So I took down the clown shorts, and I submitted them as one to a short story contest on glimmertrainpress.com, if only to prove to myself that I am a talentless hack and should kill myself. Ha, just kidding, I wasn't considering suicide. Until now...THANKS!!!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
We come in on a bird's eye view to a rapidly deteriorating scene in the woods. Our hero, clothes tattered, arms bloodied, is racing through the thick underbrush, racing away from someone or something. Our view doesn't incorporate the pursuer, at least not until it is too late for the pursuant, but that will be a few minutes down the line.
The light from the moon glistens on the congealing blood as the hero stumbles briefly on a half decayed log. The thunderous crashing from behind him increases in speed, the being causing it sensing that it's prey is weakening, faltering. Our hero picks himself, or herself, up with practiced ease and resumes flight. The woods are becoming thicker, obscuring more and more our view of the hopeless situation.
Brief glances of bright clothes and shining blood are the only indicators that this person, our hero, is still on the move. How will he or she escape? Will there be a cutaway that reveals the edge of the woods and an escape onto a highway with a sympathetic driver letting them in and revealing the deranged maniac at the edge of the clearing howling in rage at his lost quarry?
Our perspective is shifting slightly. The crashing of trees and brush that indicates pursuit is now merely feet behind our hero. Feet. Now inches. And we still can't see what it is! How frustrating for us. Uh oh, our hero just looked over their shoulder for the briefest of seconds, but what they saw caused them to falter and lo and behold! The clearing! They have stumbled into the clearing! But, we don't see the highway. No highway, just a clearing.
And with the clear view we see that it is a man. Our hero has a face! It is slightly formed of baby pudge and too much fast food. The hair is thinning on the top, hardly hero material. The shredded clothes reveal not a body to make the ancient Greeks proud, but a body that would at least make a Comic Convention audience somewhat ashamed of themselves. He's thin and lacks any form or definition of musculature, is what I'm getting at. And in the few seconds that we have had to take in the scene and our hero's characteristics, his pursuer appears.
Our hero appears to be motionless. Perhaps making a defiant last stand as if to say, "I am NOT afraid anymore! I will NOT run any longer! I WILL fight! I will EMERGE victorious!" Ah, the urine now staining his baggy and slightly unfashionable jeans suggests otherwise. The pursuer, a tall, thickly muscled creature with pale brown skin and a long snout, three eyes situated like a crown near the top of its head, sniffs the air, as if tasting the sudden influx of ammonia. It snorts in derision and casts its steely gaze firmly upon our hero's baby like face.
Things aren't looking good, not one little bit. It takes a tentative step, like all good predators, suddenly wary of its prey's sudden stop, of the possibility of a trap. But no, our hero has no such aces up his sleeves, or lack of sleeves as the situation is.
But alas! Our hero has suddenly pulled what appears to be switchblade from his back pocket! Perhaps the situation is not as dire as was once feared! Can it be? Will he survive this encounter with evolution's most perfect predator? If he does, this coming battle will surely be sung by the bards of WoW as he tells and retells the story on all the lobbies he surely frequents. The beast will be studied by scientists, assuredly for weapons research and other devious......BUT WAIT!
The beast has moved with lightning speed, apparently overcoming its previous suspicion, and swipes with its sharply taloned claws and our hero is without an arm! Armless! With a swift gulp, the creature swallows the arm whole and now it is lifting our hero up with its jaws, lifting him to a sweet embrace of death, where he can finally rest...
Or no, our hero is still struggling against the grip of the jaws of his death. The beast lopes out of the clearing, still holding the struggling man in its teeth. But of course, the mother rarely hunts for her own food, but for the food of her young! Oh, the death of this poor former hero will not be swift unless he can quickly bleed out from his wounds. He will go into shock, and unless the beast nests nearby, he will die before he can become a toy for her savage young. Pray for him, that his death is swift.
Well, clearly that wasn't the hero we were seeking out on this night. Perhaps our real hero is elsewhere. Let's go take another look, shall we?
The light from the moon glistens on the congealing blood as the hero stumbles briefly on a half decayed log. The thunderous crashing from behind him increases in speed, the being causing it sensing that it's prey is weakening, faltering. Our hero picks himself, or herself, up with practiced ease and resumes flight. The woods are becoming thicker, obscuring more and more our view of the hopeless situation.
Brief glances of bright clothes and shining blood are the only indicators that this person, our hero, is still on the move. How will he or she escape? Will there be a cutaway that reveals the edge of the woods and an escape onto a highway with a sympathetic driver letting them in and revealing the deranged maniac at the edge of the clearing howling in rage at his lost quarry?
