Gerald’s Watch

Weeks of blasting had come to an end earlier that afternoon around three. Plenty of dynamite had safely cleared the way for a more perfect stretch of highway through the beautiful mountainside of Western Arizona. Living in temporary trailers and off filtered water and meals ready-to-eat, we looked forward to a safe journey home the next day.

Myself, Rasputin Jones, was listening to a small alarm clock radio. Its faint country songs were nice, even if it was the only station that came in. There was an old song playing by Hank Williams Sr. Not my most favorite song, it sounded just fine as I was falling off to sleep.

My Droid vibrated and played a wonderful, tropical ring tone. I checked it and slid the bar up to answer; it was Brick, my trusted team leader and teacher of all necessary knowledge related to blowing out huge chunks of rock with powerful, dangerous explosives. An interesting fellow, Brick did not only know ‘how’ to do our job within proper manner, he was able to also explain ‘why.’

“Razz,” said Brick, “The boss and I are on the way to pick you up. We have to go back to the job site.” “Okay,” I said and we both hung up. As we were to depart the next day, there was no telling what could be so important. It could mean staying up all night for extra pay.

Partially non-encouraged, I changed into my work clothes quickly, even as they smelled of the work of the day. I strapped on my belt and trusted helmet light and checked my tools. Within a few moments, as I stood outside the locked door of my small trailer, my boss, Gerald, rolled up in his ’88 Chevy full-size V8 with Brick. I hopped in the old grey truck to ride shotgun, and we drove all the way out to the job site in silence, fully equipped for working in the night.

Once there, we made the hike to the top of a cliff overlooking a vast darkness that would one day birth a new stretch of highway, a much less curvy way to get from “A” to “B” for the motorists of the area. On the edge of the cliff, I looked over to Brick who looked like he was waiting for a magical ocean trench fish to jump into the air with glowing colors of effervescence, dancing to the tunes of a 2,040 AD underground toxic waste site rave gathering. He turned to me and shrugged, knowing neither of us knew why we were there.

A few short moments passed while Gerald was using his strong-beam flashlight to examine the side of the cliff. Finally, Brick asked, “Why, may I ask, are we here?”
Gerald said, “Well, I dropped my watch, and it was an anniversary gift from my wife last year.”


A Man at the Bank

There once was a beautiful teller at a bank. She was always presentable and, without a doubt, totally attractive to many. Her name? Forea. Of course, people always asked of the origins of her name; she usually said it was Nordic.

Forea kept considerable track of her customers, not always for her own curiosity, but usually to provide the best banking services for them. Mentioning new account types and investment possibilities usually meant increases in pay for her. These things were routine.

Most of Forea’s customers were overly presentable and cleanly with their fashion. Each with a highly unusual character, they often seemed to her to be what Grammy award winners might look like in person. There was one customer; however, he came in once a month, always on the twentieth.

Mr. Murphy was his name. He often came into the bank in a white, green, dark green, or black suit. If not a suit, he, at least, dressed above “business casual.” She knew he had red hair and pale skin, totally unique attributes that would qualify him for one of her oil painting attempts.

Despite his unique attire, there was one thing that Forea simply could not figure out. All of her customers wore unique attire. Mr. Murphy, however, usually came to the bank for one reason, and that was to trade five golden coins into his USD account. This way his monthly transaction was to convert gold coins to cash. Forea wanted to know why.

She decided to ask him one day. It was the twentieth, she woke up early and got ready for work early and made it on time, as always. About mid-morning, to know surprise, Mr. Murphy walked through the huge glass doors installed in the front of the bank with a white shirt and green silk tie.

Forea gladly accepted the five gold coins and completed the transaction, as always. Barely having the time and the nerve to ask Mr. Murphy a question upon his departure, said Forea, “May I ask you something?” “Well, sure,” replied Mr. Murphy with a grin. There was no aspect of Forea that was not beautiful. “Why do you always come in on the twentieth to change in exactly five golden coins?” she asked. Said Mr. Murphy, “Well, for one, I am a leprechaun.”

