Author: @jcm3rockstar

Something I Would Not Mind

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Something I Would Not Mind

“Anything is possible,” said Mick Harmon, Analysts Specialist of Invecor, a brokerage firm I recently accepted a job offer from. “So I could take this object, bring it back here, and it would be mine?” I asked. “As long as you do not mind being in the movie and wearing a nice suit,” said Mick.

“I love to dress up,” I said, “How will the filming crews keep up with me?” “There will be four of them. You will leave one to get to the next one. We are going to time you; overly wealthy investors are going to be racing against your time in other vehicles. Your trip will be from New York, New York to Orlando in Florida. Once in Orlando, your mission will be complete and you can go anywhere you choose in your object.”

“That is so awesome,” I said. I shook Mick’s hand; accepted the folder full of documents I was to bring to New York, in person; and made my way to the bus stop. I was well on my way to New York; I would be driving South in the newest Bugatti made. It was on.

♦

Bugatti photos

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The Return of Ned and His Grandfather

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The Return of Ned and His Grandfather

“I am happy about our new writing assignment,” said Ned, “It has to do with voice; it covers the three main aspects of what an author can use with the narration of a written story.” “Interesting,” said Ned’s Grandfather, Mr. Clark.

Ned was a ten-year-old boy playing chess with his grandfather on a Saturday. His mother let him go to the park and play chess with his grandfather for reasons like good behavior and high grades. If Ned got into trouble or fell behind with his homework, he would not get to see Mr. Clark.

Ned was happy to be playing chess. Win or lose, he was there to learn. He usually only lost if he looked over something, or if Mr. Clark could spoil his plans. Ned read books on playing chess as a seven-year-old; he was well on his way to becoming a master of sorts, one day.

“Did you get the big box of books I gave to your mother?” asked Mr. Clark. “Yes,” said Ned, “She wanted to throw them out. I had to beg and plead for it. I mowed the yard to keep it, had to hide one of the books for a short while in case it was ‘restricted’ from my reading. She said it was from the Swanks. Did they move?” “No,” said Mr. Clark, “Dr. Swank and his wife were cleaning out a bunch of stuff. He let me have over fifty of his books from college. His wife was going to throw them out.”  “I really appreciate it, Grand-pa,” said Ned. Mr. Clark knew how into reading and writing Ned really was. It was Ned’s “art-hobby,” kept him out of trouble from time to time.

Ned and Mr. Clark exchanged a few preliminary pieces to get the game going; Ned tried to set up a flanking sneak attack with a bishop, a pawn, a horse, and a way-to-early-yet-still-very-powerful back-up queen. He did not know if his grandfather saw his efforts. He was also trying to pay good attention to any scheme Mr. Clark may have been working on.

“So what is so special about this writing assignment?” asked Ned’s grandfather. “I like the park, here. The story is set in a park. It is supposed to utilize three forms of voice: 1st, 2nd, and 3rd person.” “The story is supposed to have three people?” asked his grandfather. “No sir,” said Ned. Ned knew not to get frustrated with others. He had trouble, sometimes, explaining what was on his mind.  Ned said,

“What the assignment has to do with is voice. As the author, if I describe a story with characters, setting, and dialogue, I usually use 3rd person omniscient. The author of a 3rd person story can know everything; it is the easiest method for myself and many others. If I write the story directed to you, say, in the form of a letter, I think that would be the more rare 2nd person. 2nd person voice utilizes the word ‘you’ to start sentences instead of ‘I’.  2nd person is used for childrens’ songs and hip-hop music, sometimes. If I tell the story with a character and it is a narrative of with the character’s own descriptions, that is 1st person. For the assignment, we use all three techniques and a park.”

“What are your ideas, so far?” asked Mr. Clark. “Well, I am thinking I may do a small story about a little girl who chases her ball into a busy street, only to be saved by a passing blind man,” said Ned. “How about this…” said Mr. Clark,

“The two crows up on that branch over there have been watching the shiny green beetle organizing tiny mud balls under that orange maple leaf for some time, now. Each bird sees the beetle. Those are the blackbirds with the shining blue and yellow spots on their wings – maybe they can talk, maybe they cannot, according to humans. Those are known as “Blue Minas”- common, yet wild. They can probably communicate, somehow, telling each other in their minds what they may or may not do to the tasty metallic object working below. The beetle either knows or does not know about the two hungry birds up on the branch. He cannot decide for his future, much. If he was to scurry off, the minas would be forced to pursue him. They watch and decide; the beetle may be a piece of art to them. If I were to say ‘Do things to that beetle,’ the minas would swoop down and attack the beetle, leaving him different than he was before… Do things to that beetle!”

The two beautiful mina birds with yellow and blue spots on their wings dove seven feet from their branch to the beetle. “I got him,” said one, while placing its foot on top of the shining green beetle, gently, “You do your thing and I will do mine.” “I have never been through more,” thought the beetle. The silent mina took a good look and aim towards the beetle, pecked a large hole in the creature removing half of his torso. The grasping mina removed a beetle leg with his beak and ate it. The birds flew away. The beetle crawled off to a safer, more hidden area.

