The Monthly Music Review “FULL BLOWN CRANIUM”


Creative Interests Band Review

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This is the unofficial Music Video for “Full Blown Cranium,” featuring the hit single “She is Happy Only When She’s Feeling Miserable,” the first publicly released track from the band’s debut album, “Cacophony of Weirdos.”

(All music and lyrics © 2013 by Full Blown Cranium.)

Bryan Edmondson created this video and he bears all legal responsibilities for this video, as pertaining to online media use law.

Full Blown Cranium
is Tony Parisi and Eric J Baker.

The two man band that plays 6 instruments simultaneously

The two man band that plays 6 instruments simultaneously.

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She is Life, I am Death. Love and Reality.


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She is Life.

She is Light, laughter and promise.

I am Death.

I am Midnight, anguish and barrenness.

At the Core

Inside her bosom is a womb that nurtures a loving soul.

Surrounding, my ribcage is a prison that entombs a bitter void.

Integrity

She is short of sin.

I am not quite criminal.

We are so different

 

Irony.

We love one another tenderly, permanently.

Absurdity

We bicker, childishly, repeatedly.

Conflict.

Battles of accusations, blame. We wound with words that cut.

 

Animosity

We suffer emotional injuries. We rub at them in self-pity. We condemn the transgression of the other. We hate one another.

Remorse

Disbelief strikes us numb; the reality that we are capable of saying such evil words. We mourn in guilt, ashamed. We hate ourselves.

 

Repentance

We lick each others’ wounds tenderly, as would wolves who mate for life.

 

We are so alike.

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.

The Breakfast Toast (Humor)


It was ink black on a very cold night. Inside his apartment, after a night of insomnia, Tom finally fell into a deep peaceful sleep Saturday morning at 5 a.m., Tom had to work that Saturday so he would soon have to awaken and then get ready for his day of work only having had minutes of sleep.

At precisely 5:30 a.m., Tom and his dog Sam both jerked convulsively in the bed in a panic induced by the shrill piercing of the alarm clock going off. Tom reached for the snooze button and in a stupor unknowingly knocked the beeping clock off of the night stand and it fell behind the headboard wedged next to the wall in a very hard to get to place.

The alarm ringer kept perfect beat in a continuous ear-splitting tone. Tom grimaced as he kept reaching for the alarm clock on the nightstand. He could not understand why he could not find the snooze button or the alarm clock for that matter. The high-pitched stabbing “beep, beep, beep” kept tormenting him. Tom put his pillow over his head and rolled over on his side completely miserable.

Soon the dog who could hear about two hundred times better than Tom began to howl. Sam was a huge dog and had a healthy set of lungs to bellow. Tom reached for the nightstand again. Sam kept howling—Sam was getting louder as time went on.

In a flash of irritation, Tom sat up and groped about in the pitch-black room for the alarm clock on the nightstand. He finally realized that it was not on the wooden piece of furniture. But the shrill alarm was so loud he had a very hard time pinpointing where it was coming from. He began to get down on his hands and knees to look on the floor just when Sam jumped off of the bed to escape to the living room.

Sam’s 100-pound body jarred Tom and he tumbled headfirst towards the table stand. Luckily, Tom landed with both hands on the nightstand so he was not hurt.

But as Tom stood up in the pitch-black room, he kicked the wooden base of the stand hard and square with his bare foot and his right big toe began to pound with pain.

Tom thought I broke that toenail– I know I did– and now I will have to rip that nail off to get into my dress shoes for work. Tom shuddered at the idea.

Sam was still howling, only now he was howling in the living room. Sam and the infinite alarm beeping had also awakened Tom’s next-door neighbor early on that Saturday morning. Tom’s neighbor began loudly banging on his wall of the adjoining apartment.

Tom ignored this as he impotently waved a dismissing arm in the direction of the wall as if to say go away. He got down on his hands and knees and began to look for the alarm clock groping about in the dark with his hands. He could not see or feel anything. Beep, beep, beep…

Soon the neighbor was banging on Tom’s front door. Sam ceased his howling and began to boom out barking at the knock on the door. Sam woofed and snarled at the crack near the bottom and then scratched at the metal door.

Tom’s ears where throbbing from the alarm—but then salvation. Tom realized that all he had to do was simply unplug the clock from the wall socket. But this was not exactly straightforward. Tom had plugged the alarm clock cord into a six-plug outlet RadioShack splitter. All six plugs were in use and six ungrounded cords came out of the sockets. He did not know each cord powered. Tom just jerked one cord out of the fixture at random. But it was not the plug to the alarm clock. The beeping continued to pierce the dark.

Beep, beep, beep…this was all driving Tom insane.

Angry now, Tom grabbed all five of the other cords and jerked them all out at once. Tom was terrified to see bright sparks spit out of all five outlets at him; he fell backwards and knocked his head hard against the nightstand. He could cry or say a bad word. He said a bad word.

Luckily, the alarm clock had stopped beeping and soon Sam stopped his booming barking as the neighbor gave up and quit knocking on Tom’s door. Everything was all right now and Tom could finally relax and get ready for work.

Tom stumbled in the dark and went to turn on the bathroom light. Nothing happened. He tried to turn on the bathroom fan. Nothing happened. Tom realized that he had shorted the breaker box when he jerked the sparking cords out of the wall all at once.

The breaker box was outside behind the apartment and Tom was only wearing his boxer shorts. He could not simply go outside in the cold and flip the breaker switches. He had to shower and dress first.

Tom made his way to the chest and drawers and found a pen light in a top drawer; he put it in his mouth. It only came on when he bit it so he had constantly to keep his teeth clenched on it. To make sure the breaker was fully tripped he tried to turn on the living room light and the kitchen light. Nothing happened.

On the way back, by shining the pen light at Sam, Tom saw he was slumbering peacefully on his dog bed and blankets in the living room.

Tom made it back into the bedroom closet. He stripped out of his boxers and threw them in the dirty clothes. He sucked up the saliva running down the pen light. He made his way into the bathroom and started the shower. Then armed with a pen light and a soap bar he showered by the dim incandescent light. The light was getter dimmer all of the time; the batteries were running out of power.

Tom got out of the shower, went to the sink and shaved by pen light illumination. His light went off several times and he had to shake and bite it again and again to get the light to shine.

With the electric heater now off it was already chilly in the apartment. Tom grabbed his hairdryer. Nothing happened when he turned it on by habit.

Getting out of the bathroom with wet hair, Tom looked for the alarm clock to check the time, which he did not see– it was wedged behind the headboard under the bed—not to mention it was also unplugged. Tom knew he had no electricity as soon as he did these things but he kept trying to use electrical components for some irresistible reason.

Then the gray dawn’s light slowly began to stream in from the horizon through the bedroom windows so Tom knew that it must be after 6: 30. This meant he was running late. Tom’s boss was not exactly and understanding man, so Tom had to hurry.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw that Sam was back on the bed looking at Tom curiously with his head tilted to the side as dogs sometimes do.

Looking into the closet with his slobbery pen light between his teeth Tom began to get his suit jacket, pants, shoes, socks and tie out of the closet and laid them on the bed. When he looked for a pair of fresh boxers there were none.

Then the pen light suddenly dimmed and went out again. Tom shook it. He bit it. He tried everything but it did not come back on. So Tom got on his hands and knees and felt through the dirty clothes hamper in dark closet. He found his old pair of drty boxers.

He had one stroke of luck. He realized that if he turned his underwear inside out that he could safely wear them for another day—maybe even two.

Now with more light coming into the room he took his boxers and rolled them inside out. Balancing on his right leg, he inserted his left leg into the left leg hole of his boxers. Then reversing the legs, he balanced on his left leg as he began to put his right leg in the other leg hole of the boxers.

However, his foot with the torn toenail caught the bottom of the leg hole.  Tom was hopping about on his left leg trying to get his foot uncaught. But he lost his balance and his right leg came down hard with his foot still stuck in his boxers. Tom heard a loud rip as the boxers split in half all down the back seat. Tom said another bad word. Tom stepped out of the boxers to look at them. They were not pretty but they were wearable.

As Tom held the white cloth boxers in the morning light, Sam bounded off the bed and chomped down on the torn rag of cloth. With iron jowls, Sam pulled and jerked the boxers in his mouth, yanking his head from side to side. Tom pulled back to save his boxers.

Sam was having fun in a full-out tug of war. Tom was irritated, “Sam! No! Bad Dog!” yelled Tom. But Sam was having too much fun. And after bit more pulling Sam won when the boxers ripped completely in two and the dog left gloriously with his spoils to chew on them on his living room bed.