A More Healthy Beat

The night was cool and crisp and the weather was nasty. A tunneling mist blew leaves in front of the two officers, in front of an eighty-year-old street lamp in front of them. The night was also very dark in the woods across the way, except from part of the light of the street lamp. Noting the nostalgia of the old street light, the female officer looked up to its salmon glow to see its metal curls turned green from mild surface corrosion.

“Nice street lamp,” said Officer Lilac, the female, with a sniffle.

“Nice, indeed,” said Officer Attens, a large male police officer who was also her partner, “I am going into the small shop behind us to get us a coffee.”


Officer Attens entered the small store, as Officer Lilac endured the scenery. They were used to policing various areas of town on foot, usually bringing in criminals during nocturnal hours.

Within moments, Officer Attens returned with a small package in his pocket and two cups of steaming coffee with sugar and creamer added.

“Thank you,” said Officer Lilac.

“No problem,” said Officer Attens, handing her her cup of coffee. He then proceeded to pull out the small package.

“What’s in the package?” asked Officer Lilac.

“The cashier said the coffee was complementary. I thought it was the uniform. He said it was complementary so long as I made a purchase. So, I killed to birds with one stone.”

“How so?”

“Well, I got us both a coffee, and I got you this.”

Officer Attens handed Officer Lilac a package of allergy lozenges.

“Why thank you,” said Officer Lilac, “I was starting to get a sniffle. What possessed you to get these for us?”

Officer Attens chuckled and said, “I am of the mind that we should be catching criminals, not colds.”

An Excerpt…

Many times, as composers of stories and makers of creative works, we endure a great many ideas throughout the day.  As we siphon through these ideas from time to time, we do not always have the time to put our best notions down on paper or out into electronic availability.  I had an idea for a space exploration prompt, for other people, yet with limited response (due to possible near non-exposure), I wrote out an idea for it.  Here it is – it will possibly be published elsewhere this month or later… 🙂

The Fuselage
   From the glossy windows of a small, outer atmosphere born, multi-engine computerized, ceramic-shelled fuselage, five astronauts documented their observations of Earth with on-board imaging technology and documentation devices safely within their space-born exploration and research vehicle.  The team’s lead scientist’s name was Captain Ron Featherton.  His crew of four researchers’ names were Gill, Luke, Isa (short for Isabelle), and Shawn.  The team’s mission?  To observe, document and digitally characterize Earth’s natural radiation belts, normal global geology and external geomorphology, and to journey safely from Earth’s outer atmosphere within normal return velocities.
   After documenting observations, including storms, stars, and pressure movements, the crew was impressed with their flight-specific gathered data and electronic journals.  Upon storing information into their data systems, it was nearing time to venture home.  Just then, however, the lead monitor of engine systems and on-board life, air, navigation systems Secondary Operations Engineer, Shawn, suddenly exclaimed…
   “Captain, our oxygen supply is decreasing due to an unknown malfunction source!  Should we down the two minor engine thrusts to maintain average support systems?”  “No,” said Captain Ron, “We need to leave them running to maintain minimum necessary travel speed – we will be returning to Earth in moments and should not take the risk.”  A small bubbling patch of perspiration beaded unnoticeably upon Shawn’s brow.  “Eye eye, Cap,” said Shawn has he continued to navigate the average-sized spaceship along its normonic path.
   “This is such a marvelous view of our planet and distant celestial sparkling bodies,” observed Gill in a dreamy frame of mind.  She had worked for most of her career to enjoy one single amazing experience such as this one.  “Of the things I have seen during my lifetime,” commented Luke, “There has been none such as marvelous as this one; never before have I viewed such a spectacular view of Earth and our amazing galaxy.”  “I concur,” said Isa, “I will treasure this moment for a lifetime.”
    As the astronauts continued to maintain normal operations, the spacecraft’s instrumentation panel began beeping and going haywire.  “We are losing vital oxygen fast, Captain!” exclaimed Shawn.  “Down the secondary thrusts and engage back-up systems! We will be lucky to survive!”  commanded Captain Ron.  Isa spoke a short prayer.
   Drifting through space the astronauts wondered if they were a part of a moribund exploration, done-for, bereft.  Oxygen continued to weaken as Captain Ron tried to contact home-command.  Unable to do so, the situation grew more terrible.  Due to lack of sufficient air his team of four fell unconscious.  He somehow did not.  Maintaining system controls, Captain Ron was able to bring the ship to a state of tentative normalcy.
   Therein lied his dilemma:  should he risk losing the lives of his team, utilize the oxygen supply in order to return to Mother Earth alive, chance becoming a known and perceived, detested failure, responsible for the deaths of four renown scientists?  “It is a temptation to disengage the pressure controls and drift hopelessly into the bliss of outer space… to suffer the short-lived torture of suffocation and die,” thought the compassionate space-captain, “No one would ever know.”  He had no family to return to, gave the cowardly notion a pinch of dangerous thought.
   The newly engineered, high-tech space-born fuselage allowed no emergency abort capabilities, proved now, to be a deadly capsule due to its systems’ malfunctions.  As he looked upon his crew in tears, the captain released their air supply.  Captain Ron brought the ship’s systems back to complete and normal operation within moments.  He powered up the main thrusts.  The other four died shortly thereafter.  Captain Ron returned to Planet Earth within normal and safe velocities exceeding an approximate 19,817 mph, presented never-before-gathered radiation belt data, sought counselling.

