Thingiemabober

Every crimson sunset is a blood red sunrise on the other side of the world.

"Red sky at night, a sailer's delight; red sky in morning, sailer's take warning."

College

Picking a good college is like picking a good partner. There's a huge variety out there, more than any person could ever look at. There are big ones, small ones, rich ones, poor ones, busy ones, chill ones, beautiful ones, smart ones, and everything in between. There are some that will go for anyone who shows the slightest interest, but those are usually desperate and its often best to ignore them, unless you are desperate too. There are those with the highest of standards, demanding trial by fire before canditates ever get close to getting in. Some demand lots of money. Others already have lots of money, so they make it practically free for any "qualified" candidate. Its hard to tell what you want with so many options, but, you gotta decide.
Then, you've got to apply. Its scary as hell, but you gotta do it. Let them know that you exist, put yourself out there. Give them your number, your email, maybe even your home address.
Then, you wait. And wait. And wait some more. Sometimes, it feels like it takes them forever to get back to you. With others, the response is immediate. With some, you've got to be lucky and get them at the right time of year, some have weird deadlines.
But the wait is worth it, your devoting a lot of your life and time to them. Pick well, miss no opportunities.

Jim dictates

It was yet another dark and stormy night. "This is getting old," said John. "shut your mouth," said Jim.
John was wrong about something. Jim complained, and John punched him in the kidney. Except, Jim was iron man, and punched John through a window with about 2000 kilojoules of energy. As John plummet to a oh-so-certain doom, Jim rushed out and saved him. Jim then flew to an even greater height and dropped him again. John died.
Jim didn't know that Arthur, otherwise known as the incredible hulk, had also wanted to kill John. And, as John was already dead, the opportunity for John-killing had been taken away from Arthur. Arthur got angry and turned big and green. He then leaped into the air and started fighting Jim. After several hours of intense battling, and more then one awkward sex reference, the combatants separated.
Arthur suddenly realized that they had been fighting 300 meters in the air. Unlike Iron man, superman, and the entire cast of Dragonball ; the hulk cannot fly.
So he plummeted to his death. It was scary.
The moral of this story is: if you let Jim dictate a story, he always ends up winning. This is because he is jealous of Arthur's large muscles.

Listening

There are people with good hearing, who can identify who has slipped into a room by the rhythm of their stride. There are people with great hearing, who can read emotions based upon the subtle changes in a voices pitch and cantor. There are people with excellent hearing, who can hear the whispering groan of the earth as autumn turns to winter. But these are all shadows of the person who can hear something when nothing is there at all.

Shades of Gray

The walls are moving. Like melting ice cream, they run down to the floor, making little gray pools on the gray tile. I wonder what they taste like, but I can’t seem to move. Droning voices dully punctuate the air around me, like pulsing ocean waves. The desk below begins to look more and more like a pillow. I’m trapped, I think. Trapped between boredom and curiosity, life and death, dream and reality. Where am I? Who am I? Shades of gray.

DIALOUGE

Statement of desire for object.
Questioning skepticism?
Quickly rethought apathy.
Reassured Joy.
Initial Begging.
Initial Gloating.
Presentation of logical need.
Sudden interest in finger nails...
Plea to inner goodness?
Blank stare.
Request to consider the opinion of higher powers?
Moment of thought... Overruled.
Presentation of subjugating pose?
Demand for greater position of servitude.
Acquiesced.
Bored Disinterest.
Helpless Pleading...
Dramatic pause. Statement of unfulfilled need.
Promise of filling said need.
Genuine thanks.
Request for object of desire?
Denied.
Frustrated anger.
Open ridicule.
Empty threats.
Holding of object just out of reach...
Momentary loss of control.
Reproachful comment.
Restatement of request, including the word 'please'?
Blunt refusal.
Addition of pretty to please, with cherry free of charge?
High pitched mockery.
Disgusted vacation of space...
Disappointed boredom...

Middle School

Roller coaster.
First Hill.
Falling.
Exhilaration.
Innocence.
Hit bottom
Should I...
Have liked that?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Look at neighbor.
He knows.
Copy.
Quick.
Next hill.
Still copying
So…
I miss it.
Again.
And again,
Hill after hill:
In the past.
At my neighbor.
Over thought.

Lou's first day on the job was a disaster... (maybe submit)

Louie's first day on the job was a disaster. He worked in a secret nuclear silo. All day, he sat in front of a big red button. He wasn't supposed to press the big red button. Or, at least, not until a important man in a suit called him on the big red phone next to the big red button. The important man didn't call Louie on his first day. But Louie pressed the big red button anyway. Louie's first day on the job was a disaster.

55 word story (maybe submit)

"You're cheating on me?" Fred screamed as he barged into the room.
"What?" said Bess, "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb, you whore," Fred shouted, "Joe fessed up to HIS wife. She told me everything."
Bess stormed to the closet door and opened it.
"You told your wife?" she screamed.

Letter from a Dead Person (maybe submit)

What a (jerk). What. a. (jerk). I looked down at the letter again. I hate you Uncle Lou, I mouthed silently to myself. This was a classic Lou move. The first couple of lines read, "Hey you guys. I just wanted to let you know that heaven is pretty good. Not quite what I expected, but I've still been enjoying my stay here. You have got to taste the..."
What a (jerk). This was his idea of a practical joke, of getting the last laugh. I bet he thought up this stupid plan minutes after being diagnosed with colon cancer. I bet thats what he thought: "Let's write a letter to them, have it delivered after I die. Let's (screw) with their heads."
God (dang) (jerk)
I miss you.