Tom said, “Why me? God hates me. That’s why.” He looked up into the sky and shook his fist. “You’re pushing me.”

Tom had to dress sans boxers. He could see to button his shirt and then he put on his tie. He slid into his suit pants and zipped up his slacks quickly.

Suddenly Tom said two very loud, very bad words. Part of Tom  was dangerously stuck in-between the zipper tracks. In terror, Tom backed the zipper in reverse along the tracks in excruciating pain. He stopped in agony. He was going to have to unzip it fast, just like pulling off a Band-Aid, Tom. In anticipation, involuntary tears ran down Tom’s cheeks.

After a very deep breath, Tom yanked the zipper back down the tracks and freed himself. Tom now covered with sweat, exercised great care; he gently pulled the zipper back up along the tracks slowly. The maneuver had been a success.

Tom sat down on the bed to put his socks on in comfort. His left sock went on like a lamb glove. The second sock snagged on his right toe. Remembering kicking the stand with his big toe, he carefully removed the sock and saw the toenail torn off halfway down into the quick. It was much too deep for clippers. Just like a Band-Aid, Tom.

With a rip, he winced and the torn toenail lay clenched in between his thumb and forefinger. Looking down at his toe, the nail was not a problem anymore but bleeding definitely was. Dripping blood spotted the carpet.

Tom hopped on one leg to the toilet, sat down, and jerked about10 sheets of toilet paper off of the roll. Tom folded this in half several times lengthways and then quickly and wrapped the bleeding toe until a large white ball of tissue was sitting on the end of his toe, turning red, looking like a clown’s nose. This would never fit in his sock and shoe.

Then Tom had an idea. He hopped into the bedroom and opened a drawer on the nightstand, dusted off a very old box and he got a condom out. This would be the first practical use Tom had ever had for a condom. He knew they would pay off one day.

He hopped back to the bathroom bleeding. He took the condom and got a tube of Neosporin. He put the whole tube of ointment in the end of the condom and tried to roll it over his big toe. But Tom had the condom on inside out and it would not roll onto his toe. In despair, Tom reversed the condom and tried to remove the Neosporin with his fingers from the wrong end and smear it into the right end.

Finally, it rolled on, but there was a lot left unrolled and the condom would not stay on his big toe. But suddenly Tom had a brilliant insight. Tender toed Tom hopped into the kitchen and found a bag of Wonder Bread with two slices left inside. He removed the twist- tie from the bread package and secured the condom. The toe still bled but the blood stayed inside of the condom. It did not drip blood. The toe condom was an overwhelming success.

Tom very carefully put on his right sock and dress shoe. He stood on it with a scowl. It was painful, but it would work.

Tom sprinted in the kitchen and poured Sam a bowl of kibbles. Tom was running critically late, plus he had not bought any groceries that week. He would have to eat at Jack and the Box and reset the breaker outside when he got home from work.

Tom grabbed his keys, opened, exited his door and then limped down three flights of apartment stairs wincing on each step.

Tom slid into his car and put the key in the ignition. He turned the key and heard “click.” He turned the key several more times and heard nothing. Tom had left his lights on the day before when he got home from work. Tom stared straight ahead at nothing. Then he put both hands on his steering wheel and furiously jerked and shook it with his arms and shoulders while banging on the horn, which made absolutely no sound.

Tom was utterly defeated as he slowly got out of the car and ripped his slacks cuff on the door. He did not even care anymore. There was no way he could make it to work. Tom just decided with an overwhelming sense of peace that he was going to go back upstairs and go back to bed—even if it meant that he got fired.

Tom walked back behind the apartment complex and reset the switches to his breaker box. He looked up and saw his kitchen light illuminate his third floor apartment.

Tom slowly limped back up the three flights of stairs and opened his apartment door. He saw Sam sitting on his dog bed, relaxing and chewing on Tom’s drool covered boxers remains. Shutting the door Tom said, “Hello Sam, we’re taking the day off.” Sam just wagged his tail whacking it against the living room wall with a loud knocking; Tom’s next-door neighbor started banging on the adjoining wall again.

Tom’s stomach grumbled and he mourned not being able to get to Jack in the Box for breakfast. Tom realized that he had nothing to eat in the house. Then Tom remembered the Wonder bread. Two pieces—perfect for toast.

Tom loved toast. It would be the only good part of his morning. Then he would relax for the rest of the day and get back into bed.

Tom went into the kitchen and Sam followed happily. “No Sam, this is for me. Sorry.” Sam just looked up at Tom and panted with big-mouthed smile. Tom reached for the two pieces of white bread. One slice was normal and one was the heel of the loaf. Taking both in hand, Tom turned to go to the toaster.

He lost his grip on one slice and almost caught it twice as it fell down to the floor. Tom reached for the slice only to see Sam snap it up, tilt his head up, and wolf it down in three quick bites. Tom did not even try to say anything to Sam.

Tom jealously guarded his remaining heel slice of bread. It was still enough for a breakfast. He slid it into the slot on the toaster and pushed the spring-activated tray holder down, starting the toaster. Tom’s mouth watered thinking of browned crispy toast.

Instantly the phone began to ring. Tom did not want to answer the call, as he knew it was his boss. Just before the call rolled over to the recording machine, Tom picked up the phone. “Hello?” About 45 seconds of squawking came from his boss on the other side of the receiver. It was the boss telling him he was late, this was the last time, and asking how soon would be in for work.

Tom paused, “I can’t come in today sir due to circumstances beyond my control.” More squawking came from the other end. “It’s a long story sir, I had an alarm clock malfunction, I injured my foot, I had a temporary power outage, my car won’t start, I am bleeding, and I ripped the cuff on my pants…and oh yeah, I am not wearing any underwear.”

Squawking ensued and then suddenly again came the terrible sound. An ear-splitting Beep, Beep, Beep.

“Sir,” Tom shouted over the beeping, “I have to go!” A more concerned tone of squawking came from the phone this time. “Oh no sir,” yelled Tom. “It is not a fire. It is worse. You made me burn the toast!”

Woman in the Red Dress


It was awfully hot outside, and Tom, was dressed in a suit and tie. He was moving his feet fast to make it down the sidewalk and get to work on time. He almost tripped over his scuffling shoes, barely avoiding a fall, as many cars whisked past him on the street.

He saw the cross walk just ahead. Impatient to cross that street he took, long, quick strides to get there. But he just missed the signal. And the pedestrian walking sign now burned in red “Don’t Walk, Don’t Walk.” He stood there on the edge of the sidewalk seething; he was on the very edge, almost standing in the road.

Tom had just stopped smoking. When he noticed that he was unconsciously rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he immediately stopped himself. He recalled earlier that day, when the therapist said he would do things like that when he went through the nicotine withdrawal. He would have twitchy fingers, anxiety, and even superstitious behavior if stressed.

A honking car speeding by within mere inches of him brought him out of his reverie, Tom edged back away from the street. Speeding cars were swooshing past him, obscuring his view of the pedestrian walk signal. He looked at his watch impatiently, His watch read3:00–lucky number.

Then a taxi whizzed past and blew the hot street’s contents up from the asphalt, and he grimaced at the grit thrown up into his face, covering him. It all smelled of hot tar. His forehead squeezed out drops of sweat that rolled down into his eyes, stinging them. He wiped his eyes, grimacing. And then he looked back up.

The cars kept swishing by but he got a glimpse of the crosswalk signal. “Don’t walk, Don’t Walk,” it glowed portentously through a speeding bus’ windows. Then he could not see the crosswalk light again for the cars passing.

He waited a long time to see the light again. When he did the pedestrian signal still flashed “Don’t Walk, Don’t Walk.” It seemed hours had passed since he looked at his watch. He looked at his wristwatch, 3:07 lucky number again.

Then he was quite angry as he realized that he had never pressed the pedestrian “walk” button on the crosswalk pole. His fingers twitched and in the heat, his nerves screamed in anxiety. He saw a broken compact mirror in the street. Bad luck—cannot cross here—No! this is the superstition the counselor talked about…I’m just hot and anxious—this is only nicotine withdrawal, superstition, twitchy fingers—and there is no such thing as bad luck.

He looked up and the crosswalk signal flashed, “Walk, Walk,” but Tom hesitated due to fear from the broken mirror, catch the next one, he thought. No…That is just superstition; it is the nicotine withdrawal nothing else. Walk now Tom, Go, Go, Go!

