A boy, bullies, a girl, and jumping off the roof.


This is a Vimeo Staff Pick Video. It is a heart warming, short drama about a mentally retarded boy; a boy with problems. He must deal with bullies, an overbearing teacher, and relating to a small girl who has a crush on him. He has a tendency towards jumping off roofs,  In the end must face a visit to the principal’s office and a leather belt. This would make a great short story. I watched it three times.

The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction, Short Stories, and Satire) (c) 2012Everyone is born into their unchosen life. It is the only one they will have and they must live it. It is as important to them as it is to any one of us.

Writing, Music, and Culture (Eric John Baker)


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CLICK THE ICON TO CLAW AT THE KEYS

Eric Baker is a professional editor, musician, and writer, all cleverly twisted together and disguised as a nice guy. He offers tips on writing fiction as a craft, reviews popular singers, past and present.

1920’s Silent Movie of 651 year old Dog


I filmed this one minute, vintage silent movie of my dog, with my I pod camera in 1920–that was 93 years ago when my dog was a pup. That now makes him 651 in dog years.

Cindy my wife, a risk-taker, filmed hand-feeding a terrifying border collie cooked bacon, while trying not to have her fingers bitten off.

Are Books and People Alike?


Books are not so different than people are. Both come in many different genres, they see things from different points of view, and they speak in unique voices.

Unfortunately, it is easier for me to judge them by their covers, as they wait patiently on a shelf. If I am not careful, I will walk past a great one and never open it–because I am busy, impatient, and thoughtless.

But when I do take the time to look, I find each one has an exclusive set of contemplations: observations, interpretations, and insights about life.

I do not agree with all of them. Some do not share my curiosities. Some I do not understand. Some irritate me for no good reason. Some of them just plain make me mad.

Still, every time I open a new book or talk to a new person, I learn something about life that I did not know before, and that makes my whole view of the world a little bit wider.

Dying with a Dog.


Sometimes I forget that I have stage IV cancer, and I even forget that there is no stage V.

I will be sitting at my computer, surfing the internet, enjoying a blog, feeling happy and free, and then I click on the far right tab of my internet browser.

Suddenly I remember that I was previously looking at the cancer.org website. On that web page I can see a picture of a man’s lip. It has a hideous, bleeding open sore on it, the size of a small grape—which is a malignant lesion.

And that is when I say to myself, “Oh yeah, my immunotherapy, the drug which fights my type of cancer, it can actually cause another type of cancer in my body, as a side effect.”

That is just one of the health-giving side effects of my immunotherapy. Not to mention full body rashes, liver and kidney failure or just outright dying because the medicine interferes with my heart beat.

After I finish my panic and self-pity, I take a deep breath, turn my office chair around, and see my dog in his dog bed. I talk to him about being scared. He does not understand a word of what I am saying, but he knows the tone of my voice. And he mentally registers something, and at that point he puts his cold wet nose on my shin.

And that is when I know that if I wake in the middle of the night, at home, alone, and I realize that I am dying, I do not have to be afraid; because my dog will be there, in the bed, sleeping right there beside me. I will just reach over, and put my hand on my dogs’ body, I will feel his warmth, and I will feel his heart beating against my palm. And at that moment I will know that everything will be o.k.—no matter what.

Lovers and the Antique Brass Bed


It was a cold November day, and as I lay in bed awakening, I saw the newborn sun’s illumination flare up behind the layer of condensation on the bedroom windowpanes.

golden mist coming in window

The light shone diffuse, coming into the bedroom as a gold radiant mist.

My ancestors had repainted those wooden, square borders that hold the glass, painting them again and again over the years. The wood had an accretion of paint layers, almost geological, and sedimentary, in sheets of white weather coatings. After many years, the layers of white paint flaked, and cracked into many fine lines and fissures.

The bedroom window I looked at was an old window, in an old house, a house of four generations, which in time became home.

The sun’s light, filtered by the fog on the window, shone diffusely into our bedroom as a gold, radiant mist. It filled the bedroom, as if gilded dust hung about everywhere in the air.