Naive Poem (Maybe submit)

One day
When I got home
Mommy told me that our dog
Chewy
Went to a farm in the country
Where there were a lot of open fields
for him to run in
and a lot of squirrels
for him to chase
And he would run and run and run
All day long
And a nice family would take care of him
and feed him
But mommy, I said
Chewy cant run so good
We even need to help him get on the couch
And WE feed him
And I want him
He's MY dog
but she shushed me
and hugged me
and didn't say anything else.
I missed him, and I didn't say anything
But I wanted him back
So the next day
I took the car keys
which I'm NEVER supposed to take
and I got in the car and turned it on
And I ran over the mailbox
and almost hit old Ms Washell
Who was walking down the street
And my mom came out
screaming and hollering
and she yelled at me
and told me never to do that again
And just wait till daddy got home
And I thought that I did something real bad
So I started crying
And I said
I just miss Chewy
And then she stopped yelling
And hugged me
and said
I know.
I miss him too.
But I still never got
to see
Chewy ever again.

Narrative (too long but maybe submit anyway)

For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect or solicit belief. Yet, heed my words, young revolutionary.
I was young once; alive; and freethinking. I believed myself more clever than my forefathers, more perceptive than any who had come before. The world seemed to carry itself with cruel simplicity, its injustices infected, gaping wounds for all to see. I believed myself a revolutionary, with all of my pamphlets and suppressed papers hoarded carefully, to be read and reread. I believed in a better land over the hillside, a land of plenty, a land where the profit earned by the work of the people went to the people. I dreamed of a great redistribution, and longed for harsh retribution against those who seemed to pull the twisted strings. The secret police took some of my comrades, seemingly reaffirming my hate.
The world seemed to be made up of two types of people: us and them, good and evil. Some friends tried to sway me from my black and white world. They tried to tell me that there was no them, that everyone was part of the us. That we should look upon them as brothers. They tried to tell me that the "them" I so longed for did not exist; that I was chasing shadows. But I could not be moved, I was so stubborn and sure in my beliefs, in my pamphlets. I see now that both I and they were wrong. The world is not made up of us and them, and it is also not made up of just us. The truth is that there is no us: there is only them.
But I did not understand that, I was so overwhelmed by the simplistic mindset rotting my brain. I was a believer, blind to the world and my comrades, lost in my faith. I sank deeper. No longer were the pamphlet's hoarded, I had long since memorized the lines. Now I spread the propaganda to counter that of the state. Every word became more ingrained into my being as I lost childhood friends one by one. They seemed blind to the injustices committed against the people, so I traded them in for comrades, for allies. Friends were no longer necessary, I reasoned, if they did not understand.
I sat in underground meetings, breathing the dusty cellar air, plotting the states fall, plotting a glorious new rise. I made bombs, procured weapons, worked protesting crowds to a frenzy, sent spies into the darkest circles of our enemy as circles darker still formed under my eyes.
And on one fateful day, already forgotten by history, we built the barricades, used the stockpiled bombs and weapons. We overthrew the corrupt state, and the stifling pressure which had filled me rolled away, filled only with joy.
Things were to change, every meal was to be a feast; we were give back the power to the people, to the workers, to the third estate. We would move quickly to open the gates of prosperity. And indeed, moves were made...
But... our leaders, the original revolutionaries, the great planners of our victory began to see things in a different light. The secret police, while officially disbanded, had merely changed location and name. Apparently they could serve the people, if properly retooled. They would bring the ideas of the revolution to every corner of the land, and would root out the plotting loyalists still among us. Who could argue with that?
The factory owners, once decried as the bringers of injustice, were turned out or killed. New, loyal party members began managing the factories. Their families filled the newly vacant mansions, their children wore the smoothest silk, and the workers still wore the coarsest of fabrics. The wheels must turn, they said, and we work all the time. How could I argue? I had followed their authority since the time of my youth, I could not bring myself to question it, no matter what I saw. Time went on, emblazoned with this uneasy balance within my mind.
Soon enough, the people began to mutter, the rank stench of revolution filled the air. I had chosen my path; I was too old, too blind to change- even if the you, the new revolutionaries, had allowed me to join. My belief was broken, I had seen more then enough of the work of my comrades. But I still clung to its empty shell like a drowning sailer to a raft.
Soon, another day came, more barricades, more bombs. Some of my comrades were killed on the spot, others, like me, were thrown into the cells, for a public execution at a later date. This wass, apparently, meant to build morale for the new state. I hear that the secret police are still alive and well, that the big homes have still not been torn down. The wheels still turn, they always do.
And I sat in my cell, and I let them turn. And for the first time in my life, I examined myself and the work I had done. I opened my eyes to my blindness, and accepted my fate. I will die today, at 3:30, in market square, by the hangman's noose. Life will roll on, the wheels will still turn, the people will go on as they always have.
I can now see the "them" which I so hated in my youth. I can see "them" all around me, and within me. They are smiling. I will be happy to see the small p[art of them living within me die. Kill me today, young revolutionary, but do not follow my path. For the most wild, yet most homely narrative I have penned, I neither expect not solicit belief. But heed my words, young revolutionary, watch yourself and your comrades. "They" live in you as well, they live in all of us. Watch them.