So he tried to make up lost time, and scurry across the street, but the crosswalk signal was already blinking red, “Don’t Walk, Don’t Walk.” Tom was standing in the middle of the busy street. The traffic light for the cars turned green. A car screeched to a murderous halt on hot tires. Then another car screeched to a halt, then another.

Tom touched the hood of one car; he was hot, and confused. From under the hood came a honk and Tom jumped. The cars with a green light could not move for Tom blocking them. They honked in a furious, disharmonious symphony. He finally came to his senses and scurried back towards from whence he came.
Damn it, never again, he vowed; it is the nicotine withdrawal and nothing else. Now you will probably be late for work at the bank at 3:20 p.m. He remembered the warning. “Tom if you are late just one more time,” the bank manager, had said, “I’ll have no choice but to let you go.”

Tom made it back to the side of the sidewalk from which he had started and he pressed the crosswalk button on the pole six times rapidly, anxiously. Sweat was now running off his brow and stinging his eyes again. He wiped his eyes so he could see. Sweat stuck to the starch of the neck of his dress shirt. He hated that. God, this is unbearably hot, and now, my damn job… I really wish I had just one god damned cigarette…”He looked up at the crosswalk sign. This was taking much too long,”

“Don’t walk,” “Don’t walk,” “Don’t walk,”… come on damn you, change to “Walk.” He had to make the next signal or it was his job. He anxiously looked down at his watch, and then his stomach sank in dread, his watch read “3:13,” bad luck, really bad luck. something ominous.

He looked up and the crosswalk signal flashed, “Walk, Walk” I do not know, maybe I should wait… I cannot go now—No stop it Tom! this is nothing but superstition again. Do not be a fool you have to get to work. “Walk now Tom, Go, Go, Go! Tom leaped into the street.

*****

Instantly everything faded to dark. Suddenly something disconnected Tom’s brain from reality.

When Tom came back into conscious awareness, a dim light seemed to be falling around him. Where am I? Am I dead?

No, I am alive because I can feel my arms and legs moving. My mind works. I know who I am. I can think so I must exist.

Did a car hit me in the crosswalk? My arms and legs are fine.. But yes, that must be what happened, a car in the crosswalk hit me, but still I am alive. I am probably in a hospital bed right now, and unconscious. I will just have to wait in this place until my body awakens, then I shall reenter my body. Then there will be light all around me. Then I shall return to my body and be whole again.

Tom looked at his wristwatch. It was precisely midnight. A chill ran through him.

He found himself walking down an abandoned street of a vacant district. A dusty house of cards in the middle of nowhere made just for him. Why is this realm so dark? I can barely see. He did not know where he was, or where he was going. The shops unlit, the buildings sterile, everything smelled of yellowed paper, mildew and dust. He walked a long way in isolation. He checked his watch again; it was exactly midnight. That cannot be, it was midnight half an hour ago. I must wind my watch. Tom began to wind his wristwatch. Fully wound? How can my watch be fully wound? Something strange is happening here. I see no people. No dogs, not even sewer rats not even insects. This place is desolate. It is like being on the moon.

He instinctively knew that no one worked, or lived in this town because the streets were covered in a heavy dust and there were no track of cars or pedestrians in the dust. As he squinted, trying to see as he made his way down the alleys. He strained to see in the shadows. As he walked and the streets were so quiet, he could hear his own heart beating. Then through a cloud, a sick, pale moonlight shone down on a town he mistrusted. Smoke-like fog rose up from the ground in whorls and covered the streets. Tom looked at his watch again, exactly midnight. What is wrong with this watch? He shook his forearm and wrist vigorously. Then he looked carefully at his watch. The second hand is not moving and this watch stopped exactly at midnight.

A chill ran down Tom’s spine, he folded his arms over his chest. Tom noticed that he was soaked with sweat but cold.

He started walking along the vacant streets to keep his mind occupied. His shoes stepped in dust, which had the consistency of powder. It was as if Tom was walking on the moon. He looked behind him and saw the deep imprints from his footsteps. He kicked at the dust, curiously, and a cloud of powder filled the air. He coughed violently. He looked at his shoe; a layer of dust coated it. He tried to wipe his shoe clean by rubbing it on the back of the left leg of his slacks. He was irritated with himself. He was also beginning to be afraid because there seemed to be no life in this place.

Tom walked around the corner into an alley. Tom squinted in disbelief, as he was certain that he saw a person standing in the distance. Tom smiled and waved. The person waved back at him.

Tom ran, encumbered by the dust, towards the person. When he was close, he realized it was not a man. He saw it was a beautiful woman standing there. She was in a short dress standing in the shadows of the dark street. Tom thought; she is smiling at me and I feel greatly relieved and aroused… It is almost as if she has been waiting there for me to arrive.

Even in the pale moonlight, I could see her dress was bright red—and…her lips they were red as well.

As I walked to her in the night, her eyes were fluid in dark swirling colors, of red wine, Arabian coffee, and Indian ink.

“Your lips are stained crimson,” I said to her.

It must be from a drop of her pricked blood. She surely smeared the blood on her lips.

My curiosity aroused, I leaned in towards her and I said, “I imagine that you rubbed that foul crimson tint in between your thumb and forefinger and colored your lips with you finger didn’t you?”

She did not reply but smiled again in a most becoming way. She then licked her lips. Then she smiled at Tom. Her smile was amazingly seductive.

She wants me, and I want her passionately. I want to make love to her.

Then she spoke to Tom. She leaned into Tom’s body space and whispered, “I would adore it very much if I could kiss you. I only want my lips to touch your lips—so gently that it makes us both ache, our lips—like a butterfly’s wings gently closing, and scarcely touching,” then she exhaled into Tom’s face. Her breath smelt divine, like roses and lavender soap.

I must taste her lips so I will know if it is her blood.

As if she read his mind she cooed. “I want you to taste my lips. And when we pull our lips apart, I want to them to cling to one another, reluctant to part—like new lovers.” She smiled cunningly with those red lips against teeth so white that they shined, even in the pale moonlight.

And then Tom leaned in to kiss her. It was a long, deep, sensuous kiss. It is her blood on her lips; it tastes like a mild percentage of both salt, and copper. I liked that. But more importantly, how did she ever learn to kiss like that? Who taught her—that is the best kiss I have ever had. He smiled and pulled back away to look at her again.

That was when he saw it; he shivered in horror.

“What the hell is this—what did I just do? I did not kiss a beautiful woman I kissed a monster. As I look before me I do not see a beautiful woman in a red dress, I see a being with elephantine skin, large cracked lips, and thick mucus dripping off them.”

The monster wore a dark hooded shroud. When he put his hood back on, his face was no longer visible. He was a hood and cloak of darkness standing there facing Tom.

Before Tom could gasp in horror, Death had its cold bony handover his mouth. Death then exhaled a deep, foul, breath, emptying his lungs.

And before Tom could beg or say that one last prayer for forgiveness Death put its dry cracked lips on Tom’s mouth. Then Death sucked in from Tom’s body and snuffed the fluttering candle flame of existence, sucking his life out of his very soul. Death took Tom’s life into his foul lungs and walked off.

Tom had no more thoughts or cognizance. Tome left behind only a corpse lying in a hospital bed but was not aware of it. Tom was gone—forever.


Insanetences and Sexy Images


Reach up High,

Writing Seriously on paper if possible, if not sometimes  I will find a medium that works.

Got a hand full of napalm,

Throw it high

The sky is on fire, the moon is in flames, and the stars are crying like a child.

***

That girl said she loved me. But she bruised my life.

When she left me, her words were like broken glass; they cut me deep.

She left me with a bleeding soul.

“Look at her.” Azure eyes–goddess-like, with luminous golden curls, and slender legs.”

There she goes; she is rambling on.

**

I am the one who has got no soul.

I live in the United States of Jesus Christ

**

A baby cries and an old man dies. Time goes on. Life goes on.

Pray for the baby, pray for the soul of that old man.

May they not end up writhing  in hellfire.

**

THANKSGIVING

“Look, you do not talk about bad feelings in this family; we swallow it all down into a tiny, painful ball that lies in the pit of our stomachs. The ball just festers and eats at us.

[One day, in a rage, it will crawl up her throat and scream its existence to the world.]

Holiday Family Dinner Day

God damn it, do we have to do this?

Stress.

Uncle Roy is drunk and pissed his pants.

“Shut up! We don’t talk about bad feelings, we swallow it all down.”

**

Get on an airplane and fly away from home and all the problems.

Write once a day. It is like flossing, only fun.