Turning my head on the pillow, I saw her sleeping next to me. The soft radiance revealed the graceful, contours of my wife’s face. Hers was a statuesque, symmetrical, bone structure, resulting in feminine loveliness.

The condensation on the windowpanes, attested to our warm life breaths, pulling in and out of sleeping lungs during the night. The layer of moisture clung to the glass as a memory. It held the traces of her whispers in bed, whispers which I had felt against the nape of my neck the night before. I vaguely recalled that softly spoken, “I love you,” fading away, as my conscious awareness sank, into the oblivion of sleep, as if I were slipping beneath the surface of quicksand.

brass bed

The Antique Brass Bed frame; The Family Bed of four Generations

Coming out of my recollection, I yawned. I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and leaned my bare back against the vertical bars, at the head of the antique brass bedframe.

Over many years, the dry country air discolored the brass bedframe’s slats, bars, and darkened the round brass knobs atop the bedposts. As a child, I loved to turn these brass knobs with my small hands, as the circular orbs squeaked and vibrated when rotated.

The antique bedframe now showed in gradations, a spectrum of tarnished brass in the colors from shiny to the darkest bronze.

Reaching back for more than a century and a half, that bed frame had been the marital bed of the previous three generations of my family. Each generation of my ancestors married, and as a couple, they slept each night in the brass bed, and they grew old together slumbering on their Sears and Roebuck feather mattresses.

In their golden years, I contemplated what their old minds dreamed about, and how each of them lived, acting out scenes, in the realm of their imaginings. I wondered if for a night, they were young once again. As I imagined them dreaming, I could picture white diamonds pulsing, scattered across the vast, black, velvet expanse of the heavens, hanging so high above the tin roof of this humble house.

I suddenly emerged from within the depths of my mind, and became again aware of myself sitting up in the Family Bed, leaning back against the cold brass bars of the headboard. Having laid my bare back against the brass bars for too long, I was deeply chilled. I shivered in the cold bite of the bedroom air, frigid inside the unheated house.

As I pulled the old patchwork quilt, that my grandmother had sewn by hand, from atop the bed, I pulled it gently, so as not to wake her. Yet I also pulled it all the way to me, so as to bundle it and wrap it about me. I removed the patchwork quilt, from the pile of the many others that warmed she and I during the cold nights of the winter.

I wrapped the warm cloth heirloom around my bare neck, my shoulders, and my back. Then I pulled it around in front of me, grasping both ends of the quilt in one hand, holding it at my neck.

I was careful not to wake her as I lowered my legs off the bed, and let my bare feet touch the cold wooden floor. I stood up to get the blood moving in my legs, and in seconds, the chill of the floor drained all of the heat from my feet. My feet throbbed, burning painfully with the coldness. I walked away from the bed quietly, and I headed in curiosity towards the window to look at the translucent condensation on the windowpanes.

At first glance, the moisture on the inside of the pane, looked just like frosted glass, but as I inspected the foggy film more closely, I saw that the condensation was actually thousands of microscopic beads of water, each clinging tenuously to the surface of the windowpane.

In wonder, I touched the layer of moisture. The glass was cold and it chilled my finger. The moisture of our exhaled breaths wet my finger as I swiped it across the glass. My finger made a clear streak in the condensation on the pane, and small drops of water ran down from its edges. I quickly exhaled on it, and the clear streak filled halfback with the fog of the moisture of my breath’s humidity.

Her Sleeping

She was beautiful as her skin basked in the morning light. In awe of her, my breath hung heavy in my lungs, like lead, and for a moment, I could not breathe.

I turned and looked back to the bed, and I saw my wife sleeping. I cherished her with my eyes. She was beautiful as her skin basked in the morning light. Her naked shoulder lay exposed above the blanket, supple, and ivory white. She was young and innocent, shapely and nubile. In awe of her, my breath hung heavy in my lungs, and for a moment, I could not breathe.

The night before, when we went to bed, her long, chestnut hair had lay splayed out, in voluptuous disarray, across her pillow. While nuzzling at the soft, white, nape of her neck, I had pressed my nose into the silky morass of her dark hair. I inhaled the fusion of many delicate, intermingling fragrances. I remembered the all-consuming, sensual nature of the smell of her hair.