Our perspective is shifting slightly. The crashing of trees and brush that indicates pursuit is now merely feet behind our hero. Feet. Now inches. And we still can't see what it is! How frustrating for us. Uh oh, our hero just looked over their shoulder for the briefest of seconds, but what they saw caused them to falter and lo and behold! The clearing! They have stumbled into the clearing! But, we don't see the highway. No highway, just a clearing.
And with the clear view we see that it is a man. Our hero has a face! It is slightly formed of baby pudge and too much fast food. The hair is thinning on the top, hardly hero material. The shredded clothes reveal not a body to make the ancient Greeks proud, but a body that would at least make a Comic Convention audience somewhat ashamed of themselves. He's thin and lacks any form or definition of musculature, is what I'm getting at. And in the few seconds that we have had to take in the scene and our hero's characteristics, his pursuer appears.
Our hero appears to be motionless. Perhaps making a defiant last stand as if to say, "I am NOT afraid anymore! I will NOT run any longer! I WILL fight! I will EMERGE victorious!" Ah, the urine now staining his baggy and slightly unfashionable jeans suggests otherwise. The pursuer, a tall, thickly muscled creature with pale brown skin and a long snout, three eyes situated like a crown near the top of its head, sniffs the air, as if tasting the sudden influx of ammonia. It snorts in derision and casts its steely gaze firmly upon our hero's baby like face.
Things aren't looking good, not one little bit. It takes a tentative step, like all good predators, suddenly wary of its prey's sudden stop, of the possibility of a trap. But no, our hero has no such aces up his sleeves, or lack of sleeves as the situation is.
But alas! Our hero has suddenly pulled what appears to be switchblade from his back pocket! Perhaps the situation is not as dire as was once feared! Can it be? Will he survive this encounter with evolution's most perfect predator? If he does, this coming battle will surely be sung by the bards of WoW as he tells and retells the story on all the lobbies he surely frequents. The beast will be studied by scientists, assuredly for weapons research and other devious......BUT WAIT!
The beast has moved with lightning speed, apparently overcoming its previous suspicion, and swipes with its sharply taloned claws and our hero is without an arm! Armless! With a swift gulp, the creature swallows the arm whole and now it is lifting our hero up with its jaws, lifting him to a sweet embrace of death, where he can finally rest...
Or no, our hero is still struggling against the grip of the jaws of his death. The beast lopes out of the clearing, still holding the struggling man in its teeth. But of course, the mother rarely hunts for her own food, but for the food of her young! Oh, the death of this poor former hero will not be swift unless he can quickly bleed out from his wounds. He will go into shock, and unless the beast nests nearby, he will die before he can become a toy for her savage young. Pray for him, that his death is swift.
Well, clearly that wasn't the hero we were seeking out on this night. Perhaps our real hero is elsewhere. Let's go take another look, shall we?
Friday, March 18, 2011
Experimental Animal Husbandry: A Diary
This diary is one that has recently been unearthed from an underground bunker located on a plot of land, formerly a piece of farmland located outside of Albany, NY. These are not my words. They are the words of a man from another time. They are the words of a man obsessed. What he was obsessed with will become apparent in due time. However, let me state that his words are disturbing, his psyche scarred, and his logic, completely faulty. Some of the things he said, and the pictures he provided, are without a doubt, the products of a mind so damaged and deranged, one might actually feel pity; pity coupled with complete and "udder" disgust. As you can no doubt tell, my opinion of this man and his work are set. It is now time to form your own, if you dare.
I have all but abandoned the generic means of creating a "chig" as I have christened my imminent creation. I will proceed with surgical means as a backup. While I have not received any formal training in the veterinary sciences, I have carved chickens, turkeys, ducks, and pigs at formal affairs of state, and therefore find myself qualified to perform this simple artificial coupling of two life forms.
December 3rd, 1921
I have had a breakthrough. Whilst sitting upon my throne, gazing upon the animals grazing in the greenery of my pastures, I saw the industriousness of the pig and I saw the production value of the chicken. Maybe the methane has clouded my thoughts, but methinks a change is in order. One that will change the entire modern world! I need to obtain some sources of funding, as this will not be a venture that is stumbled into cheaply, nor will it be one that will allow for the division of my thoughts or efforts. This will consume me for some time, but in the end, the product will be visible for the entire world.
I will mate them. The pig and the chicken. They are both farm animals, and in soforth as they frolic in the same wastes, they must be composed of the same material fitting for marriage of their considerable progeny. The methane is undoubtedly causing this pain in my head. I shall sleep on the matter, and hope that the clarity of sleep and less methane will show me the way in this matter.
December 4th, 1921
With the weakness of the dollar, investors shall be hard to obtain. No new revelations. Putting the my largest pig and my highest producing chicken in the same pen produced little results. Primarily talons gouging upon the flank of the pig.