Ned saw all of those things happen. He was not paying too much attention to the chess game. He saw a opportunity to put stress on Mr. Clark’s king with a rook/castle. Ned moved the rook, and Mr. Clark moved his queen to protect an attacking bishop. “Checkmate,” said Mr. Clark. He won this time. “What do you think about all of that?” asked Mr. Clark. “Good game,” said Ned, shaking his grandfather’s hand. I could certainly use “The Attack of the Minas” as a story, especially since both birds and the beetle can talk and think. That was crazy seeing those birds attack that beetle.” “Your mother is pulling up,” said Mr. Clark. “See you next week,” said Ned, giving his grandfather a hug, “I love you bunches!”

Mr. Clark put away the chess set. Ned left with his mother. The metallic green beetle lived for two years.

♦

wiki on voice

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An Artifact

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An Artifact

“This class blows,” said Henry.  “Everything blows according to you – blondes blow but you do not dislike them, do you?” replied Ron.  “No, I do not dislike blondes,” admitted Henry.  He was the more intelligent of the two; Ron thought he had to try to know. He was forced to put forth at least a minimal amount of effort, where Henry sometimes did not even begin to need to. Henry, at times, took his various gifts of intelligence for granted. It was no big deal; it was his way of knowing more with less stress.

The class they happened to be early for was an Archaeology class. It was two weeks before spring break on a Friday; their instructor was from India. His hobby was training for half marathons. The professor arrived (finally), and all entered the class room. Professor Rauckbon said:

“For these few weeks I have been giving you various assignments on research and study. We have been the travelers of a digging study program, found small items for documentation and study. I am thinking today will be a more fun and a less arduous approach. I am thinking… today is movie day. It is a day for showing and telling, a surprise fun and easy day for us all. Why did you not know about this showing and telling? Because I am the one doing the showing, as well as the one doing the telling. So sit back and enjoy what we can do with one of our school’s newest projector mechanisms.”

The professor happily turned the lights off with a remote and operated the projector with yet another remote.  He was originally born in India and spoke over seven languages.  His video was an impressive collection of films documenting historical sites in India, both famous and rare.  He displayed archaeological sites rarely mentioned to mainstream media, including a secret grave site for old religious leaders from thousands of years ago.  His interesting story involved a handcrafted artifact.

The artifact was a sacred object of very old Indian religion.  During those times, in that specific region, religion and the afterlife involved mostly the respect of items considered to be holy or magical.  Only a blessed item could be used to cause intentional re-incarnation.  Before known documented history, the region went to war with a neighboring community.  An approximate two to three thousand men on each opposing side engaged in a bloody war.  The death toll of the war numbered in the thousands.  The sole leader of the region containing the burial site was said to have used the artifact in war to take the life of multiple enemies in one current situation, while reviving his deadliest war heroes.

What made the story interesting to the professor was the idea of modern progress and the notion of the artifact’s “new” location.  A very large house of worship had been constructed during modern times; it contained a secret underground structure with catacombs, tombs, and protected structures for hiding national items sacred for historical or religious reasons or both.  Common thieves had robbed the grave site in modern times; the government of India recovered these items and hid them under the more secure modern temple.  Due to economic expansion, a large skyscraper was built on top of the old burial site.

Hard to explain for the professor, he related that, Geologically, the site was an excellent place for the eighty story building because of the prehistoric bedrock below it.  A highly secret, rare organization could still, in theory, access the actual grave site of the war heroes of long ago beneath the skyscraper.  The office building was an approximate 400 yards in perimeter before including any surrounding structures.  It was very big.

The professor went into detail in regards to the magically religious artifact.  It was a small white monkey, hand carved and polished from the tusk of a ceremoniously fattened elephant’s tusk.  It was clothed in melted and cooled 24-carrot decorative gold.  The artifact’s brow sported an uncut diamond; its eyes were identical rubies.  The rubies were said to glow in various ways, showing powers, dangers, and or actions performed through the item.  It was a surprise to the professor that the artifact was used in a war over territory.  He thought the war would have been over the magical artifact, instead.  It was said to have gained its eternal powers via a dark Indian priest – he died too give the precious little monkey its magical powers.

By this time, 80% of the class had fallen asleep, completely.  Ron and Henry were both paying attention, intently, however.  They would be sure to discuss the knew knowledge of an old Indian artifact after class.  They were not the only students paying attention.  Two students in the back row wrote down the names of certain cities; they exchanged looks.  These two guys were not up to anything phenomenaly wonderful, that was for sure.

