So bored.
Reading another British comedy, felt inspired.
Confident in knowledge that no one is reading this crap anymore so I can post just about anything l want. I just wanted one or two people out there (my guess would be D. Pop and Miranda) to sympathize with the colossaly crappy day I had.
I’ll leave this up till W.E.F. makes me take it down.
It’s not good.
It’s not funny.
I’m just starved for company.

Now before you understand in full why am I am so highly irritated as I am over what amounts, in retrospect, to a series of minor nuisances, you need to understand the concept of realities. Today for example I have two realities, well infinite realities really but only two I want to discuss. One, in which I spend the better part of the afternoon in the tender embrace of a particularly well-endowed female who may or may not have been topless. This was the reality I had really been hoping for. Of course, that had been the reality I was hoping for more or less every day since I was twelve, but on this particular day the proper arrangements had been made with a consenting well-endowed female. Now the other reality was very different. In this other reality, my car preformed an amazing transformation by converting itself from a fairly adequate means of transportation to a very large paperweight that pinned me squarely to a couch in a car maintenance park. Don’t get me wrong, the good people of Triple-A were remarkably friendly and, as a stranded motorist, I couldn’t have asked more from a towing industry, but they lacked that personal attentiveness I had rather been expecting when I woke up this morning. Now it isn’t really fair to say that every possible thing that could go wrong did go wrong, the aforementioned W.E.F. was not furious; which, at the very least, preserved the possibility of future embraces; tenderness and dress code to be determined. Now I realize that this wasn’t the worst possible reality I could have suffered today, but given the fall from what was planned to what, in time, occurred I feel my irritation is well enough justified. And if you disagree; that’s your right, just as it is my right to politely request you fuck off.

Eagle Ceremony Speech

Thank you. My name is Johannes Haensch, I am an assistant-scoutmaster for Troop One North Salem and I’ve known most of these boys since about seventh grade. Before I get into the speech in earnest I’d like to take a moment to answer a few frequently asked questions so you can better pay attention to my speech, free from distractions. Yes, I am the guy with the kilt, no, I am not wearing the kilt, Yes, it is a really kilt, No, I’m not Scottish, Yes, I’m reading off a sheet of paper, No, I most definitely did not write this all this morning, Yes, I believe in what I’m about to say, No, it isn’t all serious. With that out of the way you should now be better able to sit back and soak in my wisdom like so many unformed hunks of sponge. So here goes.
Also, just so you know, transcripts of this speech and all of my other fine speeches will be available for sale after the ceremony and on my blog.
Oh, one last addendum, I wasn’t given any time limit and I was told the subject was anything I pleased to speak about, with exception to profanity. So I’m feeling this whole thing out as I go.
According to the Wikipedia, the eagle scout award is "the highest rank attainable in the boy scouting program of the boy scouts of America." Lofty praise indeed from a source that once called Grover Cleveland the 22nd AND the 24th president. But I think the Wikipedia may have this one right. Eagle is a significant step in the career of a scout. It isn’t really an end per se, it’s really more of a bridge. It connects your youth experience to your adult service in a truly significant way, of course there’s also a short cut to the whole adult leader bit, but the accomplishment is in not taking the short cut. And while one cannot deny the honor and courage required to hit Star and stagnate for two years, the attainment of Eagle is just as good, if not better, for some people. Just remember what Geoffrey Chaucer said of the award, "Ye been submytted thurgh youre free assent To stonden in this cas at my juggement. Acquiteth yow as now of youre biheeste, Thanne have ye do youre devoir atte leeste."
That said, I must admit when I was asked to speak on behalf of my fellow senior scouts I was more than a bit confused. It took some time for me to really wrap my mind around the situation. But once I was good and satisfied that they actually did want me to give a speech, I could not have felt more honored. I consider these guys to be among my closest friends, and I couldn’t be happier if it were me being awarded today. Some of you may know that I never made Eagle myself and I have nothing but respect for those that did. But I found myself in a rather unique situation, for the first time in a long time I had absolutely no idea what to say. A man I much respect once told me that tact was knowing the perfect thing to say and not saying it, he quickly followed this by telling me that I was personally devoid of such restraints. And holding true to his assessment I find myself in what might be called an anti-tactful moment, that is to say, not knowing the perfect thing to say, but still talking. Now, I could go profound "this is the next step in your journey toward manhood young one" but that’s a little silly coming from someone three month your elder, I could go with inane cliché "may the road rise up to meet you and the wind blow up your kilt" bah I have no taste for the Hallmark adage, or I could follow a third path, I could ramble on in what basically amounts to a series of non-sequiturs, in-jokes, bogus memories, and quotes from Wikipedia. I think my choice here is pretty clear and I stand by it.
Now, if I had more time at my disposal here today I would have liked to go into a lengthy biography of each of the peers that so honored me, but alas my time up here is limited so I will restrict myself to two sentence about each boy. Russell A. is an honest friend, a quick thinker, and a cheerful volunteer, the model Boy Scout. He is also the only person I’ve ever met in my life who can play Halo while simultaneously spinning straw into gold. Thomas M. served as our Senior Patrol Leader to great accolade and has time and time again proven himself as just the guy you want around. He has also won significant awards for his marksmanship, his hand-to-hand combat, and his ballroom dancing. And Jake H. is also here today. Jake is, to my knowledge, the only Senior Patrol Leader to take power by coup and have a senior leader designated as his "enforcer" on the troop registry, three guesses who he picked for that job. He also once ran into a burning building to save a family of kittens, granted he was "saving" them from frostbite by running them in and bolting, but just the same. These scouts are, without question, worthy of your praise and admiration, and Jake’s pretty good too.
I would like at this point to deviate a little bit from the standard bulk of my speech today to tell you a little story I think you can learn a little something from. Once upon a time there was a little engine. This little engine was a hard worker and he gave it his all even though he was smaller than some of the big engines and weaker than some of the big engines. And one day this little engine was pulling a heavy load when he came to a big hill. He struggled his hardest to climb the hill but every time he got halfway up the whole train would slide back down. He gritted his little engine teeth and pulled as hard as he could, the whole time saying "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." And it worked, he got all the way up to the tippy top of that hill before his boiler exploded scalding his engineer to death and rendering him completely useless. He was than replaced by a much bigger, stronger engine that was capable of doing the job that was needed. I hope you learned a little something from my wee parable. But for Jake’s benefit let me just tell you what the moral was, simply this. Work you hardest at every task that’s put before you, but don’t be ashamed to ask for help, and never, under any circumstances, ride inside a steam engine.
Hang in there, I just have one last little thing to go into before I give up the microphone. This award isn’t just a single personal accomplishment, granted the boys up here today worked harder than most of us ever could to earn this distinction but, ask any Eagle-parents and they’ll tell you, this award is a testament to a damn good support system. For each Eagle you see in front of you dozens of friends and family have given freely of their time and their skills to help them out, and they should feel just as honored today as the boys up here. And speaking of family, it’s absolutely fantastic to see all of you here today. You are the ones who make this whole thing work, give yourselves a hand. Now before I hand the podium over to Mr. Mendleson, who will be speaking on behalf of our super-senior eagles Chuck and Angelo, let me say to all of you up here today, on behalf of my Troop, my family, and my self, congratulations and good luck, you’ve all earned it.