Land where no one tells your secrets

The City of Sin

Las Vegas

Dreams of Lust and Power

Prostitute

Credit Card, Credit Card

Sex, Sex, Sex

New Secrets

**

Rolling dice, games of chance.

ATM machines

Lust, Power,

“Just keep them in the casino playing. Statistics will ruin them.”

***

“Dance with the Devil and the Devil gets into you.”

Cigarettes, Alcohol, and drugs.

Delusions of Grandeur.

Dopamine and Serotonin receptors.

He’s fucking high.

**

The Wife, he must remember the wife.

Get on the plane broke  with secrets

**

Home.

Secrets, Guilt

Fight, Fight, Fight

Did you think I was going to leave the girls out some man-candy picture?

**

“Shut up!”

“Leave me alone!”

“Quiet! The kids– in the next room.”

Family time

TV, TV, TV

Don’t talk, we don’t talk about feelings.

TV TV TV

The man and wife in bed.

Sleep, Sleep, Sleep

**

Wake up,

Another God damned morning,

Fight, Fight, Fight

“You do not even seem like the same person anymore!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

You always do that,”

“Shut up!”

“You never do that.

“Shut up.”

**

Secrets, Secrets, Secrets.

This is it.

“I don’t love you anymore. I need to be on my own.”

“What are you talking about?”

We don’t talk about bad feelings, we swallow it all down.”

“Shut up.”

“Divorce?”

“Go to Hell.”

We don’t talk about feelings.

Stop

Make up for now

**

There are other fish in the sea.

The other woman will always be there when you need a little sympathy.

Secrets, Sex, Secrets, Sex.

**
New year’s Resolution,

Don’t see her again.

Diet-Diet-Diet

So Hungry

TV, TV, TV

To Hell with Exercise.

The other woman

Secret Sex, Sex, Secrets.

**

I can handle just one drink, then I will stop.

Alcohol, Alcohol, Alcohol

Spend the night in jail

**

I will have just one cigarette.

Sex, Sex, Sex.

I will have just one cigarette.

I am going to tell her it is over.

cigarette, cigarette, cigarette.

Sex, Sex, Sex

Cheeseburger.

**

Back to Marriage Combat

Fight Fight Fight.

“You Bitch!

“You Asshole!”

Divorce?

Heartache.

Damaged children.

**

Credit Card, Credit Card

Sex, Sex, Sex

Shop, Shop, Shop

**

“I’ll just have one cigarette and quit.”

**

“The years go by and people we love die.”

We are getting older.

We are going to die next.

We will be in the box, six feet under dirt.

There we will rot and slugs shall crawl in our eyeless skulls

**

**

I’ll have just one cigarette and quit smoking.

I never could quit smoking

**

I saw the doctor and the specialist for test.

Lung Cancer; they told me I was going to die.

They said it just like that, like they were telling you what they  had for lunch that day. They must see a lot of people die.

Please be responsible. Make sure that don’t write while driving.

**

I figure that I am going to die soon if what they said was right.

And yesterday is when I just decided, “Fuck it,” I am going to live my life anyway.

All you can do in life is your best, you can’t do anymore.

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


wordpress

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

pie chart

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.”

The Family Burial Tree


The Family Tree

My ancestors were poor, common, hardworking people. They were people of the dirt, the plow, and the crops. They were humble yet proud people. Ours was a species of folks who could bear any burden life heaped upon our shoulders, carry in on our backs, not bend our knees, and we would never break.

The family lifeblood courses through our veins; it is our crimson union. And it suffuses each one of us with the warmth of our one essence.

Our Family Spirit lives in the mighty Oak in the corner of the field. We are each merely parts of the Oak, but all together, we exist as one mighty Tree. We are the boughs, the branches, the twigs, and the buds that blossom. We are also the dead branches fallen, just as we are the future branches, twigs, and buds, which will come forth from us in their own time.

Our Tree firmly rooted in the Family Land. It’s canopy is plush with lambent, flickering, green foliage. And our huge leaves spread out, flowering in emerald life.

At its base, the Oak in the field, casts tranquil shadows. These shadows slow dance, coasting across fallen leaves on the ground. This cool shaded area became the family cemetery.

My father buried his father with his own hands underneath the mighty, ancient Oak. It took him 9 hours to dig through all the scores of roots in the soil there.

And when my father dies, I shall bury him there with the skin of my hands my arms, shoulders, back. Likewise, my son shall bury me her when it is his turn.

We are ancestors and descendants. We are fathers and mothers, we are sons and daughters, and we are brothers and sisters. We are all of those who precede us, and we are all of those who shall replace us. We are many and yet we are one continuous living thing.

We are The Family.

Writing Dialogue, Advice for Writers


Writing convincing dialogue is one of the hardest things for new writers to

master. In fact, it’s so rarely done well in any form of fiction that when it is done right,
people rally around it. The movie Pulp Fiction, Terry McMillan’s novel Waiting to
Exhale, and the TV series My So-Called Life were all remarkable in large part because of
how believably the characters spoke.
Here’s the kind of dialog you read in many beginners’ stories:
“What happened to you, Joe?”
“Well, Mike, I was walking down the street, and a man came up to me. I
said to him, `What seems to be the difficulty?’ He replied, `You owe me a
hundred dollars.’ But I said I didn’t. And then he hit me.”
Here’s how real people talk:
“Christ, man, what happened?”
“Well, umm, I was goin’ down the street, y’know, and this guy comes up to
me, and I’m like, hey, man, what’s up? And he says to me, he says, `You owe me
a hundred bucks,’ and I’m like no way, man. In your dreams. Then — pow! I’m on
the sidewalk.”
See the differences? Most people’s real dialog tends to contain occasional
profanity (“Christ”), to be very informal (“guy” instead of “man,” “bucks” instead of
“dollars”), and to have lots of contractions and dropped letters (“goin’,” “y’know”). Note,
too, that when relaying an event that happened in the past, most people recount it in the
present tense (“he says to me,” rather than “he replied”).
Also note that in the first example, the speakers refer to each other by name. In
reality, we almost never say the name of the person we’re talking to: you know who
you’re addressing, and that person knows he or she is being addressed. A few other
features of real human speech demonstrated in the second example above: when relaying
to a third party a conversation we had with somebody else, we usually only directly quote
what the other person said; our own side of the conversation is typically relayed with
considerable bravado, and the listener understands that what’s really being presented is
what we wish we’d had the guts to say, not what we actually said. We also tend to act out
events, rather than describe them (“Then — pow! I’m on the sidewalk”). Indeed, without
the acting out, the words often don’t convey the intended meaning. The speaker was
probably standing on the sidewalk throughout the altercation, of course; what he meant
by “on the sidewalk” was that he was knocked down.
Now, which of the above examples is better? Well, the second is clearly more
colorful, and more entertaining to read. But it’s also more work to read. A little
verisimilitude goes a long way. Dropped final letters are rarely shown in fictional dialog
(they’re usually only employed to indicate an uneducated speaker, although in reality
almost everyone talks that way), and vagueness about verbs (“I’m like” instead of “I
said”), verbalized pauses (“umm”), and content-less repetitions (the second part of “He
says to me, he says”) are usually left out. In a short story, I might perhaps use dialog like
the second example above; in a novel, where the reader has to sit through hundreds of
pages, I might be inclined toward some sort of middle ground:
“Christ, man, what happened?”
“I was going down the street, and this guy comes up to me, and I’m like,
hey, man, what’s up? And he says to me, `You owe me a hundred bucks,’ and I
say `in your dreams.’ Then — pow! — he knocks me on my ass.”
Of course, not all your characters should talk the same way. I read one story
recently in which there were dozens of lines of dialog like this:
“Interchangeable?” he said. “What do you mean the characters are
interchangeable?”
We have the attribution tag between an initial word and a sentence that repeats
that same word. This is clearly being used to denote confusion — and works fine once or
twice, but grates if the same dialog device is employed more than that in a given story —
especially by multiple speakers. Assign distinctive speaking patterns to single characters.
One trick is to come up with a word or two that one character — and only that character —
will use a lot (in my The Terminal Experiment, the character Sarkar loves the word
“crisp,” using it to mean anything from well-defined to delicate to appealing to complex);
you might also come up with some words your character will never use (in Starplex, I
have a character who hates acronyms, and therefore avoids referring to the ship’s
computer as PHANTOM).
Profanity is also important. Terence M. Green’s rule: you can’t worry about what
your mother will think of your fiction. But, again, not all characters swear the same way,
and some may not swear at all (in The Terminal Experiment, I have a Muslim character
who never swears, although the rest of his speech is quite colloquial).
It’s tricky handling characters who are not native English speakers. No matter
what language they’re speaking, people tend also to be thinking in that language. It’s
common to write a French character saying things like, “There are beaucoup reasons why
someone might do that.” But at the time the person is speaking, his brain is thinking in
English; it’s as unlikely for him to slip into French for a word as it is for a computer
running a program in FORTRAN to suddenly switch over to BASIC for a single
instruction. Instead, if you want to remind the reader of the character’s native tongue,
have the character occasionally mutter or think to himself or herself in that language.
The best way to learn how real people talk is to tape record some actual human
conversation, and then transcribe it word for word (if you can’t find a group of people
who will let you do this, then tape a talk show off TV, and transcribe that). You’ll be
amazed: transcripts of human speech, devoid of body language and inflection, read
mostly like gibberish. To learn how to condense and clean up dialog, edit your transcript.
For your first few attempts, try to edit by only removing words, not by changing any of
them — you’ll quickly see that most real speech can be condensed by half without deleting
any of the meaning.
Finally, test your fictional dialog by reading it out loud. If it doesn’t sound natural,
it probably isn’t. Keep revising until it comes trippingly off your tongue (yes, that’s a
cliche — but remember, although you want to avoid cliches in your narrative, people use
them all the time in speech).
A couple of matters of form that seem to elude most beginners: when writing
dialog for a single speaker that runs to multiple paragraphs, put an open-quotation mark
at the beginning of each paragraph, but no close-quotation mark until the end of the final
paragraph. And in North America, terminal punctuation (periods, exclamation marks, and
question marks) go inside the final close-quotation mark: “This is punctuated correctly.”
Get your speech-attribution tags in as early as possible. There’s nothing more
frustrating than not knowing whose dialog you’re reading. Slip the tag in after the first
completed clause in the sentence: “You know,” said Juan, “when the sky is that shade of
blue it reminds me of my childhood back in Mexico.” And when alternating lines of
dialog, make sure you identify speakers at least every five or six exchanges; it’s very easy
for the reader to get lost otherwise. Finally, much real dialog goes unfinished. When
someone is interrupted or cut off abruptly, end the dialog with an em-dash (which you
type in manuscript as two hyphens); when he or she trails off without completing the
thought, end the dialog with ellipsis points (three periods). Real dialog also tends to be
peppered with asides: “We went to Toronto — boy, I hate that city — and found …”
Get your characters talking at least halfway like real people, and you’ll find that
the readers are talking, too: they’ll be saying favorable things about your work.