A Drabble…

The paragraphs below depict a micro-story I wrote for a blog I found recently.  Interestingly enough, it is always fun to include classic literary devices within a ‘word-filtered’ sentence combination.  I enjoyed editing the story; the original was over 300 words, over 200 words of their submission requirement.  My final submission was 98 words.  Due to the differences of the two drafts, I included both of them, here.  By request I will remove the actual submission.
Sam and Sam
Both car doors closed close to the same time.  A teenage school girl named Samantha and her male friend named Sam both exited their parents’ vehicles in front of the local bookstore known for its darkstout coffee.  “How goes it?” she asked.  “Great,” he said.  They went in to order a coffee.  They both liked cold house coffee; it was cheaper than the more extravagant lattes.  “I will take a house coffee on ice,” said Sam, attempting to hand the cashier with crimson red-blonde hair a five. She then heard Sam say, “I will have the same, however I will pay for both.”  She said thank you and Sam handed the cashier a ten.
After receiving their coffees they explored the store.  There were a great many exciting books and periodicals.  They both loved to read and did well in school.  After noticing how much the bestsellers cost, they visited the music section.  Sam and Sam liked most music, however they loved rock and dance the most.  “Check it out!” said Sam, and Samantha ran over to him.  It was a newly released greatest hits live recording by “nin”.
“Let’s put our money together and we can listen to it later,” said Samantha, too excited to wonder about teenage puppy love.  “Okay,” said Sam – their parents would be back anytime.  Their hour was nearing its death.  They made it to the checkout line and it seemed to be keeping the pace of a sprinting post-storm snail.
Samantha gave Sam her five and it was their turn.  There existed a man behind them deep in thought, holding a book titled, “On Living Well”.  The new C.D. was listed for $11.89; the teller said, “Your total is twelve ninety-six.”  “We are short seventy-six cents,” said Sam on accident.  Samantha was confused; the man behind them said, “Keep your money.  I will buy that disc for you.”  “Wow,” said Sam, “What is your name?”  “Atticus.”
Sam and Sam, by J. C. Martin, III
They exited their parents’ vehicles in front of a bookstore known for darkstout coffee.  “Howdy,” she said.  “Hi,” went inside.
Cold house coffee,” requested Samantha, tried paying.  Sam said, “I will have the same,” paid for both.  “Thank you.
They explored.  “Check it out!” exclaimed Sam, seeing a new release by “nin“.  “Let’s listen to it later.”  “Okay.
Their hour dwindled.  Checkout kept the pace of a sprinting poststorm snail.  Samantha gave Sam her five.
A man held a book, “On Well Living”.  “$12.96.”  “We’re short.”  “I’ll buy it.”  “Okay.”  “What is your name?”  “Atticus.