The man in this picture is playing golf. The game of golf consists of hitting a stationary ball with a stick and than walking to where you hit it and hitting it again. The one challenge of the game is carrying the heavy bag of clubs but, as seen here, they have little golf-slaves to do that for you. Yet people still claim that golf is a real sport. Isn't that stupid!

Frosh post

These are the best years of your life; be ready. Always remember that, no matter what happens. When you have to stay up till midnight or later working on homework, these are the best years of your life. When your friends go their separate ways and you end up in social limbo, these are the best years of your life. When you put everything you’re worth into a goal and still fall short, these are the best years of your life. One day you will look back on this all so fondly. You will just sit alone in a dark room and think back nostalgically on the petty social ordeals, the mindless tedium, the mind-warping stress of rejection, the thinking every single day “God, get me out of here or kill me now.” And you will know, “those were the best years of my life.”

This is a replica of Heron's steam ball. This is the first step towards a steam engine, which is of course the first step towards industry. Fire and water is all it took to make the top bit spin at high speeds. By fixing a simple gear (which Heron also used brilliantly) to the spinning axle or the ball itself the energy created could power any number of machines. The Greeks dismissed it as a simple toy for the amusement of the very wealthy. Isn't that stupid!

independent piece 8 intro

Another God piece. This one is a Pantoum (that's a type of repeated line pattern) inspired by, what else, a girl and some flies. When I started it, it didn't have anything to do with religion, it was just a poem about a girl. Than it took this whole turn and it was all tied together so I couldn't change anything and it went downhill from there. Anyways, read it and comment on it, but don't enjoy it. If you want to read a good poem on this topic scroll down to independent piece 7 a little ways down the page. Knick-knack patty-whack give a dog a bone.

independent piece 8

Queen of Flies


There she is the queen of flies
Embodiment of God
Infinitely powerful
Yet still endlessly ignored

Embodiment of God
She sits alone with all her flies
Yet still endlessly ignored
While near her no one treads

She sits alone with all her flies
Amid the bustle of a crowd
While near her no one treads
No one knows the her she is

Amid the bustle of a crowd
She manages to isolate herself
No one knows the her she is
For she is more than any know

She manages to isolate herself
Despite the swarming mass of man
For she is more than any know
And no one dares to learn

Despite the swarming mass of man
She sets herself apart from all
And no one dares to learn
About the girl with all the flies

She sets herself apart from all
Except her tiny buzzing brood
About the girl with all the flies
Buzz a multitude of subjects

independent 7 intro

This is a stream of consciousness-style piece (God how l hate them) but I think it still has some good qualities. I was kinda hoping to comment on how many edifices of the "old ways" we hang on to despite hanging no real connection to them. People are always so quick to say "Oh, I'm an atheist" or "God is just a lie," but when push comes to shove and they really need Him they pull God out of their pocket like some kind of genie and expect Him to save their ass. I have issue with that. I'm not a freaky zealot of anything, but l think that people should be honest and consistent. It's just as bad when people try to use God's name to justify all manner of unspeakable acts of hatred. I think that people should have a personal relationship with God (or at least some kind of greater power) but that's just my personal feeling on the subject, some might disagree and I encourage that by all means. Anyways, this piece is pretty tame for me (no one dies and no one swears.) Also, l think this may be my first piece all year that doesn't objectify or degrade women in some way.

independent 7

Anachronism
Johannes H.

Saintly men from long ago
Are all but now forgotten
Saint George’s cross, Saint Elmo’s fire
Names foul to a Yuletide parishioner

The ancient God and the modern gods
All mocked with mock irreverence
Crowds of self-styled atheists
Match self-proclaimed disciples

The power and the glory
For ever and ever
Now marked by red bows, pink bunnies
And self-forbidding icons on courthouse lawns

Once God stood on Earth
Not in Eden but in the mind
Now that ground is shrinking

But I’m an anachronism
In my mind the old God still stands
I’m just a stupid little boy
And Saint Hubert’s just the Jager man

act I scene I + II (first half)

Scene I
Scene opens:
Close up on feet in boots propped up at the end of a bed, slowly pan up the length of a human body. We hear Bagatelle in A minor playing softly on a single piano. It sounds far off, hollow. As we slowly pan away from the feet up the length of the body the music slowly swells, as if getting closer. Around the belt line we flash off the sleeping body, we see a washed out and speed ramped clip about two seconds long of a single person laying on the ground surrounded by four others the music continues but we still hear the sounds of the scene muted, but audible. They kick him, spit on him, laugh at him, etc. We flash back to the sleeping body. The music still continues as we continue panning up his torso. Around the neck we flash to a similar scene to the one before, this time the laying body is dowsed in gasoline, we flash out just as one of the standing figures drops a lighter. The music ends just as we come to rest on a close up on the figure’s face, he is an adolescent male. One brief moment of silence before his eyes snap open, straight into the camera.

