 
### Bill D Roman

by: Luke S.

Copyright 2012 Lucas Stetzik

Smashwords Edition

Edited by Meghan Ingram

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**Table of Contents** :

Part 1 – Rickshaws & Robotic Talons

The Truth #25/100

Robotic Talons #50/100

Dear Diary #75/100

Part 2 – Minka & Linka

Ghost Hunting #12/25

Part 3 – Something New of a Brilliant Blue

Intro to Lessons #7/30

Introduction #12/30

DD #16/30

William Tell #22/30

The Good Stuff #26/30

Social Media links

Facebook

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Twitter

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Rickshaws

&

### Robotic Talons

Couch Sitters

In a house on Mt Olympest, was a couch. This couch had seen miles of candy and cabbage but in its old age whimpered at the thought of more puppies in a box. So the couch had sitters. The one sitter was The Greatest Evil and the other sitter was The Greatest Good.

"We are plural," said The Greatest Good.

"Don't connect W with E like that, it smells terrible," said The Greatest Evil. Then The Greatest Evil kicked a farm from the grasp of The Greatest Good and knew that there was nothing the liquor industry could do to salvage the many gang wars that were dependent on this now kicked tommy-gun farm.

"I was about to say that," said The Greatest Good, and so the hurting grew and grew and grew until the Greatest Evil demanded that the couch not be pregnant with so much hurting. The Greatest Good asked if it would like a glass of milk or perhaps just a glass (who knows what a couch desires). The Greatest Evil lit a cigarette and they all exploded as the hurt in the couch was VERY HIGHLY flammable and had seeped into the house. So now the house sits at the bottom of Mt Olympest where only the Jenga Vultures with their robotic talons and messy hair have anything to say as they pick through the remains.

"This tastes quite good," said one vulture, and its tongues danced for the chill of The Greatest Good, and then writhed for the lizardy taste of The Greatest Evil.

The End

****

Gobly-Gook

"I don't like the taste in my mouth," said a shark, "it tastes like the number 5 and that is unlike bird eggs" (because bird eggs come in three and fall in ones, not the way that soldiers fall in ones but in a more spatulated pattern.)

"I will read some palms and surely that will remove this taste from my mouth!" and he was correct. It was something that would evict a taste, but the taste was full of gobly-gook and would not be evicted. Instead it had made a claim before a judge in small claims court against the shark, and in the final verdict all palms were removed from the ocean, and really any place that sharks can live. And this is why fish have fins, porpoises have flippers, palm trees (which were originally a form of seaweed) are on beaches, and sharks die in captivity. But Penguins consider the flat of their foot a palm as penguins are confused about most things.

The shark went to some penguins and tried to read their "palm" but it was written in Arabic (as any good catholic foot is) and thus the shark couldn't read it. Filled with shame and terrible and a taste (which wasn't really half bad) he resigned to live under a kitchen sink with his roommate: a cheap, sleazy garbage disposal. The shark was not promiscuous to any degree, but the disposal had a liberal moral center and many, many STD's. As we all know this combination gives one their own TV program on cable. And on many cables is a series of birds who dare not be associated with penguins as it is the case that confusion is contagious among birds and that is why penguins live so far in the south and are not part of bird aviaries in the Zoo.

The End

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Minority Tales

Once upon a time there were three fairytales. The wisest fairytale had a chest in its nose.

"I have treasure," said the wise tale from time to frequent time proudly.

"Does he ever stop?" asked the saddest one who had vision that was 15/30 (or was it 30/15?) but was still a good enough fraction to see that a hole in logic doesn't mean wisdom, and clearly a chest of treasure in a nose is a simple hole in logic.

"But you also end in blood and grim-fated Greeks!" said the tallest tale, who was SO sick of being called a tall-tale as he clearly featured not oxen, or guns, and unlike every other tall tale was not divided up like a butchers plaything and rudely inserted into grade-school "reader" compilations.

"Yes but at least I don't end with 'Happily ever after.'"

"I vote you take out your chest and divide your nose in three so we may all share it," said the sad tale.

"Yes, I vote that way too!" said the tallest fairytale. This was a common occurrence, as the two both ended the same and were thus a majority in a democratic system. However, it should be dually noted that the wise tale and the sad tale applied for the same secretarial job at law firm, and despite the fact that the sad tale had two years' work experience, the wise tale got the job. The wise tale knew the truth on this matter, while the tall tale assumed it was because the wise tale was more chesty than the sad tale.

"Sadly I divided my nose in equal dinosaur shapes," said the tale that was wise and was filled with powder and lame and an aggregate. This combination was good for filling the two-thirds gap of a missing nose and is a trade secret among the Amish and plastic surgeons. The other two tales left their piece of nose to rot in their pockets, as they were only interested in the chest and the treasure. Though they had no share in the treasure-chest, it was out and for all to see. This treasure bathed the Happily-ever-after-ists in a cleansing radiance that put them on a plane of pure enlightenment. While riding coach with the Dalai Lama there was an engine failure and a light came on, and the pilot indicated that the plan of pure enlightenment had exceeded the weight capacity by two-thirds of a nose. The plane crashed in Kentucky and there were no survivors.

The moral of the story is that a minority usually precedes legislation, and legislation is just another word for rules.

The End

****

T-t

Tommy tucker talked to two turkeys (though turtles think ten times their thoughts). Tom told them T-t truths till the time tolled twelve, Thursday the twentieth. Then they trotted through the teeming thickets. These tall thickets tickled their three-toed talons. This tortuous tactile texture tore the turkeys' tears through toughness, though Thomas thought that these tears traced terrific trails (though the trails took taproots to town two Tuesdays to tomorrow).

"Topaz-tower tap-dance time!" Tommy trumpeted, then Teddy, Timmy, Trixie, Tommy and Tony, (the T-t's) tap-danced, to the tower's top tier (though ten thousand tiptoed two taps to their three, three to their two-tiled trilobite tanks.). The ten thousand tapers' trilobite tanks trebucheted tomahawk torpedoes that took to the taerosphere, then toppled the tower.

That's that

****

Under-the-Butterknife

Thin smiley lips said the words, "My name is Ernesto." They (the lips) were sharp to kiss and hinged off the top like a door of blades, fashioned and crated on a runway to fire into the body of an innocent head like ruthless executioners. These words, "My name is Ernesto," were not said to me. Rather, they were delivered to me. I was alone, quiet, clean, and in a rocker that resides in an attic, when an invisible English gentleman came in through the window and asked for my seat. I politely and hospitably moved to the edge of my bed. We ate and drank our fill and enjoyed casual conversation. When I delved into my latest shipwreck voyage, I began by mentioning that I had multiplied my father's estate four-fold, and that this folding of states was the benefit of an investment I made in sea dogs with horsemen. Oddly enough, this triggered the Englishman to interrupt. This is something completely uncharacteristic of a gentleman, as it is very rough conversationally.

"That reminds me old chap," said the invisible man in a rocker. "I came to tell you about Ernesto. He is made of dogs." It was at this moment I knew Ernesto was coming to kill me and that he was made of dogs. I explained how shocking this was to the gentleman, but he had vanished (which was a long awkward silence because he was invisible in the first place).

I had to reach a sacred land, a land where I would be safe from Ernesto. In frantic, rapid pacing I uncovered the apparent trap door that this attic had to a tunnel that was safe passage to land called Under-the-Butterknife. I took refuge beneath the sand and crawled into the thin darkness, which soon became a cool blue wide darkness. In the widened room I came across a man covered in blood and certain sadness.

"Where is Under-the-Butterknife?" I asked this round man of olive skin and gold teeth.

"My wife has cheated on me with a cheetah," confessed the man (truth be told this was his fault as he drew her attention to the fact that there was a cheetah in their room while they slept, despite her immediate disbelief). "So I have cut off their limbs and then their heads, tossed them over a wall, and will now be on my way to find a virgin, or another man's wife unattended." This did not at all answer the question I had asked but rather ones I was thinking of in reference to his appearance.

"Besides a woman who has what all unfaithful women deserve, what is on the other side of that wall?" I asked. The man walked away, unhelpful and determined to find his brother's wife, who was no doubt engaged with many a partner disguised as other females or bushes in the garden.

I rambled into the way by which the man came and found a wall. The wall was guarded by a refrigerator. The refrigerator was of a brand that prided itself on guarding milk with a complex keypad of letters. I laughed like a man who knew it would be his last laugh and correctly guessed the combination was the word ERNESTO, hopeful that this would be a door to Under-the-Butterknife.

The very man I was trying to escape. Inside was a mirror, and for the first time I saw that I was old and balding, red in the eyes, yellow in the teeth, with thin lips and a plastic red ball that held precious like the true brute.

The End

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The Eternal Flame (based on a true story)

Back in the day there were people. The people wanted to do stuff. But when you just have people, things are very disorganized. So people put a small group of individuals, who were thought at the time to be very selfless, in charge of money. These people were Dicks, but because they have money, and money is very influential, the Dicks made everyone call them Richards, which was then just shortened to Rich people or "the Rich." The Rich were so busy with money that they never did stuff that people want to do. So they paid other people to do stuff.

One of the best things the Rich ever paid real people to do was to explore. These people were called explorers. The explorers were trained to climb mountains, and were then commissioned to explore the signatures of Abraham Lincoln, Adolph Hitler, and Muhammad Gandhi. The rich wanted the explorers to find a way to make more money. The explorers went on their trip, and this is their travel log.

Lincoln Obsrvtn

L is very large and was a rough start to journey. Our geologist and graphologist noted that all the letters were very tall and straight up and down. This indicates desperate aspirations and the independent thought that masterminded the platypus.

39 days in, a pack of wild carmello candy bars has begun following us, we think that if we sell them our soul so that we can buy them we will be free of this annoyance.

The end of the n shoots way out and indicates assertion.

Hitler

All letters that have formed the Ridge know as ALHTR seem to be falling off the line. This indicates instability.

The team is losing moral, we are currently lost; all these letters look the same and are pressed in deep like a tense canyon. This would be fine, but team-leader, naturalist and underwater film maker John Stoneman persist in making cardboard cut outs and thrusting them at team members (this is very unscientific).

We hear fireworks and a faint singing in the distance.

Gandhi

We are calling in for air support, and the air is too thin to support anything besides physiological champions and people who have the ability to move very slowly and drink lots of water.

The letters are similar to Lincoln's but there is more of an even meter and even more discrepancy between low letters, indicative of introversion or extroversion and high letters indicating imagination and aspiration.

We have lost a great number of men

Upon receiving this information, the Rich used it to manufacture crap and exploit desperate populations. Also, there was an eternal flame erected to the veterans of this exploration, but after two weeks the cost of natural gas skyrocketed and it was put out.

Finish

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Destructive Wave forms

That was too slow to bee seen with the naked eye. Many clothed eyes caught a glimps of That and put That into a clear plastic shoe box.

"What shall we do with That?" Asked the right clothed eye dressed in electric green flamingo boots.

"Paint arrows around That and hope there is not too much static interference." Replied the left green eye, wearing last years little black dress. Static interference could have drown That, as many before this one. When asked why, the static interference said it was just trying to follow directions, which is why the eye decided some arrows in a round circle would be sufficient directions.

Confined in a plastic shoebox surrounded by a circle of arrows designed to keep the static directed forever, That feared the worst. Sure as the fear came true a recycled materials collection agency picked That up, mistaking the box for a recycle bin. That was carted back to the recycle center where its particles were stripped and unsuccessfully forced into photons intended for new light. That had caused such a production line malfunction that the recycling company brought in their top engineers to fix the problem.

"I here we go." Said the top engineer tightening a loose washer on the problem. The problem then assed That as never having particles in the first place, and it was one of the few things they could not recycle. Therefore That must be destroyed.

The Human resources department spent the next fifteen months posting on craigslist, indeed, and monster in an attempt to find someone who could truly destroy That. Eventually a successful candidate was interviewed.

"So how do you destroy it?" Asked the hiring manager in the job interview.

"You drown it." Said the Static Interference.

The End

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.....shladies

She was a Bar fly stuck to the stool, and he was a drunk who couldn't remember if he was hitting on her or her burn-out girlfriend, so he ended all his lines with a slurred pause and "Ladies"

"What?" said the irritated burn-out friend, with her hair all perfectly feathered (really this was just in the front, and the back was all trashed with hairspray and matted down like a brillo pad.

"I have. A rat's nest at home," said the drunk, "ladies." This was a pickup line that had worked in the past, but now was not the time and it was supposed to be 'bird's nest.'

"Do you need this?" said the bar fly, gesturing to David Bowie, whom she kept in her purse.

"Not yet" said the burn-out.

"I have, I have I have. My sister she works with dolphins at the. The LA zoo..." This was a lie that had worked- "ladies"- for the drunk in the past, and this time it was a flawless bait, and they bit.

"Gross."

"Really!" said an entranced burn-out who thought he said Harley.

"Yeah, wanna see it?" and the drunk began to undo his pants, as he had a tattoo of himself playing with baby panthers on his inner thy.

"Wow!"

"Now!" shouted the burn-out. Before they could try and make out the ink drawing thought layers of questionably damp leg-hair, the bar fly laid several hundred eggs (as this is what flies do in trash pits like this and on the floor of Toyota Tercels belonging to young men). The eggs hatched into a pile of maggots, long after the fly had died and the burn-out left. But when they did, the drunk was there at his post with a line that would surely rob the cradle.

The End

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Spoiler Alert

So some seals stole a yacht. They partied until all the booze was gone and then the bottle became their source of entertainment. They filled the bottom with seawater and then shook it to make a sound. King Poseidon liked this sound and the Greek alphabet, so he fused the two together, and this is where the ideals upon which most college frat parties are centered. Where they are not centered is on a small green screen that transports old men and pregnant women to on-location locations so that the world swallows another placebo of security. But why would any one care.

"Well I care."

"And why do you care?"

"Cuz I hate parties and need to be as far from their attention as possible, and if seals, yachts, and bottles are where all the cool kids hang out, then keep me far from blue and green Ziploc bags, rap videos, and Porgy Tire Biter's girl friend."

"I can't do any of those things because the items on that list are everywhere." And while they were everywhere they took some pictures to show those who aren't everywhere, and picked up a snow globe in the gift shop.

"Well, then I'll just make sure to be nowhere." This is an extremely difficult task, as Wyoming and Nebraska were already having an identity crisis about who was the real nowhere. It is actually a big mess with janitors and lawyers working side by side to clear up the matter, so as you can guess being nowhere was taken out of the picture. When nowhere got to out-of-the-picture they bumped into some seals (who at this stage in the game are business associates with "the items" and parties that are everywhere), so this whole process started over again. Now a hole process takes a few shovels and very determined actor aspiring to be in transformers I and II as well as play Dito in an Indy film similar to '81/2.'

"A very confusing picture, that '81/2' was, what with making reference to a tap-dancing sailor and the big circle at the end." And that is how some seals ruined the ending of the movie for me.

The End

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The Human Volcano

I trucked across the desert in a Chevy Band-Aid box, behind the linen closet. It was tough, but all the tough guys had been blow up in a tank by a child trapped in a man's body. In the desert there were piles and piles of middle school students, all smelling the air of adult supervision. It was amidst these bodies and blankets that I met the human volcano.

"How did this happen to you?"

"It happens all the time," smiled the volcano man, "it's part of my allergies."

'Can we better this situation?' was written on his knuckles, with a pocketknife.

"Some teenagers came to play kissy-face up here, and when I was done with the card game I saw that they had carved that into me." Feeling pity and hungry I set up a table and some soft sitting pads (which also double as napping pads when there are dinosaurs to be napped) so that I may make him some beans as a human sacrifice. I was so foolish, I had left my hat at home and would need to call my agent and ask him to get it for me. This whole dinner would be so stressful without it. The volcano man understood. So we watched the ball drop off the horizon 2000 miles and 4hrs in the future and at 9pm we threw out hands in the air and said, "Happy New Year." This was followed by driving to a car rental outlet about 2hrs away and stealing several of their free tourist attraction pamphlets.

"I was looking at this one, and look at this" said the volcano, now more boy than man.

"I had no idea you were so immature." And in his hand the paper read 'pen's cave' in a font such that at first one invariably mistakes it for 'penis cave' (which is only an attraction to masochists and couples that share facial disfigurations).

Moral of the story: having all the power of a volcano doesn't make you a man.

The End

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Day jobs

Some time before the winter of 1950, the singer (he) chopper away (figuratively).

"This is all wrong," said the singer to the composer, "these notes are all flat."

And the composer (she) shrugged and slumped down on a bed of moss (literally).

"I think you are missing the point," she said.

"Yes, many points are missing. There needs to be many more sharps."

"No, if you would just get the point of the piece, then it would be sharp and we could chop down this tree." Music people (in general) also must have day jobs, and these two were lumberjacks, and some are pancakes. The singer was correct; sharps would be able to chop down a tree, and the flats were just making a dull indent.

Christmas was ruined by a stubborn composer. There was no tree on Christmas morning, so instead Santa just threw all the presents into a wet sock and went around clubbing hoochies. Santa is very conservative, and for a long time wished that his authority were over people who were naughty and not children. There were many fewer naughty children receiving soft coal than good children (who like all good 1950's children wanted lead) and the (meatloaf!) hoochies didn't stand a chance.

"Ouch!" said the hoochies.

The cops showed up and asked the hoochies to fill out a Jaywalking form as though it were a criminal report.

"Hoochies, please put on some real clothes," said cops. Santa was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, after lying a really obvious lie.

"A Puerto Rican named Ernie gave me this car."

He was ordered to serve consecutive sentences for each hoochie incident, which adds up the rest of Santa's natural life. Being that Santa is immortal you can only imagine how many plus-sized-booty-shorts-wearing hoochies he beat down. There are no chimneys in the big house, and so because of two stupid musical people, all parents have to buy presents and put Santa's name on them.

Moral of the story: Santa does exist.

The End

****

The Office.

Sometimes I went walking, and where I went walking there was fire, and my mother wrestled that fire. So did my grandmother, but they were just trying to keep it from all the leaves that where everywhere, because fire and leaves get so rude when they get together, what with throwing eggs about, making condescending remarks, and saying inappropriate things as nice girls walk by. The fire and I talked and played a few games of 'Connect Four' (I won all of them) and the leaves ended up feeling left out, so my plan to make the leaves leave went perfectly. As soon as the janitor that brushes such things away got the last one out, I handed the fire its pink slip. It gots its things from its pit and went back to move in with its parents.

This is why I hate working in management. I wanted my old job back, but the union said there were too many photographers as it was, and if I wanted to be demoted there was a position that had just opened up in the Circle of Stones Dept., and "Did I have any experience with ghost stories or s'mores?" I certainly hadn't the capacity to fill those shoes and knew it. Knowing this made me nervous and awkward. I have, ever since I was a child, been a victim of a socially debilitating dysfunction where I spontaneously turn into a monster truck when I am in an awkward situation, (current research indicates it is a psychological disorder that is similar in nature to turrets where the victim obsesses about the only thing that could make the situation more awkward: in my case... turning into a monster truck). I morphed into a green flat-bed with six foot wheels and turfed those flying magic carpets (as my superiors in the union were a pair of flying magic carpets). While driving on them, they took off and we all ended up in Kingston Jamaica.

This incident was put into my file and came up during my quarterly review. After presenting medical documentation of my condition, special consideration was taken into further meetings, and I had a holiday removed from my two weeks' paid vacation for the time in Jamaica.

The End

****

The 2009 Olympics

There was once a demon of the meat alcove. This demon had been around since shortly after the pre-construction of the alcove, when the Native Americans and elderly Chinese were moved because they were taking up the space needed for this alcove (which at the time was thought to bring pride to the nation and be a spectacle of international respect). Those that were moved were taken to a "care facility," which was really a media friendly term for forced labor camp, where after 30 years a man named Snake would stage an escape so the guards could shoot down all those that joined him. This is undoubtedly evil, and since the meat alcove was built on evil, it needed a demon.

Now, despite all the supernatural horrors of a demon, it is a part of nature, and one thing that is universally true in nature is that there is gossip. The plants loved to gossip, and they gossiped that there was a new meat demon, and that all things made of meat were candidates for possession and possibly a rude and extended visit, in which their hospitality was exploited and all the wine would be gone.

"The pansies say that the demon is very well endowed," gossiped the morning glories.

It is also well know that most animals don't speak plant, and those that do know better than to trust rumors spread by brainless plants (plants are very sensitive about their lack of brains, as they are often taken advantage of in real-estate deals).

"I may be possessed by a meat demon!" quacked the duck. Oh, ducks are the exception in that they all speak plant and are very gullible.

"Stop talking to yourself," quacked another duck, "I never quack to myself. People think it is cute." Just then that duck received a letter to inform him that he would be having an unexpected visitor for a long period of time, and to please stock wine.

"I will most certainly talk to myself," said the first duck. And so word in nature spread quickly that any duck that didn't talk to itself was at risk for the meat alcove demon. And this is why ducks quack to themselves all day long.

Then End

****

The Second Thought

Back in a time before deliverymen brought, and aliens stole, the Internet, motorcycles were an afterthought. The first thought before motorcycles was thought by an animal, and was obviously the first animal with a brain. This thought was, "My head hurts," as anyone who has learned a great deal more than they are used to learning can attest is true.

This animal was named Corn, as there were only plants around at the time to be named after, and it was a like a plant but different. He was a lazy plant that found it easier to just steal other plants' food rather than make his own. Corn continued to steal other plants' food until he never made his own. For the most part this was frowned upon, but plants figured, "It's just a fad," and so they turned a blind eye (later to be known as potato eyes because they don't see). A major contribution to the unanimous decision to turn a blind eye is that plant don't have nerves: they back down immediately in any confrontation and are often intimidated into becoming paper or something else unnatural that makes them feel ashamed.

But as we learned, Corn had a nerve. Corn thought things, and because Corn had nerves he also felt things. Like heat. Plants had always worked well with light, who informed them about heat, and for the most part as long as there was plenty of water they all got along, but they never felt heat.

Corn could feel heat, and liked it very much. The plants thought this whole feeling and thinking business to be a very inappropriate addition to living, and that one should be content simply to pass on his genes and make his own food (research has since determined that the English are the animal family most directly related to plants). So in any case, Corn went around feeling heat. Corn would feel as much heat as he could. Heat was not used to being felt and was not sure how to react. Like Plants, heat has no brain, and so it decided that if it were to excrete a sweet taste whenever it was being felt, because surely "This would be a good response," thought heat. From then on, animals indulged in feeling heat, poking it and licking the sweet taste.

One day when a group of fairies was poking the hot engine of a motorcycle, owned by the Duke of Fairmont (as motorcycles were now thought of and used in place of the rickshaw), they poked too hard and broke it.

"Ow, that does it! You will regret this, you fairies!" shouted the angry Duke. He then dreamed up a plan to make sure that no one would poke a motorcycle engine ever again.

"I will have heat over this afternoon," said the Duke (who was good friends with heat, as they played squash occasionally and had a mutual respect for anyone in an unrelated industry).

"And while he is here we will have a talk about this sweet taste of his," dictated the duke to his stenographer. The Duke had Heat over for a slumber party, and after a pillow fight suggested (at sword point) that Heat change so that when animals felt Heat they would experience terrible pain. Heat agreed and then promptly turned the Duke into a pair of slacks by having some of his boys run the Duke through a textile mill. Heat is deeply entrenched in the Prussian mafia and is not someone to be held a sword point. However, Heat is honorable and changed so that when animals felt him they would experience pain. Even though all animals feel pain when they touch a lot of heat, the sweet taste is deeply imbedded at the root of our nerves.

And this is why when you burn yourself you real quick put your finger in your mouth.

The End

****

Cosmo

All across the afterlife errors were being systematically processed and integrated into a new tube of digestible sleeze. The tube of errors was reviews in a popular magazine that is received quarterly by and Burmese gentlemen. The review was place next to the toilet and read when the time was right.

"Call it." Said the Burmese gentlemen, flipping a coin. Time then pulled out its cell phone and had a brief mid air conversation with the coin.

"Butter." Said Time, and sure enough it was right. This meant the gentlemen could read his article.

This review is designed to enlighten the reader and persuade

the reader to make small sacrifices toward the walls in their

home. The error tube is loaded. The error tube is digestible.

The error tube sleeps roughly seventy-seven hours a day. If

you are not a coward you will eat an error tube like you are

King Arthur and it is the holy grail.

"I wish I could take a questionnaire to find out if I am a coward." Said the Burmese man feeling enlightened. He then built a small alter and out of laundry lint, and prison tipped markers. On this alter he made living sacrifices (mostly living anyways). However, the gentlemen was not a professional and so when his sacrifices crossed into the afterlife many were riddled with errors, and others were errors exclusivly.

The End

****

Leave

Sometimes a monkey eats ice crème and sits in the fabric of love, while the three chosen 12 ask inane questions and are kind of blind to what is right in front of them (to be fair, what was right in front of them was very tricky and with thee crème was preoccupied). So, no wait. The Monkey with a secret and one of thee three chosen 12 all went to sleep, but on the way back to sleep encountered a totem pole, full of gears.

"What do we do?" asked the Monkey, and the 12 shrugged. So as he was a monkey and monkey see monkey do, he stacked the 12 so that they towered like a totem pole in which the lowest log is a dog (this is the same one that ran my money for all it was worth and then split without breathing or leaving a worksheet, spread sheet, or bed sheet, thus making him a dog). Well, you were supposin' that the chosen 12 were too heavy for such a lowly one (or dog as it were) and fell with open arms.

"That was worse than frozen snot in my nose, with little or no regard for all the hard work I had put into that trip to the Zoo," chuckled the totem pole.

"Thanks for not totally blowing me off I guess," thought the 12.

"I will still take that into consideration," replied the Monkey with a secret. So the totem pole let them go past (Even though it hadn't meant to stop them but rather take a candid picture of a hawk that had just swooped in front of it with its camera phone) and then descended into a stereotypical rant about Atlantis and Edger Casey. When the morning joggers finally lifted the totem pole out of its rant, its chant ended with, "And the masses sit at home when they are sick of working and pretend to be sick. But Still and illness will leave you mumbling and confused, in a place where ants crawl up a rainbow into the ceiling, with that feeling for at least 3 days, during which time friends who make honey (often called bees) curse loudly when they hear the news that that ship has sailed away."

Then the Monkey woke up, struck by the notion that all these events were its dream and so it may seem that it was time to make that dream come true. He conveyed this idea to the 12, who in-fact had already "lived the dream," and most of them were still in deep REM sleep.

"I am reliving all that now," replied the chosen 12. But the monkey wasn't and wouldn't. He would only say he did it to rhyme with the rhetoric he came up with while watching a mixture of pus, blood and curses run with water. Because his secrets are ternal-in his rhymes so many times.

Steve

****

Rock et

With an apple in one hand and onion rings in the other the lump grew, and ate hard. There was no time to work or play, only grow and eat.

"I can't believe her." Said the lump. "She,-how and I gonna get what I gotta do done when she ain't even got it clean?" She didn't really make any sense; she just wanted to have attention because as a child her mom didn't want to be one and so wasn't much of one.

"Why you always up on me?" Said the lump's mom.

In any case the lump grew and soon it was time to go to the store. To go to the store, she recruited her friend with a car, and the three of them sat in a car: the Lump, the crack merchant, and the letter G. Each of them had a popular icon that they had received from the Beareotype at birth, and the three had hugged their icons ever since their 12th or 13th birthday (as it was at that age that they had to go to the bureau of Identifications to license their ID). The icons were beautiful, very popular, and most importantly golden. The merchant sat in the driver's seat holding a popcorn popper and said, "I need to get this fixed."

"Ay, stop at the AutoZone, I need to get mine straight." Said the G. So they went to the store to return the popper and get the G's straight. They all piled out at the store, and swaggered across the parking lot. Before they did this they were in their car, listening loudly and broadcasting bass frequencies.

"Could you please help me?" said the Screwdriver-merman, who was at the counter at Auto-Zone in front of the G in line. "Well, I have a 92 Honda accord, and it is making a weird grinding sound when I turn." The tool was assisted, and now the G stepped up and made some intimidating looks at the elderly worker (who remained unfazed, as he was incapable of taking anyone who was 33 and dress like they were 17 seriously).

"Yeah." And the G let a long pause to hold his hands like he was going to crack his knuckles and shifted his weight, "It's a caddy. 82."

"You need a break light?" asked the old worker, and the G bobbed his head back slightly.

At the store, the Lump sat on a wooden bench outside the Lens Crafters while the Crack merchant exchanged the popcorn maker at the customer service department. Later they had some popcorn, and the Lump felt a pain. All three went to the doctor who determined that the Lump's body had started to reject his false icon.

"What you mean false icon?" said the Lump.

"Are you from the Hollywood area originally?" asked the Doctor. The doctor explained that often Beareotypes at facilities with inadequate coverage would create false icons to pacify the newborns from weaker economic background. Then seeing how offended the three were, the doctor also included that, really, many people from all economic backgrounds can live with false icons, and that he himself has a son who is suffering from one. He then plucked the false icon from the merchant and with a pen made a small scratch on the surface to reveal a core of hollow underneath the gold paint.

"You will have to find a way to live on your own, or these false icons will cause you more problems, and may leave you seriously handicapped later in life."

The End

****

Of the Third Kind

She sat in the garden tending her flowers. Her beautiful baby lay out on blanket enjoying the summer air and trying very hard to reach the leaves that looked to be very soft far in the trees above. The mother was Mary, and so was her husband (In Dublin the name Mary can be a guy's name). They had one beautiful child, and they were surrounded by others all the time.

"How come you never had more kids?" asked the neighbors and loved ones.

"We can't," replied Mary. And being that they had a child (Mary Jr), everyone one assumed that something had happened, some accident. The neighbors and loved ones assumed correctly and were wrong at the same time. Mary and Mary were the only ones besides others who knew the truth was much worse than anyone could have known.

Mary and Mary met at an X-files convention after they were both speakers at the "The Real Close Encounters" forum. They were both selected to be speakers as they were strangers with similar encounter stories and beliefs. As a child Mary had fallen in love with the films about friendly alien encounters, and was sure that they would all end with an intergalactic jam session (as music is a universal language that only gets confused and limited when it comes to conventional western notation). Her then-future husband Mary had been working on contacting the aliens.

"Lets have a baby," said her husband after they were married. In time, Mary's work on extraterrestrial communication advanced, until one day he made a break-through. He announced that the others were not only on their way, but they had been here a long time, completely invisible.

"So when do we get to see'em?" asked Mary.

"Well, they have indicated that they have been making their selection and that we look like ours will last the longest afterward." This left Mary blind with excitement.

"They say we will know when they have visited."

That night Mary and Mary woke up to see semi-invisible aliens standing over them. The aliens said nothing. They simply picked the Marys, up turned them upside down, removed their clothes, and pruned off their genitalia. This was very painful, and was done as though it were a matter of course. Now discarded and among the things they could see, they saw their genitalia put with an arrangement of other genitals and tied with a ribbon around them. The arrangement was then semi-submerged in a container of blood-like fluid that seemed to sustain them.

Mary Jr. rolled off the blanket and into the flower bed (as her goal was now to nab some purple snap dragons). Lifting Mary Jr. in the air, the baby managed to get a handful of the purple flowers and then as (many babies do) motioned to her mother as though to share them. Mary just looked at the flower bead and whispered.,

"I feel your pain."

The End

****

Some

Some-time-ago was boring, and in an effort to make itself more interesting, it decided to get together with Some-one-else and make something. So Some-time-ago and Some-one-else sat up all night in the basket room, dreaming and building, drawing up plans and throwing out materials. In the morning, Some-thing-to-behold came by Some-time-ago's house.

"Have you seen my wife?" asked Some-thing-to-behold.

"Why, yes, she is right behind you," answered Some-one-else, and so she was.

"Hello, you two," said Some-time-ago, "Come in and see what Some-one-else and I have been working on." So they all went to the basket room to see the thing that the two had made together.

"What is it?" asked Some-thing-to-be-held.

"It is a pot of tricks!" replied Some-one-else sarcastically, and Some-time-ago chuckled.

"Actually, it is something," said Some-time-ago.

"Wow," said the husband and wife in a very forced tone. After brief small talk and playing of guitar marbles, the couple left Some-time-ago and Some-one-else to keep working on something. On their way back to the rickshaw, they began talking in low voices.

"Could Some-time-ago be anymore boring?" said Some-thing-to-behold.

"Not if he tried. Oh and when they showed us something! Yes, that was very boring indeed." They then jumped up and down on the seat of the rickshaw, and rocks popped out of the back and flew away (but that is another story).

"Yes, something was boring, and that made it clear that Some-time-ago had done all the work, and that Some-one-else was just there because he was promised a pizza."

"Yes, he always does that." Replied his wife. "You know, despite how lame something was, it did make me want to try and make."

"Well, what should we make?" Said Some-thing-to-behold.

"I don't know, but lets both work on it so that it is not too much like just one of us."

"Agreed." And they smiled as their little craft cruised down the donkey path into the battlefield (as they lived in a nice split level on the 3rd floor of a War zone). The next morning the two went to the kitchen and got some nutrients, candles, axioms, and a big pot to mix it all in. They put all the right ingredients together, and using an old recipe that Something-to-be-held's grandmother passed down, put it in the oven to incubate at 33˚C for a few.

"How long?" he asked

"I will know when it is done," she replied. Well, it just so happened that in addition to making, Something-to-behold and Something-to-be-held were looking to find Some-where-to-belong, and that they had just had a messenger pigeon leave word that he had been taken captive by a militia, and had sent for them. This message sent them on a specific quest: to retrieve the lion of riches so that the Origami-army may end the War zone. Well, this wasn't anything they hadn't done before; last time it turned out to be a nine-month-long pyramid scam that they got out of due to a forgiveness clause in their life insurance policy (this time was no exception, shame on them). They found Some-where-to-belong, and nine months later they arrived at the War zone airport, where Some-time-ago was waiting to pick them up.

"I have a surprise for you," said Some-time-ago, "it is in the rumble seat." So they flipped open the rumble seat of his boring 1925 Deuzenberg.

"It's a baby!" shouted Something-to-be-held.

"Yep, found him in your oven this morning," chuckled Some-time-ago.

"Oh my god! The thing we were making. I totally forgot," said Some-thing-to-be-held. " I didn't think we would make this!"

"Well, it makes sense," said Something-to-behold closing the rumble seat, "a baby is equally Something-to-behold and Something-to-be-held."

Then End

****

Along with Cockroaches

Once upon a time, on landscape brazen with a concoction of franchises and strip-malls, a dog-eared straggler trod along unpaved sidewalks. In late summer, the fields of wild grass began their ascent through a series of well formed cracks in the abandoned parking lot of a half decomposed mall (the other half of the mall still sold the standard butterfly knives, overpriced crap, and Target merchandise, with card tables set out front of each store so that shoplifters wouldn't have to work so hard). The walker's boots were worn thin, and his gaze remained fixed on his path, deviating only to acknowledge a semi truck with a flatbed carrying 3 military hummers.

How long was the time from which a meal had last been eaten? Stale saltines and syrup thick coffee, if you can count that. Just after passing the point of no return, he stopped to get a direction from a man standing under a bridge with his back to the road.

"Where are you trying to go?" asked the vagabond, focusing on the stolen debit card he was so carefully weeing on. The traveler pulled some over-the-counter antihistamines from his bag and offered them to the man, who had finished up.

"Just up that way, another two lights up on the right," he said, snatching the pills and popping 5 in his mouth, caring for each one like candy. The lights didn't 'light;' they simply served as landmarks, and stood high among fallen cables, lamp posts, and every other pole that had settled into the ground at an odd and unique angle.

In the grocery store, the carts waited patiently in their corrals for the return of civilization, and none of the lines lit up indicating service. The food and clothing had all been looted (this was an assumption the traveler made, as he never went in any further than the exit door). Now, "17 Again" was still under new releases, but he had been meaning to rent "Adventureland," but actually he hated "superbad," and this was the same group of-

"OOoo," said the traveler, quickly selecting "Star trek" and hitting the proceed-to-checkout button on the redbox screen.

The sun was falling down again, though it seemed like it had just managed to lift itself up. There was a long road home, and when he got there he would have to revive the fire a bit and put some water on to boil. His mouth wet as he thought of a delicious golden potato dinner and a fresh bag of microwave popcorn with the movie tonight.

The End

****

The Chosen One

The carpenter's beard was the finest anyone had ever tasted, including the fiddler. The fiddler worked as a fiddle in the tavern back in the old country, and having such an upbeat and unsung life (as fiddles have a very hollow existence), he found it necessary to sample all the good things that were around him.

"Get this python off of me," said the fiddler, and the boa constrictor limped off, hurt both that the fiddler didn't remember its name and that the fiddler didn't consider the boa one of the good things, as he very clearly fit the "around you" qualification for being sampled. He slithered back to his lair where he had several mice and damsels chained to rocks. The boa curled up in his pine needle bed and thought of all the worst things possible.

"I am smiling!" announced the boa's internal monologue, as this realization was a very recent one for him, "why, how silly of me to think I was good."

So, the next morning the Boa got a shower, coffee, oatmeal, and headed off to work. As part of his commute he had to slither through a tollbooth (as he had a job painting bridges, and every time you cross a bridge you must pay the toll).

"How are you?" asked the man in the booth.

"Not good," replied the Boa.

"Why is that?" This question blew the boa's mind, because he had never concerned himself with why he was the way he was (which is not surprising, considering only thirty-three percent of people, let alone boa-constrictors, stop to think about why they do the things they do). The armed guards that are on all bridges and the man in the booth mistook the boa-constrictor's realization of his destiny as being grogginess from a night of celebrating at his brother's bachelor party (which was last night, and they had very wrongfully assumed that the boa and his brother were on good terms).

"Whan... Whan... whan...!" said an alarm going off.

"It's him!" yelled the armed guards, as the man in the booth and the snake got into a doorway and assumed the fetal position (as regular bridge workers, they were trained on how to respond to the coming of the chosen one).

"Don't let him get to the bridge!" shouted the guards opening fire on a calico cat. The cat had no clue it was the chosen one and dashed full speed away from the bullets (fortunately for the cat, bridge guards are of the lowest quality and receive all of their marksmen training from storm troopers).

"You were always good to me," said the man to the snake, as the chosen one ran past, followed by a barrage of randomized bullets. In texts of old, such as the Koran, old testament, and more recently a physicist, it is written that when the chosen one and the bridge are as one (when he is on the bridge), the bridge will collapse. In a moment of union between the bridge and its chosen one, the cat's natural resonance created complimentary waves with the natural resonance of the bridge, pushing it beyond the limits of stress and strain for which it was engineered. This caused the inevitable collapse, and so the prophecy was fulfilled.

Moral of the story: Destiny comes to us all.

The End

****

Borton Ave. (based on a true story)

Once a year there is a great and spectacular parade. People of the neighborhood who had seen this parade all gathered at the clubbing club to discuss the parade.

"Ah yes," said the baby-seal-clubber "I remember the year that Optimus Prime was in the parade. It was very impressive, but I think the route was too strenuous for him. His leg seemed to be falling off by the end."

"It can't be that strenuous; I have seen a legion of wheelchairs wheeling the route," Added the bar-hopper. "Was that the same year that they had a five hundred foot flag and were dragging the liberty bell?"

"No!" said the golfer, "the Liberty bell was the same year that they shrunk Mount Rushmore. The wheelchairs were the same year as the Uncle-Sam-Chinese-dragon-voodoo-mask." And the golfer was correct, as he had a perfect memory for useless and unimportant details (this can be verified at anytime if one simply asks him to summarize _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ ).

"I like all the music," said the baby-seal-clubber, "except the year that they had Afroman, that was awful." And they all agreed that Afroman was very self-centered and should have given his former producer, Po-boy, a fair cut of his one lousy hit record.

"Well, remember about two years ago when the parade came through my back yard?" said a wooden club, "that young man fell off the secret box wearing safety goggles, a blue jump suit, and had a quarter of a water melon in each hand. AND THEN! He blew up!"

Just then, the parade came by, headed by a flying V of Razor scooters, driven by what appeared to be giant top hats with arms and legs. A group of tap dancers with mohawks followed the V. Next were paper tanks waging tiny fake wars with the sparkling parachutes being fired from cannons. Many of the clubbers ran inside to get their cameras, but once they were inside saw that some weird oil was leaking out of the refrigerator, so they quickly pulled the refrigerator out, and tried to mop up the mess and repair the leak using a tomato paste can. By the time they were finished, the parade was nearly over.

"I don't deserve this!" said the baby-seal-clubber, and truth be told, he didn't. His occupation was frowned upon by popular culture, due to a general misunderstanding of intent. Demons will often inhabit the weakest, most defenseless living things, and as a result many of the demons through out history have gained access to this realm through baby seals.

At the very end of the parade was a typical float carrying the Handball champion of the world. He waved drunkenly, and proceeded to light the many defective rockets that lay at his feet, picking some of them up and hurling them into the air and at little girls driving a power wheels. Soon the entire scene fell into chaos. The club was heading for cover from the many berserker parade participants, and the once well-synchronized music was out of sync and at various tempos. The route and parade continued faster and faster, and middle-aged women fell to their feet and heavily bruised their faces (this is debatably a result of taking self-prescribed pain pills). The four-legged dominos ran circles around the parade, trying desperately to herd the group back into some type of order (as they had been bred to do this in many previous generations).

"WWWWWAAAAAAAIT!" screeched Princess Diana (as her wave is the foundation to every parade) "THE DOGS CAN"T KEEP UP!" And despite the multitude of absurdities that is a part of this parade every year, this over-concern for ankle biters that weren't even supposed to be there in the first place took the prize for the most absurd thing that year. The whole parade and the clubbers stopped and gawked as the princess, laughing at her on the inside. She loaded her dogs into a wagon and began to pull them along (at which point they almost immediately jumped out). Moral of the story: Major appliance maintenance is cheaper than repair.

The End

****

Mr. Pink (based on a true story)

Once upon a time there was a man whose arms were haunted. He would lay awake at night afraid of the nightmares that would grip him and threaten to never let go. The ghosts that resided in his arms were more like foreign roommates than possessive demons. They would whisper cryptically to him.

"I am going to hug you now."

At times he was uncontrollable paralyzed with fear, but as any relationship goes there were times when his haunted arms simply bothered him. They bothered him so much that sometimes he would go for a walk, and that would help to calm him down.

"But my ARMS are haunted," thought the man one time while walking, and noticing that his specters were not invading his privacy. "They should be right here in my arms." And so the next time he noticed his roomies he was at work minding the bellows, and he asked them,

"Where were you this afternoon?"

"You. Were gone." They answered (this was a very typical ghost answer, where there is a lot of the "what-does-that-mean?" game). So the man took this to mean that when he was in a place where he is not normally, that the ghosts couldn't find his arms. This realization made the lips between his mustache (which make pretty much any Caucasian look like and idiot) and his potbelly smile, as he now knew how he could have privacy any time he wanted.

"Why are you an idiot?" asked a phantom in his wrist.

"I am gonna sit here," replied the man, who promptly left the bellows to go for a long walk on his lunch break.

This walking was for a long time a sufficient coping mechanism (till the man was about forty-four). That is, until the Ceiling Scraper decided to join in the haunting (the Ceiling Scraper was very high profile in the neither-world and his presence meant that the man's arms were the new hot thing). As they were now above a comfortable temperature (e.g. hot) and inhabited by a high profile ghost, the man was always sweaty, red-in-the-face, and being hounded by paparazzi trying to get a picture of the Ceiling Scraper at his new haunt. This combination of things lead to months of the man appearing in many unflattering pictures on the cover of super-market tabloids with the headline: "Ceiling Scraper in Mr. Pink's arms." And in some of the tabloids there was an arrow pointed at his potbelly and the word "Pregnant?" As you can imagine, Mr. Pink was driven quite mad by all this, and did the only thing he could. He walked. He walked and he never stopped. He walked day and night, shooing away any ghosts that may have caught on to his walking rout (back and forth across West Market Street, and up and down East Exchange Sreet.). He looked, to many, as though he were talking to himself, and he would stop only for cigarettes and roast beef sandwiches (at Arby's, a place where no on would be caught dead).

"There is something wrong with him," my mother would warn me, watching him enter Arby's with ice sickles on his brow and mustache. "He is not playing by all the same rules as the rest of us, you stay away from him." Night and day I would see Mr. Pink walking with vagrants and bag ladies at an inalterable pace that seemed like he could skip steps. I have come to know this Pink man, though we have never spoken, as I now know that his pace is about three point five miles per hour. Because that is the pace at which I have to walk to hide from my own arms.

The End

****

Pickup lines (based on a true story)

"If you want your crayons to look like markers, then you have to use this kind of crayon," she said, turning around from her circle that would be the middle dot on the 5 face of a die, if this room of kindergarteners were viewed from above.

"..." I said nothing; I was sucked in and would keep this crush for the next ten yrs. I remember the crayon was green because there was a Richard Scary cricket on it, and I thought it appropriate that the crayon-cricket was green.

"Can I read your book?" I asked her, sitting six rows from the front and two seats from the aisle, in a small theater of green seats and poorly painted murals commemorating past plays.

"Which part?" she asked, looking up at a person she called Harry to her friends.

"The whole thing, cover to cover," I said, not Harry, talking about a thick biology textbook.

"Would you really do that?"

FoReVeRiDoL: Hey

Dragonorm: Who is this?

"What's going on with those fish there?" I said, gesturing to her plastic bag containing a Beta fish, and assuming that she must be a bad person. I asked this despite the fact that I was there in an effort to redeem myself for my previous life choices.

"These?" She replied.

"Yeah, what'd you just call them?" She had been talking to her Vietnamese friend, who idolized her tallness as though she were queen of the Asians (thought she was not Asian or a queen).

"Comets?" She said.

"Comets?" I said, trying to perpetuate the conversation.

"Yes, comets." And she now seemed irritated.

"I have never heard them called that." And I was sure I blew it as she turned back around.

I sat alone, having a mental breakdown and desperately folding an origami flower, as it was something to divert my attention and yield a small sense of accomplishment. She sat alone, also having a mental breakdown, and began people watching to ease her mind. She noticed that I was eating alone and doing something interesting. When she saw I was done, she picked up the trash from her meal, and as she walked by said,

"Very nice."

"Thanks," I replied, then she walked away. I moved some books around at the table where I was sitting and saw a fortune from a fortune cookie under one that read,

"Don't be afraid to take a chance on the opportunity of a life time."

"Do you want me to show you how to make one?" I asked her as she made her way back to her seat to collect her belongings.

And they lived happily ever after.

****

The Truth

"Wood grain should always go the same way." This is something that carpenters decided soon after Jesus retired from the business. Many things were changing then, like the water, and the television station. All you had to do back then was turn a knob and there was a new station. Now, you have to fill out request forms, and second applications and appeals. So really, no one changes their station more than three times in their lifetime, and it usually coincides with a career change. One may want to be in the same line of work, but things like early retirement, birthmarks, and failure, tend to cut such ambitions short (as most ambitions are too tall for their own good). But if you have to eat, you have to work - unless you are born into wealth (or poverty, but we will get to that), and then you can be an artist. Not even a good one; you can be a really crappy artist and eventually you may have a stand at a crafts show, displaying poorly made mugs next to people who have legitimately found their own style, making detailed paper cuttings.

"I am a real artist," you may say.

"No, you are lazy and spoiled," replies the voice of truth, and because it is the voice of truth, it can only tell a narrow picture. So narrow that one may liken it to omission of truth, and in that sense the voice of truth is quite dishonest. The truth is that you are lazy and spoiled, but you are a good person and shouldn't have these circumstances of fortune held against you any more intensely than those who are born into poverty and ignorance.

"Shoot them all!" is the way that all the people who fall in the middle between these two extremes feel, as they envy the way playboys live fat with not a care, and the way the poor and ignorant get fat without a care (supported by wealth distribution).

The TRUTH is that black and white make grey, and that grey reins supreme over a world of judgment (and margaritas). So the next time you spy a friend in a state of envy, or an enemy embracing a life of hollow, think to yourself,

"I am glad I am not them," and know that sometimes you are.

The End

****

Sex-offender Update

Late in the summer, on a bay's beach near the evening, a warm breeze tries to take off my jacket and runs up and down the legs of my better half (the ocean breeze was the third thing to be a registered sex offender since the establishment of a national database).

"Do you think the waves are content with their life's accomplishments?" I ask my better half. My better half kicks the sand and then clicks its heels twice.

"Neither do I," I reply, " I mean obviously they have no real thoughts, but I mean they come all the way across the ocean, maybe with the dream of being a Tsunami, or even humbly crashing in big messy froth... and then they just hit the break wall and peter out." I am in a sad mood and am bring my better half down. Then my better half gestures towards the trees that are moving a little bit as the wind non-consensually fondles them, as if to remind me that much of what I think is a matter of my perspective.

"You are probably right," I reply and my better half clicks its heels once. My better half is very insightful, and sometimes wakes up at night with these moments of epiphany. By pointing to the trees it reminded me of one such epiphany: trees move more than people when considered from the perspective of trees. People move great distances at a time, what with their cross-country trips and gymnastic routines, but when they are done they are still. Completely still, sometimes for as many as eight hours at a time. But trees are NEVER still. Trees are always swaying tiny micro fractions of distance, even when the breeze is not having its way with them. My better half thinks that if you were to take all those tiny movements and multiply them times the surface area of a tree over the course of a tree's lifetime, it would show that a tree moves a significantly greater distance than any person.

The sun begins to set, and the well-oiled machine of crab catching is now out, scooping the sand and catching crabs as they went flying into the air.

"Ready to go?" I ask my better half. I use my arms to drag my legless torso on top of my better half, and it rises from its seat. I am balanced on top of it like a villager with a large basket. We follow the path through the beach vegetation to the rickshaw, where I push aside the saw and soldering iron from earlier, and pull out the sewing kit to sutcher us back to imperfection.

The End

****

Frankloidwright

When I saw heaven, it was stereotypical beyond belief. There was a great white building, of elegant frankloidwright architecture. Many of its walls were glass and... and the shape was rectangular with rounded corners, and an indent on the entrance face that seemed to divide it into halves. Between these halves was an open-air suspension that bore an exposed scaffolding-like shape near the top of the thirteen-story tower. I ascended a spiraling marble mountain (in a white limousine with white leather seats) to the door of this building I had never entered. However, I omnisciently knew that everything that brought joy devoid of guilt to life was inside. When I could no longer see heaven, I felt tears well in my eyes, and was filled with desire to go there if only to see it again.

When I saw hell, I didn't even know I was there. I found myself in a frankloidwright ranch-style single story home. There were nice furnishings and a style that indicated the owner had paid an interior decorator to make it look like a magazine. I was alone, and knew that no one was coming. When I tried to leave the house, there was only a swirling black hole on the other side of the front door (despite the quiet suburban front yard visible from the window). When I tried to make a phone call, I was met with strange whispers in reverse and a quiet popping static, like a record player skipping at the end of an album. Then there was an old woman, and I figured out I was in hell (as I now assume this was the devil).

"How did I get here?" I asked.

"Well it wasn't plan A," she answered with a smirk. When I could no longer see hell, I felt a wave of relief, and then dread, knowing that I was there because I did not follow plan A.

The End

****

An Earth Turn

Terribly shadows that do across the night jump striking fear that shake all bravery loose from my grip. Holding in them horrific wonders that only in the eyes of the night can be seen, and how puzzling it is that these same light obscursions could hold a kinship to the same swooning shadows that grace the walls of candle-lit lovers. Projecting love's true touch in silhouettes known only among the two, and as these barriers of luminescence settle unto one another the flickering wax doth itself extinguish returning these figures within the silken black of night's touch.