A Frantic Day

A Frantic Day

“I have to get these thoughts down,” thought our Miserly; “Must find a place for expedient jotting…”  She had been skimming through a periodical on writing all morning – the forty-five minute rail-ride was over.  The periodical had some very inspirational notions, indeed; she could but not resist reading its every article.  An excited writer, Miserly kept pursuing more technique.  “Well developed characters,” she thought, “A beautiful scene, some things occur, and then… wham!  Of course, the aftermath.”

So many things to do on her day off, she put them mostly aside.  Miserly was seventeen and brilliant.  She jogged to her nearest library and found a quite, lowered desk in the shape of an amoeba, by a large and dull window, without too much external distraction, after signing in.  “A protagonist, a problem, and a solution,” she thought.

“His name was Paul Goodman…” she wrote.  As she began to scribe in a hurried but quick and legible manner, a library worker strolled by, giving Miserly a nonchalant glance.  Miserly knew she must return a nod, or unknown things may occur.  The worker nodded in return, seeing she (Miserly), though frantic, was up to nothing worse than writing.

Miserly described Paul and his plight well.  He was a man in between jobs and in need of one soon.  She alluded to Paul’s selfless desire to live a better life, to work well and provide assistance to those in need, somehow.  It was 4:30 AM.  Paul was on a city sidewalk, and he would have to try to keep himself in proper demeanor to get a good job.  No one would hire him looking exhausted, unkempt, slipshod.

Mr. Goodman’s thoughts were to attain a newspaper and tidy up quickly in his flat.  He would then pursue something on foot from the classifieds.  As he strolled toward a metal newsstand box, two things occurred.  A worker opened the newsstand box to place the papers in the device, and a small car ‘t-boned’ a duly only forty feet away.

Paul made his way quickly to the worker and said, “I would like to buy a paper before you close that box.  Please, kind sir.”  The worker’s name was Mr. Whirley.  He was an assistant editor who happened to still fill the paper boxes once a week, as he did long ago.  Mr. Whirley handed him a paper; took out a small camera and took a picture of the accident as the drivers were making their exodus from the two vehicles; let Paul put his change in the machine; and asked, “What is the hurry with your wanting a paper?  Eager to know the weather?”

“I am in desperate need of a job and am open to most anything legitimate that will pay,” said Paul, “I lost my job and have personal responsibilities.”  “We just had two people leave our department last week,” said Mr. Whirley, “We need a ‘Proofer.’  Do you have any experience in editing, whatsoever?”  “Not professionally,” said Paul, “I am an avid reader of novels, however.”  “Who is your favorite novelist?” asked Mr. Whirley, as he took another picture of the drivers approaching.

“I like the more famous authors and like their style,” said Paul; “My favorite author is currently Stephen King.”  “What would you think about a ten-day temporary job, six hours a morning?” asked Mr. Whirley, “We need the help; I like your enthusiasm; and if you do well we should be able to keep you around.  We need no errors in our articles.”  “I would love that and thank you,” said Paul, considering this offer to be a blessing.  He and Mr. Whirley shook on it, and Mr. Whirley said, “Respond to the ad in the paper that mentions my office before noon, today, and you just may have yourself a new job.”  “Thank you good sir,” said Mr. Goodman, “I do appreciate you and will be there.”