The class adjourned.  “Those guys were up to something,” said Henry.  “Of course they were,” said Ron, “What on Earth could it have been?”  “They want that artifact,” said Henry.  “I doubt they can get it,” said Ron, “It would be well worth their time, in this lifetime, to try, though.  The item would have to be of great worth.  I would guess that there is the chance that it is actually spiritually enhanced or magical.”  “It would not surprise me,” said Henry, thinking.  “What is on your mind?” asked Ron.  “Spring break,” said Henry, “I bet if they try to go to India, it will be then.”  “India?” asked Ron.  “They are after that monkey,” said Henry, “I am sure of it.”

Days went by and Henry and Ron continued to do well in school.  The artifact was on their minds; they saw and overheard the two other Archaeology students planning their spring break trip to go to India in the front study area of their school’s largest library.  The two students planning had no suspicion of Ron and Henry’s thought.  Ron and Henry followed the two other students to a travel agency that evening; they purchased tickets to fly to India as the other two students had.

“Mexico…” said Henry.  “I agree,” said Ron, “India will be much more fun than a repeat trip to the infamous Cancun.  I cannot wait.  I am bringing my new digital camera for picture taking.  I cannot wait to see what my fellow bloggers post in consideration of my attempts with the photography of distant lands.”  Ron and Henry would fly on the same airplane, land in a big city in India, stay in the most inexpensive resort hotel there, and track/follow the two students attempting to partake in crime.  That was their plan.

Ron and Henry thought their plan to be a long-shot.  The other two classmates were definitely going to try to take the artifact.  Whether they could even acquire it was more than half of the problem, the rest was stopping them or helping authorities in India catch the terrible college students during spring break.

Many things went as planned.  The two questionable young men flew to India.  So did Ron and Henry, with information on the other two students from the travel agency.  All four rested through one night, Ron and Henry woke up before dawn to see a mind blowing sunrise.  They found and followed the other two.  The two questionable individuals had attained secret information on the modern religious structure.  They assaulted and bound two guards, entered a door with an electronic key/pass-card.  Once in the catacombs, the two had  a small amount of time to find the stone storage structure which contained the ivory monkey.

The two bad-guys had attained a map; they found a large stone box.  They used a nearby pry-tool to open the box; it contained a few skulls of old war heroes, some ancient religious texts, some old jewelry, and an artifact or two.  One of these small items was a little bottle used to preserve a dead-person’s blood sample for religious reasons.  This item frightened one of the thieves, the other one shook him by the shoulder so they could get the monkey and go.  The scared one took the monkey and put it in his small backpack; they ran to escape.

It would not be easy for the two criminals to escape.  They did so, however.  They were chased by government officials and religious leaders.  They made it to a popular part of the large city and were somewhat safe from the authorities there.  They did not escape Ron and Henry, though.  The criminals went to a large shopping mall to safely plan a nonchalant route back to their hotel.  They planned to fly back to the states and sell the artifact for as much as possible.

Ron and Henry found the two in the shopping mall.  The mall was near the criminals’ hotel.  Henry snuck up behind the student with the backpack and opened it.  Ron reached in and grabbed the monkey; they walked away.  The criminals noticed the open backpack.  Where was the artifact? They did not know.  The criminals were in shambles, and they were surrounded by authorities and arrested on counts of violence and improper entry.  No one knew where the artifact was other than Henry and Ron.

The two intelligible college students considered themselves to be the good guys.  They flew back to the states with the spiritual item; they would know what was best for the artifact.  Ron and Henry got the item back to the states safely.  They gazed upon it in Henry’s living room.  He split his rent with four other students.  His housemates thought the monkey was cool; Henry kept it on a mantle.

Summer came and Henry’s housemates had all gone back to where they were from for work-related purposes.  Ron, like Henry, stayed in college over the summer to take more courses.  They had time in the evenings for study.  One night, the artifact came up in conversation.  “It has been sitting on your mantle there for weeks like a 5$ dust collector,” said Ron.  “I have not thought much about it,” said Henry, looking at the monkey.  Its gold was impressive; its eyes were mysterious.  Henry stood and beheld the artifact.  He sat it on a small table in the center of the room.

Ron gazed upon the item, as did Henry.  “I think we can talk with it,” said Ron.  “How?” asked Henry.  “I will try a way,” said Ron.  He gently pet the top of the ivory artifact’s head, and its eyes began to glow.  Henry and Ron both immediately sat back in their seat on a sofa.  They were not too scared.  The two students were rather curious instead.  A spirit floated up out of the monkey.  It was a female elephant.  “Who are you?” asked the elephant.  Henry was speechless.  Ron never really knew what he was talking about, anyway.  He said, “I am Ron, and this is Henry.  We are amazed with your history – we know little about you.”  The nice elephant blushed, slightly, and said, “I have helped many a man in war.  I have helped many a woman in love.  My powers are rare and desired.  I can fulfill untold desires.”  Henry still did not really think he was experiencing anything real.

