shirt spotted him.
"Hey! You're Hundlegreth! I'm a big fan."
The old warlock sighed, but put on his game face. "It's always nice to meet a fan," he told her. "I see you're wearing a unicorn shirt."
"Yeah, totally! Isn't it cool? Unicorns are such a source of power. I play one in a LARP that some of us do. I made the costume myself."
Something about this girl made Hundlegreth's gorge rise in him. She struck him as especially flaky. She was one of the people who gave magic a bad name. He could read people quite well, having been plying the dark arts for nearly five decades.
"I love unicorns too. Hey, you know what I like to do with unicorns?"
"No, what?"
"Fire up the grill and make some uniburgers. Come on over sometime."
The girl burst into tears. Hundlegreth smiled smugly to himself and continued on his walk.

by Anonymous 3:04 PM

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

 

More from the spam:

warlock on retainer

by Fred 2:35 PM

Monday, November 13, 2006

 

Russell had a theory, and it was one he didn't want to share with the doctors, but it was this: the cancer that was eating his mother from the inside, the disease that had started slowly in her lungs and then metastasized until, now, there wasn't anything left that a few more hours or days in a hospital bed would not erase completely -- this was all just a prelude, and there were many more terrible things yet to come. Russell didn't tell the doctors why he thought this, because he knew they would think he was crazy. He knew they wouldn't believe him, just as Sally hadn't believed him, just as his mother hadn't believed. At best, the doctors on his mother's floor would think he was distraught, overcome with grief...and there was that, but there was more. What Russell knew -- what he could not prove definitively, but knew, from hours and days hunched over microscope and slide -- was that his mother's cancer wasn't cancer, that the disease was more insidious and dangerous than that. It had happened to Sally, and maybe some of the others at the lab, and then to Russell's mother. And because they were designed to be invisible, undetectable, the nanobots in their bloodstreams were never seen, were not detected. It was only by luck that Russell made the connection: a late night at the lab when he was expected at home, an encrypted military file he'd stumbled upon by mistake. The nano-program wasn't even supposed to be up and running.

by Fred 9:13 PM

 

Some spam I got today:

the enormous weapon crushed her from inside

by Fred 9:12 PM

Monday, September 18, 2006

 

Feeling homeless.

by Christy 12:07 PM

Thursday, August 10, 2006

 

So it all started innocently enough; there I was, sitting at the bar polishing off the most recent in a series of beers provided by the smiling girl in the pink leather skirt. What was I doing there? Who knows.

Then this guy sits down on the stool next to mine, linen suit, dark glasses, real continental-like, and orders something foreign-sounding. The girl in the pink leather skirt smile faded just a little as she said she didn't know how to make it. Then he changed his order to a martini and her smile came back. Frankly, that was all I cared about right then anyway.

As the girl in the pink leather skirt sashayed off down the length of the bar, the foreigner leans over to me and whispers, "Have you ever considered becoming a bounty hunter?"

I have to admit, it caught me off guard. I mean, who the fuck talks like that to someone they never met? But right then, in the particular state of mind induced by darkness, cheap beer, and pink leather that I was in, it suddenly seemed like a damned fine idea. A fast car, sure. Guns, that would be a given. Trim, that would surely follow. So I guess you could say from that moment, I was in. But I didn't want to seem too eager, so I started off with, "Sure, who hasn't. Why?"

Linen Suit's lips pursed in a frown for a moment. "Not here. Too many people. Call me later." He passed me a card, threw a few bills on the bar, and left.

I looked down at the card. It was a light shade of brown, with that glossy sort of black lettering. D.T. Seraphin, it read. Taking Care of Business.

by Nyssa23 4:17 PM

 

taking care of business

by Nyssa23 4:17 PM

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

 

I will if you will.

by Fred 10:21 AM

Monday, June 19, 2006

 

You're not fooling me, you know.

by Fred 12:46 PM

Sunday, June 11, 2006

 

Hmm?
Your-
My what?
Your Phone.
My Phone What?
Your phone is.
My phone is what?
Your phone is charged.
My phone is charged with-?
Your phone is charged with larsony.
My phone is charged with larsony by?
Your phone is charged with larsony by me.
Why is my phone charged with larsony by you?
Your phone is charged with larsony by me because of something.
My phone is charged with larsony by you because what is missing?
Your phone is charged with larsony by me because my phone is missing.
My phone is charged with larsony because your phone is missing what?
Your phone is charged with larsony because my phone is missing its mother.
Well, I give up.
No me. I could do this all day.

by MisterNihil 12:43 PM

 

The Process By Which

by MisterNihil 12:40 AM

Thursday, June 01, 2006

 

A Sample From the Current Project

by MisterNihil 10:13 PM

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

 

Your future, organ maker

by Fred 10:51 AM

Monday, May 29, 2006

 

I screamed into the void, but,
being a void,
it didn't scream back.
It didn't do anything.
It wasn't even there.
All it was, was a lack,
a nothing, a zero,
the empty, the antithesis of being.
I think you can tell why I took to screaming.
If you scream into a void,
where does your voice go?
Does it fill up that lack,
take its place?
I know what you're thinking,
but it's not like an echo chamber.
Even that is a place.
Even that really is.
The lonely halls and vacant corridors that you imagine
Are not a void,
but a place
just waiting to be filled.
A void, by its nature a vacuum,
by definition nothing at all,
cannot be filled.
Just as true darkness is the absence of light
and not just a spot
where the light doesn't shine,
so too is a void
the absence of space,
the non-being of matter,
not just a hole in a place but the very definition of hole:
the apotheosis of nothing.
So I screamed,
and the void,
being a void,
might as well not have been there at all.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

Screaming into the Void

by MisterNihil 11:06 PM

Saturday, May 27, 2006

 

You Got to Green that Goddamn Grass

by MisterNihil 10:33 PM

Thursday, May 25, 2006

 

I looked over the horizon.
I saw the clouds, gathering. There was rain in those clouds, lord willing, but the sun might have to drink it up before the ground could call loud enough to bring it down.
The cows stood, unsure of what to do. Their keeper could not help them and the look in his face made it obvious even to them that he had no idea who could. The water refused to fall.
Wild wheat grew up the bank of the dry stock pond. The last, sickly four inches of water made mud out of the black clay soil, so good for growing scrub and grasses, so bad for coaxing cows out of the ground. The sunrise had suggested it had scraped by rain in some distant harbor, and maybe it could bring him around, if the invitation was open and there weren't going to be too many people. 'Rain, you know, isn't a social creature, by nature,' the clouds said, 'and we wouldn't want him around if he's not going to be kept entertained.'
How do you extend the invitation to rain? How do you say, without seeming desperate, 'yeah, bring him around, we've got plenty of cheese for everybody, and there's a girl here who says she's always wanted to meet rain?' How do you communicate such human pathos to an inhuman personafication in your own head?
How do you explain to the rain that the girl is your little girl, and that the rain she wants to see could save her life? Hell, anything could save her life, which is the Doctor's way of saying nothing can.
The cows glare at the sky, unable to wax wroth at it, and I look at the horizon, hoping against hope for a miracle that won't help.

by MisterNihil 11:25 PM

 

I think it was a cowboy song.

by Fred 7:08 PM

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

 

I'm gonna roll my baby into a ball
and put her next to me in the car
and blow this town.

We're gonna run south 'til it's north,
run down til we see the swamp,
see the far side of New Orleans

Leave the desert for swamps,
leave home for new days,
run circles around the sun,
put heaven on the end of a stick
and smack the devil on the side of his head.

Me and my baby, we're gonna outrun the clouds,
we're gonna leave the sun in our dust,
and play out the rest of the day
until all that's left is

her

and
me.

by MisterNihil 12:57 PM

 

I'm gonna roll my baby into a ball
and put her next to me in the car
and blow this town.