By then the two drivers both asked the two gentleman conversing if they had seen the accident.  They both agreed that they saw what had happened – the driver of the small car failed to heed to a yield sign.  Mr. Whirley had pictures he was sure would be requested for by his paper, the drivers, and their insurance companies.  Thankfully, no one was injured badly.  Before the four people spoke too much about whether anyone was right or wrong, the police pulled up – two cars.  They filed a report; the drivers drove away with the small car receiving a citation; Mr. Whirley went back to work to write up an account for the paper; and Paul went to take a shower.

Paul got the job that day around 11:30 AM and did so well for the first two years that he bought himself an expensive digital camera to celebrate his achievements.  He took up photography as a hobby and even took pictures for the paper and various periodicals from time to time.  Ten years later, he was still loving his job and turned down retirement to work at least one more year.

As for the drivers involved in the accident, they had sore necks, yet they were fine within two weeks and ended up attending the same religious congregation consisting of over 650 people.  The story was what it was to Miserly, meaning that she liked it, hoped others would enjoy it, too.  She had finished it and enjoyed the idea of the worried man finding a job and doing well – he got to play with a nice new camera, too.

She decided it was short and sweet, good enough to submit to the literary publication she was reading through that morning.  She revised her fast-written prose as the 70’s style orange chair creaked as she leaned back in it, knowing she had the better part of twelve entire minutes to finish the revision before having to ask for an hour extension from the librarian.  No one ever enjoyed asking for an extension.  Such an ordeal was the very inspiration for coming back on another day – without question.

Miserly quickly revised her story, re-writing one or two sentences completely, to promote better concision and more proper diction, according to what just had to be more accurate.  She was rather impressed with the story and had one minute left.  Looking up, she saw an older woman, a library attendant, coming her way.  The worker could have been walking in slow motion.  From her attentive reading, Miserly could not see the woman very clearly.

A young man with the semblance of an intelligibly cute elf was walking and reading at the same time – in a library.  Confused, Miserly wondered if she was dreaming.  She was not, however, and just as the librarian was about to speak in a loud manner toward Miserly, the young man walked right into the woman, startling them both.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” said the young man, “I am so very sorry.”  The older woman was ‘ruffled,’ indeed, and Miserly escaped on foot while managing to toss over a wicked grin to the young man.  He gave her a confident nod.  He was cool.  “I will have to submit this story by mail before noon,” thought Miserly, “Hopefully, the magazine will love it.  I have so much to get done.”

She made it out of the library.  She ran into the young man again later in life and they became close companions, both given to the art of literary composition.  The periodical helped Miserly extend and revise her story for a small fee; it was published and praised; and her audience waited for her every word.

Fiction Parable, no. 1

Parablic Prologue

Despite our ability to tell a great campfire story or write one down, there are always those authors who amaze us with what we learn to recognize.  My own definitions of what constitute a great story are very broad and easy.  A good story is a good story.  I cannot simply resist the comparison, however, of something that was written by an author well-learned in the “serious” study of literary technique, to a common story written down.  We as humans can consider reading fiction to be a great and healthy way to ease our minds, to break away, even if temporarily, from the ferocious and deadly things we sometimes call real life.

Just a few days ago, I got a new book on writing short stories.  I have read many.  This one impressed me, though; it was due to a parable that satisfied classic definitions of what techniques must be used to qualify a story as an acceptable literary composition, a draft any teacher, professor, or common reader would enjoy and be satisfied with.  The most popular techniques necessary for a great story are plot (a series of events leading to a conclusion), symbol (an object that carries meaning or indication), characters, scene, time (events carry on and pass time).  I always include a climax as a requirement, or leave the notion out of a story on purpose.  These essential elements of a story formulate a tale’s theme.  The book that I plan on reading, after I do a few more reviews (they take me weeks) is titled, “The Short Story and the Reader,” by T. S. Kane and L. J. Peters (both Oxford University English professors).  Its ISBN: 0-19-501960-1.  This parable is meant to be a praise of the first page.