“We are more interested in what you want,” said Ron after thinking hard and fast with his attention focused on the female elephant spirit.  He figured she would disappear if he lost concentration.  It had happened before with other spiritual conversations.  “If you must know,” replied the elephant, “I want to return to my original tomb.  I was there to protect an old warrior from spiritual malevolency.  I want to go there until certain resolutions from this side are resolved permanently.”  “Then what will you do?” asked Ron.  Henry was still gazing upon the elephant in awe.  “I am not so sure,” said the elephant, “I am not very selfish, resolutions of these sorts can take a great deal of time.  At least we have made progress over there.”

“Amazing,” said Henry.  “You talk after all,” said the elephant, “Thank you for protecting me.”  She was beginning to return to the monkey.  “Wait!” said Ron, “What is your name?”  “Imalia,” whispered the elephant, and she faded away.

“Well that does it,” said Ron, “We have to bring that back to the site under the big skyscraper.”  “Maybe I should just keep it,” said Henry.  “For what?” asked Ron, “The terrible war you have to wake up for in the morning?  Cannot quite re-incarnate your soldiers without a bashful elephant spirit?”  Henry was trying not to laugh.  “What is so funny?” asked Ron.  “Nice belt” said Henry, “Was that on sale?”  Ron looked down to find that he had put on his girlfriend’s belt by accident, earlier.  It was pink with little sparkling plastic gym-stones.  “Very funny,” said Ron, “Mine now, ha ha.”

“We do not have the money to go to India, again,” said Henry, we already had to borrow to get there the first time.”  “What if we borrow again?” suggested Ron, “When we graduate, we can borrow even more.  We will call it ‘Grad School’.”  “Very funny,” said Henry.  “I guess we can figure something out,” said Henry, “We will have to formulate a plan for a trip before fall classes begin.  Well will bring this magical elephant-monkey back to where it wants to be.  We will visit a prehistoric tomb.”  “Awesome,” said Ron, “I cannot wait to take more photos for blogging.”

The two planned it all out and made the trip to the giant skyscraper.  It was their turn, this time, to have to bound a guard.  They put a t-shirt over his head to keep him from being able to see them.  They returned the artifact to its proper location and escaped unscathed.  Once back in the United States, they finished their graduate studies and went to work for large corporate entities.  Ron saved a photo of the artifact being placed beside the old warrior’s bones in India, showed the photo to his old Archaeology professor with a self deleting file.  The professor was amazed.  He could only guess as to whether the photo was actually what it highly resembled.

♦

daily prompt, antique antics

A Sitter Named Irene

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A Sitter Named Irene

One time, there was a baby-sitter named Irene.  She was also a substitute teacher; Irene lived alone.  Once or twice a month, Irene went and babysat a young girl named Leah.  Leah was a handful of fun; Leah was hyperactive.  Irene was fun, too; she at times saw Leah as possibly the hardest child to keep out of the rest of the children she babysat.

Leah’s parents kept her spoiled in a ten bedroom house with many large rooms.  The young girl knew every small facet of her domain, ran fast like a mouse to get away.  Leah did not tire; she was allowed as many deserts as she wanted.  Her parents kept a philosophy of giving, especially to their only little girl.  Because Irene was paid well, it was easy for her not to get too jealous of Leah.  This would be a night to remember.

Irene was 24, had light brunette hair.  She made it to the large house in her 4-cylinder car on time; Leah’s parents departed.  Leah, being in the second grade, had homework.  Irene asked Leah politely to finish her school work, so she could tell Leah’s parents that she was well-behaved that evening.  To Irene’s surprise, Leah promised to do all of her homework for a slice of lemon meringue pie. The two sat together and Irene helped Leah learn a great deal. The two went over the school work; mostly Math and English, their final work was without flaw.

“So,” asked Leah as she was eating her snack, “An adverb describes the action of a verb?”  “That is correct,” said Irene, “What are your plans once you finish your pie?  Your bedtime is not for a few hours.”  Irene was full of surprises.  “I do not know what I want to do,” said Leah, “I might watch a movie, however I am not very interested.”  “What about your doll house?” asked Irene.  “I got a new one,” said Leah.  “Really?” asked Irene.  “I did not want it,” said Leah, “I thought ‘they’ wanted to get it for me, though, so I begged for it.”

Irene was running out of ideas, getting closer to finding a new project to work on in the world of art.  Irene waited for Leah to finish her pie.  The babysitter was not hungry at the time.  “Have you ever played ’20 Questions’?” asked Irene.  “What kind of a game is that?” asked Leah, “Are you going to make me do chores?”  “No,” said Irene, “I try to be a fun person, remember?”  “I have seen you upset before, and I got in trouble,” said Leah, honestly.  She was trying to think of something fun to do.

“I am sorry about that,” said Irene.  “How do you play the game?” asked Leah.  “You pick a person, place, or thing, and I have 20 attempts to guess what it is,” said Irene.  “I am thinking of a place,” said Leah.  “Have you ever played this game before?” asked Irene.  “Do you think I am a liar?” asked Leah.  Irene decided to try to play along.  “Is the place on this continent?” asked Irene.  “Yes,” said Leah.  “Is it London?” asked Irene; she wanted to test Leah’s honesty.  “London is in Europe,” said Leah, “The place is in the United States.”