We're gonna run south 'til it's north,
run down til we see the swamp,
see the far side of New Orleans

Leave the desert for swamps,
leave home for new days,
run circles around the sun,
put heaven on the end of a stick
and smack the devil on the side of his head.

Me and my baby, we're gonna outrun the clouds,
we're gonna leave the sun in our dust,
and play out the rest of the day
until all that's left is

her

and
me.

by MisterNihil 12:57 PM

 

The tallest man in the room looks angrily at the rest of the partygoers. He walked in angry and has remained so. The young lady with whom he came is flirting shamelessly with an ugly man in a frock coat. The dip he brought remains untouched.
He turns to his left and begins to mutter quietly.
He comes around slowly, "mmrgh, mmlrgh, mnnlrgh, mnlrghff, mnlrghfffss, mmmrrhffss, mmmmhssss, mmssssss, ssssssss, sssnnrghx nhrlq'grth'thptp."
A swelling in his throat grows. His eyes roll back in his head, and he begins to disgorge a long, black shape. The head of the adder emerges from between his teeth, and the impossibly long snake pours out and onto the ground. The head touches the floor before the tail has cleared his mouth.
The rest of the partygoers began screaming as the snake moved between them, nipping at their heels. Where its mouth opened, a green fluid dripped to the carpet, making hissing holes where it landed.
It managed to bite a man nearby, who dropped to the floor and convulsed. His skin took on a black sheen, and began to form scales. His legs elongated, and one fell cleanly off, onto the floor. His arms fell off, and his body stretched until it was nearly fifteen feet long. His head shrunk and took in a diamond shape. He began to hiss, and slither along the floor, nipping at the rest of the guests.
The tallest man in the room glared at his date, grabbed his hat and headed out to the car.

by MisterNihil 12:25 PM

 

Snake

by MisterNihil 12:24 PM

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

 

The files showed, there was no change in his condition. He'd been in a hospital bed for three months, comatose and unchanging. He breathed, food was piped into his body, he expelled waste, and the sun rose and set 97 times in all, from the day he was admitted to the hospital to today.
He'd been checked in by his mother. She said he'd been eating things he found in the attic, and she'd found him on the couch, clutching his stomach and groaning, with a piece of pink insulation foam hanging out of the corner of his mouth. She rushed him to the hospital. He closed his eyes on the trip over and has not opened them again for 97 days.
His mother visited him twice in that time. She sat with him for three full days at the beginning, and three full days, two weeks later. She said she couldn't bare to look at him there.
The doctors pumped his stomach and found nothing. He'd said to his mother that he'd been eating things, but nothing turned up, either in the pump or on the x-ray which was performed later. The piece of insulation hanging out of his mouth was the only evidence he'd done anything stupid whatsoever.
For the first week of his residence in the hospital, the word prank made its uncomfortable way through the staff, whispered nurse to doctor to orderly to intern to reception to patient. Nobody could figure out what kind of prank this could be, but everyone had the feeling that something had been put over on them. Most of them were waiting for him to jump up and have a good laugh, even just to break the tension.
But, as the files showed, he remained unchanged. His breath was steadily regulated by machine. The sun rose and set, and he remained unmoving.

by MisterNihil 11:37 PM

 

I don't know about you, but words are pissing me off. They never mean exactly what you want them to mean. They do their own thing, or worse, do nothing at all. They hide on you. What word should I put here? Who knows? The words themselves aren't going to tell you. When it works, it works, and the mysteries of the universe are revealed in the proper placement of words. But most of the time, I'd say 99.99% of the time, nothing's revealed. No words, much less any meaning, much less any deep and true mysteries of the universe. The words, they don't come. They sit, wherever it is that words sit. Where do words sit? Word heaven? Writer's hell? It doesn't matter because they're not there, they're not on the page, bestowing meaning, offering insight, delighting, captivating, ordering themselves with precision and poise and dear god this is hard. Words. This is worthless. This isn't going anywhere. I recognize that. I know. I understand. These particular words in this particular order -- nobody wants to read them. Nobody will find meaning in them. Nobody's universe is opening up for them. Mine sure isn't. I'm putting words down because I'm hoping, I don't know why, that eventually the right words will come out, a meaning will suggest itself, a starting point, a breaking place, a thing, a word, a way. Don't read this. If you've started, if you've made it this far, stop. I'm writing just to keep my hands busy, trying to keep my mind not busy, working but not worrying about the work that won't come. Does this make any sense? I don't think so. Stop reading. Words fall from the sky like falling things, like sky things, like thing things. Thing thing thing. See how lame this is? See how awful the words can be to me? They're torturing me. I know what I want to say. But I don't know how to say it. Or maybe it's the other way around. Or maybe I don't know either and I'm just fooling myself. A smart man, a man with at least some modicum of pride, would delete this when he was done. What am I saying? A smart man wouldn't have gotten this far. He'd know how to corral the words. Even if not the right words, the right-enough words. That's always been my problem. I can't settle on the right-enough words. I can't settle on telling the story, even if I tell it badly. I want to be able to do that. I want to tell stories badly, if it only means that I manage to finish one. Damn it. Thing. Like a writer thing with a thing typer thing and the word thing that thinged thing the thinger things. Thing thing thing, thing thing! Smarts, pride -- these went out the window the moment I sat down and decided just to type, just to type, just to write and hope the words would come. I want to write and I don't know how to get past the moment that I've already written and I'm worried that I may never get past it and that I may have nothing in me but a supply of beginnings and that even those may be finite and flawed. I feel the words clogging my veins, or whatever it is that I want to describe. Building a wall? Breaking my brain? The image eludes me. The words taunt and tease and disappear. Stuck in inertia. (Tie it together, good man.) Not really grooving on but knowing that's the only way to ride it through. Can't stop inertia; have to ride it through.

by Fred 8:20 PM

 

grooving on inertia

by Fred 8:18 PM

Friday, May 19, 2006

 

The kids were running around the table, yelling about Cheerios. Well, to be honest, they were running around the table, yelling the word Cheerios. His eight-year-old, Lisa, was chanting "CHEERY," and four-year-old Bobby was following with "OHS!"
He sat in the vortex of swirling children, sipping his coffee and reading the headlines of the Statesman. Bobby slipped, but only missed one chorus. CHEERY! OHS! He sipped his coffee again, and absently patted Lisa's head as she passed by him. She dipped to the right, and shouted again.
He wondered idly why the dog hadn't come in. He'd heard the damn thing barking in the back yard on and off all night. It had finally shut up around four in the morning, but the neighbor dog had started in. It had, at least, shut up quickly.
"Alright, kids, alright. You're finished with your Cheerios. Let's get our shoes on and get moving."
"Noooooo! Daddydaddydaddydaddydaddy"
"cheerioscheerioscheerioscheerios"
He rounded them toward the pile of shoes by the front door, and helped tiny feet into miniscule shoes. They grabbed backpacks and lunch bags, a suitcase and a gym bag, and headed out for the car. He strapped Bobby into the back and Lisa into the front, and started out.
He drove down his street, then turned left onto the main street off of which the two others branched, making a neighborhood like a lopsided moth. To him it had always seemed like an upper- and lower-case D standing back to back, dD.
This morning, Lisa demanded that her window be open. He acquiesced (Why not?) There was a smell, like ozone, in the air, and something else. Something in it set his teeth on edge. He blamed the lovely summer morning sun, not yet deadly, but with evil in its stare.

by MisterNihil 3:55 PM

 

Tired of waiting. Picking a nonsense word off the list.