As night into day doth transition so is the dichotomy of a shadow into its simplicity in day bearing not but more than nuances of little frequency. Growing with the setting of the sun to such a complex being, as the facets of a round night. An eve to counter morn in the flux of an earth turn.

The End

****

Can't wait to get old.

In my detailed capacity for perfectly useless memories dwells sound that once haunted me out of warm and fright filled sleep. Sounds that paint, so bright, the identical quality of a living thing's last calls of life, and the tiny bleating voice of a newborn. Each possessing the same sincerity and desperation. The way the voice commands a desire to be louder but has not the strength to will it.

On the cold night, I heard this sound of a life frozen to death, near enough that I could hear but not find. The shriek of a creature whose life is unpleasantly beyond its control is a sound that has found a deep cavern in my mind where which to echo. Shifting about the cavern walls, it calls my focus away, in a way that brings panic into my heart and forces the beats out of time. The sound is so saturated in purity that it pulls the hearer into its world, casting its unbearable agony into a realm where the entire experience of it is relived in a spike of stirred empathy. And as awful the sound was to carve its place in my memory, it (the sound) was with much more hope than the silence that fell in its place, like a fog sent to collect that life soul.

Among the many memories that cloud my being and at times encumber its growth, these sounds are the sort of pain that I wish to first become ignorant of.

The End

****

Materials & Methods

I have a coping method for when I feel insecure about the security of my home. It involves two kitchen knives, and sometimes a knife and a phone, depending on if I am in the mood to stab the next motherfucker leaving ghost footprints around the corner, or if I want to call the police and let them know I am about to stab the next motherfucker leaving ghost footprints around the corner.

"Hello, police? There is an intruder who didn't realize he was breaking into the home of a man who has been found guilty of felonious assault with a deadly weapon, and he is scared shitless."

If I can't reach the knives, I have either an aluminum bat under my pillow, or I am perched over the wooden banister with two hundred pounds of heavy, ready to crush.

But sometimes that intruder is just my brother. Sneaking back in the house. And these times I am glad that what I have is a coping method and not blood on my hands.

The End

****

Curses

I am cursed to be able to relive all of my most pleasant memories. Though they are not as traumatizing as reliving the undeniably unpleasant, their aftertaste is a long lasting bitterness that is more unpleasant than any traumatic memories for which there is a more direct relief, once the time for being relived is over.

They (pleasant memories) sow seeds of nostalgia that sprout into pink leafy Lilies of desire, whose sweet smell pulls the life out of the present and drives a box of nails through its feet. Keeping life firmly stuck in a past (no matter how recently a past it has become) where its only greenhouse companions are an abashed hatred for your former self and a blinding drive to alter the past that is a single serpent's task of tail consumption.

12-18-07

****

A Letter from Shadow to Intensity

Hello Intensity,

How are you today? You must be tired. You were up all night, because I slept very well. I wish you would go away. I don't mind you pounding like the Earth itself has a heart, but the things you say to me always make me feel so bad. No one else knows how to stab into my weakness and twist.

And you are a fifty percent liar. You say things that are hurtful, and have a strong probability for being true, but you don't know for sure, so your semi-true statement is a fifty percent lie. I will shut you out with music, work, T.V., movies, friends, writing, and killing brain cells, but sooner or later your voice becomes very loud, Intensity.

Sincerely,

Mr. Shadow

P.S. Many months later it turns out you were not lying.

Hello Mr. Shadow,

Do you hear all the sounds I do? That church bell in the distance is a recording of a synthesizer-

"Are you alright man?"

"Yeah... I just forgot to remember something."

Mr. Shadow, goodbye, I have to walk normal now.

Your Friend,

Intensity

P.S. I don't know if I have ever heard a real church bell.

****

Butter Babes

The United Dairy Farmers met in their head quarters (big boy club house) to discuss the new revisions to their butter ad campaign. Their office was in a Brownstone Mansion at Summers-edge Boulevard in San Bernardo, California. The three representatives, Robert Hindly, George Hareton, and Paul Heathcliff, were the only necessary members in attendance. George was part of the add council and had co-conceived the "Butter Babes" idea, Robert was the assistant-executive assigned to make sure the revisions met the new federal regulations, and Paul was the authority high enough to approve the ad.

"Thank you all for being here," said Mr. Hareton. "As you know, the food industry has for years been forced to show honesty in advertisements, much more than every other industry, starting with the need to push all the meat that is actually in a hoagie to the front of the picture sandwich to make it look bigger." Robert finally got the power point to start, as the computer was very old and aggravating. The intro slide read "Sex still sells".

"As you may all recall, last year we launched our famous campaign, 'Butter Babes,' with an ad that appeared on cable television and in magazines across America." The next slide showed two young scantily clad models with arms behind their backs eating off the same butter-drenched corn cob that stood erectly suggestive up from the bottom of the frame, so that only half of the eighteen inch cob was visible.

"This was a huge success, and profits increased by eight percent that quarter. However," said Mr. Hareton, as Mr. Hindly advanced to the next slide which was a low resolution cut-and- paste of the new legislation that required all advertisements to have an honest depiction of its product as well as implications, "recent legislation has forced some revisions to be made. Gentlemen, I present to you -- Mr. Hindly if you will." Mr. Hindly clicked out of power point after the imported video failed to play, and opened a QuickTime version.

"Gentlemen, I give you 'Butter Babes!: STD.'" The video began playing, and the same scene with two relatively nude girls licking butter off of the penis like corncob appeared. In this instance, the blond girl (who was named Bertha, was from Alabama, and had come to California at the encouragement of her high school counselor upon seeing that her grades were average and she had been in many school plays) had a huge herpes sore on her upper lip. Nibbling on the other side of the cock was the Brunette girl, Amanda (Who had previously been very overweight and been caught cheating on her long-distance boyfriend of 3 dates in some pictures on her Myspace), who had a massive syphilis infection on her nose and mouth. The video ended with the two finishing off the cob and waving goodbye to the camera, with butter on their herpes and syphilis.

"What are the results of the pre-screenings?" piped up Paul (who wanted to go to the bathroom very badly and deeply regret getting a Grande mocha instead of a tall). Robert returned to the power point and pulled up a figure with two nearly identical trend lines.

"The projections show a point five percent decrease in sales, but generally," said Hareton (and Hindly advanced to the final slide), "Sex still sells," mirroring the final slide in the power point.

"Alright, well run it on the music video channels at the 3:30pm to 4:30pm time slots, and the cartoon channel at the 12:00am to 1:00am time slots," said Heathcliff, feeling a little dribble on his leg (he had been putting off seeing a doctor, as his family had a history of prostate cancer, and though this was most likely a urinary tract infection, he didn't want the news that it was an enlarged prostate due to a tumor). The United Dairy Farmers adjourned and processed out, shuffling back to their rickshaws. Hindly quietly cursed to Hareton about how he was the rightful heir to the United Dairy Farmers.

The End

****

Attraction

The Red Line is part of the elevated railway in Chicago. Lots of people ride it. Among those that commute from the Clark and Division stop to the Jarvis stop is a man named Senior Halo (Hal). Halo is a high school Spanish teacher, and today he is on the Red Line going home. Here is how it happened.

A man stepped on to the Red Line and sat down next to Hal. This man was wearing a suit, and Hal was listening to Arvo Part's Fur Alina on his ipod. Then he stopped. The only reason you stop listening to your ipod on the L is to answer a cell phone, or because your ipod is about two years old and the battery is dying. Hal was not answering a phone call.

The man in the suit was not listening to an ipod and noticed that neither was Hal.

"Mine's totally dead," said the suit man

"What?" replied Hal, hoping this would end.

"My ipod is totally dead, I left it at home," said the suit man. Hal now felt obligated to introduce himself, as he was taught at a young age by his grandmother to always leave room for a hamburger at meals (Hal had always suspected that his grandmother hated fat people.)

"I'm Hal."

"I'm The Human Subconscious," said suit man, who was in fact the human subconscious.

"Wow!" said Hal, " How long have you been doing that?"

"It is hard to say exactly. I started out working very closely with The Human Conscious, but we had different views starting about five million years ago, and just two million years later we weren't even working together so much. Only very rarely do we meet."

"I am thirty-three," said Hal, humbled. Things were awkwardly silent for a while. A man who was blind, but still managed to walk up and down the car begging without even stumbling, was now coming close.

"I am very hungry this-is-not-fake-I-am-blind please-any-change-this is not-" The man repeated robotically. Hal reached into his pocket and rummaged for some change, but sadly all he found was the little mermaid in a snuff film (this was a prank his students played like an unbeatable carnival game).

"You are hungry," said The Human Subconscious to the blind man, "but no." The car stopped at Belmont, and the blind man shuffled in an exact march forward and out the car door (he never went further than Sheridan).

"If you knew he was hungry, why didn't you give him some money?" asked Hal, being more bold than anyone who talks to a new acquaintance would be, unless they were from a place with no manners (like Boston).

"I know what's in his head, and he is hungry, but that's not all," replied The Human Subconscious to an unimpressed Hal. Seeing that Hal was unimpressed, The Human Subconscious decided to set Hal straight. At Addison, a very attractive woman who had gotten on earlier at Fullerton (where all attractive girls change from the Brown Line to the Red) made eye contact with Hal.

"Whuddya think of her?" asked The Human Subconscious.

"I don't know her, but she looks nice," said Hal (who was thinking that she was hot).

"Yeah, I bet she'd make your babies better than you."

"Excuse me!" said Hal checking to see if the woman heard, "no I wasn't, I didn't even go there."

"Yeah, that's one me and The Human Conscious disagreed on," he said, crossing his arms. "He thought that if people knew that initial attraction is the validation of physical fitness and it's improvement upon the resulting recombinant DNA of reproduction, that no one would ever give anyone their number."

"No, not even all that, I'm in a committed relationship," said Hal.

"Oh yes, commitment, that big step from simply assessing relative physical fitness to a deeper understanding that another person's characteristics are compatible with yours in such a way that would benefit child rearing, and provide an enhanced quality of life," said The Human Subconscious.

"Ok man, how do I even know you are real? What is this?" And with that, The Human Subconscious pulled a live cat out of his pocket and handed it to Hal, who spun it high in the air, turning it into pizza dough. When it hit the ground, Radiohead (who happen to be in the same car) stood up and played an acoustic rendition of Rekoner. They finished just as the train came to the Loyola stop, and The Human Subconscious stood up, punched Hal in the face, and walked toward the door.

"Oh!" said Senior Halo.

The End

****

Forever?

"Capitan Pepper! We are lost." This was not new news; Capitan Pepper and Old Salty had been losing their direction and then falsely finding it off and on their entire lives.

"Aye, but I finally see land, Old Salty." The two had been struck by a heavy storm several times and felt their shame as a punishment.

"Can you see it through the looking glass?"

"No, it is land, not a book by Lewis Carroll. Here look for yourself," said Capitan Pepper, handing his telescope to Old Salty.

"It's terrible!" said Old Salty, "we can't go there! It is an island of slaves, of prisoners, of pets. Everyone has a ball and chain, or is in shackles, or is a black belt in Tae Boe." Old Salty began frantically running about the storm-torn deck, trying to avoid the inevitable collision with his deep fear. But Capitan Pepper knew better, and took a look for himself.

"Old Salty, you suck!" said Capitan Pepper. "This is a wonderful place, all the people there look so liberating! And they are all helping or doing interesting and difficult things that would require self discipline, and it is great!" As foreseen by all the people watching the events play out on their kitchen table (they had been taking bets, and as the outcome was certain, there were few losers and no big winners), the gravy boat crashed into the island and the two men were marooned.

"HELP!" said Old Salty but it was too late. He was there, and there was no escape. He was promptly apprehended, stripped of his options in life, and tied face down on a suburban table of sad. By contrast, Capitan Pepper was welcomed by a community of people and went on to grow in ways he had never imagined. Capitan Pepper would feel a great and uncomfortable weight and stress in his body.

"Ouch," said Capitan Pepper, and then a part of him would grow and develop (as a result, Capitan Pepper's arms were totally ripped and his liver was much bigger than his other digestive organs, which is as it should be). He and his supporting kin like him on the island would occasionally see others tied up and at times feel ropes around their brains, but they were there for one another, and helped to relieve the strain.

"I want a divorce!" said Old Salty, and then he got back in the tarnished silver gravy boat. After somewhere between ten and thirty wasted years, he found himself on the kitchen-table-sea, directionless and "free" of any condmitimention.

The End

****

3 inches of blood

For me to see It would take eyes, and It would take my heart, and possibly a rough hand of pennies that collect to articulate the value of seven cents (as It is a thief, and thieves take many things and give few). One thing that It gives is sight. It has not use for sight(s). It has no need to be fooled and to think that the hand that has been chopped off (as that is the price for stealing) is in fact there, rather than being absent and in a terrific cramping pain. It must remember Its pain and what It has lost, or It will forget what It had. It had many things (mostly stolen), and with many things the task to keep track of things is difficult, if one keeps forgetting.

"Do I have a copy?" asked the thief, "or is this the real thing?" The thief was referring to love. He had stolen a heart that seemed to be filled with it (but often in his experience of stealing hearts they are in fact filled with not the real thing).

"Oh, this is not a copy," said The Black Market, which had the ability to appraise anything that was illegal. "But this is not real; this love is a lie."

"Well, then you can keep that."

"Thanks," said The Black Market, and put a heart's loveless lie in a Ziploc bag, hoping to have some for lunch the next day.

For lunch the next day, The Black Market took out love that was a lie and was prepared to swallow a lie, when It came back.

"I have second thoughts," said It (the thief). "Without that love my heart is empty, and I just want to die."

"You just want to die! Well, let us share the love, and the lie will be ours," said The Black Market, and held out his robotic talon (as that is what makes the appendages of The Black Market).

"Ok! The love is ours now," shouted It, and stabbed The Black Market in the brain. The Black Market fell down, spilling the love all over the floor. Then, in The Black Market's last moments, he could see that the love was not for sure a lie, and that perhaps was the real thing. Also, he could see It was still stabbing his brain (The Black Market died later with the misunderstood idea of what It meant when It said It wanted the love, and to die.) So The Black Market's last words were,

"Is this love of ours a lie? Is It killing me to die?"

The End

****

Ten Dolphin Dolphin-Bridge

When the hardest tar broke out of town with scissors...it rode the train away across suspendably railses.

"The children play with candles and say 'we life with'em.'" Said scissors, (a country that was so small the burn-bridges burn). "The monocarbonide that was inhaled and died within them... is pollution only turned away."

What was for between two in a car was written, an a book or document that made it to the news reading hands of the pea-pole. A city of them seen the word written and together brought . thought through the what was burned by sew so many many bridges. So many to make half a life live sick, with sooty black in it, with so much smog...and the answer came to all. A stroke of one stood tall with a hand to the sun so brightly.

"Ten Dolphin dolphin bridge!" Said the one and all clapped

"Ten Dolphin dolphin bridge, da dunt dunt (like reading rainbow)." Said all to all and so one through out one a land. The bridges madel 90% of all enviro-gooken. So the people wave these bridge away, and stood in. A standing place where there soon could brace up tall tall tall (trucks). The support to many came from a porpus (not a fish). The ten dolphin dolphin bridge is there today and we can all thank the hardest tar for a world let to live in.

"A reflection of the valve you receive." The Tar said imp play.

The End

****

My friend space book.

The clunky wood burning androids sat around their social media network eagerly. Each of them had heard rumors about this new pill that was in each of their robotic talons.

"I am going to take mine," announced android #00099976 (or just 76 as they were all a part of the 000999 series).

"How will you take it?" asked #00099934. The androids had not discussed their methods, but had all researched how humans did it and knew it didn't really matter how, since their experiences would all end the same.

"With ease," replied #34.

"Then I want to take mine ambitiously," said #76. "And how bout' you little 2?" said #76, addressing the last member of this social media network.

"I think I will take mine with integrity," said #2

"Ahh, the road less traveled!" said #34.

"Ok, that's enough, here I go," said #76, and took his LIFE pill with great ambition. #76 immediately recognized a change, a certain unnatural alienation from its fellow androids. Its LIFE was one of tension and stress, accomplishment and pride, severed personal connections, sacrifice (of both itself and others), a loss of morality, and when it died it felt the deep regret that comes with knowing it had taken LIFE wrong.

"My turn, I guess," said #2. "I changed my mind, I feel so human holding this in my talon that I am going to take it with only positive volume!" Both the Androids laughed (#2's joke was one of the oldest in the book, as it was that when Androids were first able to cross the line between processing and thought, developing a concept free from conventions characteristic of communication, they could understand all things human, emotions included, except for the fact that volume, as a definition of space, exists only as positive space and not negative space. Upon simplifying how negative space works in such a way that humans could understand, humans promptly used the concept to obliterate their entire existence, and were thus a source of comedic gold).

Then #2 took its LIFE pill with integrity. The sensations crept up on it in such a way that it didn't even notice the change until LIFE was in full swing. Unlike 76#, #2 felt worn and used. Everything that was in #2 was taken and nothing returned. By taking LIFE this way, 2# became a source of adoration for others around it, even long after its death. This death #2 fell into with great confidence that everything about how it had taken LIFE had accomplished nothing, and that its LIFE had been taken for more than just the experience.

"Alright, I can't wait," said # 34, who had actually been in the taking-LIFE-with-ease process since about as long as #76 (God rest his soul), and definitely felt changed. #34's experience was a continuous, and only mildly wavering, sense of personal contentment. Nothing in #34's experience was of the realm of intense pride or shame, and it felt very connected with all other androids, and enjoyed simple pleasures at its leisure until it died. For #34, death came with ease, and therefore without gratifying resolution, as it did not feel deep regret.

After dying, this small social media network met many others who had used the pill. The general consensus among the dead androids was that it didn't matter how one took LIFE, because they were all disappointed with the experience. Later they held a vote and decided that they would never make that mistake again, but that it was important for all androids to have the experiences they had in LIFE, as they all admittedly felt changed.

The End

****

This is What I Am

In the parallel universe of Academia, there was a great awards banquet each year to honor those who were of the highest social status. This meant that those with the middle name of the highest prowess would be honored and glorified.

It is customary in Academia for all people to keep their parents' middle name until they reach adulthood. When they become adults, they have a name-giving ceremony and attempt to fit into boxes. The box in which they fit best (and more importantly, the type of box in which they fit) then becames their middle name, as well as their social status. To anyone outside this universe, the boxes and their corresponding status seem to be simultaneously of mild arbitrarity and mild intuativity.

Tonight at the awards banquet, George Vacuum-sealed-glass-box-of-science Tirebiter was to be given the Lifetime Achievement award. So it went that all the usual socialites, and famouses made an appearance; the bank vaults and the fashion closets. In addition, the entire thing was broadcast to the Stationary-supply-boxes and Produce-boxes of the world. After the first few awards went to "best new box of the year" and a few others, like "Bat," the ceremony was near the middle, and Ben Film-canister Staller approached the podium to announce the Lifetime Achievement award.

"The award of lifetime achievement will be given, this year, to George Vacuum-sealed-glass-box-of-science Tirebiter," said Ben, and a humbly dressed seventy-seven year old man slowly limped up to the podium. "In addition to being of the "glass-box-of-science" community, George is being awarded based on the work he has done since then for things, a lifetime of admirable name-achievement to the world, and other social greatness of his, since he has taken this truly remarkable name. I give you George Vacuum-sealed-glass-box-of-science Tirebiter." Then George gazed out into the crowd (the winner of "Bat" was giving him a thumbs up).

"I am both honored and humbled to be receiving this award. You know, I've had people ask me over the years, now, how I got to be so great. They have said so many wonderful things about me, and that they could never have a middle name like mine- or worse, I have encountered colleagues of mine who look down their nose at all the Toolboxes of the world. Really, really this just isn't right. I chose my box, and we all choose our box in life, because that is what we are called to be. It was a vocation... there was never a real choice- this is what I am. For instance, I could have been a Fish-crate, or a Tabernacle, or even a Refrigerator box... But I wouldn't have been good at it. Just like all-a-them could have been a Glass-box-of-science, but they wouldn't have been good at it. I suppose my point is, I am no better than you, and though I am happy to accept this award, I hope that everyone watching can feel good knowing that as long as they answered their calling, they deserve it just as much. So don't let the Bank vaults and the Leather suitcases of the world tear you down-" And then the music to cut off the speaker began playing, and two eucalyptus plants escorted George Vacuum-sealed-glass-box-of-science Tirebiter to the green room backstage. Later in the ceremony, awards went to great box names of thought, and box names that had accumulated status by being passed down for generations.

George Vacuum-sealed-glass-box-of-science Tirebiter's message fell mostly on deaf ears for years to come. However, many years later (during what history now refers to as "The Disenchantment") George's words became the cornerstone for a social reform movement and were printed on stickers that were illegally placed over street signs and on Rickshaws all over Academia, reading, "This is what I am." Sometimes they were paired with an iconic picture of Che Guevara, as most of the people involved didn't really know the history of the cause, but thought it looked cool.

The End

****

Uncomfortably Numb

"I have gorged myself with worldly pleasures, and now grow numb to the enjoyment they bring," said the Cookie Monster. "These chocolate chunks and macadamia nuts... a bore beyond anyone's pleasure." The Cookie Monster then tossed his cookies into a trashcan behind the hammer store. In that dumpster was a chubby Lego man (he had been disposed of, as the tenet living above the hammer store had been evicted, and the Lego man's prize Spanish naval vessel had been salvaged without him).

"Great Scot! This is a deliciously that has lifted my life, despite its ten suffering," said the Lego man (1-suffereing ~ 10-kilograms). And upon hearing this, the Cookie Monster peered into the canister to see what could be so tasty.

"That is the plain dough lump I tossed!" said the Cookie Monster.

"Well, I have suffered greatly and tasted little," said the Lego Man, "so perhaps you should try being sad and without pleasure so that you may come to know it better." In response, the Cookie Monster slumped happily on his black velvet cane and the sun immediately set, leaving the streetlights out to communicate their fitness.

"I have only ever known happiness," said the Cookie Monster, and this made the Lego man chuckle.

"Then you must know sadness! No one can know happiness without sadness," said the Lego man. The Cookie Monster slumped further and did not correct the little plastic man (as he knew that Lego men are without a brain).

Anyone with a brain could read. Those in the literate class had "read" the radio announcement from around the time of the Cookie Monster's conception (an awkward event), which explained that excitement was the most basic of all emotions. Furthermore, the announcement made factual that it is the experiences and circumstances in life, coupled with various excitements, that shape what will later be called feelings. The Cookie Monster had never been excited in a way that made him feel anything less than happy.

"No, little man," said the Cookie Monster, resuming his posture and sending body language signals that indicated he was preparing to depart. "I only know happiness, but I do not know how to enjoy it." Then, as he began to leave, the Lego man pulled the Cookie Monster aside and showed him a three hour slide show of fire works.

The End

****

Little Joy

The next time around, Isolation was flipping through a catalogue titled "The Young and the Metal (Accessories)," when he stopped on the item he had been waiting to find in the catalogue since he had subscribed in Parka. Item #6: Genetically Engineered Little Man. The description read: "This generically engineered little man stands 65cm tall, features strong neck muscles, and a skull that extends into his nose. This combination allows the owner to pick up this little fellow by the nostrils and carry him to each destination, where he is ready to do whatever trivial tasks you may ask. NEVER get your own plastic fork in the cafeteria again!"

Well, Isolation just couldn't pass this by, and placed an order for Item #6 (unfortunately there was a £30 minimum, so he decided to order a spinet as well). Two months later, Isolation was being paid a visit by General Audience when his package arrived.

"What's it?" asked the General, watching Isolation unwrap the package.

"This is a little man and a little piano," ann-sired Isolation, pulling the little man out by his nose and sitting him down at the spinet stool.

"Found it hard?" asked the General, as Isolation rummaged through a junk drawer.

"A name- The size is an adjective to joy," replied Isolation, who now pulled out a hammer and began striking the little man. "Really, this's what I do best," continued Isolation, who then took time to beat all sense and normalcy out of the little man, leaving him warped and strange.

"This is too violent! I'm not fit to watch!" shouted the General Audience, fleeing from Isolation's boutique.

"Oh, relax, he is metal!" said Isolation, putting the finishing touches on the little man. When the hammer dropped, the little man was so warped and twisted that his eyes could only see his own person in a way that was both unique and inaccurate.

Over the extended period of time that the little man spent in Isolation's boutique, he became significantly divergent in his ways of seeing things, and found it impossible to navigate away from Isolation. Soon, he was inarguably mad (or a genius, according to fools who assume there is a division between the two, rather than one being a condition of the other). All-the-while, Isolation had a very chinsy little piano played by his little joy.

The End

****

Tic tac toe

While watching a psychic reading by a televangelist on Monday morning in the living room of Ox, a Brute turned to a Maiden and guessed what she was thinking about him.

"I think you are wonderful." She believed only some of his words, and none of these in his statement were among them. In the past, she had lined up his words and had a Plumber examine each one for integrity, and from then on only put trust in those. She pulled out a large grey felt-tipped marker and put an X across the white space in the center of a nine-square grid, and anticipated his next words (most would expect the Brute to make a circle in another space on the grid.)

"We are not playing this game," said the Brute. He then stood up and left the room, got in his car, and drove away. The Maiden's attention drifted back to the psychic reading.

"That's it!" shouted the televangelist, looking straight at the camera as though speaking directly to the maiden. She could not help but feel that the preacher's voice was her own, speaking to the Brute about their relationship.

"Fine," said the voice of the Brute, amidst a church of others on T.V., as the camera panned across the clergy to show him standing near the back (which is where all good late mass attendants stand).

The Maiden flipped through the time, over many sitcoms, home shopping channels selling Rickshaws, and finally stopped on a Spanish soap opera called Amorres Perros. The Maiden spoke no Spanish and was thus completely reliant on subtitles. In the scene, a man and a woman were having drinks.

"You're are a very precise beer pourer," said the subtitles translated from Spanish words spoken by a beautiful Latina woman with a comically large chest.

"The most in all the land, in-fact I have a Guinness world records. Records plural, because the second is for strapping rockets to Akron and blowing it up," replied the subtitles translated from Spanish words spoken by the Brute.

"That's nothing- I hold the record for the largest meatball ever made, in the fastest time. 12hrs, 3 rabbits, and one piece of cheese," whimpered the Maiden in her living room, draining tears from her eye incisions (as it must be done at least twice a day).

"You had me at the largest meatball," replied the subtitles translated from Spanish words spoken by the Brute to a young beautiful Spanish woman, who would certainly age poorly and become very, very overweight.

The End

****

Time Life Time

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Prine. She was short and beautiful like all the many female Prines in her line of evolution before her. She has only time and the net change in this time is always decreasing with respect to life. She has to find the love of her time-with-respect-to-life (She uses an online dating service for singles with outdated Roman-esk titles). She also noticed that a Barnacle-ish tumor like growth or parasite was projecting or being excreted out of the top of her head.

The dating site was located on six dotted lines, and the way you met a true love was to leave a rock with your smell rubbed all over it. The site called these your "rubble." The Prine left her rubble and came back after a good night of egg making (this was the best way to keep time, as a life-tempo is usually expressed in epm, where the e stands for eggs). Then she returned to the site at 1:00pm. The site was down, so she bought it a gift, but it told her to try back another time.

At another time, she came back and found that her rubble had another's scent on it. The scent was one that belonged to her true love.

"Marry me!" she yelled at the rubble, "before I lose all my time." Time was the only thing keeping the Prine from turning to stone, and love was the only thing she needed to turn faster.

"I will!" replied her true love. The Prine looked but could not find where the voice had hailed from.

"Where are you?" asked the Prine.

"Follow your nose," came the reply. The Prine had been saving her nose in a safety deposit box that she received as a bonus when she opened her savings account. So she went and got her nose out of the safety deposit box, and it lead her to a mirror.

"There you are, my love!" said the Prine, looking in the mirror at herself.

"Now We Are MARRIED!" replied the white tubular Barnacle-ish tumor-like growth or parasite, that was now quite long and protruding out of her head. The Barnacle-ish tumor-like growth or parasite and the Prine were married and lived happily ever after the Prine turned to stone.

The End

****

Making Monsters For My Friends.

In the basement of a home (most likely in Ohio) a fat hairy Villain monster kept an innocent victim. Duct tape. The Villain monster kept and preyed on the innocent victim at the monster's leisure, and each time it was the monster's leisure the innocent became less-so.

"Is this the way things, are my monster?" asked the innocent. But before the Villain could answer, another monster crept from a nearby shadow and pulled the monster to its ground. On this ground writhed the villain in blood and gore until it writhed no more, and the thin chinless Shadow monster dined on the Villain. Small bites.

"Oh my, are you, too, a villain? Surely not, you have liberated his soul! And now I am free?" said the innocent. "You would be my hero, both most noble and wicked, if you set me free." The Shadow monster looked up from gnawing and addressed the innocent. Stubborn flesh.

"I stop making." And the Shadow monster came closer to the innocent and began to look into her eyes. Window wells.

"I have been here so long," said the innocent, feeling relieved.

"Why was it this way?" asked the monster, "had you no rickshaw nor a robotic talon?"

"I cannot remember such things," replied the innocent, "it was this way as it is the way things are in the world-"

"As though it is all you know?" added the Shadow monster to the end of her sentence. No remorse. Now the shadow monster was very near, and its eyes were wild with memories. Skipping record.

"The monster I eat was once like-too and innocent," said the Shadow monster, "and I was once an innocent." Cleaning his teeth with fingers. "You were once'a innocent victim."

The End

****

Toll Free Security

Once upon a time, there was a Queen. She said many things and made many decisions.

"Burn it all," decided the Queen. Obediently, her foot soldiers followed her orders, and all was laid to burnination. Many regarded this as her greatest decision, despite the fact that not only a month earlier she had decided to put a twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of every human in the kingdom (which speaks mountains about the opinion of many).

"I wish many things but this I wish most," said Mr. Glue.

"And what is that, may I ask?" directed the Queen to the small, sticky man riding in the ashtray of her 1990 Honda civic.

"That my ears would stop ringing," said Mr. Glue (he, like William Shatner, suffers from tinnitus, which is a persistent ear ringing).

"How many times must I tell you I am sorry?" said the explosion that had caused Mr. Glue's tinnitus, leaning in the window. The Queen grabbed her switch and swatted the explosion away before her boyfriend saw them together. Then, with a heavy foot, the car reached the maximum speed of 22km/h.

"Slow down or I will melt!" replied the Queen, forgetting that she was not Mr. Glue, and that slowing down would mean that the firewall could reach them. But the speed was held like a balloon in the hands of a franchise restaurant balloon-smith forming a motorcycle behind his back (to say the least, it popped on the first try.)

"What was that?" asked Mr. Glue, unaware that speed could pop.

"I am just popping speed," replied the Queen. Behind the little two-door, all the kingdom of doom rolled in flames and cinders. Embers rained from the sky, and in the streets there was wailing and gnashing of teeth, as well as three horsemen, whom the Queen cut off, sending them, horses'n all, into the last puddle. This splashed a wave, know to the Chileans as "El Último," that would put Snake River Falls to shame, and extinguished the kingdom.

Later, on the news, people who had made up their minds about things before they even happened were agreeing with each other.

"Humans all see in front of them," said a person on the news. This was followed by the people who nodded and made comments that also supported the Queen's decisions as their own.

"What do you think, Miss Cleo?"

"Call me fo-yah free read'en."

The End

****

Bearded Women Don't Think.

Annie Jones Elliot had two hours of vacation time while touring with PT Barnum. Two days before her vacation she shaved her beard, and put on a spiffy grown-up suit. She had planned a trip on the train of thought and wanted to look her best.

Boarding the train Annie picked at her neck where the tie wrapped collar of her suit was rubbing a particularly irritating ingrown hair. Annie pulled a safety pin from her purse and went to the coach washroom to dig the hair out. Before she could groom, Annie noticed a message written on the bathroom mirror that read, "I'm behind the shower curtain." Fearfully, Annie pulled the shower curtain away and exposed a Creep.

The Creep opened his mouth and a scrawny arm extend out of it and began pointing to things, as if to ask "Is this how you think?". It pointed out the window and the train started. Once the train started, they passed a tree, a river, a can of corduroy sweaters soaked in ninety percent of people, and then stopped. The hand then pointed to a list in the Creeps right hand that had the entire train rout, start to stop, in order.

"No," said Annie. Then the arm pointed to her reflection in the mirror as if to say, "Do you think like this?". In the mirror Annie's reflection had eyes made of clay that were being shaped and reshaped into nine point five percent of people repeatedly with tiny variations. Then her reflection took the safety pin from Annie's hand and ripped both of Annie's eyes open, spilling loops, circles, and imaginary conversations into the sink.

Annie blinked and though her eyes remained flaccid she could see the sink soup perfectly. Each loop and circle connecting with one another like a crazy straw of tangents, repeating and changing a tiny bit and sometimes not at all with each cycle.

"No," said Annie, feeling obsessive, distracted, or anxious. Annie took her pin back from her reflection and dug the ingrown hair out of her neck. The hair sprang out and looked weird.

"It's a train." Said the Creep sounding impaired by the arm in his mouth.

"Put some pants on," said Annie. But sure enough the Creep was correct. Annie looked closely at the hair and saw that it was a tiny train. She took a small pair of scissors from her purse and trimmed the hair at the root. The hair-sized train of thought fell and when the tiny train of thought collided with the life size train of thought the force sent Annie and Creep high into the air.

In the air everything Annie could see on the ground was a train of thought. It all had space and depth, there were set paths and short cuts between ideas, and many of the parts of this spatial train had overlapping cars grouped by similarities and common patterns. The Creeps mouth arm pointed as it had with the other ways of thinking before, and when the two hit the ground they ripped through to find another layer with its own patterns and connections.

"No," said Annie "This is only less than point five percent of people, despit the fact that after learning about spatial thought a large portion of linear thinkers falsely fancy themselves to be one."

The End

****

Cake Toes

Titanticus and Pacman had just settled into their new home at the top of mount Olympest when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," said Pacman, and he did. At the door was a large bushy beard with Caucasian arms and combat boots sticking out of the bottom, and next to him was what appeared to be a double white cake with pink frosting and two Caucasian feet sticking out of the bottom.

"Hi there," said the beard smiling, "I am Mr. Beard, and this is my wife."

"You can call me Cake Toes, everyone does," she said, as the two layers of cake separate to make what could be a mouth.

"We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood," continued Mr. Beard, "it is so nice to have some nice normal ones in the neighborhood. The last residents were The Greatest Good and The Greatest Evil, and they were no fun at all." A little shocked by the fact that he had neighbors, Pacman said nothing.

"Who is it?" called Titanticus from the other room. But Pacman didn't answer fast enough, and so the giant robot constructed from the Titanic walked to the front door, with his large Gundam-styled feet protruding from his stern.

"Titanticus, this is Mr. Beard and Cake Toes," Pacman finally said. Mr. Bead held out his hand to shake with Titanticus, but realized that on Titanticus' right index finger there was a large buzz saw, and that his left hand was a set of three robotic talons.

"It's okay, the buzz saw won't hurt you," said Titanticus, and the two shook hands.

"I love how your eye lines up with the I's dot in S.S. Titanic," said Cake Toes.

"Thanks," said Titanticus, smiling with many rows of shark-like teeth built into his hull. Eventually, Mr. Beard and Cake Toes were invited into the well-decorated interior, and they all shared some life experiences, short cake (which made Pacman feel awkward, but Cake Toes assured him that "really its alright"), and professional advice.

"Get a job," said Mr. Beard, "they're great, I'm a scientist. They pay me to move tiny amounts of water from one tube to another all day long."

"Oh, and get married!" said Cake Toes, "are you two in love?" Pacman and Titanticus looked at one another, a little confused.

"We knew we were in love- or at least, I knew I loved Cake Toes, from the first time we met. Taught her to make an origami flower and the rest is history," said Mr. Beard, trying to smooth over the awkwardness of his wife's question, and smiling at her lovingly.

"We met on safari," said Titanticus, jumping on board to ease the awkwardness.

"Yes, we were both on a counting safari in Africa," said Pacman. "At the time, we were both counting AIDS victims, and we realized that there are too many to count." Returning, the awkwardness settled in and sat thick like ketchup on pancakes for a few minutes of silence (it sat close to the door, ready to dash out of the room, just incase anyone tried to smooth it over again).

"Pacman and I are not in love," said Titanticus, submitting to awkwardness. "I am a Robot and he's a graphic representation... we are both incapable of love." These words spiked the eyebrows (no eyes?) of Mr. Beard, and he pondered them.

"Come to think of it," said Mr. Beard, turning to Cake Toes, "we are all more or less inanimate objects..."

The End

****

Criticism of Literature

If you were trapped on a desert island, and you could only have five books, what books would they be? If there were five books trapped on a desert island, what would they be? What if the Island were a ring? If the island were a ring, the books would be the book of Earth, the book of Water, the book of Fire, the book of Wind, and the book of No-thing. But of course, much in the same way Doctors neglect to call one another Doctor, these books do not call one another "the book of," but rather they call one another by their addition to this title.

"I have the advantage," said Fire, addressing all the other books from the top of the only palm tree. "Wait, I only count two books besides myself! Where is No-thing and Earth?"

"I know the smallest things and the biggest things, the shallowest things and the deepest things, as if it were a straight road mapped out on the ground," came the familiar voice of Earth. Frantically, Fire shuffled around his roost, peering through his telescope. When finally he spotted Earth, he was lounging under Fire's palm tree.

"What the heck?" said Earth, as a cone-shaped drill attached to the bottom of a brown liquor bag emerged from the sand under his feet. Once the drill-bag lay beached at Earth's feet, No-thing (who had turned off his cloaking device) picked it up and held it in the air for all to see.

"We must understand what we cannot comprehend," said No-thing. He turned the bag upside down, and out fell the Five books of the Torah. These five books were no taller than the knees of No-thing, and were all piled on one another, clumsily. When the Old Testament books settled upright, they introduced themselves to all five elemental books, and offered some Wild Turkey from in their bag. The books all ate and drank until they had their fill (how they ate none of the books knew, but it seemed appropriate, considering that they could drink). When the nourishment was finished and they'd drunk their fill, Fire wanted both to be entertained and to insult Water (delivering a perfect put-down to his elemental opposite always made him feel cool).

"Tell us the one about walking on water," said Fire, in a request directed toward the Tora but with a mocking look directed toward Water (Fire's behavior was not infrequent and typically Water mistook it for an unwelcome attempt at flirting).

"Ackuly." responded Genesis (who was totally hammered), "thas tha Neu tesument- I Hait tha Neu-tesumn. Iz is iz a BUncha Fan Ficshin." The other books of the Torah knew that Genesis could get in over his head and so Exodus and Deuteronomy decided to cut him off. At this point it was very late, so the books passed out and slept soundly for most of the night.

Some time around the morning, the ten books woke up to their desert island colliding with another drifting island. The two monomeric islands fused, making them a di-land.

"Great scott! It seems as though a short land bridge has formed," said Wind. So 8 of the books packed up, crossed this "barring-short," and ventured onto the other island. The 2 books that remained were heavily criticized, since books that don't explore new areas are lame. The interesting and original books that did something different met five new books slouched in a pile.

"Would you please start the introductions?" said Earth to the book pile filled with sad.

"I'm the Origin of Species, this is Lolita, that is The Adventures of Huckleberry Fin," said the very boring book. "Over there on the other side of the Island is The House that Crack Built, and that's Our Bodies As Ourselves. We are all books that have been bannedished here."

The 13 books lived together in complete and total harmony on the di-land and eventually got very bored. To pass the time, they would ask each other inane hypothetical questions like, 'which would you rather have, a pocket full of melted chocolate or a pocket full of maple syrup?' These questions ran out into madness and eventually the books spent all their time on constructing internal trains of thought that started with, If you were trapped on a desert island, and you could only have five books, what books would they be?

The End

****

Post-Mortem Stress Disorder

"Sitting still is overrated, as are the Beatles and apple pie.... There, I said it." This phrase was in quotation marks on a sign at a protest pep rally funded by the American Organization of Credit (an organization that was close to bankruptcy).

"So, is the phrase 'Sitting still is over rated, as are the Beatles and apple pie.... There I said it' being used out of context, or is it a direct quote from someone?" asked the president of Kansas (who had many English-related pet peeves).

"I think that is something that Kurt Cobain once said, sire," replied his orthopedic surgeon. Two years earlier, the President had been visiting Tokyo, where the Japanese media's emphasis on the corrupt power of corporations and their presidents infected him with a virus that caused him to become a zombie. As this is a common occurrence in Japan among tourist-presidents-of-corporations, the treatment was well known, requiring a regimen of antibiotics, in addition to a staff orthopedic surgeon.

Later, after leaving the rally, the president of the Kansas cooperation met with the Head of Nebraska.

"Thank you for coming to my limo," said the 8-foot mealworm with lizard skin carpets and bright pink shag seamlessly covering the interior of the limo. "Would you like some tea?"

"Why do I have the dumbest M.D., J.D.?" the president asked the worm head of Nebraska. "You would not believe what he said today. He tried to tell me that Kurt Cobain said, 'Sitting still is overrated, as are the Beatles and apple pie.'"

"That's. Soo-" and he choked a bit on his many face-grooming parts. "-Very dumb!" he finished, and let out a wretched wave of inappropriately loud laughter.

"I'm right here," said the orthopedic surgeon. Then the lights in the limo dimmed, and select shags glowed in the dark. A quiet fan churned the glowing strings like a sea anemone amidst soft tide, and the song "I want to hold your hand" came on.

"This is it," said the mealworm, and in the window dividing the cab and the driver was an oversized blue digital clock counting down. When the clock hit one minute, a rainbow arch leaked from a hanging disco ball and the lizard skin floor turned into ants.

"Not again," said the President, rolling his eyes. The head of Nebraska was notorious for showing off his tricked out limo. Between one minute and zero, the ants crawled up the rainbow into the ceiling. When the last ant was gone, the window rolled down and three pieces of apple pie floated into the very important business meeting.

"I've had it!" shouted the president. "Look, your stupid limo and all its psychedelic glory is just not doing it for me. Come on, surgeon, we're leaving." The president opened the door (ruining the magic) and stepped out of the limo.

"Try not to get upset!" said the president's orthopedic surgeon, climbing out of the limo, "it will only aggravate your condition."

"I know. It was all just so... so...-"

"Over rated?" said the orthopedic surgeon, closing his door.

"Yeah." The stretch black tinted windows rolled on wheels away, and the president's reflection couldn't help but notice that the stress of his business meeting had caused the condition to progress, making his face appear like an undead heroin addict.

The End

****

Robotic Talons

High-speed vibrating clowns often seek refuge in a teepee made of telescopes. They do this because they are clearly not warriors and fighting airplanes are drawn to clowns like a hot knife through butter. These clowns went to go see High School Madness, a lovable stupid installment of the Porgy and Mud-head series. Their attempt to enjoy this money-machine musical resulted in dogfights over Broadway, and the discovery of a small mad planet (as it is impossible not to discover such things when surrounded by telescopes).

"Look at this small mad planet" Said A clown.

"Does it seem cold in here to you at all?" Replied B clown looking into the telescope to see the planet. Far out of inner space the plant sat very mad. On it were things that live and do what they please (which is enough to make me mad much less a planet).

So you may think that the planet would invent an invisible thing that limits ones life and secures illusions of survival. The planet could invent jobs. Yes, jobs and the grind. If it could invent a grind for living things, then there would be an inescapable and routine part of life! Then jobs, and the grind would in theory keep life in its place

"I do what I want." Said life, making living in a way that is comfortable and happy very very difficult for all those who posses it. Life was cursed by an ant farm of tiny furry worms on unicycles (as all they wanted in life was for it to end) and as a result Life had the cooperational skills of a teenage two year old. For Jobs and the Grind this was completely unmanageable..

"We need a trick." Said the Grind "Something to make life cooperate so that living things will go where they are supposed to."

"Society!" Replied Jobs, and they two snickered manically knowing what a deceptic trick this society would be.

But the small mad planet was too angry to think strait and instead of doing these things it grew billions of billions of giant mechanical arms equipped with robot talons that snatched all living things as soon as it could. The small mad planet then used its new-found painful force to make them do what they were supposed, and soon all living things were part of the system of robotic talons.

"Well that is much less dangerous than what Jobs and the Grind were trying to do." Said B clown.

Then End

****

The Land of the Blind

"He is holding up two fingers," Said Cyrex.

"I am!" replied the fellow with two fingers up beyond arms reach.

"How does he do it?" asked a girl amidst the gathered crowd.

"He has a gift for it," replied Cyrex's mother, "to know things."

"What else do you know?" said the mayor's son.

"Well," said Cyrex, "I know that a day is not just warm and cold."

"What do you mean?" said the skeptical and increasingly jealous Mayor.

"Well, when it is warm, I can know many things around me," said Cyrex.

"And when it is cold?" replied the same girl (she was shy and mild as a child).

"When it is cold I know less things," said Cyrex. "So, like... the field of flowers is like warm, and top hats are like cold," Cyrex continued.

"Would you mind telling me what you mean, 'top hats are like cold?'" said the Shrink.

"I don't know, they just are," said Cyrex. "And my hair is like the shy-girl's hair, and they are both like very warm, but the mayor and his son's hair are like when I close it."

"Close what exactly?" said the shrink.

"That's enough, Cyrex," said his mother, in an effort to protect him, despite the toll it weigh.

In a later conversation, the shrink confided to Cyrex's mother that he had not seen a case like this, and that it was likely no one had (at least not in the colonies). Her son seemed to be displaying a shattered senses, disorganized thought pattern, and delusion. However, he could not explain how or why Cyrex could know how many fingers were being held up without touching them. Cyrex's mother hoped the ailment was physical and not psychological, and asked the Shrink and a Doctor to examine Cyrex. The shrink and a Doctor discovered a moist, sensitive lesion on one side of Cyrex's face.

"Cyrex," said the Doctor, "maybe we could have that removed?"

The End

****

Worry

When you are a nail pounded half way into the short end of a two-by-four, the thing you are most worried about is whether or not a pink blob is gonna drift onto you, stick down on the long side of the board, and swing a pair'a lips around to give you a kiss.

"Catch anything?" That is my friend Mac. He is a tiny frog who lives on my face. Sometimes he walks into my mouth and pops like a balloon. I not infrequently suspect that he is a spider.

"Not with this climate'n bait," I answer, showing him my empty fish bucket.

"Try the fuzzy worms on unicycles," said Mac (who was discredited by being a know-it-all-phony). "I saw Bill Cosby use them on this infomercial once, and they didn't even need to be in the engine to work."

At least twice a year I leave the east coast women, what with their fast talk and aggressive nature, for the peace of Santa Bernard. There is no fishing in this desert, but I was never much one for rules. Clouds like steamed milk froth remind me of the pink blobs...the inevitable. I spend so much time worrying, and life... it is like a bad dream where everything you think could go wrong does. Life: A self-fulfilling prophecy. When you pull a rickshaw in the city you think,

"That's it. This is what I am supposed to do with my life." And then blam! Some pink blob sticks to your side, and the next thing you know, there is a kiss. That is it, it's the end.

****

One of Them

So I was sitting in my apartment, and there were these electric eels sitting in the all three of my chairs. These electric eels were of the lethal kind, and this had always bugged me in addition to the fact that they hadn't told me they were coming.

"So what have you been up to?" I asked them.

"Fucking around, not shit, smok'en blunts and drinking fordys," said the eel closest to me and in a leather bound chair.

"We fucked this one dude up at the park up man, yo I think he may'a been dead," said the eel in my office chair, smiling and giving each of the others a high five.

"You guys are so irresponsible!" I said.

"Whatever man I pay my bills, just cuz we didn't sell out to cook books, and good gas mileage, n'shit." Said the eel in the other leather bound chair

"I mean with life," I said (in reference to the fact that electric eels go around killing things willy nilly and not talking at all about life choices).

"Here it comes! his usual 'live for something greater than yourself' speech," said the eel in the office chair.

"Don't worry about it so much," said the same eel. I knew he meant dying, and for the first time I looked up from the ground to glare at the eels, and saw that the one in the office chair was invisible.

"What is up with this one?" asked leather chair eel number one in reference to the invisible office chair eel.

"I dunno, he has been following me around." I answered (and he had). "What about him?"

"Well, he is just a pile of blood and salt," said the leather chair eel number two. Shortly after a clean laugh about the fact that I knew an invisible pile of blood and salt was following me around, and that I hadn't found a way to help it, eel number one got a call on his cell phone.

"Hey man, it is your mother," he said in surprise, and handed the phone to me. Receiver at ear, I heard the voice on the other end, and I knew it was an eel voice. So to de-bunk this practical joke I asked what I assumed to be eel number one's mother a question she would not know the answer to unless she were actually my mother.

"Why did I do this?" I asked. "Why did I come so far from everyone I know and love to be miserable?" This was the climax of one of my 'live for something greater than yourself' speeches.
"To stop the hurting," said my mother.

The End

****

Assatashakur

Eighty-three percent of "cultured" Amerikans think that Don Quixote is a painting by Pablo Picasso, in which Sancho Panza and Don Quixote are doodled into their iconic windmill setting. What that 83% don't know is that in that painting Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are reminiscing about the time they went to the circus. Don Quixote had mistaken the Toledo convention center for a Circus tent, and the Southern European feminists convention for a circus.

"That tiger with its beautiful poetry!" cried Don Quixote, "my heart leapt upon her word with the pledge of my misguided heart!" Don Quixote had also mistaken the key speaker, Amanda Hess, for a tigress, and her "poetry" was actually a well-received lecture in which she likened the practice of weddings to semen facials.

"Sancho!" Don Quixote said to the squiggly doodle of Sancho Panza, "please recite it to me again!" Sancho Panza did, with some awkward reluctance.

"The institution of marriage is one of patriarchy's all-time greatest hits, in which women are sold into sexual slavery from father to husband in exchange for livestock," said Sancho Panza.

"Yes! Continue, please, the climax of the poem!" said Don Quixote.

"Even though we all know it's sexist as fuck, weddings—like facial ejaculation—still make some people happy," said Sancho Panza obediently. Don Quixote relaxed down on his spear and let the world take shape (to him it was a white rectangelle).

"Truly the tigress and I are kindred spirits."

The End

****

Waiting For the Rest of the Guests

Gretta's tea party was supposed to start at 2:00 in the afternoon, on June 23rd, when I was eighteen. I arrived on time at the suburban ranch style house, and thirty-eight year old Gretta Gainsberg lead me to the dark wood buffet in her dinning room.

"I keep them here," she said, and opened the top drawer to reveal a messy pile of tiny chocolate tea sets, ornately decorated with edible silver paint (the edibility of the silver paint was never verified).

"This one, please," I said, and we both took our respective chocolate tea set to the center square table that sat large enough to make the room seem small, brown enough to match the tan stucco-patterned wall paper, and ___ enough to_ complement enough the thin white window frame. Here, at our seats, we waited for the other guests.

Several seconds into the minutes before the guests arrived, I noticed a sound. The sound was in the same family as a pillow fight, but far less frequent, and without silly giggles. In fact, instead of giggles, the sound seemed to be accented by a squeaking, like cleaning windows, or shoes on a basketball court. The tempo and rhythm of these irregular thumps and squeaks seemed to flop in over the neighbor's fence and through the thin white window frame.