THE DEAD LITTLE BOY AND ANGRY ACCUSATIONS


The day seemed like a curse; unfortunately, it was not over with yet.

The Dead Little Boy in his Sad little Coffin


Back at the Cemetery there was only one car left in the Funeral Parking lot. It belonged to the parents of the dead little boy. The father and mother were still rigid beside the grave inside the cemetery. Even the Funeral Director awkwardly excused himself to abandon the unfinished burial ceremony to escape the unendurable iciness.

The father and mother were in an out-and-out state of helplessness and hostility.

The exodus was a big reason for why the father and mother remained there at the grave, standing silent and motionless.

The other reason is that they did not want to go home and be alone with one another. They might have given the impression of emotional numbness to the casual eye. However, beneath their stolid outer surfaces, emotional discord plagued the two spouses. And there had been a noticeable rift between the husband and wife ever since the death.

Be it the loss of the boy, the abandonment of the burial by others, or the ill feelings between them, they refused to face the problem, which they easily accomplished by not talking about it. And this is how they each dealt with their contaminated emotions in their marriage—disconnected and uncommunicative. And this almost seemed normal to them by now.

But all the horrible feelings that they had been pushing down and avoiding the whole time began to revolt. And repressed festering emotions and unsaid thoughts began to climb themselves out of each person’s throat unassisted, and they wanted to scream of their existence.

“Let’s just go, Joan!” the father barked without looking at her. He left her there, and took off toward the car.

The mother looked up, hopeless and crushed; she scurried after her husband trying to catch up. She ran behind him imploring, “Tom, Tom!” Her husband increased his gate but she still chased after him.

“Tom! We have to talk about this; we have not said two words between each other since the accident.”

The father did not respond, he just pressed on ahead of her, his face was red, his temple veins were visible, and his facial muscles were rigid..

“Tom!” she grabbed his arm, “It was an accident!”

“Is that what you are calling it now, Joan, a mere mishap?” The father jerked his arm away aggressively and her fingernails accidentally scratched at his suit cuff, fraying fibers, as her arm snapped back. The father swung his arms as he hastened his stride to the car.

“Tom, why not just say what you have been thinking all along? It is all over your face.” She started sobbing, “Just go ahead, and say it; say it, and get it over with!”

The father stopped, turned towards his wife, and glowered at her with sharp eyes and narrowed eyebrows, “What do you want me to say! Our only child is dead Joan” He talked with his hands in the air, gesticulating vehemently, “Caleb was 8 years old—8 years old!” he barked. “And he died with such a horrible death; his body bore a permanent frown that the mortician could not even straighten!”

He grimaced looking down at the ground in devastation, “For God’s sake, Joan, they had to drag his body out of the ice with a grappling hook.”

The father’s mood sank into a lull of despair. Then his anger surged back again. “And now I have to live with that image in my head! I have to see it every day, for the rest of my life.”

“And I don’t Tom?” she said angry and hurt, “Don’t you think I would give my life in a second to bring Caleb back for 5 minutes?”

The father shook his head in anger. “It’s a little too late for that Joan. He is dead.”

“You are not being fair Tom; I have to live with this just as much as you, and even more,” She said in cold, cutting tone, “Yes, much more Tom. I have to bear the burden of your silent eyes’ accusations.” I see what you think in your eyes; it is always there, every time you look at me.”

The husband said nothing; he just snorted air from his nostrils while shaking his head forcefully, and it was body language invalidating her entire statement.

As if trying to convince her she pleaded her point, “Tom, it was nobody’s fault. All of those children were skating on the lake. They all always have skated on that lake. Even in late August.

And there has never been any danger. The ice has never once broken, ever, even in September.” She begged, “Tom this was November. It was just a horrible accident. No one could have known this would happen, especially not in November.”

Both parents got to the car; each opened their own door and they got in the car. The father sat in the driver’s seat, blood boiling; he heard the pressure of blood coursing through the veins of his temples with a whoosh.

The mother sat in silent anger towards her husband, and also self-loathing, as she snapped her seatbelt on in the passenger seat. She had been so upset she forgot to shut her door. In fact, both doors were hanging wide open.

The husband’s key was not even in the ignition, his keys clenched in his left hand squeezing his fist around them like a nutcracker. Bob looked into his wife’s face with fiery eyes. He started fiercely pointing an accusing right finger in her face.

“Damn it Joan! This is not just another November! There has never been a November this warm in 25 years! You know that Joan, it was on the news every day for a week and you even commented on it!

The father shouted in her face, “Caleb never should have been allowed to skate on that goddamned lake this November!” He turned away and slapped his right palm on the steering wheel forcefully, slapping at it two times, and looked out the left open door, he bit his lower, he said nothing, he breathed, he thought, he shook his head. And finally, he shook his head. He turned his back towards the passenger seat, snapping his head to stare her directly in the eyes. “But he did go skating on that lake this warm November Joan, did he not? I am pretty sure that Caleb did not ask for my permission. In fact he never could have asked me that day because I was at the office at the time.”

“What the Hell does that supposed to mean!” screamed the mother defensively, “Well! What are you wanting to say?” she demanded, “You think I killed Caleb? Is that what you are you saying, Tom?” The mother’s eyes were horrified. “Oh my God, that is it Bob isn’t it, you think…do really blame me for this horrible tragedy?”

“All I am saying Joan…” He paused to think, “…All I am saying Joan, is that if I had been the only adult at home; Caleb never would have been allowed to go near that lake; and he would not have been out there skating, not even in November, not in this warm spell.”

“So that’s it after all isn’t it Tom? The mother’s voice became frantic; I let him go skate with all the other kids so I am some sort of a murderer?” She broke down sobbing. “How can you imply I did this knowing what would happen! How could you even say such a think?”

“I did not say that Joan, you said it!” barked the father. “Ok, you really want to know what I think.”

The mother cried, “Yes! Yes! Put me on trial Bob, no jury, and no appeal, just pass your sentence upon me, and send me to the executioner.”