Lambastard

by MisterNihil 3:53 PM

Thursday, May 18, 2006

 

He rides the cry of the locust across the treeline, searching out the smells of the city. He's left a thousand cities like this one, and he knows what to look for.
Here it is. A single street, short, with two side streets looping off of it, making a single closed neighborhood. It makes a shape like a lopsided figure eight, a fiddler butterfly. Two lessers have been hiding in backyards of houses on the western side-street. They are giggling as he drops behind them, and their screams give him satisfaction as he seizes them.
They beg for mercy, to be allowed to run away. He devours them hungrily with a gleeful cackle at his own immortality.
He then sprays for most of a mile around.
this place is mine
He grins a toothy grin and settles in, ready for the work to begin in earnest.

by MisterNihil 10:00 PM

 

The Glass Jaw Syndrome

by MisterNihil 9:57 PM

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

 

The down from the cottonwood tree fell slowly across the lawn, blown by invisible winds with inscrutable motives. The garrison of bushes under the windowsill grasped for the fluff, but this one found parole and continued its jaunt undeterred.
The grass' growth was encouraged by enough rain and what would be a stifling heat for any but this tropical grass, which suffered in even the mildest of local winters, and it reached hungrily up to a sky that poured nutrition happily down onto its gratefully sucking worshipers.
A cicada cried from a tree nearby, rising and falling languidly, calling in the evening and hailing the slow death of another day. Clouds on the horizon crowded as if for a better view of the cottonwood tree in full bloom, and the sidewalk baking silently, and the spoor of July in Texas.

by MisterNihil 11:59 PM

 

Feigning Sleep

by MisterNihil 11:20 PM

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

 

Sprinkler System Joys

by Fred 8:42 AM

Sunday, April 30, 2006

 

Sprinkler System Woes

by MisterNihil 10:38 PM

Thursday, April 27, 2006

 

feeding frenzy

by ArchHallJr 3:21 PM

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

 

I was in high school, but rarely. Most of my days were spent in Manhattan, hanging out with the kids who went to Stuyvesant. We'd sit around on Wall, or go to Pizza... for some reason we got into the habit of dropping articles.

We'd take turns taking custody of Book. Book was one of those cheap marble composition books. The pages were filled with doodles and snippets of writing, and newspaper clippings and things. When Book was full, someone started Book II. Someone put a sticker on the front of Book II that said "Hello, my name is Exodus".

The kids who went to Stuy were, for the most part, pretty well-off. Or, at least their parents were. One kid would spring for enough pot for everyone every Friday, on the condition that we smoked it out of a piece of fruit. We'd started simply - a hollowed-out apple, an orange with a piece of well-perforated tin foil as a bowl/filter combo - then it started getting really outlandish. I can't remember if we actually made it to watermelon, or if someone decided that it might look a little suspect if someone saw us taking turns kissing a watermelon and passing it. Yeah, that's right... we smoked in public. We were such rebels, or something.

We'd take the subway up to Central Park and hang out in the Sheep Meadow until it started getting dark. We'd smoke some more, and play hackey sack, or frisbee. We'd watch the clouds illustrate the melodramas of our lives as we discussed them.

Teenagers have a sense of how transient experiences are, while simultaneously feeling like every moment is the most important and lasting event that will ever happen.

Am I homesick for New York, or for adolescence? Would one be as much on its own without the other? Could I enjoy either, or even both as much with what I know today? Meh, screw that. This moment is much more lastingly important than those ever were, and it's almost over.

by Jess 11:02 PM

 

homesick

by ArchHallJr 4:17 PM

Monday, April 24, 2006

 

"Would sir like to see a menu?"
"No thank you, James. I'm well aware of your selection. Just bring me a cognac for now, I'll think over my order."
"Of course, sir. May I bring sir some food?"
"No. I think I'll be better off on an empty stomach, James."
"Of Course, sir."
His footsteps tapped away, and I sat at my table and pondered. Modern simulation technology being what it was, they could pull up anything I wanted, but one had to be tasteful in a hign class joint like this. Earlier that week, I'd had an idea. I just had to come up with the right situation. Probably a wacky farse, but then one had to be flexible. I was thinking of Jane Austen and Dulcinea, probably in a tavern, and probably too intoxicated to see reason. Yes, this evening could be pleasant, if I played my cards right. I signaled James over, and began making out the order card.

by MisterNihil 11:00 PM

 

protagonist sandwich

by ArchHallJr 3:30 PM

Saturday, April 22, 2006

 

“No, I do not prefer.”

“Well, what would you prefer?”

“How about you get off my fucking back?”

Silence filled the room. Never before had a sitting president been heard to utter the “f word” in public.

“What you fucking bastards don’t ever stop to realize is how hard I actually work at this post. What time do you get to go to bed at night? Midnight? Well congrat-u-fucking-lations! I can’t remember the last time I went to bed at midnight!”

A stir began to move around the place, stifled at first. Then it began to gather steam. People didn’t quite believe what they were hearing.

“Fucking A! You’re fucking a right you’re hearing what you’re hearing! I’m sick and tried of this shit! Day in, day out! ‘He doesn’t know what he’s doing!’ ‘He lied about this!’ ‘He lied about that!’ ‘He’s stupid!’ Let me ask you good-for-nothing sacks of shit this: have you got anything positive to add? Do you think maybe, just maybe, the old man got to this position because he just might be worth a damn? Don’t answer that – Larry? The slides!”

The room went dark and the first slide came up.

“I think this presentation will make it self more than abundantly clear that I know exactly what I am doing and where I am taking this company!”

Gasps filled the room as the first graph showed first quarter profits exponentially larger than were projected at the last shareholder’s meeting. It was a thing of pure capitalistic beauty. Then the pie chart showing which holdings had fared the best. Again, silence filled the room.

“What are you gawking at? The pornography division? Larry, these people are fucking killing me! Aren’t they the ones who always bitching about diversifying?!?”

“Yes, but sir . . . don’t people expect more of Exxon-Mobil corporation?”

“Now we’re really screwin’ ‘em!”

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

If You Prefer, Mister President...

by MisterNihil 11:11 PM

Friday, April 21, 2006

 

The list always started out small. But as the items were carefully loaded into the various containers, it became clear that practicality was not the order of the day. An overnight trip for the normal person would contain a change of clothes, undergarments, socks, an accessory or two and toiletries. All of which would easily fit into gym bag or small valise if you wanted to ensure the clothing to remain fairly wrinkle-free. An overnight trip for Ward Franklin took nearly 5 hours to prepare for. At least one hour to write up the list. One hour to check over the list. An hour spent arranging the items for storing. The last two were spent packing, unpacking and packing over and over until the items had achieved pe4fect symmetry within the case. Was Ward a perfectionist? No. He was just precise and did not suffer failure in his life. Not when it was something he could affect. It was all right if others collapsed in the face of life’s pressures but not him.
As they strapped him into the gurney and began to lift him into the ambulance, he told the EMTs that if they moved the oxygen tank over about two inches to the left, they would have more room to place the monitoring machine so they could read his flat lining pulse more efficiently.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