Litmag Ideas

I looked at 1999-2000 and last years.


I liked last years size over the larger size. There was a lot of empty space in the larger size. However, the smaller pages would involve more pages to layout, which would be more work for those working.

In terms of layout, I didn't like the standardized layouts from last year. I think that we could have had more layouts, potentially done by staff members. I think that having individually laid out pages could allow for more creative layouts and layouts fitted to the works on the pages.

I thought that some of the picture from last years litmag were blown up to fit a page, when they should have been smaller.

I liked the random picture on the cover of last years litmag, how there was a story there.

I liked the art in both. It is reliant on the submitters.

I liked how credit was given, seemed fine to me.

Both themes were fine, although the one last year seemed a bit more unified. I couldnt really tell what the theme from 1999-2000 was.

I think that art should also be separate from the literature, as often it distracts from the writing and is unrelated. It never seems to fit. If it had its own corner, I think that the litmag would flow better

Narri

Narrative Poem

One day
In Creative Writing
A black hole opened up
And ate Adobe Indesign
Ms. Cassell lost her head
"Where did it go?" she cried
As she pulled out her poor hair
"I ate it," said the Black Hole
"Yay!" said all the ickle children
"What?" said Ms. Cassell
She started hyperventilating.
The Black Hole felt bad.
So he gave Indesign back.
Ms Cassell did a dance.

Favorite Poem

The Cremation of Sam McGee
Robert Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.







I like this poem. A lot.

Other poems

Hilarious
Always

Silent water is
Falling, dropping- the impact
will shatter the peace

Pointless
Obtuse
Evil
Malignant

Letter from dead person

What a (jerk). What. a. (jerk). I looked down at the letter again. I hate you Uncle Lou, I mouthed silently to myself. This was a classic Lou move. The first couple of lines read, "Hey you guys. I just wanted to let you know that heaven is pretty good. Not quite what I expected, but I've still been enjoying my stay here. I've been thinking..."
What a (jerk). This was his idea of a practical joke, of getting the last laugh. I bet he thought up this stupid plan minutes after being diagnosed with colon cancer. I bet thats what he thought: "Let's write a letter to them, have it delivered after I die. Let's (screw) with their heads."
God (dang) (jerk)
I miss you.

Things I dont think that I would say story

John woke up.
It was bright and sunny.
But when he went into the breakfast room, his dad said,
"Its a dark day."
John was confused.
He went to school.
His mopey friend Jim said,
"I love school, especially all the busywork."
John was confused.
He ran into Arthur.
Arthur said, "God bless Hillary Clinton, Obama, and all those other godless liberals.
John was confused.
Then it dawned on him.
It must be opposite day.
"Oh, I get it," he said,
"I have one."
"The braves suck."
Arthur broke his jaw.

One Word Poem

What makes the monkey dance?
Fire.

Mr. Coolaid man

Mr. Coolaid Man
Oh yea.
I'm from the future.
Oh yea?
I remember the last time I saw you.
Oh yea?
As you burst through the wall.
Oh yea.
As your smile stood tall.
Oh yea.
As you made your sound
Oh yea.
Tripped and fell to the ground.
Oh yea.
And your red liquid splashed away
Oh yea.
And your body shattered to my dismay.
Oh yea.
And you died.
Oh yea.
And I cried.
Oh yea...
...
Oh No...

Under the rubble, a golden key lay...

Under the rubble, a golden key lay. Well, it wasn't really a key in the physical sense of the word. It was actually a piece of hay. But it was a key, or, at least, it had been, to many great things.
It had once belonged to a farmer named Jorden. Jorden wasn't very smart. Most people called him stupid, and for the most part, they were right. Jorden did stupid things, like jumping off the barn to see if he could fly, or buying beans from a funny looking man at the market.
However, whenever Jorden put a certain piece of hay into his mouth, something changed. Something big changed. Philosophy, art, drama, history, and physics all showed him their faces. Whenever he chewed on his golden key, he was the smartest man in the world. He kept it in a very special drawer in his house, and used it whenever he could.
One day, a man sold Jorden a piece of dynamite. Jorden thought it would be fun to light. He wanted to see if the explosion would be as big as the man claimed. So he took it into his house, and found a match. He thought about the piece of straw, but was impatient. He wanted to get on with the fun. So he lit the match, and watched the fuse burn. How big could it be?
Under the rubble, a golden key lay. Well, it wasn't really a key in the physical sense of the word. It was actually a piece of hay. But it was a key, or, at least, it had been, to many great things.

55 word story

In the closet

"Your'e cheating on me?" Fred screamed as he barged into the room.
"What?" said Bess, "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb, you whore," Fred shouted, "Joe fessed up to HIS wife. She told me everything"
Bess stormed to the closet door and opened it. "You told your wife?" she screamed.

Louie's first day on the job was a disaster...

Louie's first day on the job was a disaster. He worked in a secret nuclear silo. All day, he sat in front of a big red button. He wasn't supposed to press the big red button. Or, at least, not until a serious important man in a suit called him on the big red phone next to the big red button. The serious important man didn't call Louie on his first day. But Louie pressed the big red button anyway. Louie's first day on the job was a disaster.

