Wanderlust

I'm a jerk who has not been writing much recently, but in all fairness, I am a very busy jerk. The semester is nearly at an end and it's time to cram for finals and write things that are not fun to write. More to come after the 16th of December. In the mean time, here is something that was actually written some time ago and recently rejiggered.

Many a day I've walked along, through varying tones of tan and blue – split at the horizon – through lands naked as earth will allow itself to be. My nap sack bore the scares of time in the form of several tears; some mended, others not. Calloused hands and taut muscle bore witness to a life of labored survival. A wrinkled brow implies years of introspective contemplation. In the desert life is hard so you keep moving, body and mind – keep things limber. If I walked until the soles of my feet blistered, popped and oozed pus in protest, I'll know I've gotten to wherever I was going and I would rest until fit to journey again.

When I knocked on your door, you answered with dripping, moisture darkened hair, wrapped in a towel. You offered lemonade, ham and eggs, and your body. It must be lonely in the desert, I deduced. What I couldn't cognate was how you managed such a well stocked fridge or why precious water would be wasted on priming.

Yes, the miles of ambulating over shifting, wind-swept dunes, and desiccated flats, had left me wanting for anything that would make me feel more human. I sucked the moisture from your hair as we made love, face to face. I was born anew. With feet bound, I started off again on my great journey, to whatever place is as far as I can go. You took another shower. I would have loved to stay but the isolated comfort of that place seemed too placating – stagnation, to me, translates as death, in spite of the fact that every journey ends the same.

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Wait! Before you leave these here interwebs, make your way to these fine reads:

Andrew Kaspereen's disconnecting from the missing link, is a powerful gut-check.

Remind yourself what it means to be human with Paul Mullin's The other us.

Thankful For...

Nothing special but I couldn't resist. Once more, Happy Thanksgiving!

The food in my belly

The air in my lungs

The roof over my head

The warmth of a hearth

Warmth in general,

When the days are cold

Cold when the days are hot

Smell

Touch

Taste

Sound

Smiles

Sun at my back

Wind in my face

Earth at my feet

Sky round my head

The unattainable perfection

(Something to shoot for)

All good things

Some of the bad

(Juxtaposition is key)

Day to sleep in late

Snow days

(Similar but distinct)

A pot to piss in

A leg to stand on

(Cliches)

Room to stretch

Friends to hassle

A love to desire

Family to...

Family.

Science

Celestial bodies

Zippers

The Rent is High But At Least the Taps Are Out

Sorry for the bit of lag these days. I've been trying to do more reading than writing. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this. Thanks for reading, have a happy Thanksgiving!

Brian Gaff made a somber gait through the dingy, flyer riddled door of the local backstreet pawn shop. He kept his head low, tucked into the hood of his plain gray pullover – an article of clothing he favored particularly for its common, low key, nature.

He fiddled with something in his pocket, something small, which he turned over again and again in his hand, until the memory of the object rubbed itself into his finger tips. Three quick steps up to the glass counter top and Brian slapped the object onto the counter with a thudded clink.

“Another?'' The wizened shop keep inquired. ''That would make it the third this week,'' she said, tugging at a tuft of hair protruding from the coffee bean mole on her chin.

''Sounds right,'' Brian replied meekly.

''You just find these things?'' The keep asked, now tweaking the mole as though it were a nipple through which her curiosity could be aroused further.

Brian lifted his hand off the silver quarter – the untarnished portrait of Washington gleamed under the mercury store lights. ''I collect 'em – or used to,'' Brian lied. Truth is, knocking off parking meters ala Cool Hand Luke was easy, and no one seemed to understand the true value of certain currency.

''Well, rate hasn't changed,'' the keep snipped, releasing her mole. ''One dollar.''

''This one's different,'' Brian assured her, ''1935, very fine condition. Minted in San Francisco. Look.” Brian fingered the quarter toward the far end of the glass counter.

''Don't mean a lick to me,'' The keep chided through the ash gray hairs fell over her face as she leaned to elbow down on the counter. ''Silver is silver. Don't matter when or where it took a shape.''

Brian, too tired to haggle, put his palm up and curled his fingers inward repeatedly. The keep placed two dollars in Brain's hand saying, “Tell 'yer dad we miss him at church, will ya?''

“Will do, Mrs. B.'' Brian curtly replied, ducking his head to conceal an uncomfortable smile.

The more money Brain could get, he thought, the longer he could stay clear of his dad's bender on the anniversary of his mother's suicide.

Brain left the store the same way he had entered, somber and slow, in no hurry to be anywhere.

''It's a shame 'bout the Gaff boy,'' Mrs. B said to her husband when he came down form the apartment above the store.

''Aye. Damn shame. His father ought know better. Tellin' lies 'bout his mom like he does. Boy's old 'nuff to forgive his pa the truth, but it's the lie spreadin' 'em both thin 'nuff to crack.''

“Aye.”

Awkwardly Moments: D+D Edition

This is just plain silly, but I guess that's the point. For quality 50-word stories go here: 50-to-1 For mildly amusing 50-word stories, continue reading.

Broads and Broadswords

We settled down with our drinks, some friends and I. Large breasted women wrestled on the television. Their ample bosoms heaved and swayed as they tore at each other. The Dungeon Master shut off the TV and started up ''Midnight Syndicate,'' the official role playing soundtrack.

''The game is afoot!''

Overawe

Droth, the dark elf, exploded into flame, incinerating his guides, as he gripped the orb of power.