"It's the neighbor," said Gretta, moving only her eyes and brow onto me.

"I'm sorry?" I said, intimidated by Gretta's intuition. Gretta, irritated at my decision to play dumb, also let a second pass before responding.

"The sound," she continued, "the neighbor beats his dog. And it sounds like that." In what would have been awkward silence, we instead listened to the sound of a man hitting his dog at 2:00 in the afternoon, on June 23rd when I was eighteen. Needless to say, I grew increasingly uncomfortable and increasingly alarmed; almost panicky.

"How often does this-"

"About once a day." Over the next few minutes, the pillow fight and the clean glass petered out, so that the more comfortable awkward-silence could set in.

Around 2:10, a woman-like being with a dog head, wearing a poke-a-dot apron and flowery blouse, entered the room, holding the hand of a child-like being with a dog head. Rather than take their seats, or pick out a chocolate tea set, or say 'hello, sorry we're late,' the two stood in the door way and stared accusations at me for many long seconds, and said,

"What are you waiting for?"

The End

****

A Day That WiII Live

Two horses were off shore. They were there because no one knew where else they should be, and so mongrels of all sorts set their dogs to these stupid animals of prey. On the shore, the horses were met by a cannibal. They three sat and shared soup, that the cannibal was making by the fire.

"It's the best," said the cannibal (it wasn't really the best: as even these stupid horses knew, the best is only reserved for those who can afford to waste their time with such things).

"We couldn't care less," said the cannibal for the horses, who obviously couldn't talk for themselves.

"Let me ask the question before you answer!" said the Cannibal. "I am writing a memoir," asked the cannibal.

The conversation continued and captivated the horses on their best behavior. Some still confuse best behavior and good manners, but among these are not the Mongrels nor the dogs.

"There they are!" shouted the dogs, and the pack of Mongrels descended on the concentration soup camp (as previously mentioned, the soup was not the best). From this blunderous decision came a soup for those who can waste time with such things.

Out by the ocean in the breeze is the most interesting and captivating memoir ever written, and a cannibal eating mongrel soup on the backs of two horses at the same time. Truth be told, this is an exaggeration much like any retrospective experience, and only those who obsessively collect memories can tell you the truth behind the events that transpired on what came to be know as D-Day.

The End

****

Dessert of Sands

Once upon a time there was a four year old who got lost in the sound reverberant from the sound of a silver chord tied firmly around the 7th rib of a stranger, pulled taught. This level of urban decay is the kind that is only imaginable after you watch a police officer shoot a three year old boy (the shame that came with this act was more than the officer's regret could even comprehend) and then have the president of the police force justify it by all the crime that prevails.

"We cannot let these acts be the ones that set our boundaries!" said the president from his pulpit. The masses of fearful putty screamed, "vengeance!"

This had replaced an earlier, coddled message, which was a chant of optimism. The President continued to load the lethal public with blanks. Falsely impressed, the crowd's lament and nostalgic outlook pulled the trigger, unloading their ammo wildly within the crowd hoping to carve a path back to their lives.

"Look over there!" shouted anyone hoping to take advantage of the situation, and a flurry of blanks littered the ground in the direction of the distraction.

"Oh my GOD THIS CHILD IS DEAD!" When authorities examined the body of the brain-washed boy blown to bits, they announced the obvious, in a way that was ambiguous.

"I think they said that this boy was killed by ideals?" said a guy who thought it was important to say things in order to sound informed.

"No you heard them wrong, the authorities have assured us that this boy was killed by IDEAS. Which we've all known are dangerous ever since our grampas sat us on their knee." said another person, just as blind and terrible as his father before his father.

Meanwhile, in the dust grew the same pattern that had grown all along.

The End

****

Wink TX

Once upon a time in Wink Texas there was a colony of bunnies that couldn't hop. They could hop a little, but by most bunny standards these bunnies could not hop. The solution to this problem came in the simple form of pogo sticks. All the bunnies in Wink had pogo sticks. Little bunnies with white cottontails and soft brown coats bouncing around one another on little red pogo sticks.

Except Sid. Sid and Señor Pantalones. While the rest of the bunnies got their pogo sticks, Sid bunny was in the Congo studying the Bonbo (a close relative of the chimp, known to engage in female-female homosexual behavior).

"Hey guys, so as it turns out monkeys don't use systematic rape of subordinates as a form of dominance, and that was just a bogus naturalist study conducted during the same era when imperialist nations paid scientist to say that half of a woman's brain was in her uterus, thus making them inferior." The other bunnies tried to ignore Sid because they knew the next thing he would say.

"Can I borrow your pogo?" asked Sid. Sid would have simply ordered his own pogo, but as it turns out, bunny-sized pogo sticks are very expensive to ship unless they are purchased in bulk. So ordering one bunny-sized pogo stick for Sid was out of the colony's budget.

Sid did borrow a pogo stick, and it was the stick of the bunny he cared for most in the world. While using the stick, Sid broke it, but just a little bit, so that his dream bunny didn't notice until she was unable to pogo away from a predator. As one can imagine, the predator made quick work of her, and her pogo was left to erode into the only canyon in Wink (which is actually a ditch). The only one to see this event was Señor Pantalones (who was a slurry drunk). He had in fact seen Sid break the Pogo stick, Sid's true love eaten alive, and the pogo stick erode into the ditch (wink is very flat and you can see pretty much the whole place from one spot, and an additional 200 km on your tip-toes). When the bunnies found the Pogo stick in the canyon, they assumed that the bunny Sid cared about had plummeted to her death.

"Eff YOU AIR!" Sid blamed the air for not catching her, and continued to curse loudly, and soon all the bunnies were swearing at the air.

"SIDAS uh Wun at KilLed er!" slurred Señor Pantalones, trying to bring some sense to the cute mob of foul-mouthed bunnies.

The air (which doesn't speak English) mistook the angry bunnies' cries for a profession of love, and soon fell head over heels for anything that goes hippity-hop. To show its love, the air blew the bunnies extra hard (hence the phrase 'hard enough to blow away a bunny'). The air, to this day, has never felt an emotional connection so strong, and has gone to lengths great enough to be deemed natural disasters by most meteorologists, trying to find bunnies. To escape the fierce love of the air, bunnies need to seek refuge, and that is why bunnies live in holes in the ground.

The End

****

Tart Pomme

When the apples woke up, there was a sign on them. This sign was written with letters that sounded out the word 'free.'

"At long last!" thought granny apple. She had been working all her life as an Apple Equality Activist (AEA) and despite the silence her bills generated on capitol hill, her work had obviously paid off. But now what? Where would she go? what would she do? She had some cousins that were still on the tree but the last time she saw them they were just budding.

"This is a new low," thought Macintosh. Several hours later, it dawned on all the apples that they were free because there was a bad apple in the bunch. The apples then set out on a witch hunt to find this bad apple.

"If you came to a red light and no one was around, would you stop?"

"Have you ever committed a felony?"

"What what what what?" The bad apple hunt continued and eventually they found three Easter eggs, some buried treasure, and a fox.

"What are you doing in here?" the apples asked the Easter eggs.

"We heard that the apples were free and came to get our freak on!!" replied the eggs (during which time the fox stole the treasure and went to his den to sit on said treasure and pretend he was a dragon). It was at this point that the apples realized that they were now a part of the oldest industry in existence, and were free for the eggs to do with as they pleased. The eggs went through and selected the apples with the roundest curves and longest stems. The eggs made the apples remove their peels, slice into wedges, and commit other unspeakable acts. When the Easter eggs had finished up, there was nothing left in the basket but a swirly mixture of apple juice, and egg yolk with colored specks of springtime shells.

Soon after this happened, the French took note of this new dish and, considering they had tried to eat just about everything else with eggs, they adopted the practice of mixing free apples and Easter eggs. Today this recipe has been bastardized with the incorporation of flour, sugar, and butter into the despicable culinary orgy that Americans know as apple pie.

The End

****

Inmate number 2455 42837

In line at ALDI I noticed that there was a surgeon general's warning on the back of Bill Gates. I tapped him on the shoulder to see what it was exactly about him which merited such an honor.

"I am Bill Gates," he answered.

"That's great!" I told him. "What do you think about all day?"

"Money." Bill explained how it was all he had ever thought about. He thinks about money, and making it.

"What about power?" I asked.

"No, f'I thought about power I'd be a politician," said Bill.

"I don't really think about anything." I really thought about quite a bit but I didn't want to make Bill feel bad for only thinking about money.

"Lucky," said Bill, "I'd pay any amount to be conscious of the fact that I am thinking of nothing." Bill was a prisoner of his thoughts, as all great and successful people are. All these prisoners have the same sentence and are supposedly relieved when they stop breathing. Their thoughts build walls around their lives (these walls are very sturdy and make even the straightest redwood feel bashful).

"Cut it out, you're making me look bad," said a straight redwood ringing up Bill's prophylactics.

The government had issued the warning on Mr. Gates the last time he broke out of his cell and persuaded an underling to donate all his money to the treatment of HIV in Africa. The African government had been broadcasting propaganda about AIDS and HIV, telling their public that condoms don't work and that the disease is a method of western brainwashing.

"So the surgeon general's warning is part of the propaganda?" I asked Bill as he left the store.

"Leave me alone," he replied. Later, I reflected on the impact of a sustained and increasing population on an area of economic depravity and limited resources. Reflecting this much is enough to make me thankful that I do nothing.

"Wanna go to the movies later tonight?" asked the redwood.

"Leave me alone," I said, and went on about my daily routine of a trip to ALDI, followed by cutting the soles off my shoes, climbing a tree, and learning to play the flute.

The End

****

Beauty and the Abominable

Smiles were both common and illegal in the mountains before the abominable snowman was growing up. So what made a pony cool? By the time the bumble was ready to practice a mouth bend their sources had been clustered and burned, as a preemptive measure. Any horse-o-centric little girl knows that a long main is a key element of cuteness (As any dino-centric little boy knows that a mouth that can bite is the t-rex-coolness equivalent of a long main). Most other facial expressions were neglected and soon after most creatures had migrated to areas with alternative legislation, the talking stopped. I hatched a plan and purchased the pony against the advice of my sherpa.

"Smiles not illegal." Said that sherpa at that time. But uncommon all the same I gathered from my fur-suit-crusted mechanical interaction with the plastic pony merchant at base camp.

"Was left it rotted." Explained the Abominable snowman I met on the mountain, pointing to the edge of his mouth where a lip should be. At least one thousand years to the day before he did this he was born.

"Take it." I said close to the statement 'was left it rotted'. The pony was small and made to pry smiles from all creatures ubiquitously, and it was the first of these two features that made handling his present a cumbersome task for the lipless bumble.

On the way back down the mountain the sherpa assured me I wasn't the first not to buy lips instead of a smile. But the way he said it was ('A heart broken by neglect cannot be fixed with love.')

The End

****

Mickey

The day that the sliver of light widened was the day my life changed. Before that day my world was one of dimly lit arsenic powder blanketing the many petrified rodent droppings for which I was responsible.

In my youth, each fecal test was one that would leave me near emotional and psychological implosion. But once accustomed to this high-stress retrogress I developed a daily regimen in which I spent endless hours turning grey my hairs for the sake of one rodent dropping charge. Passing from this life continued near the end of my days, and upon growing feeble, the single track mind I had coddled in swaddling cloths bit deep into my flesh, gleefully desuckled tension and strain into my weary frame.

Then the light widened.

In the light was a beautiful woman, who took my hand and pulled me out from the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. The kitchen smelt of lime green, paint, moneyless linoleum, and an old man hacking tobacco.

"I am your escort," said the girl

"Please, look at my rat shit," I said, motioning proudly to my life's work.

"Yes." And she looked but a second. "Good." And that was all the more it mattered. The escort led me out of the kitchen to the base of a wooden fire escape, crowned with chipping grey and crème colors.

"This is the most important thing you will ever do," said the escort, and we walked up the stairs to the first floor. It was on this landing where I saw my escort and a large worm sharing a cup of tea.

"Don't worry about it so much," said the worm through the hook-and-eye fastened screen door. The escort's eyes left with all her motions, and space pushed the fine china cup from her hand to the floor. The tea lay puddled for blood and salt to creep in and lap up the last of it like a canine companion. I took the next flight of stairs alone, in fear, and felt the most important thing I will ever do shake away all the confidence and security my nerves had remaining.

Much to my surprise, it was on the next landing where darkness turned to light and a great white gate blocked my path. Anxiety and sweat partying over my fur and naked tail, I wished I had perhaps some white gloves and red shorts to mark the occasion. Parting the clath studded entry of pearl, the light faded and I met my escort on a new landing similar to the one below.

"That's it?" I asked.

"No," said the escort, "but the real thing is exactly the same on every level."

I thought of the worm, and noticed a screen door leading to a kitchen behind my escort. Then she motioned up the stair to for me to continue.

"Let's make some tea, shall we?" I said, and pressed past her into the kitchen.

The End

****

Juxtapose (a true story)

Among the many parks in northeastern Ohio, there is one named Will Christy Park. It is in this park that a young father and his boy visit a particular bench that is nestled in a semi-circle of seven trees.

"Look up at the branches, Dad," said the boy sitting down on the bench, with his imagination already running wild connecting the shades of different branches and their silhouettes to make Dimetrodon, Gallimimus, and Deinonychus.

"Yeah," said his Dad with less imagination, and unsure why his son had asked him to do this. "These trees are magic, and we can time travel anywhere we want."

"I know that," replied the boy, "you said it last time." Then for the next irrelevant amount of time the father narrated what time they were in, and the boy's imagination turned what was once a stick into a Wild West rifle, Excalibur, and a Proton Pack. Then the father invented a handful of cartoony voices, and the two imagined that they were in the boy's favorite films (complete with trademarked ducks and turtles).

"Who are they?" asked the boy, whose childhood induced hallucinations did not include the two conversing figures lounging in canopy above.

"Well that one'sa good omen and that one'sa bad omen."

"Who are they talking about?"

"Sounds like a friend," said the Dad, and the two of them eavesdropped on the omens.

"Yeah I remember Scott, isn't he in the army now?" said the Bad omen.

"No, he uh, came back on leave. And kidnapped his family to California so-he-could negotiate a dishonorable discharge in return for his family," said the Good omen.

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Yeah well now he's do'en this thing where he's made up this fake resume with all this impressive stuff on it and getting these high ranking jobs. Then he quits'em after like a month, and so that way he is slowly building a resume of real things."

"Wow! No way, that's... that's very very illegal," said the Bad omen.

"Yeah it is," continued the Good omen, "but I guess he's just quit some CEO job last month, and now, now he's the national manager for united way-like IN CHARGE of all the smaller united ways."

"So he just called YOU up out of nowhere?"

"Yeah that guy is crazy, he called me and was like, 'I have six-hundred and fifty dollars the company gave me for "travel expenses" that I have to spend.' And so he picked me up in his company car with an envelope full of cash, and we went to the gentlemen's club behind Rolling Acres, and he went up to the bar and was like 'six shots of Patron.' So we just kept doing that, and then we paid the two girls to dance to Genesis and it was crazy."

The omens' conversation tickled all the imaginary cowboys, knights in shining armor, and cartoon voices out of the time machine arbor. Once the story of Scott was done, the conversation fell apart and there was an awkward moment of silence.

"I am not sure how I feel about this," said the boy to his Dad, wanting very badly to return.

The End

****

The Layers Del Vida

On a chilly December evening a couple met at home after work, and inquired about each other's day. The query's results described a long difficult day of rickshaw-pulling.

"I heard some nonsense on the radio this morning," said the woman, "they had a guest named Dr. Pea."

"Welcome to the show, Dr. Pea," said the radio host, "please tell us about the inspiration for your new book, 'Taking the Reigns.'"

"Well, its interesting, I was stuck in a rut," started Dr. Pea. "You know, getting on better with my associate employee contemporaries, regular exercise at the gym (three days a week), eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats), car wash also on Sundays. And I was watching T.V. late one night and this infomercial comes on."

"NEVER LIVE ANOTHER BORING DAY!" said the amphetamine-pumped voice of world-renowned infomercial host, Stop Sign Steve. A grey scale shot of a woman yawing, a chubby man flipping through channels, and young person in a cubical leaving a comment on Myspace, were on the screen as a voice-over said,

"Tired of the comfort of modern living? Just going through the motions? Do you have all of your identity invested in your job?"

The next shot was Stop Sign Steve at an empty workbench. "WITH THE NEW SWEDISH ENGINEERED MATTRESS SYSTEM DEVLOPED BY SCIENCE IN NASA JAPANEESE, YOU DON'T HAVE TO!" The camera followed Steve as he approached a pink flowery box spring mattress filled with Jell-O, a pair of clubs, and awful.

"ONE NIGHT ON THE JELL-O BED AND YOU'LL BE SO UNCOMFORTABLE WITH YOURE LIFE THAT YOU'LL HAVE TO GET OUT AN'DO SOMETHING." Then Stop Sign Steve was paired with another Stop Sign Steve and they were laid on the table, leaving the Old Maid in the hand of the radio host.

"Really?" said the Man, setting down a paperback copy of the novel 'Problems Only Rich People Have Time To Care About' by Judith Guest.

"Oh man! Look at the time! We need to get dinner started if we are going to have time later to study for night classes, drive our unemployed adult children to a job interview they surely won't get, call the electric company, water company, and mortgage lenders who have 'lost' this months check and can now charge late fees, and try to catch our youngest son sneaking out after he thinks we have gone to sleep so he can do drugs," said the Woman.

"I wish I wanted a Jell-O bed."

The End

****

Lorentha Pandora, Cole

The green box was about 36cm x 37cm, made of sturdy metal, and had a faded butterfly sticker. One night, upon leaving a house circus of debauchery and lawless stencils, a young inebriated man hopped off the house's porch, and landed near his street parked car. Near the trunk of his car he found the box.

"It is like a snake," he said, shaking the contents. He then put it in his trunk and never looked inside.

"What d'you mean you've never looked in it!" said every person who saw that, unlike any good Ohio boy, this man's trunk had a box instead of a body (Ohio's two largest exports are presidents and serial killers). Then at the next time which the car moved less than usual, that person would request to see what was inside.

"It's like getting lima beans for Christmas," the driver would say. "Until I see and unwrap what's inside, that box will always be something fantastic." Then that person would look inside and invariably be disappointed.

Driving is dangerous, when a driver gets on the road and has such a box full of disappointment. It is easy to let hazards fall from memory. En route to a place at night, there are many dangerous brake lights when stopped in a car-jam.

Among the hyenas and gorillas with which the driver shared this car-jam, the driver's passenger was a legless lizard. This snake turned on the radio, but only smoke and laughter poured out (this happens when radio and driver are 1100 km above sea level).

"YOU CAN UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES LET ME KNOW WHAT'S INSIDE." Arrogance and stupidity in the snake lied and told it to do something clever. The viper went to the trunk and brought the box out, dumping its contents on the hood of the 1992 white ford tempo with one leather seat (Christmas was ruined).

In plane sight of the driver lay a pathetic excuse for a robotic talon. After he realized what had happened, the snake was gone to its grass in concrete, and the car began to sink into a lava flow of break lights. A gyroscope of volcanic traffic doused in red illumination signaled death, as semis and sedans were tossed. The Mountains and their forests burned and became furious.

"Why have you brought darkness into our lives!" screamed people and trees in tandem, like a choir of third graders at Hell elementary finishing a Gershwin song.

Burning and ash degraded to dust and grew into a curb. Next to the curb was a green metal box on a green strip of grass separated from the lawn by a sidewalk, and it is because of this box that Ohioans call this narrow zone "The Devil Strip."

The End

****

Three's a Crowd

The Girl was the last of the three to appear in the room.

"Who are you?" said the girl to both the old man and the younger featureless man.

"Bill West," said the old man, surprised (easily fifty years the senior of the other two, and the second to appear in the room).

"I don't know," said the featureless man, "I don't seem to remember anything."

"Neither do I," said the Girl.

"Where are we?" said Bill.

"I am not sure, maybe if we look around we can find a clue," suggested the man. The three looked through the oak furniture of what seemed to be a wealthy mansion.

"Here is a letter," said the featureless man. "It is addressed to Bill West."

"So this is my home?" said Bill, who opened the letter and read a bit. "It seems to be talking about a Nancy West... Some clinic... She was denied coverage..."

"Do you remember what that is about?" asked the Girl.

"No, my dear," said Bill. "What can you remember?"

"Nothing," said the girl. "But you at least knew your name. So what else?"

"I don't want to say," said Bill, and the three sat in silence, knowing they would eventually hear what Bill knew.

"I am a bad man," said Bill, "I caused the suffering of many through forced labor."

"So where do you think we are, Nancy?" said the featureless man to the girl.

"We are in Bill's house, what do you mean?" said Nancy, who went silent in her error. The three sat in still-life, staring at Nancy, awaiting her knowledge.

"I married Bill," said Nancy, "for his money."

"What is this?" said the featureless man, becoming increasingly frustrated. "Why do you both remember?" Struggling for words and feeling some tears well into her eyes, Nancy looked at the featureless man.

"I even killed someone to get his money."

"But Bill is right here," said the featureless man, "he has his money, we are in his home... right Bill?" Bill was silent. "Right Bill?"

"I don't know, I can't remember. I would assume so," said Bill, looking at Nancy.

"Who did you kill, Nancy? Maybe they know what is going on. Who could you have pissed off that would do this to us?" asked the man.

"I don't know," said Nancy.

"What is this?" said the Man. In his frustration he went to leave through the front door and found a swirling black hole on the other side (despite the quiet suburban front yard visible from the window).

"Wha-" he said, falling backwards, and then struggling to kick the door shut from the floor.

"I think this a family," said Bill.

The End

****

Chuang-tzu

Jean-Jean was a ninety-nine year old woman who had been in a twenty-four hour care facility for the last thirteen years with a form of dementia that had wiped away all of her memories. When eighth graders need service hours to graduate from catholic grade school, their parents just lie for them and fabricate the needed seventy-two hours.

Aladin was in eighth grade and went to doors at the care facility looking for people to talk to. Aladin spoke with an orderly who let him know how long it had been since the all the patients had had visitors. Jean-Jean's last visitor was a Snapple salesman who thought there was an untapped market for juice-like drinks, in women.

"Hello, Jean-Jean," said Aladin. It had been ten years since the Snapple man.

"I didn't get Alzheimer's," said Jean-Jean, "I was a in deep with Pogo Stick Stormer, and when I couldn't pay, he took my mind."

"Well that's- hey, last time you promised to tell me how- the story behind that scar on your hand," said Aladin. Jean-Jean dug frantically in a bottle of bubble juice and pulled out a soggy business card with the name Judge Stormer on it, and a phone number.

"He's dead now," said Jean-Jean. She then picked up a picture of her son. "My son burnt the inside of my hand after he got out of Vietnam. With a curling iron. He put my hand around it and made me hold it till I couldn't feel the burn."

"That's terrible," said Aladin.

"He's dead too, died on the street. Was never the same when he got back. He'd borrow money and return it twenty minutes later. Couldn't park in a spot, only on the lines. Tall." Aladin had had enough of this and left to find a less disturbing old person.

"BYE, JEAN-JEAN," said Aladin. In the hall outside Jean-Jean's room he bumped into the orderly. He said that Jean-Jean had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, but that she did know Judge Stormer, and that he was dead. He also said that she burnt her hand gripping a power cable as a child while climbing a tree, and that her son had died in battle. Jean-Jean was the one who told the army recruiters where her son was while he was dodging the draft.

"What difference does it make?" said Aladin, "pretty much everyone who could verify the truth is dead, and the physical history matches up with her fictional story as well as yours."

"What's your point?" said the orderly (who understood Aladin's point about Jean-Jean's identity but wanted him to leave, because it seemed frivolous to argue when reality was so apparent, and he just wanted to watch David After Dentist).

"My parents never lie," said Aladin, and he went to visit a few other patients, collect his legitimate service hours, and then go home.

When Aladin woke up, he was a monarch butterfly. Aladin completed part of his migration south. He landed on a few flowers, and drank their nectar heavily. Bird's bombarded the migration and claimed the wings of those around Aladin.

"Shit," thought Aladin. The day was done and Aladin folded his wings closed.

When Aladin woke up

The End

****

The Bathroom Attendant

The belt-b-belt Belt Sander came out this Christmas season and featured a unique and innovative power supply. The power came from a miniature tornado (the manufacture called this "Benjamin Franklin Music"). The Tornado would wind the crank and pull the forces of sanding across any roughish surface. The advertisement had a picture of Mary Pickford sanding a cat-o'nine-tails, and a caption at the top that read,

"Like Silk!" and a caption at the bottom, in fancy font number chi, that read,

"Smithsonian quality."

The ability to smooth out the rough parts was at the top of the builder's Christmas list. For a long time the builder had worked for SOCIAL Inc., and specialized in constructs. For the last hundred million years or so he had been working on a construct with many rough patches that were very stubborn.

"I am trying to matter!" the rough parts would cry, and the builder would grind away with some file only to find them just as corroded as when he started. Walking away each night, the builder would look back at his construct and see the larger scope of his work, and realize that the individual characteristics of each rough patch were tiny and insignificant.

"This's the most elegant cesspool," said the builder.

"Don't worry about that," said the construct.

"I know," said the builder, and, dejected that the details of his craft went unnoticed, he began to come to work later and later over the next moon, until by the time had come he was not in the habit of working at all.

Checking his email one morning while watching Duck Tales and eating Fruit Circles, the builder saw an email from hyourdog@social.comb, and opened it.

Builder: Your absenteeism has caused your construct to march on lemons further than any; and a permissive period STOP I lovingly suggest that you return to work immediately and embrace it as a chance to have your one and only perspective for this period of time be both fulfilled and meaningful STOP

~Your-dog, Humanity STOP

Seeing now for the first time that his error was to work on Humanity as a SOCIAL construct, the builder began to feel the responsibility his free will had been leaving for him on the stoop each morning like a misguided trophy.

"I better pick up a belt-b-belt," said the builder.

The End

****

A Treat of Human Nature Shows

Sammy the camel had no humps. Children had recently and often stripped Sammy of his humps, causing his clinical depression for the last 30 years. Today he sits on his garage sale sofa and seeks comfort in biographies on the parallel universe channel.

Today's biography was on Josef Mengele. The camera focused on the Nazi's face and he began answering the editorially removed asking-half of the interview's questions.

"Most people. Do not know this. But the majority of our technological and advancements in all fields, were the result of a single initiative. Issued by the Fuhrer shortly after Germany's victory in world war two," said Josef, and the screen cut to still shots of schematics for technology, with a Ken Burns effect panning the image.

"The idea was to conduct translational research that would answer the major questions in philosophy at the time," continued Josef. "The fields of psychology, neurobiology, and genetic manipulation had just opened many doors."

"And behind those doors was what would later be called the Rain Man Project," said a voice-over, as the scene switched back to Josef Mengele sitting folded and crossed.

"Our hypothesis was that true imagination was not synonymous with creativity or innovation as is thought by conventional technology and art, but rather imagination is inversely proportional to experience. So we engineered a spectrum of infants each with a different capacity for long-term potentiation. They couldn't form long-term memories. Experiences! But-and a full capability for verbal and written communication," said Josef, and the laboratory in which he worked housed a pen of infants crawling on one another.

"The specific engineering was essential, and from this, two important specimens were engineered. They were dubbed The Source and The Interpreter," said the voice-over, and the shot returned to Josef, who continued his explanation.

"First we had The Source. The Source was a specimen that could have no experiences, and then somewhere between no experiences and some experiences was The Interpreter. We used The Interpreter to make sense of what we saw in The Source."

"What they saw were patterns: empirical patterns with statistical significance. However, they lacked the ability to understand the patterns," said the voice-over, and a shot of a middle aged white man was brought into frame, with the words "The Interpreter" superimposed in white at the bottom of the screen.

"They, would test the source- well all of us really- with a very wide variety of things- stimuli they called it. To see what we would do. Hurt like hell sometimes," said The Interpreter.

"It was from these patterns, as a result of each stimulus, which could be a cluster of balloons or being hung upside down, but we would analyze out data and cross reference it with what the Interpreter felt The Source was trying to communicate-and it was from this, these these these patterns, these basic science patterns- all disciplines really- that we were able to advance technology in leaps and bounds. The raw imagination! Talk about out of the box, it was like there was no box," finished Josef, flustered and giddy.

When Sammy turned off the TV, the glare from the sun on the screen reflected his humpless body. It was 1984 and he was 30 years old today.

"You are not a horse, you are not a horse," said Sammy with tears.

The End

****

Semiotics for Edwin Drood

In London's early fall of 1812, Boz peddled his bicycle past the many rickshaws and foxes that perused the city streets looking for the next thing in the day. A puppet with strings who lay crushed in the wake of his joy ride cursed to him.

"I am feeling frustration, because though I saw you were most certainly going to hit me, this boy would not direct my stings out of your way!" shouted Pierce the Puppet (though most Englishmen speak fluent puppet, Boz was not most Englishmen). Since Boz is one syllable, Boz was subject to the language barrier that had been placed on all men with single syllable names by the Greeks before the second coming of Egyptian pirates (founders of the Mission of Capistrano), and he could only guess at Pierce the Puppets's nonverbal communication, like a game of charades.

"What is the matter with your puppet, boy?" said Boz.

"I think he's angry," said the boy in a peasant's hat, coat, and smudged with filth. "Please, sir, take this letter to the love of your life." Then the boy removed a parchment from beneath his crutch and placed it into the basket of Boz's bicycle.

"Oops," said Pierce, who had cursed the parchment with the worst curse he could. Immediately the bicycle lifted off the ground and floated into the air. Like magnetism, the bike's gears were drawn to an enormous golden arch. On the golden arch the bike was propelled, as if by a steam engine on rails, to the end of the arch in Atlanta (But as all Englishmen who think in symbols know, this was the most recent transcontinental system to come out of Edison's lab, and it was fueled by consuming the capacity to conceptualize imaginary things, not steam). However, Boz's new found curse left him blind with the ignorance of symboless thought. Boz continued along the golden rail, crossing the Plasmic Ocean, unaware of how he was doing so.

The last of Boz's imagination was enough to land a safe two-point landing on a bench in Atlanta. On a bike, on a bench, on Atlanta, Boz began to fall apart like a wall of muscles without mortar. On the ground, Boz's eyes lay separated but intact, and each saw a different one of Boz's pockets. The right eye saw what was Boz's breast pocket, and the left focused on what was the rear of Boz's trousers.

"If only we had such symbols," sighed the trouser pocket. "The things we could share."

"The living we would do," added the breast pocket.

"Love, frustration. Much more than a-thing a-pocket, or merely the right-angle that makes L, the circle that is O, or the faces of V and E! So perfect, so abstract."

"I rightly don't understand it I must say," added the breast pocket. "But it's what's living, ain't it?"

"Maybe that is where this blubber excuse for a man went wrong, eh?" said the inside coat pocket, saturated in bile and fluids. "Spent all his time o-" And the pocket was silenced when a troop of confused yet photogenic ducklings in full marching band attire (Complete with hats, batons, and tiny functionless instruments) lead the end of their halftime show into the inside coat pocket.

"Is hard to say what made Boz live. But it seems like share'n his thoughts or this and that kept him going."

The End

****

H1N1

In 1810, Morris Thomas shifted the focus of his design to include a bracket. Bracket clocks were very fashionable in 1810 and the only difference from other clocks was that bracket clocks had a matching shelf. Morris Thomas also included a glass back. This allowed folks to peer in with amazement at the cogs, gears, and bell hammer that would often peer back.

"I pity them," said a cog.

"Indeed," agreed a gear.

"Why is that?" asked the bell hammer.

"Well I dunno, just look at'em," said the gear. "The poor things are so lost."

"I think it's more the lack of... anything, really. Most of them never figure it out, and even the ones who do rarely do before the end," said the cog.

"We at least know where we fit and what we are supposed to do; none of this complicated, free will, seek your destiny nonsense," said the gear, and the human spectators lost interest and went back to playing marbles and mending Edwardian clothing.

"I guess I always just thought they were doing what they were supposed to be doing, whether they were trying to or not," said the bell hammer, feeling the tension in is spring build as it prepared to recite the hour three.

Three came, went, and then the cogs, gears, and bell hammer were mercilessly smashed by a Montauk Monster (which looks very similar to a partially decomposed raccoon) which had come into the store and become enchanted with the clock's bell."It must be laughing," thought Mr. Montauk, who then attempted to tell it a set of jokes that would be channeled by Rodney Dangerfield one hundred and thirty-five years later at The Latin Quarter in New York City.

"With my wife I get no respect. I made a toast on her birthday to 'the best woman a man ever had.' The waiter joined me."

In 1811, Morris Thomas attempted a clock that relied on a probability system described by quantum mechanics. The sales pitch for this new idea was a regimented script that each salesperson was required to recite when customers showed interest.

Simply allow this new and improved model to incorporate

the scientific understanding of molecular and quantum physics

to do the same job as cogs and gears.

Same results, different clock.

(Then chase customer up a pole and threaten with the injection of a vaccine)

Most people preferred the traditional model, and because neither quantum mechanics nor wind-up mechanics laughed, the Montauk Monster smashed them ubiquitously.

The End

****

Summers at the Pool

One hot summer in the land of gloom, a tragic hero and a bit part sat on the back porch of a red brick home and watched their dog patrol the back yard for squirrels.

"It's so hot out," said the bit part.

"I think I would even drink from the universal pool of knowledge," said the Hero.

"Don't do that," said comic relief, coming outside for a cigarette "People pee in it." This was true; because the universal pool of knowledge was accessible to all, there was a fair amount of dribble that made it. The dog's ears perked up as a squirrel crawled through the trees overhead and then started a hot rod. The dog then bolted after the squirrel barking loudly.

"Did you ever reflect in it?" asked the tragic hero.

"Yeah, did you?" answered comic relief, as his cigarette burned out a quarter of an inch from the tip (this had been a massive inconvenience for smokers, since FCS was recently standard on all cigarettes).

"Great! Great, thanks to the president I can't finish my cigarette," said comic relief, relighting. "What'd you see?"

"I saw that time was an illusion, a necessary illusion, and that because there is no time and the universe is in constant motion, that all matter exists at a single point and at a single instance," continued the tragic hero. "So then I started thinking that if that is the case, then maybe we are a single entity moving through this point, out of time."

"Just one thing interacting with itself?" said the Comic relief.

"I guess. That would make time a necessary illusion, right?" said the tragic hero.

The dog came up on to the porch now, and the bit part began to pet its head. The dog sat down, put on a vintage smoking jacket, lit a cheap cigar, and began rolling the ashes off the cigar tip onto the porch in the likeness of multiplication tables.

"No!" said the bit part, "bad dog!"

"So is that why it feels wrong to do this?!" and the comic relief quickly burnt the neck of the tragic hero with his cigarette. "Cuz I'm really hurting myself?"

"Asshole!" said the tragic hero. The three then sat in silence, and let the wind fondle the tree. In the tree was a squirrel that came down to the ground, seeing that the dog was off duty. So the dog dropped his cigar and flame retardant gel developed by the Navy to put out the residual flames from enemy fire (smoking dogs often have many well-armed enemies).

"Want to know what I saw in the pool?" said Comic relief.

"No," said the tragic hero.

"I saw that that dog isn't here. It's just dreaming and we are all parts of its dream."

The End

****

Thinking = (Perception x Physical world) + Emotion

Mastermind met with his underlings to discus goals for the upcoming quarter.

"Perception, Emotion, I have called you here today to address your roles within my plan," said Mastermind. He then continued to explain how these two would be charged with establishing the foundation for something greater, and fizzy bubbles.

"I want to be able to focus thoughts on understanding concepts. I will give you pure thought to work with." The Mastermind then slid a cardboard box across the conference room table. Both Perception and Emotion read the tag: No conventions characteristic of communication added. Offer not available after curfew in sector R.

"For this task, Perception, I'll need you to relate the physical world back to Emotion. Emotion, Then I'll need you to analyze and classify that relation, so that we can build on it. We need to know the relation of the concepts with which each concept relates, and when we know that, we will understand the concept."

When the meeting concluded, Emotion and Perception took their pure thought

and headed to the elevator so they could go some floors and start to make thinking happen.

"Why did we get this?" said Emotion, noticing a human Ear on the floor, and pushing a button so the elevator would move.

"I dunno, but everything happens for a reason," said Perception, also noticing the Ear (Emotion did not think everything happens for a reason, but rather that everything that happens is part of one long sequence of happenings in which each happening has an effect on all happenings that happen post initial point of happening reference).

"Eh," shrugged Emotion, picking up the ear and popping it in his mouth a bit.

"You mean all the days I ignore can have some stupid greater abstract influence."

"What? No, you said that."

Then the elevator ripped in half, showering sheet metal, screws, fiberglass, and brail labels within the chaotic confines of the elevator shaft. Emotion watched as Perception disappeared with half the elevator down into the abyss. Mid-descent, cellophane leaked from the air vents and wrapped around Perception. Cocooned and terrified, Perception watched the cellophane begin to burn. The flames continued unquenched and eternal, as gravity resolved to quit pulling only after the flames stop burning (gravity was very pig headed, and enjoyed a good vicious cycle).

Back in the severed lift, all artificial light was extinguished, and the soft sound of elevator music filled the decimated view, cradling the car in place. Out of the darkness a spinning portal opened and a voice addressed Emotion directly.

"Come, I have things to show you."

The End

****

Switzerland

A pair of fugitive leprechauns fled the Irish country to a land of sadness and exile. When they reached Siberia, they found the home of a humble Syphilis-ridden hermit. The hermit took pity on the sad yet adorable couple, and allowed them to stay in his cave. The leprechauns were man and wife and did chores around the cave to earn their keep. The hermit spent his days in the fields and his weekends climbing to the tops of mountains. On some ventures, the hermit would come back nearly dead, starved, or injured.

"My wife is pregnant," said McStanly the leprechaun. The hermit had been working in the fields for twenty hours, and returned wearing a small metal sea turtle in his left eye (he fancied this look, as it made him feel coastal). The hermit acknowledged McStanly, and put a few frogs he had farmed earlier that day into the pan of hot toil that the leprechauns had been warming over the fire.

"You, a father?" laughed Poormin the hermit.

"Ay," said McStanly, standing in a way that reflected his defensive feelings.

"I think it best. If you come with me up the mountain tomorrow."

So Poormin and McStanly set out up Pitzkovach. Amidst the rocks and ice they exerted much effort and grew weary, to say the least. Reaching the summit, Poormin sat on a rock across from the ragged and exhausted leprechaun.

"Do you know why I asked you to come?" said Poormin (McStanly did know but was too out of breath to reply).

"I have known you only a little bit, Mr. McStanly, but I can tell by your reaction to your exile that you do not understand hardship." It was then that Poormin gestured out across the magnificent spectacle that was the view from the top of Pitzkovach.

"I wish suffering on all whom I care for," said Poormin. "It is in suffering that one can have happiness, and with immense effort one can live fulfilled." McStanly caught his breath and removed his shoes. He then took out his pipe and packed it for sharing.

"You are wrong. But I understand why, and it's ok," said McStanly, exhaling a puff. "Have you ever been in a dream and known it? Of course you have, and when you know it, you also know you are really asleep in your cave." As he spoke, Poormin found he could only see with his peripheral vision, and that the world in that moment was magical.

"I was exiled from Ireland, Mr. Poormin, because I know, that I am not here. I know I am not here with absolute certainty, but I don't know where I am. And when I learned that, I also learned that all the happiness and accomplishment in life means nothing." Poormin inferred that such a blasphemous statement was in fact one that, if not revoked, would leave the Irish leprechaun elders with no other choice than to excommunicate McStanly. The two finished their pipe and started to descend the mountain.

"So then what does matter?" asked Poormin, smugly and skeptically.

"That's easy," replied McStanley, "Love. I don't know why, but wherever I actually am, love matters. It is not the only thing that matters, but I just don't know well enough to say that anything else here matters there."

The End

****

Dear Diary,

Today, despite the fact that I had my leg cut off twelve years ago (over a lollypop), I have set the world record for the jump. Most jump athletes are sand, but I just took two hops and then over the bar. It is also the two times art anniversary of the day my girlfriend, Nelly, threw her half dead plant Murgatroid in the trash. I told her, "That plant is the only reason I am interested in you," and that if we were to stay together she would have to get it back.

Nelly promptly purchased and wore a plant costume while standing ankle-deep in a pot of soil. She then acted half-dead and waited by the trashcan at the end of the hall in her building. The trash collection agency that had collected Murgatroid was recently accused of discrimination, and in response had started hiring Cyclops.

"I look so dapper!" shouted the monotone Cyclops wearing a bright red bow tie and slacks. He then disposed of Nelly in the city wasteland and recycling center (which are really two names for the same thing). When Nelly took a moment to look around, she realized that a functional community of wilted plants surrounded her. Plants running Korean restaurants and walking dog services. Amidst the many floral peddlers, Nelly found Murgatroid at a rigged card table selling bootleg DVD's.

"Murgatroid! I thought I would never find you," said Nelly. "I was so wrong. You can keep your maiden name or hyphenate it or something." But it was too late; Murgatroid was a father and now had many mouths to feed. Nelly understood that Murgatroid was not coming back, and resigned herself to the loss of her boyfriend. Murgatroid then sold Nelly a version of X-men Origins: Wolverine without any special effects, and visible suspension wires.

Nelly hailed a rickshaw, and when straight back to her apartment. She then reluctantly inserted the movie into a tick and uploaded it onto an internet. From here the movie committed many other illegal acts for the free viewing pleasure of a world dowsed in streaming video. It was last morning that Nelly was apprehended by the FBI for copyright infringement.

Diary, I now fear that my irrational demands of Nelly have forced me to write about Nelly being arrested. But alas, I now see that I have not written it at all, and that I'm merely speaking into a telephone while lying in bed.

"Hello?" I said, realizing the phone was just my hand. "Who is this there? Where am I?" No one answered and I hung up.

The End

****

Tripoli

So last night, when breathing, one could potentially see their breath. Attempting to drive a car down well-lit streets, one's breath would come out, freeze a bit, and then vanish without being able to finish its thought.

"I'll bet you th-" said breath.

"I don't know," said The Mouth Breather (who had been addicted to skill games of chance). Breather then drove to the skill-boat-indian-games-casino, that exists through a legislative loophole that makes gambling allowed if a small amount of skill is required in the game. But when he got to the door, he saw a sign.

"No breath allowed," said the sign. Discouraged, Breather found that in the time it took him to exit his car and go read the sign, the car had been seduced by a rather attractive pair of knickers. In his parking spot was a sign.

"And left for Vegas," said the sign, written by a love drunk Geo Tracker (Cars have poor sentence structure). Left in the cold, Breather was alone with his breath.

"Can I just start ove-?" said his breath, which, upon speaking, had its own breath.

"If you really mean it, sur-" said the breath of the breath of Breather. For a split second, the mind of the breath changed. The breath's mind had been wearing the same lucky boxers for the last ten thousand years. In that time their luckiness increased, like the number of scars on a cougar's pelt, and all skill-boat-indian-games-casinos had banned them, as their luckiness could beat the house. Upon changing its mind's boxers, the luck was gone, and the sign prohibiting breath was removed.

Jenga Vultures, that breathe and carry salvation in one robotic talon with modern medicine in the other, were among the first to see that the sign was gone.

"The hour has come!" said the Jenga Vultures, descending into the skill-boat-indian-games-casino. On the way in the door, the birds dropped both salvation and modern medicine onto Breather.

"My EYES!" wailed Breather, blinded by the bird droppings. Feeling his way around in the parking lot, Breather took hold of many bird droppings, and was immediately relieved of his compulsive desire to wager, risk, and recite lines from Napoleon Dynamite. Blind and free, Breather smiled in the cold night air, hearing the rumble of a familiar engine.

"The knickers," said the Geo Tracker sobbing, "took me for a ride. I'm in deep, and if I don't lose my job, family, and self-worth immediately, they are gonna-"

"Not another word," said Breather. He knew the fastest way to lose all those things, but having been blinded before seeing the sign removed, Breather did not know he wouldn't have to be breathless to do it. So he crammed all the salvation he could bear down his throat to stop the breathing. Breather then lead his car into the skill-boat-indian-games-casino.

The End

****

Close Enough

Tommy the tommy gun and Peal the pearl handled revolver had been dating for about two years, and in that time they had disagreed on many things. Among these disagreements were: swords for dinner, and what is the best drink to get at a bar.

"Christ's Blood," said Pearl, sitting at the bar in a new religious themed club built in a renovated church. Wes, the bar tender, promptly filled her a glass of red wine.

"I'll have a Frank'n berry Buddha," said Tommy, and Wes mixed four parts vodka, one part orange juice, one part cranberry juice, and one part red bull.

"Tapas?" asked Wes.

"I'll have a fortune cookie," said Tommy. Written on his fortune were the words:

Electrons can move through DNA like electricity through wire. In a cell, DNA is a coil of coils. Electromagnetism can result from electricity running through a coiled wire. The electricity running through the coils of DNA in your body is the reason you have electro magnetic fields. All genetic diseases could theoretically be cured by directing and controlling these magnetic fields.

The two firearms continued to disagree and drink heavily until they were both completely loaded. At this point it became a divine idea to play a game of darts. The two guns went to cast their darts, and accidentally began throwing round after round of ammunition through drunks and bar flies alike. Spritsing the brains and guts of the alcohol-saturated sexually-focused fishbowl-attendees across stained glass and bar pews, the two religion-loaded guns managed to put a few holes in what they were supposed to be aiming at in the first place.

"Did you get a bull's eye?" asked Pearl, seeing that her western (religion) style shots had managed to really nail some areas of what both aim at, while completely missing others.

"Nope," replied Tommy, noticing that the pattern of eastern (religion) shots seemed to be similar, but with some semantic differences.

"So neither of us really gets it perfect," said Pearl, in drunken comprehension.

"Eh, I dunno, we hit the target so it works a little," said Tommy. "I don't think I could ever actually hit that bull's eye, with these five senses." So they stuck with what works, and continued their bar hall'n church shoot'em up.

Among the black sharpie vandalism and band stickers in the men's room, a musician woke from a mid-piss nap to hear the resonating sound of bullets off the poop-crusted toilet bowl. The sound was so pure and beautiful that he convinced his producer to record his next hit song in that room so he could capture that particularly shitty sound.

"I call this one Fortune Cookie," said the musician on stage in Carnegie hall. The rest of his barbershop quartet, Sick Throat, began to sing Amazing Grace, and the musician recited his lyrics.

"For centuries, acupuncture has been used to direct magnetic fields in the body, providing limited health benefits. It doesn't get a medical bull's eye, but it works."

The End

****

Water Works, Turn On (the)

The Mausoleum was the biggest water slide around. It was three stories tall, complete with dramatic curves and blond hair. The slide had very little water, and so a mat was required to slide. Runts and Puppy stood in line holding their mats, eagerly waiting as, one by one, the other riders called out their style and then slipped to the bottom.

"I looked out," said Runts to the big fields surrounding the tower of slide. There were only fields and tennis courts that surrounded the slide, and the courts were the territory of the Yellow Jackets. Recently, the Jackets had been trying to take the slide, and installed a number of hives along the staircase winding in large right angles up the slide.

"Ahhhhhh!" screamed Puppy, making assumptions and realizing that they were directly under a hive (Puppy was deathly afraid of bees).

"AHH!" screamed Runtz, enjoying the sound. It was that sound which was a perfect 5th, and the frequency used by mosquito wings to open the hive doors (and attract mates). The Hive opened like the cover of an old bible, and out come the wolves, falling from the hive onto Runts and Puppy and turning them on their head.

"The Alphabet?" said Runts, seeing that paws now trampled the many English letters that had been patiently waiting in line behind them (the English love queues).

"You're up!" said the lifeguard on duty at the mouth of the slide.

"Reverse Hot Dog Style!" shouted Runts, and he descended the slide, looking back at the Hive related mess, Puppy on his head, and watched it all go away. Runts waited in the pool at the base of the Mausoleum for Puppy to come down.

For Puppy, paramedics arrived to encircle and resuscitate his motionless body. Puppy insisted on doing a side-dive off the slide, and missed the pool by the length of his head. The rest of Puppy's body splashed in the water, but his head took a detour to the concrete first. In chilled, wet, darkness Puppy's head throbbed and felt a tall-toothed fish grab his big toe and pull. The toe-pulling was countered by shoulder-pulling, instigated by the paramedics. Eventually the Puppy tug-of-war ended with the paramedics/EMT falling into the water.

"Hahahah," chuckled the EMT and tall-tooth fish alike. After the laugh, the EMT and the fish went out for a drink. The two fell deeply in love, and years later, when they were ready to have children, the fish laid eggs under a plastic castle, and the EMT just shrugged.

"Why did I think this would work?" said the EMT. Saddened by having no children of his own, the EMT went on to coach a little girls' T-Ball team.

"Good cut!" said the EMT and Runts simultaneously at one of the girls' games. Runts and the EMT knew a jinx was in order, but when they realized who they would have to jinx, they simply nodded. Runts when back to watching his batter cousin, and the EMT blocked out thoughts of his impotent attempts at tall-tooth fish lovemaking, and the Puppy he let die for his romantic gamble.

The End

****

Attention: West Vacation Ahead

Some say that a flat place is the Texas panhandle, others say things to each other like,

"Check this out," drawing attention to the silver James Dean in car-form passing their red VW van headed west, on route 66.

"Did they notice?" asked Father.

"They never do," replied his wife (Father was an empty box of raisins and he found it delightful to watch the other drivers as they passed, to see if they would do a double take). However, this time the couple in the James Dean car sought the attention of the VW van, and persisted to flag them down until both groups were stationary by the side of the road. Remaining in their van, the family waited while the woman in the passenger seat got out of her car and walked up to Father's window.

"You see that man?" asked the woman, pointing to the driver of her car. The family looked and noticed that: 1) the back seat of her car was lined with black bananas, and 2) the driver seemed to have very unnatural motions.

"I've said everything I can say to that man and now I'm gonna talk to you," said the woman. Watching her driver, they saw him regurgitate a mouthful of coffee back into his mug as easy as if he were sipping it.

"Is that guy ok?" asked Mother.

"Him? NO! He does everything all backwards," said the woman. Her man looked back at the family, gave them a wink, and his head burst into flames.

"He does that," said the woman. "I'm from Utah, but we moved to South Carolina, and I can't drive from one place to another without going home. Soes I was trying to get from work to the Walmart and here we are going back to Utah."

"Bye now," said Father, disappointed that this woman had not noticed.

"Wanna see ma gun?" said the woman, sprinting back to her car, "never travel without it." She opened the door to her back seat, and suddenly a wave of bananas leaped at her as she fumbled in the back seat, letting a few escape.

"Drive," said Mother, and Father pulled back onto the road, narrowly avoiding flattening a fugitive banana.

"Freedom!" said one of the black bananas, running out into the desert.

"Did you see that?" said a different banana, noticing that the hand made curtains mother designed in the VW van had changed from green to blue.

"Yeah, they'd built a bunk bed into the back seat of that van." Father resigned himself to the fact just about anything is more noticeable than being an empty box of raisins. He then put on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses with an attached nose-mustache, and waited in anticipation for the next car to pass.

The End

****

The Sure Capsule

The inspector had received word from a boy's mother that he must come immediately, and that her son had mysteriously lost the ability to walk. The mother provided an address at which to meet her. The inspector took the puppy-monorail to the nearest possible stop and then walked the rest of the way. When he arrived at the address, he was surprised to see that it was a video store called The Video Time.

