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...
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
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.
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.
"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
Hot grilled cheese
Then Turkey and Mayo
Finally blueberry pie
with ice-cream
and caramel toping
and then
vomit
Monday, September 22, 2008
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
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 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
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
Thursday, September 4, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
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.”
"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
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
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
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!
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