“Did you see that!?” I cried at the prim girl – a loose aquaintance who had stopped in to wait for a ride.

All she saw were dorks, plastic figurines, and dice.

Rash

Those were sad times, when I'd browse Craig's list, in hopes that I could fill the void in my life with one night stands. All the ads made clear that I need be D+D free. This vexed me – I love D+D.

I told my woes to a friend. He laughed.

What Advice Can You Give Me?

I've often looked to horoscopes

for some semblance of direction

but being duped, by vague vicissitudes

I've seen the arrow's flexion

Of a sheep's bladder drawstring pouch

I consult the cast contents.

Divining truth from chicken bones,

to finally find life's sense.

“You'll be feeling misanthropromorphic.”

The bones seemed to me to read.

And as you could bet, I double checked

So as not to misconceive.

That night I dreamt of deserts.

Cool Creosote bush scented air

punctuated by the darkness

through which I caught Marlboro man's stare.

We meet eyes and with a drag

his face became aglow

'twas featureless save for a hole,

through which Marlboro man smoked.

With a flick of his wrist he threw 'ore me a lasso.

His horse and he let out a huff.

They pulled the rope taut 'round both my feet

and took off, dragging me through the dust.

Like a true buckaroo,

a real renegade cowboy,

the wrangler rode full trot,

backwards, standing, clear to Illinois

Pelting me with loosies,

methodically, on the forehead

His accuracy was flawless,

until I woke, sweat soaked, in bed.

A stray cat, come in through the window, lay upon my chest

''Wherever you go, there you are,'' it said.

The bones foretold this, but gave no insight on coping

with hate, fueled by fearful cravings for a cigarette.

Things I've Seen While Driving

This is unfinished and quite depressing, but I refuse to fictionalize this piece and there is much yet to be seen on my drives. I'll keep an eye out for eros, agape, etc. 

Red Carnations:

Bouquet.

Cast, haphazard,

to the wayside.

Unrequited love.

Mid intersection,

a toad,

unwavering,

bereaving splattered partner.

So it seems.

But toads will eat

nearly anything.

False love.

Road kill:

Light brown hare

pale as the moonlight

lighting the road.

Black hare

waits for my pass

then nudges the corpse again.

Star-crossed love.

15 Minutes

A 'lil something new. More to follow soon.

Your time has come,

but

maybe

it's always been.

Warming up.

Spotlight,

                     on.

Can you feel it?

Break pace,

                        Bolt.

Don't finish,       flourish.

Gusto,

             check.

So you're all set to go.

Your time has come,

but

maybe

it's only been.

Taking Even

Fun Fact: The working title for this was ''Wrapping Presents" (Rapping Presence, get it!?). Yes, I think I'm hilarious. Anyway, please enjoy.

I'm immortal is a motto that I'll carry till death.

If you find that fact a fallacy put it to the test

'cause I

Must confess I'll put to rest duress with fisticuffs and If I must,

you best guess I could be dangerous.

Now I could try to forget

And I could try to forgive.

I could let bygones be bygones,

I could live and let live but,

Shit!

This cyclone's spinning and it just won't quit.

There's no karmatic requital.

It's not a question of faith.

No passion play recital,

It's just me and my own stakes.

Circumambulating

Lamenting remunerations

Got me frustrated, contemplating some heinous

Resolve to exolves long gone but still raw in the memory.

Remember,

Enemies tempted this fate. Now ensate

is the steel so they reel but they'll never escape.

All Good Things (links)

Busy, busy. New writing to be posted soon. For now, enjoy a link to a new work on SixSentences, as well some links to other great works.

• Riding a Reverie: My story on 6S.
• Only Human: New Poems by your bro and mine, Glen Binger.
• The Broadset: Test your knowledge of beat poets and more.
• Ginsberg's Omelet: A piece I really liked by a gentleman named Ron. He also has many other fine pieces.

For Better Or Worse

I originally submitted this to seventytwowords, but they have yet to get back to me, and seeing as I'm a dolt who (much to my chagrin) failed to properly proofread the damn thing before sending it, I doubt they ever will. My bad.

For better or worse, Geoffrey lay pinned beneath six stories of shitty apartments. He knew the basement laundry room's wall saved him. He would lose his legs. Fine, insurance would cover the losses. Moreover, this excused him to continue his old passion of writing, which his nag wife resented. Her chances were slimmer on the fourth floor and seeing as the latter of ''for better or worse'' had long come, Geoffrey smiled.

Drink Of Me Deeply

Here is something I wrote for my girlfriend because I'm a goober like that. It's our one year anniversary today and this is my way of saying to her, ''Thanks for graciously putting up with me for a whole year!''


Drink Of Me Deeply.

On first approach does steam rise to and warm your nostrils?

Can you hear the crackle of effervescence, feel its flecks upon your lips?

Do you feel a faint chill, hear the rattle of ice?

Does the sting of ethanol fumes tickle your senses?

How am I perceived?

Drink of me deeply.

Am I cloying, austere, bitter,

Piquant, salty, cool?

Drink of me deeply.

Is a grit left on your tongue?

A fine silt.

A clinging syrup.

A silky coat.

I know,

given the day,

I can be any and all of these.

Still!

You drink of me deeply.

Do you find me best served torrid, temperate, frosted?

Perhaps even,

frozen,

on a stick.

Drink of me deeply.

But first!

Will you take me with lemon and honey,

Cream and sugar,

A dash of bitters,

A twist of lime,

or

A grain of salt.

Me?

I'll take you as you come.

You'll have the same, you say.