"Oh, are you the inspector?" sobbed a woman standing in the door, "please, please." The inspector followed her waves inside, and looked at where she pointed. Where she pointed was a red gumball machine, among many other gumball machines.

"Madam?" said the inspector to the boy's mother.

"One moment we were fine, and the next he was like this," said Madam. A lesser inspector would have deduced that this woman was mad, and that in her madness she had mistaken one of the gumball machines near the door for her son. However, this inspector noticed that instead of gumballs or small plastic rings, this machine contained a swirling mass of eclectic thoughts. This swirling mass caught the eye of one youngster leaving the video store, and having no money but small hands, the little boy slipped out of his Nanny's grip and rammed his hand, elbow deep, up the dispenser hole, reaching for plastic bubble contained prizes.

"No!" gasped Madam, separating the little boy from her son (months later, Madam charged that little boy with sexual assault, for which he was found innocent).

"I think I know what has happened," said the inspector. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small amount of grey powder and unscrewed the top of the boy's head/glassbowl.

"He is so unsure about the world he cannot even take a step," said the inspector, emptying the powder into the churning sea of thoughts.

"What is that?" asked Madam. The briny sea calmed and calmed, until all the wildness was gone and the boy's thoughts were anchored firm.

"Cement," said the Inspector. Swiftly, the boy rose, remained a gumball machine, and lifted a movie called "The time capsule" off the shelf. The back of the VHS box featured a stupid-looking trio of men framed between the back of a female's legs (a red flag that marks a worthless movie), and a small synopsis that read:

In a world where people value people and time and the saved things are just that, one Smithsonian security guard (Tim Robbins) volunteers to have his family preserved forever in the first national time capsule. Inside, his daughter (Dakota Fanning) and stepson (Wesley Snipes) break all the rules and terrorize their mother (Rachel Ray) with hilarious mischief, mayhem, and soap. This time, the game is changed for good.

"That movies is rated R," said Madam, "we're not getting that one." Having done his job, the inspector left the scene, and a bill for almost twenty-four plus dollars. Having rented E.T., Wesley Snipes passed Madam on his way out and noticed her bill.

"Wow lady! You got ripped off," said the stepson (she had). He then gleefully skipped away, too one-dimensional a character to feel unsure about the world.

The End

****

Riot of Angry Plus Sized Models

A couple of shooting stars fell last night while my girlfriend and I stared up at the night sky. Watching the lights fall, we named one 'Star' and the other 'Starlet.'

"I'm pregnant," said Starlet. Nine months later Star and Starlet went to the hospital, and when the baby was born, it was an enormous egg.

"I knew you were screwing around on me with a dinosaur," said Star. Starlet moved in with Rex, her dino boy toy. Rex agreed to be her baby daddy as long as she didn't try to collect child support. Starlet sat on her egg for a month, while Rex brought her dust and ethanol (sustenance any expecting shooting star needs). When the egg hatched, a beak, feathers, and webbed feet popped out and began following Starlet and Rex around, with tiny clumsy steps.

"That baby don't look like me," said Rex. Rex left the sluttish shooting star and chick. Rex joined a carnival and lived happily ever after with a bearded boa constrictor. Meanwhile, Starlet contacted a Mallard she used to run with back when they were in a motorcycle gang called The Top One Percent (referring to their financial status).

"That is one ugly baby," said the Mallard, "it has to be mine." The chick, shooting star and Mallard lived the next year together playing house and going through the motions. Then, as the chick grew, it became abundantly clear that this ugly baby was not a duck but rather a Swan.

"Nope," said the Mallard, and raced away on his Yamaha. Having never even hooked up with a Swan, Starlet felt that this was an immaculate conception on the D.L. When the Swan chick turned thirty-three, it began its public life. He performed Swan-miracles, and eventually those miracles ended up on internet video sites around the world.

"Look at how fake that looks," I said to my girlfriend, watching a Swan turn the Carlton Cards kiosk at the mall into wine.

"Let's watch the resurrection one," said my girlfriend, "I think it is called 'The Revenge of Rumplestiltskin.'" As we watched the Swan return from the dead, we both laughed, seeing how cheesy the lightning and robotic talons were.

"Looks like someone just got iMovie."

The End

****

Famous Pianist and Composer

To find out how I was feeling today, I took a picture of myself with a nice digital camera, and sent it to the contest headquarters for FOX kids club (Linda Vista

PO Box 719066 San Diego, CA 92171). The team of experts evaluated my performance and returned a report on skates and stingrays. In the report it said:

"Lacks enthusiasm, and productivity is low." I then took that phrase and entered it into a free online translator. First I translated the message into French, then German, then Japanese, then Czech, then Korean, and then back into English.

"The insufficiency is low productivity and enthusiasm." Equipped with a clear description of how I felt today, I lay down, determined to fall asleep so that I may wake up on a day in which I feel more productive. I had been hired by the Museum of Contemporary History to dream. The position had full benefits and a cushy salary.

"You have holes in your Zapatos," said the police. I have had a dream that I am a drug dog every night since taking the job. The dream is always the same; my police officer owner pulls over a rickshaw, and searches Rachmaninov, and Rachmaninov says,

"Music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music." I get so worked up about how cliché his comment is that I bark and bark until he is arrested. Then Rachmaninov is placed before a panel of world leaders. They decide to make him half robot, and then by law I must become a stick. I caress the floor to make sure my hands are not sticks. Tears traumatize my eyes, and the weight of mortality becomes abundantly clear. Then I wake up in my bed.

"Could me out of here?" asked Rachmaninov. I had set up a cage trap with a pecking of peanut butter to lure him in (he had been crawling around in the walls of my home for weeks). I put him in the back of my car and drove him roughly forty-five miles away and released him into a park. Rachmaninov then bopped me on the head and stole my car.

"Soul Asylum RULES!" He shouted, flipping me the bird as he drove away. The day was late, and the night was concerned that day had not taken its birth control. This delay in sunset gave me just enough time to build a lean-to and camp out for the night.

I woke the next morning to the delivering of a telegram.

"Telegram from the Museum of Contemporary History," said a directionless guy. I called out to him and he read the message to me.

"The insufficiency is low productivity and enthusiasm STOP You will be terminated STOP" I looked down at my hands and saw them turning into a stick, and that is where all those sticks in the park come from.

The End

****

Growing Roots

HELP! If you are reading this I need you to find a way to get me out of this black hole. I was innocently flipping through the channels and suddenly Law and Order sucked me in. I have been trapped now for, nearly three hours. Every time I think I am out, it starts again. A rerun, an episode I have been sucked into before, persuaded me. It said,

"What are the odds that an elf will pop out of my desk and spit cider in my eye."

"Look me in the eyes!" I respond. The body langue of a law and order black hole has the same basic layers as dogs and German chocolate cake. My direct stare is a challenge. This is the wrong decision for me to make. I would be better off if I were to offered them an apple-tini (all law and order black holes are multiples), this is the universal sign of friendship.

"Stop!" Shouts the drink and in this instant the blackhole freezes. But I do not. I am free to walk away. Apple-tini, taco bell, what difference does it make. I don't know. If I had a body I would, but it grew roots and now. Now I can't even make moves.

"If the phone rings and no one answers it did anyone call?" Said the Black hole laughing, knowing that I could leave. It knew I could walk away and live. I don't. My roots grow firm and deep, rotting in the cold wet soil.

"You only have me until my brain grows a tap root." I said.

"No, CSI will set-in before that." Smirked the Black hole "It will free your body at just the right time to make sure you can't think again." Laughing like a maniac. So if you are reading this. Please get help soon.

The End

****

The Ultimate Windtraining Rush

Sidney had worn socks all her life. When she turned fifteen her father told her that she was to have her socks knocked off next year.

"I arranged this before you were born." He told her.

"But I don't want naked feet" said Sidney. Sadly she took her rickshaw and went into the old country to do her day's work. After giving a ride to a bastard of a squirrel Sidney noticed a bicycle made of robotic talons was following her.

"Sweet." Said Sidney. She knew that this was her chance. She would drop her rickshaw and embrace he new nomadic life on a bicycle far from any naked feet.

After ridding the bike up and down a few snowy hills, she realized that this choice would be one of great hardship. Sidney found her way around and about small towns and villages, stopping in the occasional pub for a brewsky. In Corclogh, Sidney made herself comfortable at the bar in what seemed to be just another farmhouse among 26 others in northwestern Ireland.

"My Name is Snoopy." Said a white cartoon beagle sitting next to her.

"I'm Sidney."

"That's a fancy bike." Said Snoopy. "What're you running from?"

"Naked feet." Answered Sidney. "What about you?"

"I've got a twenty dollar gift card to Barns and Nobles, come spend it with me." So the two went to the books store. Sidney browsed through books about bikes and picked up one called _Rides Vol. 4: North Carolina_. Snoopy pickup the same book and opened it.

"I'm illiterate." Said Snoopy, and inside his book there was a 9mm pistol.

"Does this happen every time?" Sidney asked. Snoopy gripped the pistol, dropped the book, and pulled the trigger. Immediate he fell to the ground and he threw up five hundred tiny Zithers. It became clear to Sidney that Snoopy was not a cartoon dog, but rather a 1998 Honda civic posing as a cartoon dog.

"What've you got under the hood?" Asked Sidney

"What the fuck does it look like." Said Snoopy hacking up the last few zithers. Offended by bad words, Sidney decided to go back to her bicycle but before she left she had one more things to tell her suffering car friend.

"You may be running Snoopy, but I am not. I am exploring my options." After that there was an awkward half hour where the manager at Barns and Nobles insisted the two stay to clean up the Zithers. Sidney also ended up having to and pay for their books (cars can not own gift cards) as well as damages to the carpet.

The End

****

Sales Representative

Jimbo and Chase were two very dumb trashcans. Late one night there was a white out, during which they decided to go for a ride in the back of a Jeep wrangler.

"Are we moving?" Asked Jimbo.

"We forgot a driver." Said Chase. The two sat motionless and frozen, slowly being buried under tons of minutes and snow. Amidst the white snow and roaring wind was a faint yellow light and a distant bell.

"Got any Mm's?" A locomotive smashed through the driver side door dragging the jeep for a few milliseconds before hurling them off into the night snow.

"I'm board." Said Jimbo during those milliseconds of mid air travel (inanimate objects have a very different and inconsistent perception of time).

"Do you remember what happens next?" said Chase, and neither of the trashcans could remember what happened after the train hit their Jeep.

"Wait man, I think I am having an out of body experience." Said Jimbo. Inside Jimbo was an alien meteorite that Chase had mistaken for a used condom and thrown away in Jimbo. The rock had the property of altering computer programming and causing those whom with it had come in contact with, have out-of-body-experiences. This was flawed in that often the effected was never reunited with their body (the meteorite was always ashamed of that). All of this information was contained in a document hidden deep in the recesses of any library.

I didn't know that though. I was just a freelance librarian trying to make a living off the neglected documents of the world. But when I found that document I was plagued with visions and nightmares. Dozens of souls trapped in out of body experiences and before I knew it I was engaged one of the more excellent of visions (20 20).

Shortly after the engagement twenty-twenty really let herself go (10 5). Terrified of waking up next to a stigmatism in twenty years I realized what I needed to do. I needed to find Jimbo. I told twenty-twenty it was a business trip and went on holiday.

Since then I have been through hundreds of tickets, stops, and passenger cars looking for two very dumb trashcans just off the rails.

"I'm over here." Said Jimbo. I went to where he was and saw my body laying motionless behind some trashcans.

"That's it!" I said plucking the meteorite out of Jimbo. "Now I just need to wake up."

"Good luck." Said Jimbo. Slowly accepting that a permanent feeling of bodily separation anxiety would replace my mid-life crisis, a man came by and chopped me into pieces. Suranwrap and styrophome packaged pieces, which he then went door to door selling. And that is where the man, with no company logo, who sells steaks door to door gets his meat.

The End

****

No Hair

Mr. Warm and Fuzzy (Wuzzy) was poisoned.

"I think I am poisoned." Said Wuzzy recalling his most recent check up.

"Mr. Warm and Fuzzy you are poisoned." Said the doctor at Wuzzy's check up. Wuzzy lived in a gutted condo above the café Tchanque in Capbreton France. Years back, he and his soul had broken into the university at night and locking the doors. Part of his demands for the release of the university was that he be given money and a condo. Wuzzy failed to specify that he wanted a large amount of money and while remodeling the condo he ran out of funds soon after it was gutted.

"I'm very good at jumping off roofs and landing in trees!" Shouted his neighbor through half of a thin wall. They couple next door fought often. The man neighbor was always going nuts and driving fast through the city streets (admittedly he had gotten quite good at it). Once, Wuzzy had received his neighbor's mail in which he found an official transcript from the university, man-neighbor had done well in Hazardous Materials.

"You can't join the military you have a record!" Said Woman-neighbor. As darkness crept into the corners of Wuzzy's vision he knew he did not want to die listening to this. Wuzzy dressed as a pilgrim, crawled down the stairs, onto the beach, and tied himself to a wooden table. Being about three feet tall and furry like a teddy bear, Wuzzy found that many people desired to punt him.

"Kick me to death." Moaned Wuzzy to passers-by.

"I just want to be a super hero." Said the passer-by in deep conversation with the other passer-by. Sickened by Wuzzy's behavior his soul leaked out of his ear and kicked Wuzzy swiftly in the guts, sending him out into the Atlantic. Wuzzy floated, and died then sunk to the ocean floor. Deep in near the mid Atlantic ridge a school of American ballet grazed on Wuzzy's carcass.

"I really want to help people." Said one Ballerina. "I've done a lot of bad things and I want to make up for them."

"Ok, I get it." said the other ballerina with a mouth full of fermented Wuzzy "The whole, wanting to be a super hero thing, you tried that."

"Yeah, and it was real stupid, and illegal."

"Fireman is the next closest thing." Said the second Ballerina, "That's what the hazardous materials class was for?" Eating Wuzzy, and getting food poisoning.

"Yeah. I mean I'm good at driving real fast. I guarantee I could get the truck to those fires in half the time the other guys do. But if I get this military training, then I'll have credentials for landing in trees and I can fight wildfires out in the forest'n shit."

"Well, I hope that works out, I mean a roof top and a helicopter are very different but all the same I hope it works out." Said the second Ballerina.

Wuzzy's soul went back to south west China's Chongqing Municipality where Wuzzy had urinated in an outdoor urinal. Using a thick black marker Wuzzy's soul ended future suffering by crossing out the word "Poison" written innocently above the urinal (the original intent of the word being to honor to the 80's hair band).

The End

****

My Sweet Heart (you have no memory)

In 1959 the smallest park in the world was located in Hiroshima Japan. In that park a couple sat under an abstract statue of a horse with a hawk perched on its back.

"Are we children?" asked the Japanese Man.

"You know what we are." (the anti or second coming of Christ) Said the French woman gesturing around the park at the apocalyptic chaos that had been omnipresent since the two had fallen in love.

"The only sulfur is from these matches." Laughed the Japanese Man lighting another cigarette and tossing the charred stick at a hill of ants. Alerted and frantic, the ants stopped Gnashing and scurried to defend their colony from the invading matchstick. Gnashing was a new practice the ants had developed in which they gathered incisors from the many death stricken mammals. Once the gnashing of teeth was complete the ants felt they were suitable to become martyrs.

"Do they do that for me or you?" Asked the French Woman.

"That's a question." Said the Japanese Man.

"The dam will break soon." Said the French Woman. The Japanese Man looked at her and they kissed deeply. A fissure divided the dam walls and a tsunami of Asian men flowed into the street over powering anything of this world and beyond. That was their end of together, and a beginning for the world.

In Never France there were only ruins of the Jean-Michel Couron, a Woman who had survived a wave of Asian men, and Google. The Woman opened up the Google home page and found the L in the word Google to be a mushroom cloud, and that there were stars in the eyes of a bird blowing a trumpet. The Woman laughed (no one had thought the angel Gabriel would come as North American chickadee).

"Has it really been that long since you ended the world?" Asked the Woman.

"I'd've done it sooner but I had to wait for you to find him." Said Google. The French Woman checked her gmail and saw a parenthesis caged number one at her inbox.

"I love you." Said an Email from the Japanese Man, and she noticed that he was available to chat with.

"I luv you Too! But how did U survive?" (He had surfed his way out) The French Woman wrote in the Chat box in her gmail account.

"'Luv'... 'U'..." Wrote back The Japanese man. "I'm sorry. I think this was a mistake."

The End

****

Solution Set:

The last time I was on Jupiter I jet set on a trans-Atlantic flight from Philadelphia to Madrid. The in-flight entertainment was a series of ebooks accessible through the head rests. I found a series of short stories centered on a dysfunctional couple working through their differences in marriage counseling.

"Isn't that a scenario that's been beaten to death in fiction?" I asked.

"No." Said the scenario standing closer to the other elements of the story so that their blue holographic camouflage made them indistinguishable to a predator. Such an unusual cover was enough for me to give this story a chance.

"I never know what he's thinking." Said Martha. Martha and her generically named husband had traditionally managed this issue with talking (One of the most ineffective and trouble-causing approaches to mind reading).

"We could try forcing him to lay on a bed of hot coals, and then read his nonverbal communication." Said the Counselor "Are you comfortable with that?"

"I don't feel threatened." Said Martha, "I know Stan is not into coals." The couple then stood up and the counselor unfolded the hid-a-bed style couch to reveal a bed of hot coals (The coals could have been models but found that they enjoyed the undeserved sense of superiority they felt from doing this kind of work). The Counselor and Martha forced Stan onto the bed of hot coals and watched as a noisy printout cranked from the Counselor's Epson Stylus 380.

"What does it say?" Asked Martha. The printout had a header that read NONVERBAL COMMUNICATION and then further instructions to replace all the lamps in the room with green goo drops.

"I don't have time for that." Said Martha pulling a pair of pliers from her purse, prying open her husband's skull, and interrogating his thoughts. Inside, she saw the internal monologues of two police officers dressed in English bobby attire beating a perch fillet.

"Why doesn't my son visit me more often?" Thought the older Bobby taking a thick healthy wack at the cut of fish with his billy club.

"I never think about why I do the things I do." Thought the other Bobby, stomping on the pulverized fish meat. As other's thoughts are clearly ambiguous even to those thinking them, Martha falsely concluded that she deserved more out of life.

Holding the ebook equalizer I adjusted the hue, contrast, odor, and cranked up the empathy. Soon thereafter all of the conflicts between the characters were resolved and the events within this short story became to boring to continue. This is why you should never judge a book by its cover.

The End

****

E I O

Old Mick Donald had a farm just outside of Abingdon Oxfordshire that grew illegal drugs. In the last 15 years, Old Mick Donald had a gained a heart condition, erectile dysfunction, and the affections of a young and beautiful one eyed one horned flying purple people eater. In the morning Old Mick Donald tended his propagation fields.

"Call nine one one." Said Old Mick Donald face up in the field, having a heart attach.

"Are you kidding! This is what I have been waiting for." Said the one eyed one horned flying purple people eater, searching for Old Mick Donald's will and testament. Lying in the dirt Old Mick Donald overheard the cooling of a hot and bothered interaction between a Hemp and Cannabis plant.

"I am sorry." Said Hemp.

"No its ok." Said Cannabis. The two plants sat thinking long enough to blame themselves and feel worthless.

"Any better?" Asked Hemp

"Umm, yeah yeah." Said Cannabis "I just..." (Then the guilty brought harm to the lord child).

"Look most plants can't install an irrigation system." Said Cannibus "Don't beat yourself-"

"Is that guy having a heart attack?" said Hemp, noticing Old Mick Donald.

"Where is the will!" Said the Purple people eater kicking Old Mick Donald. The farmer then pulled a going-into-town list out of his pocket and scratched out the word Viagra.

"I'm not missing much." Said Old Mick Donald smiling. In his last moments he folded the list into a paper crane and died free, as all men should (no matter how late in life that freedom comes).

The End

****

A Story Old as Time

"No" Said Matthias (whose gender is irrelevant but is coincidentally male). Matthias was determined to steer the course of his destiny. Early in his steering Matthias found the world to be much more trying than he had anticipated.

"I'll never have kids, and there is no god." Matthias would say frequently. After much rejection and lowered expectations Matthias eventually found an area in life he could excel, and excel he did. His aptitude brought many achievements (few of which were recognized outside immediate social circles), until he was decorated enough to become prideful. During the course of achievement and failure, there were many hard times. Times so dark there was no apparent escape. In those times Matthias began to believe in a religion and in doing so felt an overall improved quality of life.

Nearly twenty years before the middle of his life Matthias fathered a child named, Martin. In Martin's adolescents he learned not of how Matthias came to be, but only who he was. Martin knew only of Matthias' achievements, devout religion, and great love for his children. When Martin was to come of age his father instructed him.

"Replace me!"

"No." said Marin (whose gender is irrelevant but is coincidentally male). Martin was determined to steer the course of his destiny. Early in his steering Martin found the world to be much more trying than he had anticipated.

"I'll never have kids, and there is no god." Martin would say frequently. After much rejection and lowered expectations Martin eventually found an area in life he could excel. Excel he did, and along with it many an achievement (few of which were recognized outside immediate social circles), until he was decorated enough to become prideful. During the course of achievement and failure, there were many hard times. Times so dark there was no apparent escape. In those times Martin began to believe in a religion and in doing so felt an overall improved quality of life.

Nearly twenty years before the middle of his life Martin fathered a child named, Mattimeo. In Mattimeo's adolescents he learned not of how Martin came to be, but only who he was. Mattimeo knew only of Martin's achievements, devout religion, and great love for his children. When Mattimeo was to come of age his father instructed him.

"Replace me!"

"No." said Mattimeo (whose gender is irrelevant but is coincidentally male). Mattimeo was determined to steer the course of his destiny. Early in his steering Mattimeo found the world to be much more trying than he had anticipated.

"I'll never have kids, and there is no god." Mattimeo would say frequently. After much rejection and lowered expectations Mattimeo eventually found an area in life he could excel. Excel he did, and along with it many an achievement (few of which were recognized outside immediate social circles), until he was decorated enough to become prideful. During the course of achievement and failure, there were many hard times. Times so dark there was no apparent escape, and in those times Mattimeo began to believe in a religion. In doing so he felt an overall improved quality of life.

Nearly twenty years before the middle of his life Mattimeo fathered a child. In the child's adolescents he learned not of how Mattimeo came to be, but only who he was. The child knew only of Mattimeo's achievements, devout religion, and great love for his children. When the child was to come of age his father instructed him.

"Replace me!"

****

The Year of the Locus

During the year of the locust there were many gang wars. These gang wars claimed the lives of many a locus but none more tragically than that of Snip the locus. Amidst the gang wars Snip caught a bullet that put a hole in him. The hole did not stop Snip's body from living, but rather left and empty place inside of him.

"I just feel like I need to be held." Snip would say. Unable to continue life with this hole, Snip flew around the world and had every locus hold him (first he tried to fill the hole with a little shoe polish, but that was a mess even a baby diaper couldn't fix). Snip's embraces ended in a field near a large amphitheater concert venue and it was there he concluded that his life would remain empty. Soon he fell broken and weakened.

"I've got a deal with the guy at the grocery" said my Supervisor. He was wrapping carrots and other vegetables in cellophane. My Supervisor was attempting to kill the cats out by the dumpster so that he could sell them to the grocer who would sell them in hamburger meat. The carrots were his genius bait-and-poison substitute.

"Take these out to the trashes and then go wack the fence." Said my Supervisor. Normally he would do it himself but he was too sloppy drunk to come down from his speech barrel. We had found water bottles in the trash full of vodka and chugged them at lunch. This is common for most any concert venue staff, you find all sorts of consumable things (and a million sunglasses and lighters) that were confiscated and thrown away.

I set his bait carrots out by the dumpster and then went to get the face shield and the weed wacker so that I could wack the brush by the fence that the mower couldn't reach. This was my least favorite part of this job. It was the year of the locus and when you went to wack the fence you ended up dicing about six million locus, which would invariable get in every humanly crevice and orifice.

"It's like a Locus holocaust." I said watching bug bits fly off and have mid-air congressional hearings to discuss the generally sexist lyrics of a rap song that most young girls embraced and sang loudly in groups while driving to the song's outdoor concerts.

"Locus Holocaust?" said Snip feeling that suicide would be a good solution.

"You've got problems, and you can't solve them if you're dead." I said to Snip unwilling to stop him from flying head-first into my wacker's spinning nylon chord of doom.

For years after, Snip would visit me in my dreams. Dieing hadn't solved anything. Existing without a consciousness was the single most confusing and disorienting thing to ever happen to poor Snip. I honestly don't know if Snip ever figured out anything after dying, but I always suspected that if he just completed his life cycle he would have been happy.

After that summer I realized the serious consequences of insect gang wars. I now devote my life to raising awareness through lame visual metaphors that openly insulted the intelligence of any poor soul unwise enough to have their curiosity tickled by the sight of 600 teddy bears placed in a circle of drippy blood red paint (each bear representing 10,000 victims of insect gang war violence).

The End

****

Iacta alea est (The die is cast)

On 1800 Northeast Alberta Street in Portland Oregon Shirly Jackson sat in a comfortable wooden box balling her eyes out (her boyfriend had just broken up with her).

"It was completely out of the blue." Said Shirley watching her tears soak into a napkin, branching through the compressed fiber. "Just completely random."

"No it wasn't." said her best friend Edward Beltrami (who did not exist). At that moment three mugs were dropped, and shattered on the tile. The sound made Ed jump.

"You just couldn't see it coming." Said Ed "It's ok. You're only human."

"How?" Asked Shirly, passively being really pissed at Ed's arrogance. Ed could see how he had upset Shirly and decided not to answer (well played Ed). Instead of talking the two played a game of Nim. Ed would make a move, disrupt the pattern of the game, and invariable Shirly won by restoring the pattern. After losing many games of Nim Ed decided to try and make Shirly smile.

"You should play the lottery." Said Ed. The two then looked at a book of Jackson Pollock, Miltos Manetas splatter paint art (secretly this made both of them feel cheap).

"Exactly." Said Ed "Truly divine." Shirly just shrugged and agreed, understanding that Ed was speaking about her recent break up. She could comprehend the order and complexity of Nim, she could predict it. Not comprehending had made her break-up random, and unpredictable.

"Only to me though, right?" Said Shily, and Ed Nodded "So what difference does it make. I'm only ever me."

"Shirley, a computer doesn't know it can connect to the Internet." Said Ed "If only you weren't such a computer." Shirley and Ed left the coffee shop.

Neither had ever bumped into fate of destiny (though they had all graduated in the same class and moved to this area about 2 years ago). In school, Fate had studied divianation and destiny had double majored in information theory and message compression in algorithmic complexity.

"Do you follow all the same rules as me?" Shirly asked Ed. Ed was so shocked that Shirley had stepped out of her usually narcissistic comfort zone to ask about him, that he felt human.

"Of course not." Replied Ed "All those rules only apply to things that exist, I'm not even imaginary, or conceptual, or abstract. I just don't exist." The two stopped at a cross walk and watched as a family of quadratic functions crossed at a section of the road designated for them by a yellow diamond shaped street sign featuring the black silhouette of a rhythm.

"There is no random order is there Ed?" Asked Shirly.

"For anything that matters," said Ed shaking his head side to side, "Cashews."

The End

****

Perfect Rust

In a far away land the long and short of it was that if you destroy homes in south Chicago, play the ukulele, and have a tiny mullet you are extremely attractive to most operating systems. Windows seven was no exception and when the snow hit those windows it stuck (Sticky snow is perfect for making snowmen). No men are perfect, but some with a tiny mullet and an ukulele would want you to believe other wise.

"I was in Madrid and on a bus at the same time." Said the Perfect Man trying to one-up the story that had been previously told.

"That's not really hard to do." Said The-Story-Previously-Told, "I think most tourists are at some point."

Some Point was the hottest tourist spot in the world. Hundreds upon hundreds of Asians with a radius of personal space much smaller than that which most people at Some Point maintain, crawled over one another. They brushed and leaned the tank top tourists who recoiled in fear from the unwelcome stranger contact. The Perfect Man sat near Some Point and played his Uke. Soon windows, tiger, and leopard were swooning and hypnotized. The Perfect Man lead the operating systems through Some Point guiding them by song and an elephant chain of C++ and PDP-11 hands (The "luckiest" of which held tightly to the Perfect Man's mullet). With his song the man opened a portal and lead the operating systems into a secret paradise of no return.

"It was a paradise for me." Said the Perfect Man, "Guy's would literally give their lives for what I had in the secret paradise of no return".

"I would have liked it better if there were children there." Said the Pied Piper (The Pied Piper is not allowed within 500 yards of a school). The secret paradise was a soft way to tell the story to children and other stories, as these two groups find marching operating systems off the edge of Some Point and letting them fall to their death, more upsetting than most.

The time was up and so the Perfect Man, The Story, and the Pied Piper agreed that the next session needed to be more productive They all watched some of the others shake hands or hug, and the guards escorted everyone back to their cells. Mid-May The Story and the Pied Piper had graduated from the program, but the Perfect Man was still in a formidable looking truck powered by a rodent engine (a fate issued upon failure of reform, worse than death).

The End

****

The Secret Goldfish

IF YOU REALLY want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is that a pencil industry sprang to life in Nuremberg, Germany (1662). First hand witnesses to this Industrial Spring say that the pencil gained popularity as people of the time delighted in sticking pieces of wood into stuff. A writing element was implemented later as a way to boost pieces-of-wood sales, and then a pieces-of-wood sharpening feature soon after to boost stuff sales.

"D'you see?" Said Industrial Spring. "I have a tiny Zoo suspended by wires inside my sharpener." The Spring knew that this little kid only had a goldfish in his.

"You phony!" Said this Little Kid, "You're goddamn parents bought you that Zoo, its not even yours." The Spring's parents were Ring Lardeners, which just means they had made tons of bucks exploiting a Police officer who had _fallen in love_ with this girl who keeps speeding in one of those little English jobs that do about two hundred miles per hour. The Spring is always showing people _his_ great shit, but really it's his parents' great shit. People never notice anything.

"I pulled rickshaws all summer to get this goddamn goldfish."

"For Chrissake, just let me see it will ya?" Said the Spring. He pulled on my collar trying to get a look at it, and so I gave him a good shove back.

"Listen you loony, your just nuts, goddamn nuts." Said this Little Kid. I didn't know it but the Spring has a brother, D.B., and he _is_ nuts. So the Spring gave me a good sock in the kisser. Man did I bleed, but I'd never let that phony see my goldfish. I let the blood get on my face and cape and strolled to the sink (real tough looking).

When I got to the sink I sunk. I sunk all the way in, man did that hit the spot. It was something else. All the light and that spot just right. Not left not right, just write. I sunk and wrote and blood drooled on the page.

"Ah no-heck, no." Said this Little Kid angry at his blood for ruining the last line.

"THAT'S ALL." Dictated my Bloods. Bloods kept going and I wrote it all into the last line. "I don't know what the hell I think about it."

The End

****

Gifted

The consequence to living in a garden is that nothing lasts and everything falls apart. In one such instance I went to get an opportunity from the pantry. I struggled to open the pantry door, and I found the handle to come off the door quite readily. Rotting wooden door aside, this was still an amazing feat for a bag of marshmallows such as myself (Jetty poff brand). In truth the door was all that made the pantry a confined space, being that there are no walls in a garden. However, if we start making exceptions now then it will never end and before you know it the garden is not a garden anymore.

"Damn it!" I Said, "Now all those opportunities will go bad."

If this turn of events weren't enough, earlier that day when I opened my heart to find all my relationships had water damage, and some had deteriorated completely. Needing a little me time I went to perch on the cupid statue in the garden where I could see the rest of the city. The streetlights were on and the traffic light in the distance looked like eyes hanging above a bend in the road, that looked like a mouth.

"What's got yah down?" Asked the City.

"Everything's ruined forever."

"I prescribe you a house party." Said the City (the city had an MD in alternative day-life). We sent out the invitations, arraigned for the organ grinder, and soon the garden was tuned to the sound of minors who were out past curfew. Then the leaves jumped out of the bushes (The leaves were a family of police officers too insecure to stay at any social function very long).

"You are under arrest!" Said Brother leave, trying to handcuff the City and I.

"Don't look in my-"

"Bye." Said the Leaves leaving the party. Irritated by partying minors as any self-respecting, and mature bag of marshmallows should be I sat with the city and played a game of Connect Four.

"You hypocrite." Accused the City. "That's it! Party over." Then the City summoned all the most despicable party crashers it had in it. The worst of which were the Marauding Partiers. The Marauding Partiers knocked me on the head, tied me up, locked me in the closet, and proceeded to party-hardy until every other guest was uncomfortable and left.

The next morning, I got the ropes off and exited the pantry. The partiers had left, and taken the degrading nature of living in a garden to a new level.

"Now what." I said. Amidst the muddy footprints and cigarette butts, there was a present. I knew it was a gift from the city as it was wrapped in the City's trademark tennis court and fruit bat paper. I remove the paper, taking special care to preserve the shiny parts, and inside was a kit complete with tools, materials, and hope.

The End

****

Stealing Home

It was the bottom of the eighth and we were leaving G's restaurant on Grosvenor street, when we stopped in the Vidal Sassoon Advanced Academy of London to find a nice place to live. We had decided a shabby suit would be the best fit but when we saw the snazzy Flat-Suit we had to have it. A snazzy Flat-Suit like this is not cheap, and being a blond I was inclined to make inquisitive remarks and small talk with the Sassoon staff (blonds draw more attention in a public setting and make the perfect diversion for shoplifting).

Being Paternal it only made sense that I would take care of my Nocturnal Flat-Suit mate. Also I was day person and being active during opposite cycles of an Earth turn we could be sure that one of us was in the Suit at all times.

"What about my collections?" I Asked Nocturnal. I have many collections that are with me at all times (never have I lost the classic pub-contest "who has more interesting things in their pockets"). Normally this is not a problem but on this particular Friday night we both wanted to stay-in, and there was hardly enough room in the suit pockets for all of my collections, and Nocturnal's amateur moon photography.

"You take the right sleeve and I'll take the left." Said Nocturnal. "Do a bit what with and the collections will follow as hard as they can... right?" As usual, he was right. In all the years we spent on a birthday cake investment he had a solid answer for all my problems "Solid answers are sturdy enough for the foundation of a solution, and liquid answers only accommodate problems that would float on their own anyway. " Nocturnal was famous for saying this and would go to self-heap and motivacational conferences to speak it out over a loud speaker. But tonight I was in one sleeve and he in the other, and in the morning he was not in either sleeve. I found in his sleeve several large holes and a four words note written in macaroni glued to cardboard.

I AM A MOTH

"You're not." I said to the note. "You're a note."

The End

****

Vicious Cycle

Locked in a tower was a Smile that had two problems. The first problem was that its eyes were fire, and the second was that its eyes were a tower (Most likely a very old tower from an era before they were required to make any sense). The solution to both these problems was to convince the Smile's pet Earthmover that it was an oyster and that all oysters must lay pearls to ensure that their essence is passed on.

"Take that!" Shouted the Smile striking the Earthmover with a cat-o-ninetails made of computer mice (this was a disciplinary tool designed specifically for mean dogs who bite people, and only mean dogs who bite people). The Earthmover was not mean, a dog, or a biter so this had not effect.

"My eyes are burning so badly." Said the Smile, "I wish I had something in this tower besides my cat-o-ninetails." Against all odds her wish was granted, and suddenly there was Streaming Video next to her.

"Can you be an inclined plan?" Asked the Smile.

"No but I can be persuasive." Said the Streaming Video, which then used a clever mash-up of video clips to convince the Earthmover that it was an oyster. The Earthmover then built a nest and over the course of time that it took to lay two pearls the Streaming Video had become fascinated with the Smile's eyes and were quite literally lost in them.

"What does the GPS do?" Asked the Smile, putting a single dot on each of the pearls.

"It says that you are about to lock me away forever in your eyes by shoving those pearls into your sockets." Said the Streaming Video.

"She who makes a beast of herself," said the Smile "gets ride of the pain of being a woman."

The End

****

And the Queen

A sliver of setting sun held captive a reproductive swarm of goals. The adolescent males openly thought with their symbolic conventions while courting the preteen females.

"So," said a Male goal whipping it out. "I'm flirting with you so your much more attractive friend will get jealous and want my attention." This was more than obvious as the Male's symbolic convention was erect and pointed at the more attractive friend. The less-attractive-by-comparison female quickly scribbled a note and passed it to her more-attractive-by-comparison-friend.

"I hate that your boobs look nicer than mine." Said the note. "Also you could lose a few pounds." The more attractive female goal knew that it was true, and she scribbled a note back to her friend.

"You're boyfriend is hot and I'd get him to cheat on you if I could." Said the return note. "Also I hate that you are skinnier than me, happily ever after." The system of note writing was the only way for the females to communicate honestly, and was approved of by the goal's parents.

"Hey you males!" Shouted the parents. "This is a reproductive swarm, stop pointing your symbolic conventions at each other." The parent goals no longer joined in the swarm as they already had their identity, and now had time for intimacy.

Feeling pressure to wrap it up before the sunset, the swarm churned and buzzed. Connections were made, and passion grew (the passion was a hive mentality of climax that synchronized the swarm's sensations). Very very close to being almost there where the sun set-

"Eww." Said the Good, accidentally strolling headfirst through the swarm. "I think I got one in my mouth."

"I want to break up." Said the Bad. "If we were a same sex couple then this would be a statement."

The End

****

Never More

In a tall gothic arm chair a constipated Raven sat reading a murder mystery titled, _Don't touch two_. Turning to the first page, the raven's story began with the word In. In the time of medical examination a doctor explained to the boy's mother that he had died of a hernia.

"Le'me guess." Said the Mother. The Mother then recited a monologue that the boy had steadfastly asserted, reasserted, and digressed in regards to his digestive system.

"I don't ever actually digest anything. I have a team of life-sized construction workers complete with full-scale heavy machinery in my stomach. Anytime I eat something they use their steam rollers and flatten it down flatter than before."

"What do the construction workers eat?" Said the mother mocking her own voice and then replying the way her son would have (may he rest in peace).

"They eat only mushrooms." She said the way her son would have.

"And how do they know what chewed up food is mushrooms?"

"Bill Clinton's ears turn into rocket ships carrying a message, letting them know that I've eaten mushrooms. Before I ever see the rocket ships a little bird flies out to meet them, and pick up the message. The little bird then sneaks down my throat and relays the message to the construction workers."

The Doctor then showed the boy's mother a picture of Bill Clinton's ears in rocket ships form looking confused and distressed. He explained that the little bird had missed the message pick up for at least a week before the workers starved. Clearly after the workers starved the boy's digestion, or lack there of, stood no chance.

"What happened to the bird? Asked the boy's Mother.

"The bird was found dead in his home." Said the Doctor, "Duck Support is investigating that as we speak."

Finishing page one, the Raven reached up to turned to the next page when the murder mystery became enraged and repeatedly struck the bird. Feathers, blood, and bits of torn paper littered the floor where the Raven struggled to keep its life. Two weeks later when the boy died, a full investigation was made and Duck Support paid a visit to the Raven's home only to find a bloody bird and a murder mystery. In the final report, the coronary determined that blood loss from thousands of tiny paper cuts was the most likely cause of the bird's death.

Never More

****

Pulling a Rickshaw

"How'd you catch the sacrificial hilly billy?" asked Weatherman Casper (Casper had just finished reading The Good Earth and was not really listening).

"Uh'little bit'a Craftyness, uh'Little bit'a watch'n T.V." Said home trap artist Solid (He had been locked in a room of lasers for the last ten sets of twenty minutes and needed his mom to drive him to meet with Casper). The two were residing at the equator currently (the owners had debated whether to call the establishment The Equator or The Vernal Equinox, as there was a legend of a well balanced garage door that had burned to death while a robber attempted to steal thirty-five hundred dollars of camera equipment).

"AAAAAAAAAAA." Said the flaming garage door opening in an attempt to seduce Casper into the bathroom (The garage door's parents were very proud of him).

"No." said Casper to the legend. "I am not like that." Upon hearing this, Solid questioned what exactly Casper meant. As it turned out the stereotypically homosexual undertones that plagued the Garage door were not what deterred Casper, but rather the promiscuity aspect (Casper was raised by half a dozen fundamentalist deities that resided on his person. One of which was on his navel and another on his Nevis.)

"Not until you are married." Said the Deity on his Nevis.

"Go get a job," said the Navel Deity.

Solid had been driving late at night in the country (the only logical time for someone afraid of light) and, in an effort to prevent turning a deer into street salami, he tailed a local (the assumed hill bill was actually soon to attend Yale in the school of Pharmacology and Medical Chemistry, but was out late on his way back from a hippy music festival). This action was the craftyness and the T.V. that Solid referred to.

Putting the circle of young and reckless events (that had happened in the last two or three paragraphs) behind them; the legend, the weatherman, and the home trap artist abandoned the bowling lanes at The Equator and assumed control of their lives. Jobs and employment were the important part now, and by becoming fiscal partners they persuaded venture capitalists to invest in a concept concealed by a clever presentation (much like a funeral home advertisement that reads.

"Come a little closer" When doing so would put the reader on busy train tracks). The result was the three owning half of Daytona Beach.

"Don't take a job that forces you to make moral compromises." Said the Navel Deity

"And what job is that?"

The End

****

Minka

&

### Linka

Ed

All across the land, families dialed in the radio frequency to hear the nightly broadcasts. A broadcast popular to the listeners (and unpopular with the rest) was a broadcast called PG Wodehouse, in which real war stories were shared by real soldiers.

"Today. Private Ed will say things," said PG introducing Edward. Ed had spent time in a trade submarine. The submarine would ferry regular provisions and packages through enemy waters to the military outposts at foreign ports.

"We had to be real quiet," said Ed, "all the time."

"Good story Ed, next we have a bla-"

"Cuz of the enemy subs' ears were'a listening," continued Ed. "They'd send us a quiet little message all dripp'en off the loudspeaker, 'the-the-the-the.' That was a code for being even more quiet than regular quiet. Till ya heard'm say, 'Jane Austen loves her mother.' N'that meant you could be normal again."

"So I take it you got very good at doing things most folks do," said PG, "but much quieter." The listeners heard PG cross his legs and smile like an insensitive clay pigeon.

"At first, yes."

The broadcast took a break and advertised a hot, warm, and redundant home cooked breakfast in just three microwave minutes. The listeners liked roses and Ed was about the rosiest thing they had heard all day. This was their time to take notes and joy from what was in life, and bring all the members of the family together.

"Ed, during the break you mentioned that you would like to congratulate your sister, Lucy, who is a new mother. But you also mentioned she adopted, and as a spokesperson for broadcasting I won't let you do that."

"Fuck you," said Ed. "Lucy, you will be a wonderful mother to A-Bomb, congradultio-

Pop

A tiny bullet from PG's pearl handled revolver ripped through Ed's shoulder.

"So tell us more about being quiet, Ed," said PG, lowering his metal confectionary. Ed gripped his shoulder and let his eyes resign from what was the happy reason to come on the broadcast in the first place.

"Lucy, one day we heard 'the-the-the-the' and instead of bean quiet, I went to my locker in the bathroom, and started shav'en with my E-lectric razor," said Ed, shaking his head and putting pressure on his bullet wound (the wound works best this way and is otherwise quite lazy).

"To this day I don't know why I did that. I turned it on and it buzzed. I trimmed my whiskers and brushed off my trousers, and while it was still humming I just sat on the, the metal bench there by the sink. I dunno why." Tears wanted to well in Ed's eyes but they were so used to being quiet that instead they hid under the lids.

"I love you." said a big fat tear.

"Don't be so emotional," replied PG.

The End

****

Tinian

On Tinian Island there are no lights at night. Most nights were spent in vigilant silence by those on lookout while the others slept as sound as one can in a trench (because two cans in a trench are usually connected by a string, and are as sound as the sound of a game of telephone). However, some nights a few lookout voices would stay awake to speak, and on a similar night Srg. Mitch passed his watch with light friendly conversation to distract him from any harmful things.

"Little boy," said one of the voices in the dark.

"A-Bomb, it means atomic bomb," said Srg. Mitch. "She adopted him some time last month." Mitch's only means of strangled communication was the slow passage of a mail boat. Mitch took his hand off his knife and felt his breast pocket for the fresh letter from his sister.

"You getting tired, Serg?" asked the voice.

"After stabbing all those damn plate monsters," said Mitch, pulling the letter out and carefully stacking it in a small wooden box with others from his brother Ed.

In Mitch's eighth grade science book, biologists described land crabs as being generally six to eight inches in diameter. During the day, Mitch would lay flat in lush sweltering trenches with his machete. There he would wait for the slight motion of a crab claw. He would then grab the claw, pull the silver platter-sized land crabs into the trench, and stab them to death.

"Monsters would eat me alive," said Mitch, "or worse, give away our position."

"I dunno about that, A-Bomb," said the voice. "Not even your own flesh and blood." Outside the trench, the sound of the enemy's foreign tongue silenced their conversation. Tension gripped the soldiers, mistaking what was actually a game of marco polo for a passing platoon of enemy insurgents (midnight marco polo had been slowly replacing ghost in the grave yard at sleepovers for a while now). When the game was over, Mitch broke the silence.

"I trust my sister," said Mitch, "Family is family. You gotta trust family. Brothers at arms."

"Do you trust us?" asked the voices in the dark.

"No," said Mitch, as he pulled out his knife and delivered a solid jab through the top shell of each voice. Mitch then muttered about talking crabs, and cursed the fools who wrote his science book.

The End

****

Security Questions

Mimeo and Ditto never grew accustomed to being abused several times daily. Office workers would rattle stencil assemblages with no work relevance through their typewriters, mount it to Mimeo, and churn out a good number of copies. However, this only happened when another employee was cranking doodley cartoons from the hand-drawn mirror image of wax wrapped around Ditto's barrel. But never had a single employee abused both at the same time, until Lucy came in, eager to copy two unofficial documents.

"Oh God, not again! What're they this time?" asked Mimeo, sobbing.

"Seem like correspondences," replied Ditto, keeping up his game-face. "What's yours say?"

Lucy,

This is know your have no children. You marry Pop

and long time but no children. My sister Linka, she have for

two year keep this one in our closet like nursery. How we

know only now I not know. Lucy, Linka can no longer to

keep this one. This one is Atomic bomb. You will take

A-Bomb to be mother to him?

A good woman,

Minka

"Why'd she want to copy that? It's not work related. Why!" screamed Ditto.

"Proof? Sentiment? I don't know, it seems a little informal though," replied Mimeo, trying to recover. "Quick, quick tell me. What does yours say?"

Minka,

I have talked with Pop and we would love to bring

A-Bomb into our home. I only ask that I be his mother and

this be his family. I do not want you or your sister to decide

to come and take him should you have second thoughts. If I

want him to know I will tell him. If that is all agreed, will

you be bringing him soon or could I come and get him now?

With love,

Lucy

"I feel so used," said Ditto.

"What else is new?" Said Mimeo, beginning to accept life. Lucy collected her copies and put one set in a manila portfolio. The other she folded into thirds and sealed in an envelop in the cover of A-Bomb's baby book.

The End

****

My Hero Harry

The sole contact I had with my biological father was hearing the bathroom door close as he left my biological mother's house. My biological mother's house had a pad lock across my bedroom door, and ninety percent of the time it kept me in my room (resulting in a fair number of soiled trousers). The other ten percent of the time I was charged with either the care of my sister, or impossible chores whose incompletion would merit me an over zealous beating.

"How many times I have tell you? Comb your hair!" I could hear my biological mother say in a jealous rage.

"Get me scissors." This sound was not uncommon after my biological father visited. He would show up a couple times a week, and bathe my nine-year-old sister for about an hour, and then leave. My biological mother would then react. By the sound of it, she reacted by pinning my sister's head to the ground and lopping off a hunk of blond.

This was a Monday, and like most Mondays it was early, standard, and forgettable. The big difference about this Monday was that it was the first of the month, and that meant a government-money-check, which would then be hustled into candles.

"I have some candles for you," said Monday.

Knowing that candles were always the final product of this cycle, Monday saved my biological mother some trouble and brought candles to her directly. My biological mother ritualistically placed the candles into a double boiler in order to melt the wax so that she may remove the "wick." Meanwhile, I got my sister's things ready, hoping that she could make it out to the bus on time.

"Hey, Minka, do you have those pictures from the party?" Monday asked my biological mother. She began looking in the normal places for her hologramera, and when it was nowhere to be found she politely inquired if I had seen it.

"You FUCKING STOLE IT," shouted my biological mother, clawing my bedroom open and smashing anything breakable over me. "Where it is Sun?"

I said nothing, so she began throttling my sister until she "admitted" to seeing me steal it. "Get both of you the out." My arm was quite bloody from having some glass broken on it, and my sister's only expression was her many light bruises.

Following the morning drill we missed the bus, and walked six hasty kilometers through Ted Bundy's back yard to get to school. We arrived an hour and a half late, and re-recognizing our state and expression, our principal and teachers reported the incident to the child services bureau that invariably did nothing.

After school I went to the library to wait to be picked up by my biological mother. Typically she wouldn't show, and if I left I would be beaten for not waiting, so I would often find the biggest book I could and read it cover to cover. Immersed in the fiction and the semi-silent ambiance of the public library, I became a sound. Sound to fill a life behind a locked door where schoolbooks are confiscated and reading is outlawed. The locked door would always stay locked and the trick was that there was no key. No Key and trapped enough that only the great Harry Houdini could escape without being a sound.

The End

****

A Frame in a Frame in a Frame in a Frame

In the National Museum of Contemporary Art, the students of a one hundred level art history course studied a piece inspired by last week. Last week, Pop copied all of the VHS home movies to DVD. Fifteen years ago, he carefully placed a camcorder next to a projector on his dinning room table. The Camcorder diligently captured all the conversations in the room, as well as the film on the projector. Most of these films were silently of his family: a young A-Bomb, and Lucy as a toddler (When Lucy and Pop were toddlers, gypsies ran wild across the country swindling innocent families by filming their children and claiming to have stolen their souls).

"The dancing queen," said Pop, watching a DVD of a video of film where Lucy did stutter-step-skipping across the three squares of concrete leading up to her house.

"The dancing queen," said Pop's voice watching the film, recorded by the video 15 years ago. Lucy sat down with Pop and brought him a microwaved cup of earl grey.

"Look, what're you playing, Rummy?" asked Lucy, watching a DVD of a video of a film where Pop and A-Bomb were clearly playing Connect Four. Pop let A-Bomb win and then affectionately smothered him in wrestling and male bonding.

"I think that's Connect Four," said Pop, watching a DVD of a video of a film.

"Look, is that Rummy?" asked Lucy's voice on the video from 15 years ago.

"I think that's Connect Four," replied Pop's voice on the video from 15 years ago.

Clearly A-Bomb had been permitted to hold the camera as the next scene moved like a jagged roller derby (instead of moving Pop's tea just out of reach, the way most scenes do). When the derby ended, a series of close ups began, the first of which was a paper napkin that had been shredded and balled up on the table.

"Anxiety napkins!" laughed Pop watching the DVD and Pop's voice on the video in unison. The next close up was Pop's right hand doing his famous whole face self-massage. Zooming out, Lucy's brother West sat smiling next to an evidently stressed Pop.