Voice-over
(dead pan)
That was how I died.

His eyes close as the scene fades out
Scene closes

Scene II
Scene opens
High school scene. Nothing too fancy, just a bunch of people milling around in a hallway, very cliché. Camera moves about a foot above head level of the milling students along the hallway. We eventually land on the same boy we saw sleeping earlier. He’s sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch. Our voice from before starts talking, as he introduces each character we flash to a still shot which will be described later.

Voice-over
This is where I go to school. I’m a senior this year…was a senior…am a senior. This is yesterday, you won’t really understand what happens tonight unless you see this part. There are a few people that you should probably be familiar with. Meet Fergus. [still frame shows a very fit teenager dressed in camo proudly holding up a deer’s head, his face is obscured by face-paint] Fergus hates everyone, not that anyone is too fond of him either. He once got in a fight and broke the arm of Marcus. [still frame shows an obvious athlete down in a push-up position, his shirt bears the school mascot and the word "FOOTBALL."] Marcus, school celebrity. He never forgave Fergus and made sure his life was a living hell from than on. Fergus made up for it by stalking Marcus’ sister, Alice. [still frame shows cheerleader hanging midair] Just kidding, that sort of family only exists in bad movies. [still switches to a girl sitting in the bleachers surrounded by other girls, all smoking. Very chic, they think.] The true-blue American-bitch. I never got what Fergus saw in her but she loathed him and it made for some entertainment. Oh, and while we’re on this shot, meet Beth. [shot pans slightly to the girl on Alice’s right] Alice’s best friend and guard dog. Beth was the only girl to ever voluntarily speak to Fergus. Shortly thereafter she became the first girl Fergus ever had to fight. Fergus won. Beth and Alice killed his dog in retaliation. Crazy bitches. Oh, and lets not forget Duke. [still shot shows a teenager in jeans and a wife-beater leaning up against a red convertible.] Frank J. Duke, Marcus’ best friend since childhood and his version of Beth. A sadist of finest caliber. He too had had a run-in with Fergus. He won. Broke three of Fergus’ ribs.

Switch back to the hallway scene. Still focused on the boy from scene one. Rotate camera around him so we see the scene unfolding in front of him. He is sitting at a table with three other boys.

Voice-over
Oh, and that’s me at the table there

Marcus enters tailed by Duke.

Marcus
(mid-sentience when he enters)
…and she was asking for it besides.
(Duke laughs, nonverbal agreement)
(Marcus shifts attention to the boys sitting at the table)
Hey…You. Get the fuck outa my chair.

this is a baseball. Baseball is often called the national sport of America. Baseball games are long slow and boring yet some people absolutely love them. Isn't that stupid!

microfiction, not sure if this works but l enjoyed writing it

And the day had started out so well. He’d had a nice breakfast, eggs and coffee. It had been good, not perfect, she hadn’t been much of a cook. But it had sure as hell been better than this, standing toe-to-toe with some vicious thug. He stopped to think for a moment. Twelve shots on his belt, only his belt was back in the room. Knife in his boot, too far to reach right now. Matches and tobacco in his pocket, not much good right now but damn he needed it.
"I say again you s__t. We don’t want you here, we want you out."
He pulled a smoke and a match. Struck the match, lit the smoke, and flicked the match away. This scene wasn’t new to him, it was getting to be pretty familiar truth be known. Stupid ba____ds in these small towns, all of ‘em have some delusions of heroics. He was going to have to stare this one down; they always caved.
"Put down that pick-ax or else we’re going to have problems."
The trick was finding the weak spot and pushing. Thug was a big one but none too bright, probably some brain-dead miner’s son. Maybe he knew that b__ch from the night before, maybe Thug was a brother, he hated brothers almost as much as fathers. A smarter man would have learned his lesson by now. He’d lost one of his fingers, on the left hand, and nearly been blinded once, but he still enjoyed what he did. This was what he did. Tomorrow it would be a new town, by next month it would be a new state. But right now he had a big slow f__k between him and his guns. But tomorrow would start out well.

just tossing this out there

Frank took another pull on his cigar. He swirled the cup of whiskey in his hand, contemplating another sip but deciding against it. He set the glass down on the small table and stared into the setting African sun. Finally, he opened his mouth, but stopped abruptly. After a long pause he spoke, "Jim. I need that Rhino."
Jim sat across from him, each sitting low to the ground in their folding chairs. They had been afield for eight days already. Neither man killed their quarry yet. Both had traveled half-way around the world to bag their mark. After a long manly silence, Jim took a pull from his brandy flask. "I know Frank, I know."
Thick manly plumes of smoke rose from the smoldering ashes of the campfire as the sun plunged headlong into the savanna. Both men retired to their respective dwellings for the night. Each lay his rifle by his bed.
The night passed too slowly for Frank. He woke twice in a cold sweat. His dreams kept bringing him back to Madrid, back to the Plaza de Toros. He couldn't get the death-bellows of the bull out of his head. It called to him across time. The shear ferocity with which the innocent bull was hacked apart filled him with near-divine fervor. The savage grace of that final skewer, the warm splash of fresh blood, and the bewildered look of the bull all stuck in Frank’s consciousness. He woke in a cold sweat. He needed that Rhino.

that only makes two-hundred-fifty-one words, technically it is a microfiction, but I guess I can write something else if I have to.

take that kathleen!