Then I suppose, all that's left is to toast.

Brown Marmorated Stink Bug

Haiku time -- but first, a brief anecdote. The other day I went to burn a pile of personal documents in the wood stove. Shortly after setting a blaze the ashes of old fires came to life with a buzzing whir, launching themselves into the room. After a brief panic, I realized the wood stove was filled with stinkbugs. The bugs make there way indoors in the fall to keep warm -- I slammed the stove door, (startled and enraged) and allowed them all the warmth they could handle. Up until then my hatred for the invasive pest (in spite of their congregating en masse on my home's exterior)  had remained passive. The next day I worked my way around the house killing every one I found...

Chitin crunch abides.

Battery acid stink drifts,

when boots meet beetles.  

And there are still beetles in the wood stove.

Tatooed Mom

I'm hard pressed for material indeed if I'm putting this to the public eye! A few short stories are plodding towards completion, but in the mean time here is a bit of ''polaroid poetry'' That was scribbled into a 4 1/2 x 3 1/4 composition book while at Tattooed Mom for debriefing following the Broadset meeting at The Wooden Shoe. Yes, I was upset I couldn't share a plate or two of Falafel, but still, good times.

Lollipops in ashtrays.
Tagged walls.
Punk rock sounds.
Textured furniture.
Hole in wall, filled with beer cans.
Dimmed lights and white noise.
Bumper cars.
Pabst tall boys, 1$.
Junk sculptures in alleyway windows.
Tops on tables, leap frogs.
Lots of clocks.
V-neck white tee, stares and leaves
(must have seen the time)
Felafels came as wraps, not appetizers.

Memo to Me

Your lack of will
is a willful act.

Incite

More? Wednesday for me now equals eight hours on campus with roughly four hours of class. This started as the opening of ''Endure'' but I figure the two stood better on their own.

Dedicated to Jackie Leseur.

When evening light falls

the loving luminescence

of a glowing heart still guides.

May peace find you as you go,

wheresoever you go.

And as you piece the subtle text

of your life

I ask;

let me be a thread -- to prove tensile and worthy.

Endure

When the leaves of our lives

are riddled by time,

time will tell

in hues of red and yellow,

black and white,

that roots so deep

are nourished by past falls.

Mr. Stranton's Will: Part 3

This story is officially nothing more than a writing exercise, something to work on when I'm at a loss for good ideas. Please take it lightly -- as I do. Also, note the blatant Ferris Bueller rip off at the end. On a different note: school is officially in session which means the blog should also be done with it's ''Summer Vacation.''

In the early morning hours of a cool march twilight a patchwork of black bellied clouds, edged at the seams with moonlight, marched overhead. The denizens of Morgan Illinois, along with many from the farthest ends of the state and beyond, flocked in a bewildered awe to the reading of Mr. Stanton's Will, which was, strangely, looking more and more like an impromptu 4-H fair by the minute.

Under floodlights, rented by local vendors and opportunistic carnies, parents and children of varying ages ate cotton candy, funnel cakes, chicken fingers, and many a deep fried victual otherwise. They hucked balls at charity dunk tanks, tossed rings at bottles for the chance to bring home a goldfish, and catapulted tattered rubber frogs onto twirling lily pads to win – ironically – giant stuffed chickens. They tirelessly worked their way from booth to booth, tent to tent, and tilt-a-whirl, to Ferris wheel, to fun house, to freak exhibit as though it were 7pm on a Saturday.

At the heart of this funfair, stood the object of much curiosity – a ring, much like those used in boxing but bailed in chicken wire. Having overseen the ring's construction atop the cindered remains of a shanty many hours earlier, only Ronald Tomsfield Esq. knew the ring's true purpose.

With mega phone in hand Ron made his way into the ring's center.

''Attention. Attention please.''

Rides screeched to a halt and the bustle cooled to a din as Ron continued on.

''I'd like to thank you all for coming and to start I'd like to apologize for the lack of facilities. Much of this event was unforeseen. Moving on. You all know why we're here so I'll get right to it.''

Ron retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his inside suit pocket and settled them into place over the indent on the bridge of his nose.

''THE LAST WILL AND TESTEMENT OF MARVIN CHRISTIAN STRANTON,'' Ron began from a page handed to him, ''Article One: I, Marvin Christian Stranton, being of sound body and mind, as per the multitude of psych evaluations my pain in the ass lawyer forced me to under go, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking all other Wills and Codicils heretofore made by my hand. Article Two, Personal Representative: I hereby name, Ronald Tomsfield who is referred to herein as Grif...'' Ron hesitated before he continued, reading the words as though he were in disbelief – during their inception, there was never a thought that these pages would ever need be read aloud. '''...Grifter Mc Dicksauce', in spite of his past failures, to administer my estate or lack there of...''

Ron lowered the page to take an aside. He adjusted his glasses to see over their rims, into the enraptured audience.

''On second thought, instead of reading the whole of this ill advised, profanity littered, libelous, debacle of a legal text, let's just say that among the many pejoratives against myself and others here in, Mr. Stranton makes clear that the sole benefactor of his estate shall be chosen by means of, 'Chicken Bingo.'''

Heads turned. A clamor swelled and was hushed by Ron's immediate continuation, so suddenly that the chatter seemed more a gasp.

''The terms of the will, if not so simply put, are simple. Every one listed in the 62650 zip code's phone book will be eligible''.

Heads turned once more. A murmur of disappointment rose as a portion of the crowd dispersed. Those who remained were as attentive as ever.