It had been a hard winter all around, but not so hard that the snows, which fell evenly for some minutes each morning and evening.
The young men awoke before the first snowfalls, broke fast, and waited for the sky to open up. After the precipitation had stopped, they took up their shovels and picks, and went to the mines. They dug until the afternoon snows signaled the end of the work day, then they went back to their homes. There, they took dinner, complained to the various ladies of the various houses about what a hard life it had been, and drifted off to bed.
On Saturdays, the miners took their children out to the snowy parks and ran without gusto across the drifts of snow. The young ones threw snowballs and built snow men. Saturday, the wasted day of the week, was one in which the adults seemed to watch the children, but actually kept wary eyes on the ground, watching for any signs of movement.
The mines lay fallow on Saturday, and so were shut up tight by the foremen. Large, steel doors were closed on the entrances; the carts and shovels were carefully packed into rooms with tight seals around the entryways and no windows. The ramshackle outbuildings common around the mouths of many mines were absent from these. In their place stood modern-looking buildings with actual foundations of thick concrete, no windows, and very snugly placed door fittings. A stray breeze could not penetrate.
To be locked in one of these very nearly air-tight buildings was to be condemned to a slow, stuffy death as the air became more and more stale. A grown man would breathe through the air to the point of discomfort in six short hours. Paranoia would set in, followed by panic, each eating up more air, and death would follow in another three hours. This was all theory, of course. None of it had been tested, but the salesman, confused at the order for airtight outbuildings, had warned them. Should the odd errant hobo become trapped in one of these buildings, the salesman warned, he would not be held liable.
An engineer in the town that sprouted near the mines, would have noted that all the buildings had unusually thick foundations, and well-fitted doors and windows. No drafts moved through these homes.
On the occasional Saturday, as the townspeople sat, warily watching, a panic would ensue as a green sprout pushed up through the snow, experiementally sniffing the air for signs of spring. This happened more and more rarely since the policy of salting the ground was put into place.
None of them wanted the Plants to come back. They all knew what that would mean. They lived in fear of pollen drifts and seed dispersion, and with good reason. They knew what the Plants could do. They had all been in Pleasanton the summer the Plants moved in. They had all seen old Mr. Frosch, only it wasn't exactly Mr. Frosch, standing with a bloody axe and a look in his eye that said anyone nearby would get more of the same.
They'd run up to the mountains to wait it out, living in the snow, where the Plants could not take root, waiting for the day they could stop watching the surface of the snow for the green shoots.

by MisterNihil 10:53 PM

 

equipment list

by ArchHallJr 4:57 PM

Thursday, April 20, 2006

 

The obliteration was not wholly complete, but damned near. Literally damned because what was left was being sent straight to hell. The person whose life this soul belonged to was one of such evil and perversion that there was no alternative but to keep it from paradise through the necessary channel. The energized fragments of soul that littered the ground at the way station were white-hot. As the angel went to scoop them up for the journey to the Eternal Flames, they jumped and sputtered away from the collector, for they knew what their final destination was. But it was to no avail, the collector had been doing this since the fires of Hades were first stoked. The screams of pain and horror from the immortal remains were quite enough to shake the strongest of the God-fearing. It was never what you expected. It was far worse. To listen to the lamentations of the damned before the passage to the infernal domains made one wish for an expedited end to the dreadful clamor. There was no way to describe it and thank the Lord there wasn’t.

The searing never ended for the imperiled soul. It couldn’t be helped for it could not stand in the face of the Beatific Vision and remain intact. Doomed to an infinite existence of punishment as no one in the mortal realm could possibly imagine, the terrible reality of the whole situation was unbearable and could not be gotten used to. There was no respite for the wicked. There was no comfort at all but if one were to recognize anything at all that would resemble something like it, the pain was of the highest level from the very beginning. The screams of forever never wavered from the utmost degree.

by ArchHallJr 11:55 PM

 

soul fragments

by ArchHallJr 3:55 PM

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

 

This chapter of your life is complete. Turn the page. The beautiful thing is you get to write what happens next! Your dramatis personae are all ready for you to assign them roles, so get cracking! One word of warning before you begin, though. Your characters may not (and often do not) say what you want them to say. Heavy editing will be necessary in order for you to achieve the best balance in dialogue you are hoping to achieve. For example:

“Jim, you look terrific today! What’s your secret?”

May actually come out as:

“Holy fuck, Jim! You look like shit. Ever hear of a razor?”

Obviously, you’ll need to tailor passages like that a tad.

There are also narrative issues. Like this one:

The night was just getting started for Jim and Nancy. They entered the bedroom in the heat of passion, pulling off each other’s clothes as they crashed on the bed. There, they made mad, passionate love until the sun came up.

Actually happened thusly:

Jim and Nancy didn’t say a word on the way home from the party. Jim had had too much to drink and started to flirt a bit overzealously with Nancy’s best friend, Sue. By the time they reached home, they were very tired but ready for a bit of make-up sex. Well, Nancy was ready. After she prepared for sleeping, she found Jim in a coma on the bed, snoring so loudly as to wake the neighbors.

Turn the page and write your story the way you want it!

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

turn the page

by ArchHallJr 2:51 PM

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

 

I'm doing my rounds, see? It's what I do every day. I trot out the door, and scamper down the stairs. The stairs are safe - if they weren't, I'd have smelled it. I barely give those stairs even a fraction of my attention, because the the grass awaits. I need to smell that grass.

Mmmhmm. There's been a squirrel here, and... here. She sat here for a bit. She was probably casing the joint. Can't trust them squirrels, that's what I always say. So the squirrel's been back, but there is no dog smell. That's good. I would be seriously upset if there'd been another dog around here. Still, I'm not liking this squirrel smell. I'd better cover it up. 'Sides, I drank quite a bit of water a few minutes ago, if you catch my drift. Ahhh, that's better.

Okay, so the grass is covered. Now I have to move on to the flowers. They smell taller today. Good work, flowers. Carry on.

Now the bushes... wait a minute! This is new! What's this big boxy thing here? It's dark in there. It smells like... new. I don't like that smell. Then again, smelling like new is better than smelling like squirrel, I guess. Well, I think rounds are done for today. I'll go back into the house.

Hmm, door's closed. I'll bark and tell them to open it... They're not opening it. This is most disconcerting. Where am I supposed to sleep?

Oh well, I guess I'll just have to make that boxy thing smell less like new. Works out for the best, I guess... gives me an opportunity to guard against that squirrel. I'll hide in that dark boxy thing, and wait for her to sit there watching the house, and when she least expects it... MUAhahaha.

Yeah, I like this plan.

by Jess 7:23 PM

 

He was running as fast as he could. That which chased him was going to catch up if he didn’t keep up his current pace. His thoughts hammered away at his conscious self, desperate to help him keep his edge, and ultimately, his life. The range was quite bizarre and if one were to lay bare his contemplations, they would be perplexed at the differences of the gamut. This was just as well. If he were to dwell on the horrors that pursued him, he may have become paralyzed with fear; unable to continue on with his survival.

The sun was setting. The final photons were reaching through the atmosphere, pushing light in lesser quantities. The darkness would serve his purpose even further. If one cannot be seen, it is more difficult to be caught. If he could only hold on for a little while longer, his fate may not be to be swallowed whole by what seeked him as it’s quarry but rather become disinterested in him instead and give up the chase. He prayed for this.

No more light left, straight into the darkness now. From his third eye, he sensed the lumbering mass behind seemingly getting smaller while he grew stronger. He began to rejoice! Practically out of the woods. He had reason to live now and live the way he saw fit. Nothing could change that at this point. Only his perceptions of what was around him would damage the reality of what he had created for himself.

by ArchHallJr 3:53 PM

 

straight into darkness

by ArchHallJr 9:16 AM

Monday, April 17, 2006

 

My quixotic attention to detail is all too apparent with this one. What grabs one first are the colors. Above, a mish-mash of bright hues augur a promise of earth tones lying just below the surface. No, it was not conventional. But I never strive to be conventional. It is always my intention to make conventions. And when everyone else is using those, I’ll break them as well.

Forget for a moment everything you know about the subject. You are devoid of the knowledge you have obtained over the years; a neophyte. Take another look at it. At first, you’ll be thinking how ugly it is. But upon second and third glance, you will notice the subtle beauty. It rises high at one angle, yet slopes downward rather violently opposite. And what are the raised indentations off to the one side. They look like miniature tank obstacles from WW II. Is it form over function or vice versa . . . or both? See what you can make of it yourself. This is art. And this is also practicality. Who needs a fork?

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

specialty dish

by ArchHallJr 3:17 PM

Thursday, April 13, 2006

 

When I was a child, I could fly. The ground would skim below me, just beneath my feet, and I would rush forward, toward the destination of the moment. I moved so purposefully in whatever direction I was heading. Sometimes, I flew up to the top of a jungle gym. Sometimes I jumped off the high platform near the sliding pole, and instead of landing violently on my toes, knees and palms like the other children, I swam down gracefully, in ever-forward motion, shark-like.