List poem

The Unfortunate Lunch

Hot grilled cheese
Then Turkey and Mayo
Finally blueberry pie
with ice-cream
and caramel toping
and then
vomit

places for publication

Places To Submit The Ballad of Rich McKay

Bigbridge.org – Also easy to submit to online.

The American Poetry Review- However, they accept no simultaneous submissions. Mail to 1700 Sansom Street, Suite 800, Philadelphia, PA 19103


Sycamore Review- owns first rights to publishing
Mail to the Poetry editor at
Sycamore Review
Purdue University
Department of English
500 Oval Drive
West Lafayette, IN 47907


I think that I will submit to the Sycamore Review

Poem for Publication

The Ballad of Rich McKay


Oh here comes the world on this day

Down to the trial of Rich McKay

Down to the life to be undone

Down to the end of his big run


The greatest crook the world had seen

Until they caught him in between

Steel bars and cells and things unknown

And now his great end will be shown


Gambler, cheater, thief, and liar

Not names to which he aspires

His only crime, his favored thing

Would have to be pick-pocketing


Anyone can pull off a fraud

Anyone can con dear Aunt Maud

But it takes a distinguished soul

To have the pocket as a goal


The best pickpocket ever seen

Even took wallets from the queen

Vowed against all other crime

Pickpocketing stole his heart and time


That was, until they set a sting

And got him caught within a ring

The coppers went and took him in

And said, “Mister, this is the end.”


So here comes the world on this day

Down to the trial of Rich McKay

Down to the life to be undone

Down to the end of his big run


And heres the judge, a big old man

Who doesn't look like Rich's fan

He's wearing a wig like a moose

He holds his gavel like a noose


“Mister McKay I see you're here”

he said, “You're the catch of the year.

I'm a nice man, Ill hear your case

I will be the end to your race.”


So the trial went, so hours dragged on

Witnesses went up, then were gone

At the end of the fateful day

Sitting alone was Rich McKay


"Mr. McKay, Ive heard your case

and find your life to be a waste

But I think I have found a cure

Somewhere Pickpocketing has no lure.”


“Where?” said McKay frightened of death

He looked a bit like Mr. Macbeth

But after the judge had his way

the sun shone brighter the next day


Oh where was he sent, you might ask

For what place could match with that task?

Its very simple don't you see

He's gone to a nudist colony

oh here comes the world today
down to the trial of rich mckay
down to the life to be undone
down to the end of his big run

The greatest winner the world had seen
Until they caught him in between
Bars and cells and things unknown
And now the finale will be shown

Cheat, crook, lier, thief
are all his, won on the street
but most of all, his favorite thing
would have to be pitpocketing

Anyone can do the fraud
Anyone can con aunt maud
but it takes a special soul
to have your pocket as a goal

Greatest the world had ever seen
Took wallets and checkbooks like a king
Vowed against all other crime
Pit pocketing stole his heart and time

That was, until they set a sting
and got him caught within a ring
of police and coppers and and SWAT teams too
there was nothing he could do

so here comes the world today
down to the trial of Rich Mckay
down to the life to be undone
down to the end of his big run

And heres the judge, a big old man
Who doesn't look like he's a fan
He's as serious as a moose
He holds his gavel like a noose

"So, Mr. McKay, I see your here,"
he said, "You're the catch of the year.
But I'm a nice man, I'll hear your case.
I'll be the finish line to your race

So the trial went on, and days dragged on
Witnesses went up, and then were gone
And at the end, it was just McKay
And the judge would have his way

"Mr. McKay," he said, "Ive heard you case."
And find your life to be a waste
But I think Ive found a cure
A place were pitpocketing has no lure

"Where?" said McKay, frightened of death
Feeling a bit like MacBeth
But after he heard the judges cure
He found that pit pocketing had lost its lure

Where was he sent, you might ask
What place matches with that task
Its very simple, don't you see
He was sent to a nudest colony

Jim the God (story about picture of canyons)

Jim was a god. A young god. He was three days old. That's basically a toddler in higher being years.
Jim was playing. His mom was watching him. He was playing with blocks, perfectally sculpted by his mother's godess hands.
"Its time to go Jim," his mother said suddenly.
"NOOOO!" screamed Jim. He was a whiny little deity.
Jim slammed the giant stone blocks into the ground, shattering them into thousands of rough asymmetrical pieces.
"Its time to go Jim," his mother tiredly repeated. Children were handfuls even for goddesses. She scooped him up with one hand.
"Nooo!" Jim screamed again. His vocabulary was lacking at this age. His pudgy little god arms flailing about, reaching for the broken blocks. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes.
"Calm down, calm down," his mother said. With a flick of her wrist she stacked the broken blocks up into precariously stacked towers. Architecture was one thing that a goddess could manage.
"All better," she said as they walked into the heavens.

Taking a picture

Hey, hey you. Look there. Not there; there... Yepp, at the camera. Look at the camera. Now smile. Smile at the stupid little piece of technology. Thats it, marshall those little face muscles into place. Good. Now hold it, hold it, hold it, keep your eyes straight ahead. Wait for her to take the picture. Dont blink. Whatever you do, dont blink. Arg, you blinked. You bloody stupid idiot. Ahh well, it's alright, she didn't take the picture. Wait, her hands are on the button, Smile, smile, eyes straight ahead. Ahhh... relax. You're done. My carefully constructed face falls back down.