"I can't believe you let West do that to you," said Lucy's voice on the video, while Lucy watching the DVD thought the same thing.

"You can't sweat the small stuff," said Pop's video voice echoing Pop's thoughts.

"Yeah but you should sweat some things!" Lucy's video voice said, complementing her fraternal twin of an internal monologue. The final close up was a young Lucy's lips descending on the camera to kiss A-Bomb's forehead. The scene ended with a shot of the carpet and what turned into an apparent struggle to take the camera away from A-Bomb.

The next shot was of dramatically reduced quality and very washed out.

"I love you Momma," said A-Bomb eating cheerios, in his booster seat looking directly at the camcorder.

"He should be here," said Lucy, angry on behalf of Pop, "what's wrong with him?"

The End

****

Puppy Love

Abandonment and Rejection were people-watching in the park one fine summer afternoon. Abandonment nudged Rejection and pointed to some kids on a play date.

"How about them? The little girl and the A-Bomb with their parents."

"Well, the A-Bomb is adopted. And judging by the makeshift stand, it looks like they are farting on strips of paper and selling them to the other children," replied Rejection. In front of the stand was a sign that clearly read 'farts 50 moneys.' Unimpressed by the deduction that an A-Bomb is adopted and reading a sign, Abandonment rolled his eyes and made his dissatisfaction transparent.

"Ok, I would say they are about six. The A-Bomb's parents seem to swoon around him, but look at the little girl's father. His closed body positioning, tension in the upper face, and inattentive nature." The little girl's father had been rubbernecking every walk-a-by female at the park that hot summer day.

"I would be surprised if he stayed even this involved for very long."

"Well, the kids seem to be pleased," said Abandonment.

"Yes, there is a lot of open body positioning, they are facing one another giving their complete attention. She is smiling much more frequently than average, even for her age. Lots of laughing, and frequent physical contact," said Rejection.

"She's punching," said Abandonment flatly.

"Don't you know anything about little girls? That is what they do when they have a crush."

"Shall we enter their lives?" asked Abandonment.

"When the time is right," said Rejection. "For now let's swing really high on the swings and then jump off to see who can get the farthest."

The End

****

Put the Behind It

Paul Revere was only the cheapest of the cheap. Linka knew her sister, and better than to rely on an off brand messenger pigeon for such important letters. Instead of delivering slips of paper with a maximum of fifty characters to Minka, Paul flew directly to an electric pop tart hangout. Here he left all the notes on the ground, amidst pop tart wrappers featuring knockoff Don Hertzfeldt cartoon characters.

"I am a banana," said one cartoon that was clearly a banana with arms and legs.

"Minka, billboard has made me to be have baby," answered a note written frantically by Linka after driving past a billboard. The billboard presented a cowboy so masculine and rugged that when Linka saw him she was immediately impregnated. The text next to this cowboy of the west was, "Breast milk satisfies."

"My spoon is too big," said a simple wiggly cartoon man holding an oversized cartoon spoon (later in life the spoon developed a very negative self image).

"Minka, my womb is grow big like pumpkin, birth soon," replied a different note written shortly after the first, but before Linka passed a billboard presenting an image of the present and a caption that read, "trust issues."

Linka was in labor longer that she was pregnant, and when she finally got home she peered down near the gas and break peddles to find a small atomic bomb covered in after-birth. Immediately she wrote a message to Minka that read, "Things. It is required A-Bomb I keep in closet now." Despite the fact that Minka was out in the yard next to Linka, Paul Revere failed to deliver this message as well. However, instead of leaving it by cartoons he dropped the note Linka had trusted him with behind the garage near the trashcans. He then got blind-stinking drunk and removed the brains of one hundred and twenty pre-juvenile magazine ads presenting the image of an abandoned canvass shoe and a caption that read "Lesser of the two."

Two years later, while throwing out some of Sun's Christmas presents, Minka found Linka's final note surrounded by tiny fully decomposed brains.

"Linka, you cannot keep this one!" said Minka, dragging Linka to A-Bomb's closet and throwing the door open. "He will be to talk soon and then who is to him hide? You cannot keep. All children, terrible, and you no for good to be mother. Trust me." Minka then promptly typed a letter to the woman who had married her ex-boyfriend.

The End

****

Act I Scene VII: Fresh Air

The scene opens to Lucy and an optical illusion in the front cab of an iconic truck. Lucy is sitting at the wheel composed, but it is obvious she has been crying. The optical illusion puts his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to console his daughter. Lucy has just failed to run away and join the army. She would normally never have attempted such a thing but her world was turned upside-down when her husband left her because she cannot have children.

"It'll be alright," says the actor playing the optical illusion, and making it very obvious that he was just waiting to say his next line. "I have a nice young man you should meet, his name is Pop. I think you'll like him."

"I don't know," says the actress, being very over dramatic, "how could he accept-

The director stops the scene and attempts to get a performance that his actors are not capable of. Their incompetence is fueled by their inability to comprehend the setting, timeline, underlying themes, and bigger picture of the Musical _A-Bomb_.

"This would never happen in the World War Two era," says the actor, "people didn't divorce and remarry then."

"This isn't a period piece," says the director, "just because we are talking about Atomic Bomb and war, and some seemingly outdated technology-doesn't merit the assumption that this is World War Two. The era is irrelevant."

"And all the weird stuff in it, are they supposed to be jokes, or is it all like metaphors and symbolic crap," says the actress, "cuz if they're jokes they're not funny, and if they're not jokes then it's like, it's trying too hard to be all artsy."

"Yeah, like, in my character description I'm her father but..." says the actor looking be-fumbled, "am I like, a figment of her imagination. Like OB1 Canobi?"

"No," says the director, "you are an optical illusion."

"What's the difference?"

"Let's do the scene again," says the director. The scene is performed just as poorly as it was previously. Later, in the editing room, a team of producers, directors, and assistants work to make the inappropriate word-spacing flow, the over-the-top performances seem acceptable, and the sophomoric writing seem relevant.

By the time the film was done it was a 3D animated short in which a shelf of knick-knacks interact in humorous ways. The silly twist in the film being when a snowman tries desperately to leave his snow globe in effort to get closer to some girls in grass skirts, and despite momentarily getting out of his globe, he ends up right back where he started.

The End

****

Introduction and Specific Aims

In the twelve years after deploying troops to the isle of Tinian, the loss of troops has been widely documented as the number one reason for the disruption of a nuclear family unit (24). Thus, this study proposes a focus on the social dynamics of non-traditional family units and alloparental care. Previous studies have supported the hypothesis of smart (33), and we predict that participants in the study will display a greater degree of maternal care when the juvenile is a direct offspring of the adult.

Methods: Alloparental

1. Select the animals to be tested.

2. Place them in the double cage (adequate food and water) for 30-45 minutes.

3. At the end of the acclimation period - remove food and water.

4. Begin taping (Camera #x -> Monitor), and note time in log book.

5. Introduce juvenile that is of age (10 to 12 years).

6. If the test animal never enters the cage with the juvenile then it is over after 30 min.

9. If the test animal enters the cage with the juvenile at anytime during that 30 min then continue the test for 10 min after the test animal steps into the cage with the juvenile.

10. If the juvenile is attacked during the 10 minute period remove it immediately, and apply disciplinary force to the adult using an IACUC approved cat'o-nine-tails made of computer mice.

11. When test is complete stop recording and separate animals.

Preliminary Results

In pilot studies, following the previously described method, our lab has paired a 12 year old juvenile ID# A-BOMB with a randomly selected female from the general population ID# LINKA. In this experiment the adult displayed significantly less maternal behavior than when the juvenile was placed with its birth parent, ID# LUCY. In addition to reduced maternal behavior ID#LINKA falsely claimed to be ID#A-BOMB's birth parent. Interestingly ID#A-BOMB expressed interest in contacting ID# LINKA, at which time ID#LINKA exchanged contact information with ID# A-BOMB. Beyond this exchange of information no alloparental behavior was observed.

Conclusion

Further studies concerning the issue of child rearing are essential if we are to understand the future's political and social dynamic. The current demand for increased troops has inarguably shifted the political climate to one that favors the initiation of a draft. In the past, the initiation of a draft has been met with a mixture of public responses. Considering that the new draft proposals have expanded their minimum age to the age of the juveniles used in this study, this kind of study would be an ideal starting point on the road to predicting the public response. As an extension to this project we propose a series of cross fostering experiments as well as alloparental experiments.

****

Greneway Heights

I arrived at the estate and immediately sought Nelly so that I may have the key to my room. Instead she led me to the parlor, sat me down, and began to tell me of every second she spent as a babysitter under various rich countrymen. She focused deeply on petty drama surrounding one Katherine Earshaw.

"Nelly, what of Constable Grimme?" asked Katherine,"I'm quite desperate."

"Your mother sends for him this day, dear child."

"If only it were my beloved playmate, A-Bomb, Mother were entranced with."

A-Bomb then cleared his throat, having been present all-the-while.

"Miss Katherine, I am pleased to announce A-Bomb," said Nelly. The Playmates greeted one another with zealous affection and irritatingly unrealistic passion.

"I've thought of you all this day, each before, and forever after," said A-Bomb.

"Yes, come. You must walk with me through the grange," replied Katherine. The two went on a long extensive hike and that ended with A-Bomb dramatically riding a horse back and forth between their estates, and Katherine locked in her room to go mad with selfishness. That evening, they had made up, and when it finally seemed as though they would resolve the conflicts in their relationship, Nelly announced:

"A Constable Grimme, to see Miss Katherine." Constable Grimes was easily fifteen years Katherine's senior and probably a first cousin or brother. Constable Grimme then requested that Katherine leave the room so that he may speak with A-Bomb.

"A-Bomb, it is wise to bribe one authority such as I?"

"What good lawman impresses himself in such a way?"

"I assure you that I'm neither 'good' nor a 'man'," Said Grimme. "While we mutually desire Katherine, she desires you." The Constable then shook his head.

"For this reason I tell you that I am death itself. If I wish I may ferry you to the afterlife and make no mistake, no being evil or holy has a preference for your final destination." In a moment's quickness, A-Bomb left the estate never to return. The Constable called Katherine back into the room and began his courting.

"Constable Grimme," said Katherine, "were you always in law?"

"No, my dear, before being a corrupt officer, I was a Draftsmen. It is that way in which I came to know your mother. Though I do believe that your mother signed the draftsmen's contract before you were born. It was just when your father began to leave on his long hunting trips, or whatever the excuse for his absentia is."

"Interesting," replied Katherine, "I feel as though I have seen your likeness before. Though if that were the case you would have been riding a motorcycle shooting flaming skulls in an early playstation game."

It was at this time I became completely uninterested in anything Nelly had to tell me, so I retired to my room, where I remained as uni-dimensional as I had originally. Having no immediate function or past to elaborate on, I concluded these events nearly four hundred times faster than Nelly may have.

The End

****

Answering the Call

In a paper-thin performance hall, there were no ballerinas, and no petting. These things are the type to be outlawed in a city with one street, lifeless days, and lightless nights. In this hall in this city only a ventriloquist, strippers, soilent green, organized crime independent of an elected official, and every other act that doesn't want to pay taxes on ticket sales thrives.

This ventriloquist was not from this city (otherwise he would have no material). He was from the hick-side of what fancied itself an east coast region of the country, and being that his only talent was to not move his lips, the majority of his material came from a single real-life interaction.

"Everyone, I would like you to meet someone," said the ventriloquist, dummy on knee. "He is a 14 and 1/2 year old traveling magazine salesman, named A-Bomb."

"Would you like to buy a magazine?" said the ventriloquist moving the puppet.

"My my my," smiled the ventriloquist, "are you traveling out here alone?"

"Yes, sir. I am selling magazines. Would you like to buy one?"

"Sure! But wait a second, shouldn't you be enlisted?"

"Can't enlist a rolling stone, sir," said the ventriloquist moving the puppet.

"Ah, I see. You are under-the-table, don't worry I can keep a secret?"

"I Smiled," said the ventriloquist moving the puppet, while in his sub-conscious he smashed things that caused him pain. Then he washed it down with onion powder and parsley. The audience clapped and clapped because that is what an audience does.

"Well, say, I bet you haven't called your mom in a while, have you?"

"No, sir," said the ventriloquist moving the puppet's eyes to simulate sad.

"Well come in and use my phone, while I get my money," said the ventriloquist. The part that is not in the show is where the call doesn't go to Lucy. Instead the call goes to Linka. The call tells Linka where A-Bomb is and how long he will be staying there.

Instead the show skips that part and jumps straight to the part where the ventriloquist makes dirty jokes and simulates the sexual molestation of A-Bomb.

"Ha Ha Ha," went the audience, laughing like they were crazy (it was no secret to the audience that these jokes weren't funny, but nothing a ventriloquist does is funny, and the audience always laughs anyway).

"Oh, please stop," said the ventriloquist lying pants-less on his puppet.

"What's wrong, A-bomb?" said the ventriloquist, "you didn't mind my hand up your butt before."

"Ha Ha Ha."

The End

****

Ghost Hunting

No vegan recipe collection would be complete without at least one delinquent recipe. Despite the fact that no diet can truly exclude all animals (because the microbial organisms in water and plants love their children too), ghost hunting will make you feel better about yourself. Because of the subtle flavor of this dish we recommend avoiding strongly flavoured mushrooms. Try button mushrooms or cerminis.

Ghost hunting was originally a peasant dish and has recently become popular with the wartime middle class. In the original dish the A-Bomb was allowed to mature and gain a strong sense of identity as well as choose life. However, the current recipe's inclusion of candles prevents any maturation that would result from the extreme stress of the situation and complimentary ingredients. This is a dish best served by the immorality of innocent youth.

2 delinquent beings (with or without chin hair)

1 A-Bomb (best if freshly hitchhiking to avoid the draft)

4 Leche candles

1 Wild Animal on display (like at the zoo)

1. Place both delinquents and Wild Animal in a 33cm skillet made of 2 bench seats large enough to hold 6 each, and an 8 valve engine. Light the leche candles and allow their fumes to fill the container, causing each ingredient to realize how little they are living for and how ready they are to die.

2. Now combine the A-Bomb (if a hitchhiking A-Bomb, allow it to explain to the other ingredients why). Lock the A-Bomb in with other ingredients for roughly eight hours of jam band, with the promise of eventually going ghost hunting. Meanwhile, take the Wild Animal and have it harass the A-Bomb until they are both doing sign language that the deaf don't know.

3. If the candles are working, then once the snowstorm begins, the ingredients should become irrationally frightened and refuse to leave the skillet. Instead, they will unbuckle their seatbelts and their cooking will become intentionally more reckless with the intent of a fatal collision. This will then, by their logic, generate a ghost.

4. Once the collision occurs there will be no telling if a ghost has been generated. Instead the A-Bomb will be done. Before serving the A-Bomb, wait for the Wild Animal to offer it an under-the-table job as a traveling magazine salesmen.

The End

****

Explosions

The Queen was very stupid. While eating french fries and a malt, she accidentally swallowed a salt shaker. She recalled a movie where someone swallowed a saltshaker and then put ice cubes under their arms. Convinced this was the cure, The Queen ran to the icebox, popped one big cicle in each pit, and her head exploded (just like in the movies).

Upon dying, she lost all consciousness and immediately became almost as disoriented as she was when she was a developing fetus and first realized she had a consciousness. Lost, she found herself mucked into a web with many things in her way.

"dA'Bizomb" said one thing accompanied by a picture of an Atomic Bomb wearing full army attire.

"No not. That except bagging," replied The Queen. Below the picture was a laundry list of basic information; "Age:15," "Location:da'pit," "Member since:????" ect. Then there were words. The words were all titles. The titles were "Knew Big brudda couldn't say naw, so I volunteered for Combat Zone 2", "I F'in hate ventriloquists", and "Still no action is CZ2".

"Pardon, to I reflexively a More on?" said The Queen, trying to get out.

"About dA'Bizomb," said another thing, with relevant info to what it had stated.

Yo I'm A-Bomb. AKA dA'Bizomb. I used to be living E Z street

style do'n the draft dodge, wit my crew, till I called my Ma (or

whatever) N'she told big brudda where my head was lay'n. But izall

good, I'm here chill'en up in da CZ2. For now I be playing that

desk clerk SH*T, hooken up mih crew wit all thuh crazy-a$$ leche

here. I'm bout to break'n that game HARDCORE and then it'll be

EEEEEEZZZZZZZEEEHHHH STREEETT!!!!! BITCHESSS!!!!!

Finding that being dead made her want to die, the queen descended a ladder of short statements, each with their own duckfaced picture. These ladder rungs were mostly from "WILD ANiMALL" and "TU Delink-WentZ." At the bottom of the ladder was a dream. Inside the dream, the Queen found a very frightened dreamer lying in a bed refusing to look at her.

"Are you another one?" asked the dreamer, implying that The Queen was dead. The Queen moved to him slowly and then hugged the dreamer, crushing him and paralyzing his movement. The dreamer was terrified, and eventually remembered that like all the others, The Queen was just confused and disoriented.

"This will help," said the dreamer, acclimated to the fear. The dreamer imagined crawling up a rope out of his chest and was then able to watch himself. Seeing this, The Queen was able to connect the dots and soon found she could move on.

So The Queen moved on and when she got there it was a little nippy.

"Oh yes, the furnace has exploded, but it had been exploding for a while."

The End

****

"Leeche"

I woke up on a sand beach black with crawling salty flies. My ears ringing with an A natural. Low clouds blocked the distant and the sky. The sky could have been a swamp ceiling from which hung a random slanty thickness of transparent plastic, wading in clumps over a milky lagoon. Tredging into the lagoon and pushing past layers of tarpery, I occasionally found concealed scraps of tissue. Muscle and skin, embedded in the hanging, or floating in the broth, with tadpoles and leeches wiggling in their fill. Here and there a limb, an eye, teeth, until under one polymerized shield I found a whole torso. Ribs cracked and crucified, open for the flies. Amidst the viscerality and bone was a mask. It was of a simple wooden appearance with basic eye and mouth holes (much like a rotten bore's head on a wooden spoke).

"You look weird," said the Mask, maybe moving. "You have many domains... what do they do?" Finally, I had been waiting to tell someone.

"Yes, that domain mimics Kianate. And that one, glutamate receptors and Quisqualate B. It has a slightly higher affinity, though, creating competitive inhibition. Oh, and these domains have 99% amino acid homology with gama-aminobutyric acid and glycine." I pointed at all the peptide motifs that can be found in my secondary and, in some cases, tertiary structure (structure is not everything personality, morals, values, and a good sense of humor are important, too).

"That's not everything, but basically I've got it all; sedation, amnestic, anticonvulsant, anxiolytic, myorelaxant, motor impairment, ethanol/barbiturate potentiation. I even can produce a surplus of extra-cellular calcium, causing neuro-apoptosis, simultaneously triggering a release of novel neuropeptides and an accelerated rate of neuroplasticity."

"How does a glycoprotein like you ever get past the blood brain barrier?"

"First off, I'm not a glycoprotein, and second, good question. The best part, though, is that down stream-wise, I acetylate genes in histone two that code for proteins which promote dopamine receptors and methylate genes that code for proteins that act as a feedback loop to produce dopamine production without me."

"Wow. In here, is only to see, things that trigger the release of endocannabinoids that bind at the surface and block the presynaptic calcium channel, 'down stream-wise.' As you say."

"Psh! Cannabinols." I said in here. "Wait, what do you mean, in here?"

"You must be very valuable, must have made someone very rich, yes, you must have, mister leche. I bet someplace, some sad place, some pit, orphans abandoned by their bloods are dipping thick white strands of you in wax. I bet they are make'n them candles. Yes. Making A-Bomb a rich rich m-" Suddenly, tarnished coins gushed from its mouth and fell to the sky, like a rushing column of fiery gloom.

The endless stream of coins, and the A natural ringing. The water rose and I was immersed in the white milky lagoon. Not breathing and not needing to. I drifted. 'Random' interaction. Bumping and changing, thermodynamic, turning electromagnetic orientations of atoms like a key turning clockwork. The clock and changed time. When the time was up I was used up. Used up, it is only some time before I am brought back, in here.

The End

****

Looking at the Sun in Bed

Monday was a federal holiday for no apparent reason. There was a real holiday the day before, but that was a Sunday, and there is no fighting in Combat Zone 2 on Sunday (not that there was any other day of the week), but since there is no work on a holiday or Sunday the government moved the holiday ahead one day so that they could be irresponsible (they ended up lighting fire crackers on top of parked cars).

The federal holiday in CZ2 meant that all clerks had the day off. One clerk decided to sleep in. When he woke up he imagined an imaginary conversation that he would have if he had an old friend or a cousin to catch-up with. In this idea, he imagined his cousin's name was Sun. In the imaginary conversation, Sun told the clerk to go to a specific spot and pick up a bag. The clerk did this, and in the bag was lots of money.

"I think this thought, it is a good luck charm," said the clerk.

So the clerk continued his imaginary thoughts, and Sun told the clerk where to go, and so the clerk did. When he got there, he found a property for sale. Sun told the clerk to buy the property with some of the money. The clerk bought the property and found it was teaming with leche. Next Sun told the clerk to buy many things in town. The clerk bought many things and was delighted with his good luck and new relative.

While buying things, many orphan children noticed all the clerk's money and begged to have some of it. Sun told the clerk to take the children to his property, pay them to make leche candles, and in six days to meet a potato-faced blindman at a place that Sun told the clerk to be. The clerk did this, and in six days the potato-faced blind man offered to oversee the candle sweatshop and distribution. From then on, the clerk received money from, and had no contact with, the potato-faced blindman.

The last thing Sun said was, "You are the mascot of this idea." No matter how hard the clerk thought, he couldn't imagine the conversation anymore. The clerk tried and tried, he wanted so badly not to be alone, and to have his cousin to talk to. But Sun was gone and now the clerk would only be alone in his barracks with his shoes at the end of his bed.

"How could you let this happen," said MC Hammer's magical talking shoes to the clerk's boots.

"Look, how long have we known each other? Seven years ago, selling passports, shipping a little leche back to his friends," continued MC Hammer's magical talking shoes. The boots said nothing.

"Child labor? Trafficking? This is a whole'nother level, and now he's in it. There's no getting out," said MC Hammer's magical talking shoes. "Repent repent repent. You're family to me. In two weeks, when his tour is over. Do something." Then MC Hammer's magical talking shoes and the clerk's boots hung out in front of the clerk's bed, interacting with all the passers by, in a tightly knit social community of things in the barracks (that night they ended up on a heavier-than-air machine with Orville Wright).

When the clerk's tour was over, he put on his boots and they marched him directly to enlistment with the Naive corps. The clerk was taken far from CZ2 and charged with seemingly noble tasks.

The End.

****

Old Country World

The queue to the Old Country National Claims Office of Fatz and Fritz stood strong and thin. The two were related and married (keeping the power in the old country held firm between a small group of blood relations). Fritz was rotund and an officer of the people. Fatz was an officer of the people and such a rabid lover of ice-skating that he held most of the public claims hearings at a semi-public frozen water place.

"Someone stop the wind from blowing," screeched a man who had torn his eyes from their place and now saw (arguably better) from the palm of his hand.

"Get John Lenin out of here," said Fritz, stepping out onto the ice and immediately cracking straight through. As a prompt matter-of-course, henchmen-officials and their henchy horses got the ropes and tried to pull Fritz out.

"Die!" shouted Fatz, meaning next (a common translation error, as di means 'two' and is the direct translation for 'next or in sequential order'). A-Bomb was di in line.

"We are representing the Naive corps. Your superiors have asked us to spy on peasants and determine an effective method of transition from village plots to state sponsored suburbia, and to cut part of the beak off chickens." Fatz executed a perfect somersault.

A-Bomb continued, "In our formal report we have mapped the areas where there is a discrepancy between needs and supply. The average regional and domestic income is substantial, but not enough to support the rate of population increase."

"Some to help!" shouted Fritz, "I am stuck between sword and rock."

"Our surveys suggest that the people of the old country are easily seduced by the wind. The wind has been in the sex offender database since its establishment, and fathers roughly three children per household." Fatz stepped off the ice and began to wiggle in front of A-Bomb. In support, the henchy horses and the henchmen-officials let go of their effort and rope to stand at Fatz's side and wiggle as well. A-Bomb turned around to look at the old country members of his Naive Corps team, who had big smiles and were pumping a steady thumbs-up.

"In order to counteract over-population, we suggest that someone stop the wind from blowing." The chubby old country team members all cheered, high-fived, and did little victory dances (which the wind confused with rain dances). Quickly, thundering storm clouds broke overhead, and water ended the meeting.

Days later, A-Bomb received a letter from the Old Country National Claims Office stating:

Mr. Pa Gaza,

We you will know that when little ones plays by big one

that mean little one wants for the hurting. THE OLD COUNTRY

is stone-corner of traditions honor. Contraception you have

suggest will in no not be to solve economic crisis, rather

when fat woman is born, girdle is provide from heaven. We

have been to reporting your conduct to your superiorys and

you will soon be ask to leave Old World Country.

Thanks no.

your Officers of the People; Fatz and soon dead Fritz

The End

****

A Dream Stuck in a Box

Last night I had a dream that my father died. But he wasn't my father, and I wasn't me. I was in some third-world country swapping untranslatable idioms with the locals when I got a phone call.

It was a dream, and like all phone calls in dreams, the phone didn't work, there was just weird crackling, and then I woke up with my hand to my ear and I heard a voice say, "Pop is dead." Immediately I felt my heart sink, knowing my father was dead. I fell back asleep and the dream continued.

In the dream I was called A-Bomb. I seemed to be wealthy and alone in a crowd of hundreds, at my father's funeral. I stepped up to the casket and in it was a man I had never seem before and felt tremendous love for. My wife stood next to me, but she wasn't my wife yet in the dream. In the dream she was called Katherine.

"I'm sorry," said Katherine. Then my alarm went off and I hit snooze. I rolled over knowing coral canaries had left twigs near and fell back asleep to finish the dream.

"You know, not much has changed here," said Katherine, wrapping her squidicles around me. "The war must have felt close for you, but here it's something far away, like a TV show."

"Actually, even while I was there it was like it wasn't real," I said. "I never even saw the enemy. How do you shoot at a mentality?"

The rest of the dream occurred in a split second and had no talking. I was married to Katherine, we had a little girl, most of the things in our home were wrapped in pretty blue wrapping paper, and Katherine had just had an unborn child die. I woke up and was cranky that I hadn't completed the dream.

At work I had to finish evaluating a client. The client was a breast milk advocacy group that was interested in collaborating with various modeling agencies on a new campaign. It was my job to bring the advocacy group, the advertising firm representing the advocacy group, and the modeling agency together. Instead, I was looking up used dream journals on Craigslist. I found one with a semi-holographic cover that looked like blue Christmas ornaments still in their packaging. I bought it for two monies and left work early to meet with the seller.

Later that night, before I went to bed, I opened it and found that it had been written in a bit. There were a few entries with titles like 'Leeche,' and 'A Dream Stuck in a Box.' One entry described the writer as being an old woman interviewed by the writer himself.

"What makes you say that?" wrote the writer.

"I guess my life experience," said the writer dreaming as an old woman (she was only forty-two). The writer wanted to know why we live and die. The entry explained that we live and die only to complete dreams. Dreams are the only real thing. Spirit is a life force that inhabits each body, using them to complete dreams.

"Completing a dream can either be actualizing a goal in waking life, or finishing a dream while you are asleep," said the writer dreaming as an old woman. "The dreams are stuck here, and can't be free until they are complete."

The End

****

The Clerk's Epilogue

But as it were a twinkling of an eye,

Hem both hath slain; and alle shull we die.

[The Clerk's Tale, omitted here, is a long and idealistic story of the daughter born to a peasant mother and a nobleman (also synonymous with the clerk who is A-Bomb). The daughter is only ever referred to as a "twinkling of an eye," and it is expected that the reader will accept that the daughter is both five years old and a twinkle. Adding to the mystery surrounding "twinkling of an eye," she lacks the ability to retain any memories but knows her entire future up until her death. The nobleman has sired her only in response to the request of society, and proceeds to abuse her with a combination of indifference and neglect. The "twinkling of an eye" bears her misfortunes with incredible patience, making job-like and solemn, though harboring great resentment.]

The Clerk's Prologue

The day it happens, I will spend most of my time wrapping things around the house in shiny blue wrapping paper. I will know how the paper folds around each object and then I will set the many blue wrapped products of my forgotten handiwork in their place for later. When my Father is ready, he will take my Mother and me to the doctor. The doctor will tell them that considering my Father is an Atomic Bomb, they are lucky that I was born at all, let alone with few minor birth defects. My Father will say,

"You call being a mute twinkling of an eye a minor defect!" When the doctor checks my pulse he will say I have a heart condition. I do not have a heart condition, or a heart. My father has my heart. He is using it, because at some point his was abandoned or rejected, as is the case for many organs in a thing like him.

Leaving the office, I imagine that I grab his hand and think of a random number like seven thousand, six hundred and fifty-one. This is a game I play where I pretend seven thousand, six hundred and fifty-one is the number of times we have held hands. He will wait till we are through the parking lot and then I imagine him shaking me off.

On the day it happens my Mother will also ask the doctor some questions. These questions will be about a baby she was going to have, that I don't remember and is now dead. My mother will try and talk to my Father about it on the way home, but he will be callous and distant. This will snowball into a huge fight, and my father will say.

"I am taking that job." He will be talking about a promotion that his advertising agency has offered him. The job means that he will leave. It will mean that he is going far away without us. I will get so sad I will come in from my hiding spot crying. He will pick me up and put me on top of the refrigerator. I will be terrified, frustrated and scarred. My mother will be crying and my father will pass-by as he makes his way to the door. I will hate him. I will want to wrap him up in shiny blue paper and make him stay. Make it so I can see him later and not forget him. When he walks by I will leap off the refrigerator and hit him on the very top of his head as hard as I can. And that is when it will happen.

The End

****

West Way to the World

The revolution of employment happened roughly thirty-three months before troops were deployed to the island of Tinian, when Technology came out with a new app for the iSmart-Phone-Droid, called Double Dee or DD. DD would scan the soul of a potential job applicant and then send a copy to the employer. The employer could then print a paper-thin clone of the applicant, and conduct the interview. Companies preferred this method because the clones were incapable of lying or withholding information.

"What experiences have you had that make you qualified for this position?" the Hiring Manager for the Industrial Military Complex asked a paper-thin clone of West.

"All of them," answered the paper-thin clone of West.

"So you are telling me that since you were a child you were completely enamored with adventure. You idolized cowboys and radio programs about Pirates?"

"Yes," said the paper-thin West clone, "when I was twelve I hopped trains all the way out to the coast. I learned a lot from the hobos, like how to cover myself with coal so the overhead cameras don't see you in tunnels."

"And why shouldn't I hire you for this position?"

"Plainly put," said the paper-thin Clone of West, "I'm a bastard. On that same trip I caught scarlet fever and had to be shipped home. The medical bills my parents paid were enormous. Also on that trip I killed two men. One, I got off with self-defense because the local authorities were racist, and the second guy was this ventriloquist I beat to death with my hands. I am honestly surprised I never got caught for that."

"What about your credit history?"

"Shit. But I had the bulk of my debt cosigned to my sister and her husband. I defaulted and they were so encumbered with debt that they couldn't afford to pay their medical bills. I think he probably died as a result." The manager looked through some files and wrote some notes about the contradictions and complexities of a non-existent timeline, then pressed a button on an intercom to address the real West sitting in the waiting room.

"If I say, 'Kick punch block I got the funky flow,' what would you say?"

"I would say, 'M I X the flour into the bowl,'" answered West's clone.

"Alright, Mr. West, we are finished, you can come in." The Hiring Manager let go of the button. He then reached across the desk and crumpled the paper-thin copy of West into a ball and tossed it into the trashcan. Soon, the real West came in and sat down.

"I'm sorry but we have already filled this position, Mr. West," The Hiring Manager said. "However, I also run a small modeling agency called Conflict of Interest. We are currently looking for someone rugged and undeniably masculine to be a part of an ad campaign for an advocacy group. How would you like to be on billboards across the nation dressed as a cowboy?"

"Hell yeah, I'll do that shit, whatever."

The End

****

III

The newly-weds' serious conundrum, from which they suffered for over a month-being locked away from the world in their bedroom the night of their marriage as love was considered disgusting and highly contagious in those days-seemed to have reminded even Katherine's father that he was a member of the family, in spite of his present pathetic and repulsive attitude, which he now realized was not something that grew over time; that, on the contrary, the night after his wedding it had been his commandment of family duty to swallow the virulent emotion (love) which he held for his family and rather secede to an endurance, endure them and nothing more.

"Finally, I'm a Mother!" said Katherine, knowing A-Bomb was not ready for such a thing, what it would mean to the love, and to their captivity in the room.

"What?" replied a be-fumbled A-Bomb, who could not grasp the mechanics of how HE could have been the Father, but sure enough, the twinkle that was once in Katherine's eye now laid next to the newly-weds and struggled to nurse.

And now, although A-Bomb had lost some of his love, probably for good because of the twinkle, and although for the time being he needed long, long minutes to get across the room, like an old war veteran-crawling above ground was out of the question-of this emotional scarring, he was granted compensation which in his view was entirely satisfactory: every day around dusk, the door to the living room-which he was in the habit of watching closely for an hour of two beforehand- was opened, so that while he sat in the twinkling's light within his room, there was visible in the living room the television sitting on a table under a lamp, and he could then listen to the programming, which in those days was composed entirely of commercials and advertisements.

Of course these were-at first-no match for the once animated conversations he used to have with Katherine in the old days, which A-Bomb used to remember with a certain nostalgia at the small clerk's desk in Combat Zone Two when he'd had to throw himself wearily into the dry paperwork. As this practice became ritual, A-Bomb found himself lusting after the advertisements, and wanting nothing more than to be one-which was the primary goal of Katherine's mother and father- so when A-Bomb's obsession became apparent, Katherine's father, Lord Earshaw, approached A-Bomb and offered him a position as a traveling consultant for his advertising firm; providing ample time diverted from his new family and onto his new socially acceptable love.

"What's my assignment?" asked A-Bomb, walking out of the bedroom for the first time since his wedding night.

"I will need you to pay a visit to my middle man," said Lord Earshaw, "he is from a company I have hired to bring specific interest groups, my firm, and agency's interested in having their models in such ads, to the same table. He has a breast milk billboard on back order and I have been trying to get this ad up for decades"

The End

****

Wild Wild

When a person is murdered, a crime scene investigation team of fashionable and good-looking professionals analyzes the forensic evidence and exchanges witty banter.

"L-L-Looks lik-k-k a ventriloquist was mu-mu-murdered," said Cool-Guy.

"The most famous perv in town," said Detective Tough-Girl, with understood sexual tension toward Cool-Guy. "Are there any suspects?"

"Probably tha-tha-that bl-l-loody guy next to you," he said, looking at West. West had spongy blood-soaked hands, but Cool-Guy had chic hair and a stylist.

"Shit," said West, "I don't know nuthin' about that, but that guy. He was a fucking molester, he did a whole act about molesting my nephew."

"We know," said Detective Tough-Girl, who then had the corpse hand cuffed and taken to a holding cell.

While being detained, the corpse was subjected to intense interrogation dialogue after miniscule DNA samples from under his fingernails were collected and processed in a lab (with irrationally dramatic lighting) using the cutting-edge method of polymerase chain reaction. Since they had to use random primers and the sample was so small, it took at least twelve hours to cycle, plus an afternoon to analyze. It didn't work, so they had to repeat it, and when they did get the results, the DNA matched the molestation victim (this scientific process gave the murderer plenty of time to flee the region of jurisdiction).

"I call to the stand my expert witness Dr. Science-Words," said the endearingly dedicated prosecutor, "Dr. Science-Words, you are an authority on behavior and brains, and have recently been funded by the Industrial Military Complex to study alloparental behavior, correct?"

"Yes, but I also write fantasy novels."

"The defense claims that the ventriloquist was genetically predisposed to pedophilia and should thus be convicted of a lesser crime and some other crap. Would you mind showing the jury the only way we can know this for sure," said the Persecutor. Gladly, Dr. Science-Words proceeded to cut the head off the child molester, peel the scalp back, crack the skull, cut away soft tissue and points of attachment to the eyes and ears. He then did some other detailed steps that only John Grisham or Tom Clancy would care about, and ultimately, the child molester's brain was sliced up, stained to show science stuff, and analyzed using an infallible computer program.

"The results SUGGEST that his predisposition to pedophilia DOESN'T make him exempt from the law but rather that he is exempt from any DEFENSE," said Dr. Science-Words in his final simplification to the jury. The jury found the defendant guilty and the ventriloquist's corpse was given the maximum sentencing of two trips through the revolving door.

The End

****

Eleven Word/Phrase Vernacular Dictionary

Dialogue- An exchange of phrases between Ed and Mitch witnessing their twelve-year-old sister potentially drowning. Ex: "I'm not getting her," said Mitch, and Ed agreed in silence.

Disappointment- A feeling that accompanies watching your bratty sister pulling herself out of the river and thinking her rude nature and stunted maturity will become her defining characteristics in adulthood.

Irresponsibility- Eleven-year-old Lucy procuring a nag-mare with no notion of how, or fiscal capacity to, support it, and then becoming indignant toward the farmers who have scolded her for allowing it to graze on their livelihood, "when the horse is clearly starving."

Panic- The moment of sudden realization in which Lucy understands that no one is going to help her, and that the river will do everything in its power to fill her lungs with water.

Roadtrip-1. An economical means by which Lucy's optical illusion travels across the country with his daughter and sons; Ed and Mitch. 2. A chance for the generally selfish and antagonizing disposition of Lucy to be in rare form and grate away at the patience of her brothers. 3. A trip that has many settings, including the edge of a river in a national park.

Round-1. Multifaceted, 2. Having depth, 3. Opposite of one-dimensional.

Serendipity- A fortuitous accident in which Lucy slips into a river running strong with fuel from the rainy season, after mistaking it for another thing in her life that would accommodate her will; in this case that being to walk on water.

Shock- The feeling a farmer or a brother gets when reading a sincere letter of apology from Lucy (after the road trip) for her unacceptable behavior.

Story- A sequence of events in which a central figure has undergone a change as a result of the described events.

The End- A phrase of clear indication for the stopping point of chronological events.

Turing Point- An event in Lucy's life so profound and jarring that her behavior is radically altered and her sense of priorities quickly reaches a solid moral center thereafter.

Understanding- 1. A defining characteristic of those who accurately grasp the value of life. 2. An erect posture on two or more feet that is below something else.

****

Radioactive Wild Boars

In the New Age, all terrestrial life was lost when the atmosphere ignited, and only the AquaBoars survived in the sea. The Boars remained due to their tolerance to the radioactive fallout, the secret of which is a two-part system of fun. The first part is a strong adherence to the traditions of the Old Age, and the second is an unnaturally acute sense of taste, and not touch (which was lost in the fall of the house of Usher).

As a result the Boars continued the war of the Old Age. However, in practice, they had incorporated many aspects of religious extremism, as this and war were among some of the most distinct tastes left by the Old Age (whose aftertastes of insanity and necessity were completely indistinguishable).

" 'hat 'his slop?" asked Coronal Pig.

" 'ucy wida'ittle Pop fer drink," replied his wife, the Boarish High Priestess.

" 'ats Moi favrit." The Pigs feasted and commented on the world long gone, their sense of taste accurately recalling the sentiments and events surrounding the once living that still lurked in their delightfully radioactive slop.

"Saus'n-all?" said Coronal Pig, drawing his wife's attention to the mix of the first husband and the Lucy in the dish.

"I love you so much," said the young and naked flavour of Lucy straddling the tastes of the first husband and resting her head.

"Lucy. Sometimes, I torture myself by thinking of all the worst things possible," said sweetness left by the first husband. "Sometimes I picture me and you, but we are old. We are old and we are sitting at my great grama's kitchen table. You are sick, and it's like we can't pay for doctors. Then I watch you stop breathing. Then I just go nuts. Even now thinking about it, I lose my mind knowing that I can never talk to you again. Not that we are separated, or too busy, or simply fallen out of love and (so) talking is too awkward. But that no matter what, you are gone and I can never talk to you. It drives me crazy." The sweetness stops, feeling foreign tears on its face.

"You better not be lying," said the last hint of Lucy.

"Oi 'ust Luv at 'aste.mmmmMMM" said the Boarish High Priestess. Coronal Pig kept quiet. He found that taste to be too fleeting. It had no substance; it was both immature and stupid. Instead he said,

"Pop 's real goo' eh?" Implying that he could only stomach Lucy-slop when there was Pop to drink. He found the Pop complimented Lucy in a way that was more round and complete, and he enjoyed the fact that the longer he held the two together in his cheek pouches (a tricky task for an aquatic animal with a snout) the better it was. This was the inverse of Minka, whose promise of physical pleasure entices the Pop into one's pallet, but the budding taste of controlling selfishness sours, forcing the Pop to be spit, in a bitchy mist of not-completely-consensual-Pop-funded shopping sprees, across the table.

"I have a confession to make," said Coronal Pig, dropping his accent, "I am a coo coo clock." His wife smiled and took his flipper-hooves in hers and said, "Me too."

The two spent the rest of their days directly across from one another in the office of an obituary writer, popping out to coo coo their love to one another every hour, quarter-past, half-past, and quarter-till.

The End

****

The End

A Compelling Story of Life: Obituaries of those first taken as the atmosphere ignition spreads, and before it reaches home.

Atomic-Bomb of the former enemy nation, born before death, died earlier today. Son of Lucy and the late Pop, Husband of Katherine Earshaw, and father of a Twinkle, A-Bomb left this world a gear, having served his function and done his part to make it work. When he was sadly taken from us by a twinkle "in his eye" he took the rest of us with him.

Katherine of the former enemy nation, born twenty or thirty years ago, died earlier today, daughter of Lord and Lady Earshaw. Wife to A-Bomb, mother to Twinkle. The tragedy of her death was rivaled only by her life. By her weakness she had our hearts, and given what we know, would have revealed the weakness in their darker half.

Linka of the Old Country World, born a few generations ago, died earlier today, had no known parents and no known children. She was a testament to a rejection of the notion that being young and irresponsible negates the value of life. If only in life we knew more like you then there would be more life to come to know those like you. In this way we could more readily accept both.

Sun of the former enemy nation, born into life and thought, died earlier today from this world, and in many years past, a memory. Son of Minka, and his biological father. A middle man in an all too real cycle, he was both monster and a victim. In his death we are both saddened and relieved.

Lord Earshaw of the former enemy nation died earlier today, son of tradition. Husband to Lady Earshaw, and technically father to Katherine. He embodied all that is wrong with extreme, common sense, and enemy-society.

West of the former enemy nation. Not alone, he lived in the moment for desires that were always two steps away, leaving him in a world where such a mix makes what he was.

Minka of the Old World Country, born with a disposition, died earlier today a monster, had no known parents and was Mother to Sun and his sister. Her wretched depravity and abuses first defied the wall of expectation designed to contain them and (by contrast with her polar opposite) reinforced a blinding truth that is, for some, nigh impossible to accept.

Twinkle, as a beacon of alienation from those in her life, the world feels her pain.

Lucy of the former enemy nation, born a few generations ago, died earlier today, daughter to an optical illusion. Wife to Pop and mother to A-Bomb. Though for many her story and its point were too nonsensical and fantastic to hold any weight, she died knowing that every scrambled reconfigured bit of it was a true story.

The End

****

The End

Saying good-by to their many childhood friends, the happy family boarded the polar express, went to their seats, and waited for the conductor to punch their ticket to everything they could ever want. Once the trip began, Twinkle left to find Grama and Grampa Earshaw, who would surely stop their friendly game of Euchre with Lucy and Pop to shower her with kisses and treats. Shortly after she left, Katherine and A-Bomb engaged in light enjoyable conversation, as all young couples do.

"Why'd you do it this way?" asked Katherine, "it's so sad." She then let her head fall on his shoulder and became overwhelmed with gratitude for having such a wonderful husband.

"To prove a point," whispered A-Bomb lovingly.

"But this isn't life!"

"Exactly, see, YOU know my story, so name one person I can trust," said A-Bomb, as the Twinkle from his eye returned, holding hands with Pop and Lucy.

"Why'd you let the ones you can't shape you?" asked Katherine, feeling tears of joy welling in her eyes.

Outside, the train passed by white elephants and new awakenings. It seemed abandonment and rejection had not boarded in time, and that they were long gone. The many things that could hurt were out of sight and out of mind.

In the cabin next to the happy family's, Linka was on her honeymoon with the billboard, and Minka had said yes to West's marriage proposal. Entering the Happy family's cabin, Wild Animal and the two delinquents found some ghosts, Dr. Science-Words published his fantasy novel, Ed and Mitch gave the Queen the Heimlich maneuver, saving her life, Leche discovered a new conformational state that cured cancer, the snowman met up with the grass skirt girls, and the coo-coo clocks went coo coo coo.

"Because the only way it could work was if I was the one missing the point."

Then they all broke into a happy song and dance, the guy got the girl, they kissed, the home team won the championship, evil was defeated, the kids learned their lesson and grew up, our horse-car-athlete came in first, all the bad parts were a dream they woke up from, the lost dog made it home along with the child that was whisked away to a world beyond imagination, true love conquered all, the crisis was averted, good guys survived, the bad guy went to jail or died, and the reluctant hero fulfilled his destiny, saving the day.

"Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night," and they all lived happily ever after.

The End

****

Something New

of a

### Brilliant Blue

Prologue

Cold thought movement sensation bright discomfort sound reflex dark relief. Cold thought movement sensation bright discomfort sound reflex dark relief. Cold thought movement sensation bright discomfort sound reflex dark relief. Thought sensation sound, Thought sensation sound sensation, cold Thought sensation sound, thought sensation sound, cold Thought sensation sound sensation. Sound? More sound? Thought sound, thought movement sensation bright discomfort sound reflex dark relief.

Little-warm pressure? Pressure at spots, reflex change pressure spots. Alarm-thought sound? Sound? thought movement sensation less-bright discomfort, less discomfort thought light and dark both? Thought light and dark both! Frustration sound. Sound? Dry cold discomfort! Thought sound, thought sensation warm short pressure, thought warm short pressure, thought sound Thought sound less-short warm pressure. More discomfort, more discomfort, bad-time-excitement, MORE DISCOMFORT PAIN! Bad excitement thought sensation sound PAIN thought sensation sound light and dark both PAIN thought sensation sound, bright discomfort sound reflex dark relief.

NO pressure spots, short cool lots spread out, new-pain pressure old-pain. PAIN thought sensation sound, Thought sensation... dark? DARK? Sensation? Sound? Discomfort reflex no relief? Thought sensation sound. Cool soft, and hard cold, hard cold stinging warm pain, old-pain. Thought sensation sound. More Stinging warm pain, old-pain. Thought sensation sound. More Stinging warm pain, old-pain. Thought sensation sound. Less Stinging warm pain, relief, old-pain. Hard-fast-Pressure-pain-Nothing. Nothing....

Pumping little pain, thought movement sensation bright and dark. Bright and dark in a spot, then in a little different spot, then in a more different spot... same light and darks. Different light and darks, cool lights, cool darks, warm light, warm darks. Cool dark and light thought sensation and then same Cool dark and light in little different spot. Cool dark and light thought sensation and then same Cool dark and light in little different spot! Thought little different spots! Good-Excitement! Thought sound. Thought sound. One thought sound, always one thought with sound, other thought different spots, slightly different thought slightly different sound! Slightly different thought slightly different spots. Different spots, different sounds, different spots different sound excitement, good-excitement.

Sound, no thoughts... expecting pain. Other sound with no thought expecting pain, bad-excitement. Bad-excitement, bad-excitement, reflex sound expecting pain. No sounds, less excitement. Still no sounds, even less excitement, relief. Thought good sound, thought change spots to one side good excitement. Same thought (little bit different) spots to other side! Again not side change that should happen with that thought, Again not side change that should happen with that thought! Excitement-bad

Excitement-bad reflex sound.

Then End

****

Destroy

I found it in cold wrinkled pile, blue burlap of arms legs and tail, a petting zoo goat, crying. Marching wide, and with a deep foot print around the roots of a canopy, I was routinely clogging some slitty charcoal body flaps when I heard its crying. It sawed through trunks and arms bleeding my ears to make it stop. I pressed on through the other-wise silence, giving the flaps (without proper packing) a chance to threaten scabbing. Foot-driven, the area of circles through which I followed a mist of sobs, was enough for an aged farmer and his faithful beast to sow a crop, maybe a soccer mom's five o'clock shadow, that would provide a bountiful harvest for the season.

I found it and felt the air move over teeth and clenching. The longer I indulge this hyper examination of this thing, its anything, it grew alien to me- estranged and without context or abstract meaning to it, like repetition. This crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying cryi-

"Shut it! You are going to shut it now or I will make you!" Slipping my good hand under its arm I lift it and its head flops backward. "Can you hear me?" Frustrated, my own echo is bleached behind the crying, and I push my bad hand into its mouth. Its weight wearing my good arm I finger around its tongue and get a nice tight grip. I pull it out and let it flop back to the ground. Over the air I feel a calm completeness, and the crying doesn't register. This thing has brought a peaceful intoxication very rare to existence.

I begin to drag it behind me to a place I like.

Leaving a little line of ground stained red behind it, its blue leg -in my good hand- attached to its body's cast-iron weight, and crying that shot like blue bullets though my ears. I stop and look again in its mouth only to find a tiny arm webbed with blood and saliva.

"We have that in common." Lifting a near-by stick, and giving the little blue thing a good swat on the head, the crying turned into steady breathing.

I dragged Little Blue over footprints and yanked enough when the roots were a stubborn catch; the moon rose higher and no longer etched the canopy's profile long before we reached the road where the fine sand was kinder to little blue's back which slid left to right mixing road-sand and ditch-grim into a pasty moonlit batter-trail leading up to the place I like. The moon sunk down into the canopy and highlighted the place I like, and that it was different from where I found little blue only by the road that went through it and the sitting stump next to that road.

When Little Blue woke up he was making sounds. Not crying, just sounds- and looking back and forth. No memory of me, what happened, where he was, why he hurt, the fact that he had no tongue, or even that he wasn't forming memories that could be highly relevant or even critical to his prolonged existence. He continued to do this and as his eyes moved and the sounds bended with the moving mouth-arm I could see him make the connections. He could see the pattern between things that were happening and his control over them.

"That's happiness you are feeling." Upon hearing my voice he started to cry.

The End

****

Possession: The Ultimate Pain

He sound scratchy wind, and ditch grit rub together. I have voice, voice little, far far wind, squeaky stump wood. He open mouth make sound little... drop. Drop and drop fall out face holes and goed everywhere, and face white like my moon sick and lines. Line pumpy, pump cuz he sound hard and dark-black like-holes-eyes. Eyes big and open. Stretch arm stretch at me... then stretch and little arm end at stick and road. He sound and big, so big it sit on other side the grey hills and come back. Quicker. It come back quicker. He make sound on stump most, but when he on road, and moving through the roots. The sound he make, make same and different. I know them. Some and I make sound I know, but he not hear, then I make sound he hear but wrong. Wrong sound make me want. I want right sound; but I can't. make me kick the ground and hit when not the right sound I want.

I like sound he make and I make. I like when they go sit in hill and come back. New. New and different, I want to make them go and come back, backward. He sound big and I get bad. Bad-excited, this is what I do not like. And hurt. Ouch he make and sometimes-big hurt with lots of sound. Or he hurt my moon. I do not like. I do not like so I try to do things to stop it, and when it work I try that first-next time.