December 22nd, 1921
Guffaws lingered behind me as I left the Goldman Sachs office in New York City. I admit, lying about my role with Sears and Roebuck may not have helped my case. I cannot imagine the source of their laughter however. Perhaps my hair was unkempt or my unshaven visage took them aback. I fear these considerable men will use their influence to keep me from my goal. I shall take another name in my future ventures to the city.
January 1st, 1922
The new year has not blessed me with any further meetings, but progress must be about moving onwards! The pig and chicken, deprived of all food, have not mated as I hoped they would. Apparently the pictures I showed them did nothing to inform them of what I wanted.
Where is the room for misunderstanding?
January 3rd, 1922
I have all but abandoned the generic means of creating a "chig" as I have christened my imminent creation. I will proceed with surgical means as a backup. While I have not received any formal training in the veterinary sciences, I have carved chickens, turkeys, ducks, and pigs at formal affairs of state, and therefore find myself qualified to perform this simple artificial coupling of two life forms.
January 4th, 1922
I have failed.
January 7th, 1922
The moonshine will last me through the night. There is no choice but to proceed with qualified individuals. I have procured a veterinarian from the city and with some coercion techniques I garnered from the war, he will aid me. As a backup, I have paired a horse and my dog in the same pen, with something the clerk promised was soothing and would undoubtedly lead to mating, the curious sounds of Louis Armstrong.
January 8th, 1922
I woke up this morning to find a horse in my bed. She promptly left with barely a whinny.
January 10th, 1922
From the course of action I have engaged in over the past two months I have only a horse that will not look at me in the eye, one ruined chicken, and one ruined pig. This was a disaster of the utmost proportions. It is time for phase two of the plan. Phase two calls for careful calculation. More moonshine. It mostly calls for more moonshine. I shall also scavenge for mushrooms. Also, I will need to find a cow already in heat for my male horse's seed. It is in a jar on the top shelf of my bureau.
January 22nd, 1922
Forgive me if I am mistaken, but it appears my fertile cow gave birth last night to a human baby. Tonight I will eat well.
January 23rd, 1922
Abominations. I abominated the nation with It is time for the cow
Human flesh is tasting mighty close to chicken tonight. Perhaps pig. I read once of a tribe in the South Pacific that
Long human pig.
JAnuaRy 9921 Failed
Thursday, March 10, 2011
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, let's move."
Two figures sprint full tilt, adorned in black long sleeved sweaters, black wool face masks, black denim jeans, black athletic shoes. Like spirits with the dogs of hell on their heels they run. Abruptly, sirens pierce the night to ring their discovery. If possible they move even faster, adrenaline pumping through their veins, lighting their nerves on fire and leaving them breathless. Two grotesque characters play their part in the evening's scheduled destruction.
------------
Four miles away, at the center of the city's financial district, a full squadron of figures race to their assigned posts, eagerly awaiting the command they know will soon come. Each one carries a backpack laden with enough explosives to create chaos aplenty. Each backpack a signal to the resistance forces that all wait crouched and silent as the night in their homes, their cars, their ditches and holes, their shanties and cardboard boxes. This evening will be glorious.
------------
Six shots ring out and the lead runner tumbles to the ground, no longer aware of the plan, the pain, the passion, as the second runner leaps the new obstacle and continues on without missing a beat. Death was planned for, that's why there was two. The steady drone of the heli-flier provides a metronome for the steady hailstorm of bullets. The last runner knows his end is soon and triggers the dirty bomb.
------------
Eight explosions sound throughout the city. It has begun. The oppressed are rising up. Win or lose, the ruling party will know they can be bloodied. They spring from their positions with the ferocity of feral dogs and descend upon the special police headquarters with brutal efficiency. Thousands have taken up arms, maybe tens of thousands. The streets are soon flooded with a dense flow of bodies trying to move into this building and other political centers. The police and military forces are taken aback. The faces attacking them are their neighbors, their friends, their servants. The shock passes. New orders arrive.
------------
Ten hours later the massacre is over. The streets are choked with the smoke of countless charred corpses, both military and rebel. Firebomb, the fastest and most efficient way to put down rabid dogs. Losses are minimal. Structures remain largely intact. Vital personnel come out of their bunkers, all accounted for. Transmissions sent out to all major posts in every city and suburb for hundreds of miles to be ready for possible attack and to suppress any mention of the events that transpired here. It is over. Final count: 24,910 dead, 2,166 wounded and taken prisoner for processing and interrogation.
"Yeah, let's move."
Two figures sprint full tilt, adorned in black long sleeved sweaters, black wool face masks, black denim jeans, black athletic shoes. Like spirits with the dogs of hell on their heels they run. Abruptly, sirens pierce the night to ring their discovery. If possible they move even faster, adrenaline pumping through their veins, lighting their nerves on fire and leaving them breathless. Two grotesque characters play their part in the evening's scheduled destruction.