“All right Dear, it’s simple, if I had been the one at home, I never would have let Caleb go skating on that unstable lake. You were at home though and you let Caleb go despite the weather reports. You knew better Joan! But you sent our boy out onto that deadly ice anyway!” He screamed, “If it had not been for you, Caleb would be alive right now! Yes, god damnit you killed our son when you sent him out on that dangerous ice! That was your child that you gave birth to, and he will never come back because of you!”

The mother’s eyes stared a thousand yards away, she focused on nothing, and she was in the hell of her own mind. Joan tried to speak but let out only a silent word; it failed to come from her terrorized face, which cried a torrent of tears in two briny streams. She could only writhe in a grimace of horror, and merely mouthed out mysterious words from a crooked mouth, mute and crooked from agony. She censured herself now.

And now that she agreed with what her husband had said to her so abusively, she now said those words, those accusations, to herself. Moreover her own accusations against herself, would forever speak at her, over and over, like a tape recorder playing inside of her mind, and the voice that Joan heard on that tape would be her own.

Thus, it did not matter what the truth was any longer. It would not change her mind. She believed what she told herself. She had tried, judged, and convicted herself of being guilty of all of it. And there would be no appeal or expiation for such a crime.

Similarly, her husband’s job was finished; he need not bother to exert the effort to accuse his wife any more. Bob did not need to blame his wife ever again, for the simple reason that she would endlessly do a much better job of torturing herself with pain and guilt and blame than he could ever possibly do.

And now she would never give herself no pardon from the felony, for the atrocity, for here sin of sins that she committed against her own flesh and blood. Emotionally beyond salvage, she would go to her grave with this.

Bitter shame soon overcame the father with regret for what he said. But the mother said nothing at all, completely defeated, she sat silently in the car, still staring at nothing with dead eyes.

She lost something inside of her that she needed desperately and now and it was gone. She did not know how to get it back. She did not even know what to look for.

She became limp and slowly slumped over upon herself, her face fallen between her knees. Her arms wrapped around her knees and she rocked silently.

Then at first the faint sound, a unsettling noise. And soon the sound grew louder and brasher as she rocked. Joan was forever marked from that fight, for she was not crying she was wailing, grieving in a helpless child-like manner.

Then in a primal, visceral fashion, she began to howl in a ghastly disconcerting manner. The distressed emission was not like a human. It was an eerie howling sounded much more like that of a wounded animal, than a cry like that of a person.

The father jumped out of his seat and stood up. He stood motionless for a few seconds, and then overcome with tortuous emotions; he began to take his fist and pound the roof of the sedan over and over, as hard as he could. The metal slightly dented under each blow. He was so worked up he could not feel his hands. Then he realized that they were bleeding badly and he gave it up and stopped.

He lay the side of his face on the bloody roof and burst out in bitter weeping and sorrow. His son was gone. He had hurt his wife. Yet he did not feel he was wrong. And he still blamed her and had not intentions to forgive her for the death of his son.

A surge of hate soon poisoned his natural weeping. It was hate for himself, hate for his wife, hate for the loss of his son, and hate for the ruinous curse of the funeral.

He wiped his tears on his sleeve, walked around the car and shut his wife’s door, he shut it so hard and quick that they glass almost broke, but his howling wife did not even flinch in her grief.

Bob walked back around the car and climbed in his side; he shut his door, and put the key in the ignition.

He reached for a cigarette, but then threw it away. He started the cold car and began slowly pulling out of the parking lot. He did not say a single word to his wife driving home. And all that while, his wife had never stopped howling, she could not control it, and as the car drove out that wounded animal-like howling was the only sound heard until the car was a good distance away.

3 Sinful Farmers: One Prayer, That Last Desperate Refuge of the Hopeless


Prayer, the last refuge of the desperate.

 

Three local farmers talked of the new preacher’s arrival earlier that morning while waiting for their orders at the livestock feed store in town. The three planters stood in a loose circle in the dirt lot outside the feed dispensary. They all looked the same, each garbed in denim overalls and an old straw hat. Above each hat’s rim was a wide brown band of ancient sweat and dead dust.

One was chewing bitter snuff, and spitting out thick brown lines of tobacco juice in periodic spurts. When his heavy spittle hit the dirt powder, it rolled along in a little soil-accumulating stream, which pooled up into a dust-coated oval. “New preacher coming nigh five weeks ya know,” said the first farmer.

“Baptist?” asked the second.

“Yup, course he’s a Baptist.”

“Reckon this one’s gonna stay long? They don’t pay em enough, to keep em long,” said the third farmer.

The other two farmers shrugged. They all three fell silent in contemplation of the new preacher. The snuff chewer snorted and spat.

One man wiggled his middle finger in an ear hole furiously, trying to get at an itch so he could think better. The second scratched himself crudely and shamelessly. The third cleared his head, using his index finger to blow his nose—one nostril at a time. The farmers processed their thoughts about the new preacher while they twisted their cracked leather boot tips into the dirt.

The first farmer then spoke up and said, “This be a great and holy man a’ coming to put the Baptist God’s goodness into us all.”

The second cropper nodded and added, “And he’ll be good to remind everybody of the evilness of drinking, n’ smoking, the dancing, and all the cussing, and wicked fighting. The good Lord blesses us with religin’ and holiness in his ten commandments.” He proclaimed, “Everything else but that what the preacher be bringing to us, it ain’t nothing but sin.” The first two farmers nodded in assent.

Then when the first two men had given God his dues, the Third farmer said with vehemence, “This ain’t no joke fella’s, this be somethin’ that applies to everybody. That means us too. Continue reading

Alone and Afraid In My Panic Room


The Things That You Never Want To Remember Again are Your Most Vivid Memories
All The Things That You Never Wanted To Remember Again Become Your Most Vivid Memories

 Right now, I am afraid and I am alone in my panic room.

My heart beats wild with the startling jaggedness of colliding pins in a bowling alley.

There is nothing in my stark room except a clock on the wall.

And the sound of the second hand worries me because it seems to take longer in between ticks.

My stomach is wet, queasy, and tied in awkward knots like a circus balloon.

I can feel a pair of teeth eating its way out of my stomach from the inside.

My gaze looks inwards and everything appears so ambiguously exigent in there.

The trembling cold heart inside of my chest gnashes its teeth silently so no one sees.


Colorful Kisses


I want to kiss you. I want my lips to touch yours, and when we pull our lips apart, I want to them to cling to one another, reluctant to depart—like new lovers. When that happens, my lips are always warmer and yours are cooler. Does that mean that I really like you a lot, or does it mean that I like you more than like me?

 

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A Terrible Burial to Recollect


Smitty Crying for Rose

The things you never want to remember again are your most vivid memories.

It was now eighteen years ago that Smitty’s Rose died unexpectedly from a massive stroke. She died right in front of Smitty’s eyes as the two were sitting at the kitchen table during breakfast one winter’s morning. It seemed to happen in slow motion as Smitty heard her chair’s grating screech, and watched as she fell backward and crashed to the floor. The old man panicked and scrambled to the ground desperately trying to shake Rose awake.

He kneeled before his wife’s body weeping, “Rosie, no …oh ma’ sweet girl…no, Rose…don’ go leavin’ me…please don’ go…I can’t live without ya…”

Rose’s death was a terrible shock and tragedy for the old man.

When Smitty buried Rose, it was a very small funeral. Rose’s burial fell on a pitiless winter’s day. The clouds above the cemetery attended the interment garbed in an inappropriate and unforgiving gray. These clouds boiled and they threatened.

They coveted the sunlight and they were greedy with what light they allowed the cemetery to have. These clouds withheld so much light that black disfigurement began to creep into the leaden gray cloudbank. The malignancy was ruinous to the mood of the ceremony.

The nighttime had laid down a sheet of ice that covered the funeral grounds. The ice crunched and broke apart in jagged white lines underneath the pallbearers’ feet, as they tried not to slip.

The cold blue wind cut at the cheeks of those standing around the open grave. The aching, short-tempered clouds were merciless, and half way through the burial ceremony, they arbitrarily poured down chilling rain on the mourners. No one expected rain, a light snow perhaps, even sleet, but never rain in that biting cold. And few had umbrellas.

The people shivered as heavy, ice-cold raindrops plopped, pattered, and dropped off their hats. It rained heavily and drenched their clothing. It chilled everyone to the bone. When the mourners cried, their breath was visible in the air, and as heat escaped from their shivering bodies steamed rose off the soaked clothing.

It was a terrible funeral for Smitty to recollect.

The Shade Tree and Grandma’s Iced Tea


The good times were the simple pleasures in Life.