“Is the place closer to the Atlantic or the Pacific Ocean?” asked Irene.  “Atlantic,” said Leah, “In fact, it is kind-of in the ocean.  It is also kind of a thing.”  “Is it a nuclear submarine?”  “No, silly,” said Leah giggling.  “Is it a kind of business or government building?” asked Irene.  “Not really,” said Leah, “People go to see it, though.  It is like a symbol of freedom for our nation.”  “Is it a monument?” asked Irene.  “I do not think so,” said Leah thinking, “But I thought you were about to guess it.  It is a sculpture.”  “The Statue of Liberty?” asked Irene.  “That is right,” said Leah.

The two played the game all afternoon without even turning on the television.  Irene tucked in Leah after she bathed and said her bedtime prayers with her.  Leah was asleep before her parents’ return.  Leah was finding maturity, and Irene looked forward to seeing the young girl grow up to be a nice person.  They all lived happily ever after.

♦

Another Bench

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Another Bench

One time, I was sitting on a smooth concrete bench in a park.  I had about twenty minutes to do nothing – I would then go back to work for an appropriate time.  A woman was in a rush, then she sat right by me.  I did not know much about why; I just kept quite.  She frantically got out her smart phone and checked the time.  A storm was coming; the shades of the nearing clouds were blowing in the winds with flying leaves.

“You must be in a hurry,” I said.  I had waited to speak, it would have been rather awkward if I had not.  “I am not in a big hurry,” she said, “I am trying to decide on where I want to go.”  I did not say a whole lot.  She was playing with her phone and making calls, no one would answer.  I wanted to help her, could not really figure her out.  She was nicely dressed.  She was probably on her way to continue running errands.

She sat back to make herself comfortable; she was playing with her phone, still.  I would be leaving, soon.  I really did not have the time to talk with her much.  “I cannot decide on a good song,” she said, “Do you have any favorites?”  “I listen to most kinds of music,” I said, “I like 80’s music, rock-n-roll, and piano music.  Have you tried the nin website?”  “No,” she said, handing me her phone.  I entered the site in for her and chose a song I knew.  It was soothing.  The song reminded me of dark, crystal-clear nights lit by the stars.  She listened to it for a minute and said it was nice.  “See you,” she said, and she walked away with her phone.  I left to make it to work on time.

♦

My Bags!

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My Bags!

“Six hours will not be too long,” I thought to myself.  There would be plenty to do around the airport.  I went and tried out the coffee – its flavor was uniquely predictable, as always.  I put about six grams of sugar in it with some ice from the nearby soda machine.  I sat and thought for a while; why not write a story?  I was going to walk around asking for a pen and possibly find some napkins or something to write on, and I heard a woman scream “Ahh… He has my bags!”

I looked that way and saw a man running with a carry-on bag and a purse towards the front of the airport.  He normally would have been able to be stopped by the facility’s employees, however there were none by the door he was headed to.  I sprint in a dead run towards the man; he was sure to get away.  I ran after him, anyway, and, as luck would have it, the woman’s purse got caught in the door as the man was escaping.  I tackled the man in the revolving door like I was playing football, and attendants with hip radios were there in moments.  I tried to get a good look at the man’s face, however they carried him away in cuffs.

The woman thanked me, and the guards checked me out to make sure that I was fine.  “How can I ever re-pay you?” asked the woman.  “With a handful of cash,” I said, “Just playing.  I am glad he did not get away.”  The woman was fine.  I borrowed a pen from someone who said I could keep it, and a college student happened to be nearby to give me some paper to write on.  I wrote down everything that had happened, as well as a few thoughts on writing and pleasing a literate audience.  I checked the huge clock on the airport wall, I still had four hours.

There was a blind man near me, we spoke for some time and I fell asleep.  Time passed, and I woke up in time to board the airplane, finally.

♦

Day 7, A Juxtaposed Contrast

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A Juxtaposed Contrast

 One time, a pretty young girl, Rose, and her grandmother, Ema, went to an art museum.  It was nice – not too many people were there at 8:30 AM on a Saturday morning.  There was a curator and a college student, nearby.  The student was working towards a post-graduate degree in graphic design, took some time during the morning to go check out the local art museum.  “What, if you do not mind my asking, is your opinion on these works?” asked the curator.  He and the art student, Mathew, had already spoken together once or twice, before.

Rose and Ema were standing near enough to hear their conversation.  Rose was admiring a huge orange flower while trying not to be afraid of a scary cow skull.  “Well,” said Mathew,

“I have always enjoyed O’keeffe’s artwork.  It, like many things to me, has become too overly cliché to really talk too much about.  I am happy to see these works in person, do not get me wrong.  It is the whole life to death comparison idea, though.  This whole idea that we can compare good to bad, beauty to disgust, or life to death; put those things into a painting; and expect others to enjoy the picture or sing our praises is just not very impressive to me.  What makes her stand out are these vivid colors that radiate from her canvases; death can be a cool form of inspiration.  I like and appreciate what she knew how to do for what was able to be done, technique wise, during her time; her juxtaposition of life and death was a sort of cop-out, in my opinion.”