...get it?

EMU!!!

This is an Emu. Emus survive by eating various plants and insects. They stand up to two meters tall and have a top speed of around 31 miles per hour. Some people find emus absolutely terrifying. Isn't that stupid!

independent piece 6 intro

Let's see if Jake can't get this one right. That said, lets get to the introductioning. This is the second chapter of a longer piece, the ending and plot for which I am definitely not making up as I go. Don't worry if you missed the first piece (independent 4) and judging by the comments on that piece I'm guessing that most of you did (and who am I kidding, there's not even anyone reading this right now, I can say whatever the hell I want.) So yeah, the story is pretty easy to follow and it's pretty much just "The Monkey's Paw" rehashed and slopped on a plate for you enjoyment. I'll probably write a third piece to bring it all together and the mother may or may not become significant, I haven't decided yet. Can anyone guess the surprise twist ending yet? HINT: if you can't guess it, chances are you're some kind of baboon (unless I get a really good idea for a clever tricky twist ending than I'll use that and blow your mind.) But again, it doesn't really matter what I say here because I can almost guarantee that no one is reading this.

independent piece 6

The father was overjoyed at his success, the results were more than he could have hoped for. He had been well instructed in the process of command, he knew what was needed, orders. Without orders the boy he had made was nothing more than a terra cotta in miniature. His first order was an easy choice, "Speak." Once commanded words began to flow freely from the boy’s mouth, no sentences or complete ideas just a babbling stream of words. The golem looked to his creator for approval as the nonsense poured from his mouth. After a moment’s pause our sculptor orders his puppet to stop speaking. For a moment he feared he would have to destroy the abomination, but he could not bring himself to kill it. Not when it looked so much like the son he lost, he couldn’t lose him again. Months passed and the creature stayed locked in the basement, daily the sculptor would descend and spend hours working on the perfect order. Eventually he struck upon the perfect combination of commands to make the boy act as much as a child as he appeared. It did everything a boy should do; it spoke like a child, it fought about bedtime, it tracked mud inside, it could do everything a boy could do except for grow. The creature could not age as a child should, it was a static being. To avert suspicion the father would remake his child monthly, adding or cutting away bits of clay to make the boy appear to grow regularly. With each new physical incarnation came new orders allowing the young golem to age as if here were a thing of flesh.
The father knew that his deception would only last so long, eventually little boys become little men and they leave their fathers behind. The golem would have to leave eventually and what than, he couldn’t be rebuilt and re-ordered if he were living alone. It was the most difficult decision that our father had been forced to make since his son was first taken from him, but he knew what he had to do. He would have to destroy the golem before he reached an age of independence. He would have to watch his son die again, but this time it would be different.

This is a cat. Cats have sharp claws and teeth and don't like people. They eat food when it is left for them and run away when it isn't. People LOVE cats, keeping two or even three cats in a single house despite their being totally worthless. Isn't that stupid!

belated april fools day joke, NOT my actual screenplay

Jim I Need That Rhino: The Movie

Frank takes another pull on his cigar. He swirls the cup of whiskey in his hand, contemplating another sip but deciding against it. He sets the glass down on the small table and stares into the setting African sun. Finally, he opens his mouth, but stops abruptly. After a long pause he speaks

Frank:

Jim. I need that Rhino.

Jim sits across from him, each sitting low to the ground in their folding chairs. They have been afield for eight days already. Neither man has killed their quarry yet. Both have traveled half-way around the world to bag their mark. After a long manly silence, Jim takes a pull from his brandy flask and speaks.

Jim:

I know Frank, I know.

Thick manly plumes of smoke rise from the smoldering ashes of the campfire as the sun plunges headlong into the savanna. Both men retire to their respective dwellings for the night. Each lays his rifle by his bed.

The night passes slowly for Frank. He tosses and turns in a cold sweat. His dreams bring him back to Madrid, back to the Plaza de Toros.

Narration over flashback montage:
(Morgan Freeman if possible)

He couldn’t get the death-bellows of the bull out of his head. It still calls to him across time. The ferocity with which that innocent bull was hacked apart filled had him with near-divine inspiration. The savage grace of that final skewer, the warm splash of fresh blood, and the bewildered look of the bull had all stuck in Frank’s consciousness.

Back to present:

He wakes in a cold sweat.

Frank:
(hushed, direct to camera)
I need that Rhino.

independent piece 5 intro

this piece wasn't nearly ready for publishing quite yet but since you decided to be all responsible and actually grade us based on what we've done I had to make that sacrifice. But I will finish this up eventually. I've always liked villain duos like this where you have a dumb guy and a dumber guy and the two of them would just be funny if it weren't for the fact that they were bad people. I still haven't nailed down a setting for this story (Philidelphia is just a place holder, as is the name Blackeney) and I'm not too sure where the plot is going just yet but I think it's definitely going to be fun and I expect quite a few (more) people are going to get hurt very badly. Play your cards right and some of you might get cameo rolls in there somewhere.