It was summertime and I was at my favorite place on earth, at my Grandma and Grandpa’s house. It was four decades ago, and no one had air conditioning back then. Around 3 p.m., when it was the hottest, the whole town of Blanco rather stopped and people rested in the shade until it was cool enough to work out in the sun again.

At my Grandpa and Grandma’s we sat outside underneath a massive leafy covering of an enormous Box Elder shade tree. We sat in red, shellback, metal lawn chairs. We simply rocked rhythmically, passing the time lazily, taking it easy in the slow-dancing shadows that swathed us beneath the leafy giant.

Grandpa occasionally took the water hose and sprayed water on the tree’s leaves to make the shade cooler. Occasionally, when a breeze came, for just a few seconds, it felt like early fall in that shade.

Grandpa made a round white table underneath the shade tree by welding a metal pipe to the hub of an old iron wagon wheel, then cutting plywood to lie on top. My Grandma Vera took Blanco Water, steeped it with loose tealeaves, sugar, and poured it all into a gallon glass pitcher.

Grandma brought this pitcher to the round table and poured the ice tea into Mason jars filled with jagged-edged, ice-picked, shards of frozen crystal water Grandma always topped off her ice tea with a few fresh mint leaves from her backyard garden.

Grandma was the greatest. She died. It seems like such a long time ago. I can still hear her laugh and recall the little things that she always did to make my life wonderful.

I would do anything to bring her back.

The Thirsty Mason Jar


There is only one place in the whole world where you can get it. And I savored it whenever I visited my grandparents in Blanco, Texas during the summer. It is what I simply called, “Blanco Water,” and the Blanco Municipal Water Supply was processed and purified right out of the Blanco River.

Hands-down, flat-out, Blanco, Texas is the source of the best glass of water that I ever grasped in my sweaty little hands. “Blanco Water,” tastes like it is “alive” with something pure, something clean, and it always quenches the thirst, being natural, full bodied, and wholesome.

As a boy, in the summer I preferred to drink the water right from the tap of my Grandma Vera’s kitchen sink. I would turn on the cold-water and fill an old Mason jar all the way to the rim.

I gulped down the “Blanco Water,” tightfistedly; spilling some of the clear beverage around the sides of my open mouth, feeling the cool streams run pleasantly down my sweaty neck. I finished the rest, lapping it over and behind my tongue, and then slugging it down my gullet.

Even after purification, the Blanco municipal water still has the essence and the taste of the river in it—you can take the water out of the Blanco River, but you cannot take Blanco out of the water.

“Blanco Water,” smells like the rich earth.  Immediately before a heavy summer rainstorm at my Grandpa’s Morris’s farm in kendalia, there was always a first a moist, living breeze that arrived.

This breeze moved just ahead of where the rain shower was going. It had the earthy smell of iron, minerals, and the savor of the plowed-over organic matter’s fertility. “Blanco Water,” rather smells like this summer rainstorm breeze to me.

I do not really know why “Blanco Water,” smells and tastes so good. Maybe it is the moss on the banks of the river, the earthen minerals in the clay, or the limestone bed rock bottom of the river. It might even be the trace of that “5 pound bass that got away,” slowly moseying along, in the cool green shadows of the river.

In August, our whole lot would sit under a giant Box Elder shade tree when got too hot. My Grandma Vera took Blanco Water, steeped it with tealeaves, sugar, and poured it all into a gallon glass pitcher.

Grandma brought this pitcher to the round table that 3 generations sat around lazily in the cool summer shade. She poured the ice tea into Mason jars filled with jagged-edged, ice-picked, shards of frozen crystal water.

Grandma always topped off her ice tea with a few fresh mint leaves from her backyard garden. Grandma Vera was the best. I really miss her. I miss those boyhood days.

That was half a century ago. Yet I can still smell and taste the memories of all of this when I drink a glass of “Blanco Water.”

How to Write With Style by Kurt Vonnegut (2 Videos)


How to Write With Style by Kurt Vonnegut

Source : How to Use the Power of the Printed Word, Doubleday

Newspaper reporters and technical writers are trained to reveal almost nothing about themselves in their writings. This makes them freaks in the world of writers, since almost all of the other ink-stained wretches in that world reveal a lot about themselves to readers. We call these revelations, accidental and intentional, elements of style.

These revelations tell us as readers what sort of person it is with whom we are spending time. Does the writer sound ignorant or informed, stupid or bright, crooked or honest, humorless or playful — ? And on and on.

Why should you examine your writing style with the idea of improving it? Do so as a mark of respect for your readers, whatever you’re writing. If you scribble your thoughts any which way, your readers will surely feel that you care nothing about them. They will mark you down as an egomaniac or a chowderhead — or, worse, they will stop reading you.

The most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not know what is interesting and what is not. Don’t you yourself like or dislike writers mainly for what they choose to show you or make you think about? Did you ever admire an emptyheaded writer for his or her mastery of the language? No.

So your own winning style must begin with ideas in your head. Continue reading

How to be a Great Writer (Video)


So They Want Me To Go To Rehab…


Hanson arrived home from work late, and he came into the house through the front door as usual. He slowly pulled the door to a close. It shut quietly behind him with an almost imperceptible click. He did not lock the deadbolt, which was odd, as he always remembered to lock it when he came in, and he always-reminded Stacey to do the same.

Stacey stood waiting in the living room to greet him just as she did every day. Hanson and Stacey both made a habit of greeting one another each evening when he walked in the door. They both knew that this was important to the health of their relationship, and they received one another eagerly and attentively, each day without fail.

When they had gone through marriage counseling in the past, the therapist suggested that they make an agreement to practice greeting one another in such as manner.

Stacey was the one who had insisted that both attend therapy for the problem with their marriage. Obstinately set against it, Hanson first refused the idea; but when the problem got worse, Stacey eventually insisted that Hanson make a choice.

She told Hanson that they could go through counseling, work their problems out, and get their marriage back. Alternatively Hanson could choose not to go to marriage counseling with her, and they would just deal with the problem by accepting things as they were—which in other words meant that Stacey would leave him if he did not go through counseling, because she would be damned if she was going to live that way any longer.

Psychotherapy turned out to be a lot of work and they both went through the emotional ringer in the process. When they finished the sessions however, they both were grateful that they had gone to seek help. Hanson would be the first to admit this fact. He had changed for the better in the process.

That was two years ago and things between them were far better now, the past two years had been like when they first got married, they were happy all over again.

However, this present evening, when Hanson came in late from work and silently closed the door, he walked in the house without looking his wife in the eyes. Stacey’s face began to beam with a huge smile at her husband’s arrival, but suddenly the smile fell from her face when she noticed his averted eyes. They focused inwardly, were dark and brooding, and he appeared deeply absorbed in his thoughts. It took Stacey off guard when she saw that Hanson’s face was red and saw his nostrils flaring as he inhaled heavily.

Stacey did not speak; she just stood still and watched him worrisomely, trying to gain some sense of his mood. When Hanson walked past her without saying a word, Stacey was immediately aware that something was very wrong.

Stacey’s mind quickly rewound the memory of Hanson coming home from work the evening before this one, and she quickly reviewed everything that had happened then.

Yesterday, Hanson came home from work on time, and when he came in the front door, he found Stacey standing in the living room as always. But things had been very different.

Hanson came in and pulled the door closed behind him hurriedly, slamming it with a bang. He immediately looked his wife straight into the eyes. He also remembered to lock the deadbolt, but did so abnormally, without turning back to look at it.

Hanson advanced towards Stacey who absorbed his intense stare but did not speak a word. As Hanson walked towards her, his steps were forceful, deliberate. He just kept walking, never stopping, as if he was a wind-up toy, too tightly wound. He walked right past the side table without placing his briefcase on it. As he walked on towards his wife, he simply swung his arm to the side and let loose of the brief case handle. It went flying in an arc and Stacey jumped, startled when the briefcase hit the floor with a crash. Continue reading

Metaphorical Breakdown


Metaphorical Breakdown in Her Emotional Dark Skies

Entirely overwhelmed, Barbara abruptly stood straight up and screamed out uncontrollably, repetitively, and hysterically. She shrieked out in a number of strident cries that caused the windowpane glass to quiver. She was having a full-blown nervous breakdown.

Barbara’s dark emotional sky lit up with her screams in a volley of shooting stars. Her frantic shrieks hurled across that dark canvas of her firmament, painting it with the long, luminous streaks of the colors of a fiery meteor shower.

Her soul’s heavens heard the screaming colors of blazing emerald terror, the roaring conflagration of crimson rage, the unheard sound of the smoldering ashes of denial, and the whispering hiss of the waning coals of dark hopelessness. 