Thing for publication. I think.

Ethel gave out a weak cough.
"Jim, I'm dying. I'm dying Jim, Do you hear me Jim? I'm dying. I cant breath Jim. I cant breath. You should come and help me Jim. Jim? I'm dying Jim."
"Shut the fuck up you whiny bitch," Jim's voice rang out from the other room, "You can take care of yourself."
Such a tender couple, Jonas thought. I love my job. An obituary reporter, very exciting. It was a great conversation starter. 'What do you do?' she (whoever she was) always said. She was always cute, always available, always smiling with straight white teeth. And she would always look at him differently after he said, 'I write about people dying. I mean, dead people. I write obituaries.' And she would always try to continue, try to make light of it, ask something like 'Anybody interesting die recently?' And Jonas would always answer, 'Nope, no one interesting ever dies. 95% of all deaths happen to old people, who lived horribly boring lives. Pointless from start to stop. But they pay the bills.' And her smile would slip, slide, slither off her face, and Jonas would sit there at the bar again, alone, beer in hand till the next pretty face walked up. Or until he went to work, doing what he did.
Ethel was a customer. She wasn't dead yet. Jonas never did anything freaky, like those guys at THE TIMES. They went back in time, talked to people who were already dead. They had the backing of a multimillion-dollar company who payed for the rights to use all that quantum shit. If you went to them, you could get an exclusive interview with the deceased in an obituary, you could preview and edit to your hearts content. You could even delve into their mind, into their memories. That was the latest feature, memory analysis. Go into the deceased mind, and find the real person hiding beneath. But it cost a shitload, far to much for most people. Most people don't have a couple grand sitting around before the time comes, when the time comes, or after the time comes. So they settle for the next best thing. And that is Jonas. Obits Inc: the poor man's obituary company. "Cant afford a time traveling obituary, no problem," the ads declared, "Just come to Obits Inc. today, and we'll interview you before you die." And then the ad jingle would play. Jonas hated it, he hated his job. He didn't like working there. But it payed the bills, so he sucked it up. The obituary business was an industry. Everyone wanted to be remembered, wanted to leave something behind. And for useless old people, that thing was an obituary which Jonas had to write.
He dimly realized that Ethel was talking, and had been for the past 10 minutes. He nodded for a while, and listened to her most triumphant Bingo victories. God help me, he dimly thought and his head bobbed up and down. I cant take this anymore.
"I'm sorry Ms. Morison, thats all the time we have today." he said, cutting her off, "You can schedule more time if you want, but it'll cost you..."
"But, I thought we had a two hour appointment," she said. "Its only 3:30."
"Yes, Ms. Morrison," Jonas said like he was talking to a three year old, "it is 3:30. Our appointment began at 1:30. So it has been two hours."
"Oh..." Ethel said, looking intently at her shoes, seemingly embarrassed.
"Its a good thing you called us when you did too, Ms. Morrison," Jonas continued, "sounds like you might be experiencing the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. It a bad way to go, you know, no one can get any kind of obituary interview from a brain-dead vegetable."
And with that, he left, smiling. A cruel grin which lasted until he walked out the door to the apartment complex. That's when the man came.
"Mr. Rhodes," the man said. Jonas turned and looked. Black cloak, streamlined sunglasses, spiky black hair. Thats all he needed to see.
The man continued, "I need to speak with you."
"What about?" Jonas said, turning to face Mr. Mysterious.
"Your death,"" said the man, "I work for THE TIMES. I need an interview for your obituary. If you could please come this way."
"What?" Jonas could dimly hear the sound of his own voice. He was going to die. Soon. Most people didn't know it, but THE TIMES sent reporters as close to the death as possible. They wanted to get the best interview. Jonas knew because his company did its best to emulate all of THE TIMES' practices. He was an industry insider, he understood the game. Isn't he lucky.
Jonas suddenly regained control of his lips. He didn't want to die. He wasn't going to die. "No," he said, trying to sound as confident as possible. "Hell no." With a period. If he was going to die soon, he wasn't going to go through another obituary interview.
"Someone has paid us a significant amount of money in the future to get this interview and to write you the best obituary money could buy. I will not disappoint this person." the man from THE TIMES stated. "You will come this way."
And before Jonas could say anything, the man stabbed him with a needle. Everything went fuzzy, and he felt himself fold into the ground.
When he woke up again, he was sitting next to a dumpster in a shirt covered with vomit with a bottle of cheap liquor lying in a brown bag next to his hand. He groaned. "Sonuvabit-" he said. And then he remembered what happened. He groaned again.
"Took you long enough to wake up," said a voice above him. A boy hopped off the dumpster and continued. "You were asleep for a couple of days there. Kept on muttering in your sleep. I tried to give you some drink to make you feel better, but you wouldn't keep it down. Kept of vomiting it up. So I gave up."
"Where am I?" Jonas said in the voice of someone who has taken an involuntary two day nap.