So, without further ado or any comments related to Aesop, I will present to you an exciting and inspirational parable manufactured with close to no thought.  Its requirements?  To satisfy the elements mentioned above.

The Train Cave

During their time away from work, the two men decided to go outdoors.  Dunne and Gravin sat atop what they thought would be a rather exciting place to describe their surroundings on paper by writing – the cave of a train.  After hiking for quite some time that morning, they found the cave.

“Do you think we are on time?” asked Dunne.  “Sure,” said Gravin, “We have to be a little early.”  He checked his hand-drawn map given to him by a student he knew.  She said the cave was easier to find in the daylight.  The sun was bright, the breeze gentle and nice.  Both men produced their writing pads and a pen immediately; the train would be there any minute.

“Only in an instance can we describe this falloque monster,” said Dunne.  “I may just draw it” said Gravin.  “That would be your most profitable contribution.  It is going to come around that bend, and go right beneath us into the dark cave below,” said Dunne – the constant authority of all things known.

The two crazed persons ready, they felt the ground shaking.  A horn “Chew-chewed,” and they heard the engine of a locomotive well on its way.  Eyes focused dead on the turn below a hill in the tracks not too far away, the men were ready to write, to scribe and describe.  The amazing old-timey passenger train roared right out of the cave at an enormous speed with great vibration.

“I guess we will write it the other way!” exclaimed Dunne in the wind of the noise.  “Duly noted Doc,” said Gravin, “Duly noted!”


The Desk

The Desk

Alone, I sat.  I wondered, “What are the real differences in coffees, anyway?  I know I like mine cold… I can ‘slam’ it and go.  No noisy gurgles originating from sipping.  Arabica blends and over thirty other kinds of coffees – I still think they are all highly similar.  My favored ‘South American Espresso’ blend is still hard to outdo, according to me.”

Thoughts on coffee dominate a percentage of my mental effort during the day.  I enjoy thinking of sociology and money, too.  I ask me, “How can I better myself and others?”  Today was going to be a good day; I had plans.  A favor for a favor, I only needed one other person and I could do this terrible and horrible deed that no one would ever be able to forget.

I, at one time, was down on my luck.  I asked a stranger, a student in law school, if he would buy me a meal.  He did.  I gave him my information, told him that if he ever needed a favor to let me know.  I told him that I am an honest man, a man true to my word.  He said, “I am a creative person.  Are you sure you mean it?”  I told him, “I am an honest man.  I mean it.”

Four years went by and I received a phone call from a probable sexy secretary with an attractive voice named Vanecia.  She said her boss was a lawyer who needed a secret favor, that she had a note.  I picked the note up from a stranger at a specific time at a familiar intersection in the city.  The note said:

“Here is your first favor; fulfill this task successfully and I will contact you in the future.  I will pay you for the next tasks, if you accept them.  Your goal is to enter into the insurance building on 14th and Tree St.  Go to the 22nd floor and find an office with the title ’22-A Office 10-Z’ above the door.  It should be unlocked.  There will be a large desk with the name ‘Mr. Hardens Gilma’.  Throw the sizable desk out of the large window to the streets below.  Exit the building via a stairway unseen.  We will be in contact.”

I would have done this alone, however I needed some anonymous muscle.  During the years I was away from the law student, I worked a great deal.  As an odd job, I swept out a bar for its owner early every Saturday morning due to its busy Friday nights.  I asked him for the help; the person he sent to help me would meet me at this very cafe at 8 am, I got here at 7:30 and began drinking a pot of coffee I paid for in advance.