My feet were always dimly aware of the presence of the ground just below them as I moved, as if I were a hovercraft pushing air downward to compensate for my weight... or as if the ground pushed me away from it, hurt that I had spurned its draw, petulant about my indifference.

Every night I flew, and every day I knew that I could fly. I never tried it during the day, because it never occurred to me that I might not. It never occurred to me to wonder if I could during the day, to test it. My confidence in my power of flight overrode conscious thought.

I mourn the loss of flight. I am now aware that I can't fly in wakefulness. I find it ever more difficult to fly in dreams. Of all of the aspects of my youth that I miss, I miss flying the most.

by Jess 7:58 PM

 

It should have been easy. It wasn’t. After the surgery, nothing was. The most simple tasks were suddenly gargantuan undertakings. It was most disconcerting. My whole life, everything came easy to me. And I do mean everything. Mental, physical, spiritual, animal, vegetable or mineral. I could do it all. Show me once if I didn’t know how and I became instantly proficient at it. So it isn’t too hard to understand why depression set in so rapidly.

I climbed on. Or rather, tried to climb on. Too many times to count. Each try resulted in the same consequence. I was flat on my ass. The bitch of it was really not if I could get on, but what I would do once (and if) I did.

After a particularly painful fall, I sat and pondered my first childhood experience with the endeavor. Did I fall nearly as many times? No, of course I didn’t. In fact, I don’t think I fell at all. After all, I am the master learner.

I stood up, one last time, determined to reach my goal. I got the first leg over! Success! I placed my feet in the pedals. It’s a good thing this thing is stationary because I’m ready to ride the hell out of it.

by ArchHallJr 4:59 PM

 

Do you even remember how?

by Fred 1:12 PM

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

 

That’s what the voices are saying to me. And that’s why I’m writing. Not as active as I once was or should be but since I’ve started writing at 600 again, I hear the voices. What’s that? I, too, can be ignored by 99.999999% of the Internet? I’m totally there. It’s cool. I don’t write for anyone but me. Oh, and the old guy next door. And his dog. And his crisper. But other than that, I write for me. The voices also say that one of the benefits of being an active participant on 600 seconds aside from being ignored by countless millions, millions who couldn’t give a cuss about who you are or what you are writing about, is how to craft a very uninteresting, overlong and grammatically incorrect run-on sentence. It is in writing these horrifically elongated diatribes that one learns how to avoid being laughed at when future manuscripts, in which your hopes and dreams reside, are submitted to publishers for inclusion in their catalog or periodical(s). Why the hell not use this exercise as a way of getting the rough edges polished. Journals are good for that and one must not forget about their Strunk and White. Ah, the benefits of being an active 600 seconds participant. My creativity beckons, yet I cannot get around this limitation. I’m going to give myself 605 seconds. Fire me.

by ArchHallJr 4:22 PM

 

"There are untold benefits to being an active 600 seconds participant."

by Fred 11:51 AM

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

 

I’m not sure what clued me in first but I did have some idea of where I was before I heard the words, “Welcome to Castle Bozo.” Perhaps it was the tiny car parked out front. Perhaps it was the door knocker that squirted me with water when I went to use it. Maybe it was the rubber chickens lying about inside the fence. I really can’t say. I knew a clown lived here. I just didn’t know it was THE clown. For all I knew, it was Emmett Kelly’s place. Or Ronald McDonald. Or even the more obscure Boffo. I suppose the red, white and blue motif should have been a clue . . . but he could have just been a real patriotic American. So when the ‘butler’ pulled my suspenders, threw a cream pie in my face and stepped on my foot while welcoming me, I knew I had reached the end of a long journey. I thought I was prepared. I had no idea.

It appeared that as Bozo had grown long in the tooth, his taste for the clowning game had gone sour. I was shown to his drawing room to find a shriveled-up mouse of a man, sitting on a crushed velvet chair with his legs propped up on an ottoman watching a very large plasma TV. On the screen were several split screens of various cable news channels. Gone from his face was the trademark makeup of his famous jokester days of yore.

“The news sobers me, kid. I’ve spent my whole life laughing and making other people laugh. I just want to spend my autumn years in dire seriousness.” he said.

I didn’t know what to say. Or if I should say anything at all. It was creepy.

“You’ve come a long way. Please be my guest and stay the night.” he offered.

“I would be honored, Mr. Bozo.” I accepted.

“That name,” he sternly countered, “Has no meaning for me any more. Please refer to me as Captain Somber.”

by ArchHallJr 2:28 PM

 

"Welcome to Castle Bozo."

by ArchHallJr 9:37 AM

Monday, April 10, 2006

 

I rummaged through the desk looking for something, anything to eat. The problem is that I keep nothing in my desk. Well, nothing edible anyway. There was the box of paper clips; which may have come in handy as a toothpick if I found something to eat. Sure my dentist would squirm like a cat in a Chinese restaurant but it would do the trick. And what was this I found next? Armour Potted Meat Food Product? I’d heard stories and did not believe them until that moment. It must have been left over from the previous tenant of my office. Why did he leave it? It has a shelf life of million years or so. Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen carrying through the workplace? Everyone would see his love for fare so vile, even hobos shun it? I said screw it. I was hungry. I pulled back the tab and gave it a whiff. Not nearly as repulsive as I thought it might be. I dipped my finger in and gathered up a generous amount on my index fingertip. I stared at it, contemplating the moment. Was I going to do it? Was I actually going to eat what looked like vomit paste?

I was.

I did.

I’m hooked.

by ArchHallJr 9:35 PM

 

paper clips and potted meat food product

by ArchHallJr 2:24 PM

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

 

A little spring in your step is all you need. Yes. But how to bring that about I wonder? The obvious answer would be to walk from winter straight on into spring but that would be too obvious. I know. A positive thought is needed first. What is the happiest image you can muster up in your head? A laughing baby always does the trick for me. The smile starts ever so subtly. A twitch at the corner of the mouth. The dimples form . . . a smile! The breathing intensifies. A chuckle starts. It sounds like a sneeze is beginning. And then the laughter breaks free of the tiny body in spasms of delight!

Are you springing yet? No?

An odor comes wafting in your door. You pause with a strange look on your face. What is it? It isn’t unpleasant, but it’s not common. Your eyes begin to squint as you try and place what your olfactory sense is experiencing. Your belly growls as you identify a slightly sweet component to the aroma, but that’s it. Nothing definitive. Your curiosity must now be satisfied. You have to know what it is. You rise from your chair, leave your office and head for the most obvious source of the intriguing scents. The kitchen. There on the table, you take in with breathless anticipation the object of your sojourn out of world of work. A pie. But what flavor? You know apple. You know pumpkin. Hell, you even know rhubarb. But the pie lies before you unmolested, virgin. A serving knife waits innocently next to the pan.

Pick it up.

by ArchHallJr 2:54 PM

 

spring in your step

by ArchHallJr 11:28 AM

Monday, April 03, 2006

 

It’s not dead. The lives are complicated. They run over things we want to do. Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves. God forbid we should do anything that gives us pleasure. Or help us along with a healthy balance. Death has been in the air and has cast a rather nasty gloom over the prospect. It cannot be, especially with this. It will not be allowed to occur, not if I can do anything for it. The commitment should be firm, yet has grown soft. The passion is there, but for other things. The words flow, but in other places. And the mystery as to the why . . . remains as such.