"Wonderland, the rabbit hole, the matrix. It doesn't much matter to me. Where do you want to be?" the boy said with a laugh.
"Um..." Jonas mumbled.
"Here, this one is easier. Whats your name?"
"Jonas."
"Hi Jonas, I'm Iwa Takku. Lets go."
Jonas got up. He wasn't quite sure why; it wasn't the type of thing he normally did. But he got up anyway. He lumbered forward like a zombie, stretching limbs which hadn't moved for two days, pumping blood full of god knows how many drugs through his body.
"Where are we going," he asked.
"To find the fishing hole," Iwa said.
And with that, he ran off. Groaning, Jonas followed.
Out of the alley he went. Following the crazy ass kid like he didn't have a brain. Jesus fucking Christ. He rounded the corner, and something changed. He was no longer in the city, and the vomit on his shirt had disappeared. He blankly looked around. Around him was a busy forest. Birds were chirping, squirrels were playing, deer were calmly walking around and nuzzling. A stream trickled down a slope into a calm forest pool. It was about as picturesque as a National Geographic cover.
"Ahhh," the boy named Iwa said, "Now isn't this better? More natural, more relaxing? Just puts the mind at ease to come here."
Jonas turned to look at Iwa, but didn't answer. He just stared blankly at the little Japanese boy. His outfit had changed as well. He was now wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shit, with a bowler hat, and he was holding a fishing rod in his left hand. Have I died? Jonas thought. Have I lost my mind? Is this heaven? What the hell sort of heaven is this? Instead of comfortable fluffy white clouds, he gets and eclectic mix between dingy streets and crude wildlife. Instead of chubby little angels with wings, he gets gets a crazy Japanese kid.
"Hey, calm down," said Iwa, reading Jonas's mind, "just come over here. You'll figure it out eventually."
They walked over to the forest pool. As Jonas got closer, he could see that something was in it. A huge writhing mass. Of carp. This temperate forest pool was overflowing with carp. Some were 4 feet long, some were just a couple of inches.
"Its fishing time," Iwa said. And with that, he cast his line into the pool. Moments later, a tiny little thing came out, wagging around on the hook. The carp was almost 2 inches long, barely larger than the hook.
"Ugh." said Iwa. "Such a waste of a cast. But seeing as how it is your first little fishie, I'll show you how this is going to work. Just think of it like practice."
And this Iwa slapped Jonas across the face with the fish.
Things changed again. The forest pool was gone. Jonas and Iwa were standing on a city street, in front of an eerily familiar apartment complex. A man was just walking out of the door in front of Jonas and Iwa. That man was Jonas. A faint smirk lingered on his face as he bounced down the steps.
"Wha..." said the Jonas with Iwa.
"Three, two, one," said Iwa, counting down. Then, right as Iwa hit, "zero," a voice came out of no where. "Mr. Rhodes?" A dark serious tone, one that might belong to a secret service agent or a hit man.
Jonas number 2, the one standing in front of Jonas number 1 and Iwa, turned. And suddenly, the source of the voice was apparent. An Asian man in a dark suit, dark glasses appeared out of thin air. He said in the same serious voice as before, "I need to speak with you."
Jonas number two, still oblivious to the situation unfolding around him, asked, "What about?"
And the man said, "Your death. I work for THE TIMES. I need an interview for your obituary. If you could please come this way."
"Oooooh," said Iwa, "this guy is professional.”
The gears in Jonas number 2's head were spinning. His face was caught between three expressions, unsure of which muscles to twitch next. "What?" he said in a shaky voice. He paused. "No." A little less shaky this time. "Hell no," a hint of bravado was beginning to shine through.
"Someone has paid us a significant amount of money in the future to get this interview and to write you the best obituary money could buy. I will not disappoint this person." the man from THE TIMES stated. "You will come this way."
And with that, he stabbed Jonas number 2 in the leg. The world turned fuzzy, and Jonas number 1 and Iwa were back in the forest. The birds were twittering, the carp were swimming, and Jonas’s face was, yet again, stuck between three expressions.
This defiantly wasn’t heaven.
“Figured it out yet?” Iwa asked. A smile was playing around his face, he was gloating.
“This is the interview,” Jonas flatly stated. He knew what was happening now.
“Good job,” Iwa said, like he was giving a gold star to a third grader. “You’re fast. What did you think of the introduction? You know, we’re always looking for feedback. Did you like the alley, the forest? Do you think we should have told you what was happening from the beginning? I don’t think so. I think this way is more fun. What do you-“
Jonas said, “Are you the man in black?”
“Nope,” said Iwa, smiling. “I’m someone else. I am your guide on this journey, if you will. Your mentor, your friend. I am-“
“You’re a woman, aren’t you?” said Jonas. “Was there anything else the instruction manual told you to say?”
“And what if I am a woman,” said Iwa. “You aren’t very nice.”
“No," Jonas said, "I'm not."
Awkward silence. Filled by the chirping birds and the splashing brook.
“What’s next?” asked Jonas.
“A memory,” said Iwa. “A big one. The bigger they are, the more important. I’m here to find the real you.”
And with that, she stuck her bare hand into the pool and came out with a two-foot carp.
“Here we go again.”