“I think I agree,” said the curator, “She could have conveyed a deeper message – I still like to see her paintings, too.  They far-surpass many, in my opinion.  At least she had a message.”  The admirers continued to look upon the various paintings in the large room, its polished marble floors were white with wavy grey lines.  “Grandma, what is a ‘juxtaposition’?” asked Rose, thinking it may be a tough question.  “That is simply a comparison of two ideas, pictures, or things that are usually perceived to be opposites,” said Ema, “Which one is your favorite?”  “Well,” said Rose, “I like the big purple orchid with the pink stripes, because I think it is pretty, however I also like the one there by it of bones.  I like the second one, because I know.  One day, we are all going to die.“

“She speaks rather well,” said Mathew.  “Most prodigies can,” said Ema.  Rose looked over to Mathew and smiled; she was proud to have heard the complement.  Rose and Ema held hands and walked through the rest of the exhibit.  All four people thought about comparing things for the rest of the amicable day.

♦

Personification and the Wicked Night

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Personification and the Wicked Night

One time there was a class of students.  They attended a college course on creative writing. There were prerequisite English courses for the class; many business and English majors took the course. Art and film majors commonly signed up, too; the two professors teaching the course were well-known novelists. The course’s seats where usually scheduled full early – many students on the campus found the class to be intriguing.

In this class of students, there were two students and a teacher who had a conversation early one morning. The professor was only 29 and still very pretty. She was well endowed.  Not too endowed, the professor was a pretty dirty blonde. The two students went to see her early one morning.  They had finished their assignments and went to see her for help with an extra composition they were trying to submit to a fiction magazine.  Ms. Banks was the nice professor’s name, and the students’ names were Jasmine and Malachai.

“I hope she can help us,” said Jasmine. “She can,” said Malachai, “She is a very brilliant person among people who are. She will guide us in the right direction; she will give us the ingredients and the recipe. All we will need to do afterwards is to bake the cake.” “Do you think we are wasting her time?” asked Jasmine. “No,” said Malachai, “She will be interested in our enthusiasm. If I feel we are ‘out of place’ I will get us out of there, and we can consort with another person. I will even let you do the talking. I am confident she will hear us out.”

Jasmine was not expecting to do the talking; she figured Malachai would. She was happy to, though; she was very interested in some form of direction for her and her writing partner. Their professor’s ideas would most certainly help them. The two students were attempting to submit a draft to a magazine for a writing competition; they just wanted some advice. The students were waiting outside of the professor’s door at 7:50 AM.  Ms. Banks had one whole hour scheduled for student communication during this time. The two students knew not to bother any other students with actual needs; no other students were there, yet, anyway.

They heard Ms. Banks coming up the wooden stairwell. “Good morning!” she exclaimed, fumbling around with her writing satchel and documents, a pen in her mouth, and the keys to her office. Who knew why she had a pen in her mouth? No one, really – she was there on time.

“Come in, come in,” she said, and the three happily walked in and sat down. “What brings you guys here, today?” she asked, “I have already received your assignment for Friday. Is this about some necessary re-write?” “No ma’am,” said Jasmine, trying not to look down her professor’s shirt. Ms. Banks was a naturally attractive woman to many. “We are here to ask you for some advice with a writing competition,” said Jasmine, looking over to Malachai. He nodded in approval; she had stated these things well.

“A writing competition?” asked the excited professor, “For who? Where?” “We found the competition online with a web search; we wanted to do some creative writing. If we are published, we get a free two-year subscription to the magazine and an opportunity for a more competitive contest.” “Alright,” said the professor, “What genre are we going with, here?” “Well,” said Jasmine, “That is one reason why we are here. The magazine, ‘Other-Lands’, publishes mostly fantasy or sci-fi stories with minimal advertising. We want to write a small story with about 2,000 words, however we cannot decide on the characters. We thought we could use elves or astronauts, however whatever we came up with just did not work out. The beings we considered had already been considered by so many other works.”

“I must say I am impressed with you two – you really are into writing and have put some thought into this competition. The periodical must be a smaller publication; I have not heard of it. Let me see…” said Ms. Banks; she was thinking. Malachai’s original worry that they could be wasting time with these questions was out the window, as were his gazes into nothing, for the most part. Jasmine gave him a quick look-check. She wanted to make sure that if he was staring he at least knew about it. Lucky for him, he was looking at the books on the professor’s window seal – not what Jasmine still had in mind, somehow.