It was 7:55 am and a man of enduring build approached me.  I was wearing a white shirt with an “X” marked directly on my chest, so he could identify me.  He asked me what my name was.  I told him it might as well be unspoken.  His code from the bar owner was to say that he had been looking for me.  “I have been looking for you,” he said.  “Good,” I said, “I saved you a cold coffee, down it.”  He happily did it; I was nice.  He drank one more cup of cold coffee, said it was not too bad that way.  I would have drunk more, yet I already met my own expectations for my morning coffee requirement.

We left the cafe and he kept pace with me.  A sturdy man, he was also in shape.  We jogged 3 blocks and made a right onto Tree St.  We jogged about half a block to the insurance building and entered.  We walked past various people.  A woman behind the front receiving counter did not even see us.  She was on the phone while reading a magazine.  I pushed a button to ride the elevator up.  The building was approximately 60 stories tall; the stairs were right next to us.  I took one look at my “all-knowing yet not wired whatsoever friend” and decided to just take the stairs.  The elevator would take too long.

We took the stairs and found a forked vestibule on Floor 22.  The hallway went left and right, so we chose to try going to the right.  We walked past various offices with differing titles and found the correct title with relative ease after having seen half a dozen or so.  We entered the large office.  No one was there.  We found the desk!  A small plaque with the name Hardens Gilma was there.  I saw the one window large enough for the task and pointed it out to my companion.  He saw it and knew what to do.  We both got one end of the desk and ran towards the window with it.

With all of our might we thrust the large desk through the window.  It fell its approximate 20 stories to the streets crashing into broken parts on the pavement.  People stood back as if they had never even seen such a thing.  They then carried on.  I shook hands with my companion, and we jogged down the stairs and out of the building.  I tipped him the few dollars I promised the bar owner I would.  We were not caught; the lawyer contacted me on another day; and the day was fine.

An Adventure of Anh

An Adventure of Anh

One time there was a female named Anabeth Garza.  She was nearing thirty-five; she was pondering her life, considering death.  She walked late in the night to a closed fairground.  So dark was the night, so quit in its loneliness, the moon lit her way, albeit.

As she found her way to the monkey-sized puppet in a box, she noticed a small orange bulb in the lower back of the “vending mechanism” to still be on.  “Anh” inspected the back of the large box, noticed it was not plugged in.  “The machine must have stored energy from a busy night,” Anh thought to herself, “That or it is magical.”

She reached into her pockets thinking she just may, by some crazed off-chance, have a coin.  She did not.  She looked below the machine and found one.  She deposited the coin in the machine and the small monkey spun around in a glowing light.  The monkey was well-dressed, as if ready for dancing on a stage.  It looked directly to Anh and said, “No one is looking.  What is your tentative wish?”

“‘Tentative’,” Anh thought to herself.  This was sure to be some form of hard-to-appreciate fun adventure.  “I want to be 12,” was the only thing she could think to say.  She said it before the monkey’s glow disseminated, and warped immediately to small school in Southern Mexico.

“This is a run-down heap,” she thought to herself, as she was surrounded by Mexican students in a classroom with a chalkboard and a clock on the wall.  “They have  a clock,” she noticed.  “Es ocho,” said the teacher, starting class at 8.  Anh only spoke English, though she may have known a few words from the Spanish language.

The day was sure to be an adventure.  Anh noticed that the other students mostly kept to themselves or distracted each other; she could stay mostly quite and say only  a few words like “Si” and “No.”  Lunch came and they all ate beans and rice with milk.  Anh was surprised that the small meal hit the spot.  Recess came.

During recess, Anh played on the swings with another young girl she sat next to and was close to from class.  They were swinging and not saying much.  Anh noticed, across the playground, a larger, heavy-set boy was taunting a boy and a girl.  Anh instinctively went over to see why.  The boy did not have much of a reason, appeared to Anh to be being mean for no real cause.

Anh tapped the boy on the shoulders and he turned to her as if he knew all about it.  “Leave them be or I will beat the breaks off of you,” said Anh.  The larger boy pushed Anh and she fell to the ground.  Her friend begun to run from the swings to where Anh was to try to stop her.  “Anh!” she cried, “Do not do it!”  Anh stood without brushing off her nice outfit, leaped into the blow she delivered to the bully, landing the blow with the lower part of her palm.  She made contact to his brow directly between his eyes, hearing his skull crack.