This time it was high school. Biology. The study of life. Mr. Hoister's class.

God, Jonas thought. Home. I haven't thought about this in ages.

Mr. Hoister's booming voice was echoing across the room. His fat lips were preaching the food chain, and his skin had a faint, pinkish tent. Half the class was doodling. The other half was sleeping. There were two lone exceptions: Jonas, sitting in the front, back vertical, diligently copying down the notes as fast as Mr. Hoister could. The other was a girl near the back, in the land of sleeping students. She was semi slouched, resting her head on her hand, but she was listening to Mr. Hoister's monotonous boom.

"You were a geek?" Iwa exclaimed. "A nerd? A sit up front and take notes kind of guy? How the fuck did you end up like you are now? What happened to turn such a promising individual into such a miserable heap of flesh?"

"Stop being bitter about me guessing your sex," Jonas replied. "Im a cynical bastard, and its your job to get to know me. Shut up and listen." And with that he faced the front of the room and Mr. Hoister.

















Jonas opened his eyes, and found himself in a classroom. His 9th grade Biology classroom, to be exact. Mr. Olizer, the most boring man on earth.
“What’s so important about here?” asked the small Japanese boy beside him. “What’s so important about now?”
“I don’t know Iwa,” said Jonas. It certainly didn’t seem that important. It was a classroom covered with pictures of frogs, filled with sleeping students. Mr. Olizer didn’t particularly care, he just droned on in his monotonous voice, oblivious to his dozing class. Two lone eyes remained open. One was little Jonas, furiously writing down every word. The other was a girl slouched in the back, not even bothering to pretend to take notes.
“Nice bowl cut,” Iwa remarked over Mr. Olizer’s voice. “You look like the coolest kid in the class. How did you ever end up the way you are?”
“Shut up,” Jonas said. And surprisingly enough, Iwa shut up.
“There are several characteristics which define life,” Mr Olizer was saying.
“Do we really need to listen to this?” asked Iwa. “I mean, what’s the point?”
Jonas didn’t reply, he was lost in the memory, listening to the ‘eight essential characteristics of life.’
All of a sudden, in the middle of this odd looking moment, the most rare of events occurred. A hand went up, raised by the girl in the back.
Mr. Olizer looked quite taken aback. This was a rare occurrence in 9th grade general Biology. A smile dimly crossed his face; he wanted to savor the moment.
“Mr. Olizer,” she said, “why aren’t viruses alive? I mean, why don’t you call them alive?”
“They don’t have DNA,” Mr. Olizer began, “that’s #4 on our list of essential characteristics of life. If they don’t have a nucleus, they don’t have DNA. They cannot live on they’re own, they rely on other cells for reproduction. They are stupid mechanical inanimate objects.” He smiled. You could practically see the thoughts run across his face. ‘Another mind enlightened, another mission complete.’
“Who says that life must have DNA?” she replied, “who made this criteria? Do bacteria act any differently. They are mechanistic, only a series of self feeding chemical reactions lumped together by natural selection. For that matter, on the issue of reproduction, how are we any differant

Something Rotton

"Act Three," the voice of the narrator rang out.

Hamelton tensed up.  He was ready to find out who killed his father.

The lights went out.

There was a confused muttering.

"What's going on?" Hamelton whispered to his mother.  Except his mother wast there.  "Mom?" Hamelton softly called out, getting worried.

Suddenly a spotlight shone down onto the middle of the stage.  In it stood his mother.

"No one is here to watch Shakespear," she said.  "Who likes that stuff anyway.  You are all here to find out who killed my late husband.  Was it Claude, the devious undle, who inherited the powerplant?  Was it Medelson, the lawyer who reeped millions from legal fees?  Did olivia in her passion for wildlife murder him in cold blood?  Or was it Pord, who never ceases to expand his walth and power?  I have come to hell you the answer, to reveal the truth.  It was--"

A shockingly loud bloom-bloom-bloom of his fathers old .45 magnum blossumed across the hall.  His mother was knocked off the stage in a red mist.

Hamelton turned around to see who had done the deed.  Everyone else seemed to be standing still, his mothers body falling in slow motion.

All he could see at the back of the hall was a dirty trenchcoat sweeping out of a closing door.  The killer was trying to escape.  Everyone else was in shock, despiratly trying to process the past 3 seconds.   Hamelton rose from his chair and sprinted towards the exit.  Hamelton alone went after the man who had killed his mother with his father's own gun.

He came outside.  Across the street was the man in the trenchcoat, already dissappearing into the woods.  Hamelton continued after him.

Thoughts raced through his head after the initional rush was over.  Who was it?  It wasn't Olivia- she was too small.  It wasnt Claud- he was sitting right in front of Hamelton when it had happened, hadn't he?  Or had he gotten up to go to the bathroom?  Hamelton couldn't think. 

He would find out soon enough anyway.  The man wasnt as fast as Hamelton to begin with, and was already losing steam.  Hamelton could hear him weezing.  Could hear the killers last breaths.  Hamelton was going to kill him, kill the man who had taken away his last reamaining family memeber.

He could proactically grab the trenchcoat now.  He could see the dirt which coated it everywhere.  Hamelton made a final lunge, and tackled the murderer.  He crushed the man beneith him, he still couldnt see his face.  However, he could hear the man, could hear the bloody coughing between the weezes.  And earily firmiliar mix of flim and blood being dredged from the back of the throat.  With an impeding sense of dread, Hamelton rolled the frail body over.

It was his father.

"WHAT?" Hamelton yelled, "What?"

"Hamelton?" his dad said.  "Hamelton, listen to me."  He coughed again, worse this time.  It sounded like he was dying.  "Your mother tried to kill me, tried to take the powerplant from me.  She buried me alive, in this very trenchcoat.   Apparently, the poisin wasn't working fast enough for her."

"What?" Hamelton said again.  His world was being overturned, he wasnt much for deep responces.