“All of those fantasy characters and you guys need help,” said Ms. Banks, “What about personification?” “You mean like talking animals?” asked Jasmine, “Like Aesop and his moral lessons with animals?” “Sure,” said Ms. Banks, “Anything that can come to life can have a dialogue and an interesting action plan for a plot – even a protagonist.” Jasmine looked at Malachai who was almost asleep. “Well?” asked Jasmine, Malachai would at least have to approve or comment on these things, otherwise he might as well be a stone statue from a library garden.

“I was paying attention,” said Malachai, “Personification is the best answer I have heard. I had not even thought of it. We can use some animals or objects, bring them to life, and let them return to their previous state, somehow.” “Are you going to put these lifeforms in outer space?” asked Ms. Banks in honest curiosity. The professor had directed her attention to Malachai and Jasmine accidentally look right down her shirt. Jasmine looked to the ground, trying not to think too much about what she would not mind personifying. “What do you think, Jasmine?” asked Malachai with some guess as to what Jasmine was thinking. “I imagine we could work something out,” said Jasmine looking back up to her professor, “Thank you for your help, Ms. Banks.”

The two students readied themselves to leave. “I was happy to see you two; I know how well you are doing in my class and others. Keep it up. Remember not to let your extra-curricular fun affect your real efforts regarding higher learning. I have another exciting writing assignment for you on Monday.” “Yes ma’am,” they both said. “I think I am going to major in journalism,” said Malachai, accidentally, he really loved to write. “Good luck to you both; bring your story to me at 4 PM on Friday, here, and I will proofread it.” “Okay,” they both said.

The two made it down the old wooden stairwell and split up after making some plans. The story was not going to be too long of a composition; they did want it to be impressive, however. They had plenty to do during the day including classes and part-time jobs for their university. Malachai and Jasmine had planned to meet at a dining hall at 7 PM; it was hamburger night. They would eat and write out a story afterwards over the dining hall’s generic yet edible coffee.

They ate, got their coffees. “Alright,” said Malachai, “What are we going to bring to life, and how is outer-space going to have anything to do with it?” “I like looking at Ms. Bank’s breasts,” said Jasmine. “They are nice,” replied Malachai, “I guess anything can come to life, in fiction.” “What if we bring some rocks to life to fly shrink rays to outer-space an zap asteroids?” asked Jasmine. “That is fine,” said Malachai, “Where is the story; what is the climax?” “It can be mostly a narrative,” said Jasmine, “The rocks could work for a teenage scientist trying to collect and study space matter.”

“What happens for audience attention, though?” asked Malachai. He was approving Jasmine’s idea and thinking, too. “What if one of the little space travelers accidentally zaps another one? Not being a big huge asteroid, the little flying pebble is handicapped to a smaller and inadequate form?” “That is okay,” said Jasmine, “I think it will be good, though. It will be good enough to submit to ‘Other-Lands’.” “Okay,” said Malachai. They took turns talking and writing and wrote the story. It seemed a little long, but they developed a main character, described the setting, and told the story. It was 2024 words, once done, and both students agreed that the concluding paragraphs were pretty well written.

Time had gone by, and it was about 11:45 PM. “We should give the story one last revision, and we can type it up on the computer together tomorrow after dinner,” suggested Jasmine. “Sounds like a plan,” replied Malachai. He almost blushed – he thought of her, sometimes.  “Would you like to go over it out in the garden of the library?” asked Malachai. “That sounds a little spooky,” said Jasmine. “I will protect you from harm,” said Malachai with manly happiness. Jasmine smiled, grasped his hand, and they walked to the garden of the nearest library.

The two read through the document by the light of the moon and only found one or two able-to-be revised errors. Almost ready to go off to bed, they noticed the various small statues in the shadows of the garden. The one closest to them was an old stone statue of a wiry Irishman. It was a replica of an immigrant who came to the nation to study the English language and biology. He had donated to the original construction of the library, there, and the little structure highly resembled a leprechaun. It was only moments passed midnight, and they heard a shrilling and decipherable whisper in the night’s gentle breeze.

“Speak a limerick to him to see his fun; bring him back before his damage is done…” “I know you heard that,” said Jasmine. “It damn near freaked me out,” said Malachai. “Why did it not freak you out? Do you think that was a ghost?” asked Jasmine. “No, no,” said Malachai,”‘Ghost’ – do not even be so silly. That was some ‘other’ form of howling spiritual voice in the wind sometime around midnight.” “Very funny,” said Jasmine, almost pale in fright, “Well?” “What do you mean, ‘Well’?” asked Malachai, “You doubt my ability to speak a poem? Little did you know, with all my attempted prose, I am quite the ‘anti-poetic’ master.” “You could not speak a rhyme with a ghetto-blaster!” laughed Jasmine. “Oh yeah?” said Malachai, and said,

“There once was a little man of concrete;
he danced and moved about on his feet.
The people were there,
but who could care?
We brought him back and put him on his feet.”