No, it cannot be allowed to happen. So I help man the station. I’ll grease the rails. I’ll dust the corners. I’ll set out food and drink for the visitors. I’ll help my friend. For it is in this place that I can learn to live with who I am, who we are and where we are going. Through the chasms of my mind, I can make out a great light. There are shadows blocking some of the brilliance, but it is there. I must continue on the journey. And the journey demands I stand in one place, lighting the candles and preparing my countenance for receiving the criticisms, the folly, the charm and the strain. It is all joy. And it is pain.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

When and why did it die?

by Fred 7:43 PM

Friday, March 17, 2006

 

rethink

by Fred 2:05 PM

Monday, March 06, 2006

 

Don't tell me what to do, just let me do it.

by Fred 3:09 PM

Friday, March 03, 2006

 

What happens next
Hasn't happened before --
Except that one time it happened --
Was it twice? Three times or four?
I just can't remember.
It's happening again.
It happens a lot --
Just this once (but times ten).
It happens to be
That what's happening now
Hasn't just happened along --
It wouldn't know how.
No, what happens next,
These days yet to come,
May have happened before,
But it's best to play dumb.

by Fred 12:34 PM

 

What happens next?

by Fred 12:33 PM

Saturday, February 25, 2006

 

Memphis

by Christy 3:42 PM

Thursday, February 23, 2006

 

"We now pause for station identification."

by Fred 3:47 PM

Friday, February 17, 2006

 

Can't you imagine that you're in this field, and this teeeeny bunny comes up to you, and she's all; "Come with me! I'll show you the secret bunny burrow—we'll be safe there! But we must hurry!"

by Fred 2:55 PM

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

 

Jealousy

by Christy 11:18 PM

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

 

love

by Fred 2:23 PM

Monday, February 13, 2006

 

A higher tolerance for deviance.

by Christy 1:49 AM

Friday, February 10, 2006

 

"What the hell is wrong with New York?" That was the first thing she said to me after 15 years of absense. No "Hello." No "How you doin'" Not even the "I've missed you," that I'd been hoping for.

"What are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with New York."

"But there is," she said. "Don't tell me you don't see this. It wasn't like this when I left." She pointed impatiently toward the George Washington Bridge.

"You've been gone a long time, Grace, maybe you're not remembering things right."

I leaned down to kiss her, but she was already clearly annoyed with me, and pushed me gently away from her. Damn, that didn't take long. I figured I'd indulge her a little and, maybe, sometime this century I might actually get that kiss.

I looked in the direction she pointed, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary except for a pair of worn out tennis shoes that had been knotted together and tossed over a lamppost. Vaguely Stephen-Kingish, I thought, but nothing that should cause her to react the way she was.

by Christy 11:57 PM

 

What the hell is wrong with New York?

by Christy 9:44 PM

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

 

In his dreams, he's still reading the book. And in his dreams, he still doesn't know how it ends.

In real life he knows. Of course he knows. He's the most powerful man in the world. he'd read the book plenty of times, maybe ten. That's if you count some of the summaries his aides have written up, and of course he counts those. Of course they count. He's heard some of his aides suggest they don't, but it's just like in school when people said Cliffs Notes didn't count. He never passed a test when he went with the book instead of the Cliffs Notes. Nowadays, he's a busy man -- busiest there is -- and so he's got good people, his best people, working on the summary-ization. He thinks that's the word.

It's not a long book, but you'd be surprised how long you can sit reading a book even if the words aren't real big like in some of them.

Like in his dreams, where he's still sitting there in that classroom, reading it for the first time, marveling at the pictures for so long he's pretty sure time itself must be getting close to run out. The whole world could be ending around him, and in his dreams all he ever sees is that book. The end never gets any closer. It never gets any more read. Somebody whispers in his ear, he thinks, and the kids all look at him, like they're waiting for him to finish. But in his dreams he never does. My Pet Goat just stretches on forever and ever.

It's a long book in disguise, is what he's thinking.

He's tried asking his aides if maybe they can do something about it, like ban the book or get the publisher rounded up in some kind of prison or camp. Don't they have camps for this sort of thing? He's a powerful man. He should be able to take care of this. For closure, at least. A divided nation needs its closure. But his aides all said it was illegal. They thought he was joking.

So at night he still dreams about the book.

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

Your pet goat is missing. There are eight likely, yet extremely different, suspects.

by Fred 9:46 AM

Sunday, February 05, 2006

 

"I promise it's not always going to be this way," Judy said, and she fiddled with the windshield wiper speed control. The rain had been coming down in spurts; a slow drizzle, then a torrent. We were traveling now through a dense fog lit only by street lamps glowing like UFOs lined up far above us. Whenever the weather is like this I feel dead, removed. I didn't answer her, and she drove in silence for a while longer, trying to stay focused on the double yellow stripe that seemed to fade into nothingness a mere ten feet from the front of the car.

It wasn't that I wasn't paying attention to her. It was just there was nothing else to say. That things had to change was part of the problem, I knew it and she knew it. It was just that we didn't know how it'd change. Every time I visited, she was glad to see me. Every time I left, she seemed glad to get rid of me. I had mentioned this to her this morning before coffee, depressed and touchy as our last few hours slipped by. It had hurt her, which was part of the reason I had done it, of course. She protested that it wasn't true, that she really cared for me, and then she helped me pack. Sanitized every corner of her apartment of signs of my presence.

"I'm really going to leave Richard." she said as she pulled up to the curb to let me out. "It's just... now is a bad time."

"I understand," I said, although I think what I understood and what she wanted me to understand were two different things. She popped the trunk and helped me unload my suitcase. Then she kissed me goodbye.

"I love you," she said. But at that moment an airplane came in low for a landing, making conversation impossible. So I just picked up my suitcase and headed for my gate.

by John W. 4:11 PM

Friday, February 03, 2006

 

"I promise it's not always going to be this way."

by Christy 2:07 PM

Thursday, February 02, 2006

 

[removed by author]

by Fred 6:31 PM

 

birthday cake

by Fred 11:10 AM

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

 

What do you do with a jelly robot?

by Fred 3:00 PM

Monday, January 30, 2006

 

swing

by Fred 1:41 PM

Friday, January 27, 2006

 

For the well-bred Antelian of sophisticated taste and not immodest means, travel amongst the ape-men colonies in orbit around Sol may very well be regarded as the very height of bourgeois foolishness, the sort of ill-advised activity of only the most desperate and penniless of thril-seekers. True, it is said that for a mere half Antelian dollar, one can buy one's own weight in roast or boiled human meat (no small feat if one is a male in the last stages of pregnancy) or see the so-called civilizations that dot the dirty planets. Gone are the days of sweeping from the sky to raid cattle herds or implant tracking devices within human craniums for scientific study. All that can be learned thusly, has. All those trills are gone. Yet there is still much for the traveller of refined taste. There is much to recommend even tiny Earth, following discovery of the Antelian presence there and forced first-contact with rhe natives. There are opportunities for the well-seasoned and even jaded traveller.

by Fred 6:33 PM

 

the science of language

by Fred 11:30 AM

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

 

Q: What did the old woman whisper in your ear?

A: Nothing, save what I knew to be the truth already. All she whispered, I had learned either in my travels or my studies. What she said held no surprises. I had heard that many men called her prophet, seeress, and lord knows she looked the part. But her prophecies were little more than common sense cobbled to the most obvious of truths.

Q: Such as?

A: Such as that, on a cloudy day, one should have the foresight to take along an umbrella. That one should never fear to rest along life's path to smell the roses. She actually said that. That open holes should be avoided and walked around. This was the sum of the knowledge she imparted, or at the least a good representation of its average.

Q: So she said nothing new?

A: She took cliches and clothed them in new words, but they were still cliches. It's not much prophecy to say look before you leap.

Q: Unless you will find yourself in the future at the base of a cliff.

A: Then tell me that. Tell my future. Don't give me generalities. Don't give me cliches. Tell me something new and specific to me. Be cryptic yes, but not trite.

Q: Did you ask for your money back?