------------
Four miles away, at the center of the city's financial district, a full squadron of figures race to their assigned posts, eagerly awaiting the command they know will soon come. Each one carries a backpack laden with enough explosives to create chaos aplenty. Each backpack a signal to the resistance forces that all wait crouched and silent as the night in their homes, their cars, their ditches and holes, their shanties and cardboard boxes. This evening will be glorious.
------------
Six shots ring out and the lead runner tumbles to the ground, no longer aware of the plan, the pain, the passion, as the second runner leaps the new obstacle and continues on without missing a beat. Death was planned for, that's why there was two. The steady drone of the heli-flier provides a metronome for the steady hailstorm of bullets. The last runner knows his end is soon and triggers the dirty bomb.
------------
Eight explosions sound throughout the city. It has begun. The oppressed are rising up. Win or lose, the ruling party will know they can be bloodied. They spring from their positions with the ferocity of feral dogs and descend upon the special police headquarters with brutal efficiency. Thousands have taken up arms, maybe tens of thousands. The streets are soon flooded with a dense flow of bodies trying to move into this building and other political centers. The police and military forces are taken aback. The faces attacking them are their neighbors, their friends, their servants. The shock passes. New orders arrive.
------------
Ten hours later the massacre is over. The streets are choked with the smoke of countless charred corpses, both military and rebel. Firebomb, the fastest and most efficient way to put down rabid dogs. Losses are minimal. Structures remain largely intact. Vital personnel come out of their bunkers, all accounted for. Transmissions sent out to all major posts in every city and suburb for hundreds of miles to be ready for possible attack and to suppress any mention of the events that transpired here. It is over. Final count: 24,910 dead, 2,166 wounded and taken prisoner for processing and interrogation.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Car Rides
Lying in the back seat, half asleep, I hear them fighting. Money, money, money, too much working, not enough working, not enough church, my sisters, me, what is it this time?
The steady drone of the engine soothes me more than any lullaby never did. The highway passes not even two feet below me. The long miles, the interminable distances we've traveled calm my thoughts.
They are fighting. Now they are shouting, screaming, trying to outdo the other with only the power of their voice, no reason to be found. I find solace in the vibrations of the car and I sleep. Just another car ride with my parents.
The steady drone of the engine soothes me more than any lullaby never did. The highway passes not even two feet below me. The long miles, the interminable distances we've traveled calm my thoughts.
They are fighting. Now they are shouting, screaming, trying to outdo the other with only the power of their voice, no reason to be found. I find solace in the vibrations of the car and I sleep. Just another car ride with my parents.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Woods
The air is still as sadness and psychosis accompany me on my one way trip into the woods. They are willing companions, ever encouraging whenever doubt creeps in. Sadness reminds me of all the reasons I left, and psychosis tells me how good of an idea it is, not to give up.
Whoever looks will find my car at the cul-de-sac where I left it and they will wonder about it as it decays and rusts and nature reclaims it. Or they will have it towed; I parked it in front of someone's driveway. Probably they will have it towed. But I do not need it anymore.
The wind begins to whisper to me, telling me many things. Unfortunately it does not tell me where I am, so I remain lost.
I remember the child I left behind. He turns four this month. We induced his birth on the 29th of February. We wanted a leap year baby. I wanted to save money on birthday parties. Sadly I did not anticipate his mother's opposition to such a proposition. Still, despite his physical size and appearance, I called him four years old. I hoped to tell strangers he was afflicted with Progeria, except the rarer kind that does not inhibit growth. Does it exist?
The trees cast their shadow on me, protecting me from the sun's harsh light. I can do this. Society has cast me out, but here, among the squirrels and the birds and the bears...Bears? Bears!!?? Maybe society will take me back.
Whoever looks will find my car at the cul-de-sac where I left it and they will wonder about it as it decays and rusts and nature reclaims it. Or they will have it towed; I parked it in front of someone's driveway. Probably they will have it towed. But I do not need it anymore.
The wind begins to whisper to me, telling me many things. Unfortunately it does not tell me where I am, so I remain lost.
I remember the child I left behind. He turns four this month. We induced his birth on the 29th of February. We wanted a leap year baby. I wanted to save money on birthday parties. Sadly I did not anticipate his mother's opposition to such a proposition. Still, despite his physical size and appearance, I called him four years old. I hoped to tell strangers he was afflicted with Progeria, except the rarer kind that does not inhibit growth. Does it exist?
The trees cast their shadow on me, protecting me from the sun's harsh light. I can do this. Society has cast me out, but here, among the squirrels and the birds and the bears...Bears? Bears!!?? Maybe society will take me back.
Friday, January 28, 2011
This Week
This was a very eventful week, what with moving for the dozenth time in 6 years, so I haven't had any time to dedicate to this blog. So unless something changes, this will be my post for the week.
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