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.

Nature's Dissidence

I promised myself I would post something, at the least, once a week. Several larger projects are still in the works so this will have to do for now. I promise, no more fable-esque stories for a while.

Early one evening, a roar of thunder tore through a suburban home, shaking up everything inside.

The family dog wormed it's way into the cramped confines of an open cupboard and the family quit their bickering long enough to stop and listen to the approaching storm. Mother nature would have the last say in this argument.

The sky gestured to speak again as a flash lit up the yard – setting the family in an anticipation streaked daze. Again, the house was rattled by the din of rolling thunder and a battering rain began to fall in heavy gobs. No one in the house dared interrupt as their petty qualms couldn't compete with nature's fury.

The lights flickered as power lines swayed in blustering winds. Still no one spoke. When the power finally went out the father and son set to work lighting candles, while the mother held her frightened daughter.

The accumulation of dishes in the sink, the stress of unpaid bills, the clumps of dog hair on the sofa, the neglect of a mother-in-law's birthday, trouble in school, and the broken dryer suddenly seemed like like distant problems.

The storm raged late into the night, and the family, for the first time in years, set a fire in the hearth. Huddled around the fire, the family spent their time in each others comfort, not arguing, but roasting marshmallows.

The Avarice of Children and Men

Sorry if this seems a little preachy. I just took what I started and ran with it. Remember, like all my stories, this one is best enjoyed with a block of aged cheddar and a vintage Pinot Noir. Nevermind.

Update: Posted a vid of yours truly reading this piece at The Broad Set's reading at the Ink Well.

I can’t recall a time in my life I’d been happier than on any given Halloween as a child. I remember fondly running from house to house amassing as much candy as I could, then returning home with the loot and devouring it at a ravenous pace (not before the haul had been looked over by my parents of course).

After the first or second night of over indulgence all that would remain were the second rate treats. Kids would then bring their sugary treasures to school in an attempt to “trade up” as it were, for better candies. Thankfully, what constituted “better candy” was purely subjective so it was easy enough to get a barter going to the benefit of all. Today this was not the case. All I had in my possession was a scant supply of generic hard candies; these were a particularly hard sell. One might be able to trade a few for a tootsie roll or a minimum of about a hundred for something along the lines of a small Hershey bar.

I remember counting my bags worth of these hard candies. Fifteen; that was all I had. To get anything decent with them would be like trying to buy a sofa set with spare change. It just wasn’t going to happen.

I was green with envy and powerless to improve my situation; until, I came across a discarded Zorro mask.

With my identity concealed, I made a whirlwind dash around the playground knocking anyone with a hefty enough bag over their shins with a stick. I then absconded into the nearby wilderness with the stolen bags of those I left writhing on the ground in pain. Having emptied all the pirated bags into my own I left them along with the mask in the hallow knot of a tree. With all the evidence against me gone I walked out of the woods whistling an innocent tune. Nobody was buying into my little charade. I was promptly disciplined, this all being in a time when corporal punishment was perfectly acceptable. In retrospect the experience was a positive one. I had learned first hand, as the teachings of Freud would later confirm, that, ''children are ruthlessly selfish and will stop at nothing to get what they want,'' and also that Zorro wasn't fooling anyone.

In my later years I read a article in the paper about a masked man holding up an older woman at gunpoint and demanding all her money. She was penniless so the crook settled on the chicken McNuggets she had just bought. I can imagine the man needed the money, but I'm certain he took the woman's lunch simply because he could.

I was reminded of my childhood experience as I read this article. I was not so foolish as to think I could get away with what I did but a mask's promise of anonymity combined with a subtle touch of circumstance was all the push I needed to commit the deplorable act. It makes me wonder about the potential for depravity in all men.

It's a shame there is no real life Zorro. The fact is, no one puts on a mask with good intentions in mind.