A: She didn't want any. It's the root of all evil, she said. Again with the cliches!

by Fred 5:32 PM

 

What did the old woman whisper in your ear?

by Fred 11:43 AM

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

 

Please don't get me started
If it has to end like this
Don't leave me broken-hearted
Without so much as one chaste kiss
If it's fate we must be parted
If leaving me is heaven's wish
Then fate, I say, must sure be thwarted
Though it be an awful risk
For my only hope is now imparted
Don't let's start ending up like this

by Fred 5:55 PM

 

Don't let it end like this.

by Fred 1:39 PM

Monday, January 23, 2006

 

Don't get me started.

by Fred 5:05 PM

Friday, January 20, 2006

 

She stands on the shoreline,
and all the little fish swim in to meet her.
They risk the shallows to swim at her feet.
They risk not being able to breathe.
But they know her pretty well --
she used to sell seashells, after all --
and they're not worried she might let them drown in all that emptiness and air.
The lack of water can be a frightening thing to a fish,
though it's never made much sense to her.
Gills help fish pull oxygen from water,
yet they also make it impossible
for them to pull oxygen from the air:
blood from a stone but no blood from blood itself.
It seems terribly inefficient.
But this isn't her ocean;
it isn't even her shore.
She's just there to visit, dipping her toes.

by Fred 11:59 PM

Thursday, January 19, 2006

 

It's nap time in the future.
Everybody is well rested;
everybody gets the state-sanctioned eight hours;
nobody thinks bad thoughts;
nobody gets cranky.
The official word isn't mind-control;
nobody talks like that anymore;
no one cast aspersions;
no one says bad things.
People are perfectly happy to dream what they can;
more than that is asking too much.
The government has been very generous:
images, thoughts, memories, dreams --
everybody gets the recommended allowance.
Nobody's dream-starved;
nobody wants for anything.
It's nap time in the future.

by Fred 5:03 PM

 

letting the government fund your dreams

by Fred 9:23 AM

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

 

As a younger man, he experimented with laughing gas. It started off as a lark but you know what they say about nitrous. It’s a gateway gas. Soon after the experimentation started it became . . . something else. The aural hallucinations, the head rush and the euphoria was like food. One day he was at the headshop buying whippets and someone asked him if he’d like to take a hit off the helium tank. Most of the time, his already high-pitched voice sounded like Mickey Mouse on 78 rpm after that. No one knew how he got the job at Air Products with that voice, but he did. He sampled every gas known to man and even mixed a few himself. Eventually, he tapered off and started drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon.

by ArchHallJr 9:07 PM

 

He wasn't much like other boys.
He didn't care for sports.
He climbed bookshelves instead of trees,
Built weird machines, not forts.
His mother worried for his health,
But he earned top grades in every class.
As a young man he experimented
With lobotomies and laughing gas.
They left his mark and made his name
The envy of his peers.
Long would they recall the scars,
Long laughing, well past tears.
He went away one year to school,
To great Oxford or such like,
Where he studied all the -ologies:
Socio-, theo-, and psych-.
But never did his former glory
This poor young boy reclaim.
Good think the lobotomies and laughing gas
Had left him quite insane.

by Fred 5:06 PM

 

As a younger man, he experimented with laughing gas.

by Fred 7:53 AM

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

 

lethal farce

by ArchHallJr 3:43 PM

Monday, January 16, 2006

 

“You’ve got red on you.”

“What? Impossible! I hate red! Where?”

“It’s on your ass.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Well, don’t. I hardly think you believe that I would deceive you about something so trivial.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, alright. You got me. I’m lying to you. You don’t have a large red ink stain on your right ass-cheek pants pocket. There. I feel so much better for coming clean.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“Whatever. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you just go to the bathroom and have a look.”

“I think you just want me to go to the bathroom.”

“And why would I want you to do that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Einstein. I know you hate me and would do anything to get rid of me.”

“So my master plan to rid myself of you involves lying about an ink stain on your butt and some dastardly trap in the restroom?”

“A-HA!”

“Dear God.”

“You’re just trying to misdirect me!”

“Let me allay your fears. I don’t harbor any ill will toward you and even if I did . . . I still wouldn’t want to do away with you. Least ways in a public toilet.”

“Hmmm . . . maybe I’m just being paranoid?”

“Maybe you are.”

“I should probably go to the bathroom and try and blot this ink stain out, huh?”

“If it were my ass . . .”

“OK, OK . . . I got you. Thanks for looking out for me. That meeting in a half hour . . . well, let’s just say that it wouldn’t look too good if I walked in there like this.”

“See? I’m on your side. Wait, where are you going?”

“To the restroom.”

“You can’t use the one on this side of the building, remember? They’re remodeling it.”

“A-HA!!!!”

“Dear God.”

by ArchHallJr 8:27 PM

 

"You've got red on you."

by ArchHallJr 1:51 PM

Friday, January 13, 2006

 

I love her. By God and all that’s holy, I surely do. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, my feelings. I wasn’t even supposed to be involved. But as anyone knows, love has a way of hitting you in the face and screaming, “I’m here!” She is no angel. Her husband tells her this by his actions and words on a daily basis. Is this the reasoning behind my growing adoration? That’s funny; I used the word ‘reasoning’. Reason or not, who could say? And yes, she is married. But the marriage is a sham. A thing that only exists on paper. Neither one of them is faithful to the other. So why are they married? Appearance? They aren’t fooling anyone who’s watching them. If anything, it builds the cases against them further and easier. He’s a killer. She’s . . . she’s . . . I don’t know what she is but she is definitely guilty of something. But I will take her from this life and give her dignity, honesty and true love. Things she has never been accustomed to from what I’ve observed. But the husband . . . how can I get rid of him? The law I’ve sworn to uphold will not forgive me if I remove the testimony from this earth that the man will produce if I stay on the job just one more day. But if I stay on one more day, there is no guarantee that she will survive one more day. I cannot bear to see her yet have her not even known I exist any longer. I should be able to figure out a way to do this. No one will suspect. Just slip out the van door and put on a hood. The cameras . . . they won’t see me . . .

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

observational hazard

by ArchHallJr 3:05 PM

Thursday, January 12, 2006

 

No matter how you examine it, the conclusion cannot be anything else. There are those who will tell you otherwise but they have no clue from where they speak. I know crazy. There is no one you will ever come across in your lifetime who will be able to claim that and mean it. I know that you’ll ask yourself the question, “So you’re crazy, so what?” Maybe I’m delusional as well? Perhaps. Minds more intelligent than mine own have pondered this question many times over. Yet there is never a foregone conclusion drawn. Not in my mind. They are questioning the strokes of the master. There is no broad brush that I can be painted with when it comes to understanding how my genius interprets the everyday existence of being. Nay, I say rather they start their search from the wrong point of reference. To understand insanity, you must be insanity. One cannot expect to understand the complexities of a god’s mind by reading the words of mere mortals. And in being your creator, do I deign to allow myself to bring about your understanding of me? Do YOU dare deign to think I would? These are the circles that I intend to allow one and all to follow. Like the Worm Ouroboros until you tire of trying to discover the answers which you so desperately seek. Which, of course, you will not. You will search for meaning where there is none. You will look for tangible evidence where none exists. You will listen for the words which were never spoken. Somewhere between the mundane and the fantastic, the song remains insane.

by ArchHallJr 1:25 PM

 

the song remains insane

by ArchHallJr 1:01 PM

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

 

There wasn’t much left. All the good meat had already been eaten. There were a few choice organs left but for the most part you could say that the cupboard was bare.

“How does one prepare lung?”, thought Jeffrey, “I just can’t seem to find a good recipe.”

He had thumbed through every cookbook he had in his small apartment without success. Lungs just didn’t seem to be all that appetizing to him but he figured he had eaten worse, even recently. He decided to look through his spice rack.

“Bay leaves, parsley, cinnamon . . . hey! Lawrey’s salt!”