independent piece 5

Cobblestones. They can get awful slick when they’re wet. And it had been raining for days before the two men showed up. Funny how that works isn’t it. Like the good lord just knows when something bad is about to happen. Both men walked steady though. The two of them were nothing more than black silhouettes and than they were gone. The day they left was unprecedented in the files of the Philadelphia Police Department. Once the weather broke people started heading outside to enjoy the sun. It seemed that not an hour went by without someone turning up a corpse. At the end of the day, exactly seventeen bodies had turned up. Some dead from injury, some from exposure, but all had been savagely mauled. But that was how the two men worked. For them, this was a warning.
Misters Blakeney and Click were brutes of the worst kind, the lowest sort of muck a gutter has ever spawned. Mr. Blakeney was a short man of shorter wit, with an infinite capacity for violence and a penchant for what he took to be the finer things in life. Mr. Click was possibly the only man Mr. Blakeney could honestly call an inferior and definitely the only man he could call a friend. Mr. Click was large, even by strong-arm standards, and had a peculiar peccadillo for frail blondes and straight razors, though only rarely both at once. Between the two of them they had committed crimes innumerable, but they liked to boast that they were together responsible for just over a thousand victims, be they murders, beatings, or "defilements" (a word Mr. Blakeney liked to use in reference to the trick Mr. Click performed with his straight razor, among other things.)

independent piece 4 intro

This is just the first chapter (and intro) to what I hope will be a full story one day. Can you guess the surprise ending yet (hint, it's really obvious.) I was just watching the X-files the other day, cause that's what I do everyday, and they had a cool one about a golem on and I had nearly forgotten about that little myth and I thought it was pretty cool. Than I started thing about it and I wondered, "what would happen if you ordered a golem to be human." So I decided to write a story where it happened. Should be a grand old time.

independent piece 4

In the old legends they used to talk about golems, men of mud without souls or minds. Only the purest of heart could make a golem, though only the most conflicted would want to. The process was simple enough, write a secret word on the hand of a clay entity you wished to animate and it would live. Without the ability to reason or think, the beast would obey any order given it with complacent obedience. Here’s an interesting conundrum for you to ponder, what if you ordered the creature to feel guilt, what if you ordered a golem to be human?
I assume, of course, that you have no idea, so let me relay to you a little story. Eighteen years ago a very pure man was faced with a very tragic circumstance. His wife had a son. They were overjoyed at the birth and the child was the apple of their eye for several years. But at age three the boy was taken ill with a fever. His sickness lingered for months. Driven nearly mad by grief his parents were pulled apart nearly to a break. The boy died and his parents were finally driven apart. His mother leaves our story for the time being. Our grieving father carried his sorrow with him for weeks. He had consulted doctors while his son lay dying and they had lied to his face, so he turned to the only other truth he knew, his faith. Priests and rabbis and monks and clerics of every faith and they all assured him that his young son was healthy and whole in the kingdom of God, but his sorrow still remained. It drove him further and further away from what he knew. He left his life behind and devoted himself in full to finding the answer to the question of death. His studies took him far from home and far from the common understandings. On one such trip afield he found himself in Prague and it was there that he first encountered the legend of the golem.
An old manuscript all but forgotten in some musty basement had been recovered not too long before his visit and was causing a stir among the local educated elite. Some claimed it was a parable, others dismissed it as a foolish folk-tale, but a small minority claimed it as fact. The manuscript contained detailed instructions for the creation and command of a golem as well as long narrative meant to warn would-be sorcerers. When our searcher heard about the book his interest was captured. He went to speak to preeminent scholars and well-respected rabbis about the legend and they all told him to abandon it, even the few that believed the legends warned him that it could only end in tragedy, but he was persistent. After much searching he found a man in Hungary who was willing to teach him the ceremonies he would need. When he was able to animate small clay birds and cats without complications his teacher told him he had reached the end of his education and he was ready to make his golem.
Since the passing of his only child ten long years had elapsed but the pain was still raw. It was without hesitation that he began the work of summoning his creature. He decided to start at thirteen to account for the years that passed, and once decided it was a simple task of sculpting the clay. He worked day and night without rest perfect the clay puppet he wished to incarnate. The final product was perfect, it was a flawless human child, only made from clay. Once finished, the closely guarded words were carved into the doppelganger’s wrist and the breath of life was breathed on the boy and he awoke.

Kurt Vonnegut was one of the greatest authors of our lifetimes, his writings were brilliant commentaries on life and the human condition. He died at age 84 from irreversible brain trauma. Isn't that tragic. Rest in peace Mr. Vonnegut.

Reilly style piece

When we’d left the house that morning my father had told me that we were going to take a tour of the area he grew up in, as the day wore on I realized that this wasn’t a tour of an area, it was a tour of a time. As were walking across country roads and past shops whose names I couldn’t pronounce, every so often we’d stop. We would stop at grocery stores, or gas stations, or vacant lots and he would point and tell me about what used to be there. "We used to ice skate there in the wintertime," he’d say, or "that abandoned garage there is where your great-grandfather used to work."
I was looking at abandoned warehouses and crumbled houses while my father was looking at his past. Ever inch of that town had a story and very few of them were pleasant. We saw the house his grandmother had lived in, which was still in good repair; mostly because my uncle still lives there. It was only a block from my grandparent’s house and took about two minutes to walk to. Next my father took me to the town center. Front and center was an empty warehouse that once housed the most successful business in town. It had closed down after it went bankrupt. Then we walked down by the lake where my father remembered so much about his own childhood. He told me about his daily ride to the train station along that path, and he told me about the hours that he had spent swimming in the lake. As we walked around the lake he talked about walking here at night after arguing with my grandfather and how the darkness made him think more clearly. After we left the path we walked through the new part of town, the part that was built on a burial ground of memories. At every turn there was a house built on the field he played tag at and just past every row of houses was the forest he used to explore. I saw the house he grew up in and I saw the house his friends had lived in.
While we walked I started to get a sense of how he had come to be where he is today, that is to say thousands of miles away from any semblance of his own youth. He had escaped from the falling community he had grown up in and left for his own life far far away. And his detachment had shielded him from being trapped in his own back yard. He was one of the lucky few that ever make it out of small town life and he was much the richer for it.