"She wanted to take the powerplant from me," his father repeated, "but she realized that my death would put her under too much suspicion.  So she seduced you idiot uncle to make him the prime suspect, to make it seem like he was the one who gained from the whole affair.  She was about to accuse him of being the killer tonight.  No one could have argued with her, her plan was flawless.  She had it all set up.  I couldnt let her get away with almost killing me and sending my brother to a lifetime in jail."

Coughs raked his body.

"I did what I had to do."

Words that begin with "J"

Jelious, Jittery, Jolly, Janky, Juicy, Jubulent, Jackhammering, Japanese, Jingly, Judgingly, Jumbo.

John jumped off the jumbo jet jittery from teh janky japanese coffee suplied by Jackhammering Airlines.  He was jubulent to be home, to hear the jingly bells of chiristmas.  However, Judy of the Jungle was jelious.  She judgingly stared at jolly John, to stop his juicy jubulation.  He payed her no mind though, and life went on as always.

Patchwork story (write a sentence and pass it along)

     The crocidile lunged at Crocidile Dundee.  Crocidile Dundee pulled his braided leather bowie knife out of its sheath.  He wedged the knife into the crocodille's side.  "This crocidile is going to make wonderful stew tonight," he thought.  Crocidile's mom walked out in her nightgown.  "What are you doing?  You better have not killed another animal" said mom.  Suddenly the crocidile was taken by a masked man.  He was shot in the foot and dropped the crocidile.  He got away because he was so scared.  Crocidile Dundee chased him.  After many days and nights of running, Crocidile Dundee caught him and sent him to jail.

Story of my morning with the tornado thing

I walked in Decatur High School.  Closed my umbrella, a little red thing.  Followed the teachers pointing fingers, followed the chaos of students voices.  Sat down on the end.  Pulled out my calculator, and my physics acceleration lab.  I finished the calculations, and did the standard deviations.  I took part in the wave, but it lost energy.  I talked a bit with my neighboor.  And then I got up.  My leg was asleep.  I walked to first period.  Very exciting.  Didn't really pay attention.

I felt bored as a pile of autumn leaves.

Color Poem

Walking down the average street

NOthin new benieth my feet

Just thoughts lying around my head

All responcibilities have fled

Nothing I need, nothing needs me

Driftwood on a blue green sea

Oh! Look! People! Names!

I no longer feel the same.

Look, look, look at me!

Piece of driftwood on the sea?

Im not lost inside my head,

Im a big fat piece of red!

Warmup with a purpose of thinking from 8-27-2008

If I could forget about one thing from today, it would be doing this warm up. I've had a pretty good day thus far. If I forgot about this warm up, I would be forgetting about writing about forgetting about writing about forgetting about writing about... forever. Infinite numbers, a circle, a sideways 8. An interesting concept, far more interesting than anything else which I would have written. However, I wont forget about this warm up now that I've written it, so this plan will never bear fruit. How unfortunate.

Creepy old person story

There was a little old lady who lived in a... old folks home. He had big glasses and white curly hair. I am sure that you have seen someone like her. She spent most of her days sitting in a chair in the lobby: thinking, thenb forgetting, then wondering about what it was she had forgotten, then wondering about what it was she had forgotten. If you've ever been old, you know what she went through every single day. No one talked to her, and she talked to no one. That was her story until she died.
When she died, she was embalmed. Her family wanted her to look her sunday finest for her funeral, to give a good final impression. Little did they know that the embalmer would lose his mind.
Upon receiving her body, he removed her blood, filled her with fixative, made her hair, painted on the skin tones. You know, the things that embalmers normally do.
But then, a devious insidious idea came creeping into his head. "I wonder what it would look like if her tongue was sticking out," he thought; "I mean, it cant hurt just to see..."
The man had spent so much time around dead bodies he had finally lost it. The sense of propriety of given to most of humanity had been lost on him. The sacredness of a human corpse had been lost on him. He had, in short, gone bonkers.
So he went to work. He opened her mouth, and with his cold metal pliers, he grabbed the tounge. He slowly pulled the tongue until it sat draped over her lip, like a dog panting for breath.
"She looks so silly," he thought as he giggled to himself.
He went back to work on the makeup on her face. Another idea struck him.
"I wonder what she would look like with her eyes crossed?"
So up the eyeballs went, and gradually, gradually, he pushed the eyeballs, rotated the eyeballs into place.
She looked almost as insane as he had become. He knew somewhere deep on the inside that his was wrong, that corpses shouldn't be be fiddled with on a whim. Deep deep inside. Getting deeper. Almost gone. It barely registered that every other corpse he had made up had not looked like someone frozen in a epileptic seizure.
He kept on working. Her hair had already been done; it would have looked perfect to any normal person. But the embalmer was not a normal person. He was overcome with the sudden urge to trim the hair. It wasn't quite right, it didn't fit with his vision.
So he trimmed the hair. Trimmed, trimmed , trimmed, and trimmed some more until a crew cut was all that was left.
"All better," he thought.
He plopped her glasses back on her head, giving her the look of a space alien or a japanese cartoon.
He didnt remember that her eyes shouldnt be crossed, that her tounge should reside inside her mouth. That part of him was gone, was waving goodbye. She was perfect in his eyes, the wife he wished he had.
"My magnum opus," he thought as he slammed the lid on the coffin.

First Post

I have I a blog.