He put that next to the cutting board. He also set some rosemary out. He next went to the pantry. He pulled out a can of Campbell’s cream of mushroom. He returned to the refrigerator and rifled through the meat drawer one last time. Excellent! A half-open pack of Cudahy Bar S bacon. It certainly came in handy when he ate that toxic liver two days ago. It should help with these smoker’s lungs now.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

Everything tastes better with bacon.

by ArchHallJr 3:02 PM

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

 

Before the new year overwhelms us I’d just like to say:

What the hell happened to 2005?!?!?!?

Seriously. Is there some law that states that as you grow older, the years must go by faster and faster? This is a trend that I have noticed since my mid-20s. It isn’t fair. Oh, the root canal I had back in March lasted what seemed to be the whole month but other than that . . . zing! Gone in the blink of an eye. Am I cynical about the perceived accelerated passage of time? You betcha. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that a year when I’m 40 to go by like a year when I was, say 7 or 8. Those were the days that if someone told you that a special event was going to occur next week you got very upset. “But it’s a whole week!” The sole exception to this rule of time passing very slowly as a child was summer vacation. One day school’s out. It never lasted long enough. But you sure wondered what happened to the last three months the day you walked into the classroom again.

This year is going to be different. I am going to wake up at the usual hour and go to bed at the usual hour but . . . I am willing myself to perceive time differently. Not by changing anything or doing anything differently . . . but by by merely psychically willing the towel to fall.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

before the new year overwhelms us

by Fred 10:57 AM

Monday, January 09, 2006

 

Occasionally, fish is required to keep a body healthy and fit. The problem is fish tastes like, well, fish. In order for the fish to be good for you, does it have to taste ‘that way’? Does it have to smell ‘that way’? Why, oh, why do a lot of the foods we should be eating have to taste . . . so badly for lack of a better or worse word? It’s a funny thing about tuna fish, though. I’m like Nigel Tufnel. I love tuna fish. And can one get fish that tastes or smells any fishier? Or is it that we drown tuna in mayo, pickles, onions and spices that mask the ‘fishiness’. Orange Roughy? Can I have that? What about fish sticks with ketchup? Yeah, I get it. It must make me gag in order for it to be good for me. Like liver. What the heck! Now there’s something I haven’t eaten since I was a child. But my Mom, God bless her, let me drown that in ketchup. It had to be or it wouldn’t be eaten, no matter how much bacon grease and breading you cooked it in. Back to the fish . . . can it just look interesting?

"I'll have the flounder."

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

"I'll have the flounder."

by ArchHallJr 4:09 PM

Sunday, January 08, 2006

 

Life throws you curves, make no mistake. And if you haven’t had a hanger hit you on the chin thrown by the Almighty Himself, then you are either the most boring person in the world or a liar. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, don’t worry . . . it will. And you can’t prepare for it. Nor should you. It is the stuff of the spice of life. It is what fires the engines and creams the corn. It satisfies right away and eventually. You better not ask for directions, it will only ruin the experience. The rest of your life, that is. What is a life that is wholly predictable? A soulless one. The precaution against danger should be taken. It would be foolish not to. A little danger is unheard of in the overly circumspect. But to the lover of life, it powers the inevitability trap. That state of being where you know you need to be but could very well die. The exhilaration of the chase. The gamble, the payoff. It cannot be measured by any tangible scale, but you know when you’ve fallen into it. And it can almost always be escaped from but not until it’s over. You’re been there and are better for it, only to hunger for the next slip that brings you into a closer relationship with your true nature. It’s addictive, this thing called life. And there are modes of it that are addictive as well. Don’t plan on living beyond tomorrow or you will never fall into what you so richly deserve.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

The Inevitability Trap

by Christy 2:08 AM

Friday, January 06, 2006

 

You ask what I miss the most. There is no way I can narrow it down to any one single thing. Fresh air. God, how I crave that. Sure, I walk along outside for hours at a time . . . but the air is heavy with sorrow, regret, bravado and contempt. Sweat. Hardly refreshing. Food. I miss food. Oh, I get sustenance; nourishment . . . call it what you will. But a nice pizza with everything on it? Steak and potatoes? Forget about it. It’ll never happen. Toilet paper that doesn’t dissolve on my fingertips the moment I grab it from the roll, fuckin’ a, I miss that. I miss a good night’s sleep. Awaking rested and invigorated from a sleep that entailed the most wondrous dreams instead of the horrific nightmares I now face every night after I lose consciousness. And I have no one to blame but myself for all these missing elements from my life. How I wish that I could close my eyes and awake to a more reasonable, independent world. But I am way past that now. I cannot be allowed to ever again worry about how I am going to dress myself for work ever again. There is no reason to. It is all decided for me now. For I made a decision for someone else long ago. A decision that irrevocably changed two families and numerous lives. All for my agenda; my selfishness. And I don’t think that I could tell you what that agenda was any more, it’s been so long. All I know is that at the time, it was the only thing that made sense.

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

What do you miss most?

by Fred 12:48 PM

Thursday, January 05, 2006

 

You know what? I started to write this really clever (well . . .) piece about this topic and I realized that I had written it before. Oh, the words had changed, but the premise remained the same. I pull a lot of misdirection in my writing and I’m not so sure that that was where I wanted to go with this particular topic. I mean, I kind of wanted do things a little differently than I normally do and if the truth were known, my new year really hasn’t started yet. As a result of various mitigating circumstances, I cannot see a clear end to 2005 just yet. It is really odd how this is the case, after all the dates have changed; the calendars have been swapped out. There is no time vortex in my home. But we are at a standstill. And this has gotten me thinking about various deep concepts related to time, change and habit. I have always been rather aloof from the New Year’s resolution. My feeling about it is that if I am serious about making a change, I don’t need to wait until the first of the year to do it. Or that if I want to start doing something that I should just start. So I am just gonna start doing and if I miss my marks, oh well. I’ll start again and do the tings that need doin’ first and gets to moving on the things I wanna do! And I’m pretty sure I need to write so . . .

by ArchHallJr 11:59 PM

 

In the new year, I resolve to write more often. I resolve to encourage others to do the same. (I will recruit others to do the same, if need be.) In the new year, my goal is to write for no less than one hour every day, seven days a week. It doesn't have to be any good. I can spend sixty minutes and get only six (bad) words. It will sometimes be, I'm sure, like pulling teeth. (See -- just a couple of minutes, and already out come the tired cliches.)

But I can give one hour.

In the new year, I resolve to develop some of the pieces I've already written here. I've combed through the archives and started compiling a list. Already, I've submitted one of these to be published. It may never be. It may not be any good. I may not know one way or another for months. But working at the craft and submitting stories makes me feel like I'm not just playing at this thing, that, when people ask me what I do, I won't have to qualify it with, "but what I'd like to be doing is writing."

I won't make real money right away, if ever. I'm not expecting to quit my day job in the new year. I may not ever be a good enough writer. (Sometimes I think I'm okay, and I like some of what I've written. But I recognize I have faults and know I probably have some I don't recognize.) That's not the point. If I don't work at it, it's not for real.

I'm not a writer unless I write.

So I'm working at it. One hour a day. If I can't manage more, I won't beat myself up over it. But I also won't let myself get away with less. It's a small but achievable goal. That's what matters.

We're only about five days into the new year, but so far I'm sticking to it. And I'd like to stick with this place as well. Some of the things I'm trying to develop had their genesis here. I like this place, I like the writers I (used to) see here. When it's good...well, it's still like pulling teeth sometimes, but the teeth, they come. The words, they get written. The craft, such as it is, gets honed.

I've said this before, but that's what resolutions are for. I like this place and resolve to be here more often. It's time to write.

by Fred 5:48 PM

 

In the new year, I resolve to _________.

by Fred 1:59 PM

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

 

Maybe you just need to ____________

by Fred 10:29 AM