Two men entered the ring with a large canvas, which, after be laid out and pulled taunt, fit squarely within the ring.

''This mat features every one of your names.'' Ron went on, shouting to be heard over those whom he was not addressing. ''The names are written in equally portioned sectors of a grid. To put it plainly, the first name the chicken defecates on is designated the beneficiary.''

Ron gathered up all his remaining dignity into a proud posture before adjusting his tie, wishing all the best of luck and making his way out of the ring to be replaced by a lone chicken.

The crowds reaction to the careless looking chicken was minimal at first but as the concept sunk in many began push and shove, jockeying for a ringside positions while others were content to cheer or jeer the chicken from afar

Pandemonium ensued.

People screamed enthusiastically at the chicken, which had begun bawking and flapping about nervously, losing feathers behind it. Even those who had no stake in the game began to shout out in shear jubilation, having taking a renewed interest. Those who had located their name along the edges of the ring fought violently to hold their ground, calling for the chicken as they did so. When the chicken passed near they used straws to blow air into the chicken's cloaca, encouraging it to do its business nearest their name.

All together, at some point or another, over twenty-eight thousand people cheered for that chicken to shit – and not a beer tent in sight.

For two hours this went on until finally the chicken was able to relax enough to lay her fecal gold squarely atop the name, ''Lawrence Gruber.'' Ron entered the ring to confirm this, making a slow gait towards the spot that mark the winner. The hoarse and fatigued crowd's patience was tested as Ron lazily hunched onto the spot with a groan.

After a moment, Ron stood and declared, ''The Beneficiary of Mr. Stranton's $12 million dollar inheritance is a Mr. Lawrence Gruber. That is, once more, Mr. Lawrence Gruber.'' Ron clearly enunciated his words so as to avoid confusion. For a moment: silence. '' Mr. Gruber, Would you please present yourself.''

A pause.

''Gruber... Gruber... Gruber...''

Lawrence Gruber, was home, asleep, as any rational person should be at 5:00am on a weekday.

Better Days

This is just a lil' something I had lying around that I decided to read at the Random Tea Room, Broadset reading. Just putting it out there...

Shingles shaken from roofs are whipped into the street.

an aching store front groans in violent winds.

Beyond the window pane, penny candy.

I used to buy a dollars worth at a time,

at a time when a dollar stretched a lot further.

No neon light buzzed to indicate, OPEN.

On a day like this,

a heavy branch hurled through the window

wouldn't raise much suspicion.

Ingenuous Disingenuousness

I've been lax. For those who read this stuff, I thank you. Even in my most unproductive of stupors, I would just like to say, I still make it a point to stay abreast with the works of others. My hats off to them. You are inspiring, inspired people.

I've been writing some short versed poetry lately. Expect a few of the like before I get back to short stories. Anyway, I hope this makes sense to you.

The day took a turn for the worse;

you remember.

Beyond your expectant glances

and their glaze,

I saw clouds thickening.

Obnubilated intentions and ideas,

served only to proliferate our ingenuous disingenuousness.

Then the rain came.

A storm of subterfuge,

befell an otherwise convincing ruse.

When the cataracts lessened,

a tepid glow returned.

The resulting humidity left an indelible musk.

Fallen limbs were cleared and candles lit,

just in time for the guests to arrive.

Sock it to Me

It's been too long and for that I must apologize. I've no excuses save for having been swept away in summers folly. Well, I have been working a lot too. No, no excuses! It's time to lasso this beast and get back to riding[writing]. So, I may as well put the cherry atop my laziness by posting something I wrote for school before posting anything new. First, a brief back story: My doddering old English teacher failed to put the ''Argument Essay'' assignment in the syllabus, additionally, she never even told our class about it. So, on the would be last day of class we are assigned a surprise essay, which we are to turn in to following week. I decided to match her capriciousness with my own. This was the result...

An argument for socks only being sold in odd increments.

I think the most obvious benefit for selling socks solely in odd increments would be that whenever anyone loses a sock to the darkest, forbidden regions of their dryer, closet, dresser, or to wherever else socks get lost, they will be relieved to know that a replacement has been standing by. No longer will people be subjected to a need to throw away a perfectly good sock simply because its mate goes missing. Furthermore, there will be no need to throw away two socks when one, inexplicably, wears out faster than the other.

I'm certain everyone has been in the position of being forced to root around through their sock drawer for an extended period of time before finding an appropriate match. I know I've hit this time consuming snag many times, causing me to fall behind on my routine. However, having an odd number of the same type of sock would increase the likelihood that one would quickly find a match, thus enabling them to get off to more worthwhile endeavors.

It is important to note that my proposal is also beneficial to the disabled. No longer will those deprived of their lower limbs, for whatever reason, feel ostracized every time they are forced to buy their socks in pairs. They will, finally and unashamedly, be able to purchase a single sock if they so desire to.

Americans have been well documented innovators. They don't call it American ingenuity for nothing. Imagine every house in the United State having one extra sock handy. The possibilities are endless!

With so many extra socks floating around, surely something will become of them. They could be used for a multitude of different things including but not necessarily limited to: polishing the silver, dusting the furniture, waxing the family car, covering a trailer hitch, keeping a hand warm, standing in for holiday stockings, etcetera. An extra sock could come in handy when younger children want to make sock puppets, or for when older boys insist on keeping an extra sock in their nightstand for whatever reason.