Lee-style poem

Heliotrope

My father’s hands work quickly
Bisecting orange rind, and twice again
His nails dig into the cuts and peel
The segmented orange falls apart
Little half-moons of Florida sun

Every night his heliotropic routine went on
A silver boat through orange waves
His vorpal pocket knife was lethal
And every night the orange fell apart
Like little half-moons of Florida sun

pop culture

BAMF, SNIKT, THWIP. If you can place any two of those words you’re probably a giant loser and you should probably jump off a cliff. All three of those words were onomatopoeia developed and made famous in the funny-books. Back in the good old days a scampering little child could frolic down to the local apothecary to paw over the latest offerings from the grand-masters down at Marvel and DC. Today a comic enthusiast has to scuttle into the seediest bookstore they can find and make the long walk of shame to that lonely back corner where they store the comics. The sad little rack past the dime-a-dozen sci-fi pulps and well beyond the bodice-ripper-romances, right next to the "EMPLOYEES ONLY" door that leads to a loading dock. The seedy back corner into which intellectuals dare not tread.
I was a late-comer to the genre, having not much cared for the color-drenched cacophony that "big kids" read. I was far more interested in the action figures. Loved the action figures, still do, probably always will. It was only recently that I even purchased my first comic book (or "graphic novel" as I called it at the time.) But that first one hooked me. It quickly got to be a bad habit. Soon enough I would blow through hundred-pagers in a single go, often needing two to get that same thrill. By the time I realized I had a problem, I had spent well over a hundred bucks on picture books (not to mention buying tickets to every comic book movie they could sling out.) I was a full scale junkie.
The next step in my journey was to reason my addiction away like a good little zombie. Here’s what I’ve got so far; comics are the only true American art form (jazz doesn’t count and few American authors are worth reading,) super heroes are the modern pantheon, and vigilantism is just seems so damn satisfying. I felt a little bit like I was tapped into some sort of mythos, like some pagan novice hunched over a giant fire listening to the old crones telling well-worn stories about familiar characters. It was like, for once, I had jumped on a ship while it was still sinking instead of jumping head-long into the water looking for wrecks. I may have missed the grand opulence of the Titanic, but I was damned well going to be there for the glorious plunge into history. I was among kindred spirits and we were having a grand old time.
It took a while before I made the other connections, like my love of B-movies (I keep Bruce Campbell’s Army of Darkness on my nightstand) and my rather niche wardrobe (I only own three non-black shirts, one of which is gray,) which led me to the realization that I was "that guy." You know; the one that spends every afternoon hunched over a keyboard, actually prefers Deadpool to Batman, and memorizes the family trees of people who never existed (and corrects people on the subject.) Now I just need to find a convention somewhere near here to go to in some sort of costume to connect with other people like me. Which brings us back to; BAMF, SNIKT, and THWIP. If you correctly identified; Nightcrawler’s teleportation sound, Wolverine’s claw extension sound, and Spider-man’s web-slinging sound, you may just be another "that guy" and we should hang out sometime and play a little Gauntlet, before you jump off that cliff.

independent piece 3 intro

Now this piece is a fine way to kill two birds with one stone. First off, it knocks off an independent piece; and second off, it takes care of little piece of nothing I’ve had floating about on my computer for some time. I’d had six lines written and than BAM writers block, than I found out about a little marvel called "rhyme royale." All I needed to do was add one line and mix up the line structure so the rhyme worked and POOF we had a literary masterpiece. Take that King James I of Scotland. Not what’cha might call "good" or "readable" but what can ya do?

independent piece 3

One of northland one of south and one from far-off shore
Within my ‘salem soul, that most a-harmonious place
The three of them and all of me eternally at war
The southern one has beauty pure the farthest one has grace
But still the northern one has all a truth of soul and face
Three fates, three furies, my wyrd sisters three
Always and forever more they shall never let me be

This is a close-up view of asbestos, a dangerous material which is virtually impossible to burn. Asbestos has seen extensive use throughout history as fire-proofing and even clothing, despite being a highly carcinogenic rock that is lethal if inhaled. Isn't that stupid!

The man in the hoodie is a demonstrator protesting the business practises of the World Trade Organization in Seattle. Seattle police responded with full riot gear and tear gas but the protesters decided to stand by their beliefs. Isn't that stupid!

independent piece 2 intro

So, as I’m abundantly certain Nadia will point out, this is an older piece. I wrote a while ago but it has undergone recent re-editing so I’m saying it counts as new. Take that. Anyways, I like this piece for several reasons; first off, I wrote it and I’m awesome, but more importantly, I think it’s a good poem. Not a great poem by any means, but it has all the things a decent poem needs. It has a message, albeit a clumsy and forced one, and it uses esoteric vocabulary, which I think is always fantastic. So you folks can say anything you want ‘cause I love this piece with my whole heart and refuse to make changes of any kind to it. In fact, if you suggest improvements it will only make me discredit you in the future. Enjoy.

independent piece 2

Long Have Gone the Days of Old














Long have gone the days of old,
When kings and kerns, all warriors bold
Would march to war at trumpet’s call.
Many marched to father’s hall

Though ere they died they’d pay their debt
Oaths fulfilled, and payments met
Cross ever-growing fields of red;
Hope not lost among the dead

Fist to fist and sword to sword
The soldiers died for land and lord
By duty held; by honor bound
A kindred charge at trumpet’s sound.