Her hair bore traces of turned over sod in the fertile fields.

Deeply woven into her reddish brown waves were traces of the farmland. Her long lustrous hair bore the earthen, musty smell of freshly turned over sod in the plowed fields. Also was the scent of that distinct breeze, which always arrives as a fragrant announcement, just moments before a summer rain shower in the country. This was a fragrant breeze that undeniably smells like safety and home. It is the smell of a blessing.

My nose detected numerous, feminine, anointing oils in her hair, and of her flesh; the oils were a musky fusion that composed her unique, primal smell. No other woman alive exuded the same fragrance. My body knew the smell of her instinctually. And when I smelled her scent, I knew she was my mate.

Her scent whispered to my sense of smell, beckoning my body unto hers. It was an intoxicating bidding of her pheromones in the innocent concupiscence of our love.

Her hair bore the scented memories from the previous evening. Woven deeply within her long silken curls, was the smell of perspiration from our naked, entwined, exhausted bodies. There was the brackish biting smell of the ocean’s waves, whitecaps that surged, swelling, and rushing inland towards the untouched volcanic rocks. The waves struck the black, jagged, pillars with a fury, throwing expansive white froth, in wide fan-like dispersals and a fine mist of briny droplets.

waves crashing

It retained faint traces from the mist of the oceans passionate waves, crashing against the black volcanic rocks. The waves struck the rocks, spraying white froth in a mist of briny droplets. We made thunder in the night, as our bodies lunged and hove in the brass bed, and our bodies moved inside of each other. It seemed that the earth moved beneath us, and that high above the angels wept.

We made amatory thunder in the night, as our bodies lunged and hove in the brass bed, moving inside of each other. It seemed that the earth moved beneath us. And for one sacred moment, the boundaries that separated us dissolved, and our two souls fused, and we both inhaled, and sighed, in one shared breath of ecstasy.

As we slept, she was soft legs, which were warm against my hamstrings on a cold winter night. She had a perfect curve the neck, the graceful arc of a warm breast, the curving relief of a smooth hip, and a white delicate shoulder that I woke up to in the night, a bare shoulder that I loved to pull the hand-made patchwork quilt back over.

She was wide, sleepy, coffee brown eyes—eyes that compelled my deepest trust by never asking for it. Her eyes showed no sign of judgment nor embarrassment, of she nor I, nor our naked bodies. Her eyes showed only a loving acceptance, for my body, my strengths, my insecurities, and my foibles.

Hers were eyes that willingly unveiled the window into her soul and revealed everything about her to me, and in doing so belied absolutely nothing that I could not accept and love, and nothing that I could not forgive and forget.

Her dark eyes staring deeply into mine made me stronger, and somehow they made me more of a man. Her eyes loved me with their softness, and they humbled me with their profound tenderness. Her eyes brought me to my knees.

When I looked deep into her eyes, I saw her innocence, her virtue, and a deep love and gratitude for everything in her life. I revered these eyes, and looking into them made me want to be a better man.

At times when thunderclouds rained down angry and struck hard on our tin roof, her eyes looked into mine showing fright. When those eyes looked into mine, the worry melted away. I realized that I had soothed her, and she was no longer afraid. Then she wrapped one arm over my chest and the other underneath my neck and she pulled her body close into mine.

And when I understood what she felt emotionally, that she believed that I had the power to protect her, and give her succor, it melted away all my inhibitions. And I cried, and I was not ashamed. She whispered tender admiration into my ear; she kissed my neck in nurturing love, and laid her cheek on my chest, then she rapidly fell into a deep, safe, sleep.

Hers were the only eyes that I would walk to the end of the earth, simply to gaze into, as they told me that she truly loved me, and that she would stay with me for the rest of our lives.

They were the eyes that I wanted to grow old with over the years. And such eyes could never lose their resplendent love and acceptance with the passing of decades.

And I was not concerned about aging. Because I knew that when I was an old man, and looked into her eyes, I would always be young.