Many of those resistant to sock packaging legislation would begrudgingly buy two packs of socks in an attempt to skirt the new system. This is precisely the point! Now, anyone who would have wanted only three pairs of socks will, instead, be forced to buy seven pairs of socks. Moreover, even those who choose not to double up on their usual order will be unavoidably flimflammed into buying an extra sock. This, theoretically, stands to double the income of the sock market! [Pun intended.] In all seriousness, it is a proven fact that increased consumer spending stimulates the economy.

I know one would have to assume that the aforementioned boom in sock sales would only be temporal, as the initial boost in sales would regress to the mean as people stockpiled socks, thus limiting the need to purchase them frequently. I can assure all that this damning situation will not be the case. If we apply Parkinson's law [which states that the demand upon a resource tends to expand to match its supply] to this scenario, we will see that the number of socks being worn, lost or simply worn out increases with the total number of socks owned.

The health of our nations feet and by extension our nations people also stands to be improved by my proposal. It's a proven fact that keeping feet warm and dry keeps people healthy and nothing helps feet stay warm and dry more so than a change of socks sometime during the day. As illustrated above, the public's increased sock supply will be met with an increase in sock usage, which translates into people unknowingly being inclined to change their socks throughout the day.

In summation, having socks sold in odd amounts will help reduce waste, save time, ease the emotional suffering of amputees, propagate ingenuity, stimulate the economy and, improve the quality of life for our nation's people.

If only we could get any of these socks manufactured in America, then we would really be in business.

Awkwardly Moments

I apologize for a lack of posts recently. Life, in a word, has been tumultuous.

I've been dabbling with the idea of a 50 word story series, the premise of which is moments of awkwardness, in all their various guises. I was going to space them out but I figured I'd bang out three and see how they're received before committing to a series. Input, per usual, is appreciated.

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Corny

''I just pooped a corn cob.'' A friend called to say.

''Did you swallow it or pass out at a frat party?''

''I definitely swallowed it.''

''How does that happen!? Hey, remember the time you swallowed a T-bone.''

''Right.''

''Hell, I've seen you puke a whole plum, sticker and all.''

Tit Stain

The corpulent blob, not weighing an ounce under four-hundred pounds, lifted his breast, revealing a sweat stain beneath. With his free hand he scratched at the tit stain vigorously.

In his enraptured state he was oblivious to where his eyes fixed themselves. The gawking child in his gaze went unnoticed.

Grandma, You Are Missed

My Grandfather, of 68, called me, asking me to meet him. He frequently invites me to lunch in a similar manner. His actual motives couldn't have been less benign.

''I signed up for speed dating but I can't do it alone, so I signed you up too.''

Obliged, I agreed.

Picky

I'm glad to have an outlet for all the silliness that school work forces me to hold back. I'd love to hear what people think of this so don't be shy, comment. I promise something serious soon.

My sister-in-law Susan, never knew how to leave well enough alone. Two years ago, I bought her the Longevity Chest Set off the Smithsonian Museum's website. I thought it was a wonderful gift that matched her living room's décor beautifully and she agreed, until, after carefully looking it over she found a scratch on the bottom of one of the boxes. She insisted I return it for a replacement.

Seven new chest sets later [with a shipping charge of $8.00 for each one] she still manages to find something imperfect about it. Exhausted and frustrated over mounting shipping charges, I finally took the set for myself, gave her two-hundred dollars and told her she could pick one up for herself next time she's in Washington.

My sister is the single most fussy person on the planet.

After owning a particular blouse for almost a year, some of the stitching came lose. She attempted to return it to the department store under the assumption that if it had been made properly, the blouse would have survived her by three generations, without any sign of wear.

''I'm sorry miss, our return policy specifically states that you have ten days to make all returns.'' Said the young, unsuspecting clerk at the costumer service counter.

''I'm sorry, sir, but your return policy, as per the back of this receipt, is a fat-winded, bureaucratic load of cow menses. I've read it through and it clearly states I've up to thirty days to make a return under certain circumstances. Besides, your shoddy merchandise is to blame here. Why should I bare the burden of your tangible, sweat-shop produced stupidity?''

I was supposed to be there to provide ''witness testimony'' but I did my best to disassociate myself from the whole mess by spending the duration red with embarrassment, pretending to browse a near by rack of children's underpants.

''Again, I'm very sorry miss, but that's a Marshalls' receipt. Target purchased this location more than three months ago, I'm afraid...''

''You're worthless,'' my sister interrupted. ''Get your manager out here this instant!''

One supervisor, two store managers, a district manager, Five separate Executive Vice Presidents , two Senior Vice Presidents, and finally, once C.E.O later, my sister got her return; that is, she was allowed an exchange of equal or lesser value.

''It's the principle of the thing,'' she explained, In a voice horse from three and a half hours of yelling.

When my sister-in-law's first child, Susan Lanawin Watson Jr., was born, I knew my sister would invariable found her to be imperfect. By the time Susan Jr. turned two, my worst nightmare came true.

''I'm looking into returning my kid,'' she said to me one morning, in her most earnest tone.

I choked on my coffee before managing to squeak out, ''Why?''

''She drools, her head is slightly bulbous, some of her toes are webbed, her eye color doesn't match the dining room set, and she never wants to talk to me.''

''She's barely two, does she even know more than five words? Give her a chance at least,'' I protested.

''No, I'm sorry but I'm really set on this, I think I could do a lot better.''

She picked up the phone and dialed ''411.''

''Hello, yes, I'm looking for the number for Heaven.''

''I don't know, somewhere outside the Milky Way I'd imagine.''