A tide of fury, wave of rage
A final charge of knight and page
But lo and see through shining light
The hope of one, can change their plight

Stout of heart and strong of soul
One man’s courage takes its toll
His courage bright as any flame
Yet to this day he has no name

All deeds gone and long forgotten
The tree of life diseased and rotten
But hope remains while we still live
Honor still, our gift to give

We must seek to save what’s left
Before we meet with reaper’s heft
Ignite the ancient flame of honor
Rebuilding what was once our valor

Long have gone the days of old
When kings and kerns were warriors bold
Still lives hope to save our grace
We may with our fathers earn a place.

Lives piece

Back in the good old days; four houses and a good few years ago, I was a strange sort of child. Not like the well-adjusted properly motivated man of eighteen you know today, I was skittish and anti-social. Lacking the finer social graces I would later develop I preferred to shrug back from public places and strangers. Hoping to cure me of my diffidentness my parents would exercise any opportunity to force me out into the world. Pre-school was the most obvious choice and it served well enough; I would go and sit. Sit by myself, sit in the corner, sit in the bushes, I would just sit. Now, it doesn’t take my parents combined thirty-seven years of education to realize that crouching in a shrubbery doesn’t facilitate socialization. So my parents decided a more aggressive tactic was required. My mother set aside whatever it is that mothers do in the afternoon to march me around our wee town.
I would, under duress, accompany her on her daily errands; the grocer and such. Once in public I would be expected to stand tall, walk straight, and greatest of inhumanities, speak. By this point I would prefer the turmoil that was school, there at least silence was acceptable, except during prayer (damn nuns.) But on the unfortunate occasions I was sick, or when it snowed, I would once again return to the care of my mother. And once so supervised we would re-explore the familiar haunts of small-town Vermont. Thanks largely to the mind-freezing cold of New-England winter (that is to say all months except July, which could easily reach a balmy forty-seven degrees) we would stick to the great indoors. Lacking significant structures of a noteworthy nature, our town necessitated that we run the course of the usual small town locals. The grocer, the general-store, the teddy bear factory, the mall (a term laughably applied to the ten store collective in “downtown.”) It was on one such march that I was égorged.
One particularly pleasant day we decided to leave our standard route to stroll along the banks of the mighty Lake Champlain. As it was late summer so we needed only our lightest down as we walked that rocky shore. And it was in the frigid brine I spotted a delightfully unusual bit of flotsam, a pair of glass bottles. The two twin buoys bobbed about in the gentle undulations of the vast lake behind them. I watched the little submersibles twirl and dance about for a brief until my mother was suitably distracted. At which point my reasonable response to such an invitation was hold both bottles aloft and clack them together. It was a most appealing sound. I repeated the motion. This time; both bottles shattered, raining jagged glass down upon me. Little shards of glass ended up lodged in both my right eye and my throat. Bet’cha didn’t see that coming.
Anyways, one hysterical trip to the emergency room and a few stitches later I was good to go and ready to hit the beach again. Unfortunately, in the brief period that had elapsed winter had set in and the whole region was buried under snow drifts. The snow that september was as brutal as it was brumal, we were trapped in our house and forced to eat my little sister Liesel, but that’s a whole different story.

BRING ME THE WIKIPEDIA!

This is a lemming. These adorable little critters periodically throw themselves off cliffs whilst migrating. Isn't that stupid!

independent writing 1 intro.

This particular piece spawns for my long-standing belief that our school, and in fact our country, needs gladiatorial combat. I was thinking about the actual process of people being forced to kill total strangers for no good reason, but that wasn’t particularly interesting so I dragged forth a well-worn plot from the hallowed past. Once I had the considerably worse-for-the-wear plot out of the way I got to focus on specific details, of which I included none. In a true Hemmingway fashion I included only one-tenth of my knowledge about any particular facet of the whole death in the arena song and dance, a move that didn’t really pan out in a manor that would have justified its use. All in all, not particularly profound, or particularly good, but it’ll do I suppose.