Impressed with Malachai’s improvisation, Jasmine almost was not watching the little statue. He came to life! He took one dead stare at the two students, as if he were gazing upon a ghost for the first time, and took off in a dead sprint towards the dining hall. Malachai and Jasmine instinctively ran after the little fellow. There were pretty female students standing around talking. The last thing that Malachai and Jasmine wanted to see happen was the little man being seen by other students.

They almost caught up to him, and the stone leprechaun hid behind a tree in the shadow of a university lamp-post. Malachai and Jasmine were right on him, but could not quite run and catch him.  They would be seen by nearby students. The naughty little guy was trying to see up the skirt of a female student. He could not, though so he inched closer to her to try to raise up her skirt. As he got closer, Malachai inched closer to him. In an instant, Malachai snatched the little guy up and brought him over to Jasmine behind a tree.

“You are quite the dirty little man,” said Jasmine to the leprechaun who did not speak.  Malachai and Jasmine brought the statue back to where it was and it turned back to stone. The name below the small sculpture was Ed Lear.  Malachai and Jasmine needed to return to their dorms. It was getting late. They neared each other and kissed for the first time, just on the lips, and went back to their rooms.  Their story would do fine.

♦

Person of 2014

/ @jcm3rockstar / 3 Comments

Person of 2014

“So, who is the most interesting person you have met this year?” asked the woman named Kady.  She was speaking with someone on the subway named Aklan, a person of religion from India.  Aklan had said, “It is nice meeting you – I am thinking to look up your writings, someday.  You are the most interesting person that I have met on this day.”

“Oh, I already know a great many interesting people,” said Aklan, “I sell gold with my husband.  We import metal and jewels from India, and we cater to some interesting people, indeed.”  “Are these people really wealthy?” asked Kady.  “I should hope so; we do stay in business, somehow,” answered Aklan, “I am trying to decide on the most interesting one.”

Kady looked at her watch; the ride would not be over for another twenty minutes or so.  “I think the most interesting person was a young woman,” said Aklan, “She came in and bought a rare sapphire bracelet with the saying ‘Forever Love’ engraved on the outside.  ‘Nice choice’ I said.  She said it was for her girlfriend.”  “Oh,” said Kady.  “I am not really like that,” said Aklan, “However I found it ‘interesting’ enough.”  The two finished their ride mostly in silence.

♦

You May Be Wrong But You May Be Right

/ @jcm3rockstar / 1 Comment

You May Be Wrong But You May Be Right

One time, a young man named Eustace was proudly considering things others said.  “Never judge a book by its cover,” he heard his teacher say, one day.  Eustace was afraid of his teacher – she could punish him.  “I know what I can do, safely,” thought Eusctace, “I can ask the librarian what the ‘adage’ means.  Maybe she can explain it to me better.”

So, library day came, and Eustace was excited.  He always was; the library was a place he could learn things without talking with real people.  “Ms. Worthers?” asked Eustace, once her announcement spill was over and the students began to browse through the various book shelves, “What do you think the old adage, ‘Never judge a book by its cover’ means?”

“Well, Eustace,” said the librarian,

“I think of the statement in two ways.  For one, I judge a real book I pick up and look at by its cover, title, author, and publisher.  Is it old? Is it brand new?  Is it hard or paperback?  Does it have any foreign languages in its text?  Is it an independent, scholastic, or big-named published book?  We as the readers can already know what to guess about the book we have in our hands.  Can we guess its genre?  What do we already know about, in concerns with the author or people who composed the literary work?  Is it a classic?  All of these example questions relate to what we think is in the text, how good we can guess what is there.  Books are like wrapped presents – you can infer a bit about their contents via their wrapping paper.  You can read an intro or an author-bio and call yourself a present shaker, so to speak.  The other side of the old adage’s meaning has to do with people and content.  What someone looks like or appears to be on the outside is not always who they really are.  Some people are more superficial than others – people like you and me call them actors or fakes.  We all learn from time to time.  A book’s contents can be perfectly composed and tell an absolutely astounding story full of properly used writing devices including plot, climax, foreshadowing, flashback, and, if we as the audience are lucky, even such devices as narrative hook and the intriguing use of well-planned symbols.  A masterful literary composition can easily hide behind a dull and hard-to-notice cover.  You will learn more about writing and devices as you study and pay attention to your teachers.  The adage, to many people, sometimes means that a flashy book cover may not allude to a very enthralling novel.  On the other hand, a dull covered hardback classic may be your most favorite book ever.  The book I am reading has an interesting cover, and I enjoy its stories.  One would have to read nearly every sentence to figure out the cover, in theory.  When people say, ‘You cannot judge a book by its cover,’ they simply mean not to form an opinion from what little you know and see on the outside of a thing or situation – you may just end up becoming the ignorant and surprised individual considering.”

“Wow, Ms. Worthers,” said Eustace.  It was like he already knew what she could say, but actually knew her meaning well when she spoke.  He said “Thank you for answering my question,” and went to go search for an exciting book for his class’ book review assignment.  Eustace picked up a book titled, “My Travels in Norway”, and time continued to pass.

♦

billy joel song