''Yes, that Heaven; I'm not into strip clubs.''

''Excuse me?''

''Oh, yes, Christian.''

''I guess I can see why that would matter.''

''You'll put me thorough?''

''OK, thank you.''

''You have a good day as well.''

I had underestimated the power of ''411.''

I'm not typically the nosy type, but this was a conversation I just had to listen in on. I ran into the next room and gingerly picked up the phone, so as not to be heard.

''Yo, you've reached the number for Heaven, this is J.C. speaking, how art thou?,'' Jesus started. I could hear Led Zeppelin being turned down in the background.

''Hi, I'm doing well. Yourself?'' My sister replied, minding her manners for the time being.

''You know, just kickin' it 'till the rapture, I can't complain. So, what was it I could do for you, errrr, Susan, right?''

''Yes, Susan, Susan Watson, to be exact. I'm calling to make a return.'' Her voice turned from sweet to stern between sentences.

''A return? Oh, I see, that's tricky, it's really best that you just wait till you pass naturally.''

''Oh, no, It's not for me. I was hoping to return my daughter, she really isn't up to my expectations so I just don't want her anymore. I think it would be best for everyone if you took her back,'' my sister said, maintaining her best, calm, business-like, tone.

''Your daughter?'' Jesus sounded puzzled, or caught of guard at least. ''Yo, Pete, let me see that book right quick.''

I could hear the rustling of pages and a few mutterings between Jesus and Peter.

''OK, sorry about that,'' Jesus continued, ''You're referring to Susan Jr.?''

''That is correct,'' my sister-in-law confirmed.

''Well, my records indicate that she's a healthy young girl without any pernicious abnormalities or otherwise terminal afflictions.''

Jesus had taken on his own business tone.

''You see, Susan,'' Jesus went on, ''Dad's not big on returns. That's not to say they don't go through from time to time, it's just that, this is way outside any allowable circumstances.''

I couldn't see from where I was but I could hear Susan rapping her fingers on the counter, one at a time, in a rapid succession.

''I don't think you get it,'' Susan rebuked in an incensed voice, ''This kid is barely ten-percent of what she could be. A proper child would be perfectly proportioned and reading Dickens by now. How can you expect me to tolerate this kind of sub-par craft work. Haven't I lead a good, deserving life?''

I was amazed by my sister's reserved language. Then again, Jesus is no department store clerk.

''Listen miss, don't buy into all that dribble that's taught in Sunday School. Dad isn't in every womb, molding every person to his whim,'' Jesus allayed. ''Even for the omnipresent that would be way too tedious. Instead, he developed something called genetics. It's not exactly perfect but in the long run it works to everyone's benefit. Think of it as a lottery. I'm sorry you didn't hit the jackpot, but I'd say you got one hell of a consolation prize.''

''That's bullshit,'' my sister-in-law objected, ''Let me speak with your manager.''

''Fine, I'll put him on but he's probably gonna tell you the same thing,'' said Jesus. ''Just hold for one moment.''

Cool jazz began playing through the receiver.

I couldn't believe it, my in-law was, most likely, about to chew out The Almighty. I felt a little sick being related to her, even if it wasn't by blood.

I hoped God, who would surely know I was listening in, could forgive my imprudence.

''Mrs. Susan Dempsey Watson,'' a soothing voice boomed.

The voice, which sounded remarkably like Jeff Bridges, didn't come solely from the receiver but seemed to echo within my own mind. I'd imagine the sensation was the same for my sister.

''This is she,'' Susan replied confidently.

''I have reviewed your daughter's file and determined that she is not eligible to be returned.''

''But...'' My sister-in-law tried to interject.

God spoke again, ''I have been anticipating this phone call since before you were born. I have had ample time to make my considerations and I will not be swayed at the final moment.''

''You must reconsider,'' My sister argued in vain. ''Surely, I'm worthy of something more?''

''No,'' God bellowed, in a voice that made me wince.

''Well that's just great,'' my sister steamed. ''Your no different from the rest of them, trying to pawn off a haphazard construction of damaged materials on others while you keep the premium stuff for your self!''

''I bet Jesus didn't have a big head, I bet he talked to you all the time even before he turned two, I'd bet he didn't have webbed feet or a strawberry birthmark, or Jaundice, or...''

''Look,'' God said, breaking my sister's rant, ''I see what you are getting at but I still can not do a return. What if I arranged an exchange, for something of equal or lesser value instead?''

''Fine,'' my sister agreed.

''It is done,'' God said. ''I hope you are happy.''

The line went dead.

His final remark was a foreboding period at the end of a calculated sentence. The suspense of what would happen next was so palpable I could have swam through it.

That night Susan Jr. was never delivered home from the babysitters, any record of her existence mysteriously vanished and as suddenly as the phone had went dead, no one had any recollection of Susan having a daughter save for Susan and I.

The next day a horse, which would later be confirmed as the world's tallest horse on record, wandered into the yard and refused to leave. My sister-in-law broke into tears.

She swore to everyone that she had a perfectly beautiful daughter once, but she was taken away and reincarnated as the horse, which my sister stabled and named Susan Jr..

Susan Dempsey Watson was committed by the end of the month. God could sure be cruel, but it was the principle of the thing, I figured, taking a lesson from my sister.

Mr. Stranton's Will: Part 2

Not sure if this story will be any good once it's finished but, at the least, it's been fun to conjure up.

The next morning the front page of a local paper read:

''Local Geriatric Wins Big.''