Anh landed on her feet, ready to see what the big boy was going to do, as he fell to the ground crying with blackened eyes.  Anh’s friend caught up with her and Anh apologized by saying, “Lo-ciento.”  Her “amiga” was disappointed, though somehow understood.  Their instructor found them and Anh endured meeting the principle of the small Mexican school.  He was bilingual, said that she should have informed the instructor and to conduct her actions differently next time.

Anh agreed, hoping the bully learned his lesson.  She warped back to the puppet in time to see light condense from its immense brightness to a small glowing orange bulb.  The monkey looked as though it went to sleep.  “Wow,” thought Anh, and she carried on.

Ned’s Reply

Ned’s Reply

One time, a young boy named Ned sat across from his grandfather in a park.   It was on a Saturday.  He could see his grandfather for doing well in school for the week, as he had many times before.  All was going well.  The two had their game going fine – pieces were about to be taken from the board, as usual.  It was towards the end of August; Ned seemed to have the blues.

His grandfather looked over to him, thinking he would cheer him up.  Ned knew he was going to talk and did not really have that much warning.  He did not know what was going to be said.  “So, has your mother taken you back-to-school shopping?” asked his grandfather.  “I knew you were going to ask that!” said Ned, “Yes, she did.  As usual, it was a most exciting day.”

“Did you accomplish any difficult feet or tricky, hard-to-do shenanigans?”

“Have you been speaking with my mother?”

“I have not spoken with her in over two weeks.”

“Are you telling the truth?”


“We went to the store and she said she only had a certain amount to spend on school supplies.  I had a list to fulfill from school; it took about 55% of my spending limit up.  I thought I was in the clear, the good little boy giving.  I would easily get this over with, and my mother would be able to keep the rest of her decided amount.”

“So?  What happened?”

The two both moved a piece on the board; Ned tried to plan a good exchange-attack and king-trap sequence.

“I saw it.”

“What did you see?”

“I had examined every pen and pencil, notepad and other inch of the store.  It was near the register on the way out… a calligrapher’s ink and pen set, complete with a wooden storage box and seven interchangeable pen heads.  It contained a black ink bottle as well as a bottle of dark indigo blue ink derived from a rare Australian fern.”


“Wow was right.  I could have grabbed it and ran; they saw me see it, albeit.”

“What did you do?”

“I decided to let her decide.  I said, ‘I will do anything you say.  What must I do to have it?’  ‘You had better come up with a dandy chore list,’ she said.  I had to think quick and hard…  ‘What if I mow the neighbor’s yard every other Sunday afternoon for two months or four times?’ I pleaded.  She balanced her checkbook and said it would be fine.”

“So you got the calligrapher’s set?”

“That I did, and I have already mowed Mr. Nabrowski’s yard one time, three times to go.”

“Have you written anything?”

“Yes, I wrote a 112 line poem about a dove who visited Shakespeare in spirit for conversation.  I figured out the characters in pencil and then wrote the poem out with both black and blue ink, depending on the characters’ dialogue.  The dove drinks a gentle trickle of his blood to come back to life, flies away.”

“Can I see it?”

“The bird?”

“The poem, silly.”

“Do you enjoy mowing?”

Neds grandfather just looked at him.

“I am sorry, I plan to submit the poem to a contest hoping the penmanship can be noted.  I will photocopy a copy of it for you.”

“What if I want to mow?”

“You know you are more than welcome to come and help me.  Checkmate.”

Ned won the game.  Ned’s mother pulled up.  Ned got into the car.  They drove away waving goodbye as always.  Ned’s grandfather put the chess pieces up as always, in tears.


– angry again m-death video link –