Living in “The Now”


LIVE IN “THE NOW” AND YOU WON’T REGRET DYING.

If one thing is true it is that, we humans all naturally tend to forget to appreciate the wonder of the little things happening around us in the present moment i.e. “The Now.” I suggest that these things are all that we ever really have. And in a very real way, I would propose that there is nothing that truly exists but what is happening “Right Now.”

Actively living through these actions and things can make our life in the present stop being boring and become glorious. In hard times, finding something ecstatic in “The Now” can serve as something hopeful.

In really hard times, we may even use this rapturous simple thing to hold on to it for our very lives, when we find we are treading water far from land, and we can grab it to stay afloat and survive long after the ship has sunk

It is not hard to notice these things if I actively, and continually try.

As these are the most obvious things in my life. I am talking everything in “The Now,” that I can cherish. I am talking about regularly involving my mind in spiritual practice (Spirituality can be either religious and with God, or Secular with the Universe and Nature). We are a social species and we need to be in mutuality, we need touch and embrace, and we all need love. If these are not readily available in humans, I find my dog has more than enough to take their places. Continue reading

The Boy Humiliated, Shriveled Up Into a Tight Little Ball


To be humiliated is to lose part of yourself.

I am in the fifth grade, and I am completely miserable . Sometimes I wish I could stop going to school forever. I just want to hide at home in a safe place where people will not hurt me, a place where I can cry and people will not laugh at me.

At school in class, I tremble in fear each time the bell is about to ring. Every time the bell rings and class is dismissed, everyone walks down the hall together and goes to their next class. It is a hall with a million kids all squeezed together between two walls of lockers. When I am in the hall with all the other children, I wish I could just disappear, so that I avoid being in that terrible hall with all the other kids. They are the ones who hurt me with words.

I always try to avoid them. But they always find me. They walk up to me and stop in front of me so I cannot walk. Other kids join in and they stand so that they are all together in a circle around me. Then they humiliate me, hurt me, and make fun of me. And they roar out in laughter at my expense. It is very cruel. Continue reading

We all need to find meaning. We all need love.


A Connection We Crave?

In the womb as unborn babies, we each shared ourselves with our mother through the umbilical cord of life. In this union, we are totally dependent upon our mother for our very existence. We received nourishment from our mother. And with her, we also shared the very same breath of life.

Through this connection with our mother, we joined together in the union of a shared human bond of safety and love. We needed our mother, just as our mother needed us to need her also. The psychologically healthy bond between two people fulfills the needs of both individuals

I believe that as we live out our lives, we carry an unconscious emotional craving for this original nascent union. We seem to seek emotional connections with other human beings to satisfy our craving. We still seem to need to share our selves. We all need to need someone, and at the same time, we need to feel needed by him or her. I think one human being must join emotionally with other human beings in order to feel fulfilled, in order to be truly happy, and even in order to survive. Continue reading

Inspiring Words for when you are feeling down as a Writer.


Inspiring Words for when you are feeling down as a Writer.

A video narrated By Phillip Glass.

Continue reading

Her loving eyes which make me cry with humble joy


Waking with Her

I awoke that cold, early morning and turned my body toward her form; she lay slumbering angelically beneath the quilts. I propped myself up on one elbow and gazed at her, wishing fully memorize the visual imagery of that moment. In the shimmering clarification, from the living illumination of those innumerable diamonds, pulsating and twinkling in the inky sky of the hill country, I saw the glowing opalescence of her skin. It was the last moment of night, those seconds just before the birth of a new sun first defines the razor-edge contour of the horizon, gilding it with a thin line of light—it was the genesis of a cold November day in the rolling hills of the country.

Her face completely untouched by time, she blossomed in life, those were the years of youth, our youth. Her half-lit face basking in the glow of the first dawn’s saffron rays diffused through the window, wood framed, and coated with lightly cracked white paint, it was one of the original windows of the house of three generations-our home.

It is that glass pane that bore the condensation of our night’s sleep. This condensation was the moisture respired from rising and falling bosoms, mine touching her back, feeling it rise and fall in the embraces of slumber.

The moisture of our life breaths, left from a night of warming a cold room in November. I got out of bed lightly, quietly. Wrapped in a blanket to keep the warmth against my flesh, I walked to the window. I touched the glass, the pane was cold, and I felt the moisture of our sleep wet on my finger. I made a streak with my finger; drops ran from its edges. I exhaled and the vapor of my breath filled the line in translucence.

Getting back in bed, I see her long, curling, tendrils of tussled chestnut hair; I smelled it, my nose just shy of touching the dark strands. The soft tussled strands sleep wore the scent; it is her scent, the organic pheromones that bore the most innocent, loving, un-whispered, beckoning of marriage that still was young and innocent in its pure monogamous human concupiscence. Continue reading

Boy Spinning, Looking up at Sky, Shapes in Clouds


8-year-old Ricky remained focused, carefully counting the number of paces as he walked away from the playground and headed straight out into the vast, open, grassy field of the city park. Ricky was a boy curious about all things. And the 8-year-old wanted to know exactly how many steps it was from the merry go round, to the spot-on center of the open green expanse.

Ricky counted his paces in his mind, while his mouth worked silently, as it always did whenever he was in deep thought. He never let himself daydream or lose his count; on the contrary, he tallied each successive pace, noting the incrementing total with a pronounced seriousness. Finally, he was nearly to his destination. He kept his eye on the central point as he counted… 497, 498, and 499. Ricky stopped. He was standing on the spot.

It took the young boy exactly 499 paces to get from the merry go round, to the exact spot-on center of the lush, emerald-green field. If Ricky’s total step count had been a perfect, round numbered 500, he would have been quite suspicious of himself. Most 8-year-old boys would take an extra step on purpose, and pretend that they had not, because a total of exactly 500 steps would seem joyfully miraculous, and a lot luckier than 499—but it was not honest, and the total would not be true. Most boys would not care. But Ricky would, and he knew life usually gave you a less exciting, but correct number. So this is how he knew that the count was indeed 499 steps exactly.

As he stood at center point, Ricky noticed his shadow. The afternoon sun that day was a joyful radiant orb and it bathed the park in long, extending, golden rays of light. Continue reading

The Boy, an Ant, a Sunny Day and a Magnifying Lens


Then Sun For to Kill

There comes a time when every small boy discovers how to use a magnifying glass to create fire.  If he lives in the Texas Hill Country, where the houses are five miles apart, and a lad has no play mates, he usually finds out through serendipity. This is by far, the finest way to find out about the wonders of the glass and the sun. It is more magical to discover the glory of creating fire all by oneself.

Out in a field somewhere there is a young boy. It is a summer day, bright and sunny, and the boy’s face is moist. Down on his knees, the boy is bent over. He balances his torso, with his lean left arm, pressing it down on the ground. He rests the weight of his torso on his left hand, which is flattened with its fingers splayed out wide; the skin on the top of his palm is red, and his knuckles are white.

His neck and upper body are now arched fully over, and the boy holds the large magnifying lens in his right hand, about four inches above the ground. He is peering through it, his right cheek and eye almost touching the rounded lens. In the shadow cast by his body, he studies the anatomy of twigs, leaves, spear grass and acorns. He is seeing them with never before seen resolution or clarity.

His right eye strains in concentration as it peers through the lens. But his left eye is pressed shut tightly; as if the left eye were an angry child, just after a quarrel with the right eye. In protest, it refuses to look at anything that the right one looks at. Continue reading

The Graffiti on Men’s Public Restroom Stalls in Redneck Texas


POST HAS PROFANE WORDS AND MATERIAL

The men’s public restrooms’ toilet stalls at least in Texas, where I have lived all my life, are almost always covered wall to wall inside the stall with graffiti. Most of the colorful epigrams are scribbled in ink, or sometimes magic marker, which the authors must bring with them just for this purpose. A certain percentage of the graffiti is etched into the paint with a key, or possibly a pocket knife.

Despite constant, periodic attempts, in the more upscale restrooms, to paint over the tasteless works of all the ribald authors, the walls are instantly refilled with the unstoppable phenomenon of graffiti, written by squatting defecating men.

First of all, 60% of this “prose” just is the two classic words “Fuck You.” Then ranks lusty sexually graphic descriptions of how , a guy who is surely taking a dump,” loves pussy” and fucking in general. At the University, a guy who I am assuming was Biology major wrote “I live for the titration of vaginal fatty acids.” I have to give full credit to higher education in the field of natural sciences. Continue reading