When disaffected recluse, Marvin Stranton, won $12 million in the state lotto, locals who knew him could only shake with furious disbelief. ''Dat' sonafabetch' nefa' dun' nuttin' fer' no one, he ain't deserve dah' right [sic]'' said one local Jamaican restauranter as she angrily waved a ladle.

When ask to comment, Mr. Stranton flashed his teeth, snarled and shattered a half empty bottle of Everclear on the ground before himself. Looking pleased by the crunch of glass underfoot, he swaggered off muttering something about, ''hussies.'' and ''Hot Pocket sandwiches.''

As one who has spent the last 35 years living the meager lifestyle afforded by a sole income of social security checks, it is hard to speculate where Mr. Stranton will go from here.

''Maybe he'll pay his rent on time,'' said Mark Hampton, Stranton's land lord, mid-guffaw, when he was asked what might be done with the money. ''That is if the old goat has a dime left by the week's end.'' Later, Mark called to inform us that Marvin had inquired about purchasing the property so that he may, ''send that shit hole to hell.'' See SPLURGE, page B3

Three days later, another article referencing Mr. Stranton appeared in the paper:

Marvin Christian Stranton, 98, of Morgan IL, born January 12, 1895, departed this life on March 4, 1993, surrounded by 12 loving, burlesque whores, in room 52, of the Super 8 in Jacksonville. Visitation is Wednesday, March 10, 1993 from 11 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. at the MacMurray Chapel, 447 East College Avenue Jacksonville. Internment will follow on site immediately afterward. Marvin is survived and mourned by no one. The sole benefactor of his $12 million estate will be chosen at 3 a.m on Thursday, March, 11, 1993, as per Mr. Stranton's wishes, at his former residence of, 15 ½ Merritt Rd.

The last time Marvin Stranton's name was ever seen in print came on the day before the reading of his will. For the sake of brevity I'll provide only a couple exerts.

''Who Will be the Heir to $12 Million Fortune?''

''...promises to be a gala event. Rumors and speculation of whom the eligible benefactors are and how they will be chosen have spread like fire in a drought.''

''...in spite of much badgering, Ronald Tomsfield, the late Marvin's lawyer divulged nothing save for, 'It will be interesting. Be there and see for yourselves.'''

Italian Proverb

''The river is most quiet where it runs the deepest.''

In other words, sorry for a lack of posts but mid-terms are soon.

The Hedonist's Canto

This was an attempt at a story that ''feels'' nice to read without being too, too Dr. Suess-esque.

A greater, more discerning, effort at this sort of thing will be made in the future. For now, it's very late and any semblance of shrewdness has long worn thin.

Mussels in the sand – with out tear glands, their laughable faces are fodder for my pitiless tabasco slurping. Burping, I pry open another, rend it asunder, fork out it's innards and eat it for supper.

Dinner was divine, complete with kelp steamed corn -- like an old fashioned clam bake, if clam stood for mussel.

''Shuck me another and pour me a shot!''

My fill has been had but as a glutton I'm not satisfied until it hurts.

With distended stomach, I stroll through the surf, washing my feet where the ocean meets earth.

''Life is surely the most potent poison,'' I slurred, lifting my flask and taking a quaff.

The ocean agreed, but my brain simply scoffed.

Venus on Ecstasy

Your heart was rent.

The tourniquet helped your cloven heart -- for a time;

but, when I found you prostrate and cold:

I knew I was no Aesculapius.

I shooed the snakes from your body, and drove you to a specialist.

The emergency reconstruction was a success.

The new valves synced your three atria and ventricles into rhythm beautifully.

I couldn't help but Rumba.

Thinking you well, I left for good.

Years later, the valves failed.

A machinist replaced the old heart with one of tungsten.

It matched your alabaster smile well.

Space Historian

I was going to write something new, but then I remembered that I still have old works to regurgitate... this is one of them. I wrote this about three years ago, I was hoping to use the concept to a better end but there are no plans in the works. Paragraphing could use work... oh well.

“Good morning Baxter.” A computerized voice chirped over the ships intercom.

I am Baxter a ten year old, I have no belly button. I am a test tube baby created for the purpose of being the first of several “space historians.” I’ve been groomed for great things. Even before leaving my Pyrex womb, the scientists that raised me would play me training tapes when I was no bigger than a thumbnail. After being born, if you can call it that, I was made to train for my mission every day and every night mission plans would be played in my head while I slept via a small transmitter in my brain. It was tough training for one so young but it was also necessary. Even though I would be traveling several times the speed of light it would still take me roughly eighty years to complete my mission. I’m sorry, that last statement is misleading. I won’t actually be traveling at any speed. Instead, a warp drive will pull my destination towards me while pushing my starting point further away. In this way my clocks will stay in sync with those on earth. My mission is simple enough. The ships pre-programmed flight path will take me away from the earth many times faster than the speed of light, stopping at various points. I’ll then point a high powered telescope at the earth. The telescope will record what it sees and log it in the ship's computer. The idea is that I’ll be able to record the earth’s complete history by racing away from it, viewing older and older waves of light. It’s quite simple really or at least my training videos made it seem so. I pointed my telescope at the earth. The on board computer did some quick thinking a determined that we were viewing the planet as it had been six thousand years before the start of my journey. Six thousand years is nothing in the grand scheme yet we were already looking into prehistoric times. The earth was a much greener place, coated with more ice and less water. The computer noted things far beyond basic geography. It calculated the current human population on various parts of the globe and noted the building of some of mans oldest known structures. The computer could tell the number of ants within any given square mile if anyone ever thought that an important enough question to ask.