Forever

Coveted Word Press Editor’s Award


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Word Press Editor’s Blog Choice

The Word Press Editor’s pick: Award for consistently publishing blog posts with only the most hideously, incomprehensible, misspelling of common nouns, an inexcusable tendency towards shocking profanity, an appalling misapplication of punctuation symbol “!,” and a senseless, butchery of English Grammar. 


The Little Blog That Couldnt300x300

Monkey Wrench Blog Apart from the Rest

Public Endorsements of Monkey Wrench Blog by Big Name Players.

  1. Word Press Staff: “A humiliating disgrace to the Blogging Community.”
  2. Yahoo! News: “The Little Blog that Couldn’t.”
  3. Google: “This Blog is a festering abscess on the buttocks of search engine technology query returns.
  4. Bing : “We do not believe in censorship, but there is always an exception, This blog is it.”
  5. Monkey Wrench Blog Visitor: “This blog…It just made me sick… I felt dirty afterwards and I still cannot wash the shame off.

“One will need to drink in order to muddle their wayt through this arcane, circuitous, gobbledygook. Bryan Edmondson has a third grade education–at best. He is the only blogger we have ever seen to start a sentence with a  ‘?’ mark and use less periods than Faulkner.” -The New Yorker.

absolut crap

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Monkey Wrench Blog Breakdown Of Shameful Writing Skills. (Shitty Grammar, Punctuation Misuse, Can’t Spell, Unintelligible, Mangled Metaphors, 100% Passive Sentences.


“Visiting Monkey Wrench Blog is much like reading a Russian novel in braille, but only being allowed to use your toes to feel the bumps with,” said Samuel Jackson.

Pinky Middleton, a grad student working on his PhD. at The Anvil Foundation, tried to write his dissertation on this blog. Middleton contended that the egregious errors were really a brilliant puzzle, the cipher of genius, an intricate maze within a maze.

Working nonstop, drinking 20 cups of coffee per day, and using a Hewlett Packard calculator, Middleton painstakingly undertook decoding Monkey Wrench Blog posts, After reading Monkey Wrench Blog at the keyboard of his Dell Inspiron, for 9 straight days without sleep. Pinky was purportedly rambling incoherently about being the other son of God. Later that day Middleton was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for delusions of grammar.  The Anvil Fake News


NEWSPAPER ARTICLE HOUSTON: THOUSANDS ANGERED BY INDEFENSIBLE MISUSE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE

The Victim Shelter: 87 Blog Visitors were so abused by the abhorrent misuse of the English Language at “Monkey Wrench” that they were forced to go to a victim’s shelter or live on the streets. Monkey Wrench Victims Shelter bases its recovery plan on a monotonous 12 step program. “It really works, and you only have to come to a meeting 3 times a day for the rest of your life,” said a recovery victim while blinking one eye in a Post Traumatic Facial Tic. The 3 victims who made it out of the halfway house, college graduates, again began living their lives independently. They are said to panhandle between 12 step meetings, and  to take life “one day at a time.” When a mean spirits scientist doing an unethical study showed the recovering graduates a computer monitor with the Monkey Wrench Blog on the home page, they began to cry, sweat, and curl up into a ball and rock for hours. The scientist performing the study then applied electric shocks to the survivors at arbitrary intervals, as he thought it was funny. Medical Doctors think that survivors made need to take strong psychotropic medications for a theraputic period. That period being the rest of their lives.

Victims shelter

The Late William Strunk said, “This Blog Makes me roll over in my grave.”The deceased literary guru is expected to make a posthumous, zombie, staggering path, more or less straight, for “Monkey Wrench Blog,” headquarters, “To exact revenge.”

This will prove difficult as the dead scholar is not looking for a man named “Bryan,” who is a 57 year old, unemployed, dead animal, shoveling, removal technician, at the animal crematorium in Houston Texas. Bryan still still lives alone with his mother, pecking away at a keyboard on a Dell Inspiron Laptop in the attic which he lives in.

Please don’t believe the rumors. This Blog is rolling out great American Novels like toilet paper. Bryan Edmondson writes 40 words a day. Most he has to look up the definition for, like “Bastard” a word he sees in many flaming posts from flaming Blog visitors outraged by this blog. A blog in this reporters opinion, that is “Avery smelly sack of very small potatoes.”