independent writing 1

The Pit
"Now, you little half-breed, there are only two ways out of the Pit; with your shield or on it."
With that disparaging remark the Boss spit into the ground between the recruit’s feet. Every face in the narrow annex was marked with fear. These were the rawest of recruits, never tested, half of them wouldn’t even see the sunset and half again would never see morning. The rest had nothing to look foreword to except another round the next day.
At either end of the chamber was a door; one led out to the Pit, the other led out to the cages. They all came from the cages. Prisoners mostly, some were slaves, others had just wandered too far from the more hospitable centers of the city. It didn’t really matter where they came from, right now they were waiting to enter the Pit and in all likelihood they would never leave.
The particular pug at whom the Boss had shouted was indeed a half-breed. He was half-Citizen, half-Elselander. The Boss was part Elselander himself, but no one would dare point it out. The half-breed was unique among the pugs. While the rest of the litter was weeping and convulsing in silent terror, he sat unfazed despite the fetid stench of sweat and piss. It was that mute concord that so concerned the Boss. The pugs were usually fodder for the real fighters, but on occasion a veteran soldier would end up on the wrong side of the Pit and do some very expensive damage. It was the Boss’ job to make sure that happened as rarely as possible. He had a very short time to measure the half-breed before he was sent in. Each pug was forced through the far door in turn. Than a crescendo of cheers. Then the Vultures would drag the corpse through annex where the other’s waited and back out to the cages, there they would lay dead or dying until the rest had had their fight. Then the next would be thrown screaming through the far doors.
The Boss finally decided that the half-breed would have to go in. Soldier or not, he would have to fight in his turn. Once the rest had been exhausted he rest he pulled the half-breed to his feet.
"Now is your time." The Boss was decided; he would give the audience a show. "Stand before the door and draw arms."
Once the pug was in position the Boss kicked the door open and let the light of day slice into the dark, cramped chamber. He stepped out into the sand of the Pit and threw back his head, basking in the thunderous applause of the crowd. Once the crowd had hushed down he bellowed out. Proclaiming to the audience that the last combatant was a foreign warrior who had brought down dozens of Citizen-soldiers before finally being brought down. The Boss had been doing his job for a very long time, and he was good at it, he knew how to rally the crowd against a fighter. This half-breed was a real trophy. If he won, the crowd would herald him as the great Elselander Champion and if he was destroyed than the crowd could take comfort in the superiority of their people against the others. Once his work was done he stepped back through the door and forced the half-breed out onto the sand.
Once outside, the door was shut and bolted. The half-breed was alone with the Wolves; seasoned professional killers. The silence of the stadium was oppressive and the scorching heat baked the blood and sweat of the day into the sand. Across the blood-caked arena circled the Wolves: a retiarius, a hoplomachus, and a murmillo. Each man glanced at the other two, their predatory instincts evident in each violent jerk and twitch. Slowly they closed in on the half-breed brandishing arms. Circling like sharks they pushed the half-breed against the farthest wall. Soon they were within striking range but still they held back. All three killers surrounded their single opponent making feigned gestures of attack, but the half-breed stood his ground. Finally the retiarius thrust, easily piercing the man’s chest and allowing the other two Wolves to simultaneously slice into his vulnerable legs and stomach. The crowd erupted into cheers as the bloodied Elselander fell to his knees clutching his badly bleeding body, weapon and shield forgotten in the sand.
The Boss was watching from the annex as the man who had sat so quietly while others died in screaming agony knelt silently bleeding into the mud. There were no victims in the pit. Only the weak; only those who fell at the tip of a spear. There was no mistrial in the Pit, no poets, this was not the place for celebration. The gods’ justice was final and absolute.
As the Murmillo raised his sword to dispatch the Elselander in the traditions of a clean execution, the light of the sun gleamed off of the blood-marked blade of his xiphos. His muscles tensed and readied to give purchase, blade tip resting just above the collarbone.
The crowed rose to better view what was about to happen. With a thin whistling a black dart shot the length of the sandy stage. The beast stood frozen where he stood. A look of anguish coupled with slow revelation crept onto the soldier’s face as he registered what had happened. The rules of the games had come into play. No man would die in the Pit whose life was worthy; the Elselander’s was not to be forfeit.
The linothorax-clad combatant fell to his knees with nothing but dumb shock plastered across his face. He fell level into a pool of his own vomit, the bolt between his shoulder blades quivered to a rest. Across the Pit in the shadows of the terrace the Boss lowered his arbalest and pulled a second bolt.
"Now you two best be stepping away from that fighter." While he spoke he cranked back the windlasses. "He has my protection."
In an unprecedented display of mercy the Boss had decided that this pug was worth keeping. Laying their respective instruments in the bloody muck about their feet the undamaged wolves respectfully bowed low. The Boss slowly paced out the length of the arena, lifted the now-convulsing pug, and carried him back to the annex. Straight through the cadges to the cloisters wherein the wolves resided. This would be his home now. He was the Boss’ new apprentice. His story was only just beginning, but before he could take on that challenge he had a long road of healing ahead of him. A long and painful road.

poem in the style of cummings

while little girls skip rope they chant

while little girls skip rope they chant
of yellowed Cinderella
she loved the guy who lived
upstairs, and often climbed to see him

at their young age they don’t quite
understand how romance goes;
while late at night, another
seems to be self extended,
the garish light of day erodes
facades that night defended

when little girls are little women
they still gawk and cluck about
what stupid little boys may think (or
if they do at all) without
stopping to declare what they
think about (or if they do at all)

e. e. cummings.

i sing of Olaf glad and big

XXX
i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but--though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments
--Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat
--Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.

Vonnegut blog

St. Marcus was a decrepit old church. The walls were all scoured clean so they shone bright in the sun, even if the paint was chipping off here and there. Every here or there a shingle had given up the will to go on and cascaded to the rocky ground below. But it was still standing. The small but devoted congregation filed in every Sunday and bowed their heads than filtered out. And so it was and so it continued until the day Francis Horten showed up.
When ever things changed in their town the pre-determined reaction of the "old guard" was the same high-nosed pomposity. This was particularly true where their beloved old church was concerned. They would have no mucking about with the articles of faith and most certainly no alteration of their sacraments. And it was that ridged refusal to compromise that their parents had taught them and that they would pass on to their children, or at least they would if they hadn’t all run off once they could walk. Horten had dealt with such hard-nosed conservatism before so he knew just what to do. And that was why on his first night in town he set that church on fire.

hemingway blog

Frank took another pull on his cigar. He swirled the cup of whiskey in his hand, contemplating another sip but deciding against it. He set the glass down on the small table and stared into the setting African sun. Finally, he opened his mouth, but stopped abruptly. After a long pause he spoke, “Jim. I need that Rhino.”
Jim sat across from him, each sitting low to the ground in their folding chairs. They had been afield for eight days already. Neither man killed their quarry yet. Both had traveled half-way around the world to bag their mark. After a long manly silence, Jim took a pull from his brandy flask. “I know Frank, I know.”
Thick manly plumes of smoke rose from the smoldering ashes of the campfire as the sun plunged headlong into the savanna. Both men retired to their respective dwellings for the night. Each lay his rifle by his bed.
The night passed too slowly for Frank. He woke twice in a cold sweat. His dreams kept bringing him back to Madrid, back to the Plaza de Toros. He couldn’t get the death-bellows of the bull out of his head. It called to him across time. The shear ferocity with which the innocent bull was hacked apart filled him with near-divine fervor. The savage grace of that final skewer, the warm splash of fresh blood, and the bewildered look of the bull all stuck in Frank’s consciousness. He woke in a cold sweat. He needed that Rhino.