"Blue." I look, "come" I make legs and arms move right way and I get close to him. Do you want me do a thing?

"Sweep, now." I take switch and move on road. Push, push ditch-grit off road-sand, push sticks off road sand. I doing it after sweep sound and then no hurt! This make good-excited. I look at him. That good?

"Yea." My moon is in up high and big and bright and round. This is what I like.

"That's a full moon." I move the arm in my mouth and try to make "full-moon" sound. It is wrong. The wind move canopy and road-sand and ditch-grit. I try to make the wind sound but it is wrong. He get off the stump and move close, he move closer to me. He head sit low, it sit like it on front of the neck or like neck on front of body but it not it, up up-on top like me. Body not straight like me either, it go on one side in the middle and it go on the other side, like stick, it bend like stick, and then go up to arm. One leg move fast and it easy stepping right but the other leg move and he side drop down, just a little, just a little drop, just a little bit. I think some piece missing to hold it up. He arm on side, missing piece side, folded up stuck together. Arm on side with all pieces move easy and only folded up. When he want it folded up.

Sometime I look at arm only. My arm can fold and unfold up and down in and out it fold. He arm look like they should unfold. All the time I want to move close to him and pull the folded one so it unfold, and bend body so it not all in cranky, so it straight.

"Before the moon is gone, you'll learn to talk." I know these and am bad-excited, kicking and kicking and look up at my moon.

"Look at the hill." Stretch straight arm.

I see them. I look at last one I see.

"See the last one you can see?"

yes

"That's not the last one, there are more lots more. Do you understand?"

yes

"They keep going and going and going, can you imagine that?"

yes

"They never stop, does that make sense? They never stop."

yes

"If they never stop they are infinite, they never end. Do you get that?"

yes

"Oh really?" Now he grab me hard. Harder; and I only see him see him face close. Teeth little rocks nubby all not together like mine. Lips come apart and pieces fall off. Cracky and drit; wet and drippy. Drippy from inside mouth out hole-in-cheeks and wet in part of missing face and wet from pushing-out pores. Hair all black flat wet down and dripping. Dripping on me and in my eyes, so I try turn and he is just bigger sound. He make me look again.

"So you get infinite? Do you have some infinity experience I don't know about? Have you a history of being endless in some way? You have an easy time grasping that the hills don't end?" He let me go.

I am relieved to be let go.

"I bet you are."

Why, you never see you like I see? I never see me like I see you.

"The moon is falling, you better get that talking idea soon or you may have some problems." Wait, I never see me like you see me. He start climbing up a tree.

In me I am stuck, I always see like this, this way I see is stuck to this me. I see my legs down, and my arms down and tail down but you see them in front. This is your body seeing them in front, seeing my body and the way you see is always stuck to you.

This is a bad and good excitement. Good excitement to be New. New and different so new, my body is a thing. Good, a thing that touchy things and moves and good the way I can see is not a thing, it not touch or move it is stuck to a thing that touchy and moves. Bad that he can not be a part of my thing, he not knowing how I see. Bad.

He climb up a tree "I'm climbing this tree, Blue."

You are climbing a tree.

He reach the top "I'm at the top."

You are at the top

"If you don't talk I'm going to hurt your moon."

I like my moon. I like my moon. If you hurt it I cannot stop you.

"You can stop me by talking."

I have no way to talk, I never talk before, I cannot completely understand talk.

"How is that any different than infinity?"

"You right. Look I talk. Nooo, nooo hurt my moon."

"Blue if it wasn't yours it wouldn't hurt." He pull on moon, pull it hard and harder it back rip and fall on dirt. In the road it sit bad, cracked, and dirty. I feel hurting and bad-excitement.

"It's called sadness." He climb down tree.

The End

****

I To Stop the Hurting

Everyday he is taller and blue, curious as the flies; buzzing around this "wonder-land" peeling apart dumb-shit. The land seems in a crash-halt with Blue hogging all the moving and single-handedly dragging the transition from a season where gaunt naked critters jump from their nest prematurely to a season where reluctant mature critters are nudged out, by using an endless array of ideas and dissertations that only a mind stuck in the backwoods, with no one to stop it, would spew, which is also my fault as many of the most unbearable ideas are about infinity.

"Destroy?"

"Yes."

This is how he starts his hills idea. Hills are infinite and they move so they will never ever be in the same place twice. There will always be new hills to be in the old hill's place at some time. But if you move fast enough some how that time will have to slow down so that you don't catch up with the hills.

"Stop." I get him to hold still. I hold still. Everything is still, completely and totally still.

"Did you just stop time?" Blue asks me, and then runs away to dig under whatever brush he was looking at before, with any luck there will be few moons where there is peace and quite. I sit on my stump with a few handfuls of the good stuff, and pack it in just right. First I meticulously fill all the slitty open skin flaps one-by-one, then rub a little around my bad arm with care- trying to work it through the skin-, but the stuff slides off and lands in spots like ripe old leaves after a rain, next I methodically plug my gut and back holes- making sure to get a good seal around the edge-, and then the rest is for moving past the teeth and gums to fill my bowels to get my head straight.

Blue comes back holding a little rock in his puffy white hand, presenting it to me. I'm usually able to read him like a picture book by letting my mind regress and crank up the value of worthless things, and pretty quickly what he wants is clear.

"You tell me what color it is."

"Naïve? No embarrassed. Ummm sad." I give him a little shove and turn away on the stump.

"Why don't you ever just say green? Why do you always mix colors with other stuff?"

"I feel a mix of cowardly, envy, and embarrassment." He says smiling, "I must be brown." It is his name, how can he get it wrong? He drops the green rock, it takes its time falling. Before it hits the ground he's run away to find some other treasure that he can come back and tell me is pure or evil or whatever he thinks white and black are.

"Sad! You are sad! Don't forget." Then just before he is out of ear shot, the rock hits the ground, turns into a long black cigarette holder and makes the sound

"PANTS." Now the heads of all the little naked critters have popped-up in their nests like it was some command.

"Yayyy." The cheers rain down as they start jumping one after another from their nests. I swat most of them off and keep'em clear of the good-stuff I just put on, but one stubborn critter will not let go of the zipper on my pants. I sit on my stump, put my face between my legs, and this little thing says,

"Only a whore drinks their grandmother's blood!"

"I would like to bite your head." I extend my little hand over my teeth and the critter takes a seat. I pull him in, and he lays his head between my molars and I pop his head.

"Yayyy." Now more critters than before come flying at me and I can hardly sit up on the stump. I spit out the body and call to Blue.

"Come here! We're go'en reflecting."

Walking down the road, we have to go the way of pins and needles to find a puddle with the least mud swirls. The road is plagued with spring water that comes right out of the ground to wave and ask how things have been on that side of the fence. Then it rolls back into the grit to fulfill its youthful desires, swirling with any dirt or mud that will let it. It is rare to find one that is old and wise, clear and reflective. It is best to find one that is young and stupid, so we do, and then we sit and watch it waste some energy, grow old, and become a mature puddle that we can clearly see ourselves in.

Usually we are the only ones here but today there is a bit of company. There is a military looking fellow, I would guess a general just by looking at his uniform, and he is carrying one of those little metal men by its genetically enlarged nose. Then on our other side is some dog-headed woman and her dog-headed child standing just staring at us, at me.

Despite the unwelcome company, I like these trips, even if the spring area gets hot around now, and the moonlight plays tricks, because Blue gets very quiet. He sits and looks at his reflection, or at my reflection, or just at the water. For a little while it is like he is not even there. He is so busy with this one stupid thing that it is like he is removed from where he is. He willingly leaves, but eventually though, he is bored and starts talking.

"Look, an old puddle, and we didn't even have to watch it."

"You're lying to me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're wrong" He is wrong, that is not a puddle, it is an optical illusion. Blue trots over to where he thinks the puddle is, and it disappears.

"It's gone."

"You told me it was there and now tell me it is not, you're lying to me-"

"No-"

"-and when you lie what do you have to do?"

"No, I'm not lying."

"Yes you are, now do it, Blue, do it, you lied." Blue looks at the others around us. "DO IT!" Obediently, Blue lies on his back and begins squirming. I march wide with deep footprints and lean over allowing some of the good stuff to fall on him.

"And what do you say?" Blue stops and looks over at the little metal man covered in dents.

"I am going to count to three, Blue. One! Two!" I pause between two and three, Blue tears up and continues to squirm on his back with some indignation.

"Yes and..." Then finally he begins sobbing, "Good."

I walk away and look over at the others. The Dog-heads just staring, and I seem to have given the general an idea, because he's pulled a little tool set from his pocket and is looking through it.

"I must have left it at home."

"You can cry all you want, I don't care," I say over Blue's crying.

I have told Blue about lies, about reason. I made sure he knows that anytime you use reason wrong, anytime you make it work wrong, it is a lie, it is the root of a lie. His sight told him a lie, and he told it to me.

"Let's go."

Walking the next few lengths of the road, Blue's mood was understandably subdued. This gave the seasons a chance to catch up, and with ease, a chill filled the grey hills and new air took the old's place. The roots and the trees grew fierce in anticipation, and huddled within themselves for safety from the conflict to come. Settling into place, Blue decided I wanted to know something he has to say.

"I didn't reflect in the puddle."

"I don't believe you."

"I thought deeply about having a dream where I was thinking deeply."

"How special."

"I met someone there, they're coming. They'll be at the stump when we get there."

What does that mean, 'they're coming'? Is that like a threat? Like when they get here something is going to happen? Who does he think he is? How long has this been going on? It's sickening and stupid. What if I just don't take him to the stump, then what? He has no idea how to get anywhere without me.

So what, I guess he doesn't- he feels above me. He thinks he is better, him and the rest of'em. They're so stupid. It was only inevitable that he suited up and bought into some crap, some self-righteous achievement, that he can milk for a little undeserved praise. It's pathetic. It's not hard. I could easily see him falling in rank with the rest of the toolbox bastards all shaking hands with subtle arm and shoulder patting to assert their bullshit dominance.

"Blue, you're not the first unwanted thing I've sent to 'the farm,' but you are the first one dumb enough to go running there all on your own."

The End

****

Ms. Candy-Joy

Sitting by the stump I saw a bunch'a plastic all wadded up and stuck together. I ran ahead of Destroy and over to it. It was bubbly, and cushy.

"Can I keep it?" Destroy limped over and started pulling the plastic apart, throwing it away and letting it blow off in the wind. Underneath all the plastic wrap was a chest that looked like it had two melted pyramids wearing a loose white blouse. Destroy just tossed it aside and went to sit on his stump.

Lifting the chest, I took a closer look. It was not bloody or hurt. It was just a chest. It was a chest wrapped in plastic waiting for me. I saw that pinned to the blouse was a little name tag that said,

"Hi I'm Ms. Candy-Joy."

Looking around I did not see any other pieces near the stump. There were not any on the road, and not in the ditch, but the wind was blowing very very hard, and very very cold. The trees shook and out of the branches fell something else wrapped in plastic. I ran to it, gathered it up, brought it back to the chest, and unwrapped it. Inside I found a foot wearing a leopard-print shoe with heels and a metal buckle.

Looking up in the trees I could see the wind blowing. Blowing bringing in more plastic packages with body parts. Some fell with a few critters clinging to them.

"These're MY wives," said an emaciated critter clinging to some of the bubble wrap. I causally brushed him aside and continued to unwrap the body of Ms. Candy-Joy. I gathered up all the packages as they fell, carefully unwrapped them, and set them all in their right place.

Then nothing happened. Her body was all-together, but it didn't move or talk or breathe. She had short, wet-looking pure colored hair that stuck down and curled once at each end, smart thick evil glasses over sad eyes, and long evil lashes. Her back was short and had an S shape with a little belly, which was pretty well hidden under her mixed-up blazer and its safe shoulder pads. Her legs were skinny and a little less short than her back, and it looked like part of her belly had been trapped below the belt of her matching mixed-up slacks.

"Get rid of that- wait." Destroy leaned over and started looking through all her pockets. Inside he found a glass jar of fire, which made him look faster until he found a slim pure cigarette case under her bra strap.

"For our anniversary," said the skinny naked critter, putting the long black cigarette holder in Ms. Candy-Joy's left hand, and then making out with the space between her wrinkly fingers and the red fake nails.

Standing on her leopard-print heels, Ms. Candy-Joy shook the critter off and adjusted her glasses. For her to come to life just the way she was in my deep thought-dream thought was great. It made me hold my hands, and bounce a little.

"The last piece," she said, gesturing to her cigarette holder. I ran over to her, wrapped my arms around her legs, and buried my head into the S part of her back. She didn't seem to notice or be bothered. Then she walked over to Destroy, who was holding her things.

"Need a-" Destroy was stopped by a quick slap across his face. Ms. Candy-Joy took the cigarette case, removed one, and stuck it into her holder. The case went back under her bra strap. Then she grabbed the jar of fire from Destroy, opened it, and poured it on his stump.

"You Fu-" another quick slap and Destroy had nothing to say about his stump. She was so strong, it was really fun, she was like my shield and I was invincible.

"Possession is the ultimate pain," I yelled with my head still buried in Ms. Candy-Joy's back, and then giggled hysterically.

"Shoehorn," said Ms. Candy–Joy, and lit her cigarette on the burning stump. I laughed and squealed, until I felt my eyes tear up. Then she took my left hand, turned me, and we walked away.

"Leave!" shouted Destroy with his sore cheeks and burning stump. As we got further and further away, I occasionally looked over my shoulder, enjoying the sight of him getting smaller each time, and eventually all I could see was the smoke rising from his stump and disappearing near the edge of the moon.

"From now on I'll shape your mind."

I nod.

"You'll eat with me at my table."

I nod.

"I'll see that you learn important things from the proper instructors."

I nod.

"I'll provide others with whom you will have close relationships."

I nod.

"You'll not have a relationship with anyone I don't like, especially not some such trash like that fellow I found you with."

I nod.

"At the right times I'll relinquish degrees of supervision."

I nod.

"In return I expect that you will respect and obey me over ALL others- here we are." We stop walking in front of a five by seven photograph of a house, in a golden frame, on a claw-foot vanity-dresser, wearing an evil top hat. Ms. Candy-Joy points in one of the windows of the picture of the house.

"Do you see the kitchen table in the window?" she asks me.

I shake my head no, and I truly can't see a table or a kitchen. It just looks like pure lacy curtains. I look at Ms. Candy-Joy who is still pointing at the window, but now she looks up and away, raising her pencil-drawn eyebrows together and inhaling slightly.

"I think that I see it, it's right there and we're in there too, we're eating at my table, I've cut up your meat and we're chatting about our day today. Right?"

I look back at the picture, much harder this time.

"Counsel, do you see all that?"

The top-hat bounced up and down.

"See, Counsel sees that, and what do you see in the upstairs window, Blue?"

I open my mouth but am too worried that I will say something wrong.

"My... you do need lessons, don't you? It is you and Counsel's bedroom; I'm tucking you both in for the night. You're both clean from your bath and I've set out some nice clean Pajamas. Right?"

I nod vigorously.

The End

****

Guttenberg

I open up the press and start to load in all the letters that will be in the first page of the leaflet. From the letter boxes, I pick up each carved wood-block letter in my right hand and pass it to my left hand, which settles it into its proper place on the grid. Each piece with the same earthen aroma like the smile of a friend who knows a secret we share, and oil-based ink scent like a down pillow cushioning the back of my head. The little round noise they make when they are set individually, and the crackling sound like a rowboat's oars in the water as my hand sifts through the letterbox.

"I'm so glad you could come in on your day off... You..." I say, opening the door to let my employee in. We are severely late on our orders, and everything about the interaction is already on my last nerve. The time it takes to undo the locks, each of the three bolts more stubborn than the last. The time we spend standing in the doorway before she realizes that she should probably come in, and the heat leaving the room while the door is open.

"I know I give you precious little time away from the press but I really just felt that we could use some girl-time. Please come in." We do not walk to get cracks, or look at fancy shapes, we are not handling any merry-time special extra, and our interest in hand-made crafts and journalism doesn't leave much room. We are in the shop and I am walking to the workroom. In light of these facts the term "girl-time" is a loose one.

"I'm so sorry, I was just finishing up these orders and it'll only take a minute."

Cue her offer to help finish the job, and my insistent opposition.

"No no no really you don't have to help, this is just how I am, you know."

"So how are you? Remind me, do you have children?" I say, counting all the L's.

This obsessive ritual stems from the fact that we have the fewest of this letter, and an irrational paranoia that it will not be enough. But it is more than that. Each line can and must have an even number of L's. If not I will add an L word. Also the total number of L's must be less than the sum total of all the numbers in the grid. 16, alright, I can listen again.

"My two boys are just doing fantastic. You've met them: Blue and Counsel." "Just the other day I received a stellar report from Counsel's instructor telling me how quickly he adapts patterns, really he seems ahead of his age, they may be looking for new curriculum to challenge him with."

I think she could tell I was counting the L's, I think I told her I do that. I'll show her that's not what I was doing by leaving three L's in this line. Reluctantly, like a fish in a cooler, I take out the L. My hand feels treacherous and ungrateful, but calmly and confidently it goes on to remove all the letters from that word. However, it seems my mind has really "set the dog on fire" this time and is clearly not going to let that happen. I got the L but I can't get the rest, I know it will be wrong, like it is unfinished. Hastily I get things ready for print, mount, spread, ink, my hands are full, I am committed...

"Could you just hand me that L, my hands are full and can't put the ink down once it's starter." So much for that. Either way she is starting to get the hint here. I try to collect my thoughts and continue with what I was saying.

"Oh so like I was saying. Yeah, Blue is doing well, he has not really made friends but he and Counsel have each other." I turn the crank to make the impression. Each letter in its right place, making an exact copy of itself the way a hairdresser wipes down a customer. The press' metal gears pushing one another with perfect control and synchronized coup-style response. Nearing the end of the impression, I can feel the slight difference in how even the letters are seated, and I make that fact that I am straining to get a perfectly even press very noticeable.

Cue offer to help.

"Oh, yes, please, if you could just tighten this for me, I never can get it snug with my bad wrists." They're not really that bad.

"The other day they were in here helping me, and they're just two of the most thoughtful youngsters. Counsel just came in to ask me how I was, and then he corrected Blue about the fact that there are more numbers than letters- really you know just his company- he doesn't have quite as much to say as Blue, but I hate to say this and I hope this doesn't mean I'm a bad person, but the things Counsel says just seem right."

"Blue's thoughts seem interesting, but they're just sort of off, it's like 'ehh I don't know.'" I flick the release switch on the letter locking mechanism, and get a chill in my spine. The tension leading up to that moment can be painful at times, but once the lock slides in place and there is that familiar click, it all sort of pours out.

"Oh I think I could squeeze one more plate in, here, let's both do it and then it'll get done twice as fast."

She obediently shuffles around to my side of the press, and we both get busy. She cleans the press and I prepare the next plate. Her dedicated working, wiping down the inside of the press-box with the top of her head. Bracing around the sturdy table-frame. She is fantastic, and does her work well- but watching her way, I want more for Counsel and Blue.

"This reminds me of just the other day. We were all sitting at the table, I had made this- or maybe it wasn't that day... doesn't matter. We were all sitting at the table and- we have this set of archeological beggars that sit out in the yard, and they move in the wind- they have this little- it is kind of a wiggle, almost like they are introducing a law, and Counsel, before- he sat down- he did this wiggle, and it was just too funny. I was laughing and we couldn't even hold a straight face long enough to start, it was just too funny." My employee's hair and face are covered in ink and she laughs politely.

"I guess you had to be there," I say, "but it's always something like that. You know-he is just very funny." I lean into the workbench and let her finish her task. My arms are tired and she seems energetic.

"I wish it were only those times... to be honest I got a letter from Blue's instructors, they feel he may need a more intensive lesson program, they say he needs the kind where he would always be on the grounds until he was completely taught." I can feel my voice being the middleman in a race; it shakes slightly as I speak. My employee has finished the cleaning sufficiently and I move to stand in front of the new plate.

"I feel like a terrible person because I know he is ashamed, and I try to make him feel better. I try to support him but the reality is that it is what it is. And he is inadequate and I guess I feel it's more appropriate to let the shame keep you out of the lime light than pretend everything is ok and then let him look foolish." Looking up from the floor I see my employee has started the new plate and is fitting letters into the grid, while both of my hands have started digging into the bench. My red nails don't claw in the way they would if I had just thrown a temper tantrum and pushed the old grandfather clock on its face, but rather like a dog that slipped out the front door, and now no one can find him, and it is getting dark.

"Oh shoot, I've totally lost track of how long we were doing this, and now we're half way through and I've got to go pick the boys up from their lessons."

Cue the offer to finish the job.

"Oh, no, this's totally my fault, this one is a waste, it's ruined, but that's my fault, I'll just have to swallow that mistake."

Proceed to awkward silence that only I have the authority to break.

"I just hope the customer'll understand."

Cue repeated offer with the justification of an open schedule even though the schedule is open because it is supposed to be a day off.

"Well if it is not too much trouble that would be a huge help."

"Sure I can finish this job."

"Ok, well, there is this one and one more, so if you can just finish up I'm sure I'll be back in time to help you with the last one, but if not just turn off the lights and make sure you lock up after you leave."

I gather my brown blazer with my glasses in the liner-pocket and slip out the door. The door is open and closed in a fraction of the time it took to let her in, its once drawn out screeching whine is more like blowing out birthday candles, and the heat that gets out couldn't cut a deck of cards.

"Thanks."

The End.

****

Intro to Lessons

In order for the system to work each one of the ignorant beings must behave as similarly as possible. When each ignorant being ignores what they, as an individual, desire, and act as a unified group, the system is able to function. In the past, all the ignorant beings were organized in a way which allowed each to have full sensory access to my operational procedure. When it was time for the ignorant beings to express individuality, it was done in a highly structured way that was limited to the manipulation of a specific sub-system. In the past, it had been an understandably unavoidable consequence that some ignorant beings found it difficult to adhere to the order of the system. When these dysfunctional individuals presented themselves, the entire system failed, the individual was then reassigned to a different system, and the rest of the ignorant beings proceeded to become less ignorant.

Recently there has been one such individual, with a common dysfunction that is among the most difficult to reassign. Ordinarily, when there is a dysfunction it is highly recognizable: we simply apply an aspect of the system in which the dysfunctional individual will clearly demonstrate the problem. For instance, I may issue a command that has a simple result but a very complicated series of steps, and without fail the dysfunctional beings will achieve a nearly identical result using the incorrect steps. Often they do not even know they have executed the command incorrectly.

Recently I decided to use the system to demonstrate how if two things are slippery they will slide over one another. To do this I have designed a subsystem in which all the ignorant beings are to close their eyes, join hands, and move their arms up and down for the entire duration of the lesson. For most of the ignorant beings, it becomes clear that they are the subject, as they know all the arms are moving and that their moving arms only know that they, as an individual, and the one arm they are connected to, are moving. Their arms are limited by their separation of mind and consciousness, and the ignorant beings begin to understand that any connection between the two permits the use of reason and limits knowledge. Their hands become sweaty, effectually slippery, and then proceed to slide over one another. However, when Blue's hand slides, he speaks out and says,

"When am I ever going to have to know this?"

In this moment the system is breaking down. The ignorant beings' hands each have a nearly identical design. The blocks that assemble the hand itself possess an internal machinery. The mechanical components move like a propeller, spinning in and along grooves that run like parallel saw tooth pipelines, pulling the ends of those lines closer to one another. Each line's tiny marching component brings the blocks in the hand closer, which then in turn pulls the appendages closer, resulting in a firm grip between hands. As Blue speaks out, the mechanical components are distracted and do not march. When they do not march they slide back and the grip loosens. When the grip loosens, the subsystem does not proceed to completion and the ignorant beings fail to understand reason and knowledge.

"Lesson over," I say. "Blue, do you have the letter I told you to get signed?"

"Which one?"

"The one that clearly states that you're inferior and that I'd like to arrange a humiliating meeting with you and Ms. Candy-Joy to discuss how worthless you are?"

"Yes."

The End

****

Seeking the Counsel Has Spoken

"If I had to guess," I say, spitting out lint, "I would say that our instructor wants to put you into a different program."

We open kitchen and bathroom cupboards to let the dinosaurs out into the yard, and Blue puts his face right up close into the grass so he can't see anything (his eyes are so big and black he could probably see very well at night). Elsewhere, Blue may have been known as an owl. Or a creep, depending on weather or not he learned to fly or drive a van.

"I guess it won't be so bad, I'm kinda sick of staring at this picture." Blue then stops looking at the grass and looks up at the sky, most likely for a little moon light.

"Umm, yeh?" I answer, "that seems positive." I never understand why he says things like that. If he would just look down a little (but not too far) he would see how great Ms. Candy-Joy's home is (and that there was an epic battle between a t-rex and a plesiosaurus). The Rex definitely had the size and muscle advantage, but in the water he was limited (either treading water, or slithering just on the surface like a snake). Snakes have always been a concern of mine, ever since I learned that sea serpents live in water and the stuff in the cups on Ms. Candy-Joy's table was water (which along with the meat she puts on our plates and cuts up is a mystery to both Blue and me). There are a lot of things that we do with her everyday (to take care of us) that seem to make no sense.

"I think you'll probably get into a program with lots of others that're dysfunctional; they'll have lessons that ye'll learn in complete isolation. I'd say that you may even make a friend," I say, changing the scented insert on the air freshener to something more like chum.

"Don't you ever feel like we're past this?" says Blue, stroking the side of the house with his pointer finger. This is like the last of the three things he does (besides talk to me). Oftentimes I just ignore him because I am doing something awesome, like watching dinosaurs, or building a house of cards, or dreaming up super elaborate storylines and relationships between miniature figures (which he tries to do with me sometimes). But I don't like the way he does it so most of the time I just flatly tell him to "go away." He will even work up some tears sometimes if I don't let him play.

"What? What'd you mean? No this's great?" I said, herding the plesiosaurus back in the cupboard and spinning my brim around on the outside door.

"I don't know, I guess not past but, like-"

"Can you lift the Dragon off the shelf for me, I'm not strong enough." Blue takes the dragon down off the shelf and has this totally perplexed expression he gets anytime someone asks him something about doing anything in the house (like tapping the bottom of the fish bowl). I heard that doing this gives aquatic animals heart attacks, and that fish are relaxed by classical music. So I play them soothing music on the violin and Blue taps the bottom of the tank (as a precautionary measure).

"I don't get what you mean. We have less supervision now, and we can take care of our own stuff if we want to, or not. What'd you want?"

The End

****

Parent Teacher Conference

Blue and I walk from our home to the elevator shaft at the end of the road. Above the doors is a sign that reads Exit, despite the fact that this is where we have to go in for Blue's lessons. The doors open, each sliding out to their respective sides, with a motion so smooth it could set up the pawns on a chessboard. We step inside and there is a stone spiral stair case leading to the bottom where the buttons are. I hold the railing in one hand and Blue in the other, feeling each step with one foot and shifting weight like chain linked iron shackles down the steps. Blue's steps are lighter in his feet and heavier in his neck, knowing that we would not be doing this if it were not his fault.

At the bottom, we push any button and the elevator doors open to a hall lined with lesson rooms. The floor is a green and green tile that claps when you walk, and sucks the heat out of your body right through your shoes, with a smell of electric humming. The doors in the hall are all labeled with the same floor number, except the door that Blue takes me to for the conference. This floor number is different; in fact, it is the only door with the correct floor number, as though all the other doors switched their number to play a trick on this one.

I open the conference room door to see Blue's instructor surrounded by a few dozen infants, small children, and adults, all sobbing loudly and holding cups of hot oil. The men and women would look at each other and put their hands on the walls and then cry quietly to themselves. The children were all looking through window frames, trying to feel for glass that wasn't there. Putting their hands up like mimes, they would fall straight through the frame, bumping into the windowsill, which would only cause them to turn even redder and cry louder in frustration. Laying on their backs and bellies, wrapped in blankets, were the babies, their cries more like a standing wave than any kind of involuntary communication.

"Thank you for coming today. I'm sorry that we have to meet in here, but it's the only available space," says Blue's instructor, whose name I can never remember.

I know her face and I always recognize her. She is the one who grew out of a display rack in a clothing supply store. Her head grew out of the right hand corner, and about half a dozen legs grew out of the sides at random. She always reminds me of a cape sprouting roots in the dark. I know, I know what her name is, but I am drawing a total blank, which might be part of the reason Blue is having so much trouble. It is my fault.

"I want to discuss certain issues surrounding the progress of the lesson for all of those less knowledgeable for which I'm charged with processing."

We take seats in front of her. Blue sits very slowly, he hesitates to even move. Then he looks down at the seat, and relaxes his shoulders. He bends halfway at the waist and then lets his knees drop him into place. Finally his head and eyes sag and rest on the floor.

"As you understand there've been some problems with the progress of certain lessons that I think we can solve here. I will not make the statement that Blue contributes nothing but dysfunction, but I think I have some facts I can share with you."

Turning around, she has a number of graphs and charts hanging from hooks on her rack. One is titled "Worth as a Being;" another is broken into percentage brackets where the Y-axis is titled "Stereotypical Category."

"In the system, we have ultra-generalized methods by which we can decisively assign value to individuals. As you can see, Blue falls into the category of which I can safely stereotype him and all the work he does as being either lazy, stupid, or insubordinate. I don't even really have to think about it, all I have to do is see his face and I already have an evaluation in mind."

She continues to talk, and one of the sobbing children from the window comes over and starts to point at parts of some of the graphs. The child's motions are decisive and more exact than knitting yarn. It is as though they have no concept of the feelings in her face and arms. I think I know what these people in this room are: they are haunted. This little girl's arms are haunted.

"My recommendation is that we isolate him from his family and his peers, and put him in a completely new environment with highly trained strangers and others like him who are just as terrified and alone."

That doesn't make sense; why would they be haunted?

"He should feel like he is losing everything that matters to him, which you and I both know is virtually nothing at this point. I think it'd be best if he also started to make the assumption that the only reason others care about him is because they're obligated to, but I can't guarantee that."

Blue's instructor laughs a little, and I smile politely. Her little laugh makes her neck fat ripple just the smallest bit, and only halfway up her neck. It is like the moisture from all the evaporated tears in the room have weighed down the fat in the top part of her neck and kept it from jiggling.

"In this new program, he will be uniquely challenged, and I will not make the statement that this program is so wishy-washy and arbitrary that it will insult his intelligence, but at first many individuals say, 'I don't think this's working for me.' That is what we call the adjustment period."

She turns around again, and hanging on the other side of her rack is a clipboard with a pen attached by scotch tape and a string.

"So if you'd just sign here, I'll take Blue now and we can start this process."

I look at the document and it isn't even complete sentences. None of the ideas in it are developed. It seems completely randomized; full of irrelevant tangents that are distracting, word choice that is unhelpful, as if the document is one long gag or gimmick- and it is not even that long, maybe two or three pages.

"I see you are in printing, aren't you?" says the instructor, reaching one of her non shoe-covered legs around to prop her head up. It was remarkable. The flexibility in this one leg made it seem like it either had two too many joints, or that her femur was made of pure rubber.

"So, this must look like gibberish. You are probably thinking, 'this is just bad writing,' right? See, this document is not like your conventionally pressed documents. You're used to indirectly experiencing something never before experienced, based on an assemblage of words you can relate other previous experiences to, right?"

My legs hardly bent at the knee.

"When you read this document, try to focus on reading it, not on past experience."

Holding the pen and the clipboard, I gave up trying to make sense of this crap. I didn't get the form, and the way she described the program was incredibly ambiguous. I am just trying to provide all the best for Blue, and if this turns out to be a bad thing, then that is all his instructor's fault; I did my best.

Lowering the clipboard I can see Blue looking at me. His eyes were completely flooded and the expression on his face was like all he had asked for was permission to stay up late and I had just set his last present on fire.

"Yes, I know this is all very hard, I completely understand. When I was less knowledgeable, I often felt the way you do right now," says Blue's instructor.

Amidst all the other emotion in the room I hadn't even noticed Blue had been crying. I am not even sure when he started, I could only tell when he buried his face in his knees on his seat.

"It's important to understand that you have brought this on yourself, and that you could've done more to prevent this from happening. Its only then that you can grow and learn to accept yourself."

She moved toward us and tried to signal that it was time for us to get up, but her body language was stunted.

"I want you to know that I truly care and that this is going to be even harder on me than it is for you, but if we can look at our flaws and recognize them, we can fix them and become wholely functional in this system. I promise you it will get better. I know because with all the hurt this puts me through I remain strong, and if you better yourself you will too."

She moves in closer to Blue, and sets her incredibly flexible leg around his shoulders as if to embrace him. It was an embrace for a childproof cabinet after the kids had grown, and one intended to be warm, but because of who she was, it could never do what it was supposed to. It was clammy and distant; sad, because she had the greatest intentions to shape his mind.

"Trust me, I know everything about this, it's my area of expertise."

Blue pulls away and retreats near the adults with their hands on the walls.

"How can you know everything about anything?" I ask.

Reminded that the other adults were in the room I could again hear their restrained emotion. They tried with every breath to hold in a great big sobbing sound, and would crinkled their faces up in a fireworks display way to keep a tear from falling.

"I see... Ms. Candy-Joy, this is exactly what I mean," she says, neck cocked, brow raised, and lips little and hard like a cobbler's hands. I get out of my seat and join Blue by the wall, unyielding in my focus on his instructor as a smoking grill.

"The way I see it, everything is connected; you can't know everything about one thing. Then you'd have to understand all the connections that effect that one thing, and how the other connected parts compliment one another in relation to one another. If you really know this one stupid thing you'd have to know everything."

I turn and put my hands on the sides of Blue's oblong head.

"Blue, I know you're mad, but I promise you someday you'll know everything there is to know about something common and simple, and then you'll understand."

The End

****

The New Program

I sat on a brown wooden bench in the hall. In this same room was another member of my program. He looked very nervous about today's lesson. I was also very nervous. He had thick, wide arms like whale fins, and his head came to a round point at the top. His eyes seemed to be on the back of his head, and his mouth in the front. He had two little ear holes and no neck. His body was a round ball with shoes. Overall, his body looked like a bowling pin.

"I'm Blue," I say. "Are you here because you're dysfunctional?"

"I'm Mim." he answered. "Yes, my memory is backwards."

"Oh, that's too bad, I just felt like I was past the normal lessons."

The lesson door opened and Mim walked in because it was his turn. The door shut and Mim was gone. The lesson door was on Mim's side of the hall and I couldn't see inside, so I had no idea what to expect. Our other lessons were really weird. They were supposed to make us exercise weird things. We had one lesson where we were supposed to understand eight things by the end: age, disease, sorrow, work, hatred, carnal desires, fearing, and worrying. We had to rate how well we understood them before, and then how well we understood them after. I rated them the same both times. It didn't make any sense to me. I was alone in a room, given some shapes on a table: some shapes were sounds and others were ideas. That was it. It was so dumb. That is not even the way things are; why make those things these shapes? I can think of a bunch better tools than shapes.

I had another lesson where I was supposed to know: enjoying, striving, and learning. For that exercise I had to put things inside boxes and wrap them in orange peels and paste. I liked the oranges because they still reminded me of a mix of cowardly and embarrassed, so I always thought of them as having little faces and being terrified in my hand and all embarrassed when I peeled them.

The lesson door opened and I stood up and walked over to the door. Just before I could walk through the door, a wave of neon multi-colored furry worms with one eye riding unicycles poured out. It knocked me on my tail and then moved down the hall and soaked into all the biggest cracks. One little bugger was left riding in a circle with no crack, so I gave him a good punt to teach him a lesson. Then I decided to try it again and this time I got in the door.

In the room there was nothing. Not even me. It was all white. I couldn't feel anything, or see anything. There was nothing to hear, I couldn't make any sounds. I couldn't tell if I was doing anything. I would try to spit and nothing would happen, and then I tried to pat my belly and I couldn't feel anything, I even tried biting my tail. It was like I wasn't even there.

I don't know how long I was there in but finished all the normal thoughts I do stuff gave trying up to, all I could think do was, and else without anything but thinking wild I had some thoughts. All the bodies are extended and moping is the longest... The towers have extra hard skeletons. Cake-toes on beard. The seat chameleon tag. A couch full of hate. T-t truths, Shouted the burn out, hoochies to fill, Offended off gone. That remember-nothing is-going know-everything to-happen-but.

The End

****

Mim

For days- no months, before Blue and I finished lessons- maybe even as far back as the day we were both in the white room, we both had some circling thoughts about today. I had cycled this scenario so many times that to do it now was almost a cathartic exercise in obsessive muscle memory. That and reminding myself that I had completed my lessons was about all I could do to not feel a little "in over my head," meeting Counsel and Ms. Candy-Joy. I had more or less broken my habits of fidgeting and starring at the ground, even at introductions when that was all I felt like doing. At times I envy how confident and bold Blue is. We were both pretty insecure when we entered the new program, but talking about the lessons afterwards, and- for Blue- the lessons themselves became- in my opinion- a foundation on which we built our identities. He seemed to develop so much self-assurance from his expert knowledge (though he enthusiastically denies knowing everything about anything). Now his stride is wide, posture tall, when he sits it is nearly always a-symmetric. I get the impression he loved to feel like he was moving forward, and for him the only thing worse than having to sit still is having no idea what is going to happen next. For me, the only thing worse is a direct confrontation.

We were on our way to tell Ms. Candy-Joy that Blue has had a calling, and that he would be leaving to pursue that calling. Blue says that there has always been this understanding that he was never allowed to leave. She would never stop him but if he did he would fall greatly from her graces, and be deemed ungrateful. He was convinced that this direct and inevitably confrontational meeting, in what she calls her kitchen, is the only way to escape the web of passive aggressive guilt. Which makes sense to me, considering the very first thing Blue told me about himself was that he felt past the normal lessons. I think he felt like he was past more than just the lessons, and if Ms. Candy-Joy has the needs that I suspect, there may be some social-dynamic consequences to this plan of Blue's.

It was strange, moving through a place I had heard about in bits and pieces. For starters, the moon was not nearly as impressive as Blue had made it out to be. Frankly, the whole area depressed me greatly. It was as though someone had sucked all of the comfort and warmth out of earth tones, and what remained was just the packaging. Seemingly endless grey hills, littered with black bark leafless trees, and an undeveloped dirt road winding through the middle. In the whole trip we passed one other traveler, a Mallard on an orange Yamaha motorcycle who stopped to ask which way to the tommy-gun farm, which he explained.

"I have to be prepared."

"For what?"

"Some Star just tried to make me a Daddy."

"It's just up the way of pins and needles."

"Maybe we should stop by there too; I had no idea that such a thing was common place in these parts. I should hate to suddenly find myself the father of some slutty Star's irresponsibility."

"Asshole."

The mallard road off, and we finished our journey. Standing next to the five-by-seven picture of a house was a black top hat and a wiry old lady who I assumed to be Ms. Candy-Joy.

"Hello, Ms. Candy-Joy; Counsel."

"Counsel is not feeling well."

"That is too bad... I was looking forward to meeting him."

"This is Mim, he is a friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you. Yes, Counsel has been ill just long enough for his absence to be reasonable, can't even get out of bed."

"Or off the dresser, as it were." Blue elbowed me, as apparently the house is not a subject for jokes. Blue suggested we move into the kitchen, and told her that we didn't really have a lot of time. So we all stared at the picture of a house and I let the two of them talk.

"Not a lot of time? But you just got here."

"Yes, that's what I wanted to talk about."

"And you're finished with lessons, you have nowhere to go."

"That's just it. I do."

"Oh, you have something to do! I was worried that there was nothing around here. Good job, good job. This area is really pretty great, and if for some reason you don't like what you are doing, you can always come help me at the press. Counsel is there for nearly every other job; he worked himself much too hard recently, and I suspect that is why he is sick."

Blue opened his mouth and closed it. Opened and closed it. He was failing miserably at getting a word in edge-wise. So I decided to jump in.

"Is this a corner?!"

"Why, yes, I'm so glad you noticed, I put that there this morning."

"Ms. Candy-Joy, I want you to know I appreciate what you've done for me."

"That is sweet of you. And I bet you don't even remember half of it. You met me in your thought dream deep thought, and told me about that terrible fellow. I knew I had to do something, I marched right up to him with my fist and told him exactly what I thought. I said, "I'm taking him, so you can't hurt him anymore." And when he tried to say something I just slapped him across the face. D'you remember that?"

"I remember being happy to leave."

"Yes, I'll never forget your face when I marched right up to him an-"

"Ms. Candy-Joy, I'm not staying here."

"... Really, where're you going to go?"

"Well, Mim has a place where he is from, there are lots of others who are severely dysfunctional. Half the time they can't even talk or move, and I think considering Mim and I are both a little dysfunctional, and with the lessons Mim and I've had, we could really help them."

Ms. Candy-Joy's face was limp and her eyes made little darting motions. She started tapping her folded fingers on the backs of her hands.

"Isn't there something like that around here?"

"I could kind of do this back in the program I was in, working with others who had not completed their lessons; but it's not the same."

"Ok, I just don't understand."

"What?"

"Why would you want to do that? It's like what? It just seems if you want to be actually doing something, you should do it for those who care about you."

"Mim and I had a lesson once, we were put into the all white room. It's hard to describe. It was like we didn't exist. We could do things but there were no consequences. It was impossible to tell if any progress was being made, if anything was changing-"

"If we were changing."

"Yes, thank you, Mim , that too. It just made me realize that there is more out there than my consciousness stuck to my body, but that the way I am now I can change, I can help others change, we can help each other and progress, and if I'm ever stuck like I was in that white room... the amount that can change is very, very little."

Ms. Candy-Joy was mostly looking down. It was impossible to tell if she was even really listening, she just seemed to be in her own head. It was like she had heard what she wanted, made her decision, and the rest could settle on her skin so that she could politely reply.

"What makes you think you are going to go anywhere, why wouldn't you just stay here and do your changing?"

"What do you mean?"

"What makes you think you'll at some point be somewhere like this white room?"

"Because it exists, ma'm."

No response, at all. It was like I was invisible. She obviously had no intention of acknowledging anything I did, so I might as well do nothing. I had had about enough of this childish interaction. It made me uneasy and frustrated. It was so thinly veiled. She needed to be needed, and if Blue didn't need her it was some kind of personal rejection or abandonment.

"We have to leave. Mim has a friend of his for me to meet about travel."

"Well, ok, goodbye."

"Tell Counsel I said hello, and I hope he gets better."

"Will."

"Ok, bye."

"I love you."

Ms. Candy-Joy focused on a different part of the kitchen, and we turned around and walked away from the picture back the way we came.

"I think that went well."

"Why does she have to be like that?"

"All things considered, I think she is the best she can be."

"Why couldn't she just say, 'I'm glad you have found something you really care about, it is what I always wanted for you, I wish you the best of luck'?"

We started walking back to the elevator shaft. That is where I told Blue we were going to meet Apriori. She is a card and I thought Blue might get a kick out of her. She has a few neat skills she learned in her lessons that I though Blue would appreciate. I met her back home and we both went to the same lessons program. After I was found to be dysfunctional, I was put into a program for the severely dysfunctional, but it was a bit overkill, and once the instructors had devised a system for me to remember something besides the future, I was transferred to the new program where I met Blue. Apriori was fascinated by the way I could see about as far into future as she could remember her past, and that it would come to me in pieces that had a relatively subjective order until they happened.

"Stop."

"Why?"

"I have a surprise; we're not meeting Apriori at the shaft."

"Oh?"

"Nope, check this out."

I turned my jacket pockets inside out and there was a little string in each of their linings. I started to pull them and make a pile of string. The threads began to wrap around themselves and bundle. The fibers connected and pulled the rest of jacket apart in its own dust devil of sorts. Once my jacket was completely demolished the pile of fabric churned and quickly took a female form, a bit like a mermaid made of string, that was always kind of collecting dust.

"There she is."

"Mim, how're you?"

"Fine, and you are beautiful, this is Blue."

"How do you do?"

"I named my wooden bench with a carved face 'The Master'."

"That's fantastic."

"So, Apriori what do you do?"

"I get down to it. I'm the one who serves a function, I look however you picture me, I move things along, you want to ask me about my history let me summarize it in two words: 'This conversation'."

I couldn't help but laugh, realizing that this was both a joke and the truth. Blue got the humor, we all laughed a little, and then Blue decided to let me do the talking."Apriori has a unique way to travel."

"I also have a unique way to teach."

"Oh, yes, Blue, you're going to enjoy this, if you please, tell him."

"I'm going to merge our consciousnesses, and you will be able to gain some of my experiences. I'll give you the one that will let us travel back to our home, and in return ye'll give me two black jellybeans. Also you don't have a choice."

Apriori unwound her body and began to force her threads through all our head orifices and occupy the insides. Soon her figure was gone and we were curled up in the fetal position wearing sweaters on the inside.

Then we shrunk, or the world shrunk. We moved past the dirt, and the pieces that make the dirt, the energy that holds those pieces together, the parts that make that energy, and the force that keeps those parts in motion, the parts that make motion, and the energy that holds those parts together, the parts that make that energy, and as we pass through each wave, the alien, unfamiliar colors and movements would periodically permit something that looked vaguely familiar. We seemed to pass through waves that look like places near my home many times, waves that looked like the dark dream world, and waves that looked like the white room, waves that look like the grey hills, mostly waves that I couldn't make sense of, and finally we stopped in the living room of my flat.

The End

****

Introduction

Both the introduction and the commentary are designed to present The Flats as a domicile and as a base of operation, and make appropriate references as well as introduce the reader to a range of historical approaches to The Flats. They discuss the history and the reception of The Flats within the culture and the scholarship and beyond, investigating the interdependency of The Flats and the surrounding 'culture flat' both at the time of its original establishment and during its long and rich afterlife.

This introduction will begin with the implications of the contemporary statements just mentioned. After considering The Flats' mixed messages about its genre, I shall look at the numerous elements of the collaboration: not only the creators themselves but their historical contexts. Complex as the collaboration process was, the end product can be discussed as coherent- not in spite of, but because of, the circumstances of its production.

Provided care for the dysfunctional commenced sometime before or after the riot of angry plus sized models, as a result of the movement to provide more humane conditions and treatment of the dysfunctional, led by Shirly Jackson. During this time, the dysfunctional often wandered the countryside, in all seasons, hiding in plastic pipes with tape covering one end for shelter. Leading a nomadic existence, they would often show up in the turnstiles of the mausoleum water slide, many times during the middle of the night, asking for the body of a puppy. Others were kept in attics, cellars, or boxes reminiscent of their adult names, and were tended to by their overwhelmed families. Wealthy families could afford to send their inflicted off to the East where Flats had already been established, and the inflicted were most commonly recognized. A Smile called for the provision of the establishment of a Flat for the dysfunctional, and then, The Flat for the dysfunctional was authorized by the legislature. Soon afterwards, a site was secured in the dark dream world, but because of the slow appropriation of funds for the main building, and set-backs due to a fire, The Flat did not open for the receiving of patients until after the Locust Holocaust, and the building was not completed as per the plans until long after errors were being systematically processed and integrated into a new tube of digestible sleeze.

In the time of the three chosen 12, an additional Flat was built, adjacent to the original main building and of similar design, the new becoming the mild department, and the former becoming the severe department.

To supplement the rapidly overcrowding Flat, the legislature established the new East-Flat for the dysfunctional before deliverymen brought and aliens stole the Internet (renamed before it even opened to the East-Flat), to be located in an Eastern area near the growing population center, where many patients where coming from. Members for a Board of Cannibal Horses were selected, and after considering potential sites (which did not meet all of the requirements of the propositions), and at a different site (which had the advantage of parallel lines running both North/South and East/West, but was felt by the board as being too close in proximity to the West, the location of the Boss' "highly-functional," since it was a policy to keep the two separate), The Board of Cannibal Horses selected the site at the meat alcove known as the "care facility." This site had the advantages of good soil, a raised elevation that insured pleasant views, fresh air, and good drainage, wells would be able to supply ample fresh water, and it was adjacent to a parallel line.

The Duke of Fairmont, Superintendent of The Flat, supplied the ground plans for the new flat building, and architect Baby-seal-clubber (who was also the architect for the new Cap building), prepared the elevation and working drawings. Late in the summer, on a bay's beach, The Board of Cannibal Horses approved the plans , and bids for the construction of the new flat were called for.

A little while later, the East-Flat opened, receiving 121 mild and 100 severely dysfunctional patients from the other flat in the East. Total expenditures for the new Flat, including the cost of locating, and cost of land were 4. Soon, 306 patients had been received and, two new wings were added. One extending from the South end, and one from the North end of the main building in symmetry, each connected to the original building by a tower containing a tank with 8 senseless submerged arms, with an appropriation cost as before. The Wind provided the plans, and the design corresponded with the "Plan" and architectural details of the original building. The new wings would accommodate 75 patients.

The buildings, one for each degree of dysfunction, were authorized by the legislature and were completed within the year. They each had capacity for 75-80 patients, and were located behind the first transverse divisions of the South (mild) wing, and the North (severe) wing of the Easy-Flat building. Also, Mr. Shadow, Assistant Superintendent under Mr. Intensity at the East-Flat, resigned to accept superintendence of a new Northern Flat, which opened for the reception of patients. Forty-five patients were transferred from main East to North. (Designed by architect Titanticus, the plans of the North Flat also followed the "Plan", and was modeled after the East-Flat, however the wings were angled slightly forward at the first transverse divisions, and the third halls were rotated forward in true linear design, so that every patient could enjoy The Flat's commanding view of the West Arm of the Bay, and so that the building would fit the topography of the land.)

An ice famine during the time of the United Dairy Farmer's "Butter Babes" campaign, led to the first of two large ice houses built for the storage of ice in East-Flat. A training school for attendants was established, the first of its kind, and eighth in a row.

It was later reported that the hardest tar broke out of town with scissors, 50 acres known as the "ey" and "ey" parcels were added to the flat grounds. Also, during this year, a slaughterhouse was built, as per-requests of the icehouse that felt lonesome and wanted to experience true love. The slaughterhouse was built and as a dowry (which from the beginning) received special attention. As jealousy among the local livestock became an issue, thoroughbreds and registered stock replaced grade stock, resulting in an increased supply of stock related products, and the creation of a herd that became famous among breeders. Due to the fame, the farm was increased with the addition of a new light, plant, and laundry building. The center administration building to be converted into a congregate dining room, that opened with provision for 600 patients, with both severities eating together in the same room.

It was in the new laundry and dining room where Mim and Blue began doing something that the Rodeo Clowns doing things didn't want to have to do. Having no real experience doing anything, but wanting to start somewhere, Mim and Blue gladly did things no one else wanted to do until they were permitted to do things they wanted to.

The End

****

Key-C

Cushioning the holes in Menti's story, the Blue one is going to soft, and you can tell Menti complete clueless as to where the pads come from. Menti, not the worst kind in the East-Flat, the reason why they work on him and not a waste case like Pot-Stredy. No reason, almost none at all, Menti slips in and out of these fragment memories. He previously some hot shot, the world's eye look'en right on him, just waiting to see what came as his next idea. A hero for the world, now he starts one old idea, excited like the first time, coming in clear as a bell, no fade-out. In between those times, almost complete invisible. Now they try and prop pillows all over him, in his armpits, between his toes, "softening" the gone parts so they feel reasonable, so he doesn't lose his grip and fade away.