“Computer, it’s time we're on our way again”

“Yes Baxter, activating warp drive now,” responded computer.

“Computer, In the future please refer to me as Captain Baxter,” I demanded.

“Only if I can be Colonel Computer.”

“Not a chance,” I snapped back, “That wouldn’t even make any sense!”

If that stupid A.I. thinks it can get an ego with me it has another thing coming!

I looked out a porthole and watched space bend and stretch around the ship as we warped further from earth. Flash forward six months. We came to a stop well outside the Milky Way and I pointed my telescope at the earth. Computer did some figuring and decided we were viewing the earth as it was just over sixty five million years in the past. What I saw was shocking. A slug-like race of machine augmented aliens had flocked to the earth and where having a worldwide dinosaur barbeque. It was an alien Bonnaroo on a global scale. The aliens drank, ate and danced away their cares leaving a mess of bones in their wake. What they didn’t eat they zapped with shrink rays so they could fit the leftovers aboard their ships. I had solved the mystery of the dinosaur’s extinction but there was no time to celebrate. We had stopped too near a super massive black hole and had been drifting nearer this whole time. It was too late to escape, our thrusters were too weak and the warp drive would take at least twenty minutes to charge.

“You could have warned me computer!” I screamed.

“That’s Colonel Computer to you.” the computer quipped back.

“Dammit all!” I shouted as the ship began to stretch towards the event horizon. I braced myself for extreme discomfort. I didn’t even fire the thrusters against the pull. The shipped was crushed into a singularity in no time flat.

“Okay, this is really starting to hurt, get you big butt off me and my ship,” I ordered my older brother Thomas.

Me and my friend Sal were flattened beneath him.

“Mom!” Thomas shouted, “Tell these space nerds to get their smelly box out of my room!”

“It’s a space ship, not a box.” I said, straining under Tom’s weight. “You would know that if you looked before sitting on it.”

“Go watch your ''Universe'' DVD's loser.” Thomas said as he stood up to let Sal and I climb out of the wreckage.

“Let’s go play somewhere else.” I told Sal, “I’ll even be the computer this time.”

I pulled the duct tape off my bellybutton then together Sal and I dragged the ship into the living room.

Her Distant Gaze

Don't read too into it...

When I looked into your eyes I didn't see any reason to live, die, or put myself into an eternal hypothermic stasis. I saw the trauma of a lifetime play out as your gaze twitched back and forth, tracing the the movements of some silhouetted dance [or was it a battle] before the setting sun of a far off, non-existent, horizon. I pretended not to notice. I knew what it meant. I held you until my arms fell asleep and you pretended not to notice my desperation.

Maybe stasis is the answer – the moment was golden but the day could be better.

Mr. Stranton's Will: Part 1

In spite of spring break, I've not had a lot of free time to do any writing [I blame a recent bout of illness]. Any way, I feel the need to post something so here is Part 1 of a story I've been slowly piecing together.

Marvin Stranton huddled up on the lice infested mattress in the corner of his one room shanty, polishing his double barreled shotgun, Retirement Plan, with the tattered shards of an old tee-shirt.

The light of the afternoon sun broached the rooms darkness through the bungalow's one window at a downward angle, making play of the swirling dust-filled air and the dancing shadows cast across the wrinkled contours of Mr. Stranton's features, as he reached to remove a seething can of soup from a hotplate.

Sometime after lunch, Marvin walked the five miles into town to watch the ''Pick Six'' results on the television in the window display of the local T.V. Repair shop.

It was Mr. Stranton's finest hour as he stood, unmoved, watching the numbered balls tumble into place.

Earlier that day, Marvin Stranton, hardened by a stern resolve, had also walked into town. He closed out his bank account, spent most of his meager life's savings on a lawyer to write and facilitate his last will and testament, and spent the remainder of every cent he had left to his name on lottery tickets and a can of store brand soup – his potential last meal.

It was do or die time, literally. Only victory or death could come next, and as luck would have it, it wasn't Marvin's time – yet.

Eulogy

This was an attempt at writing something within twenty minutes. Let me know what you think.

''You can do this,'' I whispered to myself.

''Yes, you can,'' responded the blank page before me.

I'd never written an eulogy before, I'd always imagined an eulogy as a loving glorification of all the good things a person had done. But I had no kind words for James.

''Talk about his work in the peace corps,'' suggested his sister.

''He spent the whole time telling African tribesmen that sex with rhinos would cure AIDS.''

''Right.'' Her voice fell. ''I think I still have that photo of the trampled tribesman stamped EPIC FAIL''

''You could talk about his sense of humor,'' she continued.

''His jokes were always cruel.'' ''And unrelenting.''

''I know but...'' Five minutes of silence followed.

I called his brother looking for advice.

''I think he liked snorkeling.'' Was all I could get out of him.

I ask his dog's opinion.

His countenance read, ''bacon!''

I asked the sun what to do and the sun just kept on shining.

''James Carmon was a good man,'' I read at the funeral, ''and... and...'' I stalled, ''he still is.''

Teary eyed mourners glanced back and forth at one another.

''That's right, this figure before you is just a wax sculpture. I was paid to keep up the act but I can't do it. You good people deserve to know the truth.''

Everyone bore a look of combined frustration, relief and anger – mostly anger.

''The truth is, he's moved to Brazil to fulfill his dream of being a sugar farmer.''

Everyone made for their cars, muttering curses under their breath. James would have found it hilarious, were he still alive.