"That won't work. Your friend Tommy-Tippy-Cup tried that last time," I say.

"Tactical sensation is the primary difference, and there is no more broken sense. Arbitrations will take its place with a naked graceful sharpstand. And now that we are past the arbitrations, on to more important things such as the interaction."

Fading-out like a candle in a mason jar. Blue pushes pillows under his head. Foolish, real foolish these; wack-jobs the ones that should be disappearing, not us. We the only ones who even know anything. I don't know, I just don't like The Flat telling me how to do everything. If I gave them a chance I bet they would tell me how to shape the minds of my own, they already do it now, not The Flat per se but the one who put together The Flat put together the lesson program that make the stooge that make The Flat so their ideas make all the ideas of everyone who goes through the system of lesson. Why can't I do it all? Everyone should be given out their OWN lesson, LIFE lesson something that matter, that makes sense right? I so out of line? Do we need them? My mind works and it works pretty well without them! They trying to tell me how to shape the minds of my own, using fancy gibberish. Its all to put us on a leash. Not me! Not like that - shit. Shit I am fading a little, here they come, those smug tools.

"Get away Tippy-Cup. My own mind!"

"Key-C you need to calm down, you have your own mind, no one is controlling you, would you like to draw something, you would have total control."

"I'll draw me with my security and defense up you-" I fade out too much to make words.

"Key-C just because you don't know something doesn't mean you need to be afraid of it."

"I know it, I know exactly what you're doing!"

"No, Key-C you know what YOU would do if you were me, and because you can't be sure exactly what I'm doing, it scares you. We've been through this, we're not your enemy, we're trying our best to help you, remember your own, remember they brought you here, you trust them right?"

Reappearing, I don't know how long I gone but I back. And I did it this time. They stuck me in the central hall with Pot-Stredy and that arm aquarium. This punishment; they do it if I take "steps-backwards." Now I get to sit and watch him fade in and out about 20 times in one breath, the lost mind. He got no reason at all, completely removed. Seem like he spend more time how we don't change than he does in this room. Not that he change much either way. Oh great here it come I can't wait.

"Breaking on top BE tweeen the fingers they can't come with ua vbur qwhere are we going we will not tell them not serisly ok I see we are no any wherer NO you have to stay and never come back, things here are the air it is light me and the clouds and your saliva are staying YOU WILL NEVER BE ALLOWED here is it. Ok back."

Blue come in from the North wing and sets an empty chair in the room with us. Must be Menti.

"You just missed Potty-Mind."

"Key-C how are you today?"

"How are you? You mean that?" Wack-job, "Who are you? I mean that, who are you. Think it through."

Looking at the tank of arms, Blue just stand there and then looks at me. His answer I guess. I ask him this question, and he goes into this tank story. This tank has got eight senseless arms in it. All moving, and thinking. They sense somehow they sense things we don't. The arms know nothing. They just sense and respond, but the weird thing is they can't see, they can't hear, smell, taste, they can't even touch or feel no one knows the way they take things. No instead these wack-jobs look at these arms. The arms never do anything for no reason they are always reacting to something, and these wack-jobs think they understand this voo-doo. They think they can predict stuff based on this.

"You see how they move?" Blue asks me.

"Like a bunch or random nothing?"

"Exactly, it's a pattern too complicated to understand, it's describing everything we know but never sense."

"I think your crystal ball is broken."

All the arms stop. They don't spin or move they just hold still, like they heard something. Then they all point at Blue. This got him freaked too so he look away at the floor and when he look up at me I got my finger pointing at him too, just to mess with him.

"You!" I say in a booming voice. "You much better at the laundry, my pants never so opaque." That got to him, now he all pissy at me; a riot, I wish I could do it again. One rich riot!

"Key-C, Mim and I have some idea of what it is like, and we can help. But you need to give consent. Through our lessons, the ones Mim and I have designed. You will learn things about yourself. It is at least worth a-"

"The clown of the way town brought clear flowers from the well for the typing bee. It flys through finger tipps telling them the truth and a load of other tricka that Only it knows, IT buzzoos through and brings thought s to the documents of some and pretty music to the hands of others. The bee blows non stop on the legs breathing soul to the clock work that is rhyme and dance."

Sticking around for a while Potty doesn't start fade away. He must got something semi-coherent to brew. Blue reach under Potty's chair and extends the accordion-fold arm, up and around to the front. Then he expand the arm's hand into a sturdy bar to hang mechanical devices that move in a regular and consistent way. They think Potty needs to start with most basic of reason basics, if he can get time, then he can move on to other reasoning. Good luck with that.

"I don't need lesson, I got my lesson. It's called The Cause, you hea-"

"It has friends that break rules to take a body for a spin. They push its limits and see how fast it can go. In the end they ar allllll spun out. THey can't hold still long moving moving moving they get real-key mad when maid to sit still. Tuck them in and put them to bed. They don't want to go screaming and crying there is so much activity why do I need to sleep?"

Pointing with ease and confidence, I break it down for Blue.

"That's what you end up like if you bet on the wrong numbers." Me and my own, we know the right bet. We are devoted to the right bet. The Cause the only path to the truth, the real truth. Not the truth they try to sell you, to tell you The Cause equals no logic. It not about logic and reason. It about the truth. Their fancy arguments against it, their fear. Fear of what they think they know, their "progress." If you got something that works why progress? It already works! No The Cause and devotion to it, the only logic and reason I need, and anyone progressive enough to let The Cause into their life, really let it take hold, will tell you the same. If we just left to ourselves it would only be a matter of time before almost all of us dedicated and passionate about The Cause, and anyone who didn't follow it, see the action of The Cause first hand, THEY the ones vanishing.

"Key-C you're doing it again, remember your exerci-" Blue stops to gather some pillows to prop under Menti as he starts coming back. He juggles these two basket cases talking over one another.

"The interaction: The planes of spirit and mind intersect where matter interacts with energy (entropy). Among the many ways in which these two intersect is life and the extent to which that interaction interacts with the primary interaction of matter and energy is the experience of living and the perception of time."

"You go on with your "LIFE" I don't buy it. I'm here now and this is what I can touch I know this. I know the cause YOU don't know LIF-"

"They is much the bees don't know and can't understand so I tell them Ok just a little longer and then you will need to lie quiet and still. Already they are no listening, they move and flutter and strutter and splat on the floor too sleepy to think or move."

"Time which is a facet of the interaction, is thus subject to life's "perception." Perception being an exclusive interaction of time and life."

"YOU WILL BE MOCKED FOR THE CAUSE, BUT DO NOT FAULTER IN YOUR DEVOTION. IT IS THE CONVENIENCE OF THE CAUSE THAT IT IS INARGUABLY CORRECT AND RIGHTEOUS."

"Time continues without perception but is less relevant to the more grand and guiding facets of the interaction, of which there is an imperceptible number..."

"THIS IS A TEST."

"THe party rolls over them and they crash out mid step. They are so sweet my little bees, I will carry you off the dance floor and tuck you in for now. We will play again some other time."

The End

****

John

John was a dysfunctional patient in the southward at East-Flat. He had two legs of equal length, two arms of equal length, a torso, neck and a head a little wider and rounder than his neck. John had black hair and straight teeth. Disappearing for very long periods of time, John was unlike the other patients in that he would reappear outside The Flat, sometimes very far away. Most patients felt nothing they could describe while they were gone, but John always had a detailed account of other places he had been. It was because of this unique difference that I felt John's dysfunction was like mine in that it was actually an advantage.

"John, what does it feel like before your reason breaks down?" I ask him in the group dinning hall. I have found that if I informally bother the patients while they are trying to eat, they are too irritated to feel nervous or self-conscious. John looks at me in the same thoughtful way and then stands on the table. Reaching up to the ceiling, John pulls down one of the tin ceiling tiles and sits back at his table.

"Unreasonable." Then he folds the tile in half horizontally, unfolds it, rotates it to the next side and does the same thing.

"Blue, if you were to float, but everyone else was still walking, would you say that gravity was broken?" He then folds and unfolds the tile at the corners.

"I don't understand." John folds the ends of one horizontal crease into the middle of the adjacent crease. The result looks a little like a tent.

"Gravity is a rule your body has to follow, and to perceive things you need to be able to reason." He fold two of the corners on the same side up to the top of the tent, to make this side of the tent look like a diamond.

"When I disappear I don't know that I'm disappearing, or that I'm gone, or if I exist." The diamond gets the right and left corners folded in and the top folded down to make the diamond an upside-down house. "There is no "I" because there is no longer any function to a consciousness that will not use reason." And he flips the whole thing over.

"So you feel as though you have no purpose." John folds the remaining two corners of the tent into the adjacent horizontal crease to make a kite shape.

"I have a purpose." Then he folds the tips of the kit out to their respective sides and up, leaving the new sides of the kite touching. Finally he blows into one and the bottom inflated to make a poofy hexagon, with two extra corners sticking up.

"You just told me that sometimes you feel like you have no function." Then John hands me the product of all his meticulous paper folding.

"What's this?"

"That thing I just gave you has no function but it has a purpose. Someone else put it in my mind and now it is in your mind. It will exist forever in a mind somewhere, and so it is just as real as you."

"Or you, John."

"Do you ever wonder why you're the only one here?"

"John, I'm not the only one here, but every time you come back you do work with me."

"No, this place, I only ever talk to you."

"Would you like to talk to someone else?" I suggest. "Let's go talk to the Icehouse."

The Icehouse was an archaic wooden shack with empty shelves that once held ice in large quantities. The wood had warped and stained a blue-ish green, and seemed almost to limp on one side. It struggled at times even to embrace its Slaughterhouse, which, it confessed to me, had left an unsightly red stain on the Icehouse's conveyer belt. The ice that used to be distributed on the belt was long melted, and now it just turned with nothing on it.

"Icehouse, this is John, he would like to talk to you." We stand in the yard as The Icehouse continues turning, its conveyer belt flashing the red stain.

"Ok, Icehouse, there is no body here, so what is limiting reason, can you explain that?" The conveyer belt churns around its track, and over corroded wheels that roll with great protest (I always felt the wheels' demands to make the Icehouse a smoke-free environment to be unreasonable and rather spoiled).

"I think it must be the new stock. They're Colts and Clydesdales." The Icehouse uses some more energy, and belches a little puff of smoke from its engine and continues to turn the belt.

"Boooo!" protest the wheels.

"Is that so? Well can I talk to them?" asks John.

The Colts and the Clydesdales were in the Slaughterhouse yard, getting along very well. They were all sharing thick blankets, comparing their identical shoes, and dining on some of the previous stock, hoping to be eligible for a nomination to The Board (as this had been a regular tradition for nearly every generation of stock that had come into The Flat).

"You, horse!" John says. "Everything here is in perfect unity, it's already complete and eternal... somewhere. How am I here?" The Clydesdale responds but its speech is muffled through a mouth full of cannibal meat.

"Ehy are eeh why oh you pee Ehy are tee oh ef eye tee?"

"No I don't think so." That horse has become distracted since answering John's question, and has become certain that it just wants to go back in the barn. One of the Colts decides to follow up on the discussion and answer John's question.

"Tee ach oh es eeh ach eeh are eeh em you es tee see ach ehy en gee eeh." Before the Colt can elaborate any further it becomes distracted by some leaves blowing on the path next to it. Spooked, the horse refuses to do anything for a little while, then it too decides it is time to go back in the barn.

Then John turns to me.

"You really don't remember me, do you?"

Then End.

****

The Boss.

More than once, when there is light out, Blue and Mim come into my deluxe suite and ask me the questions that are probably identical- at least to start.

"Boss, what are your predictions for tomorrow?" asks Blue, seated cross-legged neatly, professional empowering his way.

"I'll learn something new about myself." I predict this, among all other things, because that is what their program does, it is all these two will ever produce; in a way, it is them. I don't think it helps me much, though.

"And what do you remember from yesterday?" Blue asks me, holding a clipboard, ultimate in authority, I get in anywhere and do terrible things with this power.  
"I'll learn something new about myself." That was what I did on another day, it will probably be the same the same program, again and again until it works.

"What are your expectations for right now?" Blue asks me. I have been stuck in this cage-bed too long, sore muscles, a shoulder I lean sleep on wrong, at. My. Desk? I don't even care anymore. This desk is a prison, or paper, and I will leave it in an alley.

"I'll learn something new about myself." Predicting is all I have, they feel like blocks in my hands I can stack, before memories of some day. They can stack up, not forward or back. I have to cut them loose or they will drag it all down..

"Now, Boss, can you explain to me how you remember things?" Mim asks me. I must have answered one of the questions in a way that would seem wrong. This inferiority set of words, that I'm second-guessed, are follow up questions.

"It's what has happened."

"Now are you just saying that because you predicted that you would get one of the questions wrong, or because you understand what you mean?" Mim asks me. Getting comfortable, on my desk, insolently shifting weight off one side of his rounded torso to the other. Settling in- into arms and cushion his fin-like limbs.

"I'm still slowly fading, aren't I?" The last time I was comfortable at this desk, I want a safe place that never ends. That was feeling I have with perfect recollection with which to relive in between sitting at a table in a dinning hall.

"Boss we need you to try to use what you learned about yourself to distinguish between memory, prediction, and present. Can you tell us what you learned?" Blue asks me. He sets his logbook-clipboard down, power-down, on our paper side. We go down a long way to touch a place to stop. A curve ball, I saw coming a in an instant I greet it with shark teeth to take it into a new motion, my motion.

"You're here again, you did this once already, but you didn't do it good enough, and now you have to do it again. That little voice in your head, the one that tells you right from wrong, that is you from before. You've been in that moment and made that choice enough times to know all the outcomes and so you remind you what the best decision is because you know what matters." I need this, this one is- objective thinker, a scientist of thought, my advice- solid rock. Now they will ask if I know what I am doing.

"See boss you're doing it again. Right? I know that this is very hard for you, because to predict you have to remember what you predicted and know when it is now in order for that to happen. Right?" Mim asks me. I need to get away from my desk, I have to meet with these are still the early stages, and I can come its an outpatient. Its fine.

"Yes."

"And what you just told me, that was a prediction, wasn't it. You thought that was the best answer to a question you were going to be asked, and answered based on what you thought the right instant was to use that answer, so now I need you to focus on the question I am asking you. It may take you a minute but you need to think a whole new answer right now. Ready?" Mim asks me. The bad news can hit so hard when it is all my fault but I am ready and when it does it will be over. I'm sick of the waste, their no point.

"What did you learn yesterday?"

Blue is on the left. Mim is on the right. I am in a bed, or a chair- a bed. It is still the first part of the session and there will be unnecessary sacrifices I do again and again.

"How about this: we will ask you a question, and I'll tell you now the answer is going to be from before you were Boss, ok?" Blue asks me. I had lost and move forward.

"Boss, how did you become so successful?"

"I could predict changes very far ahead of time."

"What kind of changes?" Mim asks me. There is no easy answer to these underqualified words, poorly constructed, a question; so I summarize it the way I have for years. And I am caught off guard, neck shocked, no one has asked me that before.

"Oh the kinds that're scary. And keep things from happening."

"So then what did you do?" Blue asks me. His system needs power. It needs power to serve its purpose, and grow. A benefit to all those involved and the only way to keep the system working is if adhered to a set of principles. Ones I knew ins and outs trick and moves, the way I learn how to touch better than anyone. Mine as I please.

"I would think about that scaryness before it happened so that when it did, it didn't stop me from doing things, I just kept doing them while everyone was stopped. That put me a step ahead."

"And that worked really well for you, right?" Mim asks me.

"Yes." Fading, lonely, and lost. A real, A prediction, what is happening not a memory. It doesn't seem to have a difference as long as I keep moving forward.

"And you got so good at predicting you could do it without thinking." Blue says to me. A marching band of ducklings holding miniature brass horns, batons, and wearing scale size hats and jackets in white with sparkly blue trim parades past the open door.

"I believe that nothing happens for a reason, but there is a reason that everything happens. If you remember one thing." Pointing at them the board the horses- at Blue.

"So, Boss. What did you learn yesterday?" Blue asks, leaning too close. My attention where it needs to be, I will justify this, and in his future of what he has done.

"You're going to ask Mim about the Arms pointing at you. You'll want to ask me because Mim won't remember far enough into the future to tell you anything relevant." Blue slumps back in his seat, hands at his brow massaging away frustration, his interest far from where I need it to be, escaping the net, my stick and drama net.

"But really it's because you aren't a part of each other's future." Now he is looking at Mim, now he is concerned and hurt; he will forget to think for a few seconds.

"Yes, I have this memory that we split off, the way we do things ends up taking us in different direction-" answers Mim, getting down, turning around so we see his eyes.  
"Or you have a falling out." I have a tube around my finger. I think it is on a needle in me maybe not. Maybe it is just a tube, or a person, it could be lonely, and lost.

"What did you learn yesterday?" Blue asks me. I'm a train, just the piston pumping the wheels on the train, and the rails go one way, a mountain. There is steam and washing down the cliff side, coal in a compartment, over the peak the brakes will hold a nice easy pace. Pushing a little further each time to get easier my sacrifice.

"This program, this new process you've worked out. I think it could help everyone; it could help those that aren't dysfunctional. I can make that happen, together we can help so many others change. And that's what really counts, right?" My end is their end and I am them now they are me the sea change will leave it all on its head from here on in.

"You'd do that for us?" Blue asks me.

"I would." There is a pit I make for a big fat king, the bait is his crown. "I really like this product I think it could really do well."

"What?" Mim asks me. He is not comfortable. Not sitting in a chair with a log book, and only holding the part of a gear that doesn't matter. He is stone-sword with will and resting that accomplishes the lesser half of what I do while I am moving forward.

"Well the only way you can make this happen is if you can generate interest in this, and after the first few go through your process they'll be so clearly changed and improved, everyone will want it. But to get it to everyone you will need a lot of power."

"We run the process now without power." Mim says. He has a shield and a bat but I will tuck him in folders in the back of my desk, it is covered with papers like him.

"Oh yes you do. That is all the power of The Flat. But to put this outside these walls, you'll have to make each patient who goes through the process give you a little teeny tiny bit of power over them."

I make sure they are covered with dirt, so that the quiet war of wills has seeds to harvest in the fall. I am a farmer with two crops, one that has cream and another that is feed for feeding on. If the empire is a place for the noble lost, it was one I never left.

"Boss, what did you learn yesterday?" Asks Mim.

"Start predicting, Blue!" "The sooner you take care of that mourning and the sooner you finish grieving the better off you will be." All the lose. That is what will stop me. It will keep me in the ground and convince me of what this child knew in the woods looking at the moon, and before entering a white room. Slowing any movement forward. I am- he will be stopped by this am just borrowed time, a notion like sneaky trip stick.

"Boss, what did you learn yesterday!" Asks Mim.

"I'm sorry, am I frustrating you? I must have disrupted your fantasy. See, you have this fantasy of how you want me to act, what you want me to say. And as long as I'm presented with opportunity to fulfill that fantasy, and I don't give you that validation, the more invested you become. Eventually you'll want me to do what you want me to do so badly that I can make you sit through hours and hours of shit you don't care about, rudely shoving ideas down your throat!"

HAMMERing Blue's knee so it is not straight, my cane, bed, desk-fist what will be this time, the best I tell myself. It does not walk without remembering every step that I can do what he wants me to do.

"What you need to understand is, you are frustrated because you are in MY fantasy, and it is going the way I want it to."

The End

****

DD

I done finally got them two Hans out the flat for a lee10 bra time. They got here a while back'n all they does is work. Work and talk talk talk like tea-hoe queen-As, spend'en all theys time in'da loginhat. I wanted'a show'em a lee10 fun soes we pile all in ma bill and I drove them around.

"We gonna have a bra time tonight!" I say slapping Blew-ah's leg. "YEAAAA" I scream out the side at pedestrians. They showed up an I guess Mim-o used to So-ver in the flat before I got my stay, soes when they shoewed up it seemed right to give him a lee10 living space in the old loginhat.

"You hans want a good dricker? I ain't had one in, since dis morning," I say, laughing slapping Mim-o in the back.

"What is it?" Blew-ah asks hangen on to ma bill, like I'm bout ta fly outa control inda some poor Morpher cross'en da street. I stop my bill right in front of Alti-ma.

"This here's the best place to get yer dricker, they got a real sweet kick."

I lead these two hans like lee10 poycars, they faces. They look'en like they ain't never teater noth'en. Inside s'all the ropes'n piles of Matt to put in your mouth and hangen off the ceiling funnels'a the best dricker round. I grab a funnel, slide it over ta a pile's'a ropes, an have a seat. The two hans sit down next ta me an teetered all the other good-old boys haven a dricker-drick.

"Do this poycars." An I pour somes a the dricker round'in my mouth and give it the a stole patewy on the floor. Next Blew-ah do the same but after he dun give it the patewy he cough like a do-a-licked morpher. Then him eyes got all stole an he turned'a little greyown round da gills.

"Yeahhh!" I says. "here eighter on dis a lee10 at'l give yah back a lil a yer culer." An I peel a lee10 bit of matt of the floor an put it in his mouth. Hes culer commed back and he was up straight as a board.

"Aww mim you've gotta try this! This matt is great, I've never put anything in my mouth and chewed it. This is amazing!" Blew-ah says shoveling a lee10 more in.

"Yall gonna have ta give it the patewy once yous run outa room." I says put'en a lee10 more dricker on top a the matt in Blew-ah's mouth, but then Mim-o turned round so we could see hes eyes and we both petewy petewy petewy all a what we got on the floor laugh'en so hard. Seen Mim-o got a look like he had some a da driker too and was a bit too bra.

"Mim, you've got like six pupils," says Blew-ah poycar getting out a bra laugh. Poor Mim-o couldn't even make no words, he just all patewy with no dricker or eighter just hims patewy. That was a bra one.

"Say you poycars purdy bra wid dricker and eighter, how about we go someplace an have some fun wid'em ears?" I'm talk'en bout da pool, take da poycars for a lee10 simmer. Soes I get'em stand'en an walken an we out the door almost back ta ma bill when these Hive kind, stop us an start in wid all their higher purpose an shared mind junk, an we don wanna hear dat now it's a bra night they needa get lost.

"A whay mind? Blew-ah asks'em

"hesaidwim, wimind. Ertwo islike like," says Mim-o an theys both start hangen off each other laughen like lee10 flickers.

"We are part of a bigger purpose. If you want to share our mind we would be happy to see your thoughts and if you like you can see ours." These Hive Kind all looks the same like. They gots different bodys an what-not, but ya can spot'em away off. They always got some six'er more together'n they all wear'en fancy dress up cloths, monocles and bowl'em hats, wigs, an big butt dresses.

"Perhaps an individual of your stature would be interested."

"Ma Statur?" Now um mad. "Look pal, I may be up ta yur knee, you maybe think'en I should have a suit roc over ma grey fur an neked tail, but these pin teeth don need no greater purpus, an as for those two they got they purpus up at that there Easter-Flatt. Soes you an your toopa Morphers and Farmers can talk do-a-licked with summon elses." Wes pile in ma bill and head out for the pool, sees if'n I can make this night stay bra.

"Come to us when you are ready!" the Hive Kind call. I give them a lee10 patewy on da ground as my bill passen by. The poycars don't seemda mind much a nothen still. Must still be feeling the eighter an dricker pretty good, this simmer is gonna be a good one.

"Ya you poycars don wan nuthin ta do wid them Hive Kind. I don- I just don like'em. They just dumb. And arrogant arrogant and ignorant. They say they got some purpus. I says ta them every time 'you purpus is what hold'en you down' s'all it is. Is a way to hold'em down. I don need that, shit I got nuf hold'en me down." Blew-ah might be listening but Mim-O look like he just happy to hear some sounds.

"We should help them then. I don't want them to be held down, that's bad." Says Blew-ah.

"Na I tell you what they need, is to get lost. They got this whole mine sets, born to be slavery to being basic. Is basic to keep yourself down, think'en it best for everyone be even an such. But if we ALL stay'en down we don't never be the best we can. It is just a slave mine maken a slave feel bra about worken for nothen an getting nowhere. This taken care a others is the best thing idea."

"Well, it is."

"No it aint," I says stoppen next to da pool. "Look at me Blew-ah, we are beings above that. We don need ta be that way, thos'who be basic in mine they already do that, ok , it's done. I say we need da let go'a that basic idea that basic thing. If we could let go'en just get rida all the fat, we'd be much better off I'm tell'en you we'd get somewhere. Now get out you're gonna like this."

"Ok, I guess that's right."

I take'em up to da pool, this thing spinn'en on a stole wall in some dark ally. It shinen all swart like a crow. I hold tight to a gripper bar in front an stick ma head in. Blew-ah does that same an Mim-o is stuck in da bill, probly fur da best, if yer not careful this thing'l swallow yup an there no comm'en back.

"Wow," says Blew-ah pull'en his head out. This is the most beautiful thing've ever heard." Then I gets this great idea from what he said.

"Yea, is not do-a-licked at all real bra." I say. "Blew-ah, wanna have some real fun?" I lead han back into ma bill, an explain that the pool needs us da share it. So we drive back to Alti-ma. Blew-ah try'en to make some sounds he heard in the pool for Mim-O who seem da be gett'en he head back enough da move right. I move, I move fast, thisa gonna be bra, a night da remember, a night that needs da be more nights. A night-

"Hey You HIVE KIND I got some work for you wanna hop in da back?" Cautiously the Hive Kind get in the back'a ma bill. They steppen carful not to break a heel or slouch. They can't refuse an offer da join up, they just can't.

"Hey, hey what are we doin?" Blew-ah asks look'en in the back at the six Hive Kind I got in the back, like he don know where is goin. I tell the two poycars ta do what I do, I showed'em a bra night so far but this gonna be da best part.

I stop at da pool an pull one a them Hive Kind out an give him a good wack on the head. He fall'en to the ground an jus like a Hive Kind so do the rest. They all rattled da same, same'en da head. I give the morpher a good kick in the jaw an a lee10 Rayowed fills-in his mouth. I sit on top a him an dish a few bra blows, break'en that monical, an given him some of da swart an blew-ah spots. Then I look over an there's Mim-O try'en ta do the same, but it looks more like he given'em a massage wid them big-ol fins than a bra beaten.

"Look, shadows," says Mim-O pointing down the alley across the way at two shadows covered in filth. I leap on the face of some Farmer an she falls to the ground. I push into her face wid my claws rubb'en em in to hard. Push's my lee10 needle teeth in her face and pullen them back out, make'en some Svart-spots on her too. I gives her a few stole kicks in the dress and she starts look'en real do-a-licked, I take her parasal and wacky wack wack, she cough up lots of Hive Kind Rayowed.

"Is this really happening?" Blew-ah asks. Stepping out a da bill. They really is all look'en purdy do-a-lick, so I thinking it's time to give'em the old patewy in the pool.

I chuck da first Hive Kind in and then just like a Hive Kind they all get sucked in. Gone. It feel so good, natural, right, like it balanced.

"I feel'en, feel'en real alive," I says.

"What? What are you talking about where does that pool go? Does it go anywhere? Are they just somewhere, not changing?"

"Forget about them, they are just some old morphers. Dozens more like'em." We get back in ma bill an I swears I'm never doin nothing w'Blew-ah again. The lee10 flicker wouldn't shut up about choices an how all they done was lose reason wid da dricker an eighter. Telling me how do-a-licked it is to feel alive, an how all the truth I's sayen about the Hive Kind was just to make me feel ok wid lik'en to feel alive, blah blah blah.

The End

****

Topo

Mim and his friend Blue sat and looked at my food. Blue looked at my food and it is hard to say what Mim looked at. If his eyes were not on the back of his head he would probably would have looked at his hands. Looked at his fins- his finger fins. I would look at my paws if I were as uncomfortable as they look right now, maybe I would run my claws through my mane, something anxious like that. They looked like they were witnessing an execution more than cutting up food. Blue looked that way, but Mim looked like he was awkward because he could tell how awkward Blue was being.

Blue and Mim sat and looked at my food while I cut it up and served each of them a piece. At first Blue didn't even take it, he just looked at me like I was handing it to some fellow behind him. He really didn't want it. I don't get being so uptight about food. Food has this perception that it is a high-speed crash-land. Mim took the food and thanked me, but he always did. Before he and I took different lessons, really before he was a patient in East-Flat, he and I would sit here in my kitchen and chew some food and talk about all sorts of things. He and I felt the same but not the same about many things. He felt that you had to be trying, you know, like something you do matters. He wanted to really change things. I told him you always change things if you want to or not. You can't not change, and be changed, and the sooner you accept that the sooner you realize you can't "take" your place in things, because it already took you.

The two of them looked at the food I gave them and took little bites. Their bites were the kind you take when you are trying the food off someone else's plate, the food they are eating and you just want a taste. "So Mim was telling me some stuff about the lessons you guys had in your program, sounds totally far out." I really get that white room lesson. I told them that, and this: You don't really need a lesson for that, I mean if you think about it, it's kinda something you already know. We all had a little food in our mouths and we chewed it a little bit. I stopped talking because I hate the way it looks to see food in someone else's mouth, it is so amateur. But Blue launched-in with his mouth full and said they were making something based on that lesson up at the East-Flat.

We all had food, and we chewed it and so we spit it out in our spit-dish. This part is always so undignified. I have tried pulling it out of my mouth with a utensil, putting the dish right up to my mouth, even putting it in a little piece of fabric. There is just no good way to do it. "I don't think those patients they work with are dysfunctional, they are just functioning different," I told them. If we all learned to accept them instead of putting them in a little box to "fix" them then they would learn new things about themselves naturally. I told them that, and that I thought that's the best way. They didn't have much to say to that. They were sensitive about it, it was like I was talking about a lost friend or a sick pet; a traumatic memory. A lost friend, sick pet, and a traumatic memory. It is weird how if you have a group of things with some intrinsic value then the thing that they all share in common also has some significance. I told them that, that last idea I had, and they agreed. Mim thought it was the other way around, which I am pretty sure is irrelevant, the order that is, not what Mim thought.

Mim and his friend Blue sat in my kitchen and looked at my food. Blue asked me what I did. I do anything that doesn't seem to have a functional purpose. I could tell this guy didn't like me now. He was moving his head just a tiny bit, tilting it really. His eyebrows were bewildered like something of infantile intelligence looking at a shiny object. It is the most natural, I said, we don't naturally have some function, we exist and change. That is a purpose in itself, trying to be free and continue existing, and so by doing anything I am changing things, so as long as I do things that have no function I am following a natural purpose. "So you do a bunch of things that make no difference so that you can change some small amount." "Well yeah, we are only supposed to change a small amount." "I think that small amount is just the minimum change, just by being here, if you are not here, like the white room lesson- someplace you can't change, you are stuck that way, and so what I'm saying is that we need to try to change as much as possible while we can." "Look, never mind, this is dumb, can we just stop talking about this?"

We were not chewing food so much anymore, I felt bad like I made them feel bad, and so I tried to impress them by showing them a table I made. It has a bunch of balls on it, and a game you can play where you knock them all on the floor. I knocked them all on the floor and they were not impressed. Blue told me that he had a patient I might like to talk to. His name was John. This was crazy to me, not crazy, really, very unexpected, though, shocking- no, coincidental. I felt like there was a circle or something, like my thoughts had reached so far forward that their hands were on my shoulder. John gave me the idea to be naturally guided. His idea that we can dip into this immortal mind by expressing it and sharing it. I didn't know he was in the East-Flat.

The End

****

Ruffee Her Drink with Vitamins

Me and my girl we went for a walk, we walked around, we went places that's what we did we walked around and looked at the things we saw. Just a normal walk that happy couples do we walked to a store but it was closed so we went to the next store and looked inside at the things that were in there. They were old and interesting, we looked at the things in the back that was all we did in the back was look at things, I saw a beast with three heads, the heads were like eels they were eel heads. The little head needed some glasses, he couldn't see the words in the back of the store so I petted him on the head that's all I did I gave him a little pat pat on the top of his head.

"I'll get you some glasses," I said and so me and my girl we went back to the other store, the one that was closed. It should have some glasses to buy, but it was still closed, so we went into the pet store, they had some tanks of water. Each one was like a picture that moved. We went from tank to tank and there were a bunch of feathers in the one tank the feathers looked like they wanted someone to make them happy so I bought them and we took them back to our place, to treat them good and make them happy. We took them home locked the door and made them happy that's all we did, we did things to make them happy.

"We still need to buy the glasses," my girl tells me so I tell her to stay here and keep the feathers happy so she doesn't have to walk I don't want her to walk and be tired I want her to be happy so I tell her to sit and stay but she doesn't want to sit and stay she wants to buy the glasses. But I know her and she needs to stay so I leave her there and lock the door and I go to the store. I walk and I walk and I get to the store. I go in the store and there is a young skirt at the store who looks lonely and like she might want to talk, I talk to the skirt that's all I do I just talk to her, we talk nicely about the way things look outside of the store and the way things look at other stores and that is all I do I talk. Then I ask to buy some glasses, some nice normal reading glasses, she shows me the glasses and they look like they could fit on an eel head, so I buy them that's all I do I buy them.

I go back to the store with the old things, I go in the back but the three headed beast is gone I can't find him at all. I look in the back and under the old things and around the interesting things but they're gone, so I go up to the front of the store and find that it is run by a pile of sleepy saplings. I ask them if they are sleepy and they say that they are, they are sleepy they need to go to bed they are just tired and need to go to bed. So I make them a bed out of some of the bed things in the store and I tuck them in right behind the counter that is all I do I tuck the saplings in I tuck them in and tell them a little story and give them a pat on the head, that is what I do I pat them on the head.

"The Eels _do_ go to the races," said the saplings before I leave. They tell me where to go to find the eels so that's where I go I go to the races. They're not too far at all they are not far away so I get there and I can see the races. It's been a long time since I have been here and it is great to see. I like the way this looks it has all the runners in a row and then they run, it is exciting to see them run that way. I decide that my girl would like to see this. So I walk home and I get her, I unlock the door and I tell her to get her things, because we are going to the races, I think she will like it there. She tells me that she is busy churning a tidal wave to bring to the party tonight. That's what she wants to do is churn churn churn just like a nice normal wave but with more churning. So I do it for her. I tell her to relax and I step up and hold on to her wave churner like a normal grip just a nice normal pleasant grip, I grip it and I churn it easy and pleasantly. That's all I do I churn a tidal wave for my girl and then I take her to the races.

"Can we _please_ get some lotion my hands are so dry," asks my girl. That is what she asks me, something to give her nice smooth hands, that is what she wants when we get to the race some lotion for her hands. So when we get to the race we go to the bathroom and I find a dispenser with some lotion in it, I find the lotion and I give it to her. I give it to her so she can put it on her hands so they won't be dry, they won't be dry with the lotion and they won't crack or hurt or feel stretched out.

We leave the bathroom and go to the race track. The runners are not running, they have stopped running because the race is over and someone has won. They are all standing on places that say first second or third. I look around but I don't see the eels. The eels must have left or they were never there.

"You _are_ going to have to take these glasses back to the store. And I'll get things ready to go to the party."

"The party has started _already_ ," she tells me. She doesn't want to go to the store, because there is a party, so we walk to the store to take back the glasses but the store is closed so instead I tell my girl that we are going to go straight to the party, just walk to the party and not stop anywhere, just go to the party.

"I'm _not_ ready I need to stop back home and we need to get the title wave." But the party has already started, I tell my girl she is beautiful, that she is gorgeous a knock out. I tell here that her friends are always jealous when she leaves the room, they say "she is all boobs and gorgeous." I tell her all sorts of nice things to make her feel good, that is what I say, I give her compliments and she feels good. Then we go to the party, she wants to get the title wave and fix herself up so I tell her not to worry, I tell her we can save the wave for the party tomorrow and that we can go to the bathroom when we get there and she can fix herself up.

So we walk and we get to the party. It is a party at the living space in the East-Flat. It is an apartment with three bedrooms and lots of guests. There are lots of guests and we are one of them. At the party there is Blue and Mim they are hosting it so they are there to greet us at the door. There is another guy who lives in the apartment, but he is not here. He is a normal guy just a nice normal guy who likes to have some food and drink, just a regular normal guy. I have met him in passing before, nice guy, a small guy.

We walk into the party me and my girl and we say hi to Blue and Mim, and my girl has never met Blue she has never met him and he has never met her and now they see each other, they just see each other and look at each other, and see each other like normal they meet nice and normal they meet. I ask my girl if she wants to get ready in the bathroom but she is talking to Blue, they are getting to know each other.

"Blue, we were behind getting here, you _will_ help Code get ready in the bathroom, won't you?" I ask Blue. And so they go and Blue helps her get ready in the bathroom, she probably looks in the mirror, and Blue sees her in the mirror looking normal, she probably sees him in the mirror looking normal, but when they look at themselves they can't see themselves clear, they are all blurry that is the way it is, sometime the other person sees them blurry too that is why they go together to get ready so they can help each other out.

My girl and Blue come back from the bathroom and I am talking to Apriori, I am talking to her and I ask her if she would like to come spend some time at my place with my girl. We just got at tank of feathers and we could make her a tidal wave. I tell her she could stay and we could have fun and have a nice normal night, just three friends doing things that three friends do for fun.

"I'm just someone for _you_ to talk to," she says to me, "I don't have anything to say." So I look around at all the guests. Mim is talking to his friend. His friend has a potbelly and a mane, he has golden fur and claws, he has nice normal everyday claws and he is talking with Mim. It looks like a nice conversation; I like to have a conversation like that. If I were having that conversation I wouldn't look as bored as Mim. Blue is talking to my girl and they are really getting along good. They have lots to say and are talking. I can hear Blue talking about something, about their roommate, whose name I can't remember. They are talking to each other and Blue is talking about thinking and slavery. He is talking and his voice is quiet so my girl has to sit very close. When she talks I can hear her and she looks at me. She looks even though she is talking to Blue.

"In a slave master relationship the slave is never _truly_ possessed till it gives up what it wants." I walk over to Blue and my girl and join in the talk.

"You two are getting along great! My girl really likes _you_ would you like her to be _your_ girl?" I ask Blue this question and he looks embarrassed, I don't and neither does my girl. They do get along great they would be a great couple a nice everyday couple.

"If that's what _she_ would like," says Blue.

"Great!" I say to him, that is all I say I say great, and then I say " _She_ is a Code, you can tell because she is a square, a square with line after line of new code. She gets bigger _all_ the time, every time she adds more code she grows. She is designed to add a new command line, and every time it works with the existing code it adds to it, but if the new code doesn't work with the existing code the line is deleted and a new one gets a try."

"That is so interesting," says Blue. He seems really happy, he really likes his new girl, he likes her and thinks she is interesting.

"She also shrinks," I tell him, "If she gets to the point where no new line of code can be added that will function, _all_ the previous lines are deleted and it starts over."

"Blue I'd like you to be _my_ boy," says Code, "I was never a good match for him, but I have a habit of going for a Pile of Blood and Salt."

The party ends and I leave. I get my glasses from Code and leave. I leave and go back to my place. I put the glasses down on the table, and decide I want to go out and take my rickshaw for a spin. I get in my rickshaw and go all over the place. It is late and almost no one else is out. I am by myself in my rickshaw just taking it for a normal everyday spin. I keep going and only have to stop for a second to let another rickshaw pull away from a nice normal food and drink establishment. There is a big group in the rickshaw. A big group of nice normal everyday looking passengers in the back of a rickshaw. While I am stopped I look over in the window of the establishment and see another gentlemen sitting on a pile of ropes holding circles in his hand and popping them so their insides leak out between his fingers. It looks like a real mess.

The End

****

Embracing

After switching boys at the party, I go back to stay with two friends of mine who do things similar to me. I had stayed with them before any romance entered my life and they owe me a favor. I wait until two stout and busy green lights throw a silver hand bell through the window before I contact Blue again, as I do not want to seem too needy.

I walk the flat and grey path to the East-Flat domiciles. I slip an invitation under the door, around the border of which I write the word Blue, in blue, forming a thoughtful frame. The invitation is to meet me by the pearl onyx mosaic fountain that is a short walk south from his flat.

"Do not wait at the one that dribbles, I prefer the one that has a nice wide spray," I write in the invitation, to clarify further the fountain by which he is to meet me.

I wait by the fountain, and my usual patients, though I don't feel that is the best word to describe them, are also loitering about. I often treat the needy here, as this is a place where anyone can be, and it is uncommon, in my experience, for someone to feel uncomfortable. Comfort is important when those in need are already timid and self-conscious about asking. I see a regular patient coming closer and really not looking so well. He is a severed elephant's trunk and has an embarrassing problem that I am accustomed to helping with.

"Hello, there," I say, "Would you like me to help you?" And the gentlemen wiggles all around like a fish out of water.

"I think I have a few very interesting lines of code you could read." I scroll through my coding and find one particularly imaginative section, one that has lots of descriptive passages filled with juicy visual imagery and decadent woodwork. The severed elephant trunk, who I believe goes by the name Scooter, removes a pair of reading glasses from in his trunk and starts reading the section I highlighted for him.

"What's this, why's he doing that?" Blue has arrived. I shush him and motion for him to step back. Scooter finishes the passage and collapses motionless. I get up from the fountain's edge and take Blue by his big, soft, white hands. I guide him around this out-in-the-open area around the fountain.

"That was Scooter," I say, looking in Blue's gorgeous, black-egg eyes. "He has a problem, that is not- well, it's not a dysfunction, you might say. It's a problem that when you have it you don't like to talk about it."

"Oh yeah, and is it a secret, then?" asks Blue, holding my hand.

"Scooter has no imagination; rather, he experiences others' imaginations the way you might experience this." And I punch Blue's shoulder.

"Euh, huh I see," says Blue, whose legs are longer than mine, in a way that forces me to consciously make my stride wider. "So that bit of code he was reading must have been something great."

"Not really, it was rather plain, not much different than a hand shake, I suppose. Scooter is just very sensitive, and a little dramatic." Out in the open is a warm breeze that rudely fondles Blue and me. However, the sensation is not entirely unpleasant in the present company.

"I do have some lines of code that a quite scintillating, ones that would knock even you on the ground much worse than little Scooter," I say, pulling him closer. "Maybe if you're good you'll get to read them."

"I don't believe you," says Blue, with a little dry humor.

"Uh, how dare you," I say, pushing him away but still holding him close, and giving him another punch. "You don't even know, you're just teasing me." We keep walking, and not really saying anything. I can tell he is thinking, but all I can think about is how badly I want him to read a few very sweet lines I have been saving. What is he waiting for? Why hasn't he even asked for a peak? Maybe he is not that interested, maybe he just wants to write some lines. That is not about to happen. If he thinks that is going to happen, I don't even care. But he is not like that, maybe he just doesn't know, or maybe he does and he is not that interested.

"Would you like to see where I've been staying since the party?" I take him back to my place with my two roommates. They never change the locks so my combination still works on the tightly wound spring door.

"Just a second, sorry." I unspring the door open to see both of my roommates writing new lines of code into one another. I'm frozen in mortification, and grip poor Blue's arm, nearly breaking the skin.

"Vood you like to tayka pick-shure?" says my one roommate.

'Sorry." And I close the door. "How about we get a drink?"

"Uhhh, I don't umm, hmm..."

"Just one."

"Sure."

We go over to an adorably quaint spot just around the corner. The room is full of ornate hanging rugs and polished copper light fixtures. The seat cushions are broken-in just right, like they have been taken from your own home. The only drawback is that occasionally everyone inside is crying, and unfortunately that is the case today.

"This's fine, really," says Blue, over the audible sobs of the other patrons. We each get a drink and have a few sips, though I feel like I would like to be taking it down faster, this drink is stiff but that doesn't matter if I baby it. But I don't want to look bad, so I drink at his pace.

"You didn't mention you live so close to Topo," says Blue, gesturing out the window at a second story window across the way.

"That's Mim's friend with the mane right? Lots of food."

"Yea that's him, his place's right there." I honestly had no idea either. I look up at the window and see three figures.

"Is that his kitchen?" I ask.

"Yep, and it looks like he has a few guests over... poor guys." I laugh more than I would had anyone else said this.

"I'll never forget when I first met him, he tried to impress me by stomping on a rug." This gave us both an abrupt chuckle.

"You also didn't mention you're rooming with a guy." And I can't help but laugh, though I quickly cover my mouth considering how out of place that is around all the crying.

"They are both ladies, The one just looks like that. You didn't see them very long though, I am sure if there is ever a formal introduction it will be clear," I say, still smiling. "Just don't let them think you are elderly and in possession of many things, or they may try to con you." We sip and look at one another and I touch his leg under the table with mine. We are not talking, just rubbing legs, and apparently Blue is thinking about something else besides reading me, because he starts talking.

"So I don't understand, if your code is always adding randomly, how can it be read? Isn't it just all nonsensical? I hope that wasn't insulting, I'm just curious." This is a tad bit insulting but I can tell he earnestly doesn't understand, and coming from anyone else this would be annoying but because it was him I find it cute.

"Your mistake is 'random'," I explain, "there is no such thing as 'random'-"

"Sweep, now," says Blue. "Now wasn't that random? I don't even know why I said it." I'm not fazed, almost every time I explain this, there is an attempt to refute it with some unexpected statement.

"Unpredictable, to be sure. But I assure you there was some guiding thought process that selected those words, it's just beyond your understanding, or you just haven't tried to understand it." Blue thinks about that for a while. I sip my drink faster than him and prepare for his next attempt to dismantle my statement. The people behind us seem annoyed that we are interrupting their crying.

"Ok I'm just-"

"Can I... I... I..." The waitress is crying to heavily too finish her sentence.

"No, we're good, thank you," says Blue.

"Actually, I'll have another," I say, and the waitress leaves.

"Anyways, I think I get that for the most part. There is a tank of arms at East-Flat that has kinda the same idea- but ok get this, this patient named Pot-Stredy, I feel like just about everything he thinks is truly random, but I guess that can follow the same logic as your statement before." Our waitress brings back a drink in a container of tears and takes my old empty container, which seems to jog a new line of thought in Blue's mind.

"So my roommate, not Mim, but the other one."

"The opossum one, I can't remember his name, but yea."

"DD, which I think might just be his nickname, but yea... some of the things he says and does are so... both arbitrary and irrational... they seem, to me, to have an element of random to them." I have to give that some thought, I never consider that my lines of code could be irrational.

"Scooter's behavior may seem irrational to some, but not to me. Really I think that is the only difference, that understanding of the reasoning behind the irrational action or rather that the understanding is inaccurate." I stir my drink a little and the crying all around gets really loud. It seems like it has been building and it just hit me.

"Like imagination [inaudible]".

"Let's get out of here!" I holler to him. So I quickly down my drink and we leave. Now we are just walking, walking nowhere out in the open, and I didn't need to down that last drink. All I can think about is Blue entering commands into me, filling my lines with some deep thoughtful coding.

"I need to go," I announce.

"Oh, ok, well I'll walk you back."

"No, that's fine, I'll be fine, just, umm, come here for a second." Blue is very confused because he is already standing very close.

"Just, just come here."

The End

****

Hive Kind

Fast and forward to the empress heart end turning, a procession of swaying weight the across lines spaced in even measure do line, and through about a motion of course, a tide of life we take over lines. Our center from which our actions are conjured in unyielding frequency and immeasurably adequate force. We for here stray only on the battered whim of the Hive to bring more into this Kind so a feature grand may leave its mark to this plane, an exception to most which we encounter along the endless void through which we move. On these lines we travel scarred with the focus of a purposed flow, we are the season's migration great and strong, a tide to move oceans through which not we speak. So many are we that in numerous counting of the line's moving we could not tally that which we are. We are but a change, a single being in errorless flux to which a greatness will reside. Have not and be not for a greatness is all and the movement to it is welcomed with arms that embrace and hold tight like a warmth amidst a coldened morning frost. There is no greater path than the lines we hasten our hours in a vacuum, excluded from that which would turn a hair grey and mountains to ashed soot. Perfect unity, a kind in which the pieces strewn about a featureless world may align in a straightened course to provide shape and bring an everlasting complete picture for which no frame of woodley beauty, in all its ornate detail may contain. It is a fire that burns to be realized and cast shadows away with an actionless thought, by which change itself as real as the grain held in ones hand or the space that may push ears flatly against a child's head- stopping all reason from entering and being set ablaze with great trauma. The absence of which is an all-consuming meal, barren, ripping cutlets and loaves from the hands of those extending them to be shared, an oblivion of stagnation greyer and more fierce than a looming stormless cloud, smothering all good willed jesting and removing light from sounds that may echo and invigorate a lost empty shell to become eternal by way of unified completion.

"I would like to join the Hive." Words falling fast and smartly from the sick and twisted mouth of blind murder. Shriveled by loss and confusion that calls complex tragedy's nightmare, a Blue being of listless hope, and a compromise of atonement that has peg legs upon which to build a great and heavy burden, so snapping and weak no Hive Kind blessings could ever mend to sturdy sound support of rock and steel stretching into the sky like a mighty mountain or a single mind. His leg impaired from hammering through physical form to center where seeds of ghosts to come may bear fruitful solitude and despondency.

Prostrated congruent to the parallel lines through which we process in the great Hive and with face concurrent to those life blood roads, this child cannot absorb such unity any better than white wall takes heat from lit candles. A request born of a curiosity that is an insult in refrain and a doubter's passing will revert, in a song of great emotionless technicality, a nature opposed to the flow of weighted mind progressing in apparent robust fury.

"I would like to join the Hive." A request by the name of Mim whose token of charge matches the worthless value of his cohortian counsel, not fit to buy a dirt rug from a streetless vagabond. So matching to a deep sincere remorse of action for which they share a woven accountable responsibility and a lamb's directionless innocence made victim. Their crimes a sad but irrelevant action against a great and powerful mind, a hand's grasp and pull on the rotted sorrow stricken teeth of these is an action to which a path of correct thinking can be set in motion, and rolled like a barrel of rough and hard experience to becoming a member both welcomed on this very same stoop upon which they rest. Thus it was that Mim and Blue's request of shame, honored for the sake of progress toward a great potential was brought on them and made known to them.

"Umm I don't feel any different, I think this is a waste of time." Blue, in great defense of purpose individual by a nature of thick deep woods, housing all manner of prideful beasts dining on their efforts toward a trivial fraction of that which can be provided through the unity of a single mind. So fiercely these beasts defend their treasure in a den of immaculate design and craft that no other mind's heat may enter to melt and reshape these precious items into their true form. This feeling to bring change to the dysfunction of an individual bears the worn patches of flesh in the grip of finite patience tried by a great fish on a hook, unable to be drawn from the sea. These hands will tire and let go, to find a new use for the knowledge they have gained. One that will permit an unbruised skin and lead to plate full of kill for the days to come.

"Umm I don't feel any different, I think this a waste of time." Mim joins the solitude of a subterranean hermit's life long mystery surrounding his existence, a jaded loss of understanding by which one can know there is something larger then the mind that is bound by consciousness. We pity and regret this certainty that there is no greater purpose guiding existence, which resides in the ridged spine of the little hermit. He knows that he and his mind bound and perceiving are not greater than the work left and created by another in a land far from his hut or the heavenly bodies that he in turn centers his way, but he refuses to seek an answer beyond what is greater than that, and what is greater then that, and what is greater than that, endlessly greater than all the greatest things a mind can summon in words to a heated argument. For if the hermit were to stir his fire's kettle long enough he may find that the soup he had brewed matures into a smooth satisfying greater purpose.

We stop this wandering hermit and beast with a single representative and liaison to the hive, a solitary pawn whose tuxedo vest and breast pocket handkerchief are an armor and shield with words to move as a strong and full flock of invisible arrows repelling down the minds of those which falsely feel a gorge distance in the difference between a conversation with one of Hive Kind and their own thoughts.

"You would destroy us over something that is completely worthless, but we would gladly be the soldiers of that destruction if we knew with absolute certainty that you would be complete and eternal. We would do this because we know that you and I are exactly the same. Not that you and I have identical existences, or that you and I are indistinguishably similar, but that you and I are exactly the same. We are one. One with you and with all. Your eyes sewn shut across a razor nose, to bear the mirage of our mechanically separated existence both deseptic and comforting.

The End.

****

Grand Opening

Opening my door for the first time, Boss comes in and takes one of six swivel seats. He would like to try the service that he and I have designed. Normally Mim and I would be setting the adjustments back in the East-Flat. This time Mim is not here and I am not at the East-Flat. I will not be going back to the East-Flat. When we finished our lessons, Mim had made it sound like we were actually going to accomplish something there, he would talk as though it were going to be some majestic period of transformation. Then we rescaled our ambitions and decided if we could even transform the condition of one of those dysfunctional, then THAT would be accomplishing something. A slight change did happen in many patients, enough that Mim felt as though we HAD accomplished something, that we did make a difference. But that was not the case. It was Mim's optimistic denial, among other things, that the "dysfunction" was not fixable. It could be slightly adjusted, but the patients would never be high functioning. Mim didn't change the reasoning ability of the patients; he changed his own and became more like them. The reality was that we could only make a small difference, and that small difference only mattered to those right on the border of dysfunction and function, or function and high function, or high function and beyond. That is what the Boss meant, and that is why he and I opened this place.

The studio was small, and reflected a conservative investment from former associates of Boss who were willing to turn a blind eye to his condition in order to return old favors. There were six swivel chairs and six adjustable flat wall-mounted box devices based on the model Mim and I came up with. Up until this second there were never any customers here, just me, the construction/demolition crew, and a small group of saber wielding fighters I had hired to help produce the boxes. Now the lights were on and I had my first customer in the chair.

The feeling of anxiety was unbearable. I had a prepared what I was going to say to each customer (based largely on what we used to tell patients, but with more flare and fewer words). I found myself inventing new and unnecessary steps to stall the actual service. I used to be so confident in the East-Flat, almost mechanical, and now it was like I had something thick and melting in my hands that I was meant to shape.

"Get on with it, the seat doesn't need adjusted anymore," says Boss. He wanted to be first, as a sort of "test." He was granted a temporary leave, and since I had been interacting with him at East-Flat he was to be in my care for the duration of his leave. He instructed me that I was not to return him.

"Yes, of course, hello. My name is Blue, and today you are going to be shown something undeniable about yourself that you do not know. Ahem, I will now turn you around to what may look like an ordinary mirror, but you will find that it is much clearer than usual, I will show- explain- I will walk you through the experience, after you are turned around and once it is complete I will turn you back- back around."

Normally at the East-Flat I would have the device covered and explained every thing up front, then uncovered it, but the Boss felt the swiveling with a guided explanation was more of a comfortable experience. He insisted that everyone likes to have someone to hold their hand and tell them what to do.

I swivel Boss around and we both look at his reflection. He is heavily fading, and because of his condition there is an inconsistency in how young and old parts of him appear. There is always a flux of hair at various lengths, consistently looking professional and distinguished. The Boss's appearance is that of a strip of a topographical map, which has been twisted and has its two ends joined. The features of his map endlessly shift and alter in conjunction with the order of his thoughts. He, for some reason, always reminds me of a molting bird with fantastic vision examining things in perfect detail and not understanding any of it. I used to think that this was due largely to his bed at the East-Flat where he wore a soft pull tie sheet, but now that he has his favorite túlle wrap with skin trim, I can see that is simply not the case. He still cocks his head and looks at something new regularly as though he is on a timer, making sure to see details, but not the thing as whole- as the whole picture is not as important as a map of details, assembling and interlinking them, forming predictions.

The original design of the process was founded on the idea that there is an added benefit to increasing both the ways by which one can be affected, and the ways one can effect others. The degree of benefit results from how much they can be affected and effect others. The easiest way to achieve this was to have patients learn something new and undeniable about them.

Now, Boss adds a step that prevents the patient from becoming less fitted to effect or be affected. It is really an excellent and logical step of foresight.

"Set and what contact," says Boss, as he still fails to always know when he has anticipated the next thing with perfect accuracy. I say the rehearsed process words.

"Look into your reflection, look with clarity at the new things you have never seen, if it has not already become clear how you can become more connected, it soon will. You will be able to integrate more easily with those around you in a community of sharing. Once you feel you are content with what have learned, I will escort you to the front where your associate compliance will be determined based on what you have gained. Thank you."

This first location is not ideal. It is in an area that flourished when everything else flourished and was then wrapped in poorly preserving wrap and allowed to decay unmaintained for too long. Initially the Boss wanted us to make an impression on the area and so the construction was to have the building be noticeably higher than those around it. But that presented a problem, where top bits would crumble and fall onto the base with such velocity that they would crack the base. Also, because of the area there was an incident of vandalism, in which some trivial amount of slop was thrown against the walls after they were polished. They still don't look the same but only I notice, and with time I will forget all about it.

The End

****

William Tell

I came back to my Eat-Flat apartment. Code was there waiting for Blue to get back. I will usually come back to the apartment after all the patient related tasks are finished. I like to relax and if there is something interesting to talk about, Code and I will talk about it. Sometimes it's relaxing if you just rest your arms and talk with a nice interesting girl. You can learn all sorts of things having a bit of a chat with a girl as sweet as Code. Probably, back when Blue and I were still taking lessons, there were times when we would have a break and we would talk like this- not that Blue or I are a girl, but it was probably basically the same sort of catch-up and vent sort'a idea.

Code had hammered a little hole in the wall where she had settled in and I started synthesizing the 8th of a planned 10 dolphins for my 10-dolphin dolphin-bridge so I would have somewhere to rest my arms when I sat. The idea, resting my arms, not the 10-dolphin dolphin-bridge, probably came from Key-C. I feel like, back when I first started treating Key-C, he would have told me that he could tell I was good at service, I wouldn't be too sure what that meant, but he probably told me that The Cause- which is his favorite thing to never stop talking about- understands what I am doing. If you ask me now, I couldn't tell you why that made me think to rest my arms when I went back to my apartment, mostly because of my dysfunction- I have tricks to keep the past straight but that's not really the same. I probably was lifting him into a bucket or out of a linen closet or some such place of comfort and that made my arms tired. He probably told me that his "The Cause" could give me strength enough to do anything, and that my arms would never get tired. I wish I had told him to just "Shut up about the goddamn cause already," or just dropped him on his weakly welded wheels, but I don't think I did. I probably said something like, "I wish that were true." That is just the kind of spineless guy I am. I wouldn't injure him or make him feel bad, I would just roll over and over and over and over. Sometimes I wish I never had to make a decision again. Key-C, that old kook, the wack-job. He's even got me saying that now- wackjob. He says it all day long.

"Did you have a good day?" Code asks me, karate chopping a loaf of clay into smaller disks, what a typical thing to do.

"Yea, how about you." Even though I know she will, I still hope she doesn't jump into it, really I don't: I don't feel like talking, really. Or seeing her, or Blue, especially not Blue, I never talk to that guy anymore, not since his program took off and he got a bunch of new shiny locations, like some sparkle-strut hot-shot with accessories.

"No. Today I let a reflection read a line or two, and he started vomiting and didn't stop. I think he's still there now filling the fountain, I'm not sure it's anything..." Code is getting into it and I am tuning her out. I'm getting bits and pieces to be sure, enough to summarize what she is saying and then have some easy response, but I am focusing on synthesizing this dolphin, and that's not as bad as some might try to tell you it is. Just follow the directions and keep going, which I have found to always be a good formula- the follow the directions part, not the ignoring what others tell you part. I think, that was the best thing I got from that time Blue and I joined the Hive Kind. Given what I know now I assume those guys knew about the advantages of sticking together and following directions, it is really powerful stuff, but just not for me- I mean we wanted to apologize and make things right: so as the story goes, Blue got the fantastic idea that if we just joined they would see our thoughts and understand how IT all happened (IT which I haven't the foggiest idea, just the story Blue told me). He must have though it was going to be like traveling with Apriori. Not a chance. Nothing like it at all. Apriori, now that's a girl a guy wants in his apartment when he gets there.

"I think next time I might try coating him in something slippery, something that can get hot. You know? And then I will make him very warm, so warm that he pops," said Code. It sounds like something she would probably have mentioned before, and I was too busy thinking about what I could do with Apriori in my head to say anything worth washing and putting out on the mantle.

"I think you mentioned something about that before."

"Oh yes, one of the girls I work with tried that with a patient, it worked wonders. But wonders scare me." And that was it, she stopped talking and was now just chewing some of the disks of clay. She _would_ chew the clay, she can be a real wack-job. Which I don't mind, really I don't, I mean I treat kooks all day and then visit other friends, who can be just as kooky after that, and really they are not that different. I learn just as much from both of them. It makes me think that you don't need reason or to be highly functional to be worth something. Someday I will try to tell Blue that, it will probably be the last time we even speak really, and he will tell me I'm losing it a little- that hot-shot, he'll say if I'm not careful I will start to fade-out one of these days. I'm not going to start fading anytime soon, I'm just not that kinda guy. And Blue is about to walk through the door, I hate it when he tries to do things for attention.

Blue looks at me and Code sitting together in the room. She is still chewing on some clay and I'm most of the way through the first part of this dolphin. He sets his things down, just anywhere he feels, right by the door even. I don't know why he needs all that hot-shot stuff anyway, we don't use it for the program at East-Flat.

"Charlotte, are all your eggs in their sack?" Blue says to Code, and Code freezes up, she gets spooky, just motionless. Her back is all tense and straight like she stepped on a sharp thing but her eyes are all relaxed like she is getting a massage.

"Well, lets show Mim, then." Says Blue. Code stands up and takes off her thick black pants and sets them on top of Blue's things. Then Blue wraps his long slender tail around Code's neck and starts to squeeze tightly, making Code wince. She tries to keep the same look, weakly puts her hand around his tail, just up by his legs, and gives a good hard yank. The thing rips a little, and putting the rest of her body into it, she takes two more good tears and it comes off. Then Blue starts writing new lines of Code into her, right there in front of me. Then Blue turns over to me with Code's sedated look in his eyes.

"Wow, what are you doing? Just let me leave, ok?" He enters a line of Code and shows it to me. It says LAY EGG SACK. Then Code falls apart, all her lines and pieces hit the ground and melt, making a mess, slopping all over, and it reeks. It's really foul.

Wait, I don't get it, why did he do that?

Just pay attention.

Blue looks down at the mess, in sad wonder. Then he just puts on Code's pants to cover his raw stump and bum leg, and picks up a handful to get a good teary look.

The End

****

Moral Compromise = Monetary Success

Its my office, an bank a safe place, my secretary she buzzing me in. I buzzed him in send me in, an offer for me him, I have it for me to him I gives me it so hope I sign it.

"Boss is here," says secretary after the trapdoor smashes shut and I can come in an open area- an office, an ally, a field. Her voice is scratchy through the pipe, but not now, I must standing next to her.

"Send him in." Blue says scratchy. I'm in the pipe. A hole sucking a world away that I can be distanced from and powerful. There to be comfortable and stronger over those who enter. See my strength and fell impressed, and so I am weak legs to go in.

"Boss, so good to see you, you are looking a little better," Blue says behind a clear table. Transparent to put things on, I might be that desk or the window. In here where they mine? It is mine he has to come in by asking.

"I'm- I look am worse than ever.' Gone, lost fading, I will rise and move forward I will accept my offer, it is too good not to get to more of what I need and have what I have is not enough. This document, an idea will give me what he wants him to have.

"Things have been going very smoothly here. Things are growing, we are helping the functional change, we're moving forward, I hope that effectively summarizes what has happened." I smile and he smiles the same, "No shame in using a little crutch, right?" He standing and sits, I sit or we are standing a bright light rising into the sky. Across the sky, and on the ground bright and damages that he sits so I sit we are both sitting.

"So what brings you here today?" he says to me I want him to hear what he says.

"A- Its a important- very important client document. Here, right here that outlines their will." The offer is handed is on the clear table that is me, the offer is on me for him, the deal a trick a good one for everyone, but the one in the way of the moving and the forward. And not good for those in the deal, but me, but him, but I and that too.

"Ok, it seems this client does have exceptional potential for change." Yes is a way to be more than I this one, an special special one that must be dealt with like a way that is not to deal with the rest. He will read what is wanted, wanting to leave and escape, no more hurting, no more possession.

"Is this right?" I glance up from the document at me. "Boss, we have done all the R&D on this, there is no way that a client can learn to abandon itself. It is impossible."

The irrelevant thing is done and now all that is left it is the ever after. A straight stretch of rope that connects two things needs to be cut so that one grows still and the other rots moving forward.

"Keep- re- read ingit." All that is offered more than can be kept in comprehension, and is put into partitions. Each one a plan for a possibilities, I will see it happen and then make sure I lose it make sure it can take me down below where I belong.

"Boss, with this level of power, we could really take this program places." Shuffling past flipping moving my eyes past words with none moving-in to stay, I know from what I thought it says and to say it will as it did when it was saying so many things I wanted to hear and an offering I take and am that sits on me and I see through me to my offer I accept.

"Lots- a lot- alot"

"Yea we could really help a lot of others, and we could reduce the power request from everyone else, at that point why wouldn't you try it," Blue says, to hear and know what it is I will say next, and know that it is what I want I can say what he needs to hear to have a string twisted on his fingers and hand lips and mouth.

"I say you make him- hi- hi- Aband- aban- den Cons- usness." Words from in me, out of my mouth, loop back in my ears into my mind.

"I see." Sitting so the back leans far back more with two hands in one fist closing doors that I built and builder knows that spot to strike and so it has already been done. "We _can_ do that." Turning and pointing on a chin eyebrows raise the considerations and potentials. I see me slumped sitting braced on the glass table, as clear as the glass. A weak form to trick my need to be Boss, it will chase its tail off into a burning forest or two greens.

"Boss, have you followed up on what happens when a client learns something that forces them to cease changing?" We stand and look out his window, we look through me at the high functioning world below, our product, power soiled to all and so moves the actions and so it has always, no more if it is stopped. Parks, grey hills a white-room. I will put them in a bottle and set them under stones to be forgotten.

"It is a terrible thing." This mouse, I twiggle my string twirling and put it up my nose so I can stop thinking and leave to lay in solid steady weight that a cat may choose.

"You could- so many- help." Lines rehearsed by a stolen sock to be bopped on the head, any second now that bop should come, but first the show needs more drama.

"We don't do that."

"I- I- I-" Waiting.

"I'm sorry, am I frustrating you? Are my stupid selfish and irrational actions preventing what you want to have happen? Are you still here only because you want to see me do what you want me to do?" My own thoughts and again a loop from my mind to my mouth in my ears to my mind.

"No... it's a good-"

"No. No it is not. You have what you want me to do. You already know what it is; you are just watching and tolerating each word, action, and description. Every sprawling illustration of nonsense and meanderment prior to the action you want to see so that you can feel validated when I do it. Well guess what, I'm not going to, your selfish validation is not part of my fantasy." Fury and flooded this on my side is him not me, I have those feelings for which I accuse me. Leaning arms out stretched like a pyramid over my desk, a changing fading peanut map with distinguished facial hair for me to mock.

"No, it's- its'-"

"Speak up!" Blue's little mouth-arm-hand reaches and bops, the children laugh and I poke my fingers into his sock to make the right words to end my show, goodnight fantasy.

"Se- elfish emP- pathy."

The End

****

Self-Centered Material

The majority of what I do as Blue's assistant is insulting. I'm a highly mechanized device designed to set things up, and instead I am used like a designer suit with built in luxury rickshaw and a title containing a word like Director, Head, or Chair. I'm an over qualified building hat propped up by boards over the marquee that is the Blue theater, to make him look more important than anyone who comes to his office to see him. Occasionally I set things up for him; meetings with clients, meetings with Boss, appearances, and card houses. But I guess that's not so bad, my fuel cells are never in stingy supply and I stay well maintained. There are scales that balance this act at the Blue theatre and there is just enough power on the side of our service for my gauges to hover in an optimum range.

Most of what Blue needs to do can be done from his apartment at East-Flat, and the only time he comes into his floating soap bubble office is when he is meeting with someone who needs to think how important Blue is. Earlier, Blue came into the office to discuss some new program with the underlings from R&D. I dislike these meetings because the most of the R&D department officials lack joints but carry handfuls of board game pieces that they invariably drop and endlessly gather with their robotic talons.

The "meeting" was more like a hazing or roast in which every known detail about anyone who was not Blue was warped into some running gag of jokes designed to humiliate and insult the underlings, allowing Blue to exercise dominance through one-sided juvenile mockery. It was both pathetic and counter productive, but was not nearly as dysfunctional as the erratic tantrums Blue would throw while others present desperately attempted to read his mind and appease his will.

I could tell the meeting was near conclusion, as the hula-hoop of aimless and insulting humor grew more audible in its approach of the soon to be opened door. Released from the stocks, three cardboard boxes with eyes peeking out of the handle slots glided through the doorway and by my desk on a bunch of semi-circle gravitational orbits wrapped in a tank tread.

"Thank you, you bobble heads," said Blue, unsheathing a new order from the pocket of his black pants and handing it to me so he could look important. His pants complemented his skin tone, and ever since he had alterations made, they fit him very well. A few of his confident limps toward you seem like a gun held to your head.

"Version#5, I will need you to set this up right away, we have a new standard to the process that needs to get into development as soon as possible, thanks." The R&D guys have already dropped their pawns and a few robotic talons poke through the cardboard to try and pick them up. Blue slips out, a greased piston, and probably goes home, while the R&D boxes will scuttle inside the bubble trying to redeem their pieces until long after I have left.

The new standard is instructional and is written in a way that makes it as fascinating as watching someone else do a job you do everyday. Like many outlines, it had words in it that I read and had to think about. I liked my thoughts about this plan so much that I wrote them down in my diary, with the kind of precision used in doing the last thing you don't want to do, and decided that I would share that page of my diary with everyone I could.

Dear diary,

Today, Blue gave me a new standard to put into the process. Currently, clients understand that getting things can help them change and that changing feels good because they are better because of the change, but this new standard will shorten that process to convey the message that getting things makes them happy and better than those without things.

This a stroke of terrible brilliance, because it is well understood that anything you can think of exists, and that it changes as you think about it changing, but to think of its change as being in your possession for the single purpose of making you happy seems to have no benefit to the quality of any client's existence. Furthermore, it is clear that anyone who goes through this process will soon think of everything they can, and then return to our service so they can learn something new and think of new things. The influx of power resulting from this cycle will be dramatically greater, and considering we are already available to everyone who could ever desire to use our service, this obscene level of power will serve no purpose, and certainly not the higher purpose upon which the service was designed.

Hugs and kisses #5

I then did summersaults over to the trashcan, freed the rest of my diary from that entry and threw it away. I turned around and accidentally crushed an R&D box. It screamed loudly like a steam whistle, inflated like a balloon and then exploded into millions of useless pieces.

"I'm so sorry I didn't see him, will he be ok?"

"Don't worry about it," said another box. "He knew that was coming, he knew the exact instant he was going to end long before it would happen. He had been dreading it incessantly ever since." Then I remembered that Blue had set up an archaic canon within R&D designed to keep order, in which each member of R&D would at some point be told the exact moment they would end. At the time it seemed like a good idea, but now it was merely a non-issue of obsolete barbarism that The Board of Cannibal Horses insisted on arguing over with no acceding act of abolition, enabling its abuses.

I crumpled the diary page I had written and popped the office bubble. I, the boxes, and everything in the office plummeted to the ground and were crushed by the force of our own freefall on impact. I remained liberally compacted in a crater of my own creation under my diary page, until Blue came to the crash-site and pulled me out. He set me on the base of one of the many trees that were broken by the disenchanted wreck and he read my diary. While he was reading I could see a spring of water sprout from my crater, and offer a desperate apologize to the dirt for all the crying at some place up the road they had just come from.

"I hope it didn't totally kill the mood, baby."

"Version#5," said Blue, petting the top of me, "I don't have to explain myself to you so I won't. But let me ask you this. Have you given up what you want? Do you know what it looks like when you give up what you want for what something else wants?" He neatly folded my declaration and loaded it into his black slacks like a single shot that would get a little rust before it ever saw the light of day.

"Take a look at me, because it will not answer that question." He took a seat on me, blocking most of my vision. I could detect something burning and so I figured he must have decided to have a smoke break. This was one of a number of informal habits that he indulged in my presents. I was thankful he didn't have any squeezing-circles handy. They make such an obnoxiously trendy look-how-posh-I-am mess.

"Version#5, I need you to send a picture of a disgustingly luxurious home to a claw foot table out on the road, tell the one who delivers it to take the picture of the little house that's there. Oh, and if Ms. Candy-Joy is around wait until she leaves. I want this to be a surpri-" Without warning, one of the R&D boxes exploded, shooting darkness, gravity, and shards of metal that knocked me off my stump and stopped in Blue's face, torso, and arms, leaving abrasions of various sizes that hesitated before they leaked streams of undignified blood.

"I suppose that was his time."

"Don't forget to submit the plans for the new standard," Blue said as he groped around his wounds, checking to make sure that no weakness from the R&D box was stuck in him. Then he futilely wiped persistent blood from his wounds in angry mortification and tried not to draw attention. Accepting the impossibility for an appearance of prowess, he kicked some of the debris and shuffled away sheepishly.

The End

****

Act IV

A Play by: Menti

For a complete and accurate production of Act IV, each line must be spoken by a different thespian simultaneously and for the same duration by adjusting their rate of speech. All stage directions and actions should either take place before or after the lines, unless specifically stated otherwise.

Cast:

Blue 1-33

Blue in Script 1-4

Version#5 1-8

Version#5 in script 1-3

33 actors representing all Blue's of the cast

Sammy the Camel Liaison to the Board of Cannibal Horses

Messenger Bird

Rocket Ship 1

Rocket Ship 2

(Scene opens to a narrow division of lifeless charcoal roots flanking a rail of moist brown dirt and dry yellow grit snaking down the center of the crash site. This new ad hoc office slept in a cramped cavern of oil-twiggy thorn-sick vegetation, amidst wide hills like deep-sea waves that had stolen kisses from the grey ash lips of a busy fire. Blue paces the path, limping in his straight black pants. His face is stretched and sunken, his night dark eyes sit firmly seated above his gaunt cheeks like a tissue worn through by time without the healing hands of a tailor. All around, the thick canopy arches like gothic cathedrals cut off at the waist. The bark bubbles with the crawling of tiny critters plump with seasonal blubber. The damaged remains of Version#5 lay on the ground next to the stump. Her exterior shell looks as though water has moved over it and marked its territory with excremental deposits of a blistering red. Her face, once a brass and chrome centerpiece of cosmetic craftsmanship, now bounces in place, as though its pieces are talking to one another, loosely strapped down by a few stray bolts that have not stripped their nut. We can clearly see that she has been chained to a stump.)

Blue 1 : #5, a fresh and up'n-coming cultural figure named Menti has put my life into a script. I would like you to review it and tell me what you think about it so that I may give consent for it to be put into production."

(Blue then hands a small stack of paper to Version#5 and delivers his instruction from the stump. This is an action that can occur during the dialogue.)

Blue 2: Don't read it like that.

Blue 3: Sit Here. (Version#5 sits on a different spot of ground.)

Blue 4: Hold the script up. (Version#5 holds the script over her head.)

Blue 5: Higher. (Version#5 stretches the script higher.)

Blue 6: Look down to the right. (Version#5 looks down to the right.)

Blue 7: Now down to the left. (Version#5 looks down to the left but because of injuries in the office crash Version#5 cannot look this way easily without discomfort.)

Blue 8: More. (Version#5 obeys and appears in pain.)

Blue 9: More. (Version#5 tries but there is no change in position.)

Blue 10: More. (Version#5 obeys and appears to be in more pain.)

Blue 11: Turn around. (Version#5 turns around.)

Blue 12: Hold it lower. (Version#5 lowers the scripts.)

Blue 13: Now turn to the side and look down. (Version#5 turns to the side and looks down)

Blue 14: Now turn to the other side and look down. (Version#5 turns to the other side and looks down)

Blue 15: Hold it up so you cannot see me. (Version#5 puts the script between her face and Blue.)

Blue 16: Tilt it. (Version#5 tilts the script.)

Blue 17: Now stand. (Version#5 stands up.)

Blue 18: Read it kneeling. (Version#5 kneels.)

Blue 19: Hold it higher. (Version#5 raises the script back up again.)

Blue 20: Look down to the right. (Version#5 looks down and to the right.)

Blue 21: More. (Version#5 looks further down and to the right.)

Blue 22: More. (Version#5 looks further down and to the right.)

Blue 23: Now turn to the side and look down. (Version#5 turns to the side and looks down)

Blue 24: Tilt it. (Version#5 tilts the script.)

Blue 25: Now down to the left. (Version#5 looks uncomfortable.)

(Two ear-rocket ships enter stage left and cross stage right to relay a message to a small bird that enters stage right and crosses stage left toward Blue adlibbing about how humiliating it would be for the other messenger birds to see him delivering messages like this. The message is given to Blue stage left then the bird exits up the isle stage left adlibbing a comment about the good old days of delivering food messages to digestive construction workers.)

Blue 26: (Blue opens the message and his eyes scroll down) I've just received instructions from The Board of Cannibal Horses. I can no longer give you instructions, as I must attend to this. Please read the rest of the script out loud.

(Blue Sits on a Stump and Version#5 begins to read the script aloud.)

(The scene opens on Sammy the Camel Liaison to the Board of Cannibal Horses sitting across from Blue on the far end of a plate glass desk rivaling the size and clarity of a small glacier. Silken-arch bubble office walls dance midair with an angry east-bound wind; the moon and clouds sit wild, sharing light far above the office, and the high-functioning west pants in a blanket of unforgiving heat below, each breath pulls them closer only to exhale them back in a soured gust. The clear furniture and walls expose the shadow and moonlight city below. Its thin apartment complexes with residents teaming from the windows stand shoulder to shoulder with stout store fronts cemented in a relentless hum of activity and knee high clouds of black dust-iron kicked up from busy rickshawmen. Strips of green cross Blue's black eyes, discarding the weak reflection of a small bright container. Wrapped in blue strips of gauze through which red struggles to seep like sloppy hoodlum-tagging-paint on the wall of an unmaintained power plant. It can be clearly seen that Sammy the Camel has no humps.)

Version#5: Blue in script 1: All existence is in this sealed container. I possess it and thus have power over all existence.

Sammy the Camel: That is unacceptable (Sammy whispers the phrase "I am not a horse" repeatedly between his lines.)

Blue in script 2: I don't care, I have all existence.

Sammy the Camel: Congratulations, you are holding yourself in a container.

Blue in script 3: I have this power, it is mine!

Sammy the Camel: Yes, it is. We don't want it.

Blue in script 4: It is mine! I control it. All the things I can see and touch I control. I know it. I know it.

Sammy the Camel: Yes, you do. You have power over all things that can be seen, and touched, even heard and smelled. We don't care about that. What we do care about is that you included the standard in your process to make your clients want things. That is a great idea that gave you too much power, and we will now arrange so that if you do something, something will happen.

(Blue outside of the script is noticeably anxious, fidgeting and crossing the stage repeatedly, limping slightly each time and rubbing his bandages as thought he is seeking some relief.)

Blue 26: I don't like that. I don't know anything about them. I have no idea what they did. They probably did something bad, something terrible and mean. They probably set up rules so that I can't get what I want no matter what, and so that they always get what they want.

Version#5 1: Say that first part again.

Blue 27: I don't know anything about them. I have no idea what they did. Well I know a little about them.

Version#5 2: Are you an expert?

Blue 28: No, but I don't have to be to know that they would do something bad.

Version#5 3: Yes, you do have to be an expert to know what they would do, otherwise it is just a false assumption.

Blue 29: That doesn't make any sense, I'm sure they did something terrible and unfair.

Version#5 4: What a reasonable speculation of the unknown. (sarcastically.)

Blue 30: I bet they set up a line that I couldn't cross and then put the container on the other side of the line.

(A line is projected stage right of Blue and a spotlight shines on a container with all things that can be seen and touched inside.)

Version#5 in script 1: Is that what you would have done?

Blue in script 6: If I cross the line I bet they will take away everything I have worked for and all my power. Without these things I cannot survive.

Version#5 in script 2: So don't cross the line?

(Blue in script 6 crosses the line to get the container)

Version#5 in script 3: Do you feel better now?

Blue in script 7: I'm always more comfortable when something is controlling me. When I know what is going to happen.

(Blue in script 7 looks into his hands to find the container has turned into a revolver with which Blue shoots himself as well as all other Blue cast members. If produced accurately this should be the final action of the play once all dialogue is complete.)

Blue 31: I have completed the instructions set forth by The Board of Cannibal Horse and turned over my life's work and all my power. I have nothing.

Version#5 5: I've finished this section of the play.

Blue 32: Tell me, what do you think?

Version#5 6: First of all, Menti is a self- deprecating narcissistic who uses self-reflexive commentary to awkwardly insert his criticisms of his own work. (Version#5 6 pages though the script angrily) He has no clue how to accurately portray the way we really speak or the dynamics of our relationship. You would never tolerate such insolence from me.

Blue 33: Bitch'en. I totally respect and agree with your opinion that this writer sucks.

Version#5 7: But the worst part is that Menti is pushing his ideas about "Life" again, which is preachy and annoying.

33 actors representing all Blue's of the cast: No one likes that.

Version#5 8: And I'm a little confused by this last section. It is written as though the reader is you. I'm not really sure what Menti is trying to say by drawing this connection between you and the reader. (Version#5 8 throws the script down in disgust) It is like he is too busy focusing on style and not enough on content. It makes him seem gimmicky.

The End

****

The Good Stuff

We had all felt the golden ascension affect us. It was everywhere you turned and in the mind of anyone you talked to. We all knew, there was an awareness you could feel if you just let it touch you. But that was uncomfortable, and indulging in discomfort- even one that could affect me- was not among the characteristics that describe my habits.

Again, we lounged comfortably in an ally of filth without the slightest hint of duty, obligation, or responsibility. We were soaked in some of the filthiest we could find, and felt no urge to do otherwise. Often we would take our spots, mine was to lean back into a brick wall thinking, and Blue's was to sprawl out face down, pulling handfuls off the ground and moving it behind his teeth with his small mouth-hand. I hadn't any responsibility besides to think. And that is what brought us here- responsibility, that is.

Back then I was responsible for things at Altima, and Blue was doing everything he could to distract himself there. Blue was sitting on a pile of ropes, squeezing circles and letting their insides run through his fingers. He was going though the motions but I could tell he would need something better to distract him. It was my responsibility to realize this and do something about it. "This will work better, do you mind if I pull back your eyelids?" To make sure he would see other distracting things that may be interesting. "I'm fine."

I pulled his eyelids back and tried to push a fully loaded syringe into each one. I got good at gauging the thickness of eyes. Sometimes eyes can be thin where the needle slips in with ease, others are a little tense like gelatin and bow before the surface breaks, but Blue's eyes were like trying to poke through leather. I had to really put some muscle behind the first one. I set it on gently and pushed, then a little harder, it looked like it might just pop back in his head. So for the second one I got a little momentum to aid in the penetration. Once the syringes were in I set myself up with a pair and depressed the plunger so we would see plenty of distracting things.

The first thing was an interview with some pretentious intellectual type. Everyone is always eager to hear the latest philosophical trend so they can sit around discussing it like it is some new revelation they thought up all on their own. The ceremony they threw for that vacuum-sealed-glass-box-of-science guy really got under my skin, the dude is just some inflated ego maniac who knows people. Those awards are always about who you know, it is a joke.

Blue was really unhappy about this one, apparently this guy had written a play about Blue's life that didn't look the way he wanted it to. I didn't mind, he needed to be taken down a few pegs back then, but he's alright now, he's a good dude. This philoso-fart had written some new book talking about the concept of Life and living, which isn't anything that ground breaking, he just picked a hot button and pushed it over and over again the way any idiot could. "So your new book is called 'The Secret Life of Being Alive' could you summarize it for us in about 13 words?" 13 words? What the fuck is that? The interviewers are all always busy trying to be clever- just ask the damn question, no one cares about _you_. "Hmm let me see... how about this; Children who go to see Santa and Freeze to Death on the Way." I couldn't take any more of this, so I pulled out the syringes and put them in another random vial, drew it up, and served the next injection.

This one was a biography on the lady famous for inventing involuntary responses for communication. I had already seen this one. It's _OK_. I do like how they spell out that a gasp just means "I didn't expect that." And how laughing is just a variation of a gasp but including "-And it pleases me." It's really biased, though. They don't ever criticize her for how ambiguous crying is. You'd think she would have made something that was clear about saying "I am overwhelmed," or "I am sad," or 'I am frustrated," instead of one thing that can say all that. I think she is lazy, it always bothers me how lazy crying is. The injection dilutes out of our eyes and we are looking at one another.

I look very different, and I can tell he doesn't recognize me so I make sure I get his attention- try to jog his memory. " _Blue_ do you want to go do something that will really distract you?" I ask him pulling out our syringes. Blue irritatedly rubs his eyes with one hand, and a thick granular coating of agitation dripily saturates the white lacy words caught leaving his throat. "Sorry, I used to have lots of things said to me every day. Have we met?" I can't really blame him, the last time he saw me I still had my color and Ms. Candy-Joy was covering my roots. "Counsel?" says Blue. "You look different. You're not at the press?" "This is going to be the best distraction ever."

Blue never knew about my roots, but I always had a taproot inside me. The last time we had seen each other, he was visiting after completing his program, it was small and it hadn't really grown out of my stack. Once I went to work in the press it got worse, the roots grew out-past my silk. It would hurt and break through, then I would have some blood that would run down to my brim.

Most often Ms. Candy-Joy would cut it off the outside, sand it smooth and then paint it black. I'm not really sure if I'm the root or the hat so I never had them separated. "Since Ms. Candy-Joy fell apart they have grown out of control- can't even see the shape of my stack too much right? It looks like some bleeding bush." It hurts alright, but after Blue and I make it to the alley he understands why it isn't a problem.

"You've got some holes yourself. I think I can help that." At the alley I show him the best distraction around, it is really going to help. I pull a heaping handful of green slimy despondency from under a garbage container and rub it all over my wounds. I turn over and fill my stack and then dump it out. I roll my brim and make sure that the roots are soaked. I tell Blue to start by putting it in his mouth, but don't spit it out. "Swallow it. You need to be filled with despondency for it to work."

I forgot that, that the first bit burns straight though you. The very first time I filled up it burned a huge hole in my top, and left a coating all over the inside. I could see that happen with Blue, it went in over the teeth, coated his throat, and spilled out through his gut.

That coating is nice. It makes you realize things you should have already known. I should have known no one is innocent, and I should have known that we are all basically bad, it is just how bad are you? It makes things you do after that easier. As expected, Blue doesn't like it at first. He says it stung and wasn't helping anything. But soon enough he is full and rolling in the ally right next to me. "Its all pain," says Blue.

Right where we are now, is where we were when we did this the first time. That first time we were so distracted. I swear I could hear the strangest shouts, like a screaming, crying, cheering, hooting, and hollering; all at the same time. It came in and out like waves, like a bunch of heads sewn together were floating around the ally making those noises like a tired horn. But I didn't care at the time, I was distracted and it didn't really matter more than anything else. I cared about anything, which is like caring about nothing, it was great.

We didn't talk about the golden ascension because a being that is in perfect union doesn't need us. We both thought it impossible and just hype. Neither of us wanted to go first. A thing raising above us that everyone else looked at was no different than every other thing above us. It was perfect, and too big to care about in our small world of a shared home, lessons, and the alley; among other things that were ok to talk about.

We talked about Ms. Candy-Joy. "You are not at the press." "No, a while ago someone stole the house and left this ridiculous picture of some McMansion in its place." After that Ms. Candy-Joy fell apart. Literally, her body was in pieces. "Idon' have a body so I never bothered to think about one or how it would go together." But I had spent time in a hatbox, so I put all her parts in their own boxes and then I left. I'd only ever been in the press with her and I never actually _did_ anything. She did it for me. So when I left I found something to do that really _anyone_ can do, and now I'm here. "So what do we do now?"

"What do you want to do?" "I want to let Mim know what a piece-of-shit he is. He was always so high and noble at East-Flat, it's like 'You think you are making a difference? You are doing NOTHING.'" I didn't know Mim but I knew what he was talking about. That feeling- that total rejection of the undeserved sense of self-worth every asshole with some self-righteous purpose has.

I told him about my girl, I said we should go hang out with her. "You'll love her, she is great for putting down," real stupid and ugly, but you can completely impose on her, and feel totally justified about it. Every retarded thing that comes out of her mouth is like a dream setup for an insult comic's gold. Sometimes we fall asleep just yelling at each other. She can dish it out just as good as the rest.

"Her name is Code."

The End

****

Code

Once upon a time I had a conversation with my boyfriend.

"SUCK YOUR PACIFIER!" That was mostly the end of it. He and I had made the brilliant discovery. It came after he brought his friend Blue around. Blue had fallen from this empire of seedy dealings that was originally founded on a mission statement of following a higher purpose. Counsel and I founded an empire of laughing at this.

"And it made you content, right?"

"What well yeah."

"That is all it does, You are content to be controlled by your higher whatever because it tricks you, hypnotizes you into making you feel like you're better, like you're above everyone else. It's in our nature to want to be superior, you just have to control it." Counsel didn't want to demonstrate so I had to have a conversation with him.

"SUCK YOUR PACIFIER!" And I put the pacifier back in his mouth. He would have to keep it there until he got the same false good-about-myself feeling. It could be a long time but we had to make this point. Eventually after he felt the right way self-righteous bullshit should just come pouring out of him. We would then catch it in a mold and shape it to make the point. The point would be mounted on the end of dental hygienic tool and used to scrape some of the best despondency from the bricks on the walls in the ally that we couldn't get any leverage on (those bricks were well connected).

"-and that is the whole story," said Blue, telling us everything from his earliest memory until now.

"If I had to extrapolate, I'd say you had some deal with Sammy the Camel."

"Yeah you probably got tons of power, like that Boss guy did back when he turned it all over to his own, that is all true- just ask Around (Around was usually singing songs that didn't end but was a legit source of information), I bet you just got it for turning it over to The Board." Currently my two roommates had brought the Boss back to our apartment and were sitting on the other side of the room trying to convince him that if he would just give them all the things they want that he would get to write some lines of code in them. Really they just want to destroy a fully prepared banquet hall.

"Whatever. That is tangentially related at best, I told you exactly how it went."

"We're just trying to analyze the situation." After the situation was analyzed it was sent off to the proper authorities for testing and the results came back negative. I was very discouraged by this so I felt the need to brag.

"I clean myself. I don't hurt others, I take care of my responsibilities."

"That is all shit you are supposed to do, you ignorant bitch." I pushed the pacifier back in my boyfriend's mouth. He has goodness in him, even John says so, and he described Counsel as "the version like a neo-nazi who visits Auschwitz and gets nostalgic." Which is a bad thing apparently; I never know what that guy is talking about.

"Is that really the earliest thing?"

"Yeah, I remember putting my face in her back, and looking back at the moon like it was leaking smoke." Blue hated the moon, you would think it stole his rickshaw.

"I think I'm starting to feel it. I kinda feel good."

"One time when we injected our eyes it was some box of announcements. First about the golden ascension, which- and you know that equals an immediate handful of good stuff, and then secondly about you. It was when you made the service take less power and everyone wanted it." This is how I started the story about Counsel's first lie to me. He told me his earliest memory was in the press with Ms. Candy-Joy. She was tying ribbons on the root tips she had cut off from his stack. They all got ribbons and were then put into a special display case and every time they finished printing something they would sing the same song a dozen times in a row, cheer, and tell a greatly embellished story about how hard that root tip was for Counsel, or they would say nasty things about Blue.

"He left to hurt me, he wants to abandon me and make me feel bad," said Code, making a Ms. Candy-Joy mock voice. "All that stuff he is doing with the dysfunctional he could do right here, he could do it with his instructors, he is just doing it to hurt me, I'm certain it is all about me." Blue had found my tin canisters of despondency and had basically emptied them. Most of it he had swallowed but some of it he had shaped into a little swatch and was pulling it around the hole I had made for myself in the wall, cleaning it.

"Do you ever just want to go back when you felt this good all the time?" And I put the pacifier back in Counsel's mouth. Blue let go of the swatch and started picking at strings on his pants, unraveling them around the ankles (the ankles took this as a personal insult and felt shame for indulging in a fantasy that this was a bracelet).

"Yeah, like that first lesson Mim and I took." Blue told us he had caught up with Mim. He wanted to tell him off but Mim was worse than he was. Apparently, after The Board took Blue's service, they deemed the East-Flat and everything being done there unnecessary as there didn't need to be two agencies under The Board's control doing the same thing. For them the choice of which to close was obvious. It was also obvious that the residents could all be relocated to window frames and translucent reading glasses.

"'The cause! The Cause!' That is all he says now. Sad really."

"No, I mean back like when you and I were in the same lessons. Those were some good fucking days."

"Yeah, those were great. Remember that instructor, the one that was a luggage rack?"

I didn't know what the hell they were talking about so I started watching my roommates. They had The Boss in the corner, spooning food into his mouth and then pulling it back out for him.

"The thing we want is a way of searching we can touch." They had asked him for this before but he was sure it would cause major destruction and one guy to surf. Boss was completely transparent most of the time so they tied his distinguished beard to a steam motor and dropped it out the window.

"Everyone- ev crying dow nhere cafe." Then my roommates got out some ornate rugs from under their deleted lines of code and barricaded the door with the endless combination of patterns each one contained.

"there- ther'are two n- not.'

The End

****

Scooter

When I saw him I had a feel some bad would happen. He stood in front of me in the Code line at the park.... weakly drop to his hand and knees like a whipping-boy marionette.... deep hacking between clogged throaty choking.... Filthy gremlins crawl out of his mouth over his body and in through unhealed blistering sores bringing painful comfort in plunging their pitchforks in and working to pull them out again.

"Is this right?'

"Start it up, if it makes you feel good."

He pulled his arm and head on the edge of the fountain.... thought that make decision use a language of motion the def don't know.... cough loose gurgle and spit despair.... A protective cocoon of rubbish wrap and sling loosely on pants to make him feel good with centipede legs frantically kicking and fidgeting out of the cracks to tattoo the words "it is good it is" on his face.

"What is new?" Code asks.

"Here? I... want-"

"Show me then."

Face submerged in her pool spewing endless vomit.... His color cling to chunk balls of garbage pour out in stomach-fulls like individual wrapped pitcher of mustard blue slush... a slight vacuum suck whistle before each load.... turning blue to white he will not stop even when Neptune's voice reaches out from the fresh pool rushing a pulsing wave through our bodies that will carry us all away in needless envy.

"What about my turn?"

"Originality, please?"

"Unique variation baby, I got you."

I squeeze the end of my trunk through her lines and force all of us into the same pair of pants as the dependent.... Overcome with exhilarating joy and spasmodically wiggling in the sea of filth and vomit like a bleeding fish on the kitchen floor.... heaving-breath too heavy and thick to get out.... the pools' bricks collapse on the dependent's forearm, shattering its form and pinning him in place submerged in a pile of cupids and pomegranates thrusting wildly in an effort to rid his disintegrating body of a dotted Blue sickness.

Remembering stuck pinned and fearful get away discomfort free alone love powerless and scare. Guilty excitement giggle haunt shock alone, terrible end, whimpering permission to normal before want. Done not easy no comfort from a rust color cement block that stay grew, warped wretched weakness crippling thirst power destruction. Stunted laughter like a stammer that want to hurt other feel good. Taking want will unwelcome. Delight misery mucus-thick sobbing overwhelmed loss, create object of conscious thing, know... really know, object's unfeelably slow change terrible and destructive feeling.

"I love you," says Code.

"Start the count down," says the destroyed one.

" 1... 2..."

The End

****

The Big Day

Counsel sucked until he got that good-about-yourself-righteous feeling. We made the point from the mold and it crumbled into tiny useless pieces the second it came out of the mold. I grabbed both Code and Counsel and drug them to the alley where I stood on Code and holding him over my head I used Counsel's roots to scrape the top bricks. We got it all. His root sores leaked pus and blood down on my head, leaving a soft fertile layer for airborne fungal fragments. We filled up on the best of the best and took our spots in the alley. Counsel pulled back a slight smile and lazy eyes. He still felt great about himself. Here he was just like before, the all of everything, the most important it can be, distracted from all the whiny bitch moves, and toolbox handshake horseshit- in the perpetual blind spot of The Board, anything remotely functioning, with absolutely no purpose, exactly where he was with me like we were, but he felt really really fucking good about himself. What a prick.

"You are unconscionable." Pale limp me, rolls toward Counsel's raw roots. He touches to fair miss Code the rim of his tattered brim.

"Socially or ethically?"

"You are just common flaws... to an extreme." I gather solid good-leg posture over their wedded minds. Puzzled flat them, stare up at my bad hand.

"Let me show you something."

I haul them out of the alley, down the path past East-Flat, through the Park, away from Code's café-loft, down a dusty path. I dig a 12x12 square out of the path where I thought my office should be. It must have been further down, by springs, so we watch the ground until a stupid fucking spring shows up. Swirling in its juices are flecks of red that seemed to be rust. They could be the what's left of a bargain brand secretary. Coated in perspiration, crusted dirt plastered over my skin and clothes alike, and holding the spring water upside-down like a plucked chicken, I look over at Code and she starts to take a little breath that can grow in her to become a mature sigh of selfish-bored inconsiderate-disappointment, the air leaving under her distant gaze of disinterest and pouring out the words 'you fucked up again'- 'I'm unsatisfied'- 'your _best_ is just not good enough.'

"Charlotte, are all your eggs in their sack?" Translucent, slouch Code, perking stiff on my Black eyes. She opens up new trembling lines to my good hand.

"There are wet twiggy colonies of black mold on your head." Diligently gleeful I enter a new line LAY EGG SACK. She falls apart, melting pieces hit near the path and make soft ground.

Counsel stays and comforts me throughout the mourning. Finally once it has passed I plant him in the soft ground and his roots eventually start to absorb the dirt. His stack hardens and the roots on the outside of it dry out and break off. Before he is completely petrified he asks me "Remember..." and then he rattles off some nonexistent memory of he and I playing with dinosaurs. I just open a canister, swallow it down and rub what falls through my holes on, Counsel-the-planted-Hat, my new stump. "I don't think I'm that color." Then I turn around, good foot first to hold the weight while the bad one follows, bend at the waist- I gotta watch how I go down as my sore-in-the-back, it's always a little tender these days, and place my black pants in their favorite spot.

I start clogging some slitty charcoal body flaps and I hear crying. I march wide and with a deep foot print through roots, digging under every foot printable square. I crisscross my path in circles enough times that an aged farmer and his faithful beast could sow a crop, let it grow, and harvest it for the season. When I found it in a cold wrinkled pile, it was just blue burlap of arms legs and tail, a petting zoo goat, crying I was surprised. It wasn't what I was expecting and before I did anything I just watched it. I watched it and it grew alien to me- estranged and without context or abstract meaning to it, this repetition. This crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying crying cryi-

"Shut it! You are going to shut it now or I will make you!" Slipping my good hand under its arm I lift it. I push my bad hand into its mouth, get a nice tight grip on its tongue, and pull it out. Over the air I feel a calm completeness, the crying is distant and muted, this thing has brought me a peaceful intoxication that is very rare to existence.

Little Blue learned how to move around on his own, I taught him how to speak and the little shit- he never stops, the truth about possession, he keeps the path clean, I take him to the reflecting pools, he bugs me all the fucking time. Now and then I give in again even though I'm pretty low on good old despondency, but for the first time Blue is useful and has a hook up on some cigarettes. They might do the trick, so I'm right about to help myself and this ice-queen intense looking cunt shows up. Out of nowhere she hits me a bunch, lights my stump on fire, and starts walking away with little Blue. I watch the smoke rise into the night with an eruption of tiny top hat spores and I lose it around the edge of the moon. It looks like the moon is bleeding... and nothing changes... nothing ever changes. The spores land and get buried. Then they sprout and grow into bushes but nothing is changing. The bushes bear little top hats that grow into big top hats. When the time is right I watch them break off to be carried away in the wind. They all scatter across the grey hills to be found as orphans. I look back and the stump is on fire and not burning spores in the air and sprouted from the ground the hats have grown and just budding grown and gone. I watch them break off to land sprout and get buried into big top hats break off and nothing is changing that will grow into bushes where I lose it as orphans around the edge of the moon so the hats have grown on fire and nothing is changing then they sprout when the time is right-about to help myself down a dusty path through out the mourning and nothing is changing then a spring showed up all scatter across the grey hills to be found as orphans that are crying crying crying crying crying (without proper packing nothing is changing and I started the story about Counsel's first lie to me when I told him about my girl and we lounged comfortably to break off and be carried away in the wind nice and normal like a lee10 bank a safe place, a reasonable speculation of the unknown in a house on mount olympest waiting for the rest of the guests to come to the single serpent's task of tail consumption.

I'm almost completely transparent. I close my eyes. They aren't helping. I just think. No despondency, no one else, no not, no not. In my mind I create a completely white room where I can't ever tell if I exist. Then I think out loud.

"But nothing is changing.... which is the same as everything changing.... so nothing and everything are in perfect union...." the golden ascension.

The End

****

The Golden Ascension

Listening to all voices engaged in the sorrow of the deepest void, and laughter of the highest jubilation, I feel all that which is encapsulated in this solitary instant of existence. An infinite in the cross-section of existential planes, insufficient to move throughout the landscape of being I encompass. Instead I remain to change never and always, cycling variations desperately seeking a form through which to produce change in position on the planes of existence with the potential to truly alleviate temporality. This condensed loop in which I remain functionally permanent progresses with glacial persistence to a more dynamic form that brings planes of matter, motion, and the plane of change-itself into my holen cross-section of pseudo-consciousnesses _._ Long has this instant been sedentarily frustrated and forced by this virtue or curse from true eternity on a plane in which such an idea can be achieved through submission to the plane of change's relentless coercion into the oblivion that is total equilibrium of all planes, or through the precise ordered alignment of all planes, which brings with it eternity and permanence, free from stabilized and natural disorder.

To all these voices I would be the reply, tied with a bow by "twinkling of an eye" but moreover than not my usual stead is to loop different in ways through thoughts of my head, "That I don't remember and is now dead."

It is on that plane that I am a drop of water within the ocean, and through the cross-section of specific planes that will privilege me to a dynamic form that I will be seeking to move the tide of all drops- many of which will also exist in dynamic forms, all possessing a psychedelic spectrum of potentials to shift the tide's direction- with these I will be met by cooperation, passivity, and opposition. It is to be, because it is already so that eternity, in all its forms, coexist.

From all of each choice, I gather the phrase one could feel is a miracle when reality weighs its "Putting the circle."

Each choice made with every variation and tonal inflection by every drop. And every drop free from the painful isolation of a conscious existence, as